I am Wendy, a mama to three girls (twins plus one!), a wife to a freakishly smart geek, and a freelance writer, pretty much in that order, although it does change on an as-needed basis. I only sort of look like the mom doll in the photo, but my hair is not so bouncin’ and behavin’. Plus, she’s way skinnier, but whatever. We live in the middle of the desert—(well, it’s really a suburb by now, with sidewalks and stoplights, but “desert” just sounds more exotic. Besides, we do have to contend with rattlesnakes, scorpions and coyotes from time to time, so it’s not really a stretch.) Living with my quirky husband and mothering my equally quirky and oddly well-behaved daughters provides me with ample fodder for this blog. (Get it? Mothering fodder?) So since they’re the inspiration behind the blog, you should know a little about them:
Mr. BK, a k a “Buzzy”: That’s the husband. The BK and “Buzzy” are short for “Buzzkill,” which stems from the fact that although he’s probably the most positive, optimistic person I know, he tends to start most of his sentences with, “You wanna know what the problem with that is?” Or, “The failure mode I anticipate with that is…” It’s because he’s a scientist/engineer and failure analysis is his job, so I get it. Kind of. I mean, detecting the failure mode of an airplane-engine starter is one thing, but in a new sippy cup or purse I bought, or a business idea I have are quite another. But that’s what happens when you’re married to an ACTUAL rocket scientist. (At least he used to be one, but he thought it wasn’t challenging enough for him. I know, annoying.) Then again, he can fix anything, knows about all kinds of stuff, and best of all, can help me with html code. Plus, he’s really good-looking in a John-Stamos/Dr.-Kovac-from-E.R. kind of way, which helps a little when he’s on my last nerve. (Yes, it happens, all of you who think I have the perfect husband.) We’ve been married for 18 years, and I could not ask for a better husband/partner, and our three daughters could not have a better father. I’m always telling them that when they grow up, they’d better marry someone as awesome as he is. That’s not setting them up for all kinds of future relationship problems or anything, don’t worry. So about those daughters:
Twin A: Our oldest by 20 minutes just turned 11 and has entered that jungle called middle school. Ugh. Not “ugh” to her, just the idea of middle school altogether. Actually, it hasn’t been so bad (yet), and I have no doubts this girl will sail through it nearly unscathed. She’s brainy and good at stuff like her father, and a slightly neurotic full-on germophobe like her mother, so with those tools under her sparkly belt, she’ll more than survive it. She loves gymnastics, making up quizzes, reading, writing, drawing and talking a lot. I guarantee you, she will have blog of her own one day soon. She would now, if not for all the homework!
Twin B: Our “middlest” is also 11 (twins, duh!) and also in the midst of middle school madness. She is quite possibly the sweetest, kindest, most gentle person in the world. (Her preschool teacher compared her to Mother Teresa, so it’s not just me saying it!) You will never hear a harsh word or impatient tone out of her mouth (unless you are her twin sister, who is her best friend in the entire world and the only person to ever be on the receiving end of a rare bad mood). She is bright, thoughtful, philosophical and though she’s the second-shortest kid in the entire 6th grade (only her twin is shorter), she’s a basketball dynamo. She also loves nature, hiking, climbing trees, reading, and sculpting extremely miniature clay figurines. She sometimes thinks she’s the Jan Brady of the bunch, with her twin being the “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia” of the two, but it’s simply not true. (Still, as a middle myself, I can relate. I am Jan.) And look, I think I just gave her more words. Hey, not everything can be equal, not even with twins!
Little Miss: Our youngest just turned 4 and completely rocked our world as we knew it when we thought we were going to be a family of four forever. Somehow, she has managed to become the center of the household, or more like the eye of the storm. It’s not that she’s a handful by any means; in fact, she’s quite the opposite. She’s pleasant, hilarious, conversational, scarily perceptive and has never had a tantrum in her life. And yet, she’s 4, which means she’s kind of demanding, a little picky and a lot messy. She is pure sunlight, and we all adore her and she knows it. She loves Disney princesses, Polly Pockets, books, painting, Play-Doh and being very aware of her sisters doing anything wrong and calling them out on it. (Uh, oh…is she turning into Thindy Brady?)
Oh, and one more thing: This isn’t a “mommyblog.” It’s a mom blog. I can’t exactly say why, but I just don’t like the word “mommyblog.” I am a mom, and my kids call me “mommy,” but I don’t call myself “mommy” in the third person, and my husband certainly doesn’t call me “mommy.” Gross. Also, “mommy” sounds all cute and scrapbook-y, which I am not. If I were to say, “I am a mommy who writes and has a blog,” what do you picture? Either the frumpy, frazzled mommy with the ubiquitous “spit-up stains on her blouse” (eewww, I can’t stand that cliche), or the mommy who has it all together, with her scrapbooks all updated to the minute, her hair all cute even after coming out of her early-morning yoga class, strapping her baby into the Bugaboo for today’s Mommy and Me class. OK, neither of them are me, so let’s just call it a “mom blog” and picture me somewhere in the middle. But closer to the first mommy (sans the spit-up stains on my blouse). Also, I don’t wear blouses. I wear shirts or tops. (Sorry, Mom, I know how you love your blouses and slacks.)