Not only did I spend the entire day with the kiddo yesterday, but a good half of the day with the little twins across the way. They are even more adorable; round, happy, and cute. Twins start out so small, compared to full term babies, but they do catch up. Both of the boys are smiling now, and practice often.
When I feel like giving the kiddo a reality check, I like to do so with the twins. In addition to the guinea pig, she frequently hits me up for a baby brother. Until we go visit the twins. It’s not that she doesn’t like them. She named one of her dolls after her favorite twin. But after about five minutes——ten minutes, tops—-she can’t bear my cooing and rapt attention to the duo and has to get out of there.
I did get my own dose of reality yesterday. When I found I was expecting, way back when, I’d secretly hoped that I might have twins. Mostly because I’d only wanted to experience pregnancy and childbirth once. A two for one special was very attractive to me, given my relatively advanced maternal age (I did get so very sick of being described that way at the OB’s. Imagine being 37 and being described as “of advanced age”.). All of us; the twins and their mother, and the kiddo and I, spent the bulk of the day together on the road doing various errands and visiting friends. With every stop, I appreciated the relative ease I’d had with the kiddo as an infant way back when, who’d required only a snuggli for transport, instead of the heavy carriers the twin’s mother had to tote around, through parking lots and in shopping carts. Of course, that’s only a very small part of raising twins. And she does this alone. I bow to her.
Miles the finch really, really wants to be a Daddy. Stella so far seems indifferent. Or maybe she just wants to play on her perches and hang out on her swing, looking serene and elegant the way she does. Can’t blame her, in a way. She’s inspected the nest he’s prepared and even hops into it for a minute or two. She doesn’t seek his morning advances, which are daily, but neither rejects them. At my age, nothing much should embarrass me, but I find myself having to leave the room, not because of anything lewd, but rather, the noise. Unmistakable. Unbelievable. Suffice to say, I’m glad I’m not a bird with regard to that.
I have found a new coping device during this ten-day-total-togetherness–all-the-time-every-day stretch with the kiddo. It’s called a wading pool. Thank heavens for wading pools.
That is all.
petites méditations 
I don’t recall playing much in aw ading pool myself when i was the Kiddo’s age. I probably did, but can’t bring the picture up in my mind. what I do recall as Mom’s way of coping with having me around the house too much was this colossal wood-cabinet television set. i was very fond of sitting close to it, as if the screen was a doorway I could crawl though to enter the cartoon worlds I loved so much, and I would be transfixed for hours by whatever was on.
Television doesn’t have power like that over me these days, and I kind of miss it. Sometimes I like to think that our TV had some kind of mind-control device hooked up to it, like in X-files or Videodrome, and that I was being programmed for some great destiny that I have yet to fulfill. Or maybe it’s just that i’ve gotten older and am less fascinated by reruns of The Flintstones and Thundarr the Barbarian than I used to be.