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.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
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.
“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.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
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.
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.
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