Baby Squared : Clio

The Reign of Clio

Roper — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 23:24:00 GMT

I am in need of some serious Babble reader advice, sympathy and/or commiseration here. We have the world's bossiest toddler living under our roof, and she's driving us bonkers. True, we have been basically trapped inside by snow for the past two-and-a-half days, so we're all feeling a little cabin-feverish. But this has been going on for some time: Clio has become incredibly high maintenance.

She wants to play with Play Doh now. She wants more milk now. She wants to watch the Baby Animal Songs DVD ("Baby ee-o") for the 4th time that day. She wants me to read Chickaboom to her for the 5th. But mostly, she orders us to hold her. We try to oblige when we can, but it's just not always possible. Making breakfast, going to the bathroom, playing with your other child, etc. are all fairly tricky when you've got a 26-lb. person in your arms. Unfortunately, Clio is also very specific about how and where she wants to be held: standing up vs. sitting down, with mommy vs. daddy, in the kitchen or in the living room. And she most definitely doesn't like to share a lap with Elsa. (I wonder if, in fact, this is all directly related to being a twin -- a sense of competition or jealousy, a need to have her individual desires met...)

When Clio doesn't get what she wants, she cries and yells and screams. If it gets really out of hand, we'll put her up in her crib for a while to chill out, but the effects are typically short-lived. Soon enough, she's yelling "Picka up! Picka up!" or "sitty mommy" (sit with mommy) again. We try to explain that Mommy/Daddy is doing something else and can't pick her up right now. We tell her she's a big girl who needs to walk / play / etc. by herself sometimes. We talk about taking turns so we can play with Elsa, too. We promise to pick her up later. We try to distract her with toys or books or milk or non-lethal kitchen utensils. We try pretty much everything. It works maybe 25% of the time.

My children are adorable and delightful and I love being their mother. But I have to admit: this is a tough phase. When faced with long stretches of time at home with the girls, both Alastair and I are finding it a real struggle. We want to give Clio the sense of control and closeness she's obviously craving, but we have another daughter who also needs our attention and has wants of her own (though usually not voiced as insistently, thank God). There are also meals to be cooked and dishes to be washed and phone calls to be made. We can't spend all our time bowing to the whims of Queen Clio. (Aside: Ooh! What a cool name for a queen!)

As a result of this, we're finding ourselves turning more frequently to videos and TV, since it's one of the few things that can keep both girls calm and contented for more than two minutes at a time. But I don't feel great about it. What I would really like is for Clio to be able to play on her own or with Elsa for even just ten minutes at a stretch without needing me to pick her up or put her on my lap in the middle of it. I would like her to be a little more flexible when it comes to what she does, where, and when. I would also like world peace and for someone to invent a car that runs on water.

Is there any hope? Or is this just typical 2-year old behavior that we'll have to weather as best we can?

Meanwhile, it's still snowing out there.

T-I-M-E O-U-T

Roper — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 02:30:00 GMT

You're probably all familiar with the need to spell out certain words in front of your toddlers once they pick up that pesky habit of understanding English. Woe to the parent who foolishly utters the word C-O-O-K-I-E without the intent of immediately handing one over to any small child within earshot. And don't mention that you're going to take your kids to the P-L-A-Y-G-R-O-U-N-D unless you intend to go THAT VERY SECOND.

But certain words, you would think, are safe to say aloud -- things that kids aren't interested in, like "credit card," "recycling," or "corkscrew." Or things that pertain to them, but that they don't find particularly appealing and aren't likely to start begging for, like "crib" or "time-out." Right? Well, yes. Except ixnay on that last one in the Baby Squared household.

We've been attempting to institute the practice of giving the girls a "time-out" when they push or hit each other, throw food on the floor, or grab toys away from each other in a patently aggressive manner. We haven't had to do it that many times, and when we have, it has tended to be with Elsa.

Unfortunately, the girls don't quite seem to grasp concept of a time-out. That is to say, they LOVE it. They seem to think it's some kind of cool privilege to get to sit on a chair by the window and do nothing. Which is why, if Alastair and I want to discuss the topic of time-outs in the company of Elsa and Clio, we have to avoid the word itself, lest we are faced with two toddlers whining and begging for a time-out.

Obviously, it doesn't work terribly well as a threat, either. The other day, when Elsa was throwing food onto the floor and I warned her that if she did it again she'd get a time out, she started saying "Time out! Time out!" and pointing over at the time-out chair. What was I supposed to do? Punish her by NOT giving her a time-out? Then, of course, Clio wanted a time-out, too. So, after helping Elsa down from the time-out chair (in spite of her protests) I let Clio sit there too. Clio also wanted her baby to have a time out. "Baby sit? Baby time out?"

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have let them have time-outs for "fun." (Let alone document the incident on film for blogging purposes.) But it was either that or let Elsa sit there and whine and/or continue to fling food, and then risk a Clio meltdown because we didn't let her have a "turn" at timeout. We've been working so hard on the idea of taking turns; how is she supposed to understand that she gets a turn with toys, but she doesn't get a turn at the awesomecool time-out game?

I suppose this is mostly a function of the fact that the girls still find it highly exciting to sit in "grown-up" chairs --- or any chair, for that matter. I'm wondering if it might help to move time-outs to a less appealing, more out-of-the way location. On the floor in the front hall? On the stairs? This would also help solve the problem of the girls bringing each other toys while they're on time-out. (Gates can be closed.) But the challenge, then, is being able to keep an eye on both girls at once. And, ironically, they would be far less likely to actually stay in time-out if it was somewhere they didn't like. See the vicious circle?

And then sometimes I wonder if they're just not ready for time-outs at all. But I feel like we have to start enforcing some kind of consequence for bad behavior, beyond just scolding and explaining, which doesn't seem to have much staying power. Ah well. It's not like they're shoplifting cigarettes or sniffing white-out, or whatever it is the kids are into these days. Hopefully, by the time we get there, we'll have put a little bit of the fear of God into 'em.

Finally, for those of you following the ongoing, not very dramatic saga of this depressive episode I've been having (sorry, couldn't think of a better segue. Something about spelling out S-S-R-I ?) here's the update: I don't want to jinx myself, but I have had two and a half solid days now of feeling darn near like myself. I wouldn't say I'm at 100% yet, but definitely somewhere between 80 and 90%. And God, it's great. It's kind of like being in zero-gravity all of a sudden. Simple, everyday things that were painful to undertake a couple of weeks ago -- making dinner, chatting with co-workers, putting the girls to bed -- seem suddenly, amazingly easy; even pleasant.

And the more serious things that I missed -- having the urge and ability to write (other than here), being able to joke around and be affectionate with Alastair, being able to be a more fully engaged, silly, loving Mom -- feel almost miraculously satisfying. I guess in some weird, backward way, that's a perk of depression? It makes you appreciate just how great life is when you're not depressed (even if not everything your life is great).

I've said it in my comments, but I'll say it again here, because I know not everyone reads the comments: thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all your support, advice and understanding -- silent and otherwise -- as I've struggled through these past weeks. It helps immensely. (And I am so happy to know that I may be helping a few other folks out there, too.)

I like these guys. They're funny guys!

Roper — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 21:15:00 GMT

First person to get the title reference gets a big, virtual high-five. (No Googling allowed!)

In this post, however, I'm referring to Elsa and Clio, who -- as I was reminded yesterday -- are two very funny little girls. Exasperating at times, yes. But also extremely entertaining. Clio seems to actively try to be silly, with funny faces and noises and goofy antics. Her humor tends toward the absurdist. Last night at dinner, for example, she decided it was very funny to pretend she was asleep.

Elsa doesn't work the comedy angle quite as intentionally as Clio (though she thinks Clio is a riot); she just does things that happen to make us laugh. Example: in the past few days, she has discovered how to use her eyebrows. So now she periodically makes this absurd frowning, glaring face that makes her look like a cross between Bonnie Blue Butler and Sam the Eagle. (I'm just full of outdated pop culture references today, aren't I?) She hasn't yet started connecting the expression with anger or sulkiness. She just does it randomly, as she did several times last night during dinner:

The other funny thing they're doing is adding the suffix "-bama" (as in O) to other people's names. When we ask Clio, "Who's the president?" (yeah, yeah, president-elect) she will usually say "Brock-o-bama." But then she'll frequently launch into "Mommy-bama, Daddy-bama, Sessa-bama, Kio-bama..." Just goes to show what a good campaigner Obama was, I suppose. Even toddlers got the message that the election wasn't about him. It was about all of us!

They have also learned the word "funny," so now when we laugh at something they do or say, they'll often say "funny! funny!" When they're a little older, we'll explain to them that a good comedian doesn't point out her own jokes. But for now, we'll let it slide. It's just good to see that our kids appear to be as appreciative of silliness and humor as their parents are. Laughter has always been a big part of Alastair's and my relationship, and I hope that it will always be a big part of how our little nuclear family relates, too. (With the understanding, of course, that for several years in their teens, the girls will probably think that NOTHING we say is funny.)

Yesterday was really the first time in several weeks that I was truly, genuinely able to enjoy and appreciate the girls' company; to laugh and be playful with them. Not that I haven't remembered throughout this spell of depression that they are sweet and fun and all the rest. But one of the symptoms of depression -- and it's a big one for me -- is not being able to take pleasure in the things that your normally do. I might know in my rational mind that something pleasurable or fun is happening, but I don't really feel it the way I normally would. At the same time, I'm painfully aware of this fact, and it makes me sad and frustrated and annoyed. I have missed my girls these past weeks.

It's hard to explain what it's like to someone who hasn't experienced clinical depression, but imagine walking around all day inside a cube made of thick, dirty glass. (With leg holes, I guess....?) You can sort of see your life out there, and you can sort of do the things you need to do, but everything is muted and dark and dull. And you're tired. Because this cube you're wearing is really fucking heavy and cumbersome, and there's not quite enough air to breathe inside it. But no matter how hard you bang your fists against the glass, it will not break or even crack. You are trapped inside. (A better writer might come up with a lovelier metaphor -- a bell jar, perhaps -- but I'm sticking to my big goddamned dirty glass cube.)

Anyway, yesterday I felt better than I had in quite a while. I happen to think it was because I had an acupuncture treatment the night before. Got the ole Liver Qi moving. As a result, I felt motivated enough to take a run, which I think further lifted my mood. All those endorphins and whatnot. I am not out of the woods yet, and I fear there may be more not-so-great days before I can fully step out of the dark, step into the light. But even one afternoon of feeling relatively normal and being capable of delighting in my children's company is a great relief.

A Hometown Halloween

Roper — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 00:07:00 GMT

Alastair's hometown, that is, here in the leafy loveliness of Westchester county. We came down for the weekend, specifically for the unveiling of Alastair's grandmother's grave monument. She died around this time last year, and it's a (very nice, I think) Jewish tradition to visit the stone a year later. We said some words and prayers, and then the girls thought it would be fun to pick up the stones that we placed on Great Grandma's grave and move them to the other, neighboring graves and back again, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

That night, we took the girls out for their first official trick-or-treating experience. Like last weekend, at the Halloween party, Clio refused to wear her tutu, so we had one ballerina and one modern dancer -- or perhaps she was a ballerina in rehearsal. More power to her, I say. And so, we set out into the lovely, suburban twilight, our family of four (Mommy had had a low day, but managed to rally) plus Abu and dogs, Aki and Niko.

The girls got the hang of things pretty quickly. Though they have never actually eaten candy before (I don't think) let alone seen it in packaged form, they seemed to "get" that the brightly colored stuff people were offering to them from doorways was a good thing, and happily stashed it in their trick or treating receptacles. We couldn't get them to say "trick or treat" but they did say "please" and "thank you." (Not necessarily in that order.) Several times, our party girl, Elsa, shouted "yay!" while Clio took a more taciturn, business-like approach to the whole affair.

We attempted a pre-emptively nostalgic, "someday we'll look back at this and....something" photo in front of an Obama lawn sign at one of the houses we visited, but like most attempts at posed photos with the girls, it failed gloriously. This shot was my favorite on account of the Skittles and Peanut M&Ms in mid-fall. And the girls' utter oblivion to the import of this moment in American history.

A funny thing about Obama, though -- the name, not the man. It has become one of the girls' favorite words of late. I have Obama buttons on a couple of my jackets, which they point to and proclaim "Obama," but they've also taken to saying "Obama" randomly on various occasions. A couple of times this weekend, when frightened by Niko -- the more boisterous of the grandparents' two golden retrievers -- Clio has called out "Obama! Obama! Obama!" Like she's trying to summon him, Beetlejuice-like, to rescue her. Strange. And then again....

When we got home, the girls instinctively, without any parental prompting, did the traditional dumping of candy onto the floor to take inventory. We let them each have a little bit of chocolate after dinner, then promptly appropriated their haul as our own. (I don't expect we'll be able to pull this off next year.)

It's been a sweet weekend Elsa and Clio-wise, and a restorative one for moi, too. It's nice to have both the girls and ourselves taken good care of by Alastair's parents, and to not have anything pressing to do but rest, look after the girls, read, etc. I went into the city on Saturday for lunch with a friend, then walked from Union Square back up to Grand Central, soaking up the energetic, pre-election, Autumn-in-New-York vibe. I'm feeling a little more like myself today, which is a great relief -- though it may only be temporary. Two steps forward, one step back, and all that. But I am optimistic. Thanks again for all your comments on my last post. Your support and understanding mean the world. And to all of the fabulous women out there living with and battling depression, keep up the good fight -- we can win it.

Sessa and Kee-o

Roper — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 01:07:00 GMT

One of the loveliest parts about having twins is watching the relationship between them develop. When I was pregnant, lots of parents of twins mentioned this by way of encouragement / consolation: yes, it's really hard, but it's so amazing when they start really interacting. And it's a great, great thing when they can start keeping each other entertained, so you don't have to all the time.

True, true, true. But it takes a while. For the first several months of their lives, Elsa and Clio were pretty much oblivious to each other. This is understandable, I guess; If I'd spent nine months crammed in with another person in a space the size of a small watermelon, I'd want a little space, too.

Once they could sit up and crawl, they started to do things like take toys, bottles and pacifiers away from each other -- generally without incident. (Hm. I had a block, now I don't. Whaddya know about that?) When they became bipedal, they began having the occasional playful wrestling match, which would start with giggling and inevitably end with tears. (Usually from Clio, who Elsa has a habit of "loving" a bit roughly at times.) Hitting, pushing and hair pulling, both innocent and with intent to harm, followed. As I wrote in a recent post, refereeing between the two of them has become an increasingly large part of my role as a parent.

At the same time, I've had the pleasure of watching a real affection and sense of awareness develop between the girls. It seems like the change has accelerated over the past few months, ever since they learned to say each other's names. Now, they are always aware of where the other is -- or isn't -- at any given time. If, for example, Clio is awake and Elsa is still napping and I take Clio out of the nursery, she'll ask "Sessa?" expecting that, as usual, where she goes, Elsa will go, too. I'll tell her that Elsa is still sleeping, and Clio will confirm, with a nod, "Sessa nigh nigh." She'll usually remind me -- and herself? -- of this fact again in a few minutes. And when it's time to go wake Elsa up, Clio will happily climb up the stairs calling "Sessa! Sessa!"

And for all the bickering they do, they are actually quite thoughtful when it comes to making sure the other one is taken care of. I can now, for example, hand two graham crackers to Elsa and tell her to go give one to Clio, and she'll do it. Of course, she may very well steal it back from her five minutes later, but hey, baby steps, right? There are also spontaneous hugs, which Clio, in particular, is way into lately. (Elsa still tends to express her affection for Clio with sometimes violent exuberance -- a little like Lennie in Of Mice and Men. We're working on it.)

What's especially fun, though, is seeing how much they enjoy each other's company. Elsa finds Clio absolutely hilarious. Clio is often the instigator of things silly and absurd, and Elsa loves to play along. (Sometimes they will look at each other and just start cracking up for no reason I can comprehend, and these are the times that feel closest to some kind of "twin talk" thing between them.) Elsa, meanwhile, is usually the trailblazer when it comes to more "serious" activities -- physical things like climbing and exploring, and tactile things like building with blocks or playing with a particular toy. In those cases, Clio follows her lead.

Of course, there are still plenty of times when they just "parallel play" or blithely ignore each other and do their own thing, as kids their age are wont to do. Sometime one feels like interacting and the other would rather be left alone. But when they do really play together -- and are clearly having fun doing it -- damn, it's precious:

(And, inevitably, ends with someone asking for food.)

Sleep, baby, sleep.

Roper — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 01:27:00 GMT

Two out of the past three days, Clio has decided that she doesn't feel like taking her nap. What's worse -- she's done just fine without it. No tantrums, no meltdowns, not even excessive early eye-rubbing. This concerns us greatly. If Clio gives up her nap, that means no child-free respite in the middle of day. No break. Those precious two (if we're lucky) hours of quiet and calm -- to catch up on email or read or write or catch a few winks ourselves -- gone.

The girls are such good sleepers, I'd always assumed they'd keep taking a nap until they were three -- or at least two and a half. Elsa probably will; the girl is a voracious sleeper. But little Clio -- who, come to think of it, didn't do a whole lot of sleeping in-utero either -- may be on her way to a napless existence. I hope it's just a phase. Dear God, let it just be a phase.

I absolutely cherish that quiet, kidless period mid-day when I can recharge and re-center and get things done that I can't do when the girls are awake. It is something to look forward to -- a little island oasis in the midst of a day of work (whether it be my job, household stuff, or the pleasant but still tiring work of looking after the girls; or sometimes all three things at once). It verges on sacred.

Another thing I look forward to with great anticipation are my Thursday afternoons. I work in the morning, and then our sitter comes in the afternoon, so I theoretically have from one to six p.m. all to myself to do with whatever I please. Usually I manage to cram in some errands, some writing, and one of my twice-weekly runs. (I know; I'm such an iron woman.) Ten years ago, if you told me that five hours to use at my discretion could be so precious and so pleasurable, I would have looked at you like you were nuts. And then gone back to watching Friends or whatever the hell else I was wasting my time doing. Childless, unmarried, red-haired (yes; Clairol) 24-year-old me wouldn't have been able to conceive of the fact that at the age of 34, I might be sitting at my desk on the verge of tears -- as I was yesterday -- when the sitter called last minute to say she was sick and wouldn't be able to come as scheduled. My precioussss Thursday afternoon!

Anyway, as result of the napless, sitter-less past several days, I haven't had adequate time to think up a worthy blog post, hence this rather lame entry. I'm sorry. But please allow me to attempt to make it up to you with a sampling of photos from today's backyard photo shoot. See how bright-eyed and energetic Clio looks in spite of her complete and utter lack of nap? It breaks the heart.

I can sleep when I'm dead!

Yeah, mom, everything's fine! She doesn't need a nap!

OK, maybe she's getting a little punchy....

Thank God I got my beauty sleep. We're going to put this one in my portfolio, right, Mom?

Top 5 Trends for Fall

Roper — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 11:47:00 GMT

With the new season is in full swing, our special Baby Squared trendspotting correspondent -- uh, me -- is here to report on what's hot NOW in the Baby Squared household!

Ice. Not diamonds or crystal meth (Mommy and Daddy would never approve), but the real thing: frozen water, preferably in tiny, bite-size chunks (use the "crushed" setting if your fridge has an ice dispenser) in a plastic cup, to be sucked on, bitten, and dumped on the floor at the girls' pleasure. Nutritious? No. Safe for baby teeth? Probably not. The perfect cure for teething woes and the pre-dinner-hour munchies? Absolutely!

Hand holding. Sweet, simple, and oh-so-satisfying, it's all the rage among the Elsa and Clio set. Grab your mommy or daddy and pull them around the house or the yard; your tug is their demand. Or, if the adult of your choice is unable or unwilling, hold your sister's hand. It's just the right size -- same as yours -- and get ready to watch the adults around you melt. Want a cookie? Some ice? Some crystal meth? Twin toddlers holding hands are NEVER denied. (Editor's note: it was actually today at church, after the service, that the girls held hands for the first time. My hands were full, so I told Clio to try holding Elsa's instead. It worked, and Elsa led her around the sanctuary and the reception area, making everyone grin, adding years to old folks' lives, etc. etc. It really was adorable. Until Elsa got tired of it and Clio kept trying to get her to hold her hand again by thwacking her with it repeatedly.)

The suffix "y." Juicy. Icey. Horsey. Moosy. Fishy. Suddenly, nothing seems quite complete without that adorable "y" or "ie" on the end! Are Mom and Dad the ones spearheading this trend, calling everything by its diminutive? No-ey, no-ey, it's those syallable-forward Moock girls, adding their own special twist to the words they know and love and the new ones they're picking up.

Throwing Food. Back by popular demand from last Fall -- and winter, and spring, and summer. OK, so maybe it never left. Which must mean it's a classic: dropping pasta, flinging forks, dumping carrots, launching bread, catapulting cups. Is there anything these girls won't throw? If they don't like it, don't want to eat it, or have simply had enough of it, onto the floor it goes. Mom and Dad can warn, scold, threaten, ignore or end the meal outright but there's no end in sight to this fun Fall fling! (Editor's note: Help? Seriously. Help.)

Cell phones. The new must-have accessory for the girls of 'Squared -- they take them with them everywhere, periodically holding them up to their ears and saying "Whoah? Whoah?" And we're not talking toy cell phones, here. That's baby stuff. This season, nothing but the real thing will do. Luckily, mom and dad were able to dig up some old, non-functional ones (Oblong flip phones -- so totally 2005, but with a certain retro charm), satisfying the girls' need for verisimilitude while drastically reducing the number of calls accidentally placed to Belgium.

Taken a few weeks ago at the Plymouth Folk and Blues Festival, Plymouth VT, after Alastair's performance. The beautiful diagetic sountrack is provided by the performer who followed him, the lovely and talented Meg Hutchinson.

Two of a kind. Or not.

Roper — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 21:14:00 GMT

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

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

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

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

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

It's a drag.

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

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

Sleepy Elsa

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

Understanding Clio

Roper — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 00:22:00 GMT

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

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

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

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

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

I really would prefer to avoid this kind of scenario.

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

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

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!

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!

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,

Laughter is not the best discipline

Roper — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 00:56:00 GMT

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!