Before A. and I had the kids, we loved eating out. It was one of our favorite things to do together, and we always did it a little more often and little better than we could really afford, but it never felt like money wasted. We'd spend lazy Saturday mornings drinking bottomless cups of coffee and stuffing ourselves with omelettes at various breakfast joints, have drinks and appetizers in the middle of the afternoon in the midst of long, leisurely rambles through Boston or Cambridge. Occasionally, we'd splurge on a nice dinner at a place where the waiters are annoying ("what we've done is we've taken a filet of salmon, we've rubbed it with saffron, then dragged it through a vat of roasted, pulverized almonds, then nailed it to the wall and thrown little snails at it...") but the food is so-o-o-o good.

When the girls were teeny tiny newborns, and basically all they did was sleep, we went out a few times with them in their infant seats and ate normal meals, like normal adults. Those days, needless to say, are long gone. We've tried to go out with them a few times more recently, and I'm sorry to say that it's really not that pleasant. In fact, generally, I would not recommend dining out with twin toddlers. But if you are foolhardy enough to attempt it, you might find the following tips helpful:

1. Bring food. Forget about this notion of waiting to "order" food because it's a "restaurant." Once you get your kiddos in a highchair, and assuming it's near a mealtime, they're gonna want to eat. So bring a snack and a sippy cup to hold them over until your order arrives. Or ask the restaurant to bring you some bread, stat. No, forget that; it takes too long. Bring your own.

2. Bring toys, too. Or books, if that's what they're into. Basically anything they can hold onto before and after eating so they won't reach for the knives / Sweet and Low packets / wine glasses / your plate / etc. (Of course, they will anyway). In a pinch, spoons make pretty good toys, as do paper napkins.

3. Go at an off-peak time. Everyone will have a better time if the restaurant you go to is not crowded, so you don't feel rushed and there are fewer other customers for your children to annoy. And by off-peak, I mean really off-peak. We made the mistake of going out this past Sunday morning to our neighborhood breakfast hotspot at around 9:00, thinking that we'd beat the hungover college crowd, but instead, we hit the older people and families with young kids crowd (duh). We felt stressed out the whole time. At one point Alastair looked across the table at me and said "This sucks!" A better strategy might have been tip #4.

4. Go to a mediocre restaurant. It's less likely to be crowded, and let's face it: it's not like you're going to have an exquisite gustatory experience when you're moving knives and glasses and coffee cups out of reach of your children with one hand and shoveling food into your own face with another. Also, your child will prefer whatever you're having to whatever you've ordered for them, so you won't get to eat much of it anyway. If we'd gone to the cavernous, dimly-lit breakfast place across town staffed by surly Eastern European women instead of the aforementioned breakfast hot spot, we might not have gotten fresh fruit on our plates, but we might have actually enjoyed ourselves.

5. Don't do it. Just don't. Unless you absolutely have to -- you're on vacation or something. Really, you're better off just staying home (it's cheaper, too) and make eating out a special, adults-only treat, as we did last night, to celebrate our anniversary. We got a sitter for a couple of hours and went to a great restaurant with annoying waiters and overpriced wine and not a highchair or booster seat in sight. And it. was. wonderful.

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!

We were doing so well with the whole pacifier weaning thing. Really, we were.

We started using the things with the girls at an early age, following the 5 "S"s school of self-soothing: suck (that's the pacifier), swaddle, shush....um...shit. Swing? Sway? Something to do with movement. And another one. Sambuca?

Anyway, the point is, we were not bashful about giving the girls pacifiers in their early months, especially when trying to get them to sleep. Gradually, we made pacifiers the province of 1. The crib and 2. The car. (And kept them on hand for outings to stores, where they ran the risk of getting antsy.) Lately, the only time they really use them is in their cribs, while they sleep, and we're fine with that for the time being.

But last week, Clio started getting extremely cranky. She was breaking a top tooth (our children are still freakishly toothless for their age: Clio only has 2 teeth and Elsa only has 4), and obviously uncomfortable, running a slight fever, too. So we let the pacifier rules slacken a little and gave it to her outside of her crib. But it got to the point where she was asking for it all the time.

As it turns out, she had an ear infection. Her fever was up at 104.5 on Friday night, which was more than a little disconcerting. She's never had a fever that high before. And -- SPOILER ALERT FOR A 10-YEAR-OLD MOVIE -- ever since I saw that movie City of Angels, with Meg Ryan and Nicholas Cage, I've been haunted by the opening scene, where a toddler gets a really high fever and the mom puts her in a cold bath, then takes her to the hospital, but she ends up dying. (I wasn't even close to being a mother when I saw the movie, and yet it terrified me.) So, we called the doctor and administered medication which, fortunately, worked, and took her to the doctor's the next day. Her right ear was nice and red and full-o-pus.

So, at least we knew what we were dealing with. She's definitely improved since we started giving her antibiotics. However, she's gotten used to having her pacifier now, and still whines for it regularly. And all you mothers of twins out there know what happens when you give one twin something: the other one wants it, too. So, now we've got Elsa jonesing for a pacifier whenever Clio is, which is often. Tonight they were so eager for their pacifiers they begged to be put into their cribs as soon as I got their pajamas on them, just so they could suck on the damned things. I'm hoping that as Clio's ear infection wanes and her tooth comes in we can gradually get her -- and Elsa -- back to their more moderate pacifier usage. Because I'm just not down with this regression thing. My hope has always been that by the time they're two, we can get them off the plastic teat completely. But we'll see...

Meanwhile, at least we are making forward progress on another front: utensils! Here, some snapshots of tonight's fork and spoon training session:

Die, potatoes! Die! Die!

 Am I left-handed? I don't think I'm left-handed...

 Hmm...I like the not-so-spiky end of this thing....

Is there a reason these things are a better option than my hands?

Don't worry; this isn't the sequel to my last post about how having two toddlers is running me ragged. What happened this morning was purely accidental, and fortunately relatively benign. But it was a good example of how toddlers manage to find hazards you'd never even considered before.

It was after I'd given the girls breakfast, and we were all hanging out in the kitchen -- the ladies playing with their rubber balls, me cleaning up. I opened the dishwasher to empty it and noticed that the hinge was catching and squeaking in a weird way. I ducked into the bathroom, where I was pretty sure we had one of the ten-thousand cans of WD-40 that "Santa" puts in my Christmas stocking when we spend the holidays at my parents' house. (Along with windshield de-icer, batteries, and usually a pair of nail clippers. When did Santa get so damned practical?)

Ironically, as I was looking for the WD-40, the thought I had was "hm, I wonder if maybe I shouldn't use WD-40 with the girls around," thinking they could somehow get it on their hands and into their mouths. But I realized this was silly, because they really wouldn't be able to get at the hinges of the dishwasher door. But I was pleased with myself for being so conscientious.

Until I came out of the bathroom, and saw Elsa poking at her tongue, making a "yuck" face and whimpering slightly. Her wrist had some kind of white gunk on it, and I thought at first that she'd spit up. (Not a common occurence these days, but it could happen.) I quickly realized that whatever was on her hand and in her mouth smelled far too springtime-fresh to be spit-up. Then I saw the open dishwasher door (bad mommy!), and the residue of the liquid detergent left behind in the detergent holder, scored with little finger marks. It was like some badly edited film: shot of mother examining child's mouth and hands. Cut to dishwasher. Zoom in to detergent cup. Back to child. Shot of mother's eyes gone wide. High-pitched, panicked violin music up.

I grabbed a washcloth, soaked it, and rubbed it around in Elsa's mouth, which she tolerated quite patiently, then gave her some water to drink, and decided that this really wasn't so bad. She'd probably only gotten a tiny bit of detergent in her mouth, and swallowed little, if any. Hell, parents used to wash their kids' mouths out with soap for swearing, right? And this was dish soap; you put it on things that go into your mouth. How toxic could it be?

But I thought to be safe, I should read the back of the detergent bottle. It said: If product is swallowed or gets in mouth, rinse mouth out (check!) give glassful of water or milk (check!), and contact poison control or doctor immediately. Um...shit. OK!

Until this point in my life, "Poison Control" had always just been a number on a refrigerator magnet, or a sticker on the phone. I didn't think anyone actually ever called it. As I dialed (I found the number on a refrigerator magnet whose origin utterly escapes me) I half expected to get a recording saying the number was no longer in service and hadn't been since 1989. But sure enough, a nice woman answered, I told her about my little situation, and she said I'd done exactly what I should have, and there was nothing else to do. "Just keep an eye on her for the next fifteen minutes," she said. "If she vomits, she'll do it in that timeframe."

About ten minutes after I'd hung up the phone, as if on cue, Elsa had a teeny, tiny little puke on the kitchen floor. She barely seemed to notice it had happened, and just went along her merry way.

Phew.

What a way to start the weekend, eh?

I try to stay positive on this blog, and not gripe or groan excessively about the challenges of bringing up babies. Because relatively speaking, I've got it pretty good. And I don't mean just in the I-could-be-starving-in-a-war-torn-African-nation sense. Even in the mother-of-twins sense, I'm lucky. I've got financial stability, an awesome husband, a bunch of kickass virtual pals (that would be you), etc. My daughters are healthy and vibrant and almost always sleep through the night: seven to seven-thirty with nary a peep. How can I complain?

Well, I'm going to anyway. Because recently it feels like things have gotten a LOT harder. Having two mobile, basically non-verbal but very spirited 16-month-old daughters -- while wonderful in many ways -- is also freakin' EXHAUSTING. (Yes, this is going to be a post full of ALL CAPS.)

Being at home is by far the most relaxed scenario. The first floor of our house is pretty much child-proofed and the girls have their run of the place. They're capable of entertaining themselves to some extent. But they also like climbing and riding on things, which requires assistance. They want to be read to, but rarely both from the same book at the same time. They fight over toys and hurt each other by accident. They're constantly hungry.

The weather's been mild lately, so we've been taking them out into the back yard, which is a nice change of pace.  But being outside also means trying to keep Elsa from eating wood chips, then running to help Clio go down the slide again, then rescuing Elsa when she crawls up the back porch steps and can't get down, then picking Clio up to look at the birdies in the tree in the neighbors' yard. Seriously, I should have the body of a 19-year-old field hockey player given the energy I burn just running after the two of them. Instead I have a sore back, a flabby tummy, and circles under my eyes. Oh yeah, and NO BOOBS.

Note our cool new climbing structure -- forty bucks on Craigslist!

Of course, hanging out flabby, boobless and exhausted in the yard is cake compared with actually trying to go out to, say, a playground alone with the girls. In that setting, at any given moment, it's pretty likely that I'm neglecting one of my children. I am that mom at the playground that you hate: the one who is nowhere to be found while her child is eating sand or whacking your baby on the head or climbing up a precarious set of steps en route to the curly slide, leaving you morally obligated to rescue her. But it's not because I'm busy chatting on my cell phone or flirting with the cute dad by the swingset. It's because I'm chasing my other child, who is also eating sand, whacking someone on the head or climbing toward certain peril AND probably needs her nose wiped, too. I'm sorry. Forgive me.

Then there are social events. And I use the term "social" very, very lightly. We went to our friends' daughter's first birthday celebration this weekend, and while it was a lovely party, we basically spent the entire time wrangling our daughters as they traipsed about reaching for drinks, fighting over toys, stealing other babies' sippy cups, toddling obliviously toward staircases, etc. Not that we wouldn't have to do this if we just had one 16-month-old. But in that case, at least, we could take turns. And if, say, we had one baby and one child that, oh, I don't know, UNDERSTOOD AND SPOKE ENGLISH, maybe we would only be in frequent as opposed to perpetual motion?

You know, the newborn months were hard: the constant feedings, the night waking, the lack of two-way interaction. This current phase is infinitely more fun and rewarding. Every day Alastair and I find new ways to communicate with and love and enjoy our children.

But God, are we tired. (TIRED!)

(What, you don't let your kids dance on the coffee table?)

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

For the past couple of weeks, the girls' nap schedule has been kinda funky. The morning nap started shifting to late morning, ending at noon or even later, and the afternoon nap started becoming quite brief, if it happened at all. It was tricky, unpredictable, and sometimes exasperating

Clio has been the primary instigator of the change -- she's always seemed to need a bit less sleep than Elsa, and lately the contrast has been sharper. But as devoted as we are to our children, we are not so devoted that we're willing to put up with two separate nap schedules. Also, we're spoiled: they've always been good sleepers. I think this is a combination of genetic good fortune (we are both extremely lazy) and concerted effort on our part, with help from Dr. Weissbluth. (Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child is our bible.)

On Friday morning, Alastair was working and I was home with the girls, and I'm not quite sure what possessed me -- The balmy spring weather? The promise of morning trips to the zoo? Sheer derring-do? -- but I decided to see what would happen if I didn't put them down for their morning nap.

I expected a total meltdown, especially from Miss Elsa, who generally turns into a cranky, eye-rubbing, whiny little...something...at around 9:30. And that did start to happen, but I promptly took the girls outside, and we played with the $1.99 drugstore balls I'd bought for them the other day -- you know, the same kind you had as a kid: marbled with various colors, kept in a big, cage-like container at the store. This outdoor play seemed to give the girls a second wind. Then we did some mega-lego construction, watched a little Sesame Street (sue me), and had an early lunch. I put them down for a nap at about 12:15, and they slept for almost two hours. Not too shabby! We put them to bed a little early in the evening, and that seemed to work out fine. For three days now, they've been on just one nap.

The key seems to be keeping them (and us) occupied in the morning. So, on Saturday morning we went out with them to buy some gardening supplies (the Home Depot is a wonderland of excitement!) And today -- drumroll, please -- we went to church. Something that we hope to continue doing fairly regularly, until the girls rebel and become Orthodox Jews or Baptists or something. Why would that be rebellion, you ask? Well, it's a Unitarian Universalist church. Pretty liberal, pretty crunchy. But it reflects our values, and -- we hope -- will give the girls some grounding in the Judeo-Christian tradition whence they came, while also introducing them to other faiths. Having gone to church (Congregational) throughout all of my childhood and adolescence with my family, I also really value the community that a church (or synagogue, etc.) represents.

I can't believe I'm saying this. For stretches in my life, I hated going to church. But here I am, a parent, glad in retrospect that I had the experience. Along with piano lessons and not being allowed to eat sugared cereal.

Anyway, we first checked out this particular church on Christmas Eve, 2006, when I was great with child(ren). Then we went a couple of times when the girls were very small, and content to be held or nursed throughout the service. But since then, their nap schedule -- and our Draconian insistence on sticking to it -- has precluded the possibility. Until today.

We were planning to keep the girls with us during the service (ha!), but a nice church lady told us that there was, in fact, childcare at the annex across the street. We had assumed it was for older kids, but lo and behold, there was a nursery room full of age-appropriate toys, several small children/toddlers, and nice, responsible teenagers to look after them. We've  never left the girls on their own before except with their regular sitters (in our home) or their grandparents. I feared that Clio would have a meltdown when we left. But she did just fine. In fact, she apparently did some dancing. And both of them ate a LOT of goldfish crackers. (No surprise there.) Meanwhile, we got to sit and enjoy the service. Though it pained me a little to leave them -- Clio, especially -- I also think it was probably good for them. And us. 

Don't get me wrong -- we will miss the morning nap. Alastair moreso than me -- he's home with the girls four mornings a week when I'm at work. That nap was a nice little reprieve; a time to enjoy a cup of coffee and a magazine, catch up on email, or just catch a little more sleep. But as today demonstrated, there are upsides to the one-nap-a-day regimen.

Full disclosure: the girls didn't sleep very well this afternoon after lunch. In fact, I'm not sure Clio got more than 15 or 20 minutes. It wasn't pretty. But I'm hoping that once they get used to this new routine, they'll start taking a nice, healthy two-ish hour nap on a regular basis. I have faith. (See what going to church once a year will do for a person?)

I have always been a bibliophile. Not only do I enjoy reading books, I enjoy looking at and holding and smelling them. If it were socially acceptable, I would probably lick them. When I was a kid, I used to build little dens and forts in closets and nooks for the express purpose of crawling inside and reading. When we got a clubhouse for our backyard and started a club for neighborhood kids, the first thing I did -- after appointing myself president and writing the club handbook and anthem, naturally -- was set up a lending library. A long-held dream of mine is to one day have an office with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and one of those sliding ladder thingies. And given the choice between going to a movie, watching TV or curling up in a comfy chair with a good book -- well, you get the point.

So, how psyched am I that Clio is suddenly obsessed with books? Quite! She is constantly thrusting them at me, demanding that I read them to her, eager to point out everything that she recognizes. If she sees a bird or butterfly, she'll do the fluttering hands sign for butterfly. An elephant gets our own made-up sign for elephant: arm as trunk, and a sort of trumpeting sound. Horses get bronx cheers (close enough), and cows get "mmm."  Mouths (ma), eyes (ah), shoes (shz), cats (ba), fish (shh) and babies (dieh dieh) also get mentions. If she doesn't know the word, sign, or sound for something and wants to know, she'll point at it and say "da da!" and I'll tell her. It's like she suddenly *gets* this notion of words being connected to things, and is desperate to learn them all.

I've always read to the girls before bed, once they're in their cribs. Lately, Clio has been demanding to have her own book, too. The only trouble is, she's very picky. She reaches out toward the bookshelves making that terrible grunting "I need!" sound that toddlers (mine, anyway) are wont to do (ieeeh! ieeeh! ieehh!) and I bring her book after book. She pushes them away, one after another, until I hit on the right thing: The Very Hungry Caterpillar? No, no, too predictable. Noah's Ark? Religious propaganda! Hop on Pop? Don't insult me. Touch and Feel Farm Animals? Touch and feel this!

Eventually, something will strike the right chord. The Rainbow Fish? Hmm....yes, that looks interesting. Let me read the back cover blurbs and the author bio. Hm. Yes, all right. I'll give it a try. If The Guardian liked it, I suppose it can't be too bad... And then she'll plop down on her butt in her crib and read, sometimes with the book right-side up, sometimes not. For the past week, I've left her with a book in her crib to fall asleep with after saying good night. (And several times I've had to go in an hour later and remove said book because she is lying on it, uncomfortable and crying.)

Alastair thinks I'm being too accomodating by bringing her all these books until she finds one she likes. He suggested I just offer her two or three and let her choose one.  Yeah. Well. I tried that tonight, and she handily, annoyedly rejected them all and resumed grunting and reaching (ieeh! ieeh! ieeh!) until I brought more. A book from the second round, Baby Kittens, held her attention for a while, but then when I attempted to read some nice, imperialist poems aloud from A Child's Garden of Verses while she looked at her kittens, Clio decided that that was the book she had to have. So I scooped both her and Elsa out of their cribs, held them in my lap (something they're very into lately, to my extreme delight) and started reading them "My bed is a boat." I got about three iambic pentametric lines into it before Clio was crawling across the room looking for something with more farm animals in it.

I don't blame her -- in fact, I commend her -- for being picky. I'm the same way; when I'm looking for a new book to read, I'll often flip through a bunch of them before I hit on one that feels right. And it doesn't always work out. I don't feel compelled to finish books just for the sake of finishing them anymore. There are too many great books out there, and too little time. 

I love that Clio wants to read, but not just any old thing. She's a nerd after my own heart.

Now that the girls have got some serious hair on their heads -- well, Elsa does, anyway -- we're faced with what to do about it: long, luscious locks or pert, sassy bobs? Clips and elastics or wild style? Naturally luminous color or playful highlights and sultry lowlights? (Just kidding!)

Elsa's got significantly more hair at this point, and I've pretty much decided (me being self-appointed style consultant for my daughters, God help them) that we're going to grow Elsa's bangs out. She appears to have inherited my hair, which is thick and grows fast, as well as my somewhat low forehead, so I'm thinking this is the right look for her. And more importantly, easier for us to manage. She's getting better at actually keeping barettes in her hair when we put them in, instead of immediately pulling them out. The trick is not to make a big deal of it. So, please, if you ever see Elsa in person, don't say "Oooh! Look at your pretty barette!" because she'll remember it's there and take it out. Just be cool. Be like "hey, nice shizz." Or whatever.

Really, you think it looks good? 

OK, I'm convinced -- I love this look! 

Clio's hair is finer (like her Dad's) and doesn't seem to be coming in as quickly or growing as fast, especially on top. She's got a bit of a mullet going on, which I plan to remedy soon. But we think she can really rock the bangs look, so we're gonna go with that. Also, she has no patience for barettes. More specifically, she likes having a barette put in -- whenever Elsa's got one, she has to have one, too -- but she immediately takes it out, then hands it to me to put back in again. I'll do this about three times before we say "bye bye" to the barette. And then I just have to hope she won't go and pull Elsa's barette out.

I've got to get this thing off my head...

Do it again, mom!

Elsa, who increasingly seems to think of Clio as her own life-sized doll, also thinks it's fun to attempt to style Clio's hair. Clio isn't so into it. (There was crying shortly after this picture was taken.)

Oh, and if you're salivating over Clio's adorable corduroy overalls, I'm sorry to say that this fashion statement can no longer be made. This outfit also came from my mother's attic stash; my little brother wore them, circa 1978 (with a bowl cut, natch).

One of my big fears when I found out that I was pregnant with twins was that I would love one more than the other. This has certainly not turned out to be the case. I love both Elsa and Clio to an equal, insanely powerful degree. What I didn't anticipate, however, was how differently I would love them. In fact, I don't know that I really realized before they came along how individualized the nature of love is. But it makes all the sense in the world. Every person is unique, so how could the love you feel for them not be unique, too?

But I have now violated my own rule against using the word "love" more than three times in a single paragraph, and must move on to the primary subject of this post: my relationship with Elsa

One of the things I'm very aware of in my love for Madame Elsa is a sense of recognition. That is, I see a lot of myself in her. Who knows what it is, exactly? We have the same blood type, hair and eye color; the same chubby cheeks. My parents see a resemblance between her and their memories of me at her age. But it goes beyond the physical. Mostly, I just feel the resemblance between us -- this sense that we are cut from the same cloth; that we approach the world in simliar ways. And as much as this sense of kindred spirits delights me, it also scares the crapola out of me.

What does it mean, to have this flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul in the world? I see the possibility of a deep and abiding friendship; a kind of connection that I've never had with another person. On the other hand, I see the potential for great battles and clashes of will. We may end up like magnets with our matched (stubborn! passionate! self-absorbed!) poles facing, pushing each other away. 

It's impossible to predict, and I certainly don't want to get myself into a whole head trip about how alike or different we are, or how we'll relate in the future. Lord knows I don't think of Elsa as a "mini-me" -- or want to. But I can't help the fact that sometimes, when I look at her, I feel like I'm looking at the child I used to be. It's scary.

This is me, circa early 1976, just shy of two years old. (Please note the insane 70s wallpaper, the patriotic '76 bicentennial brochure, and the smiley face pin on the bulletin board.) I see a little of both Clio and Elsa in me in this pic, actually.

And here's me with Elsa at my parents' house this past weekend. The groovy outfit Elsa is wearing is one that I wore when I  was about her age -- my mom kept it in storage all these years. I don't know if anyone else will see a resemblance between us (either when I was a toddler or now) but I do. 

And as long as I'm posting family photos, here's another one from the weekend, of my mom (who people have always said I resemble, which I take as a great compliment) with the girls. What Crazy Clio is doing in this picture pretty much sums how and why I adore her in such a joyful and doting and unexpected way -- equally powerful and primal but completely different from the way I love Elsa. But that's a subject for another day.

On Friday afternoon, the girls and I went to Together in Motion, a very cool indoor kids' play gym, along with my friend Christina and her one-year-old, Amelia. It was the perfect rainy day adventure. (And no shizz are allowed, let alone required!) Elsa was so excited that at first she just ran around on the mats yelling with throaty glee and waving her arms. Then she declared herself queen of a small structure some parent had built, where she discovered the fun of sliding down the mat -- and the frustration of attempting to climb back up.

She also did some great tower building and demolition:

Clio was very much into the balls of all sizes scattered around:

She also enjoyed playing "stack and destroy." Mostly the "destroy" part.

When we first arrived, there were only a few other kids, most of them the girls' age or just a little older. But it got more crowded, and some bigger kids showed up, which made it tougher for Christina and me to just sit back and yap while our kiddos ran amok. Not that you can ever really have quality conversation with your friends when you're doing the play date thing: "So, what do you think of---Oh! Look! Yes! You have a ball! That's good!---Sorry, you were saying?---No, honey, you have to be gentle with the little boy, gentle!-- Sorry, I really am listening. You were saying before that you think Obama -- Don't put that in your mouth! Yucky!"

And so on. Honestly, I find it a little stressful. I've never been good at social multi-tasking. I can barely manage a conversation with someone while I'm driving, let alone while trying to keep an eye on two toddlers. Plus, I always worry that I don't pay enough attention to my friends' children (usually just one of them) because I'm too busy trying to keep up with both of mine. So to any of my gal pals with kids who may be reading this: I'm sorry I'm a lousy play date. It's not you, it's me. I want to keep dating, but let's also make sure to go out on our own for a drink sometime, K?

In a public place like Together in Motion, there's also the challenge of trying to figure out how / how much to interact with other parents. The obligatory small talk sort of reminds me of freshman orientation at college. Then, it was What's your name / Where are you from / What dorm are you in / Do you know what you're going to major in / Awkward Silence / Drink some more.  Now, it's How old is she/he, What's his/her name, She/He is so cute / Thank you / Where do you guys live? / Awkward Silence / Cheerios, anyone?

And I still have no idea what the proper protocol is for dealing with other parents when it comes to intra-kid refereeing. Example: At one point, Clio was sitting playing in an area where a couple of older boys, four or five years old, decided to start building something. They kept barelling obliviously past her, wielding giant, vinyl-covered pieces of foam, missing her head by mere inches. Their mother was very much aware of this, and told them repeatedly to please be careful, look out for the little girl, etc., which I appreciated. But since Clio would be equally happy playing elsewhere I scooped her up and said to the other mom, with a smile, "It's OK, we can just go play somewhere else."

And then the mom--who was probably only a couple of years older than me, if not the same age--said, with what I think might be described as a "wan" smile, "Well, they also need to learn to be careful. It's something you'll find out."

Oh, well gosh, Madame Veteran Super Mom, I'm so sorry for disrupting your important parental lesson. I really should have been more considerate and left my diminutive 15-month old child there to get trampled on by your sons, for the sake of their social development. Forgive me. I'm just so new at this.

Ah, well. Maybe I read the situation all wrong. Maybe I just looked so clear-eyed and youthful that she assumed I was a 19-year-old au pair, and that was why it was OK to talk down to me. Yes. That must have been it.

You all had such great advice to offer on my recent shoe queries that on Tuesday afternoon I got to feeling quite inspired, and took the girls over to the nearest Stride Rite outlet (Arsenal Mall in Watertown, for all you fellow Bostonites out there...) to get their feet measured and, perchance, to buy some shoes.

Things started out well. Despite the fact that they'd only taken about a 20-minute afternoon nap, the girls were in good spirits as we loaded up into the car. (Cah! Cah! Cah!) People held doors open for me as I maneuvered the double stroller into the mall, which put me in a "maybe humanity is OK after all," sort of mood -- a mood good enough that I felt only mildly, not completely, nauseated as I passed a Victoria's Secret display featuring cotton t-shirts for teenieboppers that read "Think Green, Live Pink," paired with matching panties. (Yeah, fine, I guess it's not a totally bad thing that environmentalism is trendy; but wouldn't a better way for people to save the earth be, er, not buying so much shit they don't need?)

Anyway, at Stride Rite, a very nice young man measured the girls' feet, and we found out that Elsa is a 5 to 5-1/2 and Clio is a 4-1/2. While Elsa had her small, gigantic foot on the Brannock device, Clio whined to be taken out of the stroller, and while Clio had her lil feets measured, Elsa toddled off into the next aisle saying "shizz! shizz! shizz!" I tried, for a few futile minutes, to let them both walk around, but it was like herding cats. Cats that walk in opposite directions pulling boxes off the shelves and saying "shizz!" (I am starting to understand the benefit of those "leashes" some people use with their toddlers.)

So, back into the stroller my little shoppers went. This was a big let-down, of course, after the fun of cavorting freely about among rows and rows of shizz, so they whined and I had to give them graham cracker after graham cracker (why did we ever teach them the sign for "more"?) to keep them quiet while I attempted to browse. But there was nothing suitable in their sizes for under $25, deals and sales notwithstanding. I am really spoiled, having gotten by almost exclusively with gifted, second-hand, and hand-me-down clothes and shoes up until this point. And I'm cheap as hell. So the thought of spending even $50 total on shoes they'll outgrow in a few months made my inner Scrooge shudder. Also, I knew there was a Marshall's at the other end of the mall.

But we had no luck there either. The only decent pair of flexible, sneaker-like shoes I found in the girls' size were ugly and shiny and iridescent pink and had not one, not two, but THREE Disney cartoon princesses on them. They were decently priced -- $14.99, I think -- but I just couldn't do it. A time will come -- sooner than I think -- when they will probably be begging me for this shit, and I will probably relent. But until then, I'm sorry. No. I really don't feel like advertising a multi-billion dollar media and merchandising empire on my children's feet, unless, of course, Disney Inc. would like to pay me to do it.

So, there you go. I'm too much of a yuppie snob to do ugly pink Belle and Ariel from Marshall's, and too cheap to do tasteful and orthopedically correct from Stride Rite. But at least I got the girls' feet sized, so now I can go to this weekend's tag sale armed and dangerous. Or do some E-bay stalking. And then, when I don't find the right shoes in the right sizes, I can get in my car and go to some big-box discount store and buy crappy $10 shoes made in Indonesia by the same 12-year-old children who make the "Think Green, Live Pink" T-shirts for Victoria's Secret. Yay, me!

Meanwhile, today, Elsa and Clio played in the wet grass in the backyard in barely big enough hand-me-down Robeez that look like they've been chewed on, swallowed, and then spit up by dingos. And they could care less.

Shoeless!

Shoeless!

Moonlight sleepin' on a midnight lake.

I really need to stop overthinking this and buy my daughters some fucking shoes.

Shoes are a hot topic in the Baby Squared household these days. The word -- pronounced "shizzz"-- is a popular addition to the girls' growing vocabulary, and if you give them a pair of their shoes they will attempt, quite adorably (and futilely), to put them on their own feet. They also find it fun to pick up any grown-up shoes that might be lying around and deliver them to us. It's quite a sight to see a two-and-a-half foot tall toddler hauling around a size 13 sneaker. (Those would be Alastair's, not mine.) 

Up until now, the only shoes Elsa and Clio have ever worn are Robeez. But now that they're walking and spring is on its way, I'm thinking they need some more substantially-soled shoes for pounding the pavement, hitting the playgrounds, hanging in the back yard, etc. The soft soles are great for learning to walk and great for indoors, but I don't think they'll offer much protection against wet or rough surfaces. We've got one alternative at the moment: a single pair of pink suede slip-on mocs that my mom found at the LL Bean factory store. They're awfully cute, and very sturdy. The problem is, Elsa and Clio HATE them.

Compared to their usual, barely-there Robeez, these things must feel like cinderblocks. The first time I put them on Elsa, she tried to shake them off her feet, then cried until I took them off, and the second time, more recently, she just sat down and pulled them off herself. Yesterday I tried putting them on Clio, and that didn't work out either. After clomping stiff-leggedly around for a few steps in them looking like a cherubic Frankenstein's monster, she stood in the middle of the kitchen floor like she was bolted down there, and cried for me to pick her up. When I didn't, she got down on all fours and proceeded to crawl out of the room. She refused to go bi-pedal until I took the offending clodhoppers off.

They fit fine; at least they appear to. But obviously they don't feel good. So, I will now commence a search for some other, sturdier-than-Robeez shoes that the girls will actually wear. My local Mother of Twins Club has their big bi-annual tag sale this weekend, so I'm hoping to score big. If not, I guess I'll hit the Stride-Rite outlet. But I worry that other non soft-soled shoes will be met with the same reaction. Does it just take time for toddlers to adjust to "real" shoes? Should I make them suck it up and deal? Tell them: "Hey, you think this is bad? Wait until you have to stand for an hour in three-inch satin heels dyed to match an overpriced bridesmaid's dress you'll never wear again"? Because 15-month-olds respond so well when you put things in perspective for them like that.

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!

This weekend, my mom and the gals and I went down to my aunt's house in my old hometown in Connecticut for my cousin's wedding shower. I hadn't originally planned on bringing Elsa and Clio along (The packing! Oh, the packing!) but I'm very glad that I did. They got some QT with their great aunts and first cousins once-removed and various others. They danced to Donna Summer's greatest hits. They ate Mexican corn and bean salad with cilantro. (Anyone know what Mexican corn and bean salad with cilantro looks like when it comes out the other end of a baby? Did you say Mexican corn and bean salad with cilantro? You win!!) The only disappointment was that they didn't get to meet / be met by their great, great aunt for the first time. She was supposed to come up from Philly for the occasion, but she couldn't find her teeth. Ah, well.

For me, one of the nicest parts of the weekend was having the chance to sleep in the same room with the girls -- something I haven't done in a long time. I was worried that we'd wake each other up -- I'd stub my toe in the dark on my way in or they'd cry or I'd snore or all of the above -- but except for a brief bit of crying from Elsa when I first snuck into bed, we all slept soundly through the night. In fact, it was nice to be able to just go over and rub Elsa's back in her crib and shush her and tell her I was right there. It brought me back to those early months when they slept in a co-sleeper crib next to our bed, the two of them, side by side, all wrapped up like little burritos, sweet as can be.

However, allow me clarify: it brought me back to the sweetness of having two babies sleeping nearby. But it did NOT make me miss having newborns. It did not make me miss not having my evenings to myself or waking up every two, three, or four hours in the middle of the night to nurse. Lots of people we know who had their first baby around the same time we had ours  are now thinking about or already having their second, and when I think about them, I thank my lucky stars that we got our two kids in one fell swoop. This is not to say that I never ever entertain the possibility of having a third child. But after I entertain it, I send it home: Buh-bye. Drive safely.

Everyone says that you get a sort of amnesia when it comes to babies -- you forget the discomfort of pregnancy, the pain of birth, the exhaustion and difficulty of the first few months. Hence the survival of the human species despite of the availability of birth control. But I think having twins delays the onset of that amnesia, because right now, the thought of having another baby is absolutely exhausting. Maybe I'll feel differently in a few years. But for the moment, this is absolutely perfect -- and plenty.

Am I gloating? Yeah, OK, maybe a little.