Baby Squared

Two of a kind. Or not.

2008-09-04T21:14:00Z

We make such a conscious, concerted effort to treat Elsa and Clio as individuals. We don't dress them alike, we never refer to them as "the twins," and when talking about their personalities, we try not to do it in a comparative way (as in "Elsa is the more outgoing one"). One of the biggest pleasures of watching the girls grow up is seeing their very unique personalities develop and define themselves, frequently obliterating our expectations and assumptions along the way.

At the same time, ironically, our biggest logistical goal has always been to keep them on the same schedule, for the sake of our own sanity. Right from the get-go, we did it as much as possible: if Elsa needed to be nursed, Clio would get nursed at the same time or right after, whether or not she was particularly hungry. When we put Clio down for a nap, we put Elsa down, too. To this day, the girls get fed, bathed and put to bed at the same time, and the large majority of the time, it works out just fine. Which is kind of amazing, when you consider how different they are as individuals.

Note distinct hairstyles, eye color, clothing, body language and expressions of toddler angst

We've also been pretty lucky on the sleep front: both girls are good nappers, and we were able to get them both sleeping through the night (and by that I mean twelve to thirteen hours at a stretch) by the time they were nine months old -- a habit they have kept up beautifully. Clio has always needed a little less sleep; she's usually the first to wake up. But the discrepenancy has never been particularly large or inconvenient. Until now.

Clio, it seems, is becoming a morning person. Whereas both girls used to sleep from 7:00ish at night until 7:30 or even 8:00 in the morning, lately Clio has been getting up more like 6:00 or 6:30. Her waking up ritual: she throws her blanket, Gloworm doll and pacifiers out of the crib with gusto, then proceeds to wail until we come in and get her. And because Elsa is almost always still sleeping -- or looking groggily up at us as if to say, "will you get her the hell out of here?" -- we'll take Clio into our bedroom and attempt to get her to lie in bed with us while we steal a few extra minutes of sleep. But usually she's not interested. She'll sit up and start identifying parts of our faces, complete with full index finger/nostril penetration when she gets to "nose." She'll climb down off the bed and start walking around the bedroom picking up random objects. Or -- and this is the worst -- she'll pitch a violent screaming fit for no apparent reason, is absolutely unconsolable, and wakes Elsa up in the process. And then we're all miserable and cranky.

It's a drag.

I know, I know. Having one child wake up an hour or two earlier than the other is not the end of the world. Parents of different-aged siblings have to deal with it all the time. I'm spoiled, and should thank my lucky stars that our girls sleep as well as they do, and have for so long. I should rejoice in and respect their differing sleep needs just as I do their different personalities and appearances, right? How fascinating, their different biological needs and unique circadian rhythms! Nature over nurture! Chicken over egg! Eggs over easy!

Or, do you think maybe if we started dressing them in matching pajamas and re-named them Tiffany and Taffany* they'd sleep the same amount?

Sleepy Elsa

*Actual names of g-g twins, seen once on a college application forms by a friend of mine who worked in an admissions office.

And we're back.

2008-09-02T01:17:00Z

Home again, after a week at family camp in New Hampshire, followed by a few days in Vermont, where Alastair played in a folk festival. I am pleased to report that we had a really lovely time. In fact, this is the first time we've gone away with the girls that I wasn't dying to come home by the end of it. The secret: expectation management. As I mentioned in my last post, I went into this vacation with my eyes wide open, knowing it was going to be tiring and chaotic and nothing like pre-child trips of yore. But I very consciously decided not to be grumpy about this, and try, instead, to savor what is so fabulous and rewarding about having Clio and Elsa along for the ride.

Like introducing them to the wonderful game of bocce. The balls were a little too heavy for the girls to pick up, so we played a little-known, ancient variation on the game where you run up and down the bocce court waving your hands over your head and squealing, and occasionally kicking one of the balls. (It's still played this way in a certain village in Sardinia, I'm told.)

Really, with a little creative adaptation and irresponsible parenting, lots of games can be adapted to include twin toddlers. We're going to lobby for Baby Pong to be included in the 2012 Olympics. (Please note: no children were harmed in the making of this photo.)

We also spent a lot of time on the swings, of which there were many. The girls currently refer to swings / the act of swinging as "whee!"

Predictably, the girls weren't enthusiastic about spending time in the lake, but on one occasion they did a little wading and splashing.

We also managed to steal a little time for ourselves, with help from many wonderful folks on the island, first and foremost Alastair's parents -- or "Abu" and "Jaycee" as the girls call them these days. (Abu is short for Abuelito, and Jaycee is some kind of corruption/blend of "Grandma J" and "Joyce" we think...). I managed to make some respectable headway in "Middlemarch," Alastair defended his crown as men's singles tennis champ, and we made it out to some of our favorite evening activities. Like talent night.

Yep, that's me in the middle, channeling Steven Tyler, singing "Walk this Way" at the talent show, with the kickass staff band. I sounded like crap, but I totally had the moves. (And the snakeskin pants.)

The girls did their share of partying, too. They loved the pre-dinner cocktail parties at people's cabins, where they did carb-loading that would put Michael Phelps to shame.

Of course, it wasn't all Aerosmith and Pepperidge Farm all the time. Elsa was teething, and had some rough days, when she'd periodically start wailing miserably for no reason. Clio had a couple of all-out screaming fits, both diaper-rash and fatigue-induced, right as lunch started, so I ended up back at the cabin eating PB&J while she napped. And the mosquitos were vicious. Still, it was easily our best family vacation yet. More thoughts on that to come, but for now I leave you with a family portrait, which may be a serious contender for this year's holiday card....

Oh, and for anyone who's been waiting up nights for the answer's to last week's trivia challenge:

1. D (Clio went through a phase of screaming before bed unless we stayed there and rubbed her back. We did it a few times then finally realized we just had to let her cry it out and break the cycle. It worked.)

2. D (All of the above. She seems to have developed a whole new crying vocabulary of late.)

3. B (Elsa has been fighting wearing a bib when she's overtired. And once she refuses, Clio refuses too. Joy!)

4. A (They can say 'Thank you'! Sometimes...)

5. C, D, F (Blow her nose, wear a barette, totally f*** up our cable box)

6. A, B, D, E (Say please when cajoled, climb up the slide, walk down stairs by herself, has tried to lift the cat by her tail)

7. True, regrettably

8. True. (I'm almost certain)

Thanks for playing!

Off we go, again

2008-08-22T20:52:00Z

We are about to leave for another week's vacation, this time up to Sandy Island, on Lake Winnepesaukee. Long-time readers (does a year count as long?) will remember that we took the same trip this time last year. And we'll most likely continue to go to Sandy for the last week of summer -- or Week 9 as it's called up there -- for many years to come. Alastair's been going with his parents since he was four, and I've been going on and off (mostly on) since way back when A. and I were college sweethearts. (Can I get an "awww"?)

I'm feeling more relaxed going into this than I have other recent family trips, maybe because I've finally adjusted to the fact that vacationing with two babies/toddlers isn't vacationing as I've always known it, and that's OK. I am prepared. I am at peace. I have no illusions, and am determined to try enjoy it in all its chaos: dining hall meltdowns, sand-and-sunblock-sticky limbs, nights stuck in our cabin, etc. It also is going to be a lot of fun, I think, now that the girls are more person-like and observant, able to interact and explore and enjoy. And, oh yes, I will be accepting any babysitting help that is offered and begging for it if it isn't. (Julia: take note!)

I won't have internet access on the island, so I probably won't be able to post for about a week. But please don't go away! Come and read again! Here...I'll create a cliffhanger: the First-Ever Elsa and Clio Current Events Trivia Challenge. But no answers until I'm back. Oh, the suspense.

1. This past week at bedtime, Clio has been screaming her head off and refusing to go to sleep unless Alastair or I

a. Put all of her stuffed animals into the crib with her

b. Read her "Jamberry"

c. Leave the light on

d. Come back in and rub her back

2. Clio screaming her head off sounds like

a. Feedback from a microphone too close to an amp

b. A recording of a chainsaw played back at double speed

c. A duck being stepped on, repeatedly

d. All of the above, on shuffle/repeat

3. Lately, Elsa has been pitching a fit every time we

a. Change her diaper

b. Try to put a bib on her

c. Pick up Clio

d. Step on ducks repeatedly

4. Recently, Elsa and Clio have started using the word "dentoo," which we are fairly sure means

a. Thank you

b. Tissue

c. Tattoo

d. Dentyne

5. Clio has recently learned how to (Choose as many as apply)

a. Drink from a "big girl" cup

b. Flush the big toilet (aka "Robert")

c. Blow her nose when you hold a tissue up to it

d. Keep a barette in her hair for more than 5 minutes

e. Separate an egg

f. De-program our satellite TV using the remote

6. Elsa has recently learned how to (Choose as many as apply)

a. Say "please"

b. Climb up the slide (i.e. go the wrong way) at our favorite playground

c. Get guys to buy her drinks

d. Walk down stairs by herself

e. Really piss off the cat

f. Open the refrigerator

7. True or false: the other day, when Clio's feet were stinky after wearing her sneakers all day with no socks, Alastair sprayed Lysol on them. (Her feet, that is.)

8. True or false: you're not supposed to spray children's feet with Lysol, dumbass!

Have a great week.

The best things in life

2008-08-19T12:00:00Z

On a few recent occasions, I've noticed that the girls have shown interest in other kids' "pretend" toys -- dollhouses, train sets, play farms, etc. -- so I started keeping my eyes open for something along the same lines to add to their toy collection. (The toy collection which, incidentally, is gradually overtaking our living room, spreading like a brightly colored, plastic rash.) I did some Craigslist searching, bid halfheartedly on a Fisher Price Noisy Farm on eBay (and didn't win), and posted on my MOT club listserv, but to no avail. In the end, it was Freecycle that did the trick.

Freecycle, in case you're not familiar with it, is a network of community groups/ listservs for giving and getting free stuff. It's a great way to get rid of things you don't need any more but don't want to bother trying to sell or wouldn't be able to, and also a wonderful way to score a whole variety of random stuff for yourself -- everything from computers to books to extra zucchini from people's gardens. Its main purpose is to reduce waste, but it's also a great way to save money. So if you're both cheap and green(ish), like me, you absolutely must check it out.

When I tried to explain the concept to my husband he was aghast. "You mean people just give stuff away? For free? Why don't they sell it? What's the matter with these people? I don't like it." I reminded him that while he was an economics major in college, he'd ended up becoming a folk singer, and it really wasn't very folk-singer-ish of him to be skeptical about such a lovely, communal sort of system, now was it? (He didn't really object anyway. He just likes to play Ricky Ricardo to my Lucy whenever I come up with some kooky new harebrained scheme, like exchanging free stuff with random strangers.)

Anyway, I posted on my local Freecycle list to see if anyone had a dollhouse or toy farm or the like that they were giving away, and a few days later got a response from a woman in the next town over who had a Dora dollhouse, complete with furniture, that her daughter didn't play with anymore, that she'd be happy to hand over. Wahoo!

Now, if I had my druthers, of course, I'd give the girls a lovely, handcrafted wooden dollhouse constructed by unionized elves and painted with organic, all-natural paints. I'm not a huge fan of plastic toys based on TV shows or other trademarked characters, and at this point the girls don't know Dora from a small, explorer-shaped hole in the ground. But druthers are expensive and this dollhouse was free. Free, I tell you! And as trademarked characters go, Dora's probably not a bad choice, right? She teaches kids Spanish and Latino culture and...um...explores things. More importantly, the girls love the dollhouse, and I got to feel like a total hero bringing it home.

The first thing they did was try to sit on the little dollhouse chairs. Ha! I find this so funny and so fascinating: they know it's a chair (even though it's only three inches high) and therefore assume -- quite logically, if you think about it -- that it's meant to be sat upon. Then we put the dolls (it came with Dora's mom and some little boy with a backpack. Diego?) on the beds and said "Night night." The real hit, though, was the miniature jungle gym, complete with slide. After trying to climb onto it themselves, the girls figured out that they could make the dolls go down the slide. And they even said, "wheee!" as they did it, just like they do at the playground -- totally unprompted. So cool! I love seeing them figure out this concept of pretending, drawing on material from their own lives.

Unfortunately, they also figured out how to trip all the little devices in the house that can "talk," so for the next hour I had to listen to Dora screaming things like "LET'S GET SOMETHING TO EAT FROM THE REFRIGERATOR! EL REFRIGERADOR!" Fortunately, this feature can be turned off.

Watching the girls play with the dollhouse, both me and Alastair grinning and laughing, I was reminded of pictures of my brother and me on Christmas morning, playing with new toys, our mother or father looking fondly -- even giddily -- on. As a kid, you have no idea just how much fun it is for grown ups to give you things. I'm sure that the joy I took -- and continue to take -- in watching Elsa and Clio try out their new toy is ten times the joy they get from playing with it. What a delightful and surprising thing to be able to experience this part of childhood again, but in a completely different and more profound way.

And did I mention the dollhouse was FREE??!!

Mommy's turn to cry

2008-08-15T20:57:00Z

Remember how I said I wasn't going to write about bodily functions anymore? I lied. Well, sort of. This isn't about Elsa and Clio's bodily functions, but my own. Puking, specifically. I spent several hours last night engaged in this delightful activity, my stomach repeatedly, violently insisting on purging itself of its contents long after there was nothing left to purge. It was wretched. On the bright side: at least there was women's gymnastics to watch in between pukes. And the US kicked ass!

After the medal ceremony and some final, valedictory heaves, I basically lay in bed moaning for awhile, because I felt so completely awful -- aching, shaky, spent. Eventually I fell asleep. Today, fortunately, there's been no more puking. But lots of aching and nausea and feeling exhausted. As I write this, I am snacking on my children's Goldfish crackers, bringing my total caloric intake for the day up into the triple digits, I hope. (Another bright side: easy 2 pound crash diet!)

Seriously, though, what is the deal with parenting and getting sick? I think I have been sick more times in the past nineteen months than in the previous ten years of my life combined. Colds, stomach bugs, headaches, even pink eye once, for God's sake. And the girls don't even go to daycare! I take as good -- or better -- care of myself than ever in terms of diet and exercise, and the girls have been consistently sleeping through the night for almost a year, so it's not like sleep deprivation is the culprit. Has anyone else had this same experience? Maybe it's just the overall intensity of having to juggle so many things and be so "on" for the girls all the time. Or maybe I'm just getting old.

Alastair has also gotten sick quite a bit, too, though the lucky bastard always seems to get a milder version of whatever virus is sweeping through our household. He wasn't feeling well a couple of days ago -- nauseous, tired, etc. -- but he did NOT spend three hours praying to the porcelain god every twenty minutes. Now, of course, I'm just waiting for the inevitable: Clio is going to get sick (she always seems to catch stuff first), and then Elsa, though probably not as bad (like her Dad, she seems to get the "express" version of everything).

I suppose I should count my blessings. At least it's a weekend (what a way to spend a weekend!) and at least Alastair is here to help out. And at least 19-month olds are totally understanding and accommodating when you say stuff like, "mommy feels sick and is just going to lie here on the couch and sip ice water while daddy runs an errand. Can you two just play nicely with your blocks together for at least 30 minutes? And not whine for me to give you sips of my water? And fix yourselves some lunch if you get hungry? You're the best."

My apologies for such a lame and mopey post. I just can't bring myself to write up any amusing yet poignant anecdotes or shockingly profound musings on the nature of parenting. You know, like I usually do. But here: a cute picture of the girls to tide you over until such time as I don't feel like utter shite. Be well, my friends!

Poopophobia

2008-08-11T21:27:00Z

Sorry to post yet again about bodily functions -- I won't do it again for a while -- but with little'uns it's kind of hard to avoid. My apologies, also, to future Elsa. I have visions of her coming home from school on her compost-powered hoverboard, in tears, having just seen this post broadcasted on the web-browser blackboard in her homeroom by some mean, popular hacker-girl trying to sabotage Elsa's chances at winning class president. "Mom, you told the entire world about my elimination habits 15 years ago on one of those "plog" things? What's WRONG with you? Now no one will want to go to the prom with me!" (Because some things will never change...)

Of course, the long-term effects of this blog on my children and their prom date prospects are a whole other can of worms, which I will surely open and examine here sometime, but not today. Today, let's talk about #2. And how lately, Elsa seems quite upset by the whole business of doing her business.

I don't think this has anything to do with Bobby, incidentally; it started before I even really tried getting the girls to sit on the guy (which I still don't do with any real regularity -- ha. Regularity.) It actually began a few weeks ago, when she was constipated. Trying to go was obviously difficult and uncomfortable for her, and many times Jean or I would end up holding her or trying to comfort her while she strained and whimpered and her face turned red. It's really a heartbreaking experience to watch a constipated baby or toddler, as I'm sure many of you out there know. You want so much to help, but there's really nothing you can do. They don't find it particularly funny when you start chanting "Push it out! Shove it out! Waaayy out!" or get excited when you tell them this means they can have all the blueberries and dried apricots they want -- mommy won't say "no more" after a while like she usually does out of fear of the opposite problem.

So, poor little Elsa. Straining and crying and making all manner of weird faces over the course of a few days, until things improved, with help from some pureed prunes and adjustment of the milk / water intake ratio. Now, things are back to normal, er, consistency-wise. But she still gets upset every time she goes number two. Just before, she cries and says "poo poo! poo poo!" Frequently, she won't go, and this happens a few times before she finally does -- and afterward, she's usually instantly fine. I don't think it bothers her to have a dirty diaper. It's just the anticipation and the process itself.

(I'm Sorry, Elsa. This is so not helping your prom date prospects. But you know what? If some guy is so shallow and immature as to let your poopophobia at 19 months keep him from dating you, well, I think you can do better. Anyway, why is he scouring the web for posts about you from 16 years ago? Isn't that kind of stalker-ish and weird? I'm going to speak to the boy's parents. What's their iHologramphone number?)

I'm wondering if maybe she's still traumatized by the constipation experience, and now associates #2 with pain and suffering. Or is this something else? The anal retentive stage? I thought that came later. And was something little boys were more prone to... Anyway, we just continue to comfort Elsa when she's upset, encourage and praise her for going #2, and for the moment I'm not going to push the Bobby, which hasn't gone over well in these situations. Hopefully, soon, this too shall pass. Just like a ... oh never mind.

Prom is for losers anyway, right?

Introducing Bobby

2008-08-07T19:40:00Z

I'd like to take this post to introduce the newest member of the Baby Squared household, Bobby. Who, you ask, is Bobby? Did we buy a hamster? Is it a long-lost cousin come to crash on our couch? Or have I been secretly pregnant for the past nine months and this is our new baby boy? No, no, no. Bobby is bright pink and made of molded plastic. There are two of him, actually -- one upstairs and one down. And Bobby isn't his actual name, it's just what Elsa calls him. It. OK, OK, enough with the personification ruse. I'm talking potties, people.

(You'll forgive me for not including any pictures in this post.)

At the girls' 18-month checkup last month, our pediatrician asked if the girls had started showing any interest in the potty. I replied that besides walking in on me while I was using it (the grown up version, that is...Robert?), and once or twice splashing in it when I forgot to put the lid down, not really. But at around 15 months, Clio had started letting us know when she wanted her diaper changed. First, she'd just point in the vicinity of her rear. More recently, she's started saying, "poo poo" too, as has Elsa, usually just before she's about to go. I told the doctor this, and she said that we ought to buy a potty and start explaining to the girls what it was, and see if we could get them to sit on it, maybe before bedtime.

So, I got a pair of potties at The Baby Superstore Which Must Not be Named and now we occasionally try to get the girls to sit on them, with or without diapers on, just to try to get the idea. I've gotten Elsa to sit a couple of times, but Clio hasn't been terribly willing. (Though she is very interested in taking the inner receptacles in and out.) They do both seem to understand, though, that their potties are for the same thing Mommy & Daddy use the big potty for -- "poo poo" and "pee bee," specifically. If they walk in on me in the bathroom now, I let them watch, and I explain what's going on. (Sorry, TMI, I know, but I suspect this is how they learn....) I've also gotten in the habit of saying "bye-bye [insert appropriate euphemism here]" when I flush the toilet. As a result, they seem to think that's a big part of Bobby culture. (At one point, while we were on vacation, I found Elsa in my aunt's bathroom, waving at the toilet, saying "bye bye!")

I think they're quite a long ways from actual toilet training -- they're only 19 months after all -- but it is cool that they're starting to make the connection between what happens in their diapers and what happens in Bobby. Today, when Elsa started saying "poo poo," I brought her into the bathroom and she sat on the potty on her own, diaper still on. She didn't actually go, but it felt like a step (seat?) in the right direction. And the other night we had an incredibly exciting occurrence: I was giving the girls a bath, and Clio started looking....concerned...and squatting weirdly. I said, "Do you need to go poo poo?" She nodded and said, "Poo poo!" and I whisked her out of the tub, onto the potty, and by George, the girl dropped her little bomb right on target! I clapped and praised her madly, then we flushed and said "bye bye." I was giddy for the rest of the night. (Clio wasn't nearly as excited.)

Now, here's the part where I ask your advice: what exactly is the correct protocol for cleaning these things -- the Bobby, I mean; not the babies -- after use? I know I dump the goods into Bobby Sr., and then do a quick wipe with toilet paper. But then what? Should I rinse the receptacle out in the sink? The tub? (If the girls aren't in it, obviously) The toilet? Should I designate a special Bobby sponge that I use to wipe them down with cleaning spray or something? I've always felt stymied and a little squeamish when it comes to cleaning things that have touched human waste. Like, I'm never quite sure how to rinse off a toilet brush or plunger after I use it, or where/how I should soak the girls' clothes if they get soiled.

I feel rather ridiculous asking, but if there is some standard Bobby-cleaning procedure you have that works, please do share. (Any other potty training tips are much appreciated, too!)

Postcards from the Jersey Shore

2008-08-04T12:45:00Z

We just got home from our vacation, and I've got many a picture to share. But first, may I just rant totally off-topic for a moment? It appears that the cat sitter we hired, who was supposed to come every other day while we were gone, did not come AT ALL. The cat's food and water dishes were empty, the litter box full, the mail sitting on the porch under the mail slot, untouched and -- most telling of all -- the tip we left for the sitter untaken.

I am absolutely livid, and quite tempted to write the name of the pet sitting service here so all you Bostonians / Cantabridgians / Somervillians, etc. out there can steer clear, and spread the word. But I'm going to refrain until I actually talk to the owner and find out what the deal is. Maybe there was some kind of terrible, tragic emergency. But still. If it had been a two week vacation, we might have come home to a dead cat. Thank goodness she's a resourceful kitty. It looks like she managed to get into the big bag of dry food. And I could swear there was one more bottle of Sauvignon blanc here when we left...

Anyway. This issue aside (grrrr), it feels good to be home. While I'm not particularly looking forward to going back to work -- things have been ker-azy busy lately -- I must admit, in many ways it's a lot easier than running around after the girls all day in unbabyproofed houses. But enough kvetching. Here. Some golden vacation moments:

A. encourages Clio to "splash splash splash" at our first trip to the beach. She wasn't a fan of the water, but she was a little less freaked out than she'd been on our trip to the beach at Marion. Baby steps, baby steps.

Elsa was funny when it came to the water. She seemed to like it in theory -- she'd run down toward it with gusto, and splash a little in the wettest part of the sand. A few times she even seemed to like it when a wave washed over her feet. But mostly, she'd turn tail and run in the other direction. It was like she enjoyed the danger...until it was real. All too real.

Having thoroughly tortured them at the beach the first morning, we decided to force the girls onto amusement park rides in the afternoon. We thought they'd like being up on the horseys on the Merry-go-Round, with mom and dad holding them, of course. But they were totally spooked. Now I know what that dumb bench thing on Merry-go-Rounds is for. (Full disclosure: they still didn't like it, especially Elsa.)

What Elsa did like was hanging out with her handsome second cousins, three of whom are escorting her to dinner here, down fashionable St. James Place ($180).

And here she is with the fourth second cousin, watching some family-friendly, age-appropriate television. (Jaws, I think.)

Everybody's favorite dark horse, Clio, was the big daredevil when it came to amusement park rides. She's more timid in many things, so I totally expected her to freak out when we tried putting her on the kiddie rides. But if you want to see God laugh, pigeonhole your children: it was Elsa who kicked and screamed. Clio -- though she looked to be in mild shock the whole time -- seemed to really enjoy herself. She steered like her life depended on it and asked for "more" when the rides were over. In a few years, who knows? Maybe she'll be joining my mom and me on the big kid rides...

Excuse me, now. I have to go play with my poor, neglected cat.

Top 5 Cutest Vacation Moments

2008-08-02T00:50:00Z

So, we've spent the last few days at my aunt's house on the Jersey shore (Ocean City), along with lots and lots of relatives. It was very sweet to bring the girls to a place that is the source of such fond childhood memories for me. My family used to go down every summer for a few days or a week, when it was my grandmother's summer house. Time spent there consisted of long, sunburned days at the beach, playing in the sand and trying to catch the perfect wave on a boogie board; late afternoons reading or playing cards with Grandma on the porch; nights playing miniature golf and arcade games (Skeeball, anyone? Paperboy? OutRun?) and going on rides on the boardwalk.

I'm tired of complaining about how vacations aren't relaxing anymore. They aren't. And it sucks. Indeed. But it's also a whole new kind of rewarding to introduce your children to...well, everything. And, to be fair, grandparents and cousins and aunts were all very helpful with the girls, and A. and I actually did get to sneak away on our own a few times.

Unfortunately, Alastair's got the camera with the pics, and he's on tour in DC while I'm up here in NY at the in-laws' house for a couple of days, so I can't provide a pictoral summary of our adventures, but will do so as soon as A. and I are both in the same state again. In the meantime, I give you the top 5 cutest vacay moments....

5. Elsa repeatedly running down the wet sand on the beach toward the ocean, squealing with glee, and then, any time a wave approached, turning around and running in the other direction, saying, "No! No! No!"

4. Clio riding on the Tin Lizzie kiddie ride at Wonderland Pier, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life, looking slightly in shock the whole time, only sneaking quick, sideways glances at us as we waved to her like lunatics from the side. We weren't sure if she was terrified or was having the time of her life and just being a very responsible driver. It turned out to be the latter. When it was time to get off, she cried for more. Next stop: the fire engine ride!

3. Elsa and Clio dancing and twirling around on the pavement in front of the "Music Express" ride. (Their thrill-seeking mother watched from the Spanish Galleon ride, with her l'il brother. We pretended to barf on the teenaged kids in front of us, and they totally freaked out. Heh heh.)

2. Elsa and Clio sitting in their booster seats for dinner after a particularly cranky afternoon, eating peanut butter and black raspberry jam sandwiches, jam covering approximately 80% of the surface of their faces, arms, and hands.

1. Elsa and Clio playing Ring Around the Rosy (or "Ashy" as they call it) with their second cousins (is that what my cousins' kids are?): four sweet-as-can-be boys ranging in age from seven to thirteen. They were absolutely awesome with the gals, and watching them feed their Ashy addiction was about the sweetest thing ever. I think E & C really enjoyed having four big brothers for a few days.

1a. (Because a Top 6 list just doesn't work....) Elsa and Clio playing Ring around the Rosy with each other -- holding hands, dancing, and giggling when they "all fall down." I haven't yet managed to capture this on video, but I must. Seriously. It could be a frickin' commercial for a fertility clinic.

Pics to come soon!

The Adventures of Miss Elsa

2008-07-25T12:08:00Z

I've written a couple of posts focusing on Clio lately. So, since being a mother of twins means treating your children exactly equally all the time (sarcasm alert), I thought I should give a quick update on what the Elsa girl has been up to.

Bottom line, she's as intensely, passionately, boldly Elsa as ever. Which is both a good and a bad thing. I mean, I think it's really cool that she's resourceful and brave enough to figure out how to push the dining room chairs into position so she can climb up onto the dining room table. On the other hand, SHE'S CLIMBING UP ONTO THE DINING ROOM TABLE!

And she knows she's not supposed to. If I catch her attempting it -- times when I've forgotten to turn the chairs over onto the floor and am busy doing something irresponsible and neglectful like, say, emptying the dishwasher or going to the bathroom -- I very firmly tell her "no" and put her back down onto the floor. She'll give me a sly smile and point to the table and say, "no, no." And then next thing I know, she's trying to up-end the chair and go for it again. It's exasperating. And a little scary. And yet, there's this part of me that can't help loving how ballsy the girl is.

But she's also been engaging in less dangerous, more constructive pursuits. Like helping out with the cleaning (she's way into "scrubbing" things with tissues).

And helping take care of Clio. (She's into "washing" her in the bathtub, as well as feeding her...)

And when she isn't helping out with domestic chores or mounting the furniture, she plays in a Flock of Seagulls cover band.

Other interests include saying "hi" to people, repeatedly and unceasingly, until they say "hi" back; building with Mega Legos; industriously transferring buckets of water from the wading pool to a large bucket nearby; "petting" the cat; going up and down stairs; sleeping like a rock; eating like a horse; and coming up behind me while I'm sitting down and putting her arms around my neck, leaning against my back and squealing with delight. The girl's all right.

Apologies in advance if I don't post for a while (I know, I know, how will you survive?) We're headed out of town for a little family vacation, and internet access -- and my inclination to use it -- may be spotty. I promise to take lots of pictures, though. Have a fabulous week!

Understanding Clio

2008-07-23T00:22:00Z

Over the past few months, Clio has gotten increasingly...how do I put this?...particular. First it was books, as I wrote about in this post, a few months back. Then, it started happening with sippy cups. We noticed that if we filled two different colored cups, Clio had strong preferences about which one she wanted: pink trumped all, and purple or orange were better than blue or green. Try to hand her the wrong color cup, and she'd push it away and say "no" until you offered her the other one.

Then, just when I thought I had her color preferences all figured out, she changed her game. She started consistently refusing the first cup I offered her, in favor of the second one, regardless of color. And then sometimes -- in a cunning and exasperating twist -- once she had that one, she'd whine until I swapped it for Elsa's cup. (Elsa, bless her heart, could care less.) So now I just hold up both cups and let her choose.

What's even stranger (or cuter or more annoying, depending on my mood) is that she also has preferences when two items are EXACTLY THE SAME. Por ejemplo: we have two identical toothbrushes, which we use interchangeably on the girls. The same color, the same design, everything. But lately, Clio won't accept the first one I hand her. Or she will, after I try offering her the second one. Or maybe, if Jupiter is aligned with Mars and the date is a prime number and the Sox are playing at home, she'll take the first toothbrush the first time. Who can predict -- let alone understand -- the ways of the Clio?

Sometimes I think she just likes the process of it all: the chance to assert what she wants, then refuse it, then ask for it again. Other times I wonder if it's a twin-specific thing. Is she trying to prove (to herself and to us?) that she and her sister are not interchangeable? That she has very specific needs and wants, and we can't expect to treat her and her sister them the same way, even when it comes to something as simple as offering them a toothbrush or a cup or a cracker? I'm just glad that this fussiness hasn't extended to all aspects of life -- clothes, shoes, diapers, car seats. (Can you imagine? No, mama, I don't want to be on the left! I want to be on the right, where Elsa is. No, no, no! Not over here! On the left! That's what I said! Yes it is. Why are you looking at me like that?)

I am reminded of a classic snapshot in one of our old family albums, labeled "The Tantrum in Tomorrowland." It was taken in 1980 on our first family trip to Disney World, and features my father, in a shaggy beard and slightly too-tight, bright red, Jack Tripper-esque shorts, grinning with sarcastic fervor while holding my writhing, screaming, three-year-old brother in his arms. What happened was this: we'd all started to climb a staircase to some sort of rocket thing, my father leading the way. My brother piped up and told my father that he wanted to go first. So, my father obligingly stepped back down to let him go ahead. But no. My father had already ruined it. My brother couldn't go first -- it wasn't the same -- because our father already had. There was no remedying the situation. He (my brother, that is) proceeded to scream and cry inconsolably for at least fifteen minutes (I think at some point my mom and I left and went on the Mad Hatter teacup ride....) until he finally fell asleep, right on the pavement.

I really would prefer to avoid this kind of scenario.

Every time I hand Clio the wrong cup, I fear that she's going to snap because I didn't comply with her need to have everything just so. I'm sure this control thing is a natural developmental stage, and it's silly of me to take it too seriously. Still, I find myself bending over backward to do things the way Clio seems to want me to, just to keep her from freaking out. It's probably not a good habit to get into. But they're such small, innocent things. Like the other night, when she insisted on sleeping in the hooded towel I'd put on her after her bath. (She's a big fan of having things on her head -- except when she's completely opposed to it.) What's the harm, right?

Or should I be trying to break her of these little pecularities and get her to chill? Is my complicity fueling unhealthy, compulsive behavior? Or should I continue to take the path of least resistance and humor her? Please advise.

Escape to the Mall

2008-07-20T02:42:00Z

It is hot. Damned hot. Step-outside-and-it's-like-opening-an-oven-door hot. Too hot for the backyard or the park, at least in the middle of the day, when the sun is at full force. So today, I took the girls and myself (the Mister's out of town) to that air-conditioned mecca of merchandise: the mall. Believe me, malls are not high on my list of Places I Like to Spend Time. In fact, I kind of loathe shopping. But I needed to get out of the house -- particularly with A. being out of town and me being, well, bored -- and the eighteen-month-old air conditioned options are limited. They're too young for a matinee movie. Museums are expensive and logistically difficult. A long drive burns gas. You might as well shop.

It actually went reasonably well, to my surprise. I even managed to accomplished two of the three optional shopping goals I set for myself: a going away present for Jean, our sitter; a pair of pants to replace the ones recently stained and ruined by Elsa's antibiotics for impetigo (we couldn't get her to keep much of the stuff in her mouth), and a casual sundress for wearing on damned hot days like this. #1 and #3 were accomplished; I knew #2 was ambitious, but I actually did try on a couple of pairs, so it was a decent effort.

The first time I tried to bring the girls into a dressing room with me (handicapped dressing rooms are your friend!) they got antsy. As I've written before, toddlers require perpetual forward motion. Sitting in a parked stroller is not fun. Even while watching your mother put on a ruffly, puffy, empire-waisted sundress that makes her look like a giant cupcake and was obviously designed to be worn by someone ten years younger, ten pounds lighter and six inches taller. (Though I am highly doubtful that it would look good even on a woman of that description.)

There is, however, a corollary to the no-parked-stroller rule: Sitting in a parked stroller is, in fact, perfectly acceptable as long as you have a snack cup full of cheddar bunnies (or other snack) in your hands. Once I figured this out, we got through three more dressing rooms, and I succeeded in finding a sundress that didn't require me to be an anorexic, spray-tanned co-ed to look good in. I wasn't able to find the kind of pants I was after, but I did get to search pretty thoroughly, even braving the sale racks in Macy's. This is thanks in part to the many passersby who stopped to smile and talk to the girls, keeping them occupied while I rummaged. Elsa definitely enjoyed the attention. In fact, you'd think the girl was running for mayor of the mall or something. She was working the crowd like crazy, smiling and saying "hi" to anyone who looked in her direction, waving from her stroller, wrist swiveling, like a little royal. (Clio preferred the company of herself: she got excited any time I parked the stroller in front of a mirror.)

To reward the gals for their good behavior, we made a prolonged stop at the Lego store. There's a little play table with chairs, where they could sit and haplessly attempt to stack and separate legos (they were the smaller, older kids' kind --- too tough for them). Mostly, though, they just ate their cheddar bunnies. Hey, whatever works. Not long after that -- had to stop in Williams Sonoma to admire fancy kitchen equipment I can't afford and don't have time to use -- we headed for the food court. I seriously considered just cruising around getting free samples for the girls' lunch -- they were all in such perfect, bite-sized pieces! But eventually I bought a ham and cheese crepe thingy, which I cut up and let the girls attack with plastic forks. (Now that they're such utensil experts, they don't want to eat anything with their hands anymore).

It was after 12:30 by then, and some serious eye-rubbing and whining began. On the way out of the mall, we passed a big display where they had a bunch of Wiis set up, and young, spray-tanned co-ed salesgirls helping people try them out. I was really tempted to jump on and see how I did at the hula-hooping game. (There was a time when, despite my total lack of hips, I was a really good hula-hooper.) But I knew that to stop again would be pushing it. The girls were tired. We were out of cheddar bunnies. It was time to go home.

Kiss me, baby

2008-07-17T19:10:00Z

You ever just feel so madly in love with your children you want to kiss them on the mouth? Not in an incestuous, inappropriate way, of course. More like a hungry, aching, gleeful sort of way. Like Cookie Monster, if you will. Me want to kiss delicious baby! Me cannot resist any longer! Num num num num num!

And I do kiss them on the mouth sometimes -- a quick parental kiss on those teeny, soft little lips. But who ever thought I'd want to do even that? When I was a kid, I hated it when adults tried to kiss me on the mouth. My grandfather always puckered up for a loud, sillly smack on the lips, which I obliged but never really felt comfortable with. (He smelled like cigarettes and had very high blood pressure, so his lips were always slightly purple.) I even complained if my parents' kisses on my cheek were too wet. "Too much slush," I'd say.

Before having children, I had no idea how physically connected to them I would feel. And I don't mean just the whole breastfeeding chapter, though that was lovely and snuggly, to be sure. (That is, until I couldn't get the girls to nurse for more than, like, thirty seconds before they were crawling off to do something more interesting.) I just mean the constant -- and growing, it seems -- desire to hug and hold and, yes, kiss them. It is fueled (oh, how it is fueled!) by the fact that they themselves have now become cuddly little creatures, who seem to need -- not just tolerate -- physical closeness: Elsa will reach up to be held and say "mommy!" with a smile, or come and sit in my lap to be read to. Sometimes Clio, in the midst of playing, will come over and lay a little hand on my shoulder or knee for a few minutes, just because. And when I kiss her good night, she reaches up and pulls my face down closer for a kiss. She pulls my face down! Can you blame me for wanting to gobble her up?

Maybe that's it. I don't actually want to kiss my children. I want to eat them.

I am mindful of the fact that as they grow older, there will be less and less cuddling and holding and smooching and squeezing. It's hard to believe that someday those chubby little feet won't be mine for the nibbling (and probably won't be chubby or little, either). There won't be long, giggling kisses goodnight. No one will sit in my lap. And when that time comes....well, I guess that's right around when parents start jonesing for grandchildren. And buy dogs to hold them over in the meantime.

But I'm guessing that when you become a grandparent, though you get to enjoy some of that sweet physicality again, it's not quite the same or as powerful as what you feel with your own children. So I am relishing this time of physical closeness with my daughters. And trying to keep myself from inadvertently ingesting any part of them in the process. Num num num num num!

Babes on the Bay

2008-07-13T23:53:00Z

Apologies for the long pause between postings. We've been away for the past few days, staying with family friends in beautiful Marion, on Buzzards Bay, near the Cape. We brought the girls down last summer, when they were just six months old, and as we were leaving today we were told that if we brought them back next summer, too, that was it; we had to come down with them every year from there on out. Fine with me! It's a beautiful spot, and has all the elements of my ideal family summer getaway: the ocean, green grass and shady trees, an outdoor shower, shelves full of books, big family dinners, an easy, do-what-you-want-when-you-want sort of feel.

Not that we were exactly lounging around. The gals kept us good and busy. But it was easier in some ways than last year, when they were still nursing every three hours and didn't sleep through the night. And this year they could actually do things -- besides just smile and spit up. They colored with markers (none were swallowed, as far as I know) and kicked balls around in the yard with the big kids. They played with all manner of toys, representing three generations (A 1950s stacking toy, 1970s Fisher Price people, a present day Spongebob sprinkler). And, to my delight, they discovered the joys of playing in the sand -- something I always loved to do as a kid.

They were not, however, fans of the ocean itself. We tried to get them to dip their feet in, but they would have none of it. Even when we were holding them up in our arms, while we stood in ankle-deep water, they were totally freaked out. This was the first time they've experienced the ocean with enough awareness to be frightened by it. I can't say I blame them -- the wind, the waves, the noise, the vastness. Definitely a little intimidating. So, we stuck to terra firma, for fun with Mom's sunglasses...

....and waiting-for-grilled-cheese-sandwiches from the beach grill antics.

I'd be lying if I said it was a relaxing weekend. With twin toddlers, I don't think a genuinely relaxing vacation is possible, unless, perhaps, you bring a nanny along. (Not that I know this from experience, alas...) There's just too much packing and schlepping and chasing and cleaning and feeding and dressing and undressing and sunblock slathering for it to feel exactly "restful." Gone are the days of leisurely walks, falling asleep while reading a good book, playing an uninterrupted game of cards or Scrabble. (Do I know how to party or what?) But it was, nevertheless, extremely refreshing. Good company, good eats, gorgeous scenery, etc. And as devoted as I am to you, my fellow Babbleonians, it was nice to leave the Internet behind for a few days.

Before I go -- one last photo, of yours truly.

Can anyone guess why I am wearing an eye patch? (Made last summer by a nine-year-old boy, for playing pirates)

A. To draw attention away from my unnaturally pale limbs and shamefully un-beachy attire

B. Because that morning, Elsa had inadvertently poked me in the eye with a paint color chip, and when we arrived in Marion, for some reason, it started hurting again, like a motherf*er, and I got tired of holding my hand over it to keep it closed.

C. Because I'm a pirate. (Duh)

D. All of the above

Poison Control Call #2

2008-07-09T01:34:00Z

Me: Um, hi, I think my daughter may have swallowed a crayon. Or part of one.

(We were drawing -- Elsa and Clio and me. Well, sort of. They've just gotten to the point where they vaguely understand the concept of scribbling. They mostly prefer putting the crayons in their boxes and taking them out again. Anyway, Elsa was standing on the paper -- a cut-open paper shopping bag, actually -- and I thought it would be fun to trace her foot. But not long after I did, she became mildly distraught. I thought it was because I got some crayon on her toenails. Not that this is the sort of thing that would normally bother her, but who knows? Maybe the girl just didn't dig blue toenails, right? It's a little out there, a little weird. So I wiped off the crayon as best I could, but she kept whimpering, and it gradually escalated to crying. Then she was putting her fingers in her mouth and making "yuck" faces, much like she did after she ate dishwasher detergent.)

PC: She'll be fine. Crayons are non-toxic.

(Phew! Yes, that's right! In fact, I've known this for as long as I could read. I remember looking at Crayola crayon boxes and seeing those words, front and center: "Non-toxic." (And then something about different brilliant colors...) And I remember asking my mother what it meant. In fact, I've probably known that crayons are non-toxic longer than I've known that bees die when they sting you and no two snowflakes are alike. Not that this stopped me from calling poison control...)

Me: OK, but she seems pretty unhappy. She's been crying for like ten minutes, and she's sort of hiccuping and burping now. And she just looks really uncomfortable.

(In fact, she'd squatted down in a corner and was looking red-faced and slightly bug-eyed, almost like she was trying to poop. I tried to give her water, but she wasn't interested. Clio, meanwhile, had started whining in sympathy. Which made it hard to hear the poison control lady when she said....)

PC: She'll be fine. Crayons are non-toxic.

(Right. We established that. When I was four.)

Me: But is it possible that she'd feel sick after swallowing one? I mean, I don't know for sure that she did swallow a crayon. It's just sort of a theory. We were drawing, and I was tracing her foot, and then all of a sudden she got upset. But now she's making these kind of weird sounds, and....

PC: Is the crayon caught in her throat? Is she choking on it?

(Yes. My daughter is choking on a fucking crayon, and I'm here talking on the phone with you.)

Me: No. She's not choking. She's just...I mean, I'm just wondering, would swallowing a crayon make her this unhappy?

(Even if it was a sucky, undesirable color, like burnt umber, or that stupid "cornflower" that barely shows up?)

PC: It probably just didn't taste good. Try giving her a popsicle or a drink of water or something. She'll be fine.

Me: OK. Thanks. A sphincter says what?

PC: What?

Me: Exactly.

(Within five minutes, Elsa had recovered completely and was snuggling in my lap pointing and yelping at pictures of bunnies and fish. I still don't know whether or not she actually swallowed a crayon. We'll see if a brilliant-colored, non-toxic little something shows up in her diaper tomorrow...)

Elsa in happier times, eating yogurt and...something else I can't identify. But definitely not crayons.

The Problem with Pictures

2008-07-04T17:06:00Z

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...

She sees the camera. "Babies! Babies!"

"Babiiiiiieeees!!!"

This happens pretty much every time I try to take Clio's picture. As a result, I have an absurd number of pictures of Clio charging toward the camera. (And an imbalance of pictures of Elsa just playing or smiling or otherwise not grabbing the camera out of my hands.) Sometimes if I'm stealthy, I can manage a pic of the two of them together...

Yes! Cute shot of chubby twin toddler legs! Now, maybe if I can get them both to turn around at the same time....

Too late. Clio's onto me.

"Babies! Babies!"

You see what I'm up against here?

Unfortunately, this fascination with the camera isn't one that can be easily solved, like the cell phone issue. For a while, the girls were snatching our cell phones (they can now, inconveniently, reach the kitchen counter and dining room table, where we often leave them), holding them up to their ears and saying "Oh? Oh?" and occasionally placing accidental calls. (Elsa managed to inadvertently call her grandmother once, which I thought was fairly impressive.) I found an old, non-working cell-phone to let them play with, but it has since disappeared under some piece of furniture. And they didn't like it that much anyway -- no beeps, no pictures.

So the other day I bought a toy cell phone for them. It was a hit. (And there was hitting, too, seeing as I was foolhardy enough to buy only one of them. But now that the thrill has worn off, the girls are doing a better job of sharing.) Sadly, there's no such thing as a toy digital camera that I'm aware of, and there's almost definitely not one featuring pictures of babies. Elsa and Clio, specifically. (Hm...writing this is conjuring up a vague childhood memory of a Fisher Price toy camera I had as a kid...you could look into the viewfinder and push the button and see pictures of zoo animals...wow. I haven't thought about that thing in years...)

Oh, and were you admiring those cute new chairs? Well. Let me tell you. They're made by a certain upscale home goods purveyor we'll call, oh, Ceramicshack Children. But they're a bit pricey, especially if you're going to buy two. This thrifty mama, however, knows the way to Ebay, and scored the pair of them--brand new--for just a little more than the price of one if I'd ordered them directly from the Ceramicshack. And the gals lurrrrve them.

So, on that very consumerist, all-American note....Happy Independence Day, readers! Here's to life, liberty and the pursuit of bargains. Huzzah!

The 18-month Lull

2008-07-01T01:33:00Z

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...

Waffles and Bubbles and Flowers, Oh my!

2008-06-26T20:13:00Z

The whole language acquisition thing seems to be picking up 'round here. The girls keep surprising me with new words. Last week, I was getting the their breakfast ready -- Kashi waffles topped with applesauce, always a big hit -- and when I brought it to them, Elsa exclaimed "wa-foo!"

Oblivious as always, I first just smiled and repeated, in my dopey mom voice, "Yeah, wa-foo!" and then it hit me: by George, the girl is saying waffle! How long has she known this? Has she been holding out on me? Practicing in her crib at night? What else can she say? Pancakes? Eggs Benedict? So, of course, I started hooting "Yes! Waffles! That's right! Good girl! Waffles!" and trying to find ways to use "waffle" logically in sentences for the rest of the day. ("Remember at breakfast when you ate a waffle?" "You look very waffle today, Elsa!" "Dinnertime! We're not having waffles!")

Soon after that -- maybe even the same day -- the three of us were hanging out in the back yard, and Clio started pointing toward the porch and saying "buh buh! Buh buh!" I caught on a little quicker this time: she was pointing at a container of bubble stuff on the rail. She wanted me to blow bubbles! And so I did, until I was dizzy and had to sit down. Elsa has also started saying bubbles, but pronounces it slightly differently, more like "bah-boo."

Isn't it odd that two babies raised in exactly the same household, who hear each other talk alll the time, have different dialects? This is the case for a lot of the words that they both know. One of the most interesting examples is the fact that Clio says "Mama" and "Dada" while Elsa says "Mommy" and "Daddy." Fascinating! (And can I just say how totally wonderful it is that they're starting to call us this? Granted, they still ocasionally call random strangers, mailboxes and ducks "mommy," too, but most of the time they get it right.)

It's also interesting to me that they don't both have the same words. Elsa has flower ("flou") and stairs ("dee"), but Clio has baby ("bay-bees") and eyes ("ise"). I'm sure someone could have fun coming up with a complex and ridiculous theory on the psychological significance of this, or what it suggests about the girls' future lots in life. (Elsa is going to be a landscape architect and Clio is going to be a doctor?)

Anyway, now that I know the girls are getting better at this talking thing, I'm trying to work more intensively with them on certain words, including "please," "thank you," and "yes." (Because Lord knows they've got "no" down pat.) I'm more conscious of not dropping sh- or f-bombs in their presence. And I'm also thinking I should try to sprinkle some Spanish words in here and there...our new sitter, who's Ecuadorian, will be able to help with that when she starts, which I'm excited about. Como se dice "waffle" en Espanol?

Clio sez, (translated) "Cracker baby bubbles beans cheese shoes bath banana no, Mom!"

Elsa thinks, "Wow, I must look really cute in this bathing suit. She keeps taking pictures."

How Elsa is like Amy Winehouse

2008-06-22T20:30:00Z

Is it the devil-may-care attitude? Perhaps. The ratty hair? Only after particularly messy meals. The drug and alcohol addiction? Not as far as I know. The millions and millions of dollars? Oh how I wish. No, what Elsa and Amy have in common is a nasty little skin infection called impetigo. Now, mind you, I don't follow the doings of Miss Winehouse too closely, and apparently her courageous battle with impetigo is old news. Newsweek, that bastion of serious journalism, covered it back in April. But I wasn't aware until we got home from the doctor's office yesterday when I did a Google image search for impetigo and up came dozens of shots of Amy Winehouse's bumpy-looking face (along with a bunch of grody photos of much worse impetigo than Elsa has).

In Elsa's case, it's a quarter-sized sore on her upper arm that looks rather like a popped blister. When it first showed up a few days ago, as a little red spot, we thought maybe the strap of the carseat or stroller had chafed her, and it had gotten a little irritated. It didn't seem to bother her at all, though, so we didn't think much of it. But a couple of days later it was suddenly much bigger, and there were some other little red dots around it, so we took her to the pediatrician. It took the doctor approximately .08 seconds to glance at her and say, "impetigo." (Which, when I'd seen written on lists of 'common childhood ailments' I'd always assumed to be pronounced im-PET-i-go. In fact, it's im-pe-TIE-go.)

Here's what it looks like....

"It's a summer thing," our doctor explained. In warm weather, when more skin is exposed and kids get generally grubbier, bacteria are more likely to get into little scrapes and cuts and things, and the body sometimes just doesn't fight them off. Then she told me it was highly contagious, at which point I immediately began to itch. So far, though, it doesn't look like anyone else in the familiy has gotten it. Elsa's on antibiotics now, and seems just fine.

Even though this is a very common ailment among small children -- and hard-living British rockers, apparently -- I couldn't help feeling slightly guilty. But only slightly. Though we're relaxed about letting the girls get grubby when they play -- something I feel is an important part of being a kid -- we're also pretty good about cleaning 'em up afterward. Some microbes are just really damned wily. So, you let your kids play in the dirt, it's the chance you take, I guess.

What I want to know is: what's Amy Winehouse's excuse?