Thursday, March 24, 2011


Roger is such an amazing dad. And he and I, well, we have this bedtime routine down to a science. I often think that if we only had one baby, we'd probably take turns putting our little one to bed (or let's face it, I'd probably do it 90% of the time) but because we have two, both of our babies get to have both of their parents put them to bed every night (well, most nights).

I say all this to preface what I'm about to tell you. Because if I told you what I'm about to tell you without this preamble you'd probably think Roger is the kind of dad that never changes diapers or dresses babies - and you would definitely be wrong.

But tonight, Roger bathed Anna and dressed her in her PJ's but forgot one small detail. A diaper.

Fortunately, part of our routine involves one of us setting out the diapers so that they are ready to go when we get them out of the bath (we're like an assembly line around here!). So I noticed that the diaper for Anna was still sitting there when I went to dress Julie, and I asked him about it. He put his hand on Anna's bum and immediately realized his mistake.

It's a funny story - in a "Silly Daddy!" kind of way. It's worth sharing anyway (well, clearly I thought so!). But as I'm writing this, I'm starting to think maybe it's not so funny. Because Roger has a lot on his mind lately. I get the sense that he's moving through each day on autopilot, so maybe it's not all that surprising that he could overlook a detail like a diaper.

See, Roger's dad is sick. Really sick. And he's been battling this sickness for almost as long as we've been married, but the battle is almost over. Any day now they say...

So yeah, Roger has a lot on his mind. And really, how important is a diaper anyway?

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Haunted House

Last week Roger played tennis. Twice. That means there were two nights last week where I bathed, fed, and put to bed - not one - but two babies. At the same time. Now, if I didn't have such an amazing husband I probably would have had to master this process months ago, but lucky for me - most nights Roger is home to do the "bedtime routine" with me. But we're both feeling braver lately. I've left Roger on his own a few times to feed the girls and put them to bed, and he's done great. So of course I had to one up him by adding the bath into the mix!

And I did it! I wouldn't say I made it look easy. In fact, I'm pretty sure my heart rate was over 160 the whole time, but that's okay, right? The girls were clean, fed, and happily snoozing by 7:30.

I went downstairs to wash up the various baby paraphernalia overflowing the kitchen sink. I was feeling particularly proud of myself when I heard a faint moaning from the monitor. My stomach tightened. (Not sure how else to explain that sickening feeling in your stomach when you sense that your baby isn't asleep when she should be!) I turn off the faucet and step closer to the monitor. Nothing. I turn the water back on.

Now, sometimes after a full day of taking care of babies, you continue to hear baby noises long after the babies have fallen into a peaceful sleep. But I swear it's not just in my head this time. I put the monitor to my ear. Yes, definitely some kind of moaning. Clearly, no one is in desperate need of my attention but it's just - weird.

I go back upstairs to check out the situation. I stroll past the nursery door, but I don't hear anything. I tiptoe inside the room. Nothing. I go back downstairs, satisfied that my babies are sleeping soundly. But I continue to hear the weird moans. I'm embarrassed to say it took me three more trips to the nursery before I finally resigned myself to the fact that either 1) I'm crazy, or 2) the monitor is haunted.

Roger called to tell me he was on his way home, I told him about the haunted monitor.

"Well it makes sense, of course," he says gravely. But my silence informs him that it does not make sense to me. "Because of the baby in the closet."

I instantly know what he means, and I feel oddly relieved. See the couple that lived in this house before us inherited an antique baby gown when they moved in. It was hanging on a wooden hanger on a hook behind what is now the guest room door and they never moved it. They thought it was "good luck" (though I'm not sure why?) so they kindly left it in its original spot for us.

Very sweet. And completely creepy. Roger and I lived in the guest room for the first month or so after we moved in and I couldn't sleep with the damn thing hanging there so I promptly relocated it to the closet. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it though.

But now I might have to. I can't have some ancient baby haunting my monitor. I'm close enough to crazy as it is...

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Pinch me

I've been hesitant to talk about this for fear of jinxing it, but it's been nearly three weeks now, so I guess it's time to share. As of March 1st I'm working part-time. I still have my same job - albeit with reduced responsibilities - but I only report to work on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I'm home with the girls on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and a nanny (a highly qualified mother of four daughters!) stays with the girls on the days I'm at work.

It almost feels too good to be true. I get to spend more time with my babies while still staying involved at work. The girls' constant colds seem to have gone away. They are definitely getting more attention, and they seem less fussy at night thanks to better naps during the day. And for the first time in months, I don't feel like a zombie.

But I wouldn't be me if I couldn't find something to stress about even in this ideal arrangment. And I have - it's too perfect! I keep waiting for something to go wrong. The nanny decides she doesn't like the job. My boss decides he doesn't need me as much as he thought he did.

And if I'm being really honest, I think I'm also a little worried that by moving to a part-time position I've somehow admitted defeat. I couldn't do it all. I'm not Superwoman.

But you know what? That's okay. I may have lost a few bragging rights, but at this moment, I wouldn't change a thing.