40

I'm almost through my first year of my 40's. Last summer, I turned 40. I've never been one to care about age before, wondering why my step-mom always joked she was 39.

But turning 40 threw me for a loop.

Who cares, really? Its just a number. A few months before my 40th, as I stood in front of two sales clerks in their 20's (or younger?!) asking for shoe advice, it hit me like it never has before. The looks on their youthful faces spoke volumes.

As we get older, our age horizon expands, no longer pigeon-holing each person we come across into their stereotypical age bracket: when we are teenagers, everyone over 20 is simply old and therefore un-cool. In our 20's, anyone over 30 must be stiff and conservative. In our 30's, well, we start to figure out that age doesn't necessarily define a person. In my early 30's, I found myself spending my lunch hour working out with a friend in her 50's. We enjoyed each other's company, and the age differential was simply fuel for our introspective discussions. She had a son entering college; I hadn't yet meandered into the world of parenthood. She is one of the reasons I became a mother.

But I had forgotten that to those young sales clerks, I am an alien. I am, perhaps, the same age as their own mothers, which puts me in a different category, and certainly not one to chat with about trends in footwear.

I thought about it as I drove home, and felt ashamed at even worrying about it. I should be proud and grateful of my 40+ years on this earth. I had childhood adventures that molded me into a well-rounded person. I embraced high school with all its delicate social nuances. In my late teens and early 20's, I dipped my toes in the craziness of unencumbered youth. I successfully navigated college life and got my degree from a well respected school. I experienced the broken heart that is a requisite for successful future relationships. I traveled to a variety of places around the world and gained perspective that cannot come from TV or books. I was swept away by the love of my life and got married. I have a career that I love. I have two happy, healthy little girls. I've got 14 years of a solid, happy marriage under my belt. I have truly good friends and a supportive, loving family.

Unlike most of my friends that opted to throw big parties or go on elaborate trips to celebrate, I spent my 40th birthday quietly, with my mom and my daughters. I decided to commemorate the day with a ride on the Giant Dipper, one of the oldest wooden roller coasters in the world. Something that someone youthful would do! Apropos of my age, I grumbled at the cost, $6 per person, enjoyed seeing my daughters' excitement at being tall enough to ride the BIG coaster, but definitely felt my age at the 55 mph trip on the jarring, uneven wooden tracks...

taken before the ride

Of course, I don't feel any different being 40. But the awareness is there, and sometimes I am reminded of my age. Like when I took the girls roller skating and while skating circles on the wooden floor with them, it occurred to me that I was the only person over 35 not sitting on the sidelines.

Today, grabbing a few groceries at Target, a gaggle of teenage girls stood talking loudly in front of the milk cooler. A woman a few years older than me and I stood patiently waiting for them to move on. One of them told their friends, "these ladies are waiting!" I looked over at my comrade in age and whispered, "we're the ladies". We both laughed and I said, "I'd rather be that than a teenager". And I meant it.

To The Moon And Back

"...witnessing the growth and evolution of a child is exquisite. To love and be loved unconditionally is both like being encased in protective armor, and also like having it shatter daily, because it’s the most tender, vulnerable skin you’ll ever wear." - Rachel Turiel 

Tangled was the first movie my girls ever saw in a theater. They sat mesmerized, legs sticking straight out, like miniature movie reviewers glued to the screen, with enormous 3D glasses perched atop their button notes. When Rapunzel responds to Mother Gotham's "I love you" with "I love you more", Mother Gotham, although a witch and a kidnapper, completes the quaint back and forth with, "I love you most". Now the girls say the same to me. 

In the book "Guess How Much I Love You", Little Nutbrown Hare and Big Nutbrown Hare outdo one another trying to describe how much they love each other ending with "I love you right up to the moon - and back". The girls play a game to compete with me to come up with the biggest distance with which to measure our love. To the moon and back isn't even close.   

Lastnight I read them a story called "My Most Precious Thing" about a mom whose daughter tries to guess what her mom's best memory is via a scrapbook documenting her mom's life. They love the end, when the mom tells her daughter that her most precious thing was holding her for the first time. 

After the book was over, Jaeda said to me, "you and daddy and sister are my most precious thing". Tristyn agreed. As I closed the door to their bedroom, repeating "go to sleep" like a broken record, both of their faces turned towards me, they both stated, in their unique ways, that I was their most precious thing. And even when they had babies, I would still be their most precious thing.   

Rachel's quote about being loved unconditionally by our children made my realize how lucky I am to be the recipient of this love that bursts from their souls in such a pure way. 

My little movie goers

Simplify

I began this post in January. Almost half-way through the year, and I'm finally getting around to posting my Welcome to 2013 thoughts. Here's why.

As I look back on 2012, I feel as though it was the year of downsizing. I had the distinct goal of making my life smaller, in the sense that I wanted to focus on my family and my home. I alluded to this in this post last February.

You know that feeling of being stretched too thin? Pulled in too many directions? Yeah, that's how I was feeling at the end of 2011.

I'm striving for simplicity. What's important in my life? My kids, my husband, my family and friends. That's it. The rest are just possessions, and those don't love us back.

I scaled back on social media - I relinquished my volunteer position as Twitter coordinator for Postpartum Support International of Washington. I rarely post on Facebook and I quit my fashion blog. Because, what started as a light-hearted outlet to express one of my hobbies became something different - I started to feel the need to Keep Up With The Jones', or in the fashion blog world, Kendi. On this blog, I posted exactly 6 times in 2012, compared to a few times a month in 2011. My dad always says (in jest), "I post, therefore I am" regarding the frenzy of social media postings. I don't need to tell the world that I'm doing laundry in order to feel validated. All I need is the love of my family and friends. And oh, the hugs from those two little girls.

Lately, I'm big on perspective. When our completely decorated, HUGE Christmas tree crashed onto the coffee table, obliterating glass ornaments and creating a mess of pine needles and tiny spiders all over my living room, my girls were practically overwrought with anxiety. I hugged them and told them the only thing that is important is that we are OK. And I believed it. Yes, it was a mess to clean up, but I want them to focus on the big picture...

In 2012, I drove 16 hours with two spirited 4 year olds to see my "baby" cousin and his new wife celebrate their wedding. I traveled with my dad to visit family in Ohio, and I cherished every moment with my aunts, uncles, cousins, and my 94 year old grandmother. I celebrated my step-mom's birthday lounging at a Russian Spa with her and my step-sister. I celebrated 12 years of camping with our closest friends, who have become like family. I reminisced with old friends at my 20 year high school reunion. I took my daughters to visit my mom for a week in August. I attempted quality time with my mom friends during Friday play dates. And I hugged and kissed my daughters every single day.

The horrific shootings at Sandy Hook brought it all home for me. I wept looking at those earnest faces of the children, the same ages as my daughters. As with many mothers, I'm sure, those 2 words still make my heart quiver with pain... The pain I felt validated that I am on the right path, so long as my children and my family are my biggest priority, and my possessions are just that; possessions.
___________________________

The company I work for is moving our office and as I was packing up my desk, I came across a book called The Little Book of Calm. I noticed that a page was marked. When I turned to the page, it read: "S I M P L I F Y: The fewer things you must do in life, the fewer things you own, manage or are responsible for, the fewer are the stresses that accompany them".

I don't remember marking that page, but it would seem that my subconscious does.

This was our Christmas card photo. Family + Mini-golf + ice-cream = the perfect day. 

Sleeping Synchronicity

I love to take pictures of the girls sleeping. Oh, their innocent little faces! Arms splayed in that wanton, youthful fashion that disappears as we age.

they are anti pajamas, can you tell? 

They remained happily in their cribs until they were 4. When most parents are contemplating toddler beds (I shuddered at the thought), my husband constructed the perfect, escape-free obstacle in the form of a long, narrow board drilled above the drop-side of each crib, at such an angle to prevent little climbers from escaping, much in the same way that barbed-wire fences are slanted at the top of a prison yard.

When they were old enough to need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, we simply dropped the sides so they could climb over and out. We put an ottoman near each crib to use as a sturdy platform to get out safely and easily.

Finally, when their beanpole bodies took up too much space in the cribs, we put 2 foam mattresses side by side on the floor. Their room was too small for this arrangement, but we all sort of loved it. We could spread out, read books and more importantly, I could stealthily escape after they closed their eyes.

During my nightly check-in, I would often see them in the same position, or mirroring each other, such as in the picture above. Sometimes it was downright uncanny, as though a whimsical twin fairy appeared to rearrange their limbs just so. 

Around their 5th birthday, we decided bunk beds would be the most efficient use of space in their small bedroom, and besides, what kid doesn't love bunk beds? I worried they would argue about who got the top, but it wasn't a problem - Tristyn chose the top and Jaeda happily took the bottom. It has changed a few times, but the drama has been minimal, much to my surprise. Plus, the twin mattresses are still big enough for them to sleep together if they can't decide. 

They do tend to stay up and giggle or talk if they sleep on the same level, so I have mostly discouraged it, but lately, they are both on the bottom bunk in the morning about 75% of the time. (Why they don't sleep together on the top is beyond me. For some reason, they prefer the bottom.) 

Usually they are my reliable alarm clocks, two loquacious little girls discussing god-knows-what in their bathroom, which shares a wall with my bedroom.

But on one recent morning, I found them splayed in that twin fashion, Tristyn's head within an inch of Jaeda's spasmodic feet, and attempted to rouse them, with no result. I decided to let them sleep a while longer while I showered and when I returned, they hadn't moved. I cooed good morning salutations to them, feeling bad for having to wake them. Nothing! I sat on the edge of the bed to wait and contemplated my next move. Suddenly, apropos of nothing, with impressive identical twin you-wouldn't-believe-it-unless-you-were-there synchronicity, they both raised their heads at the Exact. Same. Moment.

Tonight, as I was wedged between the wall and the mattress of the bottom bunk bed, with Jaeda grinding her teeth next to me, and Tristyn's legs twitching between us, I schemed at how to maneuver myself carefully out of the bed without waking either of them and risk being reprimanded for leaving. (Do they really think I'm going to sleep there all night?)

As I stared up at the wood slats supporting the top mattress, I thought about how it feels like yesterday when they were chubby little babies and in the blink of an eye they will be moody teenagers, and I reminded myself to just Be.

"And when the night is cloudy there is still a light that shines on me... Shine until tomorrow, let it be" - The Beatles 

Morning Routine

I've always prided myself on being low-maintenance. To this day, I can be showered and ready - presentable even - in 15 minutes flat. My husband never complains that his wife takes too long to get ready. And it was always me waiting on my friends to finish their silly hair and makeup rituals before going out.

Just as with 99% of life's normalcies, having babies changed things. Take getting ready in the morning. When I started back to to work at 8 weeks postpartum, my morning routine went from 20 minutes to two and a half hours: Besides showering and dressing myself, I had two babies to tend to. Diaper and dress. Breastfeed the squeaky-wheel  infant while the other one waited patiently (ha ha) in her crib. Pump opposite side (yes, while nursing).

Rinse and repeat.

Pack their "lunch". Six carefully prepared bottles, measured to the exact milliliter.

Pack the diaper bag (see list) and re-supply portable breast pump for use in my office.

Strap both babies into car seats and lug them out to car, making sure not to forget my purse, their lunch, diaper bag, breast pump and keys.

After dropping the babies at daycare and an hour commute to work, I was exhausted before my day even started!

Now? I awake to their sisterly bickering outside my bedroom door. Sometimes, they will stand by my bedside and pester me by tickling my feet or touching my face. They take my warm place in the bed and I turn on Dora the Explorer and hop in the shower. As soon as I hear Dora signing that irritating "We did it" tune, I click the TV off and they scamper to their bedroom to get dressed and brush their teeth and hair.

Assuming no bumps in the road, we can be out the door in 30 minutes flat. The daycare feeds them breakfast and I grab a coffee at my local espresso stand before hitting the road and eat yogurt and fruit at my desk.

Of course, getting to this routine took blood, sweat and tears to perfect. Lots of tears. Encouraging two grumpy toddlers to get dressed while attempting to get myself presentable for work was not always easy, and I ended up practically in tears myself while arriving late at the office many more times that I can count.

I can laugh at this video now, but I can tell by the tone in my voice that this was one of those mornings...



Sorry for the sideways video! Obviously, I had more important things on my mind.

Rough-Housing

While filling out doctor forms for Jaeda & Tristyn's 5 year wellness check, I contemplated how to describe the exercise the girls get. Inside our house. Let's face it - we live in the soggy (and very often, cold) Pacific Northwest, and I'm not the most outdoorsy person (as my favorite comedian, Jim Gaffigan would say; I'm "indoorsy") so we find ways to expend some of that childhood energy inside the house. As it just so happens, the bottom floor of our house makes for a great running track.

The other night, while engrossed in a spirited game of monster, I chased them in circles around the house, stopping only when they begged to rest and drink water. I removed my socks for better traction and continued the pursuit.

After thoroughly tiring myself out, (which meant they still had loads of energy) I stole away up the stairs to the quiet sanctity of my craft table.

A few minutes later, Colin came upstairs to report that there was blood "all over the carpet" downstairs. HUH? We tried to figure out where it could have possibly come from until I looked down at my own feet and whaddya know? The chair mat (and partially the carpet) under my big toe was a pool of blood. And true to the report, there were smeared blood stains All. Over. The. Carpet.

Growing up, there were four of us teenagers in a small mobile home. We used to rough house so much that we'd put holes in the walls. Literally. We called it the cardboard house.

Our house has certainly suffered under the proverbial weight of children, but blood stains all over the carpet trumps spilled formula on the couch or vomit soaked into a mattress.

I'm constantly reminding myself to live in the moment with my children instead of stressing out about the condition of my house.

I want my girls to remember their mom letting loose and having fun with them, not worrying about messes. I can do that after they've gone to bed.

--

Does this count as exercise?

Riding the exercise bike - twin style! from Lena Bonasera on Vimeo.

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 

Kindness

"Be kinder than necessary, because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle."

I've had a version of this quote as my "tagline" (what is that anyway?) at the bottom of my email for a few years now, and I get so many comments on it. It really is true that everyone is fighting their own personal battle, and when you encounter a person, whether in a business or personal capacity, you don't ever really know what's going on behind their eyes.

Jogging through my neighborhood, I see people in their houses, or out with their kids and my mind wanders from my own little world into theirs. What's going on in peoples lives? What demons are they hiding?

As I round the corner into my own neighborhood, I'm familiar with the demons simply by proximity. In 10 years, you hear things. A skateboarding accident that caused irreparable brain damage must have changed the course of each and every family member. Domestic violence, drug abuse, divorce, foreclosure... Not to mention the secrets that remain locked behind closed doors, the ones you don't know about until the news truck is parked on your block.

When I'm driving and in my own little world inside my car, I look at other drivers and wonder if they are grieving a loved one, or daydreaming about having a baby. For all I know, they could be contemplating suicide or rushing to rendezvous with a love affair. Depressed or elated, overly-medicated or in need of it...

I'm reminded of my drive from my office in Bellevue to Providence hospital in Everett - probably a solid half an hour - on the day my dad had a heart attack. I was on auto pilot in every sense of the word. Not focused on driving in the least, only thinking of him. Shaking, mind reeling, and in no shape to be driving. No one could have guessed that behind my sunglasses were puffy eyes, and I could barely see the road through my tears.

Being depressed, and weaving down the path to attempt to put it behind me has taught me empathy that I never would have been able to grasp without having experienced it. Depression has taught me to treat everyone more gently. Appearances can be deceiving. It takes a lot of strength to appear normal when your insides are being eaten up by grief or anxiety or the black hole that is depression.

I know. I've been there.
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That drive was 10 years ago. Last week, we celebrated my dad's 65th birthday at my house. He was surrounded by his grandchildren (pictured below) and my house and my heart was filled with love.

Please Don't Stop the Music

This morning on the way to daycare, which takes approximately 1 minute to drive, my girls requested Please Don't Stop The Music (by Rihanna). I happily obliged, relieved not to be listening to I'm A Little Teapot for the zillionth time.

Both Colin and I have the Disney Radio app on our phone so the girls can listen to their favorite songs, as if they were teenagers. They request songs by the repetitive lyrics, not the actual song title: "Mama, can we listen to 'break-break-your-heart"?

They remind me that before they were born, music was a great source of comfort for me, and somewhere along the way, I forgot.

When my perinatalogist insisted that I refrain from all activity at 16 weeks pregnant, the music stopped abruptly. From the soothing music in my massage therapy room to the carefully selected workout music on my iPod.

I used to drown out the thoughts wading through my head with techno music turned up full blast in my car.

Josh Groban was my savior whenever I felt nervous or anxious. My heartbeat would slow at the swish of the CD being sucked into my car stereo.

I would crank the bass in my cozy little SUV and let the thumping in my chest re-calibrate my emotions.

And what is more stress dissolving that screaming to a song at the top of your lungs?

But for almost 2 years, I deprived myself of music, listening only to the frightened voices in my head during pregnancy, the beeping of the NICU monitors after giving birth, the cries of my duplicate infants and the cacophony of twin toddlers.

Children bring with them so much noise that I couldn't bear to add to it. I preferred the silence - rather, I preferred to sleep, when I could stand no more. 

And, in the midst of postpartum depression, when I needed it the most, I neglected to see what I was missing, even though my babies were already discovering the joy in melody.

Our garage sale Baby Einstein CD soothed the girls to sleep at each naptime and bedtime. And in the frantic absence of that CD, I discovered John Mayer's Continuum lulled them to sleep in the car.

Now, I'm rediscovering music through 4 year old eyes. Jaeda and Tristyn love to dance - each with their own style; Tristyn with her Elaine Benes interpretive dance, and Jaeda with her spin-until-you're-dizzy ballerina dance.

Our house is one big dance party. The other night, my iPod plugged into one of those crappy little speakers that came free from Office Depot, the three of us danced up and down the hallway at the top of our stairs, taking turns creating dance moves.

Slowly, music has come back into my good graces. On a particularly anxious Saturday, I found myself calmed by Michael Jackson's rhythmic beats while I made dinner. Another day, I danced around the house to George Michael while the girls napped. And this past Sunday, I let Enya lull me to sleep when I couldn't fight off a late afternoon headache. 

And like a long lost love, When you rediscover something you once couldn't live without, you cherish it even more.  

Lightness

My mother-in-law gave the girls these little mechanical kittens that wiggle when you push their belly. Cutest things ever. J&T often refuse to go to bed without them. Jaeda's is Pumpkin (our late cat) or Baby Belle depending on her mood. Tristyn's is named Isabelle, but she often refers to her as "Baby Lightness"

Lightness.

I crave it.

So much of the past five years has felt heavy, a sensation similar to peddling a bike up hill with someone hanging on the back. You pull and struggle and eventually make it up the hill, but are left depleted.

You know that nagging feeling that you've forgotten something important? Yeah, that one. Imagine having that all day long, every day. And your brain is like an overheating laptop spinning its fan trying to figure it out.

The glimpses of light come randomly, where I can relax enough to feel a surge of giddiness for everyday things. During our family vacation in July at a campsite in Montana, I leaned back in my campchair and stared up at the big sky, wider than my periphy could scan and was able to breathe in the beauty.

That is how I know I'm feeling good. The heaviness lifts and life feels simply light. When I don't stress about minute details, or feel anxiety around every corner, no matter how banal. 

In the Utopian memory of my "past life"; that is, before children and postpartum depression, I felt light all the time, running gaily through the fields of my existence without a care in the world. But I know that isn't true. I have my journals to remind me. I would say the first time anxiety gripped me in its talons was in high school. I had qualified for some swimming tournament. I remember sneaking around the side of the building to peek into the moist air of the pool, knowing that I would not swim that day because I was scared to do something that I chose to do every day after school because I loved it, and yet, my anxiety disabled me. I watched the race from outside the brick walls, ashamed to face my coach, and stared at the empty starting block appointed for me.

Fittingly, the heaviness has faded as the physical weight I've had to bear has lessened. It was greatest when I had two babies, two carseats and a packed-full diaper bag to lug around. Although I would often find myself under the weight of two toddlers begging to be carried, I relished the relative freedom when the girls could walk on their own. Leaving the house felt lighter too, because I could grab some juice boxes, goldfish crackers and go.

Now? They can pull themselves up into my car, dress themselves and brush their own teeth...

But I'm still reaching for the lightness.

Naturally light 

  

Amy

When I found out my pregnant belly contained twins, I first called my husband, Colin - he wasn't at the ultrasound, but he calmly accepted the news that we had jokingly suspected (his mom is an identical twin). Then I called my mom. We rejoiced and discussed, surprised and shocked at the same time.

In my car, alone with my thoughts on the drive home, I called Amy, whom I have known since high school. We each went our separate ways after graduation, but we have this kindred spirit, this connection, a sweet, endearing love for each other that never faded, no matter how long between visits. To this day, she is the only friend where we end each and every call or email with 'I love you'.

Though never really conveniently located to each other, we still made time. We took trips together - just the two of us - taking pleasure in the simple things in life. We planned days together doing various things we both enjoyed - a trip to the beach, renting movies or just hanging out. And when my boyfriend/fiance of six years abruptly left me mid-wedding planning, I returned home from Oregon to my parents house, and to the dependability and comfort of Amy, who stayed with me while I pieced my life back together. She let me cry and built me back up, and was just there for me.

12 years later, my dad and stepmom still jokingly refer to it as The Summer of Amy.

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When I called her that dark November night after my first ultrasound, the truth came out in heaving sobs. I was terrified - I had been blessed with one baby, but hadn't planned on two. She listened to me and calmed me down, assuring me that I could do this - when I wasn't so sure.

She followed my pregnancy week by week, the only friend that kept track of my exact progression, sometimes remembering my gestation better than me. Emails filled with stats and resources filled our inboxes. We amused ourselves with the guestimated size of these little aliens growing in my belly. How big are the babies this week? According to babycenter.com, they are little tomatoes! 

I love this picture of her cradling Tristyn's sleeping head in the palms of her hands, me in the background in the daze of new twin mommyhood. 

After my girls were born, and I had adjusted to twin motherhood, we stayed weekends at her and her husband's house, attempting to maintain composure with toddler twins, but not always succeeding. Nevertheless, they were gracious hosts, accommodating my every request for the girls: It must be dark in the room where they sleep. They can't sleep in the same bed together. Hubby and I don't like to sleep in the same room as them. Do you have a CD player for their nighttime CD? Amy even dutifully baby proofed their house lest we have a curious toddler (or two) getting into something that was off limits. 

I was so excited for her to be a mom herself. I anxiously followed the trials and tribulations of their attempts to get pregnant, hoping that I could somehow affect the outcome by sending all my fertile thoughts. I marveled at her dedication, waking up at dawn to take her temperature, charting every last detail and researching their options.

Years passed.

I gave her space, assuming that the support from women in similar stages of life was preferred over me, complaining about two little monsters. She assured me that was not the case, so I nagged her for details and updates. And I felt her disappointment and frustration at each negative pregnancy test.  

Finally, this picture popped up on my cell phone. And it was from her.

In case you can't read it, it says simply "Pregnant" 

We speculated and fantasized - would it be twins? What would she do if there were three -- or more?? Her doctor told her she may have released five viable eggs - the possibilities were a bit daunting.

My daughters each gave their four year old predictions, which would change from time to time. Triplets! No, twins. Baby girls! No, one boy and one girl.

I awaited anxiously for each text, after doctors appointments, which I had set on my phone calendar. The reminder beep building anticipation with each notification.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the day of her first ultrasound arrived. Twins. Twins!! 2 perfect miracles right there in her belly - indelible proof right there on the U/S screen! Her very first pregnancy yielding not one, but two babies.

This was what I had been waiting for. A long time friend, one that I had shared everything with during my own pregnancy and postpartum, that I could lavish all my knowledge on. She needn't be bothered with wading through the cluttered labyrinth of the internet or buy expensive books written by twin moms - she had me! Still, I knew her experience would be her own, and very different from mine.

My weekly calculation of her pregnancy that sat on my nightstand
(37 weeks is "full term" for twins)

We planned, we texted, we talked, we emailed. She struggled through the first trimester with morning sickness and fatigue. I sent encouraging texts and emails. I sent her sweet pictures of baby twins that I had googled and just couldn't resist sharing. I went thrift shopping for early maternity clothes for her, remembering how early regular pants ceased to fit! I couldn't resist shopping  for newborn baby items - tiny shoes that never touch the ground and gender neutral newborn onesies. Our mutual friend, Jamie, and I fretted over when to have the baby shower, counting the weeks and looking at our calendars for a free weekend. Not to early, not too late. Not too close to Thanksgiving. What if she was on bedrest? 

On the morning of August 4th, I mailed her a box of maternity items that I had saved just in case. And in an ironic, poorly timed gesture, I pulled my birth story from the archives on my computer and emailed it to her a few hours before going to bed that night.

Then, as I plugged in my cell phone just before crawling into bed, came her text. Baby A's water broke. We are headed to birthing center to induce. My mind reeled, and stupid thoughts took over - why would they induce?? Oh my god, 14 weeks - wait, they can't survive outside - can they?? Were there new advances in neonatal technology that I didn't know about? Could they save Baby B? In shock, I texted her back. Why are they inducing? But I knew the answer, and she calmly provided it for me. Heart rates are in distress. Both babies are dying. My uncontrollable sobs awoke my husband from a deep sleep. I couldn't speak the words as he waited for me to find air between sobs. Amy is losing the babies.

Unable to console me, I left my husband alone in our bed and moved into the guest room where I could cry. I told Amy I loved her and that I would keep my phone next to me all night, just in case.

I didn't hear from her until the next morning. She had delivered both babies, perfectly formed yet tiny, followed by a D&C. My heart felt as though it was being crushed. My soul dissolved into tears until I felt wrung of all moisture in my body, then I would start all over again. I avoided the worried, curious stares of my children, but they followed me through the house asking questions, knowing that something wasn't right. I had to tell them: The babies in Amy's belly? They both died last night.

Children get knowledge of death in bits and pieces, never quite comprehending. They regurgitated the concept that our cat Pumpkin was "up in heaven", but also knew that daddy had buried her body in the ground. I would think they had grasped it, only to realize no, they hadn't, when one morning Jaeda asked me 'Mama, where's dead Pumpkin?'

They wanted to know why. But why had the babies died? I gave them one of those generic responses that moms of pre-schoolers learn, 'They were sick and couldn't get better'. But why did they get sick? I didn't know. Would they still be born? No, honey, they won't.

I've known Amy for more than half my life. All of my friends and family know Amy, or know of her. But they probably don't know the details of our history. The depth of my love for her. When she lost her babies - a boy and a girl - I lost them too.

My only comfort is knowing in my heart that she will one day be a mother.

She already is.

A Word

To my readers:

I've had friends and family express concern after I publish a post that is particularly distressing (I am very blessed).

But this blog isn't written in "real time", per se. I might start a thought and write about it, but it might sit in my draft folder for weeks or months before I can fully develop it into a post (sometimes I think of them as essays).

With that said, it has been a rough few months. Shitty weather, back to back viruses, a close friend moving 1,000 miles away and the devastating, heart wrenching loss of my dear friend's twin babies has made me an utter mess.

Also, as many of you know, I've recently changed up my medication. Changing meds isn't easy. There is a new set of side effects to accustom yourself to, and you have to shift from the comfort, albeit not an ideal one, that the last medication provided. In the past month, I've endured endless days of brain shocks - a relatively mild (in my case), but extremely distracting sensation in my head and neck akin to an electric shock.

There is also the uncertainty that my emotions are my own. I may feel a moment of elation, only to second guess it as false brain synapse. Then the urge to cry bubbles up, and I wonder, 'is this just normal female hormones?' Sometimes my emotions seem not to be driven by actual responses, but to some roulette wheel of random feelings.

I have recently started volunteering for Postpartum Support International of Washington, and I'm in contact with moms that are in the midst of their struggles with postpartum depression. This has brought up many memories for me. Memories of my own reluctance to acknowledge my depression, and to realize that motherhood is difficult, but shouldn't leave me a hollow person the rest of the time.

I truly hope that my experiences, then and now, guide me to be a valuable support to other women (and men!) that miss out on precious time enjoying their children because of depression.

Hopefully, you all know that through this all, Jaeda and Tristyn are the lights in my world, my stars, my beauties, and I am fighting this fight for them.

And, if you ever wonder what's going on in my life in real time, there is always my other, completely different blog.

Attempting to pose for my style blog

Loathe

My happiness depends on these goddamn pills.

When I feel a surge of excitement for anything -- from a freshly cleaned kitchen to an upcoming vacation, I give credit to that little white pill that I dare not forget before I leave in the morning. When I'm inspired to write, or sing in the car, or marvel at a sunset, those fucking pills get the credit.

Why can't my own brain chemicals provide me with zest for life like I used to have?

My high school girlfriends are planning a weekend at a beach cabin. Will I be the same carefree, silly girl they knew 20 years ago? I recall a memory from years ago, it must have been our senior year because we were having a late night (or early morning?) giggle fest at Denny's. I was making them laugh with my antics - did I stand on the table for some reason? I don't remember. But I do remember being a confident, fun young woman that didn't need anything to help me enjoy life. (I didn't even drink my first beer until I was in college.)

Will my precious, vibrant daughters slowly grow despondent, eventually succumb to depression and need a pharmaceutical crutch when they turn 33 - same as my mom and me?

Swallowing that first pill felt like failure to me, even though I knew I needed it. I knew that without it, I would continue to struggle with anger (towards my children) on a daily basis, and that I wouldn't be able to cherish the sweet lives blossoming in front of me.

I've told many friends that my reluctance to accept anti-depressants into my world was washed away with the fear that my daughters' earliest memories would be of an angry mother, instead of one that hugged and kissed them at every chance, that was forgiving over spilled milk (ok, not always) and that exhibited calm and strength during life's challenges - big or small.

I need to look at medication as a tool that helps me maneuver through the trials and tribulations of modern life.

But I can't help it.

Today it occurred to me that my husband and I will celebrate our 10 year anniversary this year - 5 years after getting pregnant. Was I different - more fun, witty, dynamic, interesting - during the first 5 years of our marriage?

I'm afraid to ask him.

Both of us were changed when we saw 2 tiny heads on the ultrasound screen. The introduction of 2 babies into our household challenged our mental state as well as our marriage. It makes me sad to realize that, in the time that he has known me, I have been depressed (or fighting depression) for almost half of it...

But with every hurdle we overcome in our lives, we learn and we grow. Just like a child remembers never to touch a hot stove after doing it the first time. As adults, our lessons are more complicated and often  more heart wrenching, but the results can also be more powerful.

 Happiness comes to them naturally...

(Mammoth Falls - Yellowstone)

Leapfrog

Long before I knew firsthand the puppetry of psychotropic drugs, I knew of friends and clients that had leapfrogged from the prozac lilypad to zoloft moss and then landed with a splash on the waterlogged stump of wellbutrin.

All of us little froggies are trying to find the pad that suits us best, that doesn't sink under our weight or have any unwanted co-habitants.

My first drug was Lexapro, shiny and new (and expensive) with promises of bright, sunny days. And, except for the evening ripples that would rock my lilypad (also known as "brain shocks"), it delivered. That is, until the lilypad rent got too expensive, and I was forced to downgrade to a low-income lilypad in the form of generic Celexa, citalopram.

Time passed and I was still pretending to be living the high life on Lexapro, but it just wasn't the same. The water below my lilypad was always murky, and it felt as though the clouds never dispersed. My old depressed ways didn't return, but I felt like a zombie most days, unable to shake off the morning fuzziness. 

Nonetheless, the price was right (and my health insurance doesn't cover prescriptions), so I tried to make the best of it. Over the next year and a half, the pond scum started to accumulate, and I began to realize I needed to move. 

Here's a snippet from an email that I wrote to a close friend describing how I was feeling:  

I'm all over the place with my emotions the last few weeks. I'm tweaking my meds again (increasing them....) because I'm just not feeling motivated to do anything. The house is an absolute mess and I don't care. Its hard to find inspiration to blog on Tao of Twins anymore. My only joy is Jaeda and Tristyn. Lastnight I sat in their room after I put them to bed and told them about how Che' (my brother) and I used to do everything together when we were kids, and answered all their sweet, wide-eyed questions. I just wanted to crawl into bed with them and never leave, just hold them and kiss them forever.

I had replaced the emotional roller coaster of my initial postpartum depression with apathy.

Recently, I moved into in a middle-class Wellbutrin lilypad complex. I haven't met any of my froggie neighbors and have yet to find out if I fit in here. 

I worry that I won't ever find a lilypad that suits me. 


*Note - One day after I published this post, my family and I drove past this: