Baby Squared : I am powerless

The Fall Fashion Issue

Roper — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 15:10:00 GMT

I have never been terribly concerned with clothes where my children are concerned. I mean, I make sure that they have enough of them, and wear them as appropriate for the weather and, to a lesser degree, the occasion. But as much fun as it would be, we just don't have the time or energy -- let alone the money -- to dress Elsa and Clio super-adorably.

Their wardrobe consists of a motley combination of gifts from grandparents and others, hand-me-downs from friends, things that I buy for them second-hand at tag sales, and a few supplemental store-bought items as needed, generally from Target or Marshall's. The dresses in the closet go largely unworn. Anything that requires ironing or hand-washing is pretty much never worn -- at least, not more than once.

As the girls outgrow clothes, I toss them into a shopping bag in the closet and periodically bring them up to the attic, where I transfer them into other bags and boxes, which I intend to sort through any day now, I swear. Meanwhile, the girls share one big dresser, which I am convinced is haunted by some small, slovenly poltergeist that gets its kicks by unfolding everything we've just folded and pulling dirty clothes out of the hamper to mix in with the clean ones. In short, I never feel quite in control of the clothing situation. But it's never been high on my list of worries in life.

Of course, I do enjoy getting the gals into a cute outfit now and then, if I can swing it. (i.e. if one of them is not throwing a fit while I'm trying to dress the other one, and if a good combination of shirt / pants / sweater / etc. all happen to be clean at the same time.) And I do occasionally feel a pang of jealousy and inferiority when I see little girls in cute-meets-funky ensembles made up of clothes that look like they came from boutiques or, at the very least, high-end consignment shops. (Just as I occasionally feel pangs of jealousy and inferiority when I see women looking similarly stylish and cool.)

But most of the time I could care less. What's the point of making your kid look like they stepped out of a Hannah Anderson catalog if their clothes are going to be spattered with yogurt within an hour of their getting dressed? And what's the point of spending fifty bucks on an outfit that they'll only fit into for six months?

Of course, four days out of the week, it's their dad who dresses them, and his sartorial standards are even lower than mine. Some days I come home from work to find the girls looking like he dressed them in the dark. Cute pink flowered pants and a grungy red t-shirt with writing on it. Jeans and a pajama top. Brown with purple. Stripes with dots. Granted, the man is fairly color blind. But mostly, he just doesn't notice or care. Which is fine. Really, it is.

Except that the girls are about to start preschool. And in the spirit of the back-to-school season (remember how important it was to figure out what you'd wear on the first day of school?) I'm feeling the urge to get a bit more on top of the girls' clothing situation. I'm going to a huge kids' tag sale tomorrow morning, and am hoping to score some cute stuff. Maybe I'll even spring for some of the big ticket items -- you know, things that cost more than two dollars. And maybe I'll start laying their clothes out the night before on school nights.

Of course, all of this begs the question, "Why?" Am I succumbing to some subtle societal pressure to make sure that my children look well-dressed and are not perceived as ragamuffins by their teachers and the other parents? Yeah, there's probably some of that. (I remember my mother's dismay on one occasion when I wore the same dress two days in a row while she was away and my dad was in charge). But I also think it's just the whole notion of them going to school. There's some part of me -- and maybe it's a little old fashioned -- that believes you should look a little nicer for school than you would for hanging around the house. (Aren't my girls going to adore me when they're teenagers?) Who's with me?

Break it up, you two

Roper — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 15:04:00 GMT

Someone asked in a recent comment if my girls break into fights pretty much any time I leave the room for more than five seconds. And the answer, sadly, is yes. YES! It's ridiculous how much of our parenting these days involves playing referee. And damn, it's tough. We're not even to the stage of She said / She said yet. There's no "she started it," or "she's lying." There's just...fighting.

And it seems to go in waves where it's either Elsa's fault all the time or Clio's fault all the time, and I start questioning my ability to be a fair and impartial judge, because I fear I am biased against one child or the other, based on her recent behavior. Or I worry that I'm subconsciously trying to even things out by under- or over-reacting to one or the other of them. (If you're having trouble following this paragraph, then you can begin to get a sense of how confused I often feel in the moment.)

The fights tend to fall into five distinct categories. There's the "You took what I was playing with and I want it back" fight; the "you are crowding my personal space" fight; the "I am mad at you for some entirely inane and irrational reason, like you put your milk cup to the left of your plate and I want it to the right of your plate" fight; and the "you are doing some silly/annoying thing on purpose just to drive me nuts" fight (Clio is frequently guilty of this -- mischeivous child). Then there are the expressions-of-affection-and-playfulness-turned-rough incidents, which, while not as contentious, still require parental intervention

In fact, it seems like almost all of their -- ahem -- "disagreements" require parental intervention. I've tried a few times, experimentally, to let them try to work things out on their own, but it usually only leads to escalation. I try to assume the role of "conflict coach" when I can, encouraging them to use words instead of screaming / crying / hitting. I'll say (for example) "Elsa, if you don't like it that Clio is swinging your Curious George around by the leg, you need to tell her 'please stop doing that to my George,' instead of crying." Not that it necessarily works. But it's a start, right? Much of the time, though, we have to get right in there and arbitrate.

It's the physical fights that I hate the most. Both girls are deep into the hitting / pushing / kicking thing, and I find it awfully disturbing. We are very firm about these not being acceptable behaviors. Our strategy, when it happens, is to physically remove the perpetrator -- sometimes for an actual "time-out," sometimes not, depending on the situation -- and have a little "talk" about how hitting and kicking are not OK responses, you need to use words. We require an apology. After that, if possible -- that is, if we witnessed what happened -- we try to address what the other child did to provoke the physical response: grabbing a toy or insulting her sister's haircut or whatever. But making it clear that violence is not an OK response is our first priority.

What I find particularly infuriating is when the girls strike out at us, which happens occasionally. They may only be two and a half, but they are strong little buggers, and a smack or a kick from them can really hurt. It's hard to remain calm and reasonable when your daughter has just whacked you on the head and screamed at you to "go away!" while you're trying to cut her waffle (for example) because she asked you to cut her waffle. (No is yes! Yes is no! War is peace! Freedom is slavery!) You are not only angry at the behavior, but you're hurt that they've lashed out at you, and, possibly, in pain.

Sometimes their "violence" is not even in anger; it's just out of punchy (literally! Again!), overtired playfulness. Yesterday afternoon, I was changing Clio's diaper and she was being kicky, but in a totally silly and playful way -- giggling the whole time. I told her she needed to stop so I could change her diaper; she didn't. I held her feet and told her to stop; she didn't. I told her, quite firmly, that if she didn't stop kicking she was going to go upstairs in her crib for a time-out. She proceeded to kick me in the boob, hard, smiling the whole time. And up she went.

Are my children psychopaths? It doesn't seem possible. So much of the time, they really are lovely, and play nicely with each other. But sometimes....good God. I feel like they've been possesed by that kid from The Omen. And I am the hapless, heartbroken mother played by some actress whose career never really went anywhere and ended up playing the main character's best friend on an 80s sitcom that was cancelled after one season. You know?

It's all fun and games until somebody loses a nose. Photo by Ned Harvey.

An Adventure Gone Terribly Awry

Roper — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 19:19:00 GMT

Let me preface this tale by saying that I hate, hate, hate, hate, HATE hot, humid weather. I can't stand it. I wilt in it. I am physically and mentally uncomfortable in it. I become cranky and lazy and irritable, and you pretty much don't want to be around me. This is is exacerbated by the fact that we only have air conditioning in our bedroom and the girls' room, and the rest of our house traps heat like a ... a ... heat trap. (The weather affects my ability to construct similes as well.)

Unfortunately, Elsa and Clio are not fans of hot weather either. They've been cranky and whiney and tantrum-y the past few days. In fact, on Saturday, Clio threw a fit of such ferocity that she actually managed to lock herself and Elsa in the nursery as a result. I forget what the inciting issue was, but Clio for some reason wanted to get out of the room, and was trying to open the door while I was changing Elsa. She somehow managed to turn the little lock knob thingy on the doorknob, unbeknownst to me, and when I closed the door behind me to go downstairs and get a particular library book to read to them before their nap, it locked. There are locks on all three bedroom doors in our house, each with separate keys, because the house used to be a rental property, where multiple people lived and each had their own room. But when we bought the house, we were only were given keys to two of them. Guess which one we didn't have?

It was horrible. I tried to get the girls to come turn the button, but they coudn't. Elsa started freaking out and crying "Come to me, mommy!" which was more than a little heartbreaking. (Then "I'm itchy!" which was just weird...) Fortunately our next door neighbor, who is a semi-retired painter, had an extension ladder, and we were able to climb up and into the window of the girls' room. Immediately after we got the door open, in a fit of primal, maternal anger / fear, I took a screwdriver and took that damned doorknob out. Alastair later pointed out that we could have just put tape or something over the locking button until we bought a new doorknob. But it was 90 degrees out, and my Mama Bear adrenaline had been tripped. Screw reasonable thought.

Alas, it turned out that Clio's door-locking fit on Saturday was just a warm-up. But let me back up a little: When I woke up Sunday morning, I had the immediate and urgent need to get everyone in the car and go somewhere. Not only because being in the car would mean AC, but because I felt suddenly, extremely claustrophobic. Not just in the house, but in our town and in our life in general. I didn't want to go to the usual playgrounds or the usual pond where the girls like to swim. Where did I want to go? The Swiss Alps would have been nice. Tibet, perhaps. I would have even settled for a beach north of Boston, but knew that the traffic would be horrendous and the parking impossible. So, I decided we should pack a lunch and drive west, out toward Mount Wachusett, maybe have lunch near the big reservoir if we could.

We told the girls we were going on an adventure. "An a-vencha!" they said happily. Clio put her Curious George doll up on her shoulders and said she wanted to go on a Bear Hunt. (In the book, by Michale Rosen / Helen Oxenbury, the father puts the little kid on his shoulders at some point. So, now Clio thinks that's a key part of any family Bear Hunt. Too true.) Things started off well. The AC felt good. The scenery was lovely, if slightly wilted and hazy. We stopped at a grocery / orchard store somewhere in the middle of nowhere to buy food for our picnic, and the girls ran around pointing at things and picking up ears of corn and asking to hold apples and staying on the "cute" side of that fine cute/annoying line that young children walk in such places as grocery stores.

Then, when we were standing at the checkout, for reasons which still remain a mystery, Clio started crying and asking for her ga-ga (pacifier). It was one of those slow-build cries that you know is going to be really bad -- lip starts to tremble, eyes start to fill with tears, mouth turns down at the corners, and then, all of a sudden, she's hyperventilating and screaming. I want my gaga! I want my gaga! I wanna go home and have my gaga!

And, my friends, she proceeded to scream and cry, non-stop, for the following hour and a half. Through our "picnic" (if you can call it that) and the entire ride home. Sometimes her request changed: I want medicine. I want to sit with you, mommy. I want to go home. And, because one screaming two-year-old really isn't difficult enough to handle, Elsa decided she had better join in, too. So, from lunch onward, she also screamed for her gaga, for medicine, to sit up front with me, etc. At one point, the two of them were screaming at eachother. It was a prime example of the absurdist toddler argument: Clio screamed that she wanted her yellow ducky gaga, and then Elsa screamed that she wanted her red doggie gaga. But somehow these events were mutually exclusive in their little, addled toddler brains. So it became:

Clio: I WANT MY YELLOW DUCKY GAGA!!

Elsa: NO! I WANT MY RED DOGGIE GAGA!

Clio: NO! DON'T SAY I WANT MY RED DOGGIE GAGA! I WANT MY YELLOW DUCKY GAGA!

Elsa: NO! I WANT MY RED DUCKY GAGA!!

And on it went. In the midst of all this, of course, Alastair and I started getting snappy with each other -- nearly impossible to avoid in this sort of situation, we find; especially when it's 96 degrees out and your'e trying to drive. I started wondering: are we doing something wrong? Is there something wrong with our parenting technique such that 1.) We are powerless to stop this 2.) This started in the first place? I mean, we did everything. We reassured. We held. We comforted. We tried to speak stupid "Toddlerese." We yelled. We tried to use the Putumayo CD the girls love as a bargaining chip. Noth. ing. worked. I was seriously on the brink of tears myself. (And actually did cry about it later, after we'd gotten them down for their nap, in sheer frustration / exhaustion.)

Of course, when we were approximately thirty seconds away from our house, they both stopped. And by the time we got them inside and upstairs into their cribs, they were both downright jolly. Guess they wanted to come home as badly as I wanted to get away from it.

And how was YOUR weekend??

(Not Exactly) A Walk in the Park

Roper — Wed, 13 May 2009 10:55:00 GMT

Over the last six months, things have gotten so much more manageable when it comes to going out in public places with girls. But every once in a while, I get a little cocky. And those gals put me right back in my place.

Mother's Day in Boston was a gorgeous day, sunny and breezy. After a morning of indulgent "me time" (I slept in, was brought Dunkin donuts and coffee for breakfast, read for awhile, went to the gym, then sat outside in the sunshine with a magazine) I wanted to spend a little quality mother-daughter time with my gals. I decided to take them into the city, to the Public Garden. It seemed like a terrific idea at the time. On my own with the girls (and their doll strollers) at a city park that also happens to be a major tourist attraction, on a beautiful Mother's Day? Sure! No problem! Piece of cake!

Yeah, well. Not exactly.

Things started off well. We got up and out of the Boston Common garage and across the street into the park without incident. First stop was the "Make Way for Ducklings" statues, mobbed with other small people and their parents, snapping photos. Elsa and Clio saw the other kids sitting on the ducks and figured they probably should do likewise. I snapped the obligatory photos.

Actually, during the course of our outing a lot of other people took photos of the girls, too. Or just grinned and commented and "aww"ed. They did look pretty cute, I guess, so purposely pushing around their twin Curious Georges in doll strollers. And Curious George is something of a Boston icon, so he fit in nicely with the ducklings, the swan boats, the skyline views, etc. (The Curious George books are published by Boston-based Houghton Mifflin and the authors were longtime Cambridge residents. Bit of trivia there for ya.)

We headed over to the lake next, to feed the ducks. The girls each had a bag of crumbled bread, which they attempted to fling into the water. Much of the time it didn't travel much farther than a few inches, owing to a strong headwind. But some pieces managed to make it in. I was feeling all cooler-than-thou because I let my girls go right onto the stone curb at the edge of the pond to throw their bread, while a mother nearby was freaking out anytime her daughter -- probably six or seven years old -- got within two feet. The water in the pond, at the shores, is about a foot deep so, while a fall would have been a messy proposition, it wouldn't have been life-threatening.

But my laid-back mom bravado quickly vanished when we attempted to go further into the park. While Elsa charged ahead at a breakneck speed with her stroller, Clio dawdled behind, stopping to point out the Swan Boats for me (here comes another one, Mommy!), stare up at trees, gape at a mounted policeman's horse, etc. In retrospect, she was probably also stalling to avoid the crowds we were headed toward: the bridge across the lake was like a freeway, more jammed with pedestrians than I've ever seen it before. Many of these people were attempting to take photos of each other standing against the rail, so the traffic periodically stopped and started and generally followed erratic and annoying patterns.

Meanwhile, I couldn't hold the girls' hands, because they were pushing their strollers. Until they decided they didn't want to do that anymore, so I got stuck holding both strollers, trying to maneuver my way through the crowds, while at the same time trying to keep Curious George and his twin brother from tumbling out onto the pavement. Meanwhile, Clio continued to dawdle and Elsa ran back and forth from one side of the bridge to the other -- totally oblivious to the other people there, several of whom almost tripped over her -- to see the Swan Boats go under on one side and back out the other. Trying to get the girls off the bridge onto the (only slightly less crowded) paths on the other side was like herding cats, and I had a few moments of sheer panic when I couldn't find one or the other of them for a few seconds.

Honestly, it was lousy judgement on my part. The doll strollers, the bridge, the crowded setting in general....I will not attempt something like this again on my own. At least not in the immediate future.

Once we were off the bridge, it was a little easier to keep the gals corraled, but not much. I tried to get them off the paths and onto the grass, where they'd be less likely to get tripped over by people. This was slightly better. Now instead of herding cats, it was like herding dogs. But I didn't feel like I really had things under control until we made it back across to Boston Common, where I quickly bought a couple of Italian ices for the girls and found us a shady patch of grass to sit in. Dealing with the slurping, spilling and stickiness that ensued was -- compared to the rest of our excursion -- a walk in the park.

Absurdity Spoken Here

Roper — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 16:22:00 GMT

Since the day Elsa and Clio were born, I looked forward to when they'd be able to talk. I couldn't wait to be able to communicate with them verbally, and find out what was going through their little minds. It is, indeed, a lot of fun to see them adding new words and phrases to their vocabulary daily, and stringing little sentences together with increasing alacrity. I love that they can express their needs and wants more easily now. The only very small problem: what they need and want is frequently INSANE AND ILLOGICAL AND RIDICULOUS.

At the moment, it's Clio in particular whose "needs" are often exasperating. If, for example, I bring out two completely identical bowls of applesauce -- same color, same size, same amount, etc. -- and put one down in front of Clio and one in front of Elsa, Clio will point to the bowl I give her and say (scream), "No, dat's Elsa's!" So I will switch the bowls (thank God Elsa is a little more chill about this kind of thing), thinking it's a quick and easy fix to the problem. Ha ha ha. No. Because althought it was Elsa's bowl (clearly) it had Clio's spoon in it. So now Clio is screaming "No, dat's Clio 'poon! Dat Clio pooooooon!!" so I switch the spoons. Fine. Whatever. BUT -- silly me, I didn't wipe the spoon off before transferring it, so it still contains some of Elsa's applesauce (are you following all this?) which is completely unacceptable to Clio. She holds the spoon out toward her sister, now screaming quite frantically "No! Dat Elsa's appasauce! Dat Elsa's! Elsa have Clio applesauce! Dat Clio's!"

And on and on it goes.

Honestly, at times I feel like I'm through the looking glass -- a hapless Alice who simply doesn't understand the logic of the world she's in. There are times when I just ignore it and put my foot down: No, this is YOUR bowl, and YOUR spoon, and you'll eat it, end of story. But this is far, far easier said than done. A todder's yelling and crying is not easy to withstand -- and Clio is a stubborn little lady. Not to mention loud. When she's screaming, all you want is for it to STOP. And of course, there's the Other Twin factor: while one sibling is pitching a fit, it's entirely possible that the other one will start clamoring for your attention, too. Or take the opportunity to sneak out of the room to attempt some kind of dangerous chair-climbing expedition. Or make a massive poop, requiring a full clothing change.

It's slightly less frustating when the girls have absurd arguments among themselves. This weekend in the car on the way home from swimming lessons, Clio started saying that she wanted to eat fishies. (As in the Pepperidge Farm kind.) We said yes, fine, OK, when we get home you can have some fishies with lunch. Elsa chimed in and said that she wanted fishies, too. Again, we said yes, fine, great. Fishies it is. They both kept repeating their desire for goldfish crackers, and at some point it devolved into an all-out verbal toddler brawl:

No, Elsa, CLIO eat fishies!

Elsa eat fishies too!

No, Elsa. Dat not nice! Clio eat the fishies.

Nooooo!! (crying now) Elsa want fishies!!!

And of course, I'm twisted around in the front passenger seat, trying to remain calm, attempting to explain that they can BOTH have goldfish crackers. But I might as well have been talking to a couple of rocks. No -- wait. Bad analogy. Rocks are quiet. I might as well have been talking to a couple of fucking CHAINSAWS. Eventually, somehow, they managed to calm down, and when we got home, and I let Clio choose which plate she felt was "hers" at that moment, and we ate fishies, and everyone was (temporarily) happy.

I am wondering if maybe it's time to start designating certain clothes, toys, utensils, etc. as belonging to either Clio or Elsa, since Clio, anyway, seems to have some real issues around what is hers and what is Elsa's. The only problem: How do we choose what belongs to whom? It seems to change on a minute-by-minute -- nay, second by second -- basis.

Sigh.

On a happier note: I'm pleased to report that I visited another preschool for the girls for next year, and it's adorable and I think they'll love it, and I registered them on the spot, and they're in! So, starting in September, the girls will go to "school" two mornings a week (to start). It's a ways off, and I'm glad, but one less thing to worry about. Oh, and our battery charger finally came, so I'll post some new pictures soon. To tide you over in the meantime, here are some shots from a few months ago -- when the world was green, and we played outside, and life was sweet, and my posts didn't have a lot of ALL CAPS and the girls never had tantrums about absurd and ridiculous things ever.

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.

The Line of Childproofing

Roper — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 17:14:00 GMT

It just keeps rising. First, we had to worry about things close to the floor: electrical outlets, power cords, low cabinets. Gradually, it rose, and we had to childproof the stove dials, move the stereo out of reach, and make sure glasses, plates and knives weren't near the edges of tables. But now, we've reached a whole new threshold. Because the girls have figured out how to do this:

Yessirree, that adorable little table and set of chairs we bought for the girls? They have figured out how to move them around and use them to reach new heights of disruption and destruction. This means that basically nothing on the kitchen counters, table or rolling cart, shown above, is out of reach. Which, in turn, means that the girls can't be left unattended in the kitchen for more than four seconds. (Or attended, for that matter.) We recently took the gate between the kitchen and the dining room down. (That is, it came loose and we were too lazy to fix it and thought, "hey, maybe we don't really need this anymore.") But it's about to go back up.

We may need to make some other adjustments, too. The girls are on the brink of being able to turn doorknobs, which means we may need to put childproofing contraptions on the toilet seats. (Yesterday, Elsa got into the bathroom somehow when I wasn't looking, and came out to me holding up a wet hand and saying "messy! messy!" Fortunately, the toilet HAD been flushed prior to this.) We've also got to figure out some way to childproof the utensil drawers in the kitchen -- we haven't been able to find the right kind of hardware yet. What a pain, what a pain.

How much higher and broader will the line of childproofing need to go? Are we going to have to put a lock on the refrigerator? Take framed photos and artwork down off the walls? (They have toy brooms! They could use them to dislodge things!) I kind of feel like I'm living in The Cat in the Hat -- a book that always stressed me out, incidentally -- with Thing One and Thing Two running around wreaking havoc. I'm the goldfish in the bowl, watching, powerless and horrified.

Although, unlike the goldfish, I have legs and arms. Lately, seems like I'm constantly using them to move things out of reach or pull them out of the grasp of curious little hands. Not that I'm always there fast enough. With two toddlers, often moving in different directions, you just can't always keep up. The other morning I was in a panic because I couldn't find my keys -- some little somebody had taken them off the table to play with and they ended up hidden inside a basket of envelopes and coupons. Yesterday, I noticed that some small person had attempted to take a bite out of a banana -- through the peel. And, of course, it goes without saying that the lower branches of our Christmas tree are pretty much nude. (We thought ahead there, and only put unbreakable stuff down low.)

This too shall pass, I assume, and they'll become more fascinated (I hope?) by their own toys and books than with random household gadgets and clutter. Then, of course, they'll start snooping around in dresser drawers and closets and bookshelves. They'll make caterpillar houses in the good wine glasses and build forts out of the clean, folded bedsheets. They'll play dress-up with my make-up, jewelry, and clothes. Or, maybe, as I was, they'll be traumatized and embarrassed by something they happen to read in one of our books. (It was a very explicit passage in the book Wifey, which I decided one day, at 8 or 9 years old, to peruse. It was by Judy Blume! She wrote Superfudge! Why was she writing about a man's....ugh! I can't even write it! I confessed to my parents and they hid the book away, in a box of other "adult" literature that I didn't find again until I was a teenager. Of course, at that point, I was actively looking for it.)

The moral of this post? Once you have kids, your possessions are no longer your own. Hide everything. Lock it away. Put it in deep storage. Hell, just throw it out. Because whatever it is, eventually, your children WILL find a way to get their hands on it, despite your best efforts. I am convinced.

Party Time, Excellent

Roper — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 21:00:00 GMT

Elsa and Clio partied hard this weekend. It was non-stop cookies, apple juice and dresses with tights, plus a little dancing and sugar-high stair-climbing thrown in for good measure. The revelry kicked off on Friday, for Santa's annual visit to my place of work, as mentioned in my last post. The girls loved the cookies, the candy canes, the juice boxes, the carpeted stairs to climb on and long halls to run down. But they were definitely suspicious of the man in red. Not that I blame them. I always found the whole picture-with-Santa experience rather harrowing, even when I was much older than Elsa and Clio are now. If they never want to sit on the dude's lap or tell him what they want for Christmas, it's fine by me.

The partying continued on Saturday morning. Any fans of Steve Almond or former readers of his Baby Daddy blog may be interested to know that Steve and his wife just welcomed a new baby boy, Judah Elijah, to the family. I brought the girls over to the Almond residence for a celebratory brunch and virtual bris (Steve recounted the circumcision, which took place at the hospital, in charming detail). I thought the girls would be excited about seeing a new baby -- they like to say "baby," after all. And they enjoy dragging their baby dolls around the house by their feet, feeding them things, whacking their heads against the refrigerator, etc. But they could have cared less about real-live baby Judah. The paper cups, stirrers and creamers from Dunkin Donuts, on the other hand -- woo hoo! And the bagels. My god, did they eat a lot of bagels.

We went to yet another party in the afternoon, at my friend Tricia's house. The girls got antsy in the car on the way there, and I began to wonder if it was a mistake to try to hit two parties in one day, but, in fact, the girls had an awesome time. When we got there, music was blasting in the den, and a whole bunch of kids, mostly boys, aged 3 - 8, were almost literally bouncing off the walls: dancing around, rolling on the ground, slamming into furniture, a'whoopin' and a'hollerin'. I thought the girls -- or at least Clio -- would be terrified. But in fact, after observing the madness for a few minutes, they started dancing, too. Elsa even gave a few of her trademark squeals of joy as she busted her moves. I left the room for a few minutes to get some food, and when I came back, Clio was sitting on the couch watching, clapping her hands, grooving to the beat. It was the most comfortable and independent I've ever seen either of them at a party. In fact, I even managed to get in some actual, uninterrupted exchanges of 3-5 sentences with other adults!

The only issue -- as it had been at the other two events -- was trying to keep them from eating, er, everything. They're both tall enough now that they can reach up and grab things off your standard-sized table, which makes controlling their food intake at parties next to impossible. Elsa scarfed down the equivalent of an entire pineapple (chunked) and at one point managed to grab a handful of guacumole. Clio alternated between cookies and crackers. To watch how those two eat at parties, you'd think we starved them. Then again, they're always happy to eat if it's 1.) A carbohydrate, cheese or piece of fruit 2.) not served on a plate as part of an actual "meal." (Maybe, like me, they feel like if you don't actually sit down to eat it, the calories don't count?)

You would think they would be partied out after all of this, but the next day, they rocked yet another social event -- a tree trimming party at my friend Megan's house. I wasn't there -- I went to Springfield for my co-worker's funeral -- but judging by the pictures they had a fab time:

(Doing their Mary-Kate and Ashley impression)

(Captions, please?)

No means no -- usually.

Roper — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 19:18:00 GMT

I'm finding that one of the toughest parts about parenting nearly-two-year-olds is deciding when and when not to let them have their way, and how to maintain some semblance of consistency while also being flexible. Obviously, in some cases, there's no room for negotiation: no, you can't go outside without a jacket; no, you can't play with that steak knife; no, you can't borrow the car.

But so much of the time it's a judgement call. Last night, for example, I made the girls a nutritious and colorful dinner of veggie burger, sweet potato fries and green beans -- all foods that they generally like. I gave them ketchup for dipping, too. (It's a vegetable!) But they wouldn't eat any of it. (Well, Elsa ate some of the ketchup.) Then Clio started asking for applesauce. Elsa, of course, joined in. (Which is frustrating because I think, given time, she might have actually eaten her dinner.)

I tried the whole "you can have applesauce if you eat one bite of veggie burger and one bean" approach, but I honestly don't think the girls quite grasp the logic of delayed gratification yet. In the end, after much whining (from both them and me) I folded and gave them applesauce. They both ate, like, two giant bowls of it. So they were obviously hungry. But not for veggie burger, beans and sweet potato fries with ketchup. (Note: I also tried getting them to dip their sweet potato fries, etc. in the applesauce, but they just licked it off. Foiled!)

Did I do the wrong thing? Should I have refused to give in? Sent them to bed, then served them their untouched dinners the next morning, cold, a la Mommie Dearest? Or are you supposed to not worry too much about what your kids at this age eat at any one meal, as long as they get some protein, vitamins and fiber in over the course of the day?

Another dilemma: to pick up, or not to pick up? For the past few weeks, Clio has been constantly wanting to be held. And she's rarely content to simply sit on a lap -- she wants you to pick her up and stand or walk around with her, and will cry and whine until you do. Believe me, I love holding my girls in my arms, and love that they take comfort in being close to me. But you can only carry a hefty, applesauce-fed toddler around for so long. Then there's the problem of the second toddler getting jealous and wanting to be picked up, too -- something I can no longer physically do without endangering all three of us.

So,what to do? Do I pick Clio up whenever she wants me to, as long as it's logistically possible, or is it OK to set some limits? As in, "mommy is eating her lunch right now, so she can't pick you up, but when she's finished, she will." (As if saying stuff like that actually works.) Or, more realistically, "Mommy has been carrying you around for the past ten minutes and though she's not quite sure what a hernia is, she suspects she may be in danger of getting one unless she puts you down RIGHT NOW."

My ever-wise husband thinks that our approach, in general, should be not to be too quick to say no (choose our battles, in other words) but to stick to our guns once we decide to say it. I tend to agree, though it's obviously much easier said than done. The whining and screaming of my children frequently drowns out the calm, rational voice inside my head that's telling me to stand firm.

I can just imagine it, years from now: Clio and Elsa telling their therapists how sometimes I would let them have two cookies, and other times I only let them have one. Sometimes we would play the "Banana Phone" song over and over again, per their request, and sometimes we'd tell them to sit tight and just listen to the rest of the CD. "How were we supposed to establish a sense of self when the sands beneath our feet were so constantly and relentlessly shifting? How could we learn to trust or respect anyone when we couldn't even trust whether or not we were going to get a second Fig Newton?"

To future Elsa and Clio (and their therapist), once again: I apologize.

Two times two equals f#&%

Roper — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 02:02:00 GMT

We had a nice Thanksgiving weekend. Really, we did. There was lots of good food and no family drama. We got some serious, slothful relaxation in, too: the night before Thanksgiving, at my brother's house, we drank wine, ate pizza, and watched five straight hours of Top Chef. I've decided I'm going to start talking to Elsa and Clio like one of the contestants to get them more interested in their food: "What I've done here is taken circular oat cereal, rustled it into a bowl and then quickly doused it with just the right amount of fresh, cold milk. Finally, I've topped it off with some thinly-sliced, ripe banana. Enjoy."

We also had twenty-eight glorious child-free hours together on the Maine coast, which we spent doing the sort of things we used to do way back when: browsing in shops, eating more frequently than is biologically necessary, talking about everything from our college days to our future plans to how Abraham Lincoln won the Republican nomination. (A. is reading Team of Rivals.) We were silly and stupid and flirty. And man, it was nice to go to sleep in a big, soft, king-size antique bed and not have to negotiate which one of us was going to get up with the girls in the morning.

Though I can't say I really *missed* the girls, by the time we headed back to my parents' house, I was eager to see them. They greeted us with bright smiles, said "Mommy Daddy here!", let us kiss them, and then proceeded to have total, screaming meltdowns. Both of them.

I don't remember what exactly triggered said meltdowns -- maybe it was just release of pent up emotion having to do with our being gone -- but I've come to believe that getting at the root cause of a tantrum is not terribly relevant when you're dealing with an (almost) two-year-old. Once they go into that mode, fugghetaboutit. Giving them back the crayons that you took away, letting them eat the third cookie they wanted, picking them back up after you put them down against their wishes -- useless. Pretty much NOTHING can comfort them. Things just have to play themselves out.

This is especially true of Clio, who has more intense and frequent freakouts than Elsa. (Elsa can be a bit of a drama queen, but she's also easier to calm down and comfort, and has been since she was a newborn.) Once Clio gets going, there's no stopping her. (Also the case since day one.) When she's in this state, she doesn't know what she wants, or how to feel better, and rejects everything we try. We pick her up, she screams "Down now! Down now!" We put her down and she screams "picka up! picka up!" She pushes or flings away anything we try to give her -- a toy, a snack, a cup of milk. The only thing to do, it seems, is to put her in her crib with her pacifier until she collects herself. In other words, a textbook "time out."

It felt like there were a lot of tantrums this weekend, both small and large. A lot of intra-sibling bickering. And they both constantly wanted to be picked up, or to sit on our laps. Part of it, I think, was the fact that they're both getting over colds. Also, Clio appears to have a big old bicuspid busting its way through her gums. The change of scene and routine may also have contributed to their fragile states. But I'm afraid the larger truth is that the terrible two's have arrived. And it's going to be rough.

Dealing with one toddler's whining / stubbornness / neediness / etc. is challening enough. But when you've got two going at the same time -- or even one in a bad mood and one in a good mood, but still wanting attention -- hoo boy. Both Alastair and I lost our cool at times over this past weekend. We yelled. We handled inanimate objects more roughly than was necessary. We shouted "Serenity Now!" (Well, I did, anyway.)

I hate that stressed-out, angry, powerless, exasperated feeling. Heart pounding, nerves frayed, temper short. I can almost feel my skin wrinkling, my hair turning gray. I wish I could take it all more lightly and easily -- respond with more humor, grace and patience. I wish I knew how to keep them happy more of the time, or help them more effectively when they're not. But sometimes it's just so damned hard.

And then they go and do stuff like this, and I just want them to stay 23 months old forever:

(Filmed at my brother's house on Thanksgiving Eve. You may hear snatches of "Top Chef" on TV in the background if you listen carefully. And my goofy laugh and dopey commentary even if you don't.)

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.)

No More Mr. Nice Mom

Roper — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 16:44:00 GMT

So, I've decided that I am too much of a pushover when it comes to satisfying Elsa and Clio's every whim. Or, perhaps more accurately, that they're old enough to start understanding that they can't have every little thing they want, whenever they want it. (And by "thing" and "whim," please understand, I am primarily speaking of graham crackers.)

Seriously, if given the choice, the girls would carb-load non-stop from 3pm until dinner time. (And then throw their dinner on the floor.) It's not like I've been completely lax in the past, but I've been inconsistent -- often saying no, no, no and then eventually giving in when I get sick of the whining and fussing. Really, it's not behavior you want to be modeling for your daughters.

"Cracky?"

This past week, I've started putting my foot down more. If they want a snack, I give them (for example) a graham cracker each (well, half of one), then another when they ask for more -- which sounds like "mo? mo?" followed by a sort of wincing / moaning sound if I don't put another cracker into their hands within .08 seconds -- but if they want thirds, I say no. Very firmly. "No. That's all. Snack is over. We'll eat again at dinner."

I'm also trying to get in the habit of setting up expectations, so the rules are clear to them (and me) from the beginning. I make a little speech like, "OK, we're going to have two graham crackers, and then we're going to put them away. Twoooo graham crackers." And then I might make up some goofy little "two graham crackers" song, like "Where it's at! I got two graham crackers and a microphone...."

Does it work? Well, I can't say it's been exactly painless. There has been much whining and moaning. It's tough to stick to my guns (OK, maybe two and a HALF graham crackers...but only cuz I like your face...) Sometimes I end up having to appease them with cups of crushed ice. But I find that if I do a double-maneuver of firmly putting the crackers away and then, Poppins-like, telling the girls what we're going to do next, they are fairly easily placated: "OK, the crackers are going bye bye. Now, let's go read some books. Into the living room we go. Spit spot!"

It takes a good deal of energy and resolve on my part, which is not always easy to muster, especially, for example, at 4:30 in the afternoon when you've been stuck in the house for the past three and a half hours trying to keep your children entertained while waiting for the cable guy who doesn't show up until an hour after the outermost range of his scheduled appointment window only to tell you your receiver is "sick" (huh?) and there's nothing he can do. But I digress.

I'm also trying to be firmer -- or at least more explanatory -- when it comes to things like picking the girls up. Or not picking them up, more accurately. I'm more inclined lately to say things like, "Mommy can't pick you up right now, she's busy washing dishes. I'll pick you up when I'm done, but you have to wait." Again, it doesn't always work, but I feel like it can't be a bad thing that I'm talking to them more like they're "big kids" and trying to set firmer limits. It's partly me -- maybe I feel more confident in my parenting lately, or maybe I just realize that I'm in for a lifetime of pain if I get in the habit of folding every time they ask for something.

I also feel like they're more ready for it. They may not be talking a whole lot, but they understand plenty. Probably more than I even realize. And I get the feeling that the more they exert their will and test limits the more they probably also need (and actually want, even if they don't know it) limits to be set. I'm not sure if I read this somewhere or it's my own crackpot pscyhological theory, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Really.

Where it's at!

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!

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!

Toddlers are like sharks

Roper — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 00:01:00 GMT

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyone? Anyone?

Dumb Parenting

Roper — Tue, 27 May 2008 00:02:00 GMT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take my twins -- please!

Roper — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 02:12:00 GMT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But God, are we tired. (TIRED!)

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

My Bookish Babe

Roper — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 23:18:00 GMT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

Twins at the table

Roper — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 14:35:00 GMT

Now that everybody's digestive tracts are more or less back in functioning order, I thought I'd take a few minutes to document the unique systems of table manners that the girls have developed. I personally find many of these rather annoying and exasperating, but who am I to judge what may seem like perfectly reasonable practices to Elsa and Clio? I'm talking etiquette relativism, here. Just because I don't understand it or agree with it doesn't necessarily make it wrong.

Elsa's rules of etiquette:

1. Just as wine should be served in a stemmed glass, milk should be served through a nipple. Plastic or real, it doesn't matter. But under no circumstances should milk be served in a sippy cup. Water in a sippy cup is fine. Milk in a sippy cup? Gauche, gauche, gauche!

2. If you do not feel like eating something, you should bunch your lips up, close your eyes, and shake your head "no." But a lady always has the right to change her mind. Just because you refuse a spoonful of something in one instance doesn't mean you can't open your mouth and whine to be fed that same food six seconds later.

3. The graham cracker Clio is eating is better than the one you have. Take it!

Clio's rules of etiquette:

1. If mommy is going to eat or drink in front of you, she has to give you a bite or sip of her food or drink. You don't have to actually accept it. In fact, you can turn away when she offers it to you. The important thing is that she offers. Repeatedly. It's just a matter of respect.

2. Food is always better when served to you directly out of a bowl, plate, or tupperware container. It doesn't matter if you already have some of that food in front of you on your highchair tray. Point at the container it was taken from and insist that mommy let you take some directly out of the container. Again, you don't have to actually eat it. (Don't be silly!) Feel free to throw it on the floor or drop it onto your sister's highchair tray, if that's what you're into.

3. After taking a slug of milk or water from your sippy cup, it is traditional to fling the cup gleefully aside onto the floor. (You know how sometimes people do a champagne toast, then throw their glasses at the fireplace? Same thing, pretty much. Except be sure to cry for your cup back several seconds later.)

Both Elsa and Clio Agree:

To indicate that you are finished eating -- or if you just feel like having a little fun -- use both hands and, with a rapid wiping motion, clear all of the food off of your highchair tray onto the floor. It makes mommy say that "no" word, but seriously, what's she gonnna do about it? Stop feeding you? She is powerless. Your high chair is a throne. You are the sovereign. Show no mercy!