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.