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?
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
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.
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!)
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
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...
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...
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
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...
Thursday, March 24, 2011
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?
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...
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)