I try very hard to set good examples. We talk about politics at dinner. We talk about feelings when someone is upset. When I came home pissed about an employee who was giving me grief and sass, and saying that I was going to start grooming his replacement in case he couldn't get his act together, Charlie turned to the kids and said, "This is what happens when you're disrespectful in the real world, at a real job. Someone starts looking for a respectful person to replace you." He said that mostly to E who has turned her hate for running in gym class into a civil rights cause (maybe we talk too much about politics at dinner?). She hates running, but does very well during the skating, zumba, flag football and volleyball sections of P.E. Her P.E. teacher is at his wit's end and so are we. She gets in trouble in gym for refusing to run, or for getting bad "times" on her mile run almost bi-weekly. During our last conversation, she said that she thinks it's not fair to separate kids into "groups based on physical abilities" and "it's discrimination to give kids bad grades for not being able to run". I swear to God, she said that. I felt really good about myself because my head didn't explode. I said, " E, you are not obese, or disabled in any way. You just don't want to run because it's hard for you. You're great at math, but other people in your class aren't good at math. Is it fair for you to get good grades while they get bad grades? It's the same principle". I thought that was pretty good parenting, but she didn't seem moved.
As is becoming the pattern in my blog, I feel that I have to give examples of me not being an irresponsible, sailor mouthed parent so that social services won't be called on me for the events I will inevitably share in the second half of my blog.
I am guilty of enjoying reality TV. More specifically, I am guilty of enjoying Jersey Shore on MTV. I feel bad about it and am in no way proud of it, so please save the lectures. It started innocently enough. When Charlie and I were getting up every 2 hours to feed new babies, we would turn on the TV and watch so we didn't fall asleep and drop said babies on their heads. Unfortunately, late night programing is a little spotty, and not being in the market for...well, anything sold on late night TV and having seen every single episode of Law and Order (the only show you can find on at least one channel no matter what time it is, day or night), we opted for MTV and JS. We would watch 25 minute increments every couple of hours. Soon we were recording new episodes to catch up on the drunken escapades of Snooki, J-Wow, Sammi, Deena, Vinnie, Pauly, Mike, and Ronnie. We didn't talk about it, and neither of us wanted to suggest we watch it. We would have a conversation kind of like this:
Me: Want to watch some TV?
Charlie: Sure. What's on?
Me (pretending to look): *sigh* Not much. We have that new Jersey Shore recorded.
Charlie: *also sighing* I guess we could watch that.
Me: Might as well.
Then we would watch gleefully as drunk 20-somethings in tacky clothes acted like drunk 20-somethings who didn't know they were wearing tacky clothes.
All of this would have gone on happily if I had not walked in to the family room to find E watching JS. She said all the kids in her grade love it. Having acted as an irresponsible parent and allowed the JS into my home, I now felt I needed to do the responsible parent thing and watch JS with E, using the show as a teaching opportunity (ruining the fun of it) with (constant, annoying) grown-up observations. When Charlie and I watch Deena and Snooki teeter around during a 2 day bender in super high heels, a leopard print fedora and what amounts to a belted t-shirt, I might say something like, "Holy shit! Those girls are fucked up...they might want to spend that MTV money on some rehabs! Also, who told her to wear that on her head?" (I KNOW cursing is also not mature but, in addition to JS, I do get a kick out of the f-word when the kids who can talk aren't around) When I watch the same episode with E, my comments are more along the compassionate, not judging, but sad and concerned vein. I might say, "Oh my, they're really drunk. You know, they are going to be really sad and embarrassed when they watch this. Poor things could really use some professional help. You know, when it comes to drinking, which is something people over 21 do, two drinks are really too many."
Watching with Charlie while Mike attempts to coerce some poor drunk girl into his bed, I might shout at the TV, "Kick him in the balls and run away!! EW!! He's GROSS!!"
Watching with E, I would comment,"You know, that qualifies as sexual assault. .....He obviously hates women..... I feel sorry for anyone who dates him because he really only sees women as sexual objects and that is just disgusting. *sigh* People like that never have true intimacy or fulfilling relationships...and that is just sad. Also, if you choose to drink as an adult, I think this program makes it clear that 2 drinks are really too many."
How far we have come
Being a parent has made me wonder about the kind of messages media and the products we buy sends to our kids. Before I was a parent, I thought parents overreacted to violent images and sexuality on TV (to be honest, I also thought there should be a "no kids allowed" policy at least a couple of days a week at places like the Shedd Aquarium and the St. Louis Zoo, so I might've been a bit misguided..). As I look around our world, I am quickly changing my mind. Even though it's a new millennium and the media is quick to scream about HOW FAR women have come, I can't help but be discouraged by the products that are offered to little girls.
JC Penny recently recalled t-shirts that said things like, "I'm too pretty to do math" and "Future Trophy Wife" and "I'm too pretty to do my homework so my brother has to do it for me". Wha...? That doesn't even make sense! I have also noticed that there is a disproportionate amount of products out there for girls that say, "Diva" or, "high maintenance". I can not imagine a world where my son would have a sign on his bedroom door that said, "I'm a narcissist and total pain in the ass..isn't that cute?" I think the message to girls is, "If you're pretty enough, you don't have to have a good personality, or be very inellligent or kind or brave (for the record- stripping doesn't count as "brave")....seriously, don't worry about it, just work on the pretty/sexual thing and everything else will fall into place". Along with that is the message that a girl can be fulfilled by pretty things, probably purchased by rich boyfriends/husbands, that good naturedly tolerate childish behavior because of said beauty/sexual behavior. Personally, I think thats bullshit. I don't want my daughter acting "sexy" or like a "princess" at 4 or 11 or 13. I want her doing her homework and learning to be a good citizen and community member. I want her developing her talents and falling off of her bike.
I don't just worry about the girls in this equation. I want my sons to want to have realationships with women who are smart and funny and interesting and genuine. I don't want them to think women like being treated like sex objects with insatiable drives to collect shiny things. Teen-aged boys already think about sex and want an attractive mate. We don't have to teach or encourage that. Teen-aged girls already want to be pretty and find an attractive mate. We don't have to teach or encourage that. Kids are already egocentric, so we really don't need to encourage that either.
Let's encourage our kids to do something that isn't so easy. Let's encourage them to explore thier worlds, to learn everything they can about subjects that interest them, to talk to each other and disagree respectfully, to stand up and say, "that's not right!"- when something is wrong. Then, maybe, some day as an adult, one of those kids will be in charge of buying clothes to be sold at a major department store. If we have done our job, when someone shows her/him a t-shirt that devalues some segment of our population, and he/she will say, "Sorry, no, that's not the message we're looking to send".
JC Penny recently recalled t-shirts that said things like, "I'm too pretty to do math" and "Future Trophy Wife" and "I'm too pretty to do my homework so my brother has to do it for me". Wha...? That doesn't even make sense! I have also noticed that there is a disproportionate amount of products out there for girls that say, "Diva" or, "high maintenance". I can not imagine a world where my son would have a sign on his bedroom door that said, "I'm a narcissist and total pain in the ass..isn't that cute?" I think the message to girls is, "If you're pretty enough, you don't have to have a good personality, or be very inellligent or kind or brave (for the record- stripping doesn't count as "brave")....seriously, don't worry about it, just work on the pretty/sexual thing and everything else will fall into place". Along with that is the message that a girl can be fulfilled by pretty things, probably purchased by rich boyfriends/husbands, that good naturedly tolerate childish behavior because of said beauty/sexual behavior. Personally, I think thats bullshit. I don't want my daughter acting "sexy" or like a "princess" at 4 or 11 or 13. I want her doing her homework and learning to be a good citizen and community member. I want her developing her talents and falling off of her bike.
I don't just worry about the girls in this equation. I want my sons to want to have realationships with women who are smart and funny and interesting and genuine. I don't want them to think women like being treated like sex objects with insatiable drives to collect shiny things. Teen-aged boys already think about sex and want an attractive mate. We don't have to teach or encourage that. Teen-aged girls already want to be pretty and find an attractive mate. We don't have to teach or encourage that. Kids are already egocentric, so we really don't need to encourage that either.
Let's encourage our kids to do something that isn't so easy. Let's encourage them to explore thier worlds, to learn everything they can about subjects that interest them, to talk to each other and disagree respectfully, to stand up and say, "that's not right!"- when something is wrong. Then, maybe, some day as an adult, one of those kids will be in charge of buying clothes to be sold at a major department store. If we have done our job, when someone shows her/him a t-shirt that devalues some segment of our population, and he/she will say, "Sorry, no, that's not the message we're looking to send".
What Hasn't Killed Us...
So I got permission from Charlie to write about us. It's not technically about motherhood, but I think a big part of being a good parent is maintaining a strong relationship with your co-parent.
I've always heard people say, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger". I don't buy that. I think the saying should be, "What doesn't kill you might make you stronger, if handled properly. If not, it will permanently scar you or render you physically or emotionally disabled". It's not as catchy, but it has a ring of truth to it.
I think the same logic applies to relationships. Everyone knows a couple who have been together for 40 years and people say how wonderful it is, when, in fact, it would have been better for everyone involved if they had split up 39 years ago. Any two unhealthy people can cling to each other year after year, but that's not what I'm looking for and it's not what I want my kids to live with. I want a healthy relationship, full of love and honesty and good will. I'm no expert, but I think denial and resentment have brought down many marriages. Charlie and I try to be realistic, to state our needs and to talk through conflicts like adults. This strategy worked wonderfully for us during the first 4 years of our relationship. We just had his kids, who lived with us, but went to their mom's house every other weekend. Also, they could feed and clothe themselves (which I am now able to see is a much bigger chore than I have ever given it credit for). Anytime we had an issue- and with two step kids and an ex wife, plus my personal baggage, we had issues- we would sit down and talk about it. We talked about feelings and needs...sometimes we cried and got mad, but we usually ended up on the same page and we moved on. We NEVER yelled at each other, called names, or took low blows. We agreed that "fighting" respectfully was the way to go, and we stuck to it. That was before we started fighting at 3 am.
The first time I remember us having an issue, (and I don't remember what it was), the babies had been home for a week. I remember Charlie was sitting in the rocking chair, in the middle of the night, with a baby and I threw a blanket on the floor at his feet and told him to, "Stop acting like a 5 year old". Technically, I wasn't yelling...I was more yell-whispering, but outside of that, it broke all the fighting rules. After that, we fought a lot. We were so tired, so sleep deprived and so overwhelmed, that frustration was just below the surface all the time. We fought about who was doing more, who was doing less, who was sleeping more and who wasn't doing what they were supposed to with the babies (there was a particularly ugly incident around why Charlie couldn't remember to use the diaper cream at night. It ended with him yelling, "They don't have diaper rash! I will USE it when they NEED it" and me yelling back, "OH MY GOD! It's a PREVENTATIVE!!!!"). I started talking to my friends and discovered that most of them had similar experiences. Of course, I wasn't always frustrated with Charlie. I was frustrated because everything I thought I knew and loved about my life was different. I no longer got to take 20 minute showers or sleep, uninterrupted for more than 3 hours. I got got sick and there was no resting and recuperating for me, because the babies were sick and they needed care. No more evening wine on the back deck- I hadn't even seen my back deck since the babies were born. My beloved Kindle reader accumulated dust and served as a coaster for bottles on my nightstand. The accumulated loss of my little life pleasures and whatever control I had over my own life resulted in unexpected rage. That anger, in addition to the natural renegotiation of new responsibilities and sleep deprivation was enough to cause us both to boil over. I wasn't mad at the babies, because they were little and beautiful. I wasn't even always mad at Charlie, but he was the nearest adult target. The truth is, there's no talking through sleep deprivation, and there's no way to prepare yourself for the overnight added responsibilities that twins bring.
There is, of course, a gender piece to this- my life changed more than anyone else's in our family when the twins were born. We work hard to have equality in our marriage, but at the end of one weekend soon after the babies were born, I realized I hadn't left the house since Friday. Charlie had done some yard work, gone to to some local stores to pick up some things he needed, and had taken the older kids to their music lessons and friend activities. I had cared for the babies. In short, everyone else had gone about their weekend, in large part as if nothing had changed, except for me. My role, my only role, was apparently now mother. As soon as I pointed out the problem with this, Charlie agreed that it was appalling and we made adjustments, but we do still find ourselves struggling with long held societal beliefs about what we each can and should do that have become second nature, in spite of a conscious effort on my part to avoid them.
We are working through things. We enjoy each other more, and life is getting easier as the babies are less labor intensive. I have read a couple of good books recently, and we sleep through the night at least once a week. We laugh at each other and joke again. Slowly, the twins are becoming a big part of our lives as opposed to the only part of our lives that gets attention. Given our past relationships and experiences, I have no right to think so, but I believe we'll be just fine, and maybe stronger for the twin experience. Charlie said it best and sweetest- I was standing in front of the open fridge, looking woefully at a bottle of wine I bought on a whim on a sunny Friday afternoon three weeks past. "We can sit out back after babies go to bed and chat about our week and have a glass", I'd thought at the time. Unfortunately, we are usually very tired by the time babies go to bed, and alcohol is the last thing we want slowing our response time, so it sat unopened. "I don't know why I bothered buying that bottle of wine", I now said. "Because you're a optimist", said Charlie with a kiss and a smile. I'm shocked to discover that he's right.
I've always heard people say, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger". I don't buy that. I think the saying should be, "What doesn't kill you might make you stronger, if handled properly. If not, it will permanently scar you or render you physically or emotionally disabled". It's not as catchy, but it has a ring of truth to it.
I think the same logic applies to relationships. Everyone knows a couple who have been together for 40 years and people say how wonderful it is, when, in fact, it would have been better for everyone involved if they had split up 39 years ago. Any two unhealthy people can cling to each other year after year, but that's not what I'm looking for and it's not what I want my kids to live with. I want a healthy relationship, full of love and honesty and good will. I'm no expert, but I think denial and resentment have brought down many marriages. Charlie and I try to be realistic, to state our needs and to talk through conflicts like adults. This strategy worked wonderfully for us during the first 4 years of our relationship. We just had his kids, who lived with us, but went to their mom's house every other weekend. Also, they could feed and clothe themselves (which I am now able to see is a much bigger chore than I have ever given it credit for). Anytime we had an issue- and with two step kids and an ex wife, plus my personal baggage, we had issues- we would sit down and talk about it. We talked about feelings and needs...sometimes we cried and got mad, but we usually ended up on the same page and we moved on. We NEVER yelled at each other, called names, or took low blows. We agreed that "fighting" respectfully was the way to go, and we stuck to it. That was before we started fighting at 3 am.
The first time I remember us having an issue, (and I don't remember what it was), the babies had been home for a week. I remember Charlie was sitting in the rocking chair, in the middle of the night, with a baby and I threw a blanket on the floor at his feet and told him to, "Stop acting like a 5 year old". Technically, I wasn't yelling...I was more yell-whispering, but outside of that, it broke all the fighting rules. After that, we fought a lot. We were so tired, so sleep deprived and so overwhelmed, that frustration was just below the surface all the time. We fought about who was doing more, who was doing less, who was sleeping more and who wasn't doing what they were supposed to with the babies (there was a particularly ugly incident around why Charlie couldn't remember to use the diaper cream at night. It ended with him yelling, "They don't have diaper rash! I will USE it when they NEED it" and me yelling back, "OH MY GOD! It's a PREVENTATIVE!!!!"). I started talking to my friends and discovered that most of them had similar experiences. Of course, I wasn't always frustrated with Charlie. I was frustrated because everything I thought I knew and loved about my life was different. I no longer got to take 20 minute showers or sleep, uninterrupted for more than 3 hours. I got got sick and there was no resting and recuperating for me, because the babies were sick and they needed care. No more evening wine on the back deck- I hadn't even seen my back deck since the babies were born. My beloved Kindle reader accumulated dust and served as a coaster for bottles on my nightstand. The accumulated loss of my little life pleasures and whatever control I had over my own life resulted in unexpected rage. That anger, in addition to the natural renegotiation of new responsibilities and sleep deprivation was enough to cause us both to boil over. I wasn't mad at the babies, because they were little and beautiful. I wasn't even always mad at Charlie, but he was the nearest adult target. The truth is, there's no talking through sleep deprivation, and there's no way to prepare yourself for the overnight added responsibilities that twins bring.
There is, of course, a gender piece to this- my life changed more than anyone else's in our family when the twins were born. We work hard to have equality in our marriage, but at the end of one weekend soon after the babies were born, I realized I hadn't left the house since Friday. Charlie had done some yard work, gone to to some local stores to pick up some things he needed, and had taken the older kids to their music lessons and friend activities. I had cared for the babies. In short, everyone else had gone about their weekend, in large part as if nothing had changed, except for me. My role, my only role, was apparently now mother. As soon as I pointed out the problem with this, Charlie agreed that it was appalling and we made adjustments, but we do still find ourselves struggling with long held societal beliefs about what we each can and should do that have become second nature, in spite of a conscious effort on my part to avoid them.
We are working through things. We enjoy each other more, and life is getting easier as the babies are less labor intensive. I have read a couple of good books recently, and we sleep through the night at least once a week. We laugh at each other and joke again. Slowly, the twins are becoming a big part of our lives as opposed to the only part of our lives that gets attention. Given our past relationships and experiences, I have no right to think so, but I believe we'll be just fine, and maybe stronger for the twin experience. Charlie said it best and sweetest- I was standing in front of the open fridge, looking woefully at a bottle of wine I bought on a whim on a sunny Friday afternoon three weeks past. "We can sit out back after babies go to bed and chat about our week and have a glass", I'd thought at the time. Unfortunately, we are usually very tired by the time babies go to bed, and alcohol is the last thing we want slowing our response time, so it sat unopened. "I don't know why I bothered buying that bottle of wine", I now said. "Because you're a optimist", said Charlie with a kiss and a smile. I'm shocked to discover that he's right.
Why the kids don't want me to have nice things
Actually, I have no idea why the kids don't want me to have nice things but it's obvious to me that they don't. The kids hate my nice things. They will go to any lengths necessary to rid the house of them. The four children will work as a team and systematically destroy anything beautiful or shiny in their path.
If I have a new shirt that is pretty and cost more than $5 on sale at Target, the babies will puke/spill/poop on it (I know, I know, they're babies and it's as much my fault as theirs....just let me vent here). If we get a new coffee table, E will spill nail polish remover on it. If we get a fancy new refrigerator made of shiny stainless steel, L will dent it when swinging a wooden sword around the kitchen. If I leave my lovely watch on the counter, a teenaged child will play with it, remove one link (rendering it too small for me and worthless), lose the link and place it back on the counter for me to find and try to put on. When asked about who is responsible for the coffee table, fridge or watch, their eyes will go wide and confused. "Who would do such a thing? ME? Never! Only a monster would ruin your watch/refrigerator/coffee table" Later, when we are leaving the kids home alone, reminders not to swing a sword in the house or do nails in the living room will be met with heavy sighs, shaking heads and exasperated, "OKs". The older kids are very effective at communicating confused frustration (without actually calling us stupid and thus getting grounded) that we would find it necessary to remind them to behave. They look at us with eyes that say, "Yeah...I know not to swing swords in the kitchen...duh...I'm not stupid." Of course explaining that I KNOW they spent their last time home alone flinging bits of toilet paper soaked in nail polish remover around the living room and I KNOW they'll be swinging wooden swords around the kitchen before we're even out of the driveway, only makes me look paranoid and then I get the looks that say, "It's so sad that you don't trust me when I've been nothing but totally responsible when left home alone in the past. I feel both wronged and sorry for you."
It's enough to make me want to go into their rooms, grab a favorite item, and break it or set it on fire. I haven't done that, I won't do that, because as this blog clearly demonstrates, I'm a grown up. *foot stomp/crossed arms*
If I have a new shirt that is pretty and cost more than $5 on sale at Target, the babies will puke/spill/poop on it (I know, I know, they're babies and it's as much my fault as theirs....just let me vent here). If we get a new coffee table, E will spill nail polish remover on it. If we get a fancy new refrigerator made of shiny stainless steel, L will dent it when swinging a wooden sword around the kitchen. If I leave my lovely watch on the counter, a teenaged child will play with it, remove one link (rendering it too small for me and worthless), lose the link and place it back on the counter for me to find and try to put on. When asked about who is responsible for the coffee table, fridge or watch, their eyes will go wide and confused. "Who would do such a thing? ME? Never! Only a monster would ruin your watch/refrigerator/coffee table" Later, when we are leaving the kids home alone, reminders not to swing a sword in the house or do nails in the living room will be met with heavy sighs, shaking heads and exasperated, "OKs". The older kids are very effective at communicating confused frustration (without actually calling us stupid and thus getting grounded) that we would find it necessary to remind them to behave. They look at us with eyes that say, "Yeah...I know not to swing swords in the kitchen...duh...I'm not stupid." Of course explaining that I KNOW they spent their last time home alone flinging bits of toilet paper soaked in nail polish remover around the living room and I KNOW they'll be swinging wooden swords around the kitchen before we're even out of the driveway, only makes me look paranoid and then I get the looks that say, "It's so sad that you don't trust me when I've been nothing but totally responsible when left home alone in the past. I feel both wronged and sorry for you."
It's enough to make me want to go into their rooms, grab a favorite item, and break it or set it on fire. I haven't done that, I won't do that, because as this blog clearly demonstrates, I'm a grown up. *foot stomp/crossed arms*
Me and E
Parenting older kids is a lot different than parenting babies. E is 13 now and L is 16. When Charlie and I met they were 8 and 11. The were both fun kids and generous enough to give me a chance even though I know that I represented the death of a dream that their mom and dad would get back together.
E is a funny girl, honest to a fault, thoughtful, smart and stubborn, stubborn, stubborn. She had some behavior issues when she was younger, and Charlie and I made a plan to help her deal with her feelings. When asked why she kicked a boy in the fourth grade, she said, very, very seriously, "I'm not very good at hitting."
Over the years, her behavior has improved. We had her talk about her feelings and we set limits and imposed consequences. For the most part, we were very successful. One time, though, when she was mad, I told her to go sit on the bed until she was ready to talk about her feelings. She burst out with, "I don't WANT to talk about my feelings! The only adults I know who talk about feelings are you and dad!"
In spite of her being a bit difficult, and not mine biologically, she and I are close. She's very bright and determined and I love the way she thinks. One day, when she was 10 she told me that she doesn't understand why we kill pigs to get bacon when the meat could be extracted with, "a simple surgery". When Charlie was in Iraq, E was 9. Charlie sent E and me flowers when she spent the night at my apartment. I asked her if she liked them and she said, "Yeah, I love them, but I can't figure out how dad got flowers in Iraq?"
Recently she has been having a hard time with adolescence. I worry about it a lot, because I think if you don't receive the right guidance and kindness and love in adolescence, you kind of get stuck there and it makes my heart hurt to watch her struggle. I want her to leave adolescence able to stick up for herself in a world that is really hard on women and girls, but I don't want her to be bitter because the world is hard on women and girls. If she's mad, I want it to result in action that makes her world better. I don't want her to internalize it and poison herself with it. I want her to have good, solid friendships without catty backstabbing. She and her friends from grade school have all found new activities as more adult interests develop. She has new friends, but it's different, more treacherous territory. Girls in junior high are hard on themselves and each other. No one is comfortable in their own skin. I went to her chorus recital and I wanted to take a wash cloth and hair straightener to every last one of them (and that's just the boys). I know they didn't leave the house looking greasy and unkempt, but by the end of the school day, they were a pretty rough looking group.
The incredible thing is that E and her friends don't seem to be able to see that they all have discomfort in common. She assumes that everyone else at school is confident and self-assured. One day she came home crying and I asked her what was wrong. Turns out, her friend, H was flirting with a boy E had a crush on. In between dramatic sobs, E told me that, "Ever since H got boobs, she wears low cut shirts. She dresses like she doesn't have a mother and I know she does!(I swear I have no idea where she heard that expression)" I tried to tell her that H is probably just as uncomfortable about the attention she gets from having bigger boobs than everyone else, and maybe, just maybe, boobs aren't even that important, in the big picture, but E wasn't having it. She did casts a few doubtful glances at my own meager chest at this point and I could see her wondering how I could have any idea what a girl with big boobs was thinking. In her mind, at that moment, a well developed chest was the key to happiness, and she wasn't buying anything I was selling. I have become the out of touch adult and my attempts to suggest solutions to her problems are met with polite, but doubtful 'maybe...s', as though she's the one who knows how to handle any situation and I'm some crazy woman that she needs to humor.....that is, when she isn't texting her friends about how much she hates me because I am an unreasonable beast who won't let her eat fried chicken in the car/makes her clean the house/grounds her from her cell phone for not answering our calls.
Which is interesting, since up until a few years ago, I thought my mom was a crazy woman I needed to humor..and I definitely remember talking to my friends about how our moms didn't do ANYTHING, they just made us clean like their little slaves.
This is the hard part about parenting a child that is the same sex as me. I know what's coming for her is a hard few years. I know that the world will underestimate her, try to victimize her, and tell her she's not ever enough. I also know that she's strong and smart, and if we can give her support, encouragement and discipline, she may have the courage to carve out a space where she is enough, just as she is. If she can do that, those hard years will be followed by several beautiful years of independence and personal exploration, followed by a few wonderful years with a loving partner, followed by having children of her own that she will be both hated by and desperate to escape from on Saturday afternoons. That's my sincere and loving hope for her future.
E is a funny girl, honest to a fault, thoughtful, smart and stubborn, stubborn, stubborn. She had some behavior issues when she was younger, and Charlie and I made a plan to help her deal with her feelings. When asked why she kicked a boy in the fourth grade, she said, very, very seriously, "I'm not very good at hitting."
Over the years, her behavior has improved. We had her talk about her feelings and we set limits and imposed consequences. For the most part, we were very successful. One time, though, when she was mad, I told her to go sit on the bed until she was ready to talk about her feelings. She burst out with, "I don't WANT to talk about my feelings! The only adults I know who talk about feelings are you and dad!"
In spite of her being a bit difficult, and not mine biologically, she and I are close. She's very bright and determined and I love the way she thinks. One day, when she was 10 she told me that she doesn't understand why we kill pigs to get bacon when the meat could be extracted with, "a simple surgery". When Charlie was in Iraq, E was 9. Charlie sent E and me flowers when she spent the night at my apartment. I asked her if she liked them and she said, "Yeah, I love them, but I can't figure out how dad got flowers in Iraq?"
Recently she has been having a hard time with adolescence. I worry about it a lot, because I think if you don't receive the right guidance and kindness and love in adolescence, you kind of get stuck there and it makes my heart hurt to watch her struggle. I want her to leave adolescence able to stick up for herself in a world that is really hard on women and girls, but I don't want her to be bitter because the world is hard on women and girls. If she's mad, I want it to result in action that makes her world better. I don't want her to internalize it and poison herself with it. I want her to have good, solid friendships without catty backstabbing. She and her friends from grade school have all found new activities as more adult interests develop. She has new friends, but it's different, more treacherous territory. Girls in junior high are hard on themselves and each other. No one is comfortable in their own skin. I went to her chorus recital and I wanted to take a wash cloth and hair straightener to every last one of them (and that's just the boys). I know they didn't leave the house looking greasy and unkempt, but by the end of the school day, they were a pretty rough looking group.
The incredible thing is that E and her friends don't seem to be able to see that they all have discomfort in common. She assumes that everyone else at school is confident and self-assured. One day she came home crying and I asked her what was wrong. Turns out, her friend, H was flirting with a boy E had a crush on. In between dramatic sobs, E told me that, "Ever since H got boobs, she wears low cut shirts. She dresses like she doesn't have a mother and I know she does!(I swear I have no idea where she heard that expression)" I tried to tell her that H is probably just as uncomfortable about the attention she gets from having bigger boobs than everyone else, and maybe, just maybe, boobs aren't even that important, in the big picture, but E wasn't having it. She did casts a few doubtful glances at my own meager chest at this point and I could see her wondering how I could have any idea what a girl with big boobs was thinking. In her mind, at that moment, a well developed chest was the key to happiness, and she wasn't buying anything I was selling. I have become the out of touch adult and my attempts to suggest solutions to her problems are met with polite, but doubtful 'maybe...s', as though she's the one who knows how to handle any situation and I'm some crazy woman that she needs to humor.....that is, when she isn't texting her friends about how much she hates me because I am an unreasonable beast who won't let her eat fried chicken in the car/makes her clean the house/grounds her from her cell phone for not answering our calls.
Which is interesting, since up until a few years ago, I thought my mom was a crazy woman I needed to humor..and I definitely remember talking to my friends about how our moms didn't do ANYTHING, they just made us clean like their little slaves.
This is the hard part about parenting a child that is the same sex as me. I know what's coming for her is a hard few years. I know that the world will underestimate her, try to victimize her, and tell her she's not ever enough. I also know that she's strong and smart, and if we can give her support, encouragement and discipline, she may have the courage to carve out a space where she is enough, just as she is. If she can do that, those hard years will be followed by several beautiful years of independence and personal exploration, followed by a few wonderful years with a loving partner, followed by having children of her own that she will be both hated by and desperate to escape from on Saturday afternoons. That's my sincere and loving hope for her future.
Watching my Weight
I was unsure about breast feeding, initially. I knew that it was good for babies, so I thought I would try it, but I also promised myself that if it didn't work out, I wouldn't beat myself up. Even if I could do it, I thought I would probably just breast feed for a couple of months, and then transition to formula. I was honestly just talking a good game, I had no intention of working at it or making any kind of commitment to having little beings suck fluid directly from my boobs. What I didn't count on (especially from someone as cranky and hassled as me)was the deep sense of peace and satisfaction that I got from nourishing the twins' tiny bodies directly from my own, and the quiet, sweet bonding time that was a direct result of said nourishing. Isaac latched on immediately. Olivia worked at it for a couple of weeks, but never really got the hang of it, so I pumped so she had breast milk, too. In addition to all the hippie peace and bonding, babies were being fed really nutritious food for free, and I was literally pumping fat out of my body. The weight was falling off and I was still eating like a pregnant lady. Then, when the babies were 8 weeks old, my weight loss stalled. I panicked, because I was still about 30 lbs. heavier than when I first got pregnant, and 40 lbs heavier than when I started IVF. Through the panic, I heard the clear sweet voice of Jennifer Hudson, speaking directly to me, from a Weight Watchers (WW from here on out due to my lazy typing fingers) commercial, and I was saved from my gluttony.
Anyone who has been on WW knows that you eat food based on a point system. 3 oz. of steak is 3 points, one granola bar is 4 points, fruits are all 0 points, etc. It's kind of fun, at first, because it's like a game. Based on my weight, I should have gotten 33 points a day. Women who breast feed, however, get 14 extra points a day. That means I started out at 47 points a day! The difference is equivalent to a big mac or a large serving of Coldstone Cake Batter ice cream. I think that speaks to the importance of maintaining those extra 14 points. This information made it perfectly reasonable for me to consider pumping breast milk for the twins long past the age when they can be referred to as "babies"...and maybe long past the age where they can be referred to as "college students". It's the only way I can think of to lose weight without being hungry- except for exercise and god knows I'm not doing that. OK, and cigarettes, and while I'm perfectly willing to take up smoking again, it will kill me, it costs a fortune and it's socially unacceptable. Breast feeding is like volunteer work. Everyone congratulates you for doing it and you get a special resting area at the mall, and extra breaks at work to "pump" (AKA- time to facebook on my phone). Of course, at some point the babies won't want breast milk anymore. Maybe at that point I can sell the milk on the black market. If anyone has a hook up, let me know....
Anyone who has been on WW knows that you eat food based on a point system. 3 oz. of steak is 3 points, one granola bar is 4 points, fruits are all 0 points, etc. It's kind of fun, at first, because it's like a game. Based on my weight, I should have gotten 33 points a day. Women who breast feed, however, get 14 extra points a day. That means I started out at 47 points a day! The difference is equivalent to a big mac or a large serving of Coldstone Cake Batter ice cream. I think that speaks to the importance of maintaining those extra 14 points. This information made it perfectly reasonable for me to consider pumping breast milk for the twins long past the age when they can be referred to as "babies"...and maybe long past the age where they can be referred to as "college students". It's the only way I can think of to lose weight without being hungry- except for exercise and god knows I'm not doing that. OK, and cigarettes, and while I'm perfectly willing to take up smoking again, it will kill me, it costs a fortune and it's socially unacceptable. Breast feeding is like volunteer work. Everyone congratulates you for doing it and you get a special resting area at the mall, and extra breaks at work to "pump" (AKA- time to facebook on my phone). Of course, at some point the babies won't want breast milk anymore. Maybe at that point I can sell the milk on the black market. If anyone has a hook up, let me know....
Day Care
I've always had issues with over-achievement and with too much of my identity being tied up in my work and "success". When I started my career 12 years ago, I worked at least 80 hours a week, and was promoted very quickly. I was an associate director by 24 and a director by 26. I was pretty proud (i.e., egotistical and impossible to be around) of my upward movement, I was ridiculously eager to please and it took me a long time to realize that it's OK to admit when I can't or don't like to do something. It's important, I think, to be realistic and honest about ones abilities and to appreciate strength in others. For example: I'm terrible at filing, tracking data, entering data, and I spend a lot of time trying to be OK at keeping my desk organized and following through. If I am supposed do some task at a specific time, I need 50 calendar reminders (which I will ignore) and an email from someone who can fire me in order to remember to do it. I don't make excel spread sheets or tracking workbooks at work because I hate them and wouldn't use either of those things, even if I made them. I'm cranky and impulsive a lot of the time. I'm good at talking, making people feel special, understanding their needs, putting together effective teams, and motivation. I have solid writing skills (but terrible spelling) and judgment and I usually make good decisions intuitively. I am working really hard at waiting 24 hours to address issues that really piss me off so I can get some perspective, but that's not really in my nature.
The same principle applies to my family life. I love my family more than anything in this world. My kids are on an awesome routine. They get up at the same time every morning and go to bed at the same time every night. They are good eaters, (usually) peaceful sleepers, they're neatly dressed and they are hugged and kissed and loved and talked to constantly. I read to them and tickle them and make an ass out of myself to hear one precious laugh.
I thought a lot about quitting work when I had twins. Ultimately, I knew that I am not, and doubt I ever will be the kind of mom that can stay at home every day and help my kids learn creatively. I love arts and crafts, but can't make an owl out of a paper bag without direction. I can not make food look like cartoon characters, and it wouldn't occur to me to finger paint with pudding. If I did stay home everyday, I would not be the fun and patient parent that my kids deserve and that I can be for the three days a week I do stay home. I genuinely wish I could be, but I know myself well enough to know I'd be frustrated and not up to par and my kids would suffer because of it. They are literally better off spending at least part of their time in the care of strangers- albeit carefully selected strangers. These are my honest feelings about my family and our situation. No judgment here about anyone or how they spend their time or how they parent. It's not as simple in my mind as I make it sound, either. I do have guilt about how much time I spend at work, and I struggle constantly for balance. I miss them every single day, all day, but I don't think that means I should be with them every single day, all day.
I only bring it up at all because of a request from our daycare. We love our daycare. It's run by the Air Force, and it's really run well. Shoe covers are required before entering rooms where babies spend time on the floor, and you have to wash your hands as soon as you enter the room. They hang family photos so that the babies can see us all day. The ladies there are nice and they are great with the babies(They do burn through the baby wipes like nobodies business, though. What are they doing with all those wipes?!).
Last week, Charlie and I both had to work late on the same night. The twins were dropped off at daycare at 6:30am and picked up at 5:30 pm. The daycare requested that, since the babies were left for more than 10 hours, we get a form letter signed by employers stating the need for us to work such hours. In other words (and my interpretation), "you are acting like deadbeat parents, so please provide us with proof that you are not deadbeat parents". All of my careful and logical justification for working went straight out the window and I burst into tears. This parenting business is a mine field.
The same principle applies to my family life. I love my family more than anything in this world. My kids are on an awesome routine. They get up at the same time every morning and go to bed at the same time every night. They are good eaters, (usually) peaceful sleepers, they're neatly dressed and they are hugged and kissed and loved and talked to constantly. I read to them and tickle them and make an ass out of myself to hear one precious laugh.
I thought a lot about quitting work when I had twins. Ultimately, I knew that I am not, and doubt I ever will be the kind of mom that can stay at home every day and help my kids learn creatively. I love arts and crafts, but can't make an owl out of a paper bag without direction. I can not make food look like cartoon characters, and it wouldn't occur to me to finger paint with pudding. If I did stay home everyday, I would not be the fun and patient parent that my kids deserve and that I can be for the three days a week I do stay home. I genuinely wish I could be, but I know myself well enough to know I'd be frustrated and not up to par and my kids would suffer because of it. They are literally better off spending at least part of their time in the care of strangers- albeit carefully selected strangers. These are my honest feelings about my family and our situation. No judgment here about anyone or how they spend their time or how they parent. It's not as simple in my mind as I make it sound, either. I do have guilt about how much time I spend at work, and I struggle constantly for balance. I miss them every single day, all day, but I don't think that means I should be with them every single day, all day.
I only bring it up at all because of a request from our daycare. We love our daycare. It's run by the Air Force, and it's really run well. Shoe covers are required before entering rooms where babies spend time on the floor, and you have to wash your hands as soon as you enter the room. They hang family photos so that the babies can see us all day. The ladies there are nice and they are great with the babies(They do burn through the baby wipes like nobodies business, though. What are they doing with all those wipes?!).
Last week, Charlie and I both had to work late on the same night. The twins were dropped off at daycare at 6:30am and picked up at 5:30 pm. The daycare requested that, since the babies were left for more than 10 hours, we get a form letter signed by employers stating the need for us to work such hours. In other words (and my interpretation), "you are acting like deadbeat parents, so please provide us with proof that you are not deadbeat parents". All of my careful and logical justification for working went straight out the window and I burst into tears. This parenting business is a mine field.
Papa Paparazi
Taking the babies out in public is a bit like being Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. While it's true that at first it was like being a dirty, tired, haggard, overweight Angelina Jolie, with ill fitting clothes, accompanied by a weary, scraggly bearded, pack mule-type Brad Pitt, we have a bazillion kids and people pay a lot of attention to us when we take the twins out in public, and I consider these significant similarities.
The first time we took the babies out it was to Red Lobster (which, like the minivan, everyone pretends not to like, but secretly loves. Otherwise, why is there ALWAYS at least a 20 minute wait?). Anyway, it was for lunch, during the week, so we were swarmed by the well intentioned elderly. The first thing people always say is, "Twins?!" and then, when we confirm that they are twins, they say, "A boy and a girl?!" Charlie, at one point threatened to tell the next person that asked that they are not twins, "one of them is from a sister wife".
On this occasion (and several to follow), not only did we eat our meal in uncomfortable silence while the elderly couple next to us hovered and beamed at us, but the entire Red Lobster wait staff stopped by our table to say things like, "Oh! I heard there were twins over here! They're beautiful!" It's very nice that our babies bring joy to people..it's just that attention is the last thing you really want when you're tired, dirty, haggard, overweight, and you have a mouth full of cheddar bay biscuit. Also,(at the risk of sounding like a grumpy old lady myself) I don't want a bunch of dirty stranger hands on my kids. Go have your own kids to put your grubby hands on.
Another thing the elderly say a lot is how blessed we are. I get that a lot in the grocery store. Mostly from older men, strangely enough. I appreciate the sentiment, and I'm not sure what "blessed" looks like to most people, but to me, it doesn't look like staggering around the house at 3am changing diapers and crying.
To be fair, on some days, now that they're older it's nice to get the attention. I'm so proud of them and they are beautiful and really sweet. They smile and coo and my heart could just burst with joy. On other days, I just want to get groceries and have no desire to explain how I, "do it/manage/have my hands full". It's enough to make one sympathize with Brittany Spears during her bald-headed-umbrella-fit period.
The first time we took the babies out it was to Red Lobster (which, like the minivan, everyone pretends not to like, but secretly loves. Otherwise, why is there ALWAYS at least a 20 minute wait?). Anyway, it was for lunch, during the week, so we were swarmed by the well intentioned elderly. The first thing people always say is, "Twins?!" and then, when we confirm that they are twins, they say, "A boy and a girl?!" Charlie, at one point threatened to tell the next person that asked that they are not twins, "one of them is from a sister wife".
On this occasion (and several to follow), not only did we eat our meal in uncomfortable silence while the elderly couple next to us hovered and beamed at us, but the entire Red Lobster wait staff stopped by our table to say things like, "Oh! I heard there were twins over here! They're beautiful!" It's very nice that our babies bring joy to people..it's just that attention is the last thing you really want when you're tired, dirty, haggard, overweight, and you have a mouth full of cheddar bay biscuit. Also,(at the risk of sounding like a grumpy old lady myself) I don't want a bunch of dirty stranger hands on my kids. Go have your own kids to put your grubby hands on.
Another thing the elderly say a lot is how blessed we are. I get that a lot in the grocery store. Mostly from older men, strangely enough. I appreciate the sentiment, and I'm not sure what "blessed" looks like to most people, but to me, it doesn't look like staggering around the house at 3am changing diapers and crying.
To be fair, on some days, now that they're older it's nice to get the attention. I'm so proud of them and they are beautiful and really sweet. They smile and coo and my heart could just burst with joy. On other days, I just want to get groceries and have no desire to explain how I, "do it/manage/have my hands full". It's enough to make one sympathize with Brittany Spears during her bald-headed-umbrella-fit period.
The old and the sleepless
At first, the babies had to be fed every two hours. They were not on the same eating schedule, so we were feeding babies every hour. It took about 30 minutes for them to eat and fall asleep, so it was constant. At night, we started out doing shifts. Charlie would stay up with babies from 8pm until 12pm. I would get 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep and then would be up for the rest of the night. Charlie would go to bed at midnight and get up at 5:30 or 6am for work. I would be with them for the rest of the day. It was like hell in our house. I would squeeze in an hour or two of broken sleep during the day. My mom came to help for the first week, then Charlie's mom came for the next week. Charlie took the third week off of work, and then I was on my own.
On Charlie's first day back at work, he had to work late and he didn't get off until 8pm. By the time he got home, I had been caring for two babies for twenty hours in a row. I went to bed immediately, but when he came to get me up for the late night shift, I laid in bed and thought to myself, "I can not get up and go take care of those babies." I felt like I physically couldn't get up and go care for them. It was the first time I realized that as a parent, you don't get an option. I got up and staggered down the hall. I spent the first weeks being so tired, it hurt. I kept hearing that thing got better around 8 weeks, but that seemed like forever to me. We were like zombies. One morning, I was carrying a baby and I slammed my little toe into the bed. My foot was swollen and purple and I hobbled to and from the kitchen to make bottles for the next feeding. Most days, a shower was a pipe dream. I was flabby, dirty, unwashed and none of my clothes fit. Miserable doesn't begin to cover it.
Postpartum blues were horrible. I cried every single day. I was convinced that I had made a terrible mistake by having children. My mom drives me crazy in a way no one else can, but all I wanted was for her to move in and help. I cried the whole day she left, even though Charlie's mom had arrived to take over. I was terrified I wasn't going to be able to do a good job. I was fine and euphoric in the hospital. Everyone is so positive and tells you what a great job you're doing and they take the babies away and you sleep, then you call and someone brings you pancakes. I didn't realize how good I had it, and I couldn't wait to go home and start being a parent. Then, when my mom and I took the babies back 2 days later for their first check-up, all the nurses remembered me and the twins. They all asked how I was doing and I burst in to tears and asked if I could come back to the hospital. After the doctor examined them and proclaimed them healthy, I (still crying) said, "They're OK?" he said yes, and mom patted me reassuringly and said, "See, I told you you're not killing the babies." It was very comforting.
Sometimes, when they were crying and I was all alone taking care of them, I would be near tears because I was so exhausted, but when I saw their little faces, I would get a rush of joy and energy. Sometimes, when they wouldn't stop crying, after feeding them and changing them and holding them, I would just lay them on the bed and cry with them. Sometimes, at 3:30 in the morning, when twin A was asleep and I finally got twin B down and was about to get a fifteen minute nap on the couch, Twin A would wake up screaming and I would feel a surge of anger and frustration followed by a surge of crushing guilt. I was desperate for sleep. After a while I was convinced that I had grown accustomed to 4 hours of sleep, but looking back, I'm sure I was functioning in an impaired way. On top of the babies, I was recovering from surgery, so I was in pain. I was afraid to take the narcotic pain medicine very often because it made me drowsy. I did ask Charlie at one point if he thought if I doubled up on vicodin, the babies might sleep longer (I was breast feeding). I was half joking...
We tried to keep a sense of humor about the situation. After 5 or 6 weeks, we stopped taking shifts and started getting up together. It was much easier, because you only had to deal with one baby at a time. We also started having some time together- when we fed babies. We were still getting up every two hours, though. We would jolt awake when they started crying on the monitor, and for some reason, we would both think they were in our bed, so we would dig through the covers, looking for the babies, until we were fully awake and then we would stumble out to feed them. We talked over and decided that it was a sign of a healthy relationship that we had replaced the sex we no longer had time, motivation or energy for with identical middle of the night, exhaustion induced hallucinations. It wen on like that for two long months. Gradually, things have gotten better. By week 10, I started believing we would survive infancy.
On Charlie's first day back at work, he had to work late and he didn't get off until 8pm. By the time he got home, I had been caring for two babies for twenty hours in a row. I went to bed immediately, but when he came to get me up for the late night shift, I laid in bed and thought to myself, "I can not get up and go take care of those babies." I felt like I physically couldn't get up and go care for them. It was the first time I realized that as a parent, you don't get an option. I got up and staggered down the hall. I spent the first weeks being so tired, it hurt. I kept hearing that thing got better around 8 weeks, but that seemed like forever to me. We were like zombies. One morning, I was carrying a baby and I slammed my little toe into the bed. My foot was swollen and purple and I hobbled to and from the kitchen to make bottles for the next feeding. Most days, a shower was a pipe dream. I was flabby, dirty, unwashed and none of my clothes fit. Miserable doesn't begin to cover it.
Postpartum blues were horrible. I cried every single day. I was convinced that I had made a terrible mistake by having children. My mom drives me crazy in a way no one else can, but all I wanted was for her to move in and help. I cried the whole day she left, even though Charlie's mom had arrived to take over. I was terrified I wasn't going to be able to do a good job. I was fine and euphoric in the hospital. Everyone is so positive and tells you what a great job you're doing and they take the babies away and you sleep, then you call and someone brings you pancakes. I didn't realize how good I had it, and I couldn't wait to go home and start being a parent. Then, when my mom and I took the babies back 2 days later for their first check-up, all the nurses remembered me and the twins. They all asked how I was doing and I burst in to tears and asked if I could come back to the hospital. After the doctor examined them and proclaimed them healthy, I (still crying) said, "They're OK?" he said yes, and mom patted me reassuringly and said, "See, I told you you're not killing the babies." It was very comforting.
Sometimes, when they were crying and I was all alone taking care of them, I would be near tears because I was so exhausted, but when I saw their little faces, I would get a rush of joy and energy. Sometimes, when they wouldn't stop crying, after feeding them and changing them and holding them, I would just lay them on the bed and cry with them. Sometimes, at 3:30 in the morning, when twin A was asleep and I finally got twin B down and was about to get a fifteen minute nap on the couch, Twin A would wake up screaming and I would feel a surge of anger and frustration followed by a surge of crushing guilt. I was desperate for sleep. After a while I was convinced that I had grown accustomed to 4 hours of sleep, but looking back, I'm sure I was functioning in an impaired way. On top of the babies, I was recovering from surgery, so I was in pain. I was afraid to take the narcotic pain medicine very often because it made me drowsy. I did ask Charlie at one point if he thought if I doubled up on vicodin, the babies might sleep longer (I was breast feeding). I was half joking...
We tried to keep a sense of humor about the situation. After 5 or 6 weeks, we stopped taking shifts and started getting up together. It was much easier, because you only had to deal with one baby at a time. We also started having some time together- when we fed babies. We were still getting up every two hours, though. We would jolt awake when they started crying on the monitor, and for some reason, we would both think they were in our bed, so we would dig through the covers, looking for the babies, until we were fully awake and then we would stumble out to feed them. We talked over and decided that it was a sign of a healthy relationship that we had replaced the sex we no longer had time, motivation or energy for with identical middle of the night, exhaustion induced hallucinations. It wen on like that for two long months. Gradually, things have gotten better. By week 10, I started believing we would survive infancy.
Mini me
When we found out that we were having twins we realized that with E and L, the older kids (13 and 16 years old respectively), we were a family of 6. For travel, that's four adult sized people and two tiny people that require gigantic plastic car seats.
While we're on the subject of car seats, it seems like they could be made of a lighter material. We have sent people to the moon and I'm lugging around two car seat that have to weigh 30 lbs apiece once you put a 10 lb. baby in them. They are the albatrosses of early childhood.
Anyway, this is not a story about car seats, it's a story about the death of my youth. When I met Charlie, I was driving a Ford escort ZX2. I bought the car the same week I started my first real job, right out of college, and it sybolized my carefree youth and my independence. It was tiny and red and it had a sunroof and a stick shift. Escorts are not high performance vehicles, but I managed to get pulled over 6 times in as many years for speeding. It had over 120,000 miles on it, and had never needed major repairs. I loved the cassette player and the ashtray that could be moved from cup holder to cup holder. I love that for a $30 tank of gas, I could drive over 300 miles. Most of all, I loved that, after 5 long years, it was paid for.
Once the twins arrived, it was clear that we needed a vehicle that could seat 6 people. Since the beginning of our relationship, Charlie has complained about drivers in minivans, insisting that they are the worst drivers on the road. I think he also found minivans to be old, stuffy and a little emasculating. When we started talking bigger cars, he steered me towards SUVs or cross over vehicles, thinking he could salvage his (in his mind, anyway) cool reputation and his masculinity. Turns out, he could save neither. The problem with SUVs and crossovers is that they are not made with parents in mind. The doors open out instead of sliding, making it difficult to put a car seat in the car without hitting the car in the next parking space with the door and they are woefully short on cup holders. We looked and looked, and finding the SUV market lacking, on the advice of my women co-workers, I finally insisted on checking out the minivans.
We ended up at a Honda dealer, looking at an Odyssey. We were both reluctant and sullen at first, but as we looked, I felt myself falling in love. The Odessey has bluetooth and 5 plug-ins for car chargers, it has a "cool box" which will cool food and drink (it can hold a 6 pack) to 55 degrees. When I was shown the cool box, I exclaimed, "Oooh! Somewhere to put my beer when I take the twins to schoo!", at which point the salesman looked alarmed. Then, wanting to make the sale, with a nervous laugh, he agreed that it was perfect for drinking and driving children around. There's a little ring that pops out of the console where you can clip a trash bag, and seat belts that come from the ceiling, and a camera that helps one back the van up, but the best feature by far is the 15 cup holders. That's right, 15!!! One could drink 15 Diet Dr. Peppers without having to remember to throw away a single can or bottle. I was sold. Charlie agreed to the purchase as long as I agreed that he could buy a sensless, and expensive sports car once it was paid off. I said fine, thinking that the payoff is five years away. Statistically speaking, with twins in the mix, we should be divorced by then. On the off chance we are still together, I'm really hoping he'll have forgotten. On the way home from the dealership, Charlie said we should get a bumper sticker that said, "I sold out", I suggested one that said, "I left my dreams in my old car".
Since then, we have found that we love our minvan and we did't really didn't leave our dreams in our old car. What the minivan lacks in fun and style, it makes up for in comfort and convienince. It represents a part of our life that could be the most important and the most beautiful. Driving home from the grocery store last night, Charlie said to me, "You know, I don't know how we'll ever go back to a car."
While we're on the subject of car seats, it seems like they could be made of a lighter material. We have sent people to the moon and I'm lugging around two car seat that have to weigh 30 lbs apiece once you put a 10 lb. baby in them. They are the albatrosses of early childhood.
Anyway, this is not a story about car seats, it's a story about the death of my youth. When I met Charlie, I was driving a Ford escort ZX2. I bought the car the same week I started my first real job, right out of college, and it sybolized my carefree youth and my independence. It was tiny and red and it had a sunroof and a stick shift. Escorts are not high performance vehicles, but I managed to get pulled over 6 times in as many years for speeding. It had over 120,000 miles on it, and had never needed major repairs. I loved the cassette player and the ashtray that could be moved from cup holder to cup holder. I love that for a $30 tank of gas, I could drive over 300 miles. Most of all, I loved that, after 5 long years, it was paid for.
Once the twins arrived, it was clear that we needed a vehicle that could seat 6 people. Since the beginning of our relationship, Charlie has complained about drivers in minivans, insisting that they are the worst drivers on the road. I think he also found minivans to be old, stuffy and a little emasculating. When we started talking bigger cars, he steered me towards SUVs or cross over vehicles, thinking he could salvage his (in his mind, anyway) cool reputation and his masculinity. Turns out, he could save neither. The problem with SUVs and crossovers is that they are not made with parents in mind. The doors open out instead of sliding, making it difficult to put a car seat in the car without hitting the car in the next parking space with the door and they are woefully short on cup holders. We looked and looked, and finding the SUV market lacking, on the advice of my women co-workers, I finally insisted on checking out the minivans.
We ended up at a Honda dealer, looking at an Odyssey. We were both reluctant and sullen at first, but as we looked, I felt myself falling in love. The Odessey has bluetooth and 5 plug-ins for car chargers, it has a "cool box" which will cool food and drink (it can hold a 6 pack) to 55 degrees. When I was shown the cool box, I exclaimed, "Oooh! Somewhere to put my beer when I take the twins to schoo!", at which point the salesman looked alarmed. Then, wanting to make the sale, with a nervous laugh, he agreed that it was perfect for drinking and driving children around. There's a little ring that pops out of the console where you can clip a trash bag, and seat belts that come from the ceiling, and a camera that helps one back the van up, but the best feature by far is the 15 cup holders. That's right, 15!!! One could drink 15 Diet Dr. Peppers without having to remember to throw away a single can or bottle. I was sold. Charlie agreed to the purchase as long as I agreed that he could buy a sensless, and expensive sports car once it was paid off. I said fine, thinking that the payoff is five years away. Statistically speaking, with twins in the mix, we should be divorced by then. On the off chance we are still together, I'm really hoping he'll have forgotten. On the way home from the dealership, Charlie said we should get a bumper sticker that said, "I sold out", I suggested one that said, "I left my dreams in my old car".
Since then, we have found that we love our minvan and we did't really didn't leave our dreams in our old car. What the minivan lacks in fun and style, it makes up for in comfort and convienince. It represents a part of our life that could be the most important and the most beautiful. Driving home from the grocery store last night, Charlie said to me, "You know, I don't know how we'll ever go back to a car."
Deliver Me
Women give labor mixed reviews. My mother always made it sound like she walked in to the hospital, painlessly pushed out a baby, then went home to cook dinner. I recently found out that in the seventies, when she did the majority of her baby birthin', women were allowed to be totally knocked out during childbirth. When I heard that, her description made a lot more sense to me. When I found out I was pregnant,I considered what level of pain management to use. I opted for an epidural because I'm not crazy. I have total respect for women who want to go it naturally, I'm just not one of them.
I was in labor for 26 hours. After 26 hours, the doctor decided that I wasn't going to dilate past 8 cm, so I had a c-section. these are people who went to college for 10 years. 26 hours seems like along time for them to figure out that this labor thing was hitting some snags. I built up a tolerance for my epidural in the first few hours after I got it. I felt bad for the anesthesiologist and worried for myself as he pumped vial after vial of pain medicine into my epidural tube. I could feel the cold liquid go down my back, and we would all look expectantly at my legs, as if they would change color if the medicine was working. It never did, and my legs remained flesh colored. By the time I was prepped for surgery, I could have walked to the OR, I was near tears and even the hippie/Douala's techniques weren't helping much. I was begging the nurse to hurry and get me to surgery or let me push. Then I heard Charlie asking, "Are cameras allowed in the OR?" I didn't say anything because I knew if I opened my mouth, I was going to curse and scream and demand a divorce, and there was no way I was raising two babies on my own.
Turned out, they do allow cameras in the OR, so we have a photo of a baby head sticking out of my abdomen. It's very gross and alien, and I'm not even sure what to do with a photo like that. it's not really appropriate for framing..
There were literally 20 people present for the birth of my children. It was surprisingly noisy. There were lots of side conversations and the doctor had the radio tuned to classic rock. I don't mind classic rock, but I don't love it. It seems like I should have been able to choose the music my babies first heard when they came into the world. I'm not sure what I would have picked, but it wouldn't have been Foreigner or Journey.
I was in labor for 26 hours. After 26 hours, the doctor decided that I wasn't going to dilate past 8 cm, so I had a c-section. these are people who went to college for 10 years. 26 hours seems like along time for them to figure out that this labor thing was hitting some snags. I built up a tolerance for my epidural in the first few hours after I got it. I felt bad for the anesthesiologist and worried for myself as he pumped vial after vial of pain medicine into my epidural tube. I could feel the cold liquid go down my back, and we would all look expectantly at my legs, as if they would change color if the medicine was working. It never did, and my legs remained flesh colored. By the time I was prepped for surgery, I could have walked to the OR, I was near tears and even the hippie/Douala's techniques weren't helping much. I was begging the nurse to hurry and get me to surgery or let me push. Then I heard Charlie asking, "Are cameras allowed in the OR?" I didn't say anything because I knew if I opened my mouth, I was going to curse and scream and demand a divorce, and there was no way I was raising two babies on my own.
Turned out, they do allow cameras in the OR, so we have a photo of a baby head sticking out of my abdomen. It's very gross and alien, and I'm not even sure what to do with a photo like that. it's not really appropriate for framing..
There were literally 20 people present for the birth of my children. It was surprisingly noisy. There were lots of side conversations and the doctor had the radio tuned to classic rock. I don't mind classic rock, but I don't love it. It seems like I should have been able to choose the music my babies first heard when they came into the world. I'm not sure what I would have picked, but it wouldn't have been Foreigner or Journey.
Don't Call it a Comeback
I have returned to the blog. I don't know if people will still want to read it, but I have missed it. I'm really surprised that I didn't blog more during my pregnancy. This blog is about motherhood- from my perspective. Hopefully it makes people laugh and I hope women who have been through it relate and women who haven't gain some idea about what it's like.
I have twins- a boy and a girl. They're 12 weeks old and the product of IVF. I was soooo excited to meet these babies, but I did not enjoy being pregnant at all. I feel really ungrateful saying so, but it was not an easy process. Early in the pregnancy, I had to take the intramuscular Progesterone shots for 8 weeks, and they made me exhausted and weepy and left lumps on my butt. Then, around 12 weeks, I had some complications and was on bed rest to see if I would miscarry.
When I hit my second trimester, I had 4-6 solid weeks of feeling great- like my old self, but slightly bigger. Then the size caught up with me and the rest was ridiculous.
I have always thought of myself as a woman's woman. I place a high value on girl friends and think it's important for women to support each other professionally and personally. I don't like when women say, "I don't get along that well with other women".
Having said that, when I first started having such a hard time with the pregnancy, I got a little pissed at the sisterhood. Before I got pregnant no one told me that it would suck so badly. As a matter of fact, I heard quite a few women say, "ooohhh! I looooovvvved being pregnant!". No one talked about how hard it is to actually be pregnant until I was pregnant- and it is f-ing HARD! Even then, when women asked how the pregnancy was going, and I replied, "I hate it and can't wait to have the babies", they would look to make sure no one was listening before responding quietly with comments like, "I didn't like being pregnant either. I felt claustrophobic/terrified/in constant pain/like a host to a parasite." Women do this. We are uncomfortable with certain subjects that make us seem like we give a shit about ourselves and our own feelings.
I know that there are women out there who have mild to no symptoms during pregnancy, and to these women carrying a child must seem like a beautiful dream. Maybe I just ran into those women before getting pregnant, but I think women are not OK with saying, even though the joy you feel when you're with your children is worth the trouble, it's hard to be pregnant.
There were issues that I never dreamed would come up. Frankly, the whole experience made me (not for the first time) question the sanity of that Duggar woman. She was pregnant and gave birth 19 times!!! I bet she can't walk from here to there without peeing her pants, and it makes me wonder how many hemorrhoid surgeries she's had. I had headaches that would not respond to Tylenol or the first two migraine prescriptions I was given. I fell asleep at work, driving to work, driving home, eating and watching TV. During my first trimester, all I did was eat, sleep and work. I suppose that was to make up for the fact that at the end of my second and all through my third trimester, I didn't sleep at all. I couldn't sleep for more than an hour at a time. It hurt to stand, sit, or lay down. I was puffy and my feet were really fat. I did not glow. I just wanted to feel like my old self. Foolishly, I thought that I could go back to being my old self once the babies were here.
I have twins- a boy and a girl. They're 12 weeks old and the product of IVF. I was soooo excited to meet these babies, but I did not enjoy being pregnant at all. I feel really ungrateful saying so, but it was not an easy process. Early in the pregnancy, I had to take the intramuscular Progesterone shots for 8 weeks, and they made me exhausted and weepy and left lumps on my butt. Then, around 12 weeks, I had some complications and was on bed rest to see if I would miscarry.
When I hit my second trimester, I had 4-6 solid weeks of feeling great- like my old self, but slightly bigger. Then the size caught up with me and the rest was ridiculous.
I have always thought of myself as a woman's woman. I place a high value on girl friends and think it's important for women to support each other professionally and personally. I don't like when women say, "I don't get along that well with other women".
Having said that, when I first started having such a hard time with the pregnancy, I got a little pissed at the sisterhood. Before I got pregnant no one told me that it would suck so badly. As a matter of fact, I heard quite a few women say, "ooohhh! I looooovvvved being pregnant!". No one talked about how hard it is to actually be pregnant until I was pregnant- and it is f-ing HARD! Even then, when women asked how the pregnancy was going, and I replied, "I hate it and can't wait to have the babies", they would look to make sure no one was listening before responding quietly with comments like, "I didn't like being pregnant either. I felt claustrophobic/terrified/in constant pain/like a host to a parasite." Women do this. We are uncomfortable with certain subjects that make us seem like we give a shit about ourselves and our own feelings.
I know that there are women out there who have mild to no symptoms during pregnancy, and to these women carrying a child must seem like a beautiful dream. Maybe I just ran into those women before getting pregnant, but I think women are not OK with saying, even though the joy you feel when you're with your children is worth the trouble, it's hard to be pregnant.
There were issues that I never dreamed would come up. Frankly, the whole experience made me (not for the first time) question the sanity of that Duggar woman. She was pregnant and gave birth 19 times!!! I bet she can't walk from here to there without peeing her pants, and it makes me wonder how many hemorrhoid surgeries she's had. I had headaches that would not respond to Tylenol or the first two migraine prescriptions I was given. I fell asleep at work, driving to work, driving home, eating and watching TV. During my first trimester, all I did was eat, sleep and work. I suppose that was to make up for the fact that at the end of my second and all through my third trimester, I didn't sleep at all. I couldn't sleep for more than an hour at a time. It hurt to stand, sit, or lay down. I was puffy and my feet were really fat. I did not glow. I just wanted to feel like my old self. Foolishly, I thought that I could go back to being my old self once the babies were here.
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