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*
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."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)