Details

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?

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...

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.

Love letter

It's been a rough couple of weeks. Lots of drama at work (the least of which though perhaps the most entertaining involved a horrifying breast milk/wardrobe malfunction. But that's a story for another time). The girls were sick - two bad colds and one ear infection causing two trips to the doctor and a week of sleepless nights. And of course, I continue to think just getting myself and my two babies out the door and back in again every day is a feat in and of itself. Every night, I really think I deserve a medal. (But who really wants a medal? I reward myself with ice cream instead!)

So needless to say, Valentine's Day was not high on my priority list this year. Not that it ever really is, but this year, I didn't even have the energy to look through the cards at Kroger and pick one out for Roger. When I told Roger this, he was more than okay with overlooking the holiday altogether. I am 100% confident that this does not say something horrible about my marriage. In fact, I' m more in love with my husband today than I was yesterday. And after nine years together (our anniversary is in two weeks!), I can truly say that each day it just continues to get better.

So while I didn't have the energy to pick out a Valentine for him, I do want to spend the ten minutes I have before the girls wake up composing this little love letter to him. Because he is truly amazing, and I can't help but want to shout from the rooftops how incredible the man I married is.

I never doubt for a second how much he loves me and our babies, because he shows us in all the right ways. Yes, he tells me he loves me multiple times every day, but I know it's true because my travel coffee cup and the girls' bag of bottles is waiting for me in the car every morning, because we take turns getting up with the girls at night when they're sick, because he volunteers to do the grocery shopping so I don't have to, because he cleans the bottles when we get home while I spend precious moments with our babies, because he helps me bathe and feed them every night, because he reads the story and sings the lullabye with me, because he cooks dinner while I prepare the bottles for the next day, because he helps me with the laundry, because at least once a week he says "Thank you for taking such good care of our girls." Seriously, if you read a book with a husband like Roger in it, you probably wouldn't believe the character was realistic. He's just almost too good to be true.

So this is my love letter to him. Because I don't know if I'm as good at showing it as he is, but I love him more than I could ever express in words.

And now I'll shut up about how great I have it...I'd hate to make other husbands look bad!

Don't Judge Me

You can't wear shoes in the infant room at the girls' school (calling it "school" makes me feel better than calling it "daycare"). Well, you can wear shoes but you have to cover them with "anti-skid covers," paper-type shoes like I imagine surgeons wear over their shoes before going into the OR. I understand the point of them - you don't want the stuff that's on the bottom of your shoes tracked all over the same floor where your baby is rolling around all day (and yes, both of my babies are now rolling around!). But have you ever tried to slip on paper shoes over your heels while carrying two infants in their car seats and a bag of 6 bottles? It's next to impossible.

The alternative to wearing these paper shoes is slipping off your shoes before you go in. Much easier. So I keep a pair of black flats in the car with me that I can easily slip off and on when carting the babies to and from the infant room. After I drop off the girls and am back in the car, I change into my boots or heels or whatever I planned on wearing to work. Of course sometimes, probably more than I should, I just end up wearing the black flats to the office. But if I do manage to wear something slightly more stylish to work, I then change back into the flats before I go into the school.

Last Wednesday though, I didn't quite complete the transfer. I somehow arrived in the lobby of the school wearing one black flat and one black high heel. (And no, I don't know how I manged to walk from the car to the lobby without noticing, but I did. I've got a lot going on, people!) I quickly debated what was more embarrassing - running back to the car to make the switch before collecting the girls or hobbling down the hall to the infant room in my mismatched shoes. I started to keep on hobbling, but then I tried to imagine me hobbling back to the car with the two babies and the bottle bag and I reversed my decision. So I darted back to the car, relieved that I'd only been noticed by one smirking father in the lobby. (If that b*tchy director had been around, no doubt she would have commented!)

Of course when I enter the infant room the father from the lobby is in there collecting his baby too. I avoid eye contact with him but make sure he knows that I'm there to collect two babies as opposed to his one. Yeah, I'd like to see him try to drop off and collect two babies every day and still manage to coordinate details like shoes.

I need a sign or a t-shirt that reads, "Don't judge me, I'm the mother of twins." And by the way, how long do you think I can keep riding that excuse? Because I'm thinking I'm gonna need 10, maybe 15 years before I manage to get it together.

Eh, who are we kidding, I've never really had it together. But at least now I have an excuse, right?

Best Laid Plans

At the beginning of every new year, we tend to remark about how fast time flies. "Can you believe another year has gone by?" we say. But this year, I can definitely believe a year has passed. In fact, I'm a bit awed that it's only been a year since last New Year's Day. So much has happened! Could it be that 365 days ago I wasn't even pregnant? (Well, I was pregnant, but I didn't know it yet!).

It wasn't until January 15th that I took the test and two blue lines appeared. Roger and I were simultaneously thrilled and terrified to learn that we were having a baby, but this was the plan, right? We had begun looking for a house a few months earlier, with the intention of starting a family, and there we were, pregnant and ready to close on a house on January 28th. It was all happening according to plan. But then on January 29th, my ultrasound showed two heartbeats - definitely not part of the plan!

But one heartbeat was really slow, barely there in fact. The doctor explained that while I was currently pregnant with two babies, there was a strong possibility that one of them might not make it. Roger and I spent the following weeks both excited and scared - trying to wrap our heads around the possibility of twins without letting ourselves get excited about the idea.

Three very long weeks later, my second ultrasound showed two strong heartbeats. Baby B just needed some time to catch up. I admit, I was a little surprised by the rush of relief I felt in that moment. I was so very scared of having twins, but I had been even more scared to not have them. Of course Roger claims he was never scared. He knew all along that they would both be fine. And as for how we would juggle two babies, well as usual, he said we would "make a plan."

But a month later, we learned of a new threat to our plan. Roger's company was closing the Atlanta office. We would have to relocate to Chicago or find a new job. I panicked of course, but Roger never did. He simply began job hunting, and by June he had found an even better job.

And then a few months later our girls arrived, and despite all of the planning we had done for their arrival, nothing could have prepared us for the incredible experience of meeting them and learning how to care for and comfort them.

2010 has been a crazy year. And things haven't gone exactly as planned, but you know what? They've turned out even better.

Still, here's hoping 2011 isn't quite so eventful. A nice quiet year...well, that's the plan anyway.

How's it going?

I've started this post 17 times. And even as I type, I hear a baby calling me but I'm determined to write something before I go check (hey, I'm not running for Mother of the Year anyway).

"So, how's it going?" you ask. They're...going. We're all coping. We're all still breathing - albeit with perpetually stuffy noses - but we're getting by. I wouldn't say we're doing any of this particularly well, but we're doing it. We're getting up every morning and getting ourselves out the door. The girls go to "school." I go to work. I pick them up, go home, and then attempt to play with two cranky and overtired babies for an hour while Roger washes bottles and prepares new ones and cleans up whatever mess the dogs have made that day. Around 7, we bathe the girls and put them to bed by 8. Then we scrape something together for ourselves for dinner - sometimes Roger cooks, but honestly, we ate pizza 3 times last week. (Dominos keeps delivering our pizza late, then proceeds to send us a free pizza coupon as an apology.) So we're doing it, but I'd be lying if I said it was going great. It's exhausting. And by Friday, I feel like I've been run over by a train.

Apparently, I look like I've been hit by a train too. Last Friday, one of the directors at the daycare says to me "You're so clever for dropping the girls off before you get ready for work."

"I am ready for work, b*tch," is what I wanted to say, but I can hardly balme her.

Okay, now two babies are calling me. I'm hitting publish without proof reading.

Sue me.