Sticky Kids

Last week we went to a weeknight festival on the square - food trucks, live music, vendors, balloons, etc. The girls are always pretty worn out after school, but we braved the crowds and potential tantrums and headed up there anyway. The girls loved it of course. But as often tends to happen, I think Roger and I enjoy the idea of the event more than the actual event.

Part of why you move to a town like Roswell is for the family-friendly festivals and nightlife, but in reality, taking two two-year-olds anywhere is a bit of a nightmare. They have absolutely no regard for directions like "Stay close to Mommy and Daddy," or "Don't wander off too far," so we basically end up following our assigned child around until the inevitable meltdown occurs when we scoop them up to return to the spot where the friends we haven't spoken to all evening are hanging out. Good times. Still, I think a little change of pace is good for all of us, and even though it often seems like more trouble than it's worth, it usually doesn't seem nearly as bad in retrospect. Which is why I was kind of surprised when the morning after, Roger says to me, "I was a little unimpressed with our girls last night."

I laughed, "You think? When are they going to stop doing the exact opposite of whatever we tell them?"

Roger nodded in agreement but added, "It's not just that though. I kept seeing all these other little girls in their dresses and their hairbows and then I looked over at ours - Anna digging in the flowerbed and Julie wiping her nose with her shirt. I mean, what's that about?"

I laughed out loud again. "That, my darling husband, is what you signed up for when you married me, I'm afraid. I was most certainly a sticky kid."

"But I wasn't a sticky kid!" he protests. And he's right. His mom still talks about how he never liked to get his hands dirty. (I try not to read too much into that.)

"I guess they had a 50-50 chance either way," I say, trying to be sympathetic. "Is it at all comforting to know that I rarely dig in the dirt or wipe my nose on my shirt anymore? I mean, they'll probably never be all that prim and proper, but I'm pretty sure they will outgrow the 'stickiness' eventually."

"I guess," he sighs.

Better a sticky kid than a princess, if you ask me. But I am, after all, still a sticky kid at heart.

Single Mom

Recently, Roger went on a nine-day business trip to India, putting me through a nine-day test of mommy endurance. The good news - I passed! The bad news - my hair has gone grey. Just kidding. But I definitely spot a new wrinkle that I will forever refer to as the Indian crevice. Still, I learned a lot, and before I forget those lessons, I wanted to document them here.

1. There's no shame in asking for help - well, maybe a little bit, but there's more shame in checking yourself into the looney bin, so you do what you have to. It takes a village after all. (And my wonderful girlfriends make for the best village of all.)

2. Just as raising twins probably isn't twice as hard as raising a singleton, taking care of those twins on your own is not actually twice as hard as taking care of them with a partner. It's hard either way. Even when that partner is extremely helpful.

3. If I lived without Roger, I would rarely watch TV. I would, however, spend far more time staring blankly at a computer screen accomplishing nothing.

4. Children can eat peanut butter sandwiches for dinner several nights in a single week without showing signs of malnourishment. (Same is true for a 32 year-old woman.)

5. I can change a tire! (With a little help from one of those amazing girlfriends.)

6. When I finally got around to turning on the TV, I realized that I can in fact figure out how to work the remote control if yelling for Roger to fix it is not an option.

7. A large glass of wine at the end of a long day is wonderful in theory, but you have to be able to stay awake to drink it.

8. Not much escapes children. Overheard numerous times in the back seat: "Daddy go on trip. Mommy sad." Very cute, but a little embarrassing when one of the teachers at the daycare called mid-week to check on me.

9. "Mommy miss Daddy? Anna miss Daddy too" are quite possibly the sweetest words ever spoken.

10. I have the most helpful, supportive, and loving husband a woman could ask for. He makes my life better in a gazillion ways and the fact that he occasionally tells me to have a glass of wine while he bathes our children is just one of them. And you know what? After nine days on my own - I think I'll take him up on that offer more often.

Status Update

Chaos. If I had to pick one word to describe life right now, that would be it. It’s not that we’re particularly busy – when I stop and think about it, we don’t actually do a whole helluva lot. Sure, we both work, and yes, we have two almost two year olds running wild around the house (not to mention the two dogs), but when I think about everything we had going on last year – an ongoing stream of visitors, a trip around the world, etc. – well this year seems pretty tame in comparison. And yet somehow, I constantly feel like we’re on a roller coaster ride and it’s all I can do to keep everybody’s arms and legs inside the car.

I wonder if everyone feels this way. After all, being an adult is pretty demanding. There are jobs to go to and bills to pay. Not to mention all the little tasks like laundry, doctor appointments, grocery shopping, jury duty (yes, jury duty). Then of course there are the things that you'd like to do, but because of the amount of time you spend doing the things you have to do, these things end up feeling like an obligation - phone calls to friends, personal emails, sending a birthday card, writing a thank you note. And finally, there are the things you really want to do, but by the time you’ve done everything else you either never get around to planning them or you’re too tired to really enjoy them – vacations, date nights, girls nights out.

Being an adult is hard. Throw in a kid or two, and perhaps a few animals, and it’s even harder.  So, yeah, I’m pretty sure most people can relate to my roller coaster analogy.  

But as much as there is to do, and as challenging as it is to do it while juggling toddlers, I still get into bed every night (okay, most nights), and I feel really happy. And yet, moment to moment, I’m typically rotating between feelings of exhaustion, frustration, and failure. So lately, I'm working on feeling the happy in each moment instead of waiting for hindsight to see it.

And there is a lot of happiness. The girls are more and more fun every day. They sing songs and play pretend and do ring-around-the-rosies. They're talking enough to tell me what they want/need when they want/need it (a nice relief from the constant guesswork that came with parenting infants). They say "please" and "thank you" (with prompting, usually) and "good morning!" and best of all, "I love you." They certainly throw their fair share of tantrums, but for the most part,the giggles outnumber the screams.

Twenty years from now, I'm not sure what I'll remember when I look back at this part of my life - the feelings of inadequacy and exhaustion? Or the moments of pride and joy? I suppose this post is just meant to document the fact there have been equal parts of both!

The Screaming

The screaming is starting to get to me. Well, not just the screaming, the crying too, and the whining I guess. But I’ll be honest, the sound all kind of blurs together at some point. At least once a week Roger and I look at each other during the pre-dinnertime chaos and one of us (usually me) wonders aloud whether other toddlers scream as much as ours do. Because they scream quite a lot, I think. Not that I have much to compare it to. Maybe this is a completely normal amount of screaming for two 20 month olds to produce. How would I know?

I mentioned the screaming to a group of moms the other day, and while they were dutifully sympathetic, I sensed that they weren’t quite there with me, confirming my fear that this is not a normal amount of screaming. Or maybe it's the fact that even when they're not screaming, the echoes of their screams in my head just make it seem like it's worse than it really is.

But then I started thinking, it would obviously make sense for mine to collectively scream twice as much as your average toddler. But really, the average toddler doesn’t constantly have another toddler taking her stuffed animal or swatting at his arm or mashing his fingers with her foot. But mine do. So now, the extra screaming starts to make sense, right?

“Double Trouble” is true for most things related to twins, but when it comes to the noise level, well, I’m pretty sure it’s quadrupled.

Rough Week

This mothering stuff is not for the fainthearted. Every day seems to bring a new challenge. Some of them logistical (How can I safely transport two toddlers from car to classroom without resorting to leashes?); some of them humorous (How can I get Julie to stop taking off her diaper?); some of them impossibly frustrating (How can I force them to stop feeding their vegetables to the dogs?), and others are more manageable (How can I organize their clothes so it doesn’t take me half an hour to get them dressed each morning?). But no challenge has been quite as terrifying as the one that we came up against last week, when I answered a call from the day care to hear: “We’ve called an ambulance for Anna.”

It took 1 ambulance ride, 1 ER visit, another 911 call, a 6 a.m. visit from the paramedics, 3 trips to the pediatrician, and one more trip down to Children’s, but I’m relieved to say that Anna is fine. Really, she’s okay. It was a mean, mysterious virus that kept causing her fever to spike, and unfortunately, she has inherited her father’s childhood tendency to have a seizure when her temperature rises too quickly. But now that the virus has passed, she seems to be fine. Of course, I’m terrified of the next time she picks up a virus that causes her temperature to rise without warning, but at least I’ll be a little more prepared. In theory anyway. I’m still not sure I’ll be able to sit and watch her seize for the five minutes my doctor advised before I call 911, but in theory, I’m ready.

It was a rough week; I won’t lie. Scary as hell. But now that it’s over, it makes me realize how lucky I am. Lucky that this is the biggest scare we’ve had up to this point. That by some miracle Roger and I brought two tiny creatures into this world that, other than the odd seizure (!), are perfectly healthy. Despite a really scary week, I realize now more than ever how blessed I am that the hospital is so unfamiliar to us. We have no idea what our insurance will bill us for an ER visit or an ambulance ride – and that’s a good thing! (I’ll have to remind myself of that when the bill arrives.) In the past I’ve complained that I’m at the pediatrician’s office every other week, but if it’s only for an ear infection or an extended cold, well, I should consider myself lucky.

And I am lucky. So lucky. But damn, this mothering stuff is hard.

Magic

The girls are finally feeling better. Knock on wood. But just when I thought we might go a full week without visiting the pediatrician, I realized I had scheduled their 18-month well visit for last Friday. Great.

After their 12-month visit, I swore I would never again go by myself to an appointment involving immunizations. Taking two toddlers to the doctor (or anywhere, really) is hard enough as it is, but when the visit ends with both of those toddlers screaming bloody murder (for a pretty legitimate reason, mind you – have you seen the size of those needles?) – well, I’m sorry, but I need back up for that. The M-I-L came to the 15-month visit with me, and Roger took the afternoon off to attend last Friday’s affair.

Now, as I’ve mentioned, we’ve been to the doctor a lot as of late, and thankfully none of those appointments have ended with shots. The girls aren’t big fans of the stethoscope, the tongue depressor, or the ear thinga-ma-jig either, but with each visit, they seem to be coping a little bit better. Still, as we stood in the exam room answering Dr. Libby’s questions about the girls’ development, Julie was growing antsy in Roger’s arms so we foolishly decided to trade toddlers. This of course resulted in Anna bursting into tears, and when I tried to then give Julie back to Roger, Julie burst into tears. Frustrated, I just told Roger I’d hold them both, but lately, having to share mommy only seems to make them angrier than if they didn’t have mommy at all! So I’m sitting in the chair with both of them climbing all over me, poking each other at every opportunity when Dr. Libby asks, “And how’s everything else going? Any, uh, discipline problems?”

I look up at her and laugh. “What do you think?”

She gave me the name of a book or two and talked a little about how she used “time outs” with her daughter. I nodded along, genuinely happy to get her advice but not really learning anything new. I do plan on getting the book she mentioned, 1-2-3 Magic (mostly because another friend recommended it too), but it’s not really the “time out” type issues that are driving me insane. It’s the constant battle for “Mama” that’s going to be the end of me. It’s nice to be loved of course, but I feel like I’m constantly letting one of them down.

Now I know that whether you have 1 baby, 2 babies, or 10 babies, there are going to be times when they want to be held and you just can’t hold them. More importantly, there are times when you really shouldn’t hold them. They have to learn to cope right? But there are also times when avoiding a meltdown is more important than teaching a lesson. Sometimes it’s more important because you’re in a public place that you’d like to return to one day. Other times it’s more important because you know that if you hear your children screaming/whining for one more second your head might explode into a million tiny little pieces that scatter all over the room, swirling around your darling children as the shattered piece of your lips come together to say, “See, now there’s a bit of mommy for everyone!”

But sure, teaching a lesson is important too.

So, if you hear of a book called 1-2-3 Magical Ways to Keep Your Head from Exploding, well, do let me know.

Mama's Girl

I’m a mama’s girl. I know that doesn’t make me particularly cool, but it’s 100% true. We could speculate about why I'm such a mama's girl, but that’s what the psychiatrist’s couch is for, right? Regardless of the many reasons, I’m extremely close to my mom. I’d do anything for her, and she for me. So what’s the problem? Well, I wouldn’t say there’s a problem exactly; it’s just a weakness or a dependency that I feel the need to acknowledge.

Long past my 18th birthday, I’ve depended on my mom for love and support, but since becoming a mother myself, I’ve taken this dependency to a whole new level. In fact, I don’t think I’ve been this dependent on her since I was a child, unable to cook or drive or earn money for myself! And this goes against the natural order of things, right? Parents give unconditionally to their children as they grow, but then as adults, the children are supposed to give back. Only I don’t think I’m giving back. Before I had babies, maybe I was, a little bit anyway, but now I just take and take and take. It’s a little embarrassing, shameful even, but there it is.

Now I’m sure my mom would say the two little blonde “angels” that I have brought into her life are more than enough “repayment” for her, but that hardly seems fair. I mean, I know she loves my girls and enjoys taking care of them, but I also know that the time spent on her own with them is not exactly easy on her. But despite the physical challenges my wee ones present, my mom eagerly comes over almost every weekend to serve as babysitter and provide an extra pair of hands. And those hands never come empty. Whether it’s clothes for the girls (or me!), soup or meatloaf for weeknight dinners, filters for my air purifier, or some gadget she’s found to help us with the tasks of daily living - there are no limits to her generosity.

And I apparently have no limits to how much I can accept. In other circumstances, I think of myself as pretty self-reliant, but when it comes to being a mom – well, I’d be completely lost without mine.

But I think I’m okay with that. I mean, as long as she is of course. And I can only pray that one day my girls feel about me the way I feel about my mom. Of course, I’m terrified of the road we’ll have to travel to get there, but I hope we do. I’d love a couple of mama’s girls of my own.

What's the Plan?!?!?

I thought I had a little more time. The girls don’t turn two for another six months, and yet I fear the so-called “terrible twos” have already arrived. Times two. I’m not gonna lie. I’m terrified. And I have no idea what I’m doing.

Before the girls were born, I probably read ten books about having a baby (or two). And while, yes, I was overwhelmed by the reality of having two newborns, those books had given me a plan and I worked that plan. I clung to the plan! The plan kept me sane during some pretty intense times. (It might have driven everyone else crazy but I wasn’t worried about them!) I think I mellowed out a little during the second half of the first year, but I still stuck to the plan for the most part. And I felt good about that. I was pretty confident that I was doing a good job, that I was doing what was best for my kids – as long as I stuck to the plan.

Now, there is no plan. Spankings? Time outs? Naughty chairs? I don't know! Should I let my child scream and cry on the kitchen floor while I go about my business? What about in public? Is it bad to give in and hold the screaming child in the grocery store if that’s the only way to quiet her?

I’m sure every mother faces these challenges, but (forgive me for pulling the twin card) I really think the second one complicates matters further (and I'm sure any second child makes it harder, not just a twin). Yesterday at the park, Julie was being obnoxious but Anna was having so much fun. If it had just been Julie I would have taken her home as soon as the first tantrum began, but I didn’t want to punish Anna too. So there I was with a screaming toddler tucked under one arm as I pushed a smiling toddler in the swing.

I need a plan and fast. If anybody’s out there, I beg you to share your wisdom below.

My Valentines

Valentine’s Day, 2002. A boy I’d known for a little over a year took me to a Thai restaurant in Kensington where we ordered food so spicy we could barely eat it. We drank too many pints and talked excitedly about our move back to the US along with our secret marriage. I was ready to throw caution to the wind and trust my instincts 100%.

Good thing too…

Mess

Lately, I’m kind of a mess. Sure, I have a pretty good reason (two of them in fact) for the ponytail in my hair and the boogers on my sweater. But my, well, let's be nice and say "disheveled" appearance, is not exactly something I’m proud of. Now honestly, even in my pre-baby life, no one would have dared call me a fashionista, but still, showing up at work in a stained purple sweatshirt and a ponytail is a new low even for me (in my small defense, it was a casual Friday).

I fear I’ve become a cliché, the woman that “let herself go” now that she has kids. Except it would be one thing if I wore sweatshirts and ponytails because I only left the house to go to the grocery store, but no, I still go to an office most days. An office where a hundred other women prance around in their high heels and scandalously short but super cute dresses. Even if I did have the cash (and the fashion sense) to buy those clothes, it just looks like it takes so much effort. And all of the energy I have to spend on getting dressed has to be distributed between three people now.

I'm never gonna be one of those super-polished women. I envied them in college, and I envy them now but it's just not who I am. That being said, I’m pretty sure this isn't who I am either.

I'm not exactly sure what to do about this. And I'm a little scared to confess my insecurity so publicly. But there it is. I'm a mess. And just as soon as this pink eye clears up, I plan to do something about it.

Boogers.

This morning I saw my fifth doctor in as many weeks. Today it was for the girls. Yesterday it was for me. Welcome to day care, I guess. I have pink eye (awesome) and a cough so persistent my ribs ache. Julie has her third ear infection of 2012. Anna has diarrhea and the resulting diaper rash requires wound care. Their noses are constantly running, and despite my best efforts, the snot ends up everywhere. What can I say? It’s good times, all around.

Last week I was home with the girls on Friday, and Roger and I had planned to take them out for an early dinner as soon as he got home. He walked into the kitchen and started playing with the girls, and I ran up the stairs saying, “We’re ready; I just need to grab a booger-free fleece.” I grabbed a fleece off a hook in my closet and slipped it on as I came back down. “Look at me, girls! I’m all dressed up in my booger-free fleece!”

Roger looked up and laughed. “What?” I said defensively. He just shook his head and pointed at my shoulder. “Try again, Babe.”

I hung my head in shame.

No, no, no!

Early on, I read somewhere that you’re not supposed to use the word “no” with infants and young toddlers. Instead of saying “no” all the time you’re just supposed to redirect their attention. Roger and I both discussed it and this was going to be our strategy. And yet, when your child is climbing on the wine rack or reaching for the stove (or both, simultaneously), I challenge you to say anything other than “No!” It’s simply impossible.

Okay, maybe you manage to say “Here darling, look at the zebra toy!” the first time, maybe even the second and third time too, but once you get to the seventeenth time, you’re sure as hell not talking about the zebra toy. You’re screaming “No!” Well, at least I am (Roger too!). And as a result, I have two adorable little creatures that say, “No!” all the time. It’s an adorable, “No!” I’ll give them that. Sometimes it sounds almost like a song: "No, no, no, no!" And it’s often accompanied by a finger waggle (I don’t actually waggle my finger when I’m shouting at them for climbing on the wine rack. I think they got the waggle from the 10 Little Monkeys song. You know, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!” We waggle during that part. It’s pretty cute actually.) But now, any time the girls do something they know they shouldn’t be doing, they look at me and say “No, no, no!” usually while waggling their fingers. They’ll also do it when I shout at the dogs. Or when I tell Julie “No!” Anna reinforces it by saying “No!” too. Or maybe she’s mocking me. I’m not 100% sure.

They also answer pretty much any question with “No.” Anna more so than Julie. “Did you have a good day?” I ask every day as we leave the day care center. Julie usually answers by repeating the word “day” as a question: “Day? Day?” But Anna answers with an emphatic, “No!” to which I say: “Well, why not?” At this point Anna usually replies in a gibberish sentence ending with a very matter-of-fact, “Mama Dada,” while Julie is still going “Day? Day?”

All this while I’m trying to open the car door with a toddler in each arm.

Once we get home, I review their little take-home sheets to see what they ate and if they did anything noteworthy. “Did you have fun at school today?” I ask. “No!” Anna replies, almost indignantly. “Were the teachers nice to you?” “No!” By now, Julie is joining in too. “Did they change your diaper at all?” “No!” Roger and I can’t help but laugh, because at this point, the chorus of “no’s” is still pretty humorous. But I have a feeling, in the not-too-distant future, all these “no’s” are going to lose their charm.

It’s my own fault I guess. I should have stuck with the damn zebra toy.

Worried.

So, the girls are back in day care. Well, we don’t call it “day care” of course; we call it school because that sounds nicer. It’s going well, I guess. The first few weeks were rough. Both girls had to be peeled from my body every morning, their little faces contorting with so much pain they appeared to have been stabbed. But it’s not like the sound of their screams or the image of them grabbing for me is seared into my brain or anything. I’m much too rational to think that they feel abandoned or that I don’t love them. I know better than that.

Obviously.

The thing is, when they were at home all day, I worried that because they weren't around very many people I was giving them extreme stranger anxiety. I worried that they were bored, that they weren’t learning enough. I worried that by not exposing them to germs now I was setting them up for illness later. I worried. A lot.

Of course now I worry about different things. I worry about the processed, sugary food the day care gives them. I worry that no one wipes their noses (which thanks to those day care germs are now constantly running). I worry that they give Julie her pacifier too much. I worry that their colds will never go away. And sure, I worry that they feel abandoned. The fact that Julie still cries every morning when I drop them off worries me.

But by now I've realized that being a parent just means worrying. As my brother-in-law put it shortly after the girls were born, "Your worst case scenario just got a whole lot worse." And it's so true. Even my carefree husband worries. Which is kind of adorable, actually. He dropped the girls off with me earlier this week, and after listening to me complain about the fact that I'm not getting enough feedback from the teachers, he just marched right up to the director and said "We'd like to see some comments in the notes section of their take-home sheet. You know, just something to make us feel good." The director just nodded and smiled, "Of course."

And now there are comments, so we don't worry quite so much. But we still worry. Because that's what parents do.

I'm back.

I miss writing. Okay sure, I write all day long at work, but that’s not the kind of writing I mean. I miss writing about me. About my impossibly charming husband. My ridiculously cute spawn. My horrible M-I-L. My cat-loving, pacifier-stealing dogs. I miss writing about the random details of my everyday life. I realize the world doesn’t necessarily want or need to read my details, but honestly, I’m not asking them to. Not yet anyway. For now I just need to write. So that’s what I plan to do. Regularly. I’m not going to promise it will be any good. In fact, some days I'm sure it won't be. But I’m just going to write. And you're more than welcome to read along. Feel free to comment. Or just say hi. You can correct grammatical errors too. After all, I'm in this to become a better writer. Other than that, I'm not sure what my goal is. But that's okay. Like I said, for now I just need to write.

Updates from the Sporadic Mommy Blogger

Wow. So I guess it’s been awhile. The girls are driving now. Applying to colleges. Julie just got a tattoo and Anna is dating a football player named Buddy…

Okay, so it hasn’t been quite that long, but it feels like I could blink and all of that could be happening. Well, I pray there’s no tattoo or a Buddy, but you know what I mean.

The girls’ first birthday came and went. They’re now 13 months old. Anna is walking/running all over the place, but Julie hasn’t really taken to it yet. She’ll take a few wobbly steps before deciding that crawling is the more efficient method of transport. I’m confident she’ll figure it out soon enough though, and to be completely honest, I’m not in a rush to have two toddlers sprinting around the house. One runner and one crawler is challenging enough.

I am, however, anxious for more words. They’ll say Mama and Dada, but that’s about it. I think they’re trying to say other words, but I’ve never been very good with baby talk so hell if I can make it out. I saw a Facebook post the other day from a mother bragging about all the things her 12 month old was saying – “ooh da” for “who’s that” and “dit dow” for “get down.” It got me thinking; maybe my girls are talking but I’m just not a very good translator. Who knows.

Their word comprehension amazes me though. If I say, “Who’s that?” while pointing at Roger, I’m met with blank stares, but if I ask “Where’s Daddy?” they point right to him. They’ll point to their heads, toes, and bellies when asked. They stick out their tongues on command. They’ll fetch certain toys when I tell them too – monkey, puppy, ball, cookie monster, a book. If I mention Sesame Street they look expectantly at the TV. They stand up when I ask them too. They sit down when I say “bum on the seat” (something I’m constantly saying to my little monkeys). They also understand “cuddle” and “kiss,” and let me tell you, there is nothing more adorable than saying “sister cuddles!” and watching the two of them hug. Julie though, can be a bit stingy with her kisses. She may not have figured out how to say “no” verbally, but she sure knows how to express the sentiment. “Can I have a kiss, Julie?” If she’s not in the mood to cuddle, she shakes her head. “Will you take a bite of broccoli?” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Can Anna have a turn?” She shakes her head. Yes, I realize I’m in trouble.

But wait. What am I doing? If you’re unfortunate enough to still be reading , I feel I should apologize. I didn’t set out to document my babies’ milestones here and yet…when did I become a mommy blogger? Oh yeah, I guess I’d have to post with some kind of frequency in order to be classified as such. No worries there; I don’t see that happening any time soon. But while I'm on a roll, I might as well post a couple cute photos of my spawn. Because that's what mommy bloggers do.

The terrifying implications of shape-sorting

I have a hundred blog posts in my head right now (okay maybe not a hundred, but at least ten) but just no time to write them. Well, that’s not true; I have as many hours in my day as the next person, but there just always seems to be something more pressing than composing a blog post. You know - work, babies, laundry, more work, dishes, sleep. I don’t beat myself up for not posting because honestly, the amount I accomplish in any given day is pretty damn impressive - even if I can‘t manage to post with any kind of predictability.

But the thing is, I miss it. I miss writing about the things I care about. And even if I wasn’t a writer, as a mom, I want to document all the cool little things my babies are doing. So while I may not have time to explore all the nuances about being a working wife and mother of twins, I can at least keep a record of what my little girls are doing, right? So here goes...

This tenth month has brought all kinds of new tricks. Both of the girls are now master crawlers and cruisers, which means my days with them are literally spent chasing babies. They’re babbling more, but still no real words (except "Dada" of course - the little traitors). That doesn’t mean they can’t communicate though - and they certainly aren’t shy about letting you know how they’re feeling. Anna started waving a while ago - mostly at the Winnie the Pooh balloon in the nursery. Julie also loves Pooh, but only recently started waving at him too. They’ll wave at people now as well, but not always at the right time. They've also started clapping. And when one starts the other immediately joins in - just like little cheerleaders - God help me.

They're eating all kinds of foods - pasta, cheese, black beans, sweet potato fries, kiwi, watermelon, berries. They love peanut butter which you're not supposed to give babies before their first birthday, but seriously? With the amount of peanut butter I consumed while pregnant and breastfeeding, I figured there's no way they could be allergic. And thank God they're not. I might have to disown them.

People ask about their personalities, and I feel hesitant to comment because it seems too early to burden them with traits and characteristics they may or may not keep. And I worry that the assumptions I make about their personalities now will potentially affect how I (and others) treat them. For example, my mom bought them a little bucket with a lid that you sort shapes into. You know - the circle goes in the circle hole, the square goes in the square hole, etc. For months now I've been trying to show them both how to do it, but only in the last week or so has Julie figured it out. She can do the circle all on her own and with a little help can do the other shapes too. I clap and squeal when she gets it right and she giggles with glee at the praise. Anna, completely oblivious to her sister's accomplishment, also enjoys the praise. She looks up from whatever she's doing and gives me a big smile as if to say, "Yes, Mommy, I am pretty wonderful!" before going back to whatever she's doing.

Julie however remains focused on the task at hand, and she gets very frustrated when she can't do it on her own (just like Mommy!). Anna on the other hand, doesn't seem to understand why you would go to the trouble of putting the circle in the circle hole when you could just as easily lift the lid and put the circle (along with all the other shapes) directly in the bucket. And really, she has a point. Why shouldn't you take the solution that requires less effort? (A point often made by Daddy!). It would be easy for me to fall into a pattern of treating Julie like me - a hardworking perfectionist determined to do everything right - and Anna like Roger - a laid back optimist eager to make the best of every situation.

It's not that I think they'll end up in therapy if we do treat them differently because of how they approach shape sorting, but I still want to try my best not to do it. And it's just so tempting - because it's not just the shape sorter. We've been making these comparisons since we brought them home from the hospital. When Julie was screaming for no discernible reason while Anna was cooing in her crib we assumed it was because Julie was stressed and dramatic (like Mommy!) and Anna was taking it easy (like Daddy!). That's not to say Anna hasn't had her moments of inexplicable screaming and Julie has never taken things in stride - they have and they do. In fact, they're constantly switching roles (and thank God they do because those rare moments when they're both inexplicably screaming are near impossible to cope with!). But I want to be careful not to fall into a pattern of treating Julie one way and Anna another. I want them both to know that I think they're both capable of anything. Julie may be named after her orthopedic surgeon aunt but Anna is just as likely to become one. And Bryanna Darby may be named after her athletic grandfather and her artistic aunt, but Julie could just as easily turn out to be the athlete or the actress.

Even if I wanted to, I know I can't dictate their future. But I want to make an effort to open doors - not to push them through. I know; they're barely ten months old and I'm already assessing the potential ways I might screw them up, but how can I not? There are just so many ways...

You know, maybe it's best that I don't usually have time to write because thinking about it all is just a little too terrifying.

Babies On Board

I remember looking at strollers when I was pregnant and the sales guy saying something about using it at the grocery store and thinking “Why would I ever take two babies to the grocery store?” But now that I have those two babies, I find myself wanting to take them everywhere. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s a total pain in the ass to get two babies in and out of their car seats and in and out of the stroller (especially when I’m on my own) but the actual being with them in stores, restaurants, parks, etc is actually really fun. The girls like the change of scenery and I like showing them new things. And I’ll admit it, I kind of like the attention too.

There is a certain look you get when you are cruising around Target with two babies in a stroller. It’s kind of a half-smile/nod that I interpret to be a combination of admiration and pity. In my (quite possibly delusional) mind I imagine they’re thinking “What adorable babies, but how does she do it?” My response to this look of pity and admiration is kind of a shrug/smile that is meant to convey “Thanks, I’m doing the best I can!”

These looks have become so common that I’ve started to anticipate them before they happen. In fact, occasionally I find myself giving my shrug/smile to people that haven’t given me the admiration/pity look at all. They’re just going about their shopping when some strange woman with sweet potatoes smeared on her shirt gives them an odd shrug/smile. I can’t help it!

Now the looks I get at the park are a little bit different. The girls are in the jogging stroller as I huff and puff around the trail getting one of two looks. One of the “park looks” consists of a big smile and nod that can only be interpreted as admiration and encouragement. The look may even be accompanied by “You go girl!” (I eat that crap up!)

The other “park look” is kind of a raised eyebrow “tsk tsk” that suggests they think I am somehow putting my babies at risk by bouncing them around the park in the heat/cold where they might be harmed by bugs/dogs/squirrels/etc. (I ignore these looks!)

But there at the park, I find myself once again anticipating the looks of admiration/encouragement and I often give a big smile of appreciation to random runners who haven’t even noticed that I’m pushing a giant double stroller. And of course on those rare weekend mornings when I’m jogging without said stroller, I tend to forget that I’m sans babies and give my big smile of appreciation to puzzled strangers.

I then remember that I’m just another jogger at the park and, without my babies, I have no excuse for my sluggish pace and racing heartbeat. So yeah, is it any wonder I prefer to travel with my two babies in tow?

Time

As of Mother’s Day weekend, Julie is officially crawling. Anna is technically crawling too, but she can really only move backwards. Go figure. They’re both pulling up on whatever sturdy (and not-so-sturdy) object they can get their hands on. And if you really listen (and are completely desperate to hear it) you can definitely make out “Mama” and “Dada” amid the baby babble. It’s just crazy how they’re becoming little people right before my eyes.

Every parent will tell you how fast the time flies, and I guess it’s true. I can’t believe they’re nearly nine months old already, but then again, I can hardly remember my life before them so in some ways I can’t believe it’s only been nine months.

Time is a funny thing. Most days, my time at home with the girls goes so fast (except for that neverending hour between 5 and 6 when the girls are especially cranky and "Daddy" isn't home to help yet). After we’ve put them down for the night I look around and wonder where the day went. It’s likely we didn’t leave the house except for a walk to the park and maybe I managed to complete a load or two of laundry – so where did the time go? It’s a mystery, but my best guess goes like this:

4 hours feeding babies – milk, baby food, and now “finger foods”
2 hours changing diapers and dressing babies
3 hours playing with babies (me on the floor serving as jungle gym, clown, librarian, musician, and basic safety net)
1.5 hours walking/jogging to the park (includes time spent getting babies in and out of stroller!)
.5 hours bathing babies
2 hours of me scrambling around the house washing dishes, doing laundry, taking a shower, and possibly uploading pictures or posting a blog while the girls nap

That adds up to the 13 hours that account for the babies’ day. My day is a bit longer but I won’t bore you with my few additional activities. I’ll just say they’re minimal and that it all ends with me collapsed in the bed with my kindle over my face. My days in the office also end like that but they're not quite as tiring! It's constant chaos, and yet somehow I wouldn't change a thing. (That's a lie. I'd have a live-in maid!)

So as you can see, the days and weeks go by in a blur, and now over a month has passed since our trip to South Africa.

I intended to write a little more about our time there, but in hindsight it hardly seems as dramatic as it felt at the time. Sure, I could tell you how Julie refused to sleep for more than an hour at a time. How neither of them would nap unless being pushed in the stroller. I could tell you about the post-funeral luncheon where they would have napped in said stroller were it not for the ear-splitting sound of a tile cutter being used on the sidewalk outside (not to mention the oh-so-healthy smell of formaldehyde). I could recount the strangeness of being the sober one amid a grieving family that loves its alcohol or the joy of being reunited with so many friends and family and then the guilt that accompanied that joy (for the reason for the reunion was so very sad). I could tell you how in awe I was of my husband's strength during what was probably the hardest week of his life so far.

But those stories don’t seem all that entertaining now. And to be honest, I just don’t have the time!

Napping in South Africa (yes, that's a mosquito net!)

Infant in Arms

A parent’s first airplane flight with a baby is always a bit nerve wracking. No one wants to be the mom (or dad) holding a screaming infant anywhere – but particularly not in the confined space of an airplane. But that's just the obvious concern. There is also the challenge of getting through security with a baby, not to mention all of the crap you have to bring along with you when travelling with an infant - car seats, strollers, diaper bags, toys, etc. People do it all the time though, so when the time came for us to book our babies' first flight, we knew that we too would manage somehow.

Of course, most parents don't take their baby to South Africa for its first flight. And most parents don't bring two babies along for the ride. But this too is possible.

We arrived at the airport four hours before our departure completely terrified. Well, I was terrified; Roger was in a grief induced haze. But I'm here to tell you that there are angels among us and my friend Ashley is one of them! She works for Delta and had managed to go ahead and reserve the bulkhead seats for us with the bassinet option (for both legs of the trip). This was a huge relief! She met us at the airport for moral support and was even able to walk us through security. And thank God she did! I don't know how we would have managed to get the girls out of the stroller, fold up the stroller, hoist it onto the conveyor belt along with our 4 carry on bags, remove our shoes, walk through the scanner, collect our 4 carry on bags and the stroller, open the stroller, get he girls back in the stroller and get our shoes back on without an extra pair of arms. (We would actually figure out how to do this on the way back, but it would have been way too much for the first step in our journey!). So thank God for Ashley.

Once we were through security things went pretty smoothly. We rode the train to the international gate. We fed the girls their dinner, changed their diapers, and loaded them into the Baby Bjorn carriers (Ashley had advised this was the easiest way to board the plane). They invited people with small children to board shortly after the first class passengers. This was about 7 pm. We bravely walked down the Jetway trying not to think about the fact that we would not be able to exit the plane until 11:30 am the following day (the time at our destination would be 5:30 pm).

Now, the bulkhead is by far the best place to sit in coach. There is a ton of extra leg room. However, because there are no seats in front of you, you have to store your carry on bags in the overhead. This does not allow for very easy access if you are 5' 4 and holding a 15 lb baby. In fact, even if you are 6'3 and holding a baby, you still don't have easy access. We quickly realized this and grabbed the essentials - diapers, wipes, the changing pad, pacifier, and a teether or two - and stuffed them in the magazine pockets on the wall in front of us. Everything else went in the overhead - including the snacks my friend Robin had thought to pack for us, knowing it would be hard for us to eat meals with babies in our arms. She's so considerate. If only we'd been able to get to them during the 16 hour flight. But who needs to eat anyway?

Little known fact about airplanes. You know the oxygen masks that drop down from the ceiling in case of emergency? Well, they wisely put an extra one above each section in case someone is travelling with an "infant in arms." So on our flight, each section of three seats had four masks above it. This is okay if one person in that section is holding a baby, but it's not okay if two people in that section are holding babies. You see where I'm going with this? That's right - Roger and I couldn't sit next to each other. Well, we were next to each other, but there was an aisle between us. Great.

Sitting an aisle apart from my husband wouldn't have been that big of a deal except that I'm still breastfeeding. I felt sure this would make travelling easier (no bottles and formula to pack - yay!) but even with my stylish nursing cover, there was simply no way for me to feed a baby without getting way too up close and personal with the woman next to me. It wasn't a matter of modesty - it was a matter of space. There simply wasn't room to position a baby the way I needed to without borrowing some serious space from the seat next to me. So what did I do? I ended up feeding my babies in the bathroom. I'm assuming most of you have used the lavatory on an airplane before so I don't need to describe the horror of everything that entailed. Needless to say it's not a place you want to spend an extended period of time. But in addition to serving as a place to nurse babies, I also used the bathroom as a sort of cone of silence. Any time my baby (I say "my baby" to mean whichever baby I was holding at that time) got really fussy and inconsolable, I darted to the bathroom where I could pretend no one could hear us. Yes, I said "us," for I too shed some tears in that bathroom.

But the worst part of the flight wasn't the stress of holding a crying baby while an entire plane full of people are trying to sleep - in fact, a few hours into it, that was the least of my concerns. The hardest part was the physical exhaustion of holding a baby for 16 hours straight. We were constantly holding babies! It's not like I could ask Roger to hold her while I ate something, or got something out of the overhead, or even went to the bathroom - because he too was holding a baby!

"But what about the bassinet?" you may be wondering. In case you're not familiar, each section of the bulkhead has a place to hook a bassinet where a baby can safely sleep, but my babies were having none of it. It would have been perfect for a baby that still slept in a swaddle, but at my girls' current size and levels of mobility, the bassinet simply wasn't going to cut it. Now, they may have settled into it had I given them a little time, but how do you explain to an entire plane full of people - "Hey, I know my baby is screaming but I really think if we give her 5-10 minutes she may just settle!" You don't. So the bassinets just became a depository for diapers, wipes, and toys.

So what did we do with two babies for 16 hours? It's all a bit of a blur now. I feel like I spent at least 13 of those 16 hours just walking around the plane or hiding out in the bathroom. At one point my baby - it was Anna I think? - fell into a pretty deep sleep and I was able to sit down for almost an hour and doze with her in my arms. Roger was able to get each of the girls to sleep in the Baby Bjorn for awhile so he could nod off without worrying about dropping them. I tried the Baby Bjorn with Julie early in the flight but for some reason it sent her into a fit of rage so I was hesitant to try again.

Fortunately, the older woman to my left was genuinely sympathetic. She did actually hold a baby a time or two so that I could find something in the overhead and once so I could go to the bathroom. (Roger and I would both eventually figure out how to pee while holding a baby.) And honestly, had I known how close to passing out I would be by the end of the flight I might have taken her up on her offer to hold Anna while I ate something. But stupidly, I didn't. The flight attendants were less helpful than I thought they would be. They sailed right by with their trays of food, never offering any kind of alternative - like a sandwich - to someone who might not have the ability to fold out their tray. (Sorry to harp on the subject, but you know I'm not one to miss a meal - much less three of them! And hello? Breastfeeding two babies makes you extra hungry. So there.)

At one point during the flight - while hiding in the bathroom with a crying Julie while listening to Anna cry in the main cabin - I swore to myself I would never make this flight with two babies again. Then I realized I would indeed make the flight again - in eight days. I briefly contemplated just staying in South Africa until the girls were older - but when would be old enough? Sigh. I would have to do it again. But hey, it was almost over right? How long had we been in the air anyway? Surely we were in the homestretch I thought as I made my way back to my seat. I caught a glance of the time on the flight screen. We'd been in the air six hours. I looked at Roger - his face still red from the anxiety of holding a crying baby in a plane full of sleeping passengers. "We're not even half way there," I whispered with desperation in my voice. Roger said nothing, but I'm pretty sure I saw a tear in his eye.

Needless to say we made it. And the flight back to Atlanta, while two hours longer than the flight to Joburg, was actually a thousand times better. (There were two empty seats in my section of the bulkhead so Roger was able to move into my section and we had a free seat beside us.) The thing is, I knew the flights would be hard. I wasn't prepared for just how hard, but still, I knew. What I wasn't prepared for was how hard it would be to take care of my babies in a totally new environment, not to mention timezone.

But I'll save those horrors for a different post. I've whined enough for one afternoon...

Larger than life.

The world is a much darker place than it was two weeks ago. That's because on March 29, 2011 - on his 36th wedding anniversary - Frederick Bryan Melhuish took his last breath.

My father-in-law was truly larger than life. And yet, to use a cliche to describe someone so unique seems somehow wrong. But how else do you describe the way his very presence filled up a room? How the people around him couldn't help but notice his big laugh, his loud voice, his jovial nature? Strangers were drawn to him. Friends and acquaintances sought out opportunities to be near him. And why wouldn't they? Bryan always appeared to be having more fun than anyone else - whether he was dancing with his glamorous wife, knocking back cane and Cokes with his sons, throwing the ball with his grandchildren, playing tennis with friends, or even just enjoying a bacon sandwich on his own.

Bryan loved life, but he certainly had his grumpy moments too. Of course he made no apologies for his grumpiness. Or anything else for that matter. Bryan was who he was. Take him or leave him. And most people were more than willing to take him exactly as he was. He could call your baby ugly one minute then have you laughing about it in the next.

No, Bryan didn't hold back his opinions. But he never held back his emotions either. The words "I love you" flowed freely from his lips, and perhaps that is the thing I loved most about him. I can't count the number of times I heard him say those words to his wife, to his children, his grandchildren, even his friends. And of course, I heard him say them to me often as well. I can still hear him saying, "I love you, my girl. Take good care of those babies," the last time I saw him.

What I never told Bryan was how grateful I was that he said those words so freely. Because in doing so, he taught his children to say them also. And now, I hear those words from my husband multiple times a day. My little girls hear them from their father all day long. The words "I love you" certainly aren't saved for special occasions around our house. Nor should they be.

Bryan was certainly larger than life. But he wasn't stronger than death. The battle he fought with cancer wasn't one he could win. He valiantly kept the enemy at bay for more than eight years, but the war had to end eventually. And I think he made peace with that fact long before anyone else did. He continued to let doctors poke and prod him to humor his loved ones, even though he knew the time was coming for him to wave the white flag.

We all knew the end was near, but no one was ready to say goodbye. Certainly not last October, when Bryan and Sally came to Atlanta to meet their newest grandchildren. And yet the distance made it impossible for us to say one last final goodbye in person. Instead we Skyped almost daily until it seemed cruel to force him to wave at a webcam from his bed. Then we knew it was time. We booked our flight but Bryan passed away the morning we left.

Perhaps it's better that way. I don't think the larger than life man we knew would have wanted our final memories of him to be at his deathbed. Instead we'll remember him as he was. Laughing. Drinking. Dancing. Telling Jokes. Offending people. Answering the door without any clothes on. Shouting at his favorite sports team on the television. Handing out champagne cocktails as he welcomed you to the party.

And I'm sure he'll have one waiting for all of us when we see him again someday...