I might be done. Blogging, that is.

I mean, I don't really WANT to stop blogging. I love it. Really, I do.

But I just don't seem to have the time to sit down and compose an even somewhat cogent piece.  After the holidays, I promised myself I would be a better, more frequent blogger. "It's not the quality," I told myself. (SNORT. Like that's ever been a concern of mine.)  "But the quantity!  I should post shorter items, but more often."

Well.  We all know how that's worked out.

Work is so busy I don't have the luxury I once had of sitting at my computer, pretending I'm being productive while really writing my silly posts and Googling that Napoleon Dynamite quote I just can't quite remember.

Those were the good old days. Now I'm busy all day and rush home to feed the twins and put them to bed.

Speaking of those babies, here's one of my (many) issues:  I can't seem to get into the groove of Mommy Blogging.  I was an okay IF blogger, and then a fine pregnant blogger.  But writing about the twins just seems…I don't know…like who cares?

Now you might be wondering: WHY in the fricking hell does Watson think we preferred her posts detailing what cycle day she was on, what her cervical mucous was looking like and what all those pesky areola hairs courtesy of the PCOS were up to over talk of her scrumptious wee li'l ones??

Good question.

And friends, I just don't have an answer for you. I just know I feel like the lamest blogger who ever blogged a blog.

So I'm thinking of just hanging the "I quit" sign on this site, but the thought makes me so sad. This community is so awesome and I've received so much support and guidance and moments of outrageous humor and true friendship that I just can't seem to pull the plug.

But, for example, how am I supposed to write about the OHIDON'TKNOW two months since I last sat my ass down to compose a post?!? 

So.Many.Boring.Detai…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…SEE!  I'm even boring myself!

But in no particular order whatsoever here's what's been going on Chez Watson:

*I am the suckiest, most sucktastic Mommy ever when it comes to the monthly letters I was going to write to the babies. My grandiose scheme was to settle in at the close of each month with my LL Bean slippers on, a cup of hot tea at the ready and compose the most sentimental, witty-yet-hauntingly earnest summation of what the last month had brought us.  Each new morsel of food that passed the lips of Jackson and Parker, each sigh, giggle, new word and activity was to be documented for posterity.

YEAH.

I think I managed that, what…once?  Maybe?

*I work all day and then head home to two, hungry, tired babies.  If you were to, say, drop by unexpectedly one night around 5:30-5:45 PM, you might get the door slammed in your face. But if you came equipped with a nice bottle of alcohol I might let you in and you'd see me in the same disgusting yoga pants I wear every night, hair pulled into a disheveled ponytail, trying to step over the baby-gate from the living room into the kitchen.  Leaving two distraught, baying creatures on the other side.  The gate is so high (actually I'm so short) that it grazes the lady parts in an uncomfortable way which makes me 1) nervous; 2) fearful I'm going to break something else and 3) grateful I'm not planning on having anymore kids.

My extremely ungraceful leap over the gate is greeted with a sound that is virtually inhuman. THE SCREAMING, people, DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN THE SCREAMING. The babies act as if I've hopped on a raft made from palm fronds and left them behind on a deserted island with only a disgusting volleyball for companionship.

They wail and fling themselves on to the floor and I (being the calm, loving Mom that I am) usually scream "HOLD ON!!!  I AM COMING. I AM TRYING MAKE YOUR DINNER!"  or perhaps this old chestnut, "GAWD YOUR WHINING IS MAKING MOMMY WANT TO PUNCTURE HER OWN EARDRUMS WITH A MOLDY CHOPSTICK!!

And then I usually let them into the kitchen where Parker tries to eat the dog's food and Jackson opens and slams the antique wooden door to my deceased grandmother's corner cabinet that's been in the family since the early 1800s.

And then?

Then when the milk is warm (don't even GET ME STARTED on SippyGate when we transitioned from bottles to cups.  JE-SUS. Parker went on a milk strike and cried so hard she acted as if I was trying to coax her into drinking a plastic cup full of dish washing liquid for fuck's sake) and the little bites of turkey meatballs have been readied, I attempt to place two whining, squirming toddlers into their highchairs.

Oh what?  What's that?  I'm tricking you into sitting on a torture device that will soon tighten its 'safety' straps around you and squeeze the very breath from your body while shooting poison darts through your appendages?  Is THAT why you're screaming and flailing about like a ferret trying to free himself from a rusty trap?  Well. THAT explains it.

You might then see Jackson SLAM his head into the back of the high chair. SLAM SLAM SLAM. And there's a good chance you would also hear me yell, "Don't DO THAT!  Your head is already flat from you sleeping funny as a baby so KNOCKITOFF!!!"

And you would also see the twins eat for about 10 minutes before deciding that flinging each morsel of food on to the dog's head is SO much more fun than eating it.  

This presents more problems that can you imagine.  Bosco is a rescue dog and was undoubtedly treated very poorly in his previous home. And this dog has issues. Any object that comes at him from above, even a perfectly good bite of turkey meatball, is seen as a threat.  So while two babies try to fling their food (and cups of water and the dreaded sippy cups and their new plastic, brightly-colored sporks) onto the ground, Bosco is weaving and diving and retreating and crawling and backing up and back and forth and back and forth as fast as he possibly can.  He looks like a soldier trying to avoid being hit with shrapnel for crissakes.

It would not be the most relaxing place you've been in, that's for sure.

*The babies are both finally walking, thank Goodness.  Jackson usually walks with his little arms outstretched like FrankenBaby and Parkie likes to hold her arms in, focusing on her core (I guess) with her little hands tucked in by her chest. She toddles  back and forth and looks remarkably like Charlie Chaplin. She's a total dare devil and while Jax might be sitting quietly in the corner 'reading' a book, she's probably getting up on the couch (her new trick), crawling gleefully across the giant sectional cushions to the end and then propelling herself, head first, on to the Glider rocking chair we have next to the couch.  And because this thrill got old fast, man, she now tries to stand up on the chair and rock it back and forth, perilously close to flying off said chair onto the hardwood floor.

*I am finally making headway on my quest to lose the Baby Toddler Weight From Hell. I started a whole new (and crazy, natch) program and I've lost about 15 pounds. No humiliating, death camp jump rope torture in sight, thank God. No Blond Mom Gang to conjure up the traumatic devastation known as Middle School P.E. Class.

*I finally decided to join Facebook. GAWD.  How boring! Not to be all snotty but geez, someone (someone who, incidentally, 'friended' me recently, someone I knew about 25 years ago from a summer in DC and can't remember for the freaking life of me thanks to a Greek
restaurant on the outskirts of Georgetown that would serve us wine coolers) tagged me for some list of 25 Interesting Things About Me.

HA!  That's like so 2006!  Us bloggers did a list of ONE HUNDRED things like three years ago.  Take that.  That would be the FACE in Facebook, loser.  (Okay, that actually was snotty, wasn't it?) Anyway, I don't love hearing how one friend is having Earl Grey tea with honey and another is looking forward to watching the Grammys and how another  friend isn't sore after skiing for the first time all season and having people write on my wall. I guess I'm just a late adopter.  And unusually cranky. But maybe I'll get the hang of it (she says doubtfully).

*Work, although busy, is fine for me.  For BeBop? Not so much.  He just found out yesterday he's getting laid off.

*HOLY. SHIT. Laid off?!?  In this time of global economic crisis the likes of which haven't been seen since the 1930s?!?

WHERE ARE YOU PEOPLE WITH THAT WINE?!?!?

*Anyway. I'll close now by saying I just don't know what to do with this blog. Any suggestions are most welcome. And so is Merlot.

Merlot = VERY MUCH APPRECIATED.

CHAIR OF DEATH:

Parker:  Me likey stab Mommy with half-eaten pretzel

Jackson:  Do de do de do…me no see sister threaten to puncture Mommy's carotid artery with pretzel. Mmmmmm…pretzel…wheee!!!