G is for: "Good to be Me"
G is for: "Good to be Me"

E is for "The End ― The Tail End"

Part 1

(Originally Posted 08/31/2011)

To tell this tale of a tail, I really have to preface it a bit.  So please bear with me; I'll bare all. 

I believed in teaching my children all I could. I did the same with Edie Marie, their sister, as I did with our twins. As early as possible, not only were storybooks read at bedtime, but classes were instructed, too. These may have involved basic psychologically-oriented tools like putting the square peg in the square hole, or reasoning skills like placing the right-sized donut on the cone (from large to small), or an anatomy lesson or two (e.g., "What noise does a...cow make?" "What does a...beaver do?" And everyone would moo or buck their teeth.  “Where are your…eyes?” And everyone would blink his or her eyes at one another. “Where are your…hands?” And we all flashed our hands at one another. Where is your hair?  And we hoped they didn’t pull each other’s.) You get the idea.

We named all the parts of the human body.  We went from the top to the bottom; from head to foot.  Fortunately, all three of our children had caught on fast to this rather well in life.  Although, Evan & Emma had taken an exceptional notice to the BUTT!!!

Even though my twins had quite the vocabulary, at seventeen months, their favorite expressions were: 

“O, me!  O, my!  O, man!”

&

  

 

Part 2

At that point in time, I honestly didn’t like to venture out often.  I found it draining and overbearing.  I was ready to turn around to go home before I even entered the van.  In the winter, it took literally two hours to run to get a gallon of milk.  The dressing of the two alone took thirty minutes because I had to:

round up two children,

put on two fresh diapers,

pull over two shirts,

wrestle on two pair of pants,

sit on their legs to zipper two coats,

avoid black-belt kicks to slip on four socks and four shoes,

gasp with relief after getting on the four gloves,

and thank heaven that somehow I got on their two hats.

I attempted taking them both out to our vehicle many times together, and each time it was almost litterally certain death in the street.  So I would double-buckle (something my dad invented to keep them in their car seats) one baby in the van (hope the other hadn’t destroyed the house in the meantime), run back indoors, grab the next twin, and double-buckle the other baby in.   I drove a mile down the road to the store, and on the way they would take off their:

four socks,

and four shoes,

and four mittens,

and two hats.

I would have to redress them one at a time and put back on their:

four socks,

and four shoes,

and four mittens,

and two hats.
and we three would eventually enter the store.

 After awhile (this probably sounds really horrible), but sometimes, if it’s wasn't too cold out or below zero, I would heat up my vehicle, and would just put their coats on and throw them in the van.  (You got it - sockless, shoeless, mittenless, and hatless).  I would drive my mile down the road, and when I got to the store, then I would dress the two in their:

four socks and

four shoes and

four mittens and

two hats when I get to the store.


I HATED SHOPPING!

That is why I would buy in bulk - three gallons of milk and as many packages of diapers and wipes as I could store in any given room in our house and garage.

 

Part 3

 

O!  If you were ever in the grocery store you know we were there.  We’d be the family with the two buggies — one for the babies; one for the groceries.  I liked to keep my kids together.  They didn’t have the fun double-occupancy variety buggies on the market then like race cars or rockets.  Sometimes it was easier to leave one cart (full of groceries) at the end of an isle and trek down it for items with the other (full of children) in hand.  If they were in separate carts, I would have to leave one baby here and one baby there.  I didn’t like to do that.  So when I went shopping single, which was quite often, I kept the twins together.  I had my system down. 

I tried the beauty of putting one baby in the backpack and one in the top of the buggy.  That way you only have one vehicle to maneuver. (Pushing one buggy would have been a dream come true, you know, like normal people do.)  That just never worked for me.  I really had it made with Edie riding shotgun up there, because she was so good in it.  Not so for Evan & Emma…  They would pull my hair, and kick my back, and scream,

“Let go a me!”

And of course, I wasn’t even touching either one of them!  They were on my back and my hands were stockpiling the basics.  Basically, in a nutshell, I found no beauty in that idea at all.  It was a no go from the start.  Therefore, I had to resort to the only thing I could do.  Then again, people looked at us all of the time anyway.  Like, we have Evan who loves bread.  Every time we went to get groceries, he must have had the largest piece of bread his small hands can hold.  Actually, as big as his head would be a better description.  

Evan preferred French loaves.  He demanded it uncut and unbroken.  He called it “Man Bread.”  We believe the origin of that has something to do with the picture of a man on the Roman Meal bread bag. 

Emma & Evan, Age 3 1/2

(Notice that they're shoeless.  We didn't lose any shoes anymore.)

So, if that doesn’t raise any eyebrows, you can bet your bootie this will, because when we walked down the store isles we weren’t the quiet types you know.  No, we let everyone know that we were alive and well.  We would never want anyone to ever question that. 

For example, when we were near the paper products and we’d see toilet paper, my twins were so proud of themselves.  They’d point and at the top of their lungs yell,

“Butts!  Mummie, butts!”

And you would know it was us when we walked down the baby product isle and we’d see the diapers, they’d yell,

“Butts!  Mummie, baby butts!”

And when we’d see the wipes, again,

“Butts!  Baby butts!”

And when we’d see the ointments,

“Butts!  Look, Mummie, look more baby butts over dere!”

Of course, everyone came running around the rosy to see who could possibly be saying such trivial vulgarities.  And me (with my push-pull thing going on and my son eating his “Man Bread” as big as his head, mind you), thinking don't make a big deal out of it or they'll simply do it more.  So, I simply held my head up high, because I knew that my seventeen-month old toddlers were the most intelligent individuals in town. Cripe, they were almost even potty trained, and by eighteen months they were.

 Part 4

 

Well, keeping all of the aforementioned relevant material in vogue, that brings us to the very day in question.  My children's father, Edie, and Edie’s friend went to the Chicago Cubs game.

We needed the last diapers I’d ever buy, and wipes, and ointments for our:  Butts!  Baby Butts!  However, those were staples in our house.  Most homes are stocked with flour, sugar, canned goods, but in a home with multiples, it’s a whole different story.  If you don’t have diapers, you don’t dance; you sit every song out.

So, every week I looked at the fliers to see which market had my essentials on sale.  This time our target was a department store.  And since every big person in our family was busy having fun watching Chicago’s best, I, once again, went shopping alone and singlehandedly.  This time, however, I used the stroller because I couldn’t fit both babies comfortably in one buggy at this store.  And since it was spring, I never even put shoes or socks on them.  What a time saver.  What could possibly happen?

It was Evan’s turn to sit in the front of the stroller.  And having both of my hands tied up on the push-pull phenomenon (this time stroller in front to keep an eye on what's important and the buggy in the back), that is where Evan knowingly took great advantage of all of the most noteworthy and useful information that I had ever taught him.

I had just finished loading up on our needed sale items.  I made our way through the narrow maze of displays.  We made it to the main row of exhibits.  I was pushing the stroller in front with my right hand; I was pulling the cart in back with my left hand, and a woman rudly cut in front of us.  How could anyone do that when they can easily see how I or anyone else in a situation was struggling?

She was forty-something, and was somewhat larger in size than myself.  I hadn’t lost all my baby weight yet.  So this means her hinny wasn’t huge, but wasn’t of petite proportion either.  In all honestly, I saw what was coming, but it happened too fast.  But What Could I Do?  My hands were tied up in a maze of metal.  And then…O, my God!  I tried to stop it, but it was way too late! 

Evan reached up, grabbed this lady’s rear end, and with one firm pinch of his whole hand, yelled at the top of his sweet little lungs, louder than he has ever yelled before,

“Butts!

Mummie,
Butts!”

And Emma joined in perfect harmony,

“Butts!

Mummie,
Butts!”

I tried not to, but couldn’t help myself, I started to laugh.  Of which this lady accused me of:

being slightly on the “warped side” and

said things like:

what do I “teach my children,” and

I should be “ashamed of myself,” and

how do I “sleep at night”

being the “way that I am.” 

And I replied, “Ma’am, I’m very sorry if my son has offended you in anyway at all, but he’s not even two yet.  He’s, actually, they are very proud of themselves for recognizing the fact that you do, indeed, have a butt... and, you know what?  So am I.”  

And, “being the way that I am,”

I walked away laughing and thinking

What would have happened if:
 he grabbed her boobs and yelled,

"BREASTS!!"

and off I went
in my “slightly warped” sort of way.
And, yes, I slept very well that night.

© Copyright 1976-2011 Leslie D. Zenoni dba Coloured Pencils

https://theabcsofdoubletrouble.blogspot.com/

V is for: Vegetarian

        I have friends and family that are vegetarians.  I understand the philosophy of an animal giving up its life to feed us and cloth us.  I have even tried to change my eating habits a few times.  However, it only lasted a week until I graduated to poultry, then seafood, and slowly, by the four-week duration,  progressed back to red meats.

        It was Presidents’ Day 2000, I made a roast for dinner.  As I was carving it, Evan pranced into the kitchen and asked, “What cha’ doin’, Mommie?”

        “I’m carving a roast.”

        “O! Okay.”  He paused and asked, “What’s a roast?  Is it meat?’

        “Yes, Evan, it is meat.”

        “What kind of meat is it?”

        “Well, it’s cow meat.”

        Silence was so thick you could have cut that with a knife.  Sometimes you could actually see Evan’s mind working; you could hear the wheels turning, just like my dad.  He was quiet and surveyed the world around him.  His face became perplexed, then enlightened.  All of a sudden, his voice started out calm and slowly rose in certainty, “You mean you eat meat?”

        “Yes, I eat meat.”

        “And meat is cow and meat is chicken?”

        “Yes.”

        “And cow and chicken are animals?”

        “Yes.”

        “And you EAT ANIMALS!?!”

        “Yes, Evan, I guess that’s one way of putting it; I eat animals.”

        His nose crinkled up, and he put his little hands together in front of his chest, and in no uncertain terms declared, “Mommie, that’s dis-dis-disgusting!”  I looked at him and he looked at me and then he said, “Mommie, did I hurt your feelings?”

        Then I washed my hands so I could bend down to sit on the floor next to him and talk.  “No, honey, you didn’t hurt my feelings.”  We hugged.  I told him, “A lot of people feel like you do.  Well, Aunt Ruthye for one.  You can talk to her about it when we see her in May if you want to.”

        “Okay, I will.”  Silence.  “So you eat the meat and what about the skin.  What do they do with the cow’s skin?”

        “They make it into shoes and clothes, and people wear it as clothing.  Some people won’t wear things made of animal skin.”

        “Mommie, where does cheese come from?” 

        “Milk.  And, Evan, no animals are killed to make a glass of milk or a piece of cheese.  Just for reference, they’re called byproducts.”

        He had the biggest sigh of relief and said, “Good!  I’ll take a glass of milk with cheese on the side, please…Hey, Emma, you want some…”

        This all comes from a boy whose limited menu (previous to this incident) included: 

1.      Only whole milk

2.      Selective juices

3.      Soda pop

4.      Medium or mild cheddar cheese

5.      Bananas

6.      Certain crackers

7.      Bread

8.      Mashed potatoes

9.      Bobbies (twin talk for Nutra Grain granola bars)

10.  Pancakes

11.  French toast

12.  Peanut butter & grape jelly sandwiches

13.  Cheerios

14.  Chocolate

15.  Ice cream

        So, the very next day, Evan, Emma and I were on our way to the grocery store.  I looked in my rear-view mirror, and Evan had that look of “deep-thought” upon his face.  At which point, I thought, this one is gonna’ be a doozy. 

        Emma asked, “Would you put number three on, please?”  (In layman’s terms that means the classical music station.  Emma liked classical; Evan liked rock-n-roll; Edie liked country.  Quite the diversification.) 

At any rate, Evan said, “You know what I want to do when I grow up, Mommie?”

Well, here it comes, I thought, but it turned out to be pretty harmless.  “What do you want to do?” 

“I want to get down underneath a cow and squeeze its breasts and get the milk out.”

         Then the sweet sound of that twin-bickering thing started.  It is one of those moments when I wish I had the tape recorder going (for posterity) so they could hear themselves and how they acted when they get older.  They still have their squabbling feasts, even on Facebook.

At any rate, Emma said, “I can’t believe it, Evan!  I thought you wanted to be a fireman.  You’ve always wanted to be a fireman, and NOW you want to be a FARMER?  Being a fireman, I thought, was much more better for you, Evan?"

Evan replied, “I don’t want to be a farmer, Emma!  I just said, ‘When I’m all-growned-up I just want to get down underneath the cow and squeeze the breasts, one time, just one time, and get the milk out, Emma!’  One time doesn’t make you a farmer does it, Mommie?”

There are sometimes when I really don’t want to get involved in their conversations unless I ultimately have to.  But this time I felt I had no choice.  “Well, true one time does not make you a farmer.  And it’s called milking a cow. And the breasts on a cow are called utters.  Please, don’t be upset with Emma.  She’s just trying to take care of you or something, I guess.”  Trying to change the subject or whatever I said, “Maybe Emma could milk the cow’s utters, too, someday.”

“Hey, I could one time!”

Evan said, “We wouldn’t be farmers, Emma.  Just milking the…the…the…the cow’s utters?”

“Yes, utters.”

Then Emma asked, “Evan, you still wanna’ be a fireman?”

“Yes, Emma.”  He paused…and then came the real whammy…in a real matter of fact way he said…“But I’m not going to eat the cow.”  And that was that, he glanced out the window with that look of deep thought again.

        Well, I told my parents these two stories.  So, two weeks later, Evan & Emma went to visit them in Michigan.  And my parents took them to…

their favorite petting zoo…at Kensington Park.

Where they go on hayrides.

And learn all sorts of new things…

like different ways to make maple syrup

(a staple product in their diet)…

And how to lead…

 

 

an animal out of its corral…

and, last but not least…

how to milk a cow, of course.

        Evan was a vegetarian for eleven years.  He eats everything but the kitchen sink.  It’s like my dad used to say, “Just wait until his taste buds explode, you’ll never get enough food in him.”