Support

I'm not a fan of extravagant birthday parties for anyone under the age of 30, much less those in the single digits. But for my husband and me, birthdays for our twin daughters represent gratitute, and a celebration of how far we've come.

On their first birthday, we had a small gathering to celebrate the accomplishment of the first year with twins, and to thank those that helped us through the tumultuous time. The first year with new life in our home, with all the changes that come with that; the struggles and triumphs, the heartbreak and the miracles.

It was fitting that my daughters' fourth birthday snowballed from a simple get together into a full blown Princess Party BBQ, with 30 attendees.

There were a few moments during the day when I  was overwhelmed with the sight of our guests, each helping in their own way, comfortable in our house, some meeting each other for the first time, but all connected by our love for them, and vice versa.

Each person represents a different branch of the tree that is our support system. Their involvement in our lives helps me in ways they probably don't even realize. Unaware of their unique contribution, they never cease to amaze me.

I watched as my future brother-in-law carefully guided Tristyn on her new bicycle, running beside her up and down the sidewalk, his hands ready to protect her at a moments' notice. I spied my sister-in-law washing chocolate cake covered hands from one of our miniature guests. During the candle blowing, I looked up from my post behind the girls to see a dozen cameras catching the moment, cherishing these little girls that they love.

My greatest hope is that my daughters will thrive and frolic in the leaves from the tree, long after the presents and toys have been discarded. 

Riding bikes!

Passion

The further away my dark postpartum depression becomes in the rear view mirror, the more I can see how far I've come.

I feel that desire for life, the passion for things I enjoy so much more often than 4 years ago.

Life had become a Sisyphean list of chores that I didn't want to do; dishes, laundry, picking up after two babies, all while trying to squash the formidable urge to close my eyes and just sleep. Its difficult to unravel the depression from the exhaustion of twins, but it is becoming easier in retrospect.

Nowadays, I want to throw on my tennis shoes and jog through my neighborhood, feeling the fresh air on my face, my iPod blaring music in my ears. I carve out time to sit at my craft desk and create, instead of looking at the messy desk and feeling overwhelmed by it. I want to lounge in the comfort of my bed, not to sleep, but to get lost in the weaving story of a good book. I get inspired to experiment with a new recipe and "play" in my cozy kitchen.

I sing in the car.

I smile at random thoughts that occur to me.

I relish a sunset, or a patch of freshly sprouted flowers. I notice the small things that were blurred by the haze of depression.

And most important to me, I feel surges of love for those around me, whereas I took them for granted before... When the dam finally broke, when the realization took hold that I was depressed, I called my best friend and, through heaving sobs, I told her I was sorry for "faking it" for so long. For pretending that I was fine, and for not letting her (or anyone) in on my innermost mental state.

I don't have to pretend anymore, and that is more freeing than anything.

If only it were as simple as a bandaid... 

One Woman Race

I'm not a competitive person by nature. I let go of that years ago when my big brother, Che', would always beat me at checkers...

But, does inner strength get muddled or misinterpreted as competition?

Early in my girls' lives, I needed to prove that I could raise twins - but it certainly wasn't for competitions' sake. Rather, it was for recognition, validation, and perhaps a little sympathy.

And pride.

Take breastfeeding for instance. Upon speaking to a good friend and new mother, I remarked that if I had to do it over again - breastfeed twins for 10 months - I wouldn't have.

But I know that's not entirely true - as I write it, deep in my mind, I felt that familiar pang of pride. Plus, I would miss that raised eyebrow or shocked look that I get when I tell people.

Recognition. We all crave it, don't we?

All those months of being chained, quite literally, to the breast pump were not for recognition. My daughters won't ever brag that their mother spent hours in that blue leather chair, balancing my laptop and sometimes a baby (or two), praying that I could fill both eight ounce bottles.

But I will know that I did it. I'll know that I squeezed every ounce of that magical liquid from my body, and that I sobbed when the girls were three months old when I realized I couldn't keep up with increasing demand, and was forced to supplement with formula. Today, that seems just plain silly, and I encourage new mothers not to give it a second thought - to do whatever will help you get through each day.

The other afternoon, while lounging in the bathtub with my daughters, the three of us attempting to get warm after an early spring gardening lesson, I told them the story of their birth. They will be four years old in 2 weeks, and they love to talk about babies. I told them they surprised us by wanting to come out early, on Easter morning 4 years ago. I described how small they were when they came out of my belly.  That their feet, now thrusting out of every new pair of shoes, were smaller than my thumb. How we had to put them in isolets to monitor them (they stopped me to explain each term they didn't understand), and that I wasn't allowed to hold them without permission from the nurses.

I told them we stayed in the hospital for 21 days before we brought them home and introduced them to Pumpkin, the cat. That they were too small to fit in regular car seats, and we had to buy special seats to accommodate their little bodies.

And that I still have the gavage tubes that were forced into their tiny nostrils, down into their stomach, so mommy's milk could nourish them.

They stared at me with wide eyed wonder.

If I was racing, it was for the health of the two perfect human beings that snuggle up in bed between my me and my husband on weekend mornings, nagging us incessantly for waffles.

Tired out from all that racing 

Analogies

Depression is like weight gain. Its a slow progression that sneaks up on you and one day you wake up and your pants don't fit.

Losing it is slow, with milestones and stumbles along the way. Lots of stumbles.

And once your reach your goal, there always seems like there is more to lose. Can I be happier? Is this where I want to be? Is this normal?

It has occurred to me since my diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder, that depression is like diabetes - you learn to manage it, but it never really goes away entirely.

A quick Google search confirms this via Wikipedia: Major depressive disorder is also known as recurrent depressive disorder.

Or perhaps alcoholism is a better analogy, you're never truly cured, and to some degree, will always struggle. I will always be "depressed", in a way, because I will always know what its like, will always empathize with others, will recognize the signs.

Will always be susceptible to recurrence.

There have been days or weeks over the past four years where I wasn't sure what "normal" felt like, I couldn't grasp onto the rope I wanted to swing from, the feeling that felt natural and without intent.

To me, the ups and downs we all experience should be more related to external factors, as opposed to simply feeling anxious or helpless for no reason.

I have always believed that you can't control your emotions - that you can only control your actions. I still believe that (mostly) to be true, but that hasn't stopped me from trying to control my emotions. When the roller-coaster of depression starts its decent down the rails, I have told myself NOT to be anxious, not to be annoyed or angry - to be thankful and happy and.... only to hate myself for not having the power to do so.

When I write on this blog, or speak to people about my experience, I often use the word "struggled" (as in, 'I struggled with depression'); past tense.

I don't think there is a past tense when it comes to depression. Maybe only the dwindling sensation of the loop-de-loop after you step out of the roller-coaster car, but your body keeps the memory of it, ready to up-end your stomach at a moments' notice. 

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...