Roll With The Punches

When you have a two year old (or two), you can either try to fit them into an adult world, with almost certain unpleasant repercussions, or you can plan around them. Up until now, I had always viewed it as somewhat of a failure in my role as a parent and disciplinarian to yield to a two year old.

I believe in giving children their own sense of power - to make choices and have (limited) control over their environment, and successfully maintain the facade that it's real, and not just a parental stunt. It's the eternal child/parent tug of war. And we all know what happens when parents give too much slack on that rope...

But where is the balance of power so that I'm not squelching their fragile independence and creating future therapy-worthy topics?

There's no equation, of course, much to my chagrin. I'm learning it's case by case, just like everything else in life.

Most important for me is to learn to roll with the punches - end an activity or outing even though it may have been pre-planned or expensive. Just like adults, toddlers get to a point where they've had enough, but can't communicate it - that's my job. Maybe if I stop thinking of parenting as a dictatorship and start looking at my children and me as a team, I'll have more success.

Coming out of the Woodwork

Now that I have twins, I run into twins wherever I go. I'm a twin magnet. Twins seem to seek me out. Are you getting the picture yet? 

While pregnant, I encounter two twins (not related to each other) in one day without even leaving my house. Check that; I took out the garbage. My neighbor, whom we've lived next to for 5 years asks me if I'm having a boy or a girl. Twin girls, I tell him. His wife comes out on the porch and announces that she is a twin. Later that day, my housekeeper and I are chatting and guess what? She's a twin.

Standing in line for food on a BC ferry coming home from my mother-in-law's house, the woman standing in line behind us tells us she is a twin.

Ok, not a huge coincidence... Until that same scenario plays itself out dozens of times over the past 2 1/2 years.

Checkers at the store tell me they are a twin so often that I begin to wonder about the statistical chances of randomly choosing the line with the twin checker - out of say, five checkers, how many times do I choose the one that is a twin?

While calling the cable company, my girls are performing their usual loud mommy-is-on-the-phone antics. I warn the customer service representative that he may be subject to the piercing squeals of two two year olds. "Twins?" he asks. Then tells me he knows how it is - he has (grown) twins.

Still with me?

I'm sitting poolside in Cabo San Lucas, watching the activity around me. There are two girls chatting happily, but it doesn't occur to me that they may be related until I walk past them. It's their eyes - a piercing silver green. I literally stop in my tracks to ask if they are sisters. Yes. But they don't reveal to me that they are in fact, identical twins until I mention that I have twin daughters.

Part of me loves these encounters. Another part of me is secretly disappointed that my girls aren't as unique as I would like to think. Regardless, they do tend to attract attention in public places.

Out to lunch with my husband and daughters, there are only two other customers in the small teriyaki grill, two women seated at a table adjacent to us. We are used to being looked at - that delayed stare while people figure out if my girls are possibly twins, but I notice that both women are looking at them with delight and ask me their age - not if they are twins; they have already deduced this. They tell me they are (identical) twins as well, and I'm intrigued to see the similar outlines of their forms, yet shockingly different superficial features: one has short blond hair with chunky red glasses and the other has long brown hair with wire rimmed glasses. But there is no denying they are identical twins. I can see the synchronicity of their mannerisms. They interact with the harmony of an old married couple.

What's endearing in children can be peculiar in adults.

In an odd irony, they lecture me about encouraging individuality between my twosome, a property that was apparently void in their upbringing. Many parents of twins bask in the intimacy between their offspring, but neglect to realize that humans weren't meant to exist in duplicate, and won't truly flourish in life unless they are provided with the tools to become a whole person, instead of half of a pair.

Pieces of Me

"It's the one thing we never get over: that we contain our own future"

-Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams (on being pregnant)

My daughters are little pieces of me. Physical, miniature beings that were created inside my body, and that I delivered to their new home on earth. While on vacation recently with childless friends, I was attempting to describe how it felt to have them so far away, and why I had to keep looking at pictures and talking about my girls. I told them it is different than anything else that I've ever felt proud of in my life - my education or my career for instance, because these are little humans that walk and talk that didn't exist before they grew in my womb.

But it's much more than that. People tell me all the time how much my daughters resemble me. Of course they do - that's how it works! But each and every time I hear those words, I feel a swell of pride that only reinforces the instinctual bond between mother and child.

(Is this perpetual cloning the naked, underlying reason for the continuation of the human race?)

Children come in all shapes, colors and sizes and they are all precious, innocent and deserving of love, but what makes my heart melt at the first sight after a long day of my two young mini-me replicas standing eagerly at the garage door?

Is it their affinity to my own features - the blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin? Or the curiosity of their differences from me? Their autonomous psyches, the ringlet curls, their upturned button noses?

It must be both. They are so different from me, yet so similar. And that makes them irresistible.

Me                                                                    Jaeda

Me                                                                  Tristyn

The Silence is Deafening

I knew I had arrived as a parent when I described the squeals of my daughters playing with their cousins as the "sound of happiness" while they ran the circular route that is our house, leaving a bevy of toys in their wake.

(My house has never been spotless, and now I have a reason. These two pint-sized Tasmanian devils reside there now, and can create enormous messes in the blink of an eye.)

The other day, as I dropped the girls at the YMCA daycare, they were the only kids. As they scampered to claim toys, it was quiet in the room. I said to the attendant, "the silence is deafening" - and it was - the room is usually filled with babies and children and the noises that accompany them.

I experienced this phenomenon in my own house shortly thereafter. The girls were fighting a cold, and had been napping for hours one afternoon. My husband and I took advantage of the child-free time by catching up on reading, emails and chores. But at a certain point, the house feels too quiet. Somber instead of peaceful, almost like a reminder of the void our lives would have without these two boisterous beings.

If Happy does have a sound, wouldn't it be laughter? And what better laughter than that of a child - their brains and emotions unencumbered by adult worries, insecurities and prejudices?

"God Bless the Mamas"

[Quote from Primary Colors]

I recently told a friend of mine (who also has twin girls, and who also has struggled with depression) that I know my experience wasn't necessarily extraordinary, but part of me felt it needed to be documented, while the other part of me just wanted to forget it. All new mothers struggle - don't they? (I found myself saying the word 'torture' often to describe the first year of the girls' lives).

As I recall the fragments that make up my memories of those first few months, it occurs to me how a veteran mother views a new mom-to-be. It's like watching someone put on a parachute and jump out of a plane for the first time. There is absolutely no way that you could know what the experience will be like until you live through it, and there is no amount of research or advice that will make it any less shocking, scary, or dare I say, exhilarating.

And as much as being a new mother is a fantasy in so many respects for many women, that balloon gets burst as the reality of the near-crushing weight that new motherhood brings sets in.

As I look back, realizing that I was struggling with post partum depression (or perhaps a continuation of years of untreated depression - I may never know), I see such strength in all mothers. I feel such pride in my new title, but also such sadness as a new wave of understanding washes over me for all the mothers in all the countries in the world, throughout history, the pain and vulnerability that comes with having your "heart go walking around outside of your body" -Elizabeth Stone

"To understand a mother's love, bear your own children" - Chinese Proverb

The Gift of Calm

This Christmas, I'm thankful for many things - the usual: family, friends, job, house, etc. But there is one thing that stands out for me, that has eluded me in my parenting of these twin girls, and that is CALM. My ability to remain calm in the face of situations that present themselves in the course of a day with two preemies, two infants, and now, two toddlers.

I recalled for an acquaintance at a holiday party how my girls would scream from about 4pm until 7pm between 4 and 8 months old. I'm sure it wasn't always both babies, for the full 3 hours, and I'm doubtful that it lasted four months, but that's how I remember it. I remember the utter chaos and the complete frantic feeling that would overtake me. My anxiety was palpable. I wasn't able to put it away, even after the girls had fallen asleep. Even when I myself was asleep.

On a busy holiday evening, I ventured out to the local take-out pizza place with my two two year olds in tow - a task I would not have even considered a year ago. More than likely not 6 months ago. Possibly not even 3 months ago. It does have an awful lot to do with their age - they tend to cooperate, put on their shoes, hop into their car seats and go.

But they are still two. Before we had even left the garage, there was a dramatic crying scene over shoes and the possibility of being left behind. I strapped the little drama queen into her car seat, feeling confident (and calm) that it would pass, and went on our way.

My mom calls me just as I was pulling into a parking spot in front of the pizza place. I watch people go in and out, hoping the line won't get too long before I can finish up my call and go inside. With my girls holding my hands, I step inside just in time to see the customer before me pay for $112 worth of pizza! Knowing we might have a longer wait than I had hoped for didn't send my blood pressure sky rocketing, as it surely would have in the past.

There were times in the past when I viewed my daughters as ticking time bombs, with only a finite time frame to work with before -- what? I don't even know now what I was so worried about.

Since the craft store is right next door, I decided we needed to pick up some supplies for Christmas. Normally, my husband and I avoid taking both girls with us to the craft store because it can be hectic. I asked the girls to please stay next to me and entered the store without a second thought. Next thing I know, they have discovered porcelain piggy banks and each have both of their hands eagerly cupping a pig, with gleeful anticipation. A quick, stern warning from me prompts a look from a woman passing by, and we make eye contact with that knowing glance that all mother's share. Purchases in hand, we exit the store.

Unbelievably, I'm still feeling calm.

Calm enough to walk over to Safeway to grab a movie and some pop. This task is uneventful until I can feel victory with the swoosh of the air coming in through the automatic doors. Then, the finale of this story: I pull Jaeda up out of the cart, and set her free. Just as I'm asking Tristyn to carry the movie, Jaeda runs over the threshold outside, and the door closes separating her from us. I hastily grab the case of pop and it collapses, silver cans spilling out onto the floor. The automatic doors open again and I reach for Jaeda, pulling her back inside. I pick up the cans and heft the box into my arms and task the girls to a "race" to the car, which keeps them on track and focused on the goal: the safety of the car.

As I close the door and start the car, I do a mental inventory. My heart isn't racing. I don't feel angry at my children or circumstances. And, above all, I feel calm. Wow. Writing it doesn't have nearly the same intensity. I'm sure there are millions of people that strive for many other emotions that are the opposite of calm, but for me, I feel as though I've run a marathon, and that calm is my reward.

I'm quite certain that anti-depressants account for the majority of my calm. But I would like to think that after 2 1/2 years of being a mom, I'm finally learning what all moms eventually discover - that you have to roll with the punches, and when you stay calm, your children stay calmer too (most of the time). What a concept!

Not so calm in Santa's lap (Christmas 2008)

MERRY CHRISTMAS to my blog readers!

Anti-depressants Make Me a Better Mother

I’ve actually uttered this sentiment to complete strangers while discussing my twins, usually after one of those inane comments twin moms hear so often; “I don’t know how you manage with two – I can barely handle one!” “You’ve got your hands full” or my favorite: “I’ve always wanted twins.”

My path down the yellow brick road to the fields of opium poppies and Lexapro was arduous, and filled with much doubt that anything was even wrong with me. I’ve referred to myself as Tom Cruise-esque in my belief that depression (post-partum in this case) is “all in your head” or could be fixed by simply wishing it away. I even once believed depression (if it was real at all) only struck those unfortunate enough to have been traumatized by some past event or form of abuse.

Then I lived it.

Day after agonizing day, with two infants to care for, and no basis with which to complain, I began to surmise I simply was not meant for motherhood. I forced myself to do the minimum amount of work required to maintain a household, and attend to two babies, but each and every action required effort, and I waited for the moment of reprieve; the girls’ nap, my husband’s arrival home, or my own bedtime. I longed for sleep all the time, even after surviving those eleven months of sleep deprivation before the girls finally slept through the night – at the same time. When I did sleep, it was restless, and I awoke feeling worse than when I lie down, simply praying for their cries to stop or hoping, against all odds, that both of them would go back to sleep (that never happened, but it didn’t stop me from hoping it would).

My restless, overworked brain went round and round trying to come up with some solution to my angst towards these ever-demanding bundles of flesh, only to reach the conclusion that I was simply too selfish to give up my entire life to motherhood. I developed a few survival tactics that kept me going – twin mommy blogs, a phone call to my mom or a drive to the espresso stand down the street. Lots of espresso.

I remember telling a close friend of mine somewhere around my daughters’ landmark first birthday, that I felt the kind of intense anger everyday that I had only experienced a handful of times in my life pre-children.

That should have been a red flag for me, but instead, I continued to assume that I, unlike billions of women before me, wasn’t meant to procreate.

Finally, when my girls were 16 months old, that same friend suggested I see a psychiatrist after I told her I was “barely keeping my head above water”. Having just had a baby herself, and being a mental health professional, she must have seen that look of desperation in my eyes, that certain quiver in my voice. Or maybe it was just women’s intuition.

Reluctantly, those little white pills followed, and I felt so infidel to my inner Tom Cruise. I heard my father’s well intentioned advice to make better use of my juicer (lest this be a mineral deficiency) go out the window.

And I started to feel relief. A missed nap no longer put me into a tailspin I could not recover from; a screaming match over a toy or bottle didn’t end with me screaming as well.

Of course, as any user of anti-depressants knows, relief didn’t happen overnight, and it wasn’t without its stumbles along that yellow brick path, but I can’t recall the last time I felt that plume of anger steam through me like a freight train.

I hear myself telling my daughters to “use your words” in that sickly sweet tone mothers use, and find myself staring at their delicate faces instead of the TV as they lounge in my lap. I relish every hug and kiss; I soak up the touch of their hands on my skin when they need reassurance from a barking dog or a passing train. I find myself engrossed in one of their activities, enjoying the simplistic pleasure of block stacking or pretend muffin making. I chase after them encouraging their delightful squeals over and over again. I am patient enough to stand at my daughter’s crib while she hands me – one by one – all eleven of her baby dolls that must accompany her at night, and still have the patience left over to swaddle and re-swaddle them until she is satisfied it’s done correctly.

When I forget to take a dose, those old “patterns” rear their ugly flying monkey heads – the impatience, the stagnancy to move on after an unpleasant event, the mental exhaustion, the irritation at everyday toddler idiosyncrasies (refusing to sit in their car seats, dawdling when we are in a hurry, the incessant rant of “mama mama mama mama mama mama MAMA!”)

I am enjoying motherhood like I never could unless I was on anti-depressants. And I’m okay with that.