As of this weekend -- Saturday, to be precise -- Elsa and Clio are 18 months old. Or one-and-a-half, as Alastair prefers to say. He thinks they're old enough to be referred to in years now, but I want to hang onto their babydom just a little while longer, so I shall keep referring to them in months. But only until they're thirteen.
The last few months have been, admittedly, rather challenging at times. I think it peaked at sixteen months, around the time I wrote this post, whining about the physical exhaustion of running around after two very active, very needy toddlers. But I feel like in the past couple of weeks, things have turned a corner. Maybe it's because the girls have gotten a bit more physically confident and independent -- they don't fall flat on their faces quite as often, or get as upset when they do. Or maybe it's because their language skills are suddenly blossoming, so it's a little easier to understand what they want -- not to mention a helluva lot of fun teaching them new words. Or maybe it's because we've adjusted. Just as the line of babyproofing in our house grows higher and higher (They can almost reach the kitchen counter now! Damn!) our patience and endurance climb to keep pace with their level of energy and interactivity.
My arm strength, I think, has kept pace, too. Babies are the ideal form of weight training: a gradual increase over time, so you don't even notice that they're getting heavier and that your arms are, in turn, getting more buff. On the flip side, I'm definitely noticing that my back is more frequently sore. Though I try to bend my knees when I'm picking the girls up, it's not always possible. Like when I'm lifting them out of their highchairs or cribs, or out of swings at the playground. The ole lumbar region has definitely seen better days.
Still, I'll take 18 months over 16. As I'm writing this, it occurs to me that maybe one of the big reasons things feel a bit easier is that the girls have started calling me Mommy / Mama now. Does that make me a completely vain and narcissistic person? (Asks the mommy blogger...) Just because my girls call me Mom -- which turns me to Jell-o pretty much every single time -- I find it easier and more rewarding to be with them? Add in the fact that they crawl into my lap when they want me to read to them, and occasionally even offer up a spontaneous kiss, and what can I do? I am at their mercy. The sore back, the endless cleaning of thrown food, the temper tantrums (theirs) and futile reasoning (mine -- as in, "Clio, you already had a turn with that puzzle; it's Elsa's turn now...") ...are all much more tolerable when they're balanced by cuddling and giggling and earnestly anunciated attempts at words. (Wa-foo!)
Which isn't to say that I'd call things "easy." This morning, for example, Clio pitched a total fit at the doctor's office. (Their 18-month checkup.) She was happy as a small, pudgy clam in the waiting room, but the second we got into the exam room she got decidedly tense, and when we took her clothes off and tried to weigh her -- forget about it. She was one angry little baby. Not that I blame her. It's humiliating to strip down and get poked and prodded at, no matter how old you are. And it adds insult to injury when the doctor keeps getting your name wrong. (I'm not Chloe, I'm CLIO, dammit! And I don't care if you have cute frog stickers on your stethoscope, I do NOT like being objectified in this way! Give me my clothes!)
But still, somehow, this sort of incident doesn't rattle me or stress me out like it might have a month ago. This is the way of parenthood, it seems: you go through times when you feel like you're at your wits' end and wonder when you'll ever get a break when, suddenly, it gets a little easier. And then something changes and it gets harder again, but soon enough, the rewards recalibrate with the challenges, and you reach a sort of happy medium; an equilibrium. For a little while...
