Well, I guess the way to wake up people around here is to question the status quo on parenting.

The results are in to yesterday’s poll question. To refresh your memory I asked, “How late is too late for a 2 or 3 year old toddler to be out?”

136 people have responded in the past 24 hours.

58% said 8:00 – 9:00 p.m.
27% said 7:00 – 8:00 p.m.
9% said “It’s never too late.”
6% said 6:00 – 7:00 p.m.

The comments I’ve received both here and at TheBlogfathers where I cross-posted this have been a combination of “I agree” and “There are extenuating circumstances”.

Of course there are extenuating circumstances. Many focused on the bedtime itself, explaining they needed to keep their kids up so they could spend time with them after work. I totally understand this as I get maybe 30 to 40 minutes of time with my kids before bedtime. My issue is with parents keeping their children out on the town at an hour that is generally pretty late for a small child.

But that’s me. That’s my circumstance. A set schedule, when parenting twins, is so important because one cranky child is bad enough. Two cranky toddlers makes one want to take an ice pick and jam into the ear canal to make the whining stop. We do all we can to make sure our children stay on schedule.

So that’s that. Perhaps I’ll try and steer clear of the judgmental parenting for the time being.

Whenever I go out to run errands or just go somewhere to relax, it is usually after the kids have been put to bed. In our household bedtime is 7:00 p.m.

Because it is the norm to have our very-ready-for-sleep kids go to bed at this hour, it amazes me how many people I see out toting their toddlers around town. Right now, as I type this, it is 9:40 p.m. on a Saturday night. A couple just walked into The Coffee Bean coffee shop, where I have staked out a spot, with their 2 year old son.

Is this more of a norm than I thought? Different strokes for different folks? Should I just mind my own business?

Yeah, I should just mind my own business.

For the past several weeks the lovely wife has been poring over our financial existence. Retirement funds, school loans, salaries, college funds, piggy banks, lottery tickets and anything else related to our financial future.

The goal? Well, apparently there will be a time when we’re too old to work and, according to my lovely wife, we need to be prepared for that day. While she liked my idea of raising genius, fabulously rich children that will take care of us in our senior days, she thought we can’t put all of our pennies in that basket. So, we have to spend our days talking about this type of fund and that type of fund and whether we want to eat filet mignon in our senior days or live off of cat food.

Personally, I think cat food could be quite tasty.

Seriously though, it’s really hard to decide today what kind of life you want to have 26 years from now. Will we want to travel? Hell yeah! Do we want to visit our grandkids after they have moved somewhere significantly far from where we live? You bet! Do we want to live in our current mansion or downsize to a condo that has a community center with a bingo night? It depends on whether they play for money or not.

There are so many variables and wants and only a finite amount of resources. I mean, I do work for a non-profit and while my retirement plan is probably the best you’ll see at a non-profit, it still isn’t going to allow me to jet set to Europe every year. I’d love for us to pay for our kids education entirely but, realistically, they’ll have to contribute something so they’ll need to be either awesome athletes or brainiacs to the nth degree.

So, I want to take this opportunity to thank my Honey for making sure we won’t be panhandling along the Pacific Ocean in our older years and remind Swee’Pea and TheMonk that I’ll do all that I can to ensure their success.

But if they become fabulously rich… This blog is documentation of how great a parent I’ve been.

I’m just sayin’…

On the drive home today Mommy told me via phone that Swee’Pea was hitting today at daycare. She hit TheMonk but also hit other little boys and girls as well. As Mommy told me the story, Swee’Pea knew I was learning about what she did. As I heard Mommy tell the story and we directed our attention to Swee’Pea, telling her that Good Girls don’t hit and Swee’Pea is definitely a Good Girl. Swee’Pea, knowing that she let Mommy and Daddy down, whispers into the phone in a heartbreaking tone of sorrow, “I said sorry.”

After lecturing Swee’Pea, Mommy continued to tell me what the daycare provider told her today. Swee’Pea has a very favorite kitty that she often takes to daycare. After putting Swee’Pea in numerous timeouts for hitting (including hitting her very own brother), the final time that Swee’Pea delivered a blow, our Daycare Provider threatened to take Swee’Pea’s kitty away.

TheMonk knows how much his sister loves that kitty. He knows that to take kitty away would be the greatest injustice ever. As he witnesses the Daycare provider taking kitty, he cannot stand the thought of his beloved sister being without her kitty and he lets the Daycare Provider know this by bursting into tears and crying out loud.

Swee’Pea got her kitty back.

And she also knows her brother’s got her back.

NaBloPoMo is kicking my posterior. (More on my posterior later)

You all HAVE to be a little tired of all this posting about Swee’Pea and TheMonk. I can tell because my comments have plummeted over the past week. I’m a little tired too.

But gosh darn it, I’m not a quitter. I may think about it from time to time, but I’m not a quitter!

So today’s post is about two completely separate things that have nothing to do with twins. Brace yourself.

The first thing I wanna talk about is Fred. Fred is a blob. He has no redeeming qualities and unfortunately he has moved into my midsection, set up shop, and has declared martial law over my formerly athletic body. Once upon a time I wore size 32 pants and weighed 155 pounds of pure muscle and bone. I had 5% body fat and I looked damn good. You could bounce a quarter off my posterior.

Now? Well, Fred has taken over my midsection and added 2 inches to my waist size. My posterior no longer propels coins and I weigh 25 pounds more than I did “back in the day.”

Why am I telling you this? Because I’m going to do something about this and I’m not going to stop until Fred is Dead. I resolve to exercise a minimum of 3 days a week and I will post periodically how I’m doing. You, dear Internet, will provide accountability. I’m putting this out there and you will keep me on my quest to make Fred Dead. My goal is get to 165 pounds. Not necessarily Greek God status but I’ll settle for Greek Demi-God status.

The second thing? Well, a while back, while visiting my cousin Maggie, she casually asked if I was familiar with Twitter. I wasn’t. But, after having poked around their website, I realize that it’s mini-blogging on the go. Which is perfect for me because I tend to think in little sound bites. If you are so inclined, you can go to Twitter, set up an account and then get my random thoughts sent as text message to your phone.

Or you can see the little widget on the right that has my last few Twitter thoughts.

Okay, I’m done here. We will return to our regularly scheduled blogging tomorrow.

The twins and I are wrestling on the cushions strewn about the floor. At some point I have become a monster and I show no mercy as the most heinous, relentless, vicious Tickle Monster ever to walk the face of th earth.

Seeing as they have no chance, Swee’Pea decides that I am no longer the monster and that, instead, TheMonk is the monster.

TheMonk, upon hearing this, assumes his Cookie Monster voice (it’s the only monster he knows) and turns his attention to me. He springs upon me and begins to tickle and grab me in places a guy shouldn’t be grabbed.

I appeal to Swee’Pea, who is standing to the side watching TheMonk attack me to help me from this vicious monster. Sizing up the situation, Swee’Pea glances down at the cushions. She picks up a pillow, rears back…

And bops TheMonk squarely on the head.

Stunned, TheMonk topples over and I escape the clutches of TheMonk Monster.

Swee’Pea… My hero.

We have begun a new ritual in our household lately.

We lay the pillows from the couch on the floor and Swee’Pea and TheMonk take turns jumping, rolling or bouncing onto the cushions. Usually there is shouting with glee. Sometimes there is crying. But I usually pull it together before Swee’Pea and TheMonk become bothered by it.

At first, there wasn’t much altitude being gained. They’d “jump” about two inches into the air and land on their butts. Before long, however, they started gaining distance and they’d jump out like a long jumper reaching for the last few inches before landing in the sand.

And while both are impressive in their jumping ability, one is clearly better at it than the other.

I’m not going to name names but if you were to know that Mommy was a high school state champion in the Long Jump and out-jumped me by a good two feet in high school and if I were also to tell you that Swee’Pea looks a lot like her mother and TheMonk’s body type clearly hails from my gene pool, then you might guess who the better jumper is…

Yesterday I went grocery shopping.

I arrived at 8:00 p.m. at a Farmers Market which is a grocery store that has a lot of good produce and organic goods. My plan was to hit this store for some produce and meat and then hit Trader Joe’s, located in the same shopping center, for the rest of what I needed.

Both stores closed at 9:00 p.m. so I needed to get in and out of there as fast as possible.

I raced around, throwing flax seed oil and chocolate-covered peanuts into my basket. In the produce aisle, I bagged some tomatoes and some parsley, threw them into my shopping cart and hustled over to the meat section. I was so focused on my shopping list and what I needed to get in the meat section that it took me a while to hear a voice calling, “Hey! Excuse me!”

In retrospect, I do vaguely remember hearing that “Hey! Excuse me!” more than a few times as I raced over to fondle the poultry. It wasn’t until I arrived, however, that I realized that person was talking to me.

“Yes?” I reply when I turn to see a guy almost running to catch up to me.

“Um,” he says, pointing to the shopping cart that I’m still clutching in my hands, “You took my cart.”

I glance down and see a whole array of food that aren’t mine – except for the tomatoes and parsley. Those are mine.

“Oh. Sorry!” I say as I quickly hand the cart over. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Embarrassed, I look for my own cart and go and retrieve it in the produce section. My plan is to get out of the grocery store so I don’t have to face the guy and his wife whose cart I stole. It is then that I realize my parsley and tomatoes are still in the cart.

My mind, for a moment, wants to just leave it and go get more. I don’t do this, however, and I go and retrieve the items from the guy’s cart.

I leave before I get arrested.

Mommy and Daddy are standing in the kitchen talking while Swee’Pea and TheMonk play in our den and dining area.

Soon, Swee’Pea has made it under the kitchen table and is quickly joined by TheMonk. “We are hiding.” Swee’Pea tells us.

I get down on my belly and join them under the table, followed closely by Mommy. Now, all four of us are huddled under the table.

“We’re hiding.” Swee’Pea repeats. “The Monsters are coming.”

And there we sat, hiding from pretend monsters on a Saturday morning. We assured Swee’Pea and TheMonk that Daddy, Mommy and even Nutmeg the cat make sure that there are no monsters in our house. We’re safe from all monsters.

But at least we know we can all hide under the table if monsters do happen upon us.

I am home after a long day to end a long week. Swee’Pea and TheMonk are finishing dinner and soon we begin playing in the play room. We pull the cushions off the couch and soon we are jumping and rolling on the cushions.

There is lots of laughter preceded by tickling armpits and raspberries on bellies. There is lots of jumping and making funny noises – from TheMonk and Swee’Pea too.

All this rough-housing tires me out and I plop onto my belly on one of the cushions on the ground. A second later, Swee’Pea plops down right next to me and we lay there with our faces turned to the side, facing each other.

We are silent for a moment as we look into each other’s eyes. Swee’Pea breaks the silence with the sweetest words ever heard.

“Daddy, you’re my best friend.” She says, in her little two-year-old voice.

“I am, Swee’Pea?” I reply. “You’re my best friend too.”

Suddenly, she hears TheMonk nearby and tells me, “TheMonk is my best friend too.”

Now, she’s on a roll and suddenly she remembers all the best friends she has in the world.

“And Mommy’s my best friend… And Grandmother’s my best friend… And Maya and Danica and Mark and Elaine are my best friends too.” she says, throwing in the kids who live on our street.

She goes on to name all the kids she plays with in daycare, who also happen to be her best friend. I half expect her to start naming everyone she’s ever come in contact with, including the nurse who administers her shots. I’m beginning to feel that maybe the special friendship I thought we shared wasn’t so special after all.

Oh well, at least I made the list.