Baby Squared

The Problem with Pictures

Roper — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 17:06:00 GMT

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

Roper — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 01:33:00 GMT

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!

Roper — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 20:13:00 GMT

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

Roper — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 20:30:00 GMT

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?

Toddlers are like sharks

Roper — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 00:01:00 GMT

If they don't keep moving forward, they die. OK, maybe they don't die. But they definitely get fussy. I proved this theorem today at our local Stop and Shop. Not that it needed proving. In fact, honestly, I don't know what I was thinking, but we needed food and I thought it might be fun to see if the girls were finally big enough for one of those cool shopping cart that looks like a car, with the little cab and two steering wheels in front. They were. In fact, they seemed to really dig it. But only as long as I was moving. (I mean, who wants to sit in a parked car, right?)

So, picture yours truly doing laps around the produce section, trying to gather up all the exotic ingredients for this big vegetarian jambalaya thing I'm planning to make (damn this resolution to eat less meat! Damn it! Damn it!) as well as other produce items, without letting the car(t) idle for more than twelve seconds at a time. Whoops, there went the tomatoes. Hey, was that parsley? Or watercress in disguise? Okra? Where are you, okra? (Why the am I making something with OKRA in it, for God's sake? I'm from New England!)

Meanwhile, middle-aged and elderly onlookers are making googly-eyed smiles at the girls (who are, no doubt, googling back) while I blithely ignore them. I'm trying to fill a bag with green beans here, people! Only have a few seconds! Must separate nice beans from withered crap....and then Clio or Elsa starts squirming and whining and attempt to crawl out of the car, all the while saying "dow! dow!" (translation: free me, please) So I rock the cart back and forth for a little while, which quiets them temporarily, until they remember that they're not six months old, and then I have no choice but to move on. Good-bye, beans. Good-bye, deli counter. Good-bye to the old lady screaming, "WELL AREN'T YOU TWO JUST ADORABLE???!!!"

I must have walked about three miles in that grocery store today. Which is great for the ole abs and glutes, I guess, but it was possibly the most inefficient shopping trip ever. It was also not a particularly budget-savvy endeavor. No time to comparison shop when you've got impatient passengers leaning on their squeaky horns and fighting over the steering wheels. (Yes, that's right; the fact that there was a steering wheel for each of them did absolutely nothing to prevent them from squabbling.) By the end, I was basically plucking things off the shelf at random. Organic split pea soup with ham? Hey! I bet the girls will love this! (Wrong, wrong, wrong.)

Needless to say, I don't think I'll be repeating this activity anytime soon. Unless you're just picking up a few quick things, grocery shopping really is best left a solitary endeavor. Or an endeavor for young, childless couples, free to sniff each peach and nectarine, make ribald banter over chicken parts, and linger languidly in front of the extra virgin olive oils. Ah. Those were the days.

Of course, there's always Peapod (Stop & Shop's delivery service) which we've become big fans of over the past year. But as convenient as it is, I miss the sensory experience of actually seeing and selecting my own foodstuffs. (See "chicken parts" above.) And it pisses me off that they put, like, one thing in every damned plastic shopping bag. So, I suppose the best solution, for now, is squeezing in solo grocery runs wherever we can. Unless, of course, there are any personal-shoppers-and-chefs-in training out there who are looking for on-the-job experience. (Unpaid, of course).

Anyone? Anyone?

We got them nanny blues

Roper — Sat, 14 Jun 2008 19:00:00 GMT

Things were going so well. I got a little promotion at work, I finished my novel, Obama won the nomination, and the honeysuckle bush in our neighbors' front yard is almost in full, fragrant bloom. So, it was inevitable that something crappy was going to happen. And here it is: we just learned that our beloved nanny/sitter, Jean, is leaving next month. She got a great full-time nannying job out in the midwest, closer to where her son lives, which is where she wants to be right now. I am happy for her, but we will miss her SO much, as will Elsa and Clio.

Jean started sitting for the girls when they were four months old, when I went back to work. She only comes twelve or so hours a week, during the times when both Alastair and I are working, plus the occasional "date night." But she's so great with the girls, so reliable, so helpful, that she's really become a part of our life, and we've come to count on her. (I still don't think I've fully processed the fact that she's leaving.) She's also just a genuinely nice person -- a great parent to her own (young adult) kids, focused on her family, generous, etc. When we were first looking for someone, right after the girls were born, I imagined that we'd hire some young college or grad student, not a middle-aged woman with grown kids of her own. But in fact, as a first-time mom, I really liked having someone who was more mature, and a mother herself.

Fortunately, our back-up sitter, a very sweet and energetic young Ecuadorian woman (who I encourage to speak Spanish to the girls. Bonus!) is available to help out over the summer once Jean leaves. But she's in school, so we don't know if she'll be able to help on a regular basis in the Fall. So, it might be back to ole Craigslist again. We actually had good luck with it the first time around -- we found both Jean and Adriana, our back-up gal that way, plus several other people who would have been good; there were mostly just schedule issues. But we also had to wade through replies to our ad from people who inquired with such impressive messages as (and I quote) "sounds good. how old r they and how much duz it pay?" (Answers to both of these questions were in the ad, incidentally.)

It ain't easy to find a sitter that you like and trust, who's willing to work part time, has her own car, is reliable and responsible and flexible, is loved by your children, knows and understands them, AND brings you free Avon samples. Sigh.

Jean with the butterfly and the cow last Halloween (when they were 10 mos. old)

Twins = Bubonic plague?

Roper — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 00:15:00 GMT

I recently read this article in Boston Magazine, and it really bummed me out. The author, Julie Suratt, a mother of twins herself, notes that Massachusetts has the nation's highest twin birth rate, then says, "I have to wonder if this deluge of doubles is a good thing for their parents—or for our area as a whole. I adore my boys and wouldn't trade them for the world. But I would no more wish multiples on a couple than I would bubonic plague." Yikes!

Now, I realize she's exaggerating for the sake of impact with the bubonic plague thing. Being funny and all that -- I've tried it myself a few times. But the tone of the whole article is decidedly negative, and really rather whiney, in my opinion. Many of Suratt's complaints about the difficulties of raising twins could easily apply to raising any two (or more) children close in age. And to hear her kvetch about the cost of twin supplies and gear -- as someone from my MOT club noted -- you'd think she'd never heard of a yard sale, Craig's list, borrowing from friends or, God forbid, making due with less (I count three double strollers on her list...) And didn't anyone give the poor woman a baby shower?

"Our tally for diapers (at least 20 a day) and formula (16 bottles a day) for the first year was about $5,000. Add to that the clothing, furniture, and gear (to wit: double stroller, double jogger, double snap-n-go stroller, two highchairs, two playpens, two infant car seats, two toddler car seats, two cribs, two swings, two bouncy seats, two baby Bjorns…), and we probably spent $15,000."

(And, man, she must have had crazy-poopy babies to go through 10+ diapers per kid per day! I don't think we ever used that many, even in the earliest months.)

A big part of the article is spent discussing the role that assisted reproductcive technology (ART) plays in the burgeoning Mass. twin population, and the burden that twins pose on the healthcare system, due to premature births, complications, etc. The author makes a reasonable point in suggesting that fertility clinics educate their patients more fully about the chances of multiples with ART, encourage the transfer of only one embryo in IVF when possible, even if it means lower success rates for the clinic. But the fact is, infertile couples want success, too. Many try multiple IVFs to no avail. Implanting multiple embryos is done with the hope that even just ONE will develop into a pregnancy. Is it wrong for a couple to try for that? Has Suratt considered how painful and frustrating it is to face month after month, year after year, of failed attempts to conceive? (She conceived twins "naturally" as they say, without any ART.)

I didn't actually have IVF myself; I got pregnant through a combination of ovulation drugs and an IUI. The chances of multiple pregnancy in this type of procedure are actually higher than with IVF, but the process is much less involved and much less expensive. With my particular issue (polycystic ovaries) my insurance and the clinic I went to wouldn't have let me go straight to IVF -- a much costlier and more involved process -- without trying IUI first. (My fertility doc was, in fact, the one mentioned in the article.)

Would the author have had me lobby to go straight to IVF -- one embryo, of course, to avoid the risk of twins -- and pose a greater burden on the healthcare system? Or would she say, "why don't you just adopt?" -- the phrase that makes anyone who's dealt with infertility feel instantly homicidal toward the sayer? ("Just adopt." Uh huh. Hey, if your spouse dies, why don't you "just remarry"? If your wedding ring is stolen, why don't you "just replace it"? If you lose your job, why don't you "just move somewhere else and get a new one?")

Suratt also complains that twins are taking up too many spots in daycare and preschool, but that's just silly when you consider the fact that the overall birth rate in Massachusetts has actually declined over the past 15 years. (Thank you, Mass Department of Public Health.)

I'm not denying that twins pose unique and often formidable challenges both to parents and to society as a whole. And it sounds like the author had a particularly difficult experience, with the premature birth of her boys, and her struggle with post-partum depression. I sympathize, and I know that everyone has different experiences in becoming a parent. I just worry that articles like this perpetuate a belief that twins are some kind of, well, plague on society. (Would anyone dare say that the pre- and post-natal care that keeps more disabled babies alive today than in the past is a bad thing because it's a burden on parents and taxpayers?)

Anyway, I didn't mean to spend a whole post critiquing an article by a fellow MOT who is most likely a very nice and reasonable person, and whose article was probably sensationalized and negative-ized by her editors for the sake of controversy. But I guess I did. So to end on a bloggier and more positive note: any expectant twin moms who are reading this and freaking out -- or any twin moms who are feeling overwhelmed by the challenges (which certainly exist!) of raising twins -- I hope you'll check out my post from last year on the top five reasons why twins rule. (And add your own items to the list.)

Food fight!

Roper — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 18:27:00 GMT

We've got some eating issues in the Baby Squared household lately. In the interest of A.) Making sure I'm not the only one out there going through this B.) Letting you know that you're not the only one out there going through this, and C.) Getting free advice, I feel I should share.

The most annoying problem by far is the throwing of food. Lately, when the girls don't feel like eating something, instead of just not eating it, they drop or fling it onto the floor. Broccoli? No thank you. Get the wretched thing out of my sight, please. Flick, fling, plop. Then they make the "more" sign in hopes that I will give them whatever it is they do want to eat, usually fruit, yogurt or Annie's cheddar bunnies. When they're feeling particularly punchy, they just start wiping their trays clean, flinging everything onto the floor. (Walls, etc.; while cleaning the other day I had to pick encrusted bits of mac and cheese off the windowsill with my nails -- what was left of them post crib-sheet changing, that is.)

This is Elsa's specialty, and we respond to it by sternly saying no, food is not for throwing, it's for eating, etc., and take her tray away for a little bit, then give her another shot a few minutes later. The typical result: she eats a little more, then starts flinging again. Rinse, and repeat. It seems like despite our efforts to be "strict" about this one -- eventually, we say OK, that's it, meal's over -- it doesn't seem to stop her from letting out her inner John Belushi the next time around. She knows it gets a reaction. So, what to do? Are toddlers this age capable of learning table manners or should we just let them act like Visigoths? (No offense to any Visigoths out there; I've just heard your table manners aren't the best.)

The other issue is snacking. And this may be the cause of the uptick in pickiness / food flinging at mealtimes. Increasingly, it seems, the girls ALWAYS want to be eating. Clio seems particularly bent on carb-loading in the afternoons (a girl after my own heart). "Kah-ga," meaning cracker, is one of her favorite words. I try to give her things like fruit and cheese as snacks if she's already had crackers or dry cereal, but the girl will whine and fuss until she's got something flour-based in her maw. Maybe I am just giving in too quickly. But she is damned stubborn. And do you know just how annoying a toddler's whining is? Of course you do. And you know how much easier it is to give the kid the damned cracker rather than try to distract her with educational activities or take the time to cut up an apple and then convince her to eat that instead. It's even worse when two toddlers are whining at once, like they're going to DIE if you don't give them more cheddar bunnies RIGHT NOW.

I suspect that I'm giving in too quickly to their demands. I know kids this age need snacks, but I'm guessing that we shouldn't let them "graze" as much as we do. On the other hand, they seem awfully damned hungry. (But maybe it's just an oral fixation thing?) I'd love to hear from the masses: Do you put limits on how much your little 'uns eat between meals, or are you spineless like me? Does it matter? Am I setting them up for a lifetime of poor eating habits?

In the meantime, I'm about to embark on a perilous outing: I'm going with the girls, in 95 degree heat, to a toddler-filled birthday party for 4-year old twins (whose hand-me-downs make up a good part of Elsa & Clio's wardrobe!), sans husband. All I can say is: I hope there's beer.

Step away from the peacock, Ma'am.

Roper — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 23:49:00 GMT

We took the girls to the Franklin Park Zoo this weekend, along with some friends of ours and their almost-two-year-old girl and new baby boy. The last time Alastair and I went there -- childless, unmarried, living our rock and roll (er, folk music and cultural events?) lifestyle -- we had a traumatic experience, wherein one of the gorillas repeatedly vomited and ate it in what we think was an attempt to repulse and scatter the gawking crowd. (It worked. And I can't say I blamed the ape.) So we went to the zoo with some trepidation. But we knew that the girls would enjoy it. It's fun to have them finally be at a point where they seem able to absorb and appreciate new experiences like this.

Within minutes of entering the park, Elsa started stalking a peacock. It was just walking around -- I guess they let them roam free; they can't fly too far -- and she charged right toward the thing, determined to touch it. I literally had to hold her back. She is absolutely fearless when it comes to other living creatures, to a sometimes dangerous degree. Then, I suppose it's confusing for a toddler: you're constantly bombarded with images of animals in books, toys, etc., you're always being asked what they say, and you're encouraged to touch or get up close to some of them. (Pets, pett-able barnyard animals, etc.) Then, all of a sudden, here's this awesome looking bird walking around a few feet away, and your mom won't let you get near it? What gives?

Anyway, here is a photographic retrospective of Elsa as she answers the call of the wild. Perhaps she will grow up to be a veterinarian. Or a taxidermist.

At 7-1/2 months, Elsa proves that (unlike her mother) she is a dog person. (NB: she is also a cat person.)

Stalking chickens at 15 months. Note rooster-like clothing color scheme. (Not intentional.)

Our budding Dian Fossey, on Saturday.

Also on Saturday, checking out giraffes and zebras with mom, from a safe distance. (I'm not really a giraffe person.)

Clio kept a bit more space between herself and the animals. She was more interested in the structural and architectural aspects of the zoo: manholes, fences, benches, etc. There was a moment where she seemed a little freaked out by the gorillas. Maybe (knowing Clio) she just felt sorry for them, being contained like that. We didn't see any vomit ingestion this time, but it was still a little upsetting to see the gorillas there behind glass. Their gazes and gestures are so eerily human. Not that I'm anti-zoo or anything; I think that having gorillas (and other animals, particularly endangered ones) in captivity is probably good for raising awareness and support, which, ultimately helps protect their brethren in the wild. But it's kind of weird, if you think about it, to go gawk at a bunch of unknowing martyrs for the cause of conservation when we're the ones threatening their environments to begin with. You know?

I'm pretty sure Clio (in the foreground) was thinking the same thing when we took this picture:

Never blog angry

Roper — Fri, 30 May 2008 00:06:00 GMT

I'm sure that's one of the most important rules of blogging. Right up there with "don't blog drunk." But I have got to tell you, dear readers, I just changed two crib sheets, and I am PISSED.

Can I just say? I hate hate hate hate HATE changing crib sheets.

Seriously, my idea of hell would be a million cribs, lined up in a row, and a stack of a million fitted cotton crib sheets to wrangle onto them. Put some bumpers on those cribs, and have them be up against a wall -- oh, and throw in a couple of whining, overtired toddlers fighting over a book nearby -- and I'm pretty much in the ninth circle.

Is there a reason that the manufacturers make the things exactly two centimeters too small, so that you have to use every ounce of strength in your body and tear off at least one fingernail attempting to get the last corner on? Is it right that you should have to pry the mattress out of the crib, crawl on top of the rails and assume all manner of compromising positions for such a simple task? I mean, I know the sheet's got to be tight -- SIDS and all -- but come ON. All I'm asking for is a little give -- an extra smidgeon of fabric, a dab of Lycra -- anything!

Now, mind you, I don't change the crib sheets very often, because we use those "Super crib sheet" things that go over the actual fitted sheet and can be easily snapped on and off. But sometimes when they're in the wash, the girls will end up sleeping a nap or a night or two on the regular sheets, and sometimes even when the super crib sheet is on, it moves out of place and the sheet below gets drooled on or spilled on or what have you. Honestly, I think the last time I changed the sheets was maybe two months ago. But as far as I'm concerned, once a year would be too often.

Maybe we just registered for the wrong brand. Maybe Carter's (Carter's! Aren't they supposed to know what they're doing?) is working off some outdated standard crib mattress size template. Or maybe they're just a bunch of sadistic a**holes. (Is Carter's a Babble sponsor? Er....hey, guys! Love your PJs!) Maybe I'm the only one with this problem. At this point, I don't particularly want to go out and buy new sheets. But if there was some brand out there that promised easy-peasy changes or patented "No-curse-corners" I might change my mind.

There. I blogged angry. I'm sorry. I promise that my next post will be poignant, thought-provoking and hysterically funny, rife with adorable photographs. For the moment, though....GRRR!!! Crib sheets!!

Dumb Parenting

Roper — Tue, 27 May 2008 00:02:00 GMT

I don't mean the stupid kind -- though I certainly do plenty of that. I mean the kind where I am incapable of speech (to use an archaic and, yes, I know, un-PC term for it). I've had a a strange sort of head cold since Wednesday, culminating in total laryngitis this weekend. My voice has varied from Kathleen Turner-esque (sexy!) to little more than a whisper (creepy?) with occasional moments of near-normalcy if I haven't spoken in a while.

You wouldn't think it, but not having a voice is a major handicap when it comes to looking after two madcap 17 month-olds. I feel rather like Mister Noodle, sans mustache and pseudo-Edwardian getup. (For those of you who are better parents than I am, and don't let yourself let your children watch TV, Mister Noodle is a mime character on Sesame Street, in the "Elmo's World" segment, played by the fabulous Bill Irwin.) I've been mastering the art of exaggerated expressions, mouthing of words, and modified prop comedy.

Mostly, though, I just feel powerless -- I can't say no / stop / don't / etc., nor can I effectively summon help. (Though I wonder if maybe I could do some kind of inaudible, high-pitched squeal, like Aquaman...) This afternoon, for example, all four of us were hanging in the backyard, and while I was helping Clio up the climbing structure, Elsa was over by the garden, coming perilously close to a garden rake. Normally, I would have said (to Alastair) "Baby, Elsa's about to step on that rake..." but instead, all I could do was wave my arms, advance a few steps toward him, point at the rake and mouth "rrrr-aaa-kke!" in hopes of averting Mr. Noodle-worthy slapstick comedy. (Baby steps on rake, rake handle hits her on head, birds fly in a circle over screaming baby's head, etc.)

To which Alastair replied, "It's OK. I'm watching her."

To which I would normally say, "Yeah, no, just move it." But, having an inoperative larynx, all I could do was bug my eyes out in exasperation and shake my head. And by that time, he'd returned to planting tomatoes. (Elsa, fortunately, did not step on the rake. She found some empty plastic plant pots to bang together instead.)

I also didn't have it in me to protest too vehemently when Alastair suggested that we hose the girls down in lieu of a bath. I did manage to make the point that, while it was warm, it was also breezy, and therefore not the right day for all-out garden hose fun. So, in some kind of weird compromise, he ended "misting" the girls with the hose instead. It wasn't clear whether they liked it or were just confused. Really, they were more focused on putting cedar chips into empty flower pots and pouring dirt on themselves.

Taken several weeks ago (note jacket) but the same basic idea.

Anyway, the upshot was I ended up in the house afterward with two grimy, shirtless, barefoot little girls, hungry for dinner. The twentysomething tenants in the house behind ours were drinking beers and grilling, and Alastair was out front washing the cars, and things felt generally summery and Memorial-Day-Weekend-esque. So I turned on the classic rock station and poured myself a glass of white wine, and the girls ate ravioli with their fingers, topless and bibless (what would be the point?) and we all rocked out to Jethro Tull's "John Barleycorn." I still couldn't talk, but the gals seemed to find my air-drumming hilarious. They both ate, like, a zillion strawberries. And then I took them out of their high chairs, and more dancing ensued. Picture it: two adorable, half-naked, pot-bellied baby girls holding hands and grooving and giggling on a sunny evening. Anything I might have said -- even if I could -- would have been totally superflous.

The Word of the Month Club

Roper — Thu, 22 May 2008 15:10:00 GMT

In the beginning -- well, back when the girls were around 11 months old -- there was "Dah!" meaning dog, (or pretty much anything with four legs) and it was good. About a month later came "nana" (banana, then any food), and soon after that it was "cah" (car) and "shizz" (shoes) and so on. But it seemed like each time a new word was acquired, the old one suddenly fell out of fashion and they'd rarely if ever say it. (Dah? What's a dah? Come on, Mommy, let's talk about shizz!)

There are definitely still word "fads" around here -- "babies" is the big one this week -- but in the last month or so it seems like finally the girls are hanging onto multiple words, and employing them with increasing accuracy. Clio is the more verbal of the two; she tends to use more words (and signs) than Elsa, and is eager to learn new ones. Elsa, meanwhile, is more interested in honing her gross motor skills (i.e. climbing, pillaging, plundering, ransacking). Of course, we suspected all along that this might be the case. Elsa was always ahead physically, but Clio started cooing and babbling well before she did. Ah, yes, I remember it well.....(Flashback! Wavy screen....)

Ha -- at the time, this seemed incredibly impressive and interactive to us. It's all relative, ain't it?

Anyway, we're having fun seeing both girls add more words to their vocabularies. I'd say between them they have maybe 10 or so in all, and they obviously understand much more than that. But the real language "explosion" that I hear people talk about hasn't come yet. In fact, I think in general E & C are a little behind the curve in their language acquisition skills. I'm not worried, though. It's supposedly normal for twins to talk later than singleton kids. It can be due in part to premature birth (not the case here, as ours were born at a healthy 37 weeks, at 5 pounds each), but can also be a result of the way caregivers communicate and interact with twins. It's a little sad, actually: twins don't get as much one-on-one time with parents or caregivers, so they don't get as many opportunities to learn and practice verbal communication. And because wrangling twins can be stressful and tiring, caregivers tend to talk to their kids a little less and use more quick directives ("drink your milk," "don't take your sister's book," "come here," etc.). Apparently this is why second children sometimes talk later, too.

Then there's the "Twin talk" theory; that twins communicate with each other in their own "language," so they're slower to learn the language of us big people. I haven't really seen much evidence of this between Elsa and Clio, unless you count stealing toys or food away from each other causing the other to scream and cry as some special form of "communication." Or, maybe their twin talk is so secret and sophisticated that I don't even notice it. Maybe they send telepathic messages to each other: "Hey, mom's trying to get us ready to go out somewhere in the cah. Let's both poop!"

I'm curious to hear from readers -- especially moms of twins -- when did the language thing really "take off" for your kids?

Feeling the pinch

Roper — Mon, 19 May 2008 13:23:00 GMT

The other night, I dreamed that our local Star Market was doing a promotion where they were giving away something like 100 free frozen turkeys. Everyone was so excited about it, and it was such a big deal, that there was even going to be a parade, led by the mayor of Somerville, where the turkeys would be driven through the streets on a float. Now, if that's not a dream about rising food prices, I don't know what is.

Anyone else out there starting to feel the pinch? I've noticed that we're definitely spending more on groceries and household goods these days. Granted, part of this is the fact that the girls are starting to eat more "real" food. Make that a LOT more. I feel like we're constantly running out of whole milk, bananas, bread and other staples. Meanwhile, we're going through more diaper wipes (a direct consequence of aforementioned real food) and dish soap (ibid), as well as tissues to wipe constantly running noses. (Maybe it's time to bring back the handkerchief?) Add to this the fact that we're using more water and energy (more laundry, more baths, more dishes to do) while simultaneously attempting to keep putting a bit of money into savings for retirement and the girls' college funds, and our checking account balance is definitely looking a little anemic these days. In fact, last week, for the first time in I don't know how long, we were overdrawn and had to dip into our savings for a cash infusion.

We're far from impoverishment, of course. But I do increasingly find myself looking for specials and sales, and doing a lot more price comparison. For the first time ever, I'm thinking of our little vegetable garden -- which we'll be planting soon -- not just as a nice addition to the yard, but as an actual, affordable food source. (What's up with the price of tomatoes these days??) We've also recently made the decision to try to eat less meat -- mainly for environmental reasons, but there's no denying the economic benefit. I've dusted off my favorite vegetarian cookbook and stocked up on legumes. Last night we had an eggplant-and-lentils-over-rice thing for dinner, and believe me, this is no small adjustment for my husband, who's of the "it's not really a meal if it doesn't contain meat" school.

But if all this belt tightening doesn't work, we may just have to take more extreme measures. Maybe we'll start renting the girls out to childless couples who want to "practice" being parents for a day. Or develop a way to convert all the food they fling off their highchair trays into fuel. On the other hand, maybe we'll just have to get going on our Von Moock Family Singers act and take it to the streets. Alastair sings and plays the guitar, I can sing harmony, Elsa can bang on things and shout into an empty toilet paper tube (it'll be a very avant-garde act), and Clio can be the go-go dancer. You'd throw a buck into our hat for that, right?

Elsa's already getting excited about being a star. Here she is working on her paparazzi-evasion skills.

Eating out With Toddlers: A Primer

Roper — Tue, 13 May 2008 14:40:00 GMT

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.

Clio goes commando

Roper — Sat, 10 May 2008 21:15:00 GMT

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!

Regression

Roper — Wed, 07 May 2008 23:50:00 GMT

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?

In which I poison my daughter

Roper — Fri, 02 May 2008 18:19:00 GMT

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?

Take my twins -- please!

Roper — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 02:12:00 GMT

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?)

Words fail me.

Roper — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 00:45:00 GMT

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,

Transition Accomplished.

Roper — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 01:22:00 GMT

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?)