More Poop Tales

Last Thursday after breakfast I herded the girls into the nursery to change Turtle’s poopy diaper. I pulled off her pants with one hand and threw them on the floor as I walked into the room, then used that hand to scoop up her legs and place her on the changing table. SQUISH. I scream-squealed at the massive handful of lumpy green poop oozing through my fingers and around the stones on my wedding rings. It was all the way down Turtle’s leg and on both feet, since I had dragged her dirty pants down her legs. It was somehow on my shirt already, too. I held her down on the table with my right elbow as I pulled out wipe after wipe, trying to clean my hand and her leg and pulling my shirt off all while squealing, "ohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod." I finally got everything cleaned up, got her in a fresh diaper, wiped and rinsed out the poopy clothes and washed my hands and my rings in hot soapy water, then got a washcloth to wipe down Turtle’s legs once more for good measure. As I knelt down next to her I smelled poop again. “Argh, who pooped now?” I asked the girls, only to realize I had a big ole glop of poo on the leg of my sweats. I screamed again and pulled my pants off, now in the nursery in my bra and underwear.

I stayed that way for a good half hour, getting everything cleaned and rinsed and wrestling the girls into their clothes and shoes for our morning errands. When they were ready I sprinted across the living room (remember we have bare windows facing the street) to get myself dressed again. I always carry an extra outfit in the diaper bag for the girls, but maybe I should start stashing extra clothes for myself around the house, since I often find myself half-dressed after being vomited or pooped on, and twice lately, bled on. And maybe it’s time to get some window coverings for the living room!

More Nicknames

Jujube. How could I forget jujube? And Super J. And Honey Bunny. Honey Bunny is said in a sad voice and goes something like this, "oh ho-ney, bu-nny, did you get an ouchie on your head?" All three of these were used within 12 hours of my last posting. I'm sure there are a dozen more I'm forgetting, and since N comes up with a handful of new ones each month (he just started using JJ), I'll never get them all down. So I guess it's time to put this to rest for now. I just had to tell you about Jujube though. It was one of Monkey's first nicknames, N invented it, and it has stuck the longest.

Nicknames

We don’t actually call the girls Monkey and Turtle. When they were newborns Monkey had long arms and legs and dark “fur” on her back, and she clung to us like a baby monkey, so we called her Monkey sometimes. When Turtle first started to gain weight she had a gigantic head with puffy cheeks, and a spindly little neck, like a cartoon turtle. So I bought a monkey hand puppet and a turtle hand puppet for Christmas last year to commemorate their state of being at the time. But we don’t collect monkeys or turtles or anything like that. I just like to use the names for this blog because it creates some distance so my posts can read more like little stories.

We do have dozens of nicknames for the girls that we use on a regular basis, though. Some I use more than N and vice versa but I thought it would be fun to list as many as I can think of. So without further ado, here are all the things we actually do call our little girls every day:

Baby girl, cutie pie, cutie muffin, silly muffin, cuddle muffin, muffin, sweetie pie, honey bun, bun, honey bear, honey, Jay, Miss J, jaybird, JZ, JB, Big J, stinky pants, little monkey, little munchkin, ‘lil lil’, little flower, beautiful girl, droolsie, joolsie, cheesy, pookaburra, special sauce, lilipin, smarty Jones, Missy Moo, superstar.

Rest assured that despite this plethora of silly nicknames, they do know and respond to their real names.

Milestones

Turtle and Monkey are 13 months old now, and we’ve gone through so many changes over the past several weeks it’s like a whole new world. First of all, I missed their “13 month birthday.” I used to count down the days until the 22d of the month and take lots of photos to commemorate their new “month-age.” Last month the 22d came and went and I didn’t even notice. I guess that’s what happens when you’re trying to keep up with the busy schedule of two one-year-olds!

That brings us to the next topic – eating schedules. I thought feeding schedules were restricted to newborns, but no! The girls were fully weaned from their bottles about a week after their first birthday, but guess what? Toddlers still need to eat six times a day. And just as I expected, sitting two toddlers down to eat three or four meals and two or three snacks every day is much, much more work than tossing them a bottle and letting them chow down. It feels like I am forever calculating when they last ate and what in the world I’m going to feed them next. Applesauce, bananas, yogurt, toast, waffles, eggs, tofu, graham crackers, kiwi, cereal, avocado, pasta. These are just a few of the staples we keep on hand. When I ask, “ready to eat, girls?” they crawl to the kitchen as fast as they can and try to climb up into their highchairs. If you say “milk,” they start to yell and fuss until you get them a cup of milk, even if you were just commenting, “We need to get more milk.” So we spell things a lot now. “M-i-l-k; L-O-V-I-E; W-A-L-K” – anything they really like has to be spelled unless you are committed to giving it to them that second.

Next up is: ONE NAP! I thought having the girls on just one nap a day would actually be a good thing. But at each stage I learn I really had no idea what I was in for at the next stage. It is freaking hard to entertain two toddlers for hours on end. I thought we’d get to go do lots of things during their longer waking periods. But I didn’t think about the fact that I’d have to actually start getting up much earlier than them to prepare for the day, and that I’d have to think ahead to the next meal or snack all day, and that they’d hate their car seats and stroller. So my fantasy of driving down to the hike and bike trail, going for a long run with them in the jogging stroller, and then driving home in time for a midday nap is just that, a fantasy. I’m pretty sure being strapped into a seat for that long would be Monkey’s worst nightmare, and we’ve already established I try to avoid upsetting that girl at all costs. Even Turtle might have a word with me if she was cooped up for two or three hours without being able to get out and crawl or practice walking. And I’d have to take food with me and feed them somewhere, and what if one of them needed a diaper change? Forget it, it’s easier to just sit in the living room and sing “The Wheels on the Bus” 47 times.

I actually don’t do this every day anymore, though, and that is our biggest milestone: daycare. On November 3, Monkey and Turtle started going to a childcare center very close to our house. They go MWF from 8:30-4:30, and I am continuing to work as I had been while they were home, except now I can actually talk to a client without a kid screaming in the background, so that’s nice. I was able to take them to the daycare a couple of times before we officially started, and we played in their classroom both times for a little over an hour, so they didn’t cry when I left them the first day. Now that they know they are staying all day, they do cry when I leave. Mr. Lovie is an immediate comfort to Turtle and she actually smiled and waved goodbye on Monday, so that was really exciting for me. Monkey has a complete meltdown most mornings but is always smiley and happy when I go to pick her up. Turtle got sick a couple of times right off the bat, and so she missed about three days this first month and Monkey had to go to school without her. It has definitely been a big adjustment for all three of us, but I think we’re managing it okay.

One last thing – Monkey is very close to being an official “walker.” She can walk across the room without falling, which she does many times a day with a big smile on her face. She loves to show off how well she can walk and we love to cheer her on. As expected, she took her time, took lots of tiny steps to start, and is methodically building up her expertise. Turtle still takes a few wild steps and then falls, so even though she started walking first I expect she won’t focus on getting it down until she sees Monkey running around the house without her.

Well that’s my big news update from the world of Monkey and Turtle. I’m feeling overwhelmed trying to get ready for Christmas so my posts may be shorter or less frequent this month. Rest assured, though, little blog stories are always brewing in my head so there will be plenty to read for months (and hopefully years) to come.

Meltdowns

I live in mortal fear of one thing: meltdowns. You might think I’d say something like kidnapping, but I’m pretty sure I could kill someone with my bare hands if they so much as gave my girls the evil eye. But meltdowns make my heart race and my mind go blank and my jaws clench as I run around in circles trying to address the problem.

I guess I should confess here that I’m talking about Monkey’s meltdowns. On the rare occasion Turtle melts down, you pick her up, you give her Mr. Lovie, and you go sit quietly in the darkened nursery for a minute. That’s it. She could be teething, exhausted, or she could have just smashed her face against the wooden leg of the ottoman, it doesn’t matter, a quick cuddle with Mr. Lovie and she is good to go. She is an easy baby who loves to sleep, to be happy, and to make you happy.

Monkey, on the other hand, is ready to battle at the slightest indication she might not get her way. She flings herself on the ground when she gets mad, and if it’s the hard travertine kitchen floor, so much the better. Banging her head on the floor helps her develop a nice loud “bloody murder” scream during a Queen Kong meltdown. There are many reasons Monkey might have a meltdown, like “taking away that dog food I was eating,” “setting me on the floor so you can change my sister’s diaper,” and my personal favorite, “finishing all the milk in my sippy cup.”

The absolute biggest meltdowns happen when Monkey is hungry but doesn't get food right away. She has to eat the INSTANT she wakes in the morning, or else. And I mean she will make you pay if her hunger is not instantly addressed. I used to walk into the nursery with a cup of milk to give her immediately so she could fill up while I changed Turtle’s diaper. But our pediatric nurse asked us to go straight to the breakfast table, before diaper changes if necessary, so the girls would eat a healthy breakfast, rather than fill up on milk and then pick at their hot cereal later. The first morning was a disaster. I had no idea how much they would eat and I was frantically pulling whatever I could find out of the fridge to satisfy the little piglets. I’ve developed a few strategies so that now I am always ready with the following for each girl: at least one boiled egg, one sliced banana or kiwi, a small bowl of hot cereal, a small bowl of cottage cheese or yogurt, and orange juice. And they eat every single bit.

A couple of mornings into our new routine, though, before I developed breakfast competency, the girls woke a little earlier than expected, and Monkey had a really stinky diaper that absolutely had to be changed before breakfast. By the time I changed her, got her in her high chair, and started doling out the few kiwi slices I had ready while the eggs boiled and I raced to pull some yogurt from the fridge, she was a goner. Screaming, banging her head into the back of her high chair, pushing all the food she desperately wanted away from her. Once she goes to that place, it’s too late, she doesn’t want the food, she doesn’t want to be held, she doesn’t want anything except to scream rhythmically so that you get the message that you are a horrible excuse for a mother who clearly enjoys torturing her child.

The one thing that usually calms her in these situations is a quick trip outside. I walk out with her and it’s like the clear blue sky, green grass, shady trees, chirping birds, and scampering squirrels remind her that life is worth living after all, even when breakfast is five minutes late.

I think her meltdowns affect me so much because I completely understand that the emotions behind them are real, and not exaggerated. I really know how she feels - I would like to throw a major fit when things don’t go my way, which is at least a dozen times a day. But I usually mask my meltdown with a smile when breakfast is a little late, and I slam the freezer door when we run out of ice cream only when no one else is around. She clearly inherited this "fly off the handle" behavior from me, so I feel it is my responsibility to manage her mood as best I can, to anticipate every moment that might upset her, to maintain her blood sugar at a constant level by keeping food handy at all times, and to generally control the universe so that she never has a moment of discomfort. After all, that’s just the mama’s job, isn’t it?

Do you smell poop?

Is it still acceptable for me to pick up Turtle and sniff her rear to see if she’s pooped her diaper? Was it ever acceptable? Is it time for me to stop grabbing Monkey and putting her through all manner of contortions so I can look inside her diaper? When will I stop interrupting every conversation I have by turning to the girls and asking, “Did one of you poop?” More importantly, when will I stop smelling poop?

I’m starting to worry that our house is ruined, like Jerry’s car in “The Smelly Car” Seinfeld episode. Every time I walk in the front door I’m searching for the odor that just assaulted me. I empty every trash can in the house, I spray the diaper pail, but it’s no use. The smell just exists. And so I continue to look down the back of my girls’ pants in the most undignified manner, determined to halt new odors instantly, asking them, asking myself, asking anyone who will listen, “Do you smell poop?”

Pride

N and I often marvel at how lucky we are to have won the lottery of birthplace. No matter the flaws and ugliness we see, we never forget the profound good fortune we enjoy simply by being born in the United States. The pride I’m feeling today reminds me of the feelings I had in June of 1989 when I took the oath of enlistment to be sworn into the Army, and again in November of 1998 when I took the attorney’s oath to be sworn into the State Bar of Texas. Both times, I swore my allegiance to the Constitution and both times I deeply felt my responsibility to my country. I’m reminded of a new responsibility today – to raise two citizens who appreciate the democracy into which they were so lucky to have been born. And I am so proud that the first thing I will be able to teach Monkey and Turtle about their country is that Barack Obama is their president.

Now, who are you?

The other day after the girls woke up and had their cup of milk, I began the diaper routine. I put Monkey on the changing table, unsnapped her outfit, changed her sopping wet diaper, re-snapped her outfit, and sat her on the floor. I looked around to get Turtle and decided first to straighten up the bedding in the cribs a little. Then I picked up Monkey, put her on the changing table, unsnapped her outfit, opened her diaper, and it was totally dry. I was shocked and a little panicked. “How can your first diaper in the morning be dry?” I asked, looking at the face of baby on the table. Monkey. Whose diaper I just changed 60 seconds ago. I smothered Monkey with kisses and apologized profusely.

This type of thing happens more often than it should. When they were still newborns, sleeping in a co-sleeper next to our bed, I woke to one of them crying. Without opening my eyes or turning on the light, I stuck my hand in the co-sleeper, found a pacifier and tried to put it in the crying baby’s mouth. Over and over I tried to give it to her, but she wouldn’t take it. After a couple of minutes I got really frustrated and turned on the light, only to realize I was shoving a pacifier into a soundly sleeping baby’s face while the other baby cried and cried.

The current version goes something like this: I’m carrying a baby from one place to another and I think to myself, “Who do I have?” Then I look down and go, “Oh, it’s Turtle.” This happens a lot. And I always think, HOW can I “forget” who I’m carrying when I just picked the poor girl up? They look nothing alike, so it's not like I'm getting them mixed up. My mind is just moving on to the next thing I'm going to do so I lose track of what I'm doing right now. I can only hope that therapy for "my mom can't remember who I am" will be part of the next President's health care plan.

Spoiled

The house I grew up in, a few miles south of San Antonio, did not have air conditioning. Not even a window unit. Or a ceiling fan. We propped the windows open and sprayed Off on ourselves to defend against the mosquitoes coming in through the torn screens. During the hottest months, I would take a cool bath before bed (we didn’t have a shower) and put my little oscillating fan directly on me, hoping I would fall asleep before I started to sweat. We used three gas space heaters in the winter. You had to stand right in front of them to get any warmth, and then you burned up for being too close. I slept in layers of clothes under layers of blankets for the few really cold weeks each year. During the most uncomfortable nights, when I was too hot or too cold to sleep, I would repeat the solemn vow I had made to myself so many times I knew for certain it was true: I will not live like this when I grow up.

So here I am, in my large lovely home, with not one but TWO fully functioning air conditioning and heating units. And I worry almost non-stop that Turtle and Monkey will be spoiled rotten. I mean, they have their own bathroom for goodness sakes. With a shower. At 12 months old, they have already eaten at a restaurant more times than I did in the first 18 years of my life. And it is never too hot or too cold in their room.

They also have every accoutrement known to baby, given to them by loving and generous family members. When I registered for infant car seats, I decided I wanted them to have the “Lotus Red” Graco Snugrides, the expensive ones that could only be purchased from the local specialty store. No problem. I decided they also needed a double jogging stroller, but it had to be a BOB Revolution Duallie because that was the best one, and only the burnt orange BOB would do. Check. For their first birthday, I really wanted them to have a red Radio Flyer wagon. And if it’s not too much trouble, how about the souped-up one with a canopy and a storage compartment and 4 cupholders? But of course. And you know what else they need for their birthday party? A couple of those Zutano outfits, you know, the ones you can only get at baby boutiques? Certainly. And they just have to have some sneakers for the park. Ok, how about two pairs of the cutest leather Nikes on earth?

After the girls' birthday, I surveyed their booty. I played with every new toy, inspected the laces of every new shoe, and admired every new coordinated outfit. I looked out the window at the live oak trees in our front yard and imagined pulling the girls in their new wagon down our long driveway and around our beautiful hill country neighborhood. And I realized that there is already someone in our house who has become spoiled. But it isn’t Monkey, and it isn’t Turtle. It's a little girl living her grown-up life at the perfect temperature.

HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY MONKEY AND TURTLE!!

Two Little Children

Our pediatrician, our wonderful, warm, patient, mother-of-three-year-old-twins pediatrician, ripped my babies away from me today and replaced them with little children. It happened really fast. “How are they eating?” she asked. “Pretty good,” I said, “But, um. I still give them four bottles a day.” She winced and shook her head. I sighed. I knew I was giving them a bottle too often, but I didn’t care. “Well, see, I feel like as long as they get 24 ounces of formula each day, they’re getting all the nutrition they need so. . .”

“No, that’s wrong,” she said. “You’re thinking of them as babies, and they’re not babies. They're toddlers now, and you have to treat them like little children.”

I knew this was coming so I wasn’t surprised. But I had hoped I would get some kind of “mother of twins” reprieve, like when I admitted to her that the girls got baths only once or twice a week until they were nearly nine months old. She had shrugged then. “They don’t get very dirty, and it’s hard with twins, I know.” So I had hoped she would do the same today, she’d say she understood how hard it is to feed twins three meals a day, plus two snacks, plus get them down for two naps, and how much time and work all that takes, and yes, it really is much easier to give them a bottle at snack time because they can inhale it in three minutes and go back about their business, no muss and literally, no fuss.

But no. She was firm about this whole “time to give up the bottle” business. She assured me it would be easier than I expected. I’m sure she is right. The girls each drink whole milk from a cup perfectly fine. But she kept saying she understood I might not be ready to let the bottle go. And I kept saying, no it’s not that, it’s just easier with a bottle.

But now I know that she was right. I’m not ready to give up the bottle and I’ve been hiding behind my “it’s hard because I have twins” routine. I didn’t breastfeed the girls as long as I wanted. We had some weight gain problems, some logistical problems, and a lot of anxiety on my part because of the weight gain problems, and so by the time they were 12 weeks old I was pretty much pumping exclusively and bottle feeding them breast milk. Yes, they got breast milk for 7 months and yes, I worked my butt off to produce the milk, and yes, I know that is the most important thing nutritionally. But I really liked nursing and I’m really sad it didn’t work out like I’d hoped. So now when I cradle a baby close, her head on my breast and the bottle across my chest, her hand playing with my hair or squeezing my finger, it’s my version of nursing. And I don’t want it to stop. But I know it’s time, and not just because the pediatrician said so.

When we got home I opened the canister of formula, the last one we have, and saw that it was half full. I’ve given myself until the formula runs out, probably another day or so, to give up the bottle and “official” babyhood. I’m like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, watching the powder in the hourglass. But for us, when the powder runs out, it will be a new beginning. A new beginning for me and my two little children.

Superstar

Try as I might, I can’t stop myself from fantasizing about what each girl will be like when she gets older. Monkey likes to bang on the piano, so she’ll probably be just like Norah Jones. Turtle likes to push a ball around the house with her head, so she’ll be the next Mia Hamm. I know I shouldn’t impose my unfulfilled dreams on them, but I wonder how hard that will be as they get older, especially if they are much different from me. I thoroughly enjoyed the spotlight as a child: piano recitals, awards assemblies, junior high cheerleading – it always felt completely natural for me to get on stage and be applauded. What if they don’t show an interest in music? Or don’t get straight As? Or, horror of horrors, aren’t athletic?

I should know, though, that youthful interests don’t necessarily translate into a professional career. I never hosted that national radio show I fantasized about when I practiced with my tape player in third grade. And even though I hung out on the West Mall of the UT campus listening to hippies play the harmonica, I didn’t end up the edgy anti-establishment leader I toyed around with in college. I didn’t even become the prestigious lawyer I imagined on my first day of law school.

Now I spend my days dicing turkey for lunch and fretting that I don’t have Halloween costumes for my babies. But I have a secret life, too. Inside my quiet suburban home, I am also a singer, a dancer, a comedian, an actor, and a concert pianist. I’m a gourmet chef, a magician, and the smartest, most interesting, most beautiful woman alive. My fans think I sing better than Julie Andrews and dance better than Kevin Bacon. I can’t even go to the bathroom without my paparazzi of two clamoring after me, intrigued by my every move. I expected a lot of things from motherhood. But I never expected that the adoring eyes of two little fans would be all the accolades I would ever need. Out there, I am a typical suburban mom. But in here, I am a superstar.

Texas 45 OU 35

Texas/OU weekend holds a special place in my heart. And not just because of the raucous college memories. The law school memories are pretty good too. The first time N and I kissed was TX/OU weekend 1996, at the Across the Street bar in Dallas, after countless 25-cent pitchers of beer.

We were excited to introduce our little Longhorns to the game this past weekend, and even though they napped through the first half, they seemed to enjoy “watching” the second half at Waterloo Ice House with Grandpa and Granny C and a couple dozen other Texas fans. Monkey's eyes opened wide the first time the crowd roared in response to a play, and she buried her head in my chest. Knawing on her first flour tortilla for the rest of the game helped relax her. Turtle thoroghly enjoyed the noise and the crowd - from the safe haven of Daddy's arms, of course. The girls’ first-ever TX/OU game was a victory for the Longhorns – what else could be expected on such a momentous occasion?

I don’t know if I’ll ever tell the girls about the Across the Street bar, I don’t know if they’ll ever go to a TX/OU game, and I don’t want to know if they drink cheap beer with cute boys. But I do know that sharing this weekend with the girls added a new, wonderful dimension to my TX/OU memories.

Turtle’s First Steps

Turtle took her first steps over the weekend. Last Friday night she let go of what she was hanging on to and moved forward two or three steps, flapping her hands wildly before tumbling to the ground. I don’t think she even realized what she was doing. Then on Sunday night, N and I sat a couple of feet apart, and I held her steady, then let go, while N had his arms outstretched to her. She took a few steps to him before falling into his arms, just like you see in the baby commercials. It was the first time he saw her walk, and it confirmed that I had not imagined those few steps I thought I saw on Friday night. Even though she hasn’t done it again, it is official - she has taken her first steps.

Turtle has had a lot of little developments over the past ten days that are probably adding up to dramatic development, but it’s hard for me to see the big picture. Every day I frantically scribble in my journal, trying to keep up with every new thing: Turtle abruptly stops playing to crawl to the nursery to retrieve Mr. Lovey (her Angel Dear yellow duckie) from her crib, then comes back into the living room dragging him along. Turtle points to everything, everything, and looks to you for an explanation. She gives you a book and points at it when she wants you to read to her. She points to her sippy cup when she’s ready for a drink. She “pets” the kittens in her kitty book. I put my necklace on her today (after she repeatedly pointed at it) and she crawled proudly around the living room, stopping every now and then to touch it and smile up at me.

Then there’s Monkey. She tries to snap her fingers when I snap and sing, and she will dance if she hears anything just slightly resembling music. She doesn’t seem as interested in interactive communication just yet though. She continues to sit alone in one spot for long periods of time, working the Velcro in her shoe (or whatever she’s focused on that half hour) over and over again, completely engaged, almost bothered if you try to talk to her about what she’s doing. She pushes dining room chairs, the Exersaucer, and high chairs across the room to practice walking. She is so methodical, so different from Turtle, it makes my head hurt trying to wrap my brain around the two very different humans developing simultaneously before my eyes. In some ways Turtle is like me: impatient, short attention span, determined to walk before she can stand steadily, eager for someone to show her everything now. Monkey is like N with her very methodic practice, preferring to learn on her own, in no hurry to walk unaided until she has completely mastered standing, bending, dancing, and pushing the chair across the room. I suspect she’ll just start walking one day and that will be that, where Turtle may start and stop, start and stop for awhile, too impatient to find out what’s in that picture on the wall to focus on keeping herself upright.

It really is just so fascinating I can hardly contain myself.

Illness (again)

Monkey has a fever again. She’s had it since Monday morning, with no other symptoms. We went to the pediatrician yesterday to see if she could figure out the problem, but she couldn’t. She assured me it was probably just some virus and to call back if there were any changes for the worse. Poor Monkey had to suffer through having her right ear flooded by a water pick for three minutes to clean out the ear wax so the doctor could confirm she didn’t have an ear infection. I pressed my cheek against hers, trying to soothe her while she screamed and screamed, with one nurse holding her down and another hosing out her ear. I knew she didn’t have an ear infection. But I didn’t stop the torture – because, well, how could I be sure?

It’s just one more question to add to the hundreds of questions I ask each day, and that I have to answer myself. Should we try a new food at lunch today, or stick with a sure thing? Should I try the sippy cup today instead of a bottle? Should I let Turtle climb on the fireplace hearth like that? Should I interfere when Monkey takes a toy from Turtle? Has Turtle had enough to eat? Should I give Monkey Tylenol or just let her body fight the fever?

In the beginning months of parenthood, I was overwhelmed by the fact that I had to make a decision about the care of newborns about once every two minutes, nearly 24 hours a day, and I had no idea what I was doing. I felt like I made a hundred mistakes a day. I now consider a day fairly successful if I make only a dozen mistakes.

But every mistake, both real and perceived, launches me into my favorite game, Everything is My Fault. If I was paying closer attention, Turtle would not have fallen off the fireplace and hit her head on the wood floor. If I was still breastfeeding Monkey, she wouldn’t have this fever. If I trusted my instincts, we wouldn’t be spraying water into Monkey’s perfectly healthy ear while she screamed in terror.

I try to make the right decision every time. I try so hard. But some days the best I can do is survive. I hope the girls feel the love behind my efforts, and forgive me for being only human.

Dancing Queens

Monkey and Turtle love to dance. If I put a good song on the Ipod, Monkey will pull on my leg and make grunting noises, resorting to flat out crying if she isn’t picked up for a dancing session. And we’re not talking about a slow dance. There must be bouncing, and twirling, and kicking would be nice, too. Turtle clings for dear life with one hand and flails the other arm wildly during her dancing session, and she loves to be spun around in circles.

Before the girls could even sit up, N would dance with them on Saturday mornings. Cat Stevens, They Might be Giants, Bob Marley. He would dance with one while the other lay watching from her perch on a Boppy, and then switch. On weekday mornings, I would put on the Beatles 1 and dance all around the kitchen, while they laid in the Pack N Play, watching and smiling.

Now, when they wake up from their afternoon nap before I’m ready for them to get up, I dance to a fast song in the nursery to wake myself up. They might be treated to “Grease.” Or “Footloose.” Or one of my favorite pick-me-ups, something I save for those days when I’m really dragging, “Tricky” by Run DMC.

They’ve danced to the Beastie Boys and REM. They’ve suffered through my horrid singing of the entire soundtracks of Annie, The Sound of Music, and The Wizard of Oz. And we’ve listened to the Beatles 1 almost every day since they were born. The first time Monkey faced the Ipod and started shaking her little body to “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” I almost cried. The music may be old, and my singing may sound like a dying cat, but we’re raising a couple of girls who love to throw their heads back and feel the music. And that makes us happy.

Separation Anxiety

My babies are 11 months old today! We had our usual morning routine of play time, breakfast, walk, playtime, bottle, nap. Then Auntie Diana came over and after lunch we went to the playground to swing in the swings. That wore the girls out just in time for their afternoon nap.

It is an absolutely beautiful, perfect fall day and it’s been wonderful. But I’m looking out the window and feeling so sad. I know Monkey and Turtle will always be “my babies” but really, they’re getting to be more like little girls with every passing hour despite my best efforts to pretend otherwise. I don’t want to wean Monkey from her bottle, and I don’t want to know that Turtle can eat a cracker by herself perfectly fine, thank you very much. Monkey can stand up on her own at will, and will undoubtedly take her first step any day now. Turtle pets our cat gently, just like we’ve taught her, and she’ll take a leaf or piece of paper out of her mouth when I say, “Don’t eat that baby.”

One moment I’m cheering with glee, thrilled to see the pride of accomplishment in their own faces. The next minute I’m sobbing in the corner because my babies are so grown up. I think I understand how they feel when they scurry into my lap after a few minutes of playing alone. We’re going through separation anxiety together, my girls and I, with all three of us longing for a little independence yet anxiously clinging to each other, not ready to be too independent just yet.

Nickname of the week

I mentioned in my last post that I trimmed the girls' bangs last week. I didn't tell you how I did it. The girls were finishing their breakfast and N was sitting with us before he left for work. I decided that their bangs must be trimmmed, NOW. So I jumped up, got the safety scissors, and immediately began trimming Turtle's bangs while she sat in her high chair. No measuring, no planning, no discussion with N, no warning. Just snip snip, and the offending wisps were gone.

"Hmm, maybe I should have taken a picture?" I said.

"Well I guess she's done with breakfast," N said, looking at the hair trimmings mixed in with kiwi.

"Oh, I need to save that!" I said, and scooped up the few locks I could and put them in a ziploc bag.

Then I turned the scissors on Monkey. This time N was ready with the camera. She didn't squirm nearly as much as Turtle. And I caught the hair clippings as they fell too. See, when you have twins, you can get it right the second time around!

N wasn't very impressed with any part of my little operation. He is much more of "measure twice, cut once" type of guy, where I am a "just cut it and I'm sure it will look fine" type of gal. When he got home that day he took one look at the girls and said, "Hey Supercuts!"

I looked at my little girls: Turtle with her crooked bangs and mullet. Monkey with crooked bangs that are too short for her small forehead. It did remind me of my last haircut at Supercuts. So the name stuck.

Water Dish

I carried Monkey to the kitchen for dinner today, and called Turtle to follow. She scurried in as I sat Monkey in her highchair, and made a beeline for the pets’ water dish. I fumbled with the straps to Monkey’s highchair, saying, “Turtle, don’t touch. No ma’am, don’t touch. Turtle. Turtle!” That girl did not even once turn her head, and I know she knows what “don’t touch” means. Splash splash splash, both hands in the water dish, water puddling around her, she was having a little one-woman party. I was still trying to strap Monkey in – I wouldn’t dare walk away from the high chair without securing her first (she is a little monkey after all) – and so I took a deep breath and in my sternest voice said, “TURTLE MARIA!”

Still nothing. She doesn’t know that when someone calls you sternly using your middle name, it means you are in Big Trouble. She doesn’t even know her middle name yet. I didn’t think it would work, but it was worth a try. Plus I thought it would make me giggle a little, and it did. Here I am, using the oldest, most tired parent cliché in the book. My hair is ratty and I’m wearing the same shorts I wore yesterday. There’s a half-eaten container of baby yogurt in the fridge that I stuck in there yesterday after the girls’ lunch, thinking I’d eat it later or at least cover it up or something. But I haven’t and now it’s making the whole fridge smell like blueberries, at least until last week's fruit overpowers this week's yogurt. There are plastic baggies on the countertop with hair in them – I trimmed the girls’ bangs this morning as they sat in their highchairs after breakfast and saved a few locks from their “first hair cut.” But I haven’t gotten around to actually doing anything with the hair yet, and so it sits.

I would be lying if I said the disorder doesn't eat away at me. But I really try hard to let it go, and to make myself giggle when I can. I know one day in the future I will have a perfectly orderly, sadly empty home. So I try to embrace the chaos and smile at my little Turtle Maria splashing away with her favorite toy.

When did it become Fall?

I was pleasantly surprised yesterday morning by how cool and crisp it was outside. There was even a little breeze! It reminded me of the October day last year when we brought the girls home from the hospital, and that thought almost brought tears to my eyes. I wrestled their wiggly bodies into the BOB for our morning walk, and they jabbered to each other: “Bababa pppp mmmm.” These big, independent, chatty, happy girls were nothing but tiny blobs a mere 10 months ago. I know it’s a cliché to talk about how fast time flies, but really. Who do I need to talk to around here to get time to stand still for awhile?

Now that it’s fall, the inevitable questions have started coming: What are your plans for their first birthday? Where will you be for Thanksgiving? Do you plan to get a Christmas tree?

Birthdays? Christmas? Half the time I don’t even get breakfast cleaned off the highchair trays until the girls are ready for lunch. And there I am, dicing up avocado, willing the toaster to hurry up, digging around the dishwasher for a clean spoon for the yogurt, only to realize the trays are still covered in smeared egg yolk and dried watermelon. So I put the girls in the Pack N Play to keep them in one spot for a few minutes, and I frantically scrub off the trays while they scream to be released. Then, finally, we all sit down for a relaxing meal of rubbing avocado in our hair, throwing toast on the floor, and slapping the spoon out of mommy's hand.

So, I’m not sure what our plans are for all the big occasions on the horizon. I don’t even know what’s for lunch today.

First Illness(es)

On Thursday the 21st I hosted our neighborhood playgroup at my house. Turtle had been a little fussy the last few minutes of playtime so I fed her a bottle and she calmed down. Literally a minute after the last mom left she was fussing again, so I offered her a bite of watermelon, she ate it, and then immediately threw up on me. I suspected the watermelon, of course. But my more immediate concern was that I and my crying baby were covered in vomit, my other baby was crawling around on the floor starting to grumble for her bottle, and I had no one to help me. So I kind of stood there a minute, wondering what in the hell I was going to do. Then I started running around like a chicken with my head cut off. First, to the bathroom.

“Come on Monkey,” I called, trying to get her to crawl after me like she normally does. I pulled off my shirt and Turtle’s outfit, all the while calling out for Monkey to “come on honey, come with Mommy” while Turtle sobbed alligator tears. I turned on the water to the bathtub and Turtle’s screaming intensified; meanwhile, Monkey was still nowhere to be seen. I decided a bath was not the answer, so I grabbed a towel and wiped myself and Turtle down. Then I ran back out to the living room where Monkey was playing. I sat Turtle down on the floor to put Monkey in the Exersaucer so she would be contained while I figured out what was wrong with Turtle, and they both immediately began to scream in protest. I pick Turtle up and basically paced around in circles trying to calm her and shushing Monkey, who was flinging her body all around the Exersaucer, still screaming in anger at her unjust confinement. My mind was racing – who can I call? Do I call N at work and ask him to come home? What’s the point? I need someone now, not 20 minutes from now. Do I go knock on a neighbor’s door? I looked down at myself – in my vomit soaked bra – and decide no. Come on, I told myself, FIGURE THIS OUT.

It had been quite awhile since both girls screamed inconsolably. They were too big for me to hold and rock together. That had rarely worked when they were newborns and I knew it wouldn’t work now. They both want momma to themselves when they’re upset; sharing the chair would not do. I walked Turtle over to the uncovered window in the entryway (still in my bra) and as she looked outside she started to calm down. A walk. That would do it. Who cares if it’s midday in August - a walk ALWAYS settles the girls. And so I ran to my closet, threw on a t-shirt (with a sniffling Turtle still in my arms) and then ran to the nursery and got a clean onesie for Turtle. I wrestled her into it and put her down in the play yard in the kitchen, where she immediately started wailing. I left her there and ran to rescue a crying Monkey from the Exersaucer in the living room, then ran back through the kitchen, offered poor Turtle a “sh sh, Mommy will be right back” and headed through the utility room into the garage where our BOB stroller lives. I strapped Monkey in and then ran back for Turtle. I hustled her out to the stroller, strapped her in, and took off. I didn’t have my usual walking accoutrements – no cell phone, no sippy cups, no keys, no sneakers. I left the garage door and the front door completely open and hurried out into the street in my flip flops with both girls still screaming, hoping the neighbors wouldn’t report me to CPS for taking two crying babies out for a walk in 100 degree weather.

After just a few steps though, they both completely calmed down. I swear a walk in the BOB is like Valium to them (and me). After ten minutes of peace and quiet, I brought them back into the house and put Turtle straight down in her crib, where she immediately went to sleep. I finally relaxed and got Monkey ready for her afternoon nap, and put her down too. Then I went out into the living room to survey the damage and prepare for the rest of the day. . .

I originally thought this post would be about the various illnesses we had at home from August 21st through 28th. First there was Turtle, with her inexplicable vomiting Thursday and Friday, followed by a near sleepless Friday night. Then there was Monkey with her fever and general state of misery Sunday and Monday, which turned out to by Herpangina, also sometimes known as “Hand Foot and Mouth” disease (she had the blisters at the back of her throat). Then there was N who came home from work Wednesday with a fever and nausea. There were the countless calls to the pediatrician, the numerous rectal temperatures taken over the course of the weekend – I knew Monkey was really sick when she just laid there Sunday and didn’t fight the thermometer at all as it recorded 102.

After describing Turtle’s vomit scene though, I decided that was enough. You don’t need to know all about my desperate attempt to get Turtle to sleep at 12:30AM by driving her around for half an hour (it didn’t work). Or how I got a feverish Monkey to sleep in my arms. Or how my feverish husband had to drive himself to the grocery store for his saltines, Sprite, and soup because I was too busy taking care of babies (and working on a real estate transaction) to care for him. This detailed snapshot of one hour of one day is a pretty good answer to the comment I get most often: “I don’t know how you do it.” I really don’t know how I do it either, but I can describe it to you after the fact, and I’ll try to do that here when the opportunity arises. There is A LOT of trial and error, and I do literally run a lot of the time – all the places in the description above where I said “then I ran here, then I ran there,” I really was running, that was not an exaggeration. So when people ask me how I’ve managed to lose all my baby weight and then some, I always say, “Running after twins.” They think I’m joking, but that’s actually a serious answer.

So, how do I do it? Keep reading, and we’ll find out together.

Eating Fun

Breakfast

Recently I diced some pre-cut watermelon chunks for the “fruit” portion of the girls’ daily fruit and cereal breakfast. It took some coaxing but I finally got Monkey to eat a piece. But she vehemently refused another bite and wouldn’t have anything else I offered her. I glanced over at Turtle, who had a mouthful of watermelon and another handful ready to stuff in the second there was any space. But Turtle will eat anything as long as she can feed it to herself. So I popped a piece in my mouth to check it out, and I nearly puked. I took one whiff of the rest of the watermelon, gagged, and threw the whole container in the garbage. Then I sent myself to the corner to write lines: I will not feed my children rotten fruit for breakfast. I will not feed my children rotten fruit for breakfast. I will not feed my children rotten fruit for breakfast. . . .


Snacks

The other day Turtle was playing by the window and I saw her pick something up from the sill and put something in her mouth. “Turtle?” I said, walking over to her. She looked up at me and smiled. Her little snack had slipped out of her mouth – a common problem she has when feeding herself - and was resting on her chin. I picked it off her face and put it in the palm of my hand. It was wet and gooey so I can’t be sure, but I think it was a dead spider.

How We Got Here

I had trouble getting pregnant. It took 25 months, to be exact. By that time I was shooting myself up with Gonal F, a “super ovulation” drug. I had to go to the doctor’s office every other day for blood tests and exams, to make sure the nightly injections into my belly weren’t causing more than the normal amount of havoc. We knew the chance of twins increased pretty significantly once we graduated to Gonal F. But I didn’t care. I was so desperate by then it didn’t matter what eventually came out of by body, as long as it was tiny and cuddly and wore a diaper.

The Gonal F and accompanying insemination did the trick. A positive home pregnancy test, followed by two separate positive blood tests at the doctor’s office, confirmed we’d finally made a baby.

We went in for a sonogram when I was six weeks pregnant. It’s standard procedure in my doctor’s office to have sonograms early and often when you’re on the fertility juice.

The nurse slid the ultrasound wand right up to my uterus. I immediately saw two big dark sacs on the screen. It was completely quiet for about ten seconds. Then the nurse said, very slowly, “I see two . . .”

“So do I!” I said.

“So do I!” said my husband, N.

And so there were two. Two little girls – Turtle and Monkey – born October 22, 2007. Now, ten months later, we have rearranged our lives to make room for our wonderful, beautiful, perfect daughters. But as a person with deeply embedded controlling tendencies and a desperate need for order in my world, I am still struggling to adjust to the chaos of having twins. This blog is about that chaos, my flimsy attempts to control it, and the two little babies who really call the shots around here.