All Nighter

I'm continually amazed at the parental tasks that are thrown at me so unexpectedly, threatening to drown me in muck, only to observe my instincts bubbling up from somewhere deep inside to throw me a life raft.

Friday evening, 10:30. I don't hear her coming down the stairs. She rounds the corner into the living room looking like a drowned rat, her hair oddly heavy on her head, as if she has had a bucket poured over her head. She leads into her explanation starting out calm, then hysterical, dramatically sobbing that she got sick in her bed... Within an instant, I scoop her up and carry her up the stairs to my bathroom. I don't yet realize that, not only is she covered in throw up, it is the reason her hair is matted and wet. I change her pajamas and notice there is more to be done, so I deposit her in the tub, turn on the shower and climb in, resigning myself to a late night shower... My husband has changed her bed, and I tuck her in, with a metal bowl positioned next to her pillow.

A few hour hours later, we are awoken by the same scenario; different child.

Rinse and repeat. Eight times.

Once in the night, I find myself in the familiar twin conundrum, wishing I could be in two places at once, when I'm rubbing Tristyn's back while attempting to ensure she makes the target of the bowl, as I hear Jaeda calling for me while her body heaves in response to her twin.

They are up at first light, chirping like amnesiac birds, while my husband and I sluggishly lumber into the daytime, traumatized by lack of sleep.

Each new report of throwing up rallies us into action, as we toss aside all other tasks or undertakings to come to the aid of a child.

It is, possibly, the thing I love best about being a mom. Being the caretaker, the hero, the comforter. Finding latent strength within myself. It's like I'm filling my own personal reservoir of pride and self-worth by the sacrifices I make for my children.

They are my everything, you know.

Aftermath 

Double Life

The exhaustive debate rages on about working vs. stay at home moms. I can only speak from my own experience.

Working moms live a double life, constantly switching roles. Personally, I love having my "work hat" on half the time, conversing intelligently with clients and co-workers, and then enjoying the contrast of child-centric  activities (like playing Barbies on the living room floor).

In theory, it would allow me to appreciate each activity that much more. But finding the balance of it can be exhausting.

The roles blur and overlap on a regular basis; a sick child cuts into work time, or a work phone call requires my attention at the height of an involved child activity.

When I was in massage school, we discussed the importance of transitions. But that's a luxury that most moms don't have. For me, I'm lucky (yes, lucky) enough to have a commute that allows for "me" time, listening to books on tape, listening to music, chatting on the phone, or just thinking.

And, I have found there are certain similarities between work and kids that eluded me until recently. Both are more efficient on a schedule, but require flexibility to solve an unexpected situation. Prioritizing comes into play quite often. Problem solving... Conflict resolution... You get the idea.

If only I had figured that out when I had two infants. Or two toddlers, for that matter.

We all need balance in our lives. Seriousness and silliness. Snow and sun. Laughter and tears. It's how we are wired, the intricate web of inputs and outputs, AC and DC, USB and ethernet, that make us human.  

The final word in this debate is that most of us don't have a choice; and those of us that do opt for the lifestyle that works for our family.

Seeking their own type of balance

In Your Eyes

Imagine living life through someone else's eyes. Your identical twin to be exact. I am not one, so I can't imagine it, but I have the honor of observing my daughters do just that.

They are almost four and still cannot distinguish their own image in a photo. Common sense tells me this is perfectly normal - they are looking at each other all day long (and not in a mirror!) and are told so often that they look alike, its no wonder.

For the record, my husband and I almost never confuse them. (It does happen, like this past weekend in the middle of the night when Jaeda came downstairs crying because she couldn't find the bathroom - we were in a rented condo with friends - and my husband asked her in a moment of confusion, "Is this Jaeda or Tristyn?")

Do you remember this post, when I fretted that Tristyn's first cognizant memory would be her hernia surgery, and Jaeda's would be the forced separation?

Fast forward almost one year later. On the short drive from our house to daycare/pre-school, I hear them in the backseat recalling to each other every detail of that day, alternating turns until the unaccounted parts of the day had been filled in. They recall details that I cannot; the unfamiliar Elmo diaper from the hospital, the pink blanket that Tristyn threw up on from the after-effects of the anesthesia.
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We are attempting to separate them more than just the occasional trip to the store (which usually ends in tears while one feels slighted or left behind), but it's another twin conundrum.

They need independence, yet crave constant togetherness.

My first realization of this was a (what I thought would be) simple walk to the mail box. They must have been 14 or 15 months old, so it was a small but significant stray from the normal surrounding of the house, the car or the stroller. I was relishing the freedom that would come with their newly formed bipedal skills, rather than having to lug them everywhere. But this was diminished as independent will took form - one wanted to go to the mail box, the other did not. I encouraged the former to accompany me while her sister stayed put. No. She wanted her sister to come with her. The latter wanted her sister to stay in the house. A classic impasse without a solution.

I often find myself standing over them unable to provide an acceptable suggestion.

Now that they are 3 1/2, and spend hours flittering around the house like ballerinas, I suggested ballet class. Jaeda held her hands over her head ballerina-style and enthusiastically agreed. Tristyn, on the other, adamantly said no, she did not want to take ballet class. A flash of opportunity took hold in my mind, and I offered other activities to her: ice skating? swim class? gymnastics? Yes! Gymnastics!

It was perfect. I would take Jaeda to ballet class and daddy would take Tristyn to gymnastics. All would be right in our world. Twindependence would prevail!

But, ballet requires those cute little pink or white ballet slippers, and while shoe shopping, Tristyn insisted she also wanted a pair because she too was going to take ballet.... *sigh*

As they get older, they do waiver occasionally in their desire for constant togetherness, but at the urging of the other, the thought usually dies before it can come to fruition.

In our house, the word "separate" has become a threat of punishment. It was unintended - sometimes they just need their own space, but when I suggest, they protest with vigor. Of the handful of times that I have followed through with it, hysteria has resulted, rather than my intended result of calm.

*Shrug* I can't blame them - it is all they have ever known...

Done My Time

As you would imagine, my friends that fall into the same age category and I are scattered at different stages in our lives, and different degrees of parenting; some remain our parent's children, not yet in the parenting world. At the other end of the spectrum are my friends with teenagers, who have paddled the murky waters of parenting for so long that they just nod in understanding at my struggles. Yet I see in their eyes that they are glad to have that "stage" far behind, and instead can only look forward towards their own reality.

I hate to sound callous, but for me, children younger than my own are merely reminders of how far I have come, and warning of how much I don't want to go back, despite a whiff of desire that seeps into my brain occasionally for my own little boy. If only he could appear as an eager, well-behaved pre-schooler. The thought of midnight feedings, breast engorgement, diapers, potty training...Hell, just the thought of giving birth again steeps my mind with fear and loathing.

I had drinks with an old high school friend that has an 8 month old. He's adorable and sweet and spunky, but listening to her just made me exhausted. Sleepless nights? Check. Incessant colds? Check. Concerns over pre-school vs. day care? Check. Check, Check, Check!

And while on a play date with my college roommate and her 2 1/2 year old daughter, I thought to myself, 'How did I manage with two two-year olds?' I guess the answer is that I just did, and that I'm sooo glad I don't have to do it all over again.

Last week at twin mom book club, one of our members - who has 2 year old twin girls - announced that she was pregnant.

With twins.

The whole room filled with twin moms roared with delight, and collectively sighed with relief that it wasn't us.  I joked with her that I was So Happy for her, but So Glad it wasn't me because "that is my own personal nightmare."

I've done my time.

"Kangeroo care" in the NICU

Glow

Birds of a feather flock together... The conventional advice to any new mom of twins or triplets is to join a moms of multiples club. Just the word 'club' sounds so dispassionate, like French club in high school, when the only prerequisite was enrollment in Francais, and the only benefit was a group picture in the yearbook.

My first moms of multiples club meeting felt awkward and unnatural, sitting in plastic chairs set in a huge circle in donated space in a church, scanning the faces around me for vague familiarity or potential friendship. They all seemed so different from me - did they have the same struggles I was having? Did they have other kids? Did they want more? Did they work full time like I did? Or were they happy to stay at home changing diapers and prepping bottles? I had tunnel vision in terms of these women, because I hadn't yet come to terms with being a twin mom, and I needed to feel a kinship of some sort, besides just the fact that we carried more than one baby in our womb at one time.

Looking back, I think what I really needed from these women was commiseration. Was I the only person in this circle of mothers that cried when I discovered I was carrying two babies? Was I the only one that struggled through my pregnancy, trying to feel thankful instead of terrified and anxious? And was I the only one that viewed my newborn daughters through the clear plastic incubators without emotion?

Was I the only one that was depressed and didn't know it?

Three years after abandoning the detached circle of twin and triplet mom faces, I was adopted into a twin mom book club, and seeing them each month swells my heart with companionship and a blissful understanding of what I went through; what we have all been through.

What strikes me now about the women in my book club is how very different we are from each other. And how accepting. There's no judgement when one of us is telling a story, or sharing a feeling. Sometimes I need not even finish a sentence before their silent understanding washes over me.

At our last meeting, when the mulled wine had been devoured, the zucchini soup sat cold on the stove, and our mouths were tired from speaking, we packed up to go home. Christine, my dear friend since junior high, looked at me and commented that I looked good; I was glowing. I looked at her inquisitively. We giggled as she said, "I know you're not pregnant" (no, indeed!) She and I have both struggled with depression, although her path has been much more arduous, fighting it for years longer than I, and to a severity unbeknownst to me.

As I pulled out of her driveway, I knew.

There is nothing more powerful than to be understood. Truly understood.

You're My Everything

You're a falling star
You're the getaway car
You're the line in the sand
When I go too far

You're the swimming pool
On an August day
And you're the perfect thing to say

And you play it coy
But it's kinda cute
Oh when you smile at me
You know exactly what you do

Baby don't pretend
That you don't know it's true
'Cause you can see it
When I look at you

And in this crazy life
And through these crazy times
It's you, it's you
You make me sing
You're every line
You're every word
You're everything

You're a carousel
You're a wishing well
And you light me up
When you ring my bell

You're a mystery
You're from outer space
You're every minute of my every day


And I can't believe
That I'm your man
And I get to kiss you baby
Just because I can

Whatever comes our way
We'll see it through
And you know
That's what our love can do

And in this crazy life
And through these crazy times
It's you, it's you
You make me sing
You're every line
You're every word
You're everything

And in this crazy life
And through these crazy times
It's you, it's you
You make me sing
You're every line
You're every word
You're everything

You're every song
And I sing along
'Cause you're my everything
Yeah, yeah

Michael Buble' 

I used to croon this song to my infant daughters strapped in their car seats, willing myself to believe the words - that my daughters had become my everything; that they were all I needed. 


Last month, at my office holiday dinner, our new administrative assistant remarked that she would have never imagined that I didn't always want kids because of my utter love for them. I told her that I used to mock women that had babies to give them purpose in life. I wanted my purpose to be ME... 


Alas, now that I have children, they are my reason for living. 


The four women that make up my office each represent a different decade in regards to age; 20's, 30's, 40's and 50's. The 3 eldest have very different stories to tell of the circumstances on our journeys to becoming a parent. 


Caprice, in her 40's, does not mince words when she tells us that Kat - her brilliant, gorgeous daughter - now a distinguished member of the elite Marine Corps band and her best friend in the whole world, was "the best mistake she ever made". 


We all nod our heads in agreement. 


Ah, but it was not always like this. It was not always Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice, as the nursery rhyme goes. 


The good things in our lives never come easy, do they? Most of us work our fingers to the bone for the good things in our lives. I never should have expected that parenting would be easy, just like marriage isn't easy, nor is dieting or friendships or... 


For years, I had a quote from Rose Kennedy on my fridge, given to me by my step-mom after a heart wrenching breakup that changed the course of my life; 


"I have always believed that God never gives a cross to bear larger than we can carry." 


I never really understood the quote until I learned that she outlived only four of her nine children. 


I never fully comprehended the quote until I crawled out of depression. 

Worth every minute.... 

Twin Conundrum

There can be only one winner. The other, by default, is the loser... 

My brother and I are just over two years apart, and I don't recall every feeling that our parents had to force a winner - maybe they were adept at dissolving sibling rivalries, but more likely, it had to do with our age and gender differences. 

My only tool is difference in temperament.

While dropping my daughters with my co-worker for some Christmas fun, Jaeda announced that she needed to use the restroom. Upon being told she would need to put on her socks and shoes (she insisted on being barefoot during the car ride), and deciding she abhorred the socks I had brought for her, she began crying for her Hello Kitty socks. 

The very same socks that her dear sister had so dutifully selected when asked to go find socks. 

I looked at her incredulously and said with sarcasm (that was lost on her), "You want Tristyn to take off her socks and give them to you???"  

My co-worker suggested that they trade one sock each. Tristyn, always the agreeable one, sweetly offered one Hello Kitty sock to her sister, but to no avail - irrationally, this only made Jaeda more defiant and angry. 

"That's the best I can do", my co-worker said very matter-of-factly. A sentiment that I admired because, truly, coercing Tristyn into relinquishing the socks to her sister would be unfair. 

I often see Tristyn as being "punished" - for lack of a better word - for being the obedient one.

I looked at my co-worker and said, "you're experiencing first hand a 'twin conundrum' that you always hear me talk about".

Luckily for me, she was undaunted, not having to deal with this on a daily (hourly) basis, and I left the bickering children in her capable care.

By the way, at naptime, I noticed that Jaeda had on ONE Hello Kitty sock. By bedtime, she had managed to finagle both from her sister. *sigh*

bickering since the very beginning...