Birthdays are for memories.

My youngest sisters turn 24 today. I, frankly, am shocked.

Shocked because I'm pretty sure I'm still 24, and they're definitely...a year or two younger than me. Or so. Ballpark.

Also shocked because a good part of my childhood was spent doing really, really fun things that had incredible potential to damage one or the both of them. (And can't twins feel each other's wounds and stuff like that? So- definitely both of them.)

Do NOT leave us alone with her!

For example.

Once, when I was babysitting for the pair of six year-olds, I got a rather important phone call. (From an unnamed eighth grade boyfriend. Fear not, I was also in eighth grade.) Before taking the call, I instructed the two of them to stay inside; directions that they immediately disregarded and that I immediately forgot to enforce.

This was way back in the day- so when you got a phone call, you were practically married to the one spot near the kitchen counter where you picked up the phone.

It couldn't have happened this quickly, but the next thing I remember is hearing the THWACK of a branch snapping, a scream from one or both of them, and- once I stuck my head outside the sliding glass door- the image of Rachel flyyyying through the air. And hitting the ground. With a branch impaled through her armpit.

Thankfully, a nice neighbor lady/doctor was walking her dogs past the house at the time and it all ended just fine. Plus, Chelly now has a simply incredible scar. But Emma's scars might be a bit more of the psychological variety.

Moments before dropping Emily.

They were also the subjects of my short-lived career in photography. I would thumbtack their baby blankets around various pieces of furniture and surround the girls with desk lamps. They would then be forced to hold objects I deemed worthy of immortalization: silk flowers, important-looking books, and my stuffed animals. Once set up, I borrowed my parents' camera and took a positively blinding number of shots. Most of them were awful, especially the ones towards the end of the roll where they would be blinking, wincing, and looking a little glazed.

The twins were my only clients when I was a detective in my bedroom closet. They were the only ones who could fit in there with me.

I forced them to stay under the dining room table for hours when we were bears. I named them Cubby and Cubs and thought myself quite clever.

There were talent shows where I not only told them what their "talent" was, but I would also cut them off mid-act and make them go serve people from the Fisher-Price kitchen. (You wanna act? You've got bus your own table.)

I once tried to make Rachel swallow her own hand.

I left Emily in a pile of my stuffed animals and went out to ride my bike, completely forgetting that I'd told her not to move.

Despite all of these atrocities, they've turned into stellar human beings. (Also, inexplicably, I've had a really successful career as a nanny.)

Rachel is one of the wittiest people I know- yet she rarely makes me feel dumb. Nor has she attempted to make me swallow my own hand. (Yet.)

Em is the person to whom I've emailed pictures of entire outfits- begging her to tell me what to wear. And despite my teasing of her hair into absolutely marvelous pigtails...she helps me.

Chel lives in NYC and acts and auditions and tutors for the SATs and knows the best place to have anything, ever.

Emily lives in Cambridge and saves the world and once lived on a boat and is the nation's greatest dancer and dissects lyrics with a surgeon's precision.

We usually bring Kate, too!

So...happy birthday, gals. Despite my outward attempts toward the contrary, you've clearly done a-ok with yourselves- to which I can only respond with these two phrases:

I'm sorry.

And you're welcome.

I read The News, too.

Am I the only one who thinks Bruno Mars' song 'Grenade' sounds like it could be a B-side from Thriller? Anyone?

(...Aaand I just Wikipedia'd him and saw that the singer/songwriter/producer is heavily influenced by Michael Jackson and Motown. RESEARCH.)

But seriously. It does.

And while I generally leave the in-depth musical analysis to my darling sister Em, I'd be remiss if I didn't comment on at least a few of the [startlingly dark yet catchy as anything] lyrics:

I'd catch a grenade for ya

Throw my hand on a blade for ya

I'd jump in front of a train for ya

You know I'd do anything for ya

I would go through all this pain

Put a bullet right through my brain

Yes I would die for you baby

But you won't do the same (no no no no)

Okay, now, not to be all Sassy Gay Friend- but What what WHAT are you doing?! None of these are declarations of love. None of them. I would never ask these asinine things of you...yet you're ticked because I won't stand on the train tracks for you? Clearly you have misjudged the level of angst in our relationship. I ain't no Juliet, and I'm sure as heck no pre-teen. 

Here's a love song I'd really swoon for:

I'd fold up the sheets for ya

Put the baby to sleep for ya

Warm up the car with heat seats for ya

Netflix a funny release for ya

I would clear hair from the drain

Salt the steps during the icy rain

Yes I would fry for you-

Some bacon in the flame (wo wo wo)

See that? LOVE SONG. 

Also, Bruno Mars? I think you need to take a page from the Ricky Martin 'La Vida Loca' book and realize that a bullet through the brain does not prove anything- nor, according to Mr. Martin, does it make you "insane." It makes you dead. La Vida Muerta. 

God, between this and Taio Cruz's "Dynamite," it makes me kinda long for simpler, less violently named songs. Like "Sister Golden Hair."

In other Media Sound-Byte News Of Stuff That Bothers Me:

-Hello, Jello? Yes, thank you for your new Mousse Temptations ads, but the next time I reference anything as being "Me O'Clock" I sure as heck won't be referencing pudding. Maybe some chips. But my point is that the "time" won't be defined by eating. At least not entirely. (Can I eat pudding while napping?)

-Hey there, Hoverround. I agree that your electric wheelchair/scooter amalgamations sure look helpful. But perhaps we shouldn't still be offering to send out informative VHS tapes for the first people to call in. Because really, tapes? Lemme crank up the ol' party line and wait for the Pony Express. (I realize that those are two very different time periods. At least I'm aware that I should be aware of that. I'll Wikipedia it in a few.) VHS is old.

(Yes, I realize this isn't the commercial 

that offers a free VHS tape, but I really 

had to include it anyhow.)

-And "iRenew Bracelets?" Do you realize that, at a certain part of your infomercial, it sounds like your spokesperson is saying that the "customers" are unable to stay balanced "without irony?" I realize that he is saying the phrase "without iRenew." I do realize that. But the fact that these Man On the Street people can barely remain standing when you tug on their arms- wearing electromagnetic frequency bracelets or not- smacks of falsity to me. Or maybe scurvy.

And sure, perhaps it's not exactly irony so much as it is bad acting, but maybe it could be construed as irony in the Alanis Morissette-extremely-loose-definition-way?

I miss books.

It might be Laying Down Time soonish.

Hide n' seek foyer time.

There are few things nicer than lining up hordes of Little People (the teensy, plasticky ones- not folks with dwarfism) and shoving them into neon-colored houses and miniature fairy castles. It helps if one's assistant is a miniature, round-cheeked gal herself. Farm equipment and bus stop accessories optional.

Nora loves her toys. Loves putting them precisely where they ought to go and then belly-flopping them into smithereens. Both activities make her so happy that it's hard to be concerned about the three-plus hours it'll take to find each and every worker, child and forest creature. (Hint: Check the VCR.)

Yes, we still have a VCR.

Here's what makes playing with Nora so great: she has no concept of spatial limitations, thusly, anything is possible. Her newest manner of playing with her dollhouse is to upend it, feed dolls and toys and blocks through the windows, and then somehow shove the thing up on its side to admire her handiwork. Then she stands on it. The whole thing comes off looking like Godzilla meets The Poseidon Adventure. There are few survivors.

Sure, in some regards she's all girl; she constantly taps her chest with a tutu or small apron before handing it to me and declaring "dat" and patiently waiting for me to dress her in it. She holds her babies to her neck (sometimes upside down) and pats their backs, singing "Rockabeeeeee." But then she bodyslams them to the ground. And hits them with a shoe. Or tries to wrap an apron or dishtowel around a wayward cat.

The other day she tried to eat the cats' dry food. When I took it away from her with a 'no' and a reminder of whose food that was, she raced to the other room and dumped a bowl of water down her shirt. And shook her finger at herself- No. With a smile.

During dinner prep two nights ago, it was quiet for about fifteen seconds. I poked my head around the corner and saw her eyes go big. Because she was standing in the middle of the couch, arms splayed as if she were about to jump or fly. When she realized I had caught her in the act, she slowly slid down the couch to to her bottom. And smiled. You know, the kind of smile that suggested I ought to go back into the kitchen...no, really. I'll just wait right here. On my bottom.

But when she finds a book- or stack of books- that she really likes (for example, all of the ones in the kitchen, bedroom, and playroom), she'll sit for a good forty minutes and read. She turns the pages and oohs and ahhs over babies, animals, and old issues of Time. Sometimes she talks to them. Or berates them. But mostly she just flips the pages and smiles. And it's awesome, because during those moments of fabulous stillness and silence, I get to cook and fold and clean and write and sometimes- just sometimes- go to the bathroom.

When I'm not feeling well, she allows me to sit on the floor and feed her instant oatmeal for breakfast. She patiently kneels in front of me and sighs with each bite, knowing that I'm really gonna be phoning it in today.

And on days when I'm really not feeling well, Nora lets me lay facedown on the floor for pretty decent stretches of time. She even brings her trolls and superheroes and small cars over to kiss my cheek and jump on my back.

I think I was wrong, before. Really. Sixteen months is the best age for a person to be, ever. I mean it this time.

A jury this large (and varied) cannot be wrong. Except for maybe the trolls.

They'll say whatever you want to hear.

I even wore my best hoodie.

Back to work.

So I didn't win Best Parenting Blog. But, as I also didn't win Best Scientific, European, or Technical Blog, I can choose to look at this a few different ways, all positive.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I feel good about my decision.

Also, this frees me up from having to write about "parenting" stuff every day. I mean- REALLY.

Oh, I kid.

I would, however, like to thank the superbly nice folks who have been so gracious as to not spam-block me each and every time that I request votes...and also the three hundred additional folks who have been visiting the blog every single day. (Please stay! I promise to keep talking about parenting, if that's what you dig!)

I also feel good about the other three potentially life-changing events that could occur this coming week. I've said too much. But it could be boss.

I can, however, tell you about my newest obsession: Ghost Adventures. Sure, this is a television program that premiered in the Fall of 2008, but I've never claimed to be a timely person.

For example, I recently recommended Def Leppard's 'Hysteria' as a must-listen for albums.

Back to the show. It is awesomely creepy. And I just happened to catch three straight hours of it on Saturday night. (Judge not.) I mean, sure, the guys on that show can be downright vaudevillian in their responses to the spirits- noodle legs flying up from a chair, jazz hands splayed to ask the camera: Did you SEE that?- but boy oh boy, was I not ready to sleep alone.

Thankfully, I didn't have to. My husband was asleep on the sofa next to me the entire time. Which leads me to my next segment, entitled:

My Husband Cannot Stay Awake For The Telly.

It's true. Right around 7:45pm, a little after Nora calls it a night, he begins the popular refrain of "What Would You Like To Watch?" (Do not pity. Sometimes we play board games or Mario Kart.) I always roll my eyes and respond- whatever you'd enjoy falling asleep to. He then promises up and down to stay awake and even bolsters himself with a cup of coffee or black tea, followed up by eagerly setting up the newest, edgy movie. (Which, let's be honest, is not my cup o' chai.)

Twenty minutes later- Outsville, Illinois. Population: 1 dude snoring. (And one rather bored/tense gal uncomfortable with all of the currentitude on her television box.) I've started telling him- Look, if you know you're gonna fall asleep, let's just call out the charade and put on some BBC. You'll sleep better, I'll be happier, and anyone walking by will believe us to be cultured.

Win/win. Unlike the Bloggies. Or the Oscars.

But the Footie Pajama-Clad Miniature Person Climbing On My Chest To Comb My Hair With A Doll Brush Awards?

Blue Ribbon.

It's best not to get too greedy.