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  • The Problem with Pictures

    I know how much y'all love the cute pics of the girls. And I try to deliver as often as possible. The thing is, a little situation has developed. See, we've occasionally let the girls look at the back of the digital camera to see the pictures of themselves. So now, every time the camera comes out, Clio wants to see the babies.(Babies! Babies!) Which makes taking her picture decidedly challenging. Observe:

     

    Mom quickly snaps a pic of Clio in her new chair, but she's already on her way over...

     

    Read More...


  • Clio goes commando

    A quick anecdote: Yesterday was rainy and miserable, and after a rather cranky morning (we were determined to resist Clio's pleas for her pacifier, and though it meant listening to her scream for about 20 minutes, we won. We won!) I decided to take the girls over to our local indoor play gym. We had a blast. Elsa did a lot of running around flapping her arms and screaming with excitement, and Clio did a lot of playing with balls. She and I also teamed up on Elsa and rolled her around in a cylindrical mat thing, which Elsa absolutely loved, the little thrillseeker.

     

    As we were getting ready to leave, and Clio was walking around waving and saying "bye!" to everyone in the lobby area, I noticed a big clump of something coming out of the bottom of her overalls. At first I thought it was a wad of napkins or something that she'd stuffed in there (??) then I got closer and saw that it was, in fact, her diaper. (Not dirty or even terribly wet, thank God). Somehow in the midst of all her running around, it had come off and out from under her onesie and down the leg of her pants like some kind of crazy baby party trick. She literally played her pants off.

     

    Someday maybe we'll watch Flashdance together, and during the scene when Jennifer Beals takes her bra off from under her shirt, I'll look over at Clio -- who will be at least 13, because I wasn't allowed to see that movie until I was that old, and I'll be damned if she can -- and say, "you did that with your diaper once when you were little." And she'll roll her eyes at me and say, "I know mom, you told the whole world on your stupid blog." And I'll remind her that I also told the world how much I loved her and how awesome she and her sister are, and hopefully she'll say, "Yeah, I guess so." And then, hopefully, we'll turn off Flashdance and watch something better instead, because, really, it's not a very good movie.

     

     

     

    Happy Mother's Day, all you awesome Babble mamas out there. May your children keep their pants on!

     

     

     

     


  • Words fail me.

    A couple of times, readers of this blog have commented that I write more about Elsa than Clio. The unspoken implication, intended or not, is that I'm more focused on, or even more fond of Elsa. My initial reaction to these comments has been, naturally, anger: How dare anyone, especially someone who has never met me (and who probably doesn't have twins, let alone write a blog about them) make such an accusation? Why do they feel compelled to make it? Why casually poke at such an emotional landmine? Haven't they seen Sophie's Choice, for God's sake? 

     

    Then I take a deep breath, pour myself a glass of wine, and remind myself that this comes with the blogging territory. When you write about yourself and your private life in a public forum, you inevitably open yourself up to scrutiny as well as support. You have to be at once thick-skinned and humble, and remember that your blog is not you, nor is it a mirror held up to your heart. It is writing. As such, it can offer readers a glimpse into your life and your self, but it can't possibly give them the whole picture -- nor would you want it to. You try to remember this, and you hope that your readers remember it, too. Most of them do.

     

    But after the most recent comment suggesting favoritism, I did look back over my posts to see if there was an imbalance; if Elsa routinely gets more pixels than Clio, and/or is featured more prominently in posts. And I'd say that yes, on the whole, I've tended to write a little bit more about Elsa than Clio. And often when I talk about both of them, I lead with Elsa. It's certainly not conscious, and it certainly doesn't reflect the degree of my love or focus toward them. But I couldn't help wondering: what's the deal? Mind you, I don't feel that I owe anyone an explanation. I only offer it here because I found it an interesting insight to arrive at, as a writer and as a parent.

     

    What I arrived at was this: I think I find it more difficult to write about Clio than I do Elsa. Maybe it's because I tend to *get* Elsa a little more. As I mentioned in a recent post, I feel like we're alike in many ways. Furthermore, she's very outgoing and assertive and active, which tends to make for better stories and easier lead-ins. But Clio -- Clio is subtler. I find it harder to capture her essence in words the way I can (or presume to be able to) with Elsa. Maybe I'm afraid to try. She is unlike anybody I've ever known. My feelings for her are unlike any I've ever felt. Even trying to write this, I'm struggling. So, here; some fragments.

     

    Ephemeral, mysterious, puckish, protean, quixotic, mercurial, chimerical. Where did she come from? What makes her do the kooky, quirky, delightful things she does? How can a person be so dear? How can someone this innocent exist in this world? She should disappear, like some unstable element. She is sublime. I don't believe in angels, but sometimes I swear Clio must be one. (NB: this does not mean she always behaves like one!)

     

     

    Sensitive Clio. Peacemaker Clio. She cries when other people fight or hurt themselves or get upset, when dogs tussle, when our cat growls at the big long-haired Tabby on the other side of the sliding door. Alastair and I can't even play-wrestle in front of her. Her eyes will fill with tears. She has such deep empathy.

     

    I have never been a touchy-feely person, but Clio makes me one. I worry that I give her more physical attention than Elsa, but she just seems to need and want it more. She'll sometimes just mouth my arm or shoulder and coo: "ahhhhhhhhhh." She loves touching my face and pulling me close, and I feel honored every time she does. I don't deserve this.

     

     

     

    Then suddenly, she writhes and stiffens and wants space. She takes her own time; processes things at her own pace. She can't be pushed from the periphery when she doesn't want to be.

     

    I am afraid I am going to lose her. Ever since she was a few months old, I've had this terrible, irrational fear that I'm going to lose her somehow -- to illness, to tragedy, to the fairies stealing her away in the night -- and it makes loving her hurt. It's the most primal, aching love I've ever felt for anyone. Maybe I am more protective of her in my writing as a result. Maybe I want to keep her a little more to myself.

     

     

     

    So, now it probably sounds like I favor Clio, right?  Do me a favor and don't answer that.

     

    xoxo,

    JR

     

     

     


  • Laughter is not the best discipline

    As I've noted on previous occasions, Clio is a silly baby. From the very beginning, she's made us laugh. Something about her expressions, her mannerisms, her overall demeanor is just...silly. She loves to giggle, particularly when broad, physical humor is involved. And she's prone to doing random, silly things, like tilting her head from side to side and saying "blah blah blah blah blah" (my best guess is that this is an imitation of me) or spontaneously going into a perfect downward dog. We never taught her this; she just does it. And with such excellent form!

     

     

    The latest twist on Clio's silliness, however, is not so innocent. It turns out she finds it very, very funny when I say "no" to her. And she finds it downright hilarious to test limits. Por ejemplo: there is a floor lamp in our living room that she likes to grab onto and shake. It's got a pretty sturdy, weighted base, so I don't think she's likely to topple the thing, but still. This is not behavior I want to encourage. So I firmly tell her, "No no, Clio, please don't touch, I don't want the lamp to fall and hurt you, etc. etc." And Clio finds this very funny. She takes her hands off the lamp, smiles, and then holds on again, waiting for my reaction. So I say "no" again. She laughs. I say no some more, and finally she lets go. Then she tries just touching the lamp with one finger, grinning and twinkly-eyed, to see what I'll do.

     

    And my friends, I can't help it: I simply cannot keep a straight face. I try so hard, but eventually I break down. I just can't look at her (That smile! And one finger! That's sophisticated humor!) and not laugh or smile. And I know that this is not helping her learn that when mama says no, mama means it. Granted, I don't think I'd have a hard time staying stern if she was, say, putting her finger into an electrical outlet. But I'd like her to respect my "no's" in general, whether she's in mortal danger or just doing mischevious stuff like throwing her food on the floor or shaking lamps.

     

    What should I do? Should I ignore her when she tests limits? Not look at her when I say my no's? Or do I just need to work harder on my poker face? I will admit that there's also this (weak. weak!) part of me that does't want to show anger or displeasure with her, lest she think that it's not all right to be silly and playful sometimes. I mean, I'm guessing it's pretty tough for a toddler to try to sort out why some things are OK and some things aren't. Why is it all right to stand up in the crib, but not in the bathtub? Why is it OK to throw a ball, but not a cup? It's my job to teach her these things, and hopefully to get her to realize when mama means business. But I suspect it's not going to work too well if I'm giggling the whole time.

     

    Who among us is not powerless in the face of a baby with good comic timing? Help!

     

     



in

About the Blogger

Jane Roper

Jane Roper in Boston

One baby? Piece of cake. Try two. This working mother gives you the inside scoop on the ultimate in extreme parenting: twins.

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