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.