Sign of The Times

Before I had kids, I expressed the fear that many of my childless friends shared - the worry that we would bring a child/children into this cruel, over populated world full of hatred, crime and evil. Especially after 9/11.

A world with homelessness, starvation, child abuse and cancer. Teenage pregnancy, Jersey Shore and  MTV reality shows that glorify despicable behavior.

But from their precarious first moments of life, they have benefited from the age we live in.

The advances in healthcare - from the sophisticated gadgets in the NICU to the nasal spray flu vaccine.

They can talk to their grandma face to face, despite the fact that she is 1,000 miles away.

They have the internet, where knowledge and images, no matter how esoteric, are just a click away.

Velcro on shoes. Elastic bands on sleeping bags instead of those maddening nylon ties. TV that can be paused for a potty break.

But, more than all that, they also live in a world where a woman's vote means just as much as a man's. And where women can aspire to be doctors, engineers or professors.

My girls have entered that delicious stage where they are piecing together the knowledge they have gathered into the jigsaw puzzle of life.

While watching The Smurfs Movie and I mentioned that the actor (Neil Patrick Harris) and his husband have twins too! Tristyn hesitantly corrected me by saying, "Husband? That's a man." To which I responded, "Yes, he has a husband. Remember that song about Two Daddies and *Two Mommies?" She stared at me for a second (I could almost see the wheels turning), nodded her head and filed it away in her little knowledge box.

The other night, snuggled up in their beds after reading books, we talked about what they did in pre-school that day. They learned about George Washington! I asked a few follow up questions and then asked them if they knew who the president was today. Jaeda thought for a second before proudly bursting out with the answer, "Barack Obama"!

It isn't relevant to them that he is the first African American president. And I love that.

Reaping the benefits of modern medical technology @ 2 days old. Their first time side by side (outside of the womb) 

This post was inspired by Kim of Baby Feet.

*From the album A Cow Says Moock, by Alastair Moock. It is awesome - buy it now.

Idle

I'm slow to adjust. I think that's one of my idiosyncrasies. Or maybe that's just a human condition? If I expect one thing and get another, I'm all out of whack until I can re-calibrate my expectations.

Take parenthood for example. (ha!)

Having been thrust, a bit unexpectedly, not to mention earlier than anticipated, into motherhood (yes, I'm dramatic - but I'm good at it so just go with it), it took many internal struggles to relinquish the life that was once mine and mine alone, in order to mother my young. As I'm sure many new mothers struggle, it was difficult to accept my new role and toss aside my own personal interests and desires.

But as they get older, they have become so much more independent. The incessant requests for my time and attention have diminished drastically. They can wash their own hair, put on their own bike helmets, brush their own teeth, even buckle their own seat belts! The million minuscule things that added up to a mountain of effort for me has whittled away to a mole hill, leaving me feeling... a bit lost.

What do I do now to fill the space evacuated by growing children? Having more children is neither a desire nor a possibility (hubby shudders at the thought and quite honestly, so do I).

Lately, I find myself wandering around the house actually *looking* for the next task or activity, whereas before, I would have given my right arm to clone myself so as to be in two places at once, which seemed like a necessity as the mother of two young children. (Honestly, I don't know how moms of numerous children do it).

Its not like I don't still have plenty to keep me busy. I work 32 hours a week. I maintain a household; pay bills, cook, clean, etc. I maintain this blog (barely) and my style blog. I sell on eBay. I read. I try to remain social with friends and family. I make jewelry when the inspiration hits me. I am (slowly) teaching myself how to sew.

Oh yeah, and that parenting gig.

There is an underlying desire to simply stay home and "nest", as they say, a notion that I fought every step of the way after getting married, and one that eluded me as my pregnancy progressed, despite the stories that that is how I would know I was getting close to delivering. (I laugh at that - not only did I deliver 6 weeks early, but I was too busy freaking out at the prospect of two infants. "Nesting" was not in my vocabulary).

Here is my latest distraction:

A good old fashioned puzzle 

And, thanks to Pinterest, I've also been cooking and baking more. But I still feel like I should be doing more, like these tidbits of down time are illegal.

Next on my list: I need to learn how to just BE.

Maybe I can take lessons from these two:

The Tao of Twins

When I bought my twin jogging stroller from a father of twins off craigslist, I was harried and scatter-brained, having packed up the girls (who were 10 months old at the time, I believe) and driven 45 minutes to an unknown destination. His twin boys were seven. He coerced them to break from their game to come out to the garage and utter a shy hello to me. I barely related to this man. As he loaded the stroller into my car, he looked at me and said, "It really does get easier", a sentiment that felt like a flimsy platitude that twin parents say to each other. But he said it so, I don't know, earnestly, that I believed him.

Of course, I forgot that sentiment immediately upon pulling out of his driveway, the girls again demanding my attention while I navigated back to our house.

Now? As the girls near 5, I know what he really wanted to say: "It gets easy." Not easier. Easy.

I'm a bit hesitant to write those words, lest I lose my grasp on the difficulty banner that floats over my head at the very whisper of the word 'twins'. High risk pregnancy, back to back births, preemie babies, double infant care, two toddlers, etc. etc.

Nevertheless, it's official. I've turned the corner from being the recipient of sympathetic stares at the imagined difficulty of mothering twinfants or twin toddlers to being the one giving the look to moms of different age children.

I have two well trained helpers that monitor each others' behavior and best of all --- play together. For hours on end. And! They wear the same clothes. They are learning the same things. They can help each other to do just about anything that might otherwise require adult assistance. They comfort each other. They cooperate. They share.

They even give each other the occasional massage.

So Holly, if you're reading this: It Does Get Easier.

National Geographic

Identical twins are on the cover of the December National Geographic and the subject of NPR's The Picture Show blog.

Looking at the photos is fascinating. I love to look at the subtle differences in their features. I try to decide if I would be able to tell them apart if I knew them in real life.

We spent Christmas with extended family, most of whom don't see the girls on a frequent enough basis to be able to tell them apart. I'm convinced that, as identical twins go, mine are on the easy-to-tell-apart end of the spectrum. Sometimes I wonder if all parents of identical twins feel that way. But then I hear stories of parents that require nail polish to distinguish their children apart.

I cannot imagine what that would be like. Telling them apart has always been easy. I recall the days in the NICU, Tristy under the bili lights, calming her with my palm over her wispy white-blonde hair. Jaeda lay in the neighboring isolette, with her signature dirty blonde mohawk atop her head.

Who's this guy?
2007 (8 months old)
Tristyn on the left, Jaeda on the right  (note the mohawk)

On Christmas eve, my husband's cousin (interesting fact: he is genetically his half brother because his mom is my husband's mom's identical twin) came for a visit. Its been a few years since he's seen my girls and they had just dried off from the bathtub and put on last years snowman pajamas (seen below in the 2010 Santa photo, which are now totally high-waters).

They obediently stood in front of Lenny as I took a sideways glance at them to introduce them each by name, as I try to do.

And wouldn't you know it, I introduced them wrong. Me. Their mother. *sigh* My only excuses are that they were wearing the same outfit, had wet hair and I was looking at them sideways instead of head-on. Ok, those are pretty good excuses, but I still felt horrible (and a little embarrassed).  Because I'm usually the one doing the correcting. "That's Jaeda" or "You mean Tristyn" when someone refers to them incorrectly.

Traumatized (I love that Santa is laughing)
2008 (Age 1 1/2)
Tristyn on the left, Jaeda on the right 

On the trip home, we had settled into the ridiculously cramped play room designated for kids on the ferry from Nanaimo (Vancouver Island) to Vancouver, which is a 2 hour journey. The woman sitting next to me (who was obviously miserable) had a rambunctious older boy (maybe 6) and a precocious (read: bratty) little girl about the same age as my girls.

Feeling a little shy
2009 (2 1/2)
Tristyn on the left, Jaeda on the right 

We had managed to ignore each other, as parents of young children tend to do whilst stuck on a ferry with strangers for 2 hours, until I heard her son ask if my girls were twins. My ears perked, of course, to hear her answer. She replied "I'm sure they are sisters, but I don't think they are twins". Stunned, I turned to her and asked if she was referring to my girls. "They're actually identical twins" I heard myself say, and I realized that I felt almost a little defensive. So, I want people to tell them apart, but I also want people to recognize them as identical twins? Hmm...

Over the moon! 
2010 (3 1/2)
Jaeda on the left, Tristyn on the right 

One relative, whom they don't see very often, admitted to me that he 'still can't tell them apart'. I told him the newest "trick", which has saved their pre-school teacher and their gymnastics instructors; Jaeda's bangs are wavy, like the letter "J". Tristyn's are stick straight, like a "T".

Do you see the bangs?
2011 (4 1/2)
Jaeda on the left, Tristyn on the right 

But to me, its quite silly to even need this mnemonic. Their faces are quite different, their hair, even their voices. I've written about it before of course.

You see what I mean, don't you??

I understand that these subtleties are lost on most people. Take any two children of the same gender and age and ask people to tell them apart.

My girls are lucky to have twin boy cousins that are just 5 months younger. They are fraternal, and are very easy to distinguish by hair color, eye color and height! While the four of them took turns playing Angry Birds on my cell phone, I overheard Tristyn ask her cousin Gabriel, "Which one are you?"

Weeds

The picture on our Christmas card shows my hubby and me crouched on the balcony of the Old Faithful Inn (Yellowstone) with these long-limbed blondies on our knees. Their big feet hang from their bony legs and they both happen to have a spoonful of ice cream poised at their mouths. So many friends and family members have remarked at how big they have become.

Its true, the once teeny preemies have sprouted into oversized pre-schoolers, matching height of kids 2 or more years older than them, and towering over kids their own age.

They are hungry all the time, often telling me they are hungry shortly after we have finished a meal. The other day, I realized they had finagled two breakfasts and two lunches. There are times when, at dinner, they eat more than I do. Like tonight, when I could barely finish two tacos but they each devoured two over-stuffed, daddy-made tacos, and then asked what was for dessert.

Socks and shoes have become a topic of much angst and debate in our house. They both refuse to wear socks, citing that they are "too small" or that their feet hurt when they put their shoes on. And we are down to one pair of shoes each - from probably 20 available pairs in the shoe basket by the front door - that they will actually wear. The other day, in a war of wills between Jaeda and myself, I would not let her leave the house until socks and shoes were on. I won, but at the cost of my calm and composure. She dramatically complained, feigning inability to walk due to the discomfort. In my frustration, later that day, I impetuously purchased four used pairs of size 13 shoes from ebay, hoping to avoid a repeat of the earlier scene.

When bedtime rolls around, and they have been instructed to put on their pajamas, they will sometimes re-appear downstairs in just their underwear and ask if they can be "super-baby" (I have no idea where that came from), which basically means no pajamas, just undies. I occasionally acquiesce, too tired to argue, as I watch the Manute Bol-esque cuties skamper up the stairs to brush their teeth.

This rapid growth, of course, makes them clumsy. I can't count how many times I've heard the disquieting thump of Tristyn falling off her chair at the dinner table, followed by a frustrated howl from the floor. And I'm constantly being kicked in the face or kneed in the kidneys when we rough-house, tumbling around the living room floor. We sometimes call Jaeda "Long Limbs La-Jaeda" (a spin on "Long Limbs Lenora", the New Year's Eve working girl from Forrest Gump) because if there is something to knock over with her legs, she will knock it over, despite our warnings to be careful.

It goes along with the theme running through my head these last few months, that they are growing up all too fast, as children tend to do. I thought I had until the teenage years before this awkward stage??

World Prematurity Day

Tomorrow, November 17th, is World Prematurity Day.

My identical twin girls were born at 34 weeks, 2 days. Three weeks prior to their "twin due date" and six weeks premature for a normal pregnancy. When I tell people this, almost always they will say, "Oh, that's not bad".

(insert sound of my blood boiling)

Not bad?? What is "not bad" about the terror that a new mother feels when her water breaks weeks or months early, knowing that her child's life hangs in the balance? When her newborn baby (or babies) are raced to intensive care moments after giving birth. What is "not bad" about three weeks - 21 fucking days - staring at my new babies through clear plastic instead of holding them in my arms?

Try to cuddle with a tiny baby with tangled cords tethering her to her isolet, knowing that you can't keep her warm enough because she cannot regulate her own body temperature.

Try to breastfeed a premature baby whose instinct to suck in order to stay alive hasn't kicked in yet.

When it comes to the NICU, one day is too long in the eyes of a mother (or father). I know mothers whose babies spent months in the NICU. While the angels disguised as NICU nurses take such good care of the babies (and the parents), it is not a fun place to be. Monitors beep incessantly. Fragile, skinny babies are protected behind clear plastic. Anxious family members pace the halls.

To be discharged from the hospital, preemies take a carseat test. Its heartbreaking to strap a too-small child into a carseat and watch the oxygen monitors hoping they can breathe while seated upright.

Breathe--!

There are so many stories of babies born much much earlier than 34 weeks. I cannot imagine the heartbreak those parents must have endured. Surgeries, procedures and the uncertainty that your precious offspring will survive another day in the NICU. But, this isn't a competition. Every single mother-to-be hopes for a healthy, chubby baby to emerge from their womb.

So, go ahead. Try me. Tell me that 34 weeks is "not bad".

I'm stepping off my soapbox now. I know how lucky I am to have healthy daughters that began their lives with a combined weight under 8 pounds. Four a half years and 80 pounds later, they are thriving.

Want proof? The first picture was taken last December. The second one was a few weeks ago. Is it my imagination, or did they grow 8 inches?? 

Two Years Blogging

Oops, I missed my two-year blog-o-versity. Such has been the proclivity of Tao of Twins in the past year. My urge to write that bid me to keep notepads in my car, purse and on my bedside table has diminished.

Thoughts would gurgle out of my head like water boiling over on a hot stove. Words would seep from my fingertips onto the keyboard effortlessly. I would find myself deciphering my scribbly hieroglyphics on my trusty notepads because I couldn't write out a thought fast enough.

So what has changed? In life, we seek stability, attempting to find ground where our equilibrium doesn't feel threatened and the earth feels solid under our feet. Life is like climbing up a cliff out of the water of our mother's womb. When we start to feel safe, we crouch on our outcropping, waiting for that next wave or gust of wind to threaten our position, however precarious.

Perspective, too, plays a role. From my perch, I see others struggling where I once was, as well as places I never want to be.

I've been asking myself: where is my empathy, my knowledge, my energy best utilized? Having stumbled up the cliffs of postpartum depression, I know I can be a support to other women. And, in the same breath, I remind myself to simply enjoy my precious, sparkly, vibrant daughters and my loving, industrious, handsome hubby. What more could a woman want?

In short, I don't have much to complain about. How can I write about depression when I no longer feel depressed? The memories are fading, and while they will always be a part of my history, I'm ready to move on and take on new challenges. But at the same time, I don't want to rock the boat. I'm waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. The one that will inspire me to write again...
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In the meantime, I'm really hoping for some snow. :-)

Playing in the snow with Grandma Starr, December 2008