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.