Stefanie a.k.a Stefanie Wilder-Taylor
Stefanie Wilder-Taylor is the author of Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay, Naptime Is the New Happy Hour, and It's Not Me, It's You: Subjective Recollections from a Terminally Optimistic, Chronically Sarcastic and Occasionally Inebriated Woman. She’s appeared numerous times on The Today Show, is a member of the Us Weekly Fashion Police and writes on her blog, Baby On Bored
Stefanie Wilder-Taylor Author Alias
Ever wondered what's it like inside the mind of a four-year-old? Here's a typical day: 4:30 a.m. Hmm…I’m half awake. It would be so much cozier in Mommy and Daddy’s bed - right smack between them where I can make my body seem almost twice as big, and Mommy and Daddy can pretty much kiss the rest of their sleep goodbye.
When people hear that I have twins, one of the first questions I'm usually asked is, "Do you have family around to help you?" The answer to that question is like one of the relationship status options on Facebook: It's complicated. Although my mother and stepfather live nearby, I haven't spoken to them since Elby turned two. My mom bought her only grandchild a tricycle at that birthday but she's never seen her ride it. Since Elby will be five in November, she’s long since grown out of the three-wheeler phase and now has a big girl bike she rides everywhere but her trike still resides in the garage waiting patiently for the twins.
The other day I was at Target (shocker!) browsing through an excellent selection of eight dollar tank tops. They were the extra long style which I happen to need since I am in possession of a serious muffin top, yet I insist on wearing low rise pants.
I just caught sight of myself in the mirror and all I could think was “D*mn, I need Botox.”
The other night my daughter Elby pulled “The Story of Babar” off her bookshelf to read as her bedtime story - a welcome respite from the endless recitations of Knuffle Bunny Too, Leonardo the Terrible Monster and a few Richard Scarry books which have been on a constant loop. Let me preface this post with the fact that I’ve read Babar before - not only was it read to me as a child a few million times but I’d also read through it thirty-five years later with my daughter when she was (according to me) too young to fully appreciate it.
Someone recently commented - after seeing a photo of my daughter opening a present on Christmas - that it looked like a pink bomb had gone off in my house. They were referring to all the princess paraphernalia strewn around my living room.
My daughter Elby’s best friend, Dylan, is moving away and I’m devastated for her. It’s really the worst thing that’s happened to her -besides me coming home from the hospital with twins.
My sister-in-law just had a baby and she had four hours of labor, pushed for one hour (with seven minutes between contractions so she could rest) while talking to her doctor and holding her husband’s hand, and her beautiful baby boy slid out like a tiny miracle. Everything was perfect. I’ve had two C-sections.
About three weeks ago I started going back to the gym - a place I used to go religiously until I got pregnant with twins. Yup, I’ve barely stepped foot into my place of worship in, oh, roughly two years.
Every year, people with very good intentions sit down and type out a list of New Year’s resolutions, usually consisting of some lofty goals like "I will never touch fast food again" or "I will whip those saddle bags into shape" or "I will be a more patient parent."
My five-year-old daughter is a poor sport. She cheats at Trouble, Hi Ho Cherry-O, Chutes and Ladders, Go Fish and basically every game we play. I don’t know if cheating is the right word... well, yeah, it actually is.
Elby will be five on November 12th, which in case you weren’t aware is “only a few weeks away and a week is seven days - Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday - that’s a week!”
People make a huge deal about their kids sharing. At any given time in any given playground you will hear a chorus of moms and dads yelling, “Honey, share with your sister,” “Lucy, can you let that other little boy use your shovel?” “Ian, give your friend some of your goldfish crackers!”
Sometimes (all the time) when I look at my life I can’t believe I have three kids.
I’m a little concerned about my daughter’s extreme love for Barbie. I know what you’re thinking: this topic has been talked to death. That may be true but it hasn’t been talked to death by me and well, I have a column due, people.
My babies are already watching TV and they're only 16 months old. I’d love to tell you it’s just a little Baby Einstein now and again but they are already hardcore watchers with an unfortunate affinity for The Wiggles.
So I’ve been in the twins game now for about thirty-two months - thirty-two looong, crazy making, longing for Xanax months. I’ve experienced colic - twins with colic is not for the weak of heart, let me assure you. If you are pregnant with twins, I’d like to tell you that colic is livable, you will get through it, blah blah blah but I can’t. It wouldn’t be right to mislead you ...
I’m always wondering why I torture myself with having a baby monitor for the twins. I've come close to ditching it many times.
Two year-olds do this thing where they really seem to be listening, taking it all in, just getting you. And then they pull the old switcheroo.
A couple of weeks ago, my nanny found a louse on Matilda’s head. Apparently it was just crawling around, not a care in the world. Liz bagged it in a Ziploc sandwich bag so I could see it for myself and then called to deliver the bad news.
So I’m at Target today doing a little Santa shopping for my four-year-old, Elby (luckily she’s not one of those super advanced four-year-olds you hear people brag about who can already read - otherwise I couldn’t even write this column) when it occurred to me that... horrors...
When I was a young child, around my oldest daughter’s age, we didn’t have much. Moving into a small rental house with my newly separated mother we made do with just the essentials - if that.
While I’m working on this week’s column, my nanny is in the other room giggling with my babies. I never ever in a million zillion years thought I'd have a nanny. The whole “having a nanny” thing is completely out of my comfort zone and although it’s going on ten months that we’ve had Liz, and I should be used to it by now, the weight of it still catches me by surprise. The other day I was at Western Bagel grabbing breakfast with my friend Diana when we ran into a mutual friend I hadn’t seen in awhile.
Marriage is hard work. It so easy for me to drift apart for periods of time from Jon while dealing with the trials and tribulations of navigating the early intervention system for our twins, navigating the public school system for Elby and attempting to ensure our house doesn’t smell like cat pee -and we don’t own a cat - take a moment with that one.
Twitter can bite me. Yeah, I know, I know, get with the social media program or get left behind. It’s not like I don’t have a Twitter account. I do. I got my account about a year or so ago so that I could keep up with the Joneses (if it’s even called the Joneses -seeing as I know no one with the last name Jones and I’m way behind on hip terminology -I still use “phat” as an adjective) but I’m having trouble giving a shit about what anyone tweets or twats or twitters or whatever you call it. Whatever!