Baby Squared : Elsa

Elsa the Girly Girl

Roper — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 12:25:00 GMT

As you may have seen, both Clio and Elsa enjoy wearing my hats and shoes. Not to mention their father's. They like wearing play necklaces and bracelets, too, and usually like having barettes and rubber bands in their hair. But Elsa seems to be developing an affinity for another sort of personal grooming items: things she can put on her face and hands. As in creams, lotion, soap, etc. She has watched me put make-up on in the morning before work, and wants a foam pad so she can "put it on Elsa face!" too. She sees me put on lipstick / chapstick, and wants to "put on Elsa mouth!" I let her, a little. (Clean foam pad; chapstick, not lipstick.)

I should mention, at this point, that I think I am relatively low-maintenance when it comes to my personal grooming routine. Yes, I do wear make-up most days, because my eyes all but disappear from my face when I don't. And in the past couple of years, I've started wearing light foundation sometimes to even out my skin tone. I put moisturizer on my face before bed -- whatever happened to be on sale at CVS when I needed more. But that's pretty much it. I wash my hair, like, twice a week. I almost never wear nail polish, because it makes me feel like my fingernails are suffocating, and I just chip it off within a couple of hours anyway. I do like toenail polish and the occasional pedicure in the summer, but this is a new-ish development, as is getting my hair professionally colored. (OK, I guess I've become a little more high maintenance with age.)

Still, I grew up with a fairly non-girly mom as a role model -- a very naturally beautiful mom, but one who was never overly focused on clothes, make-up, etc. I like that. And I like the fact that I wasn't allowed to get my ears pierced or wear so much as lip gloss until I was twelve. I like that clothes and hair and shoes weren't big priorities for me as a kid or a teenager. (God, I was a terrible dresser as a teenager! My teen years spanned 1987-1993, so I sort of had an excuse, but still.) Sure, there were times when I was jealous of my more "advanced" and fashion-forward peers. But in retrospect, I'm glad I was brought up in a fairly non-materialistic, non-appearance-obsessed household. Naturally, I want Elsa and Clio to have more or less the same values.

So is it wrong that I put nail polish on Elsa yesterday?

I'm not sure what possessed me. She got into this box of old make-up and jewelry and stuff on my bureau, and pulled out a bottle of cheapo nail polish. And because toddlers (mine, anyway) seem to have an innate sense of what can be opened, she started asking for me to open it. I could have said no, this is mommy's, we're putting it away now, and dealt with the sure-to-ensue whining. But for whatever reason -- curiosity? boredom? a need for some cuteness? -- I thought: what the hell. I opened the bottle and painted the nail of my index finger, held it up all sparkly pink for her to see, and then asked her if she wanted me to make her fingernails look pretty, too.

Blech! Puke! Gross! I actually said that! "Should mommy make your fingernails look pretty?" As if some cheap-ass, craptastic frosted pink nail polish would actually make her nails look "pretty." As if they weren't pretty the way they were. But the thing is, I knew she would love it. And she did. She happily held out one finger to be painted -- beamed at it, exclaimed "so pretty!" -- and then dutifully held out her hands for me to finish the job. It was fun to see how delighted she was. (I offered to do Clio's nails, too, but she was totally not interested.)

When all was done, though, and I looked at Elsa's little shiny-pink painted nails, I felt slightly guilty, as if I'd desecrated something pure. I didn't feel like I was some psycho toddler-beauty-pageant mom, mind you. But it made me wonder: is this particular kind of "grown-up" play a good idea? Should I hide my girly habits (make up, nail polish, the curling iron, etc.) from my girls so they don't feel the need to emulate them prematurely? Or is this kind of imitative play more or less harmless, provided it's balanced with lots of other stuff -- getting dirty, making things, reading, etc.? I wonder at what point, if any, it starts to send the wrong message. Or if it's one of those things that's not a big deal -- where nature will inevitably overpower nurture. If Elsa is destined to be a girly-girl, she'll be one. If not, she won't. (Or maybe she'll gradually become moreso, as I have.) In any case, it's what's on the inside that counts, right?

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.

Tears

Roper — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 03:30:00 GMT

On Monday afternoon, when we got back from our weekend in New York, I made the stupid (STUPID!) mistake of taking the girls to the grocery store with me. My mood had been plummeting steadily all day, to my disappointment (I'd felt much better the day before), and neither of the girls had slept much on the drive up. Given these two things, I really should have known better. Even Alastair thought maybe it was too much for me to handle, given how I was feeling. ("Are you sure you'll be OK?") But we needed milk and bread and bananas, and it was something to pass the time until dinner, and I thought maybe getting out and doing something would kick my depressed ass back into gear. So off we went.

We'd barely made it halfway through the produce section when Clio started whining and crying to get out of the cart, then yelling for milk or water or juice (which I STUPIDLY hadn't brought). Then she started screaming for a cookie. Elsa, meanwhile, kept wriggling out of the seatbelt (it was one of those shopping carts shaped like a little car) and standing up with half her body out the front window like some kind of hyperactive labrador retriever.

I was the picture of a stressed-out mom. I looked bad, I felt horrid. I could sense people looking at us, maybe in pity, maybe annoyance, maybe some in smiling, "how cute they are, but what a handful" sympathy. I wouldn't know -- I kept my eyes straight ahead, kept my head down, and told myself to just get everything on the list and get out and go home. And then what? Unload the groceries, keep the girls entertained for another hour and a half, make them dinner, get them to bed, make our dinner, unpack....(These sound like simple enough things to do, but when I am depressed, something as simple as brushing my teeth feels akin to pushing a boulder up a hill.) I half wished I'd collapse right there in the cereal aisle and wake up in a sanitorium -- maybe out in the Berkshires somewhere; the kind where they used to send ladies suffering from "nervous exhaustion." Birds singing. Clean white sheets. A rocking chair....

But I didn't collapse. At my wits' end, I tore open a package of Fig Newtons and handed them to Elsa and Clio at regular intervals until I got up to the checkout. At the bank branch up at the front of the store, there was a long line of people -- immigrants, day laborers, people who clearly struggled to make ends meet -- waiting to cash checks. Young men, mothers with kids, old people. Again, I could see them, from the corner of my eye, smiling with kindness and amusement at the spectacle of us -- this harried young woman wearing an Obama button, and this adorable, miserable pair of toddlers. And though it's not who I am, and not what I would normally do, I rolled right past them toward the exits -- grim-faced, fast, angry, not acknowledging a single smile. Stressed-out yuppie bitch. Like she's got it so bad?

The girls whined and cried all the way home, and when I got inside I wailed to Alastair to please come down and get the groceries out of the car and put them away. He looked at me and said "what's wrong?" and I broke down sobbing. "It was awful," I said. As if I'd just survived a war, not a trip to Stop & Shop.

The girls were confused. "Mommy's sad," Alastair explained to them. I sat down in our big, creaky recliner and and Elsa crawled up into my lap. She grinned and giggled and smacked her little hand just a little too hard (that's Elsa love) against my wet cheek. "Mommy sad," she said.

* * *

Today, while the girls napped, I watched online election coverage videos on YouTube, iReport and others. Highlights from Obama's victory speech and McCain's gracious concession. College students on campuses around the country rushing out into the streets. People in cities -- black people, white people, young people, old people -- dancing and shouting. I had a bit of a champagne hangover (still do) and was tired, not having gotten enough sleep last night. (I woke up too early, like a kid on Christmas morning, and couldn't fall back asleep.) I probably should have snuck in a nap while the girls were sleeping, but I couldn't. I wanted to -- and still want to --keep reveling in the glory and possibility and excitement of what happened last night.

The girls woke up while I was mid-video, and I ignored them a little longer than I probably should have. In an interesting reversal of roles, Elsa was the one champing at the bit to get out of her crib and enjoy the rest of the afternoon, while Clio was acting sleepy and sulky. I let her chill there for a little while longer, and brought Elsa into my office, where we watched the rest of the video I'd been looking at: the crowd in Grant Park, erupting upon hearing the news that Obama was the projected winner.

Elsa clapped her hands and grinned and yelled "yay! yay!" And I told her yes -- yay! -- something really exciting has happened. And someday you'll understand just how exciting it is. But it also occurred to me that Elsa and Clio, and millions of other children like them, may never really comprehend the jubilation and relief that most of our country -- and the world -- experienced last night. They won't have lived through the fear and division of the Bush era. The first American president they'll know and remember, for the rest of their lives, will be an African American man. They'll think it's the norm. They'll think, "why was it such a big deal?" And that, in some ways, is a beautiful thing.

I've been getting teary and emotional all day, and watching the videos this afternoon was no exception. I cried as I held Elsa on my lap. Smiled and laughed and cried and rocked. When I am depressed, I feel it strongly and unpleasantly in my chest -- a tightness, a pressure. A frequent need to take a big breath and sigh. Today, I was able to co-opt that feeling for something good. I was able to assign it fullness and joy.

When Elsa looked up and saw that I was crying this afternoon, she put her little palm (splat!) against my face again, and said, "Mommy sad?"

No, I told her, grinning like I haven't grinned in several weeks. Mommy's very, very happy.

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?

You know it's hard out here for a toddler.

Roper — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 01:40:00 GMT

Poor Elsa. She's had a rough week. First off, she's still having poop issues. (Can you believe it? I managed to go a whole month and a half without writing about poop!) This in spite of a very fiber-rich diet and lots of liquids. She goes most days, but I think she holds off as long as possible, and then when she does go, it's quite traumatic. Things are....well, large. A week ago, I spent ten minutes sitting on the floor with her and holding her and rubbing her back while she labored. It seriously was like that -- I had visions of myself, thirty years from now, helping her as she gives birth to her first child, rubbing her back and saying, "you know, this reminds me of when you were little, and you were having constipation issues...."

Hm. I don't know why I'm assuming that I would be there while Elsa is laboring. I guess sometimes mothers do that. Especially on TV. (Wasn't the whole freakin' Cosby family in the room with Sandra while she pushed?) But my mother certainly wasn't there when I was in labor, and that was A-OK with me.

In any case. I never could have anticipated that part of being a parent would be comforting my child while she tries to do her business. And that there would be something very sweet and tender about it. (About the comforting, that is. Not the...oh never mind.) I am beginning to think, however, that it's time to bring in the big guns in an attempt to get to the bottom of (ha ha) this problem. Has anyone out there had any luck with mineral oil?

The other thing that's been going on with Elsa is that she's been getting uncharacteristically shy and freaked out around semi-unfamiliar people. On Friday night, one of my oldest, dearest friends (whom Elsa has met several times) and her boyfriend came over, and Elsa was miserable. She cried and buried her head in my shoulder, clung to me, refused to let me put her down. She did this the following day at the beginning of a play date / field trip with a different friend of mine and her daughter, then freaked out yet again that evening when the same folks from the night before came back. So strange! She's usually fearless when it comes to seeing and meeting new people -- asking them to pick her up, play with her, tell her their life story within minutes of meeting them. Why, all of a sudden, is she a shrinking violet? A clinging vine? A crying...er...chrysanthemum?

And now, to top it all off, she's got a major head cold. Last night was like old times -- she was waking up every few hours and I had to go into the nursery to try to comfort her back to sleep. (Unlike old times, however, I had nothing to offer her in the boob department.) In the morning, the poor kid's hair was plastered to her face with mucus and when she said "Mommy" it sounded like "Bombi." She's been sleepy and slimy all day since. And, oh yes, I should mention that two days ago, Alastair left on tour for two weeks. How is it that they always know to get sick right when he leaves?

Ah, but now I am feeling sorry for myself, when it is Miss Elsa I should pity. She's had a rough go of it. But she has remained in pretty good spirits, considering. Atta girl. Here's hoping that next week all the bowel movements are easy, the social interactions are pleasant, and the nasal passages are clear.

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.

Poopophobia

Roper — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 21:27:00 GMT

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prom is for losers anyway, right?

The Adventures of Miss Elsa

Roper — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 12:08:00 GMT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poison Control Call #2

Roper — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 01:34:00 GMT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: OK. Thanks. A sphincter says what?

PC: What?

Me: Exactly.

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

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

Cry Baby

Roper — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 19:14:00 GMT

Elsa is really starting to get on my nerves. I know, I know, I'm not supposed to stay stuff like that. And most of the time she is, of course, delightful. But it seems like she's doing a lot more crying and whining lately: to be picked up, to be fed, to be given her cup or bottle, to be taken out of her high chair.

A couple of times over the past few days, she's even thrown all-out tantrums. This is definitely a new development. Both times, she was in her high chair eating and then suddenly -- seemingly out of the blue -- started freaking out. We tried giving her different food, holding her, giving her her cup, etc., but she was, for a few minutes, inconsolable. She even kicked and flailed when I tried to hold her. So finally, we just let her walk (more like stomp) around the room crying and screaming until she calmed down.

I have no idea what she was upset about. Her food wasn't to her liking? Her peas and carrots clashed? She was worried about the economy? I don't know if it's normal for 14-almost-15-month-olds to start throwing tantrums, but if it is (please tell me it is....) I would wager it's due to communication frustration. There's so much now that she can tell us -- she knows the sign language for "drink" and "eat" and "more." She can lift her arms up when she wants to be held and shove a book at me when she wants to be read to. She even sometimes points at her rear end when she needs to be changed -- a new and promising skill. But I'm sure there's much more going on inside her head that she can't get across: I'm sick of mac and cheese! This bib is scratchy! I'm tired and bored and my college savings funds are nosediving while you sit there trying to get me to eat chunks of over-microwaved Boca burger! Agggghhghghgh!!

My instincts tell me that at this stage of the game there's not a whole lot we can do during these outbursts except just give her some space to cool off. As for the other, more low-grade whining and crying, I don't know. Since day one, Elsa has been a bit of a drama queen (not that I'd ever dress her in a shirt that said so...), and her crying has always seemed somehow very *emotional.* I love the fact that she's passionate and intense and stubborn. But it's definitely becoming more of a challenge. Although I am generally able to keep my cool ("Everything's OK, sweetie, Mommy's getting your milk right now, please be patient," or "Mommy can't pick you up right now because she's changing Clio's diaper, but I'll play with you as soon as I'm done" etc. etc.) -- the occasional, "What is up with you, Elsa? Chill, girl!" does slip out. I'm beginning to have dire visions of the future -- tantrums in the grocery store, battles over bedtime, notes sent home with the principal, squad cars pulling up to our house with -- OK, OK, I'll stop.

At least this is one time where the twin thing is a comfort. While Clio certainly does her share of crying and whining, too, she's generally much more mellow. So at least we can be reasonably sure that Elsa's behavior isn't a result of our doing something horribly, dreadfully wrong. I don't think...