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

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Home again, after a week at family camp in New Hampshire, followed by a few days in Vermont, where Alastair played in a folk festival. I am pleased to report that we had a really lovely time. In fact, this is the first time we've gone away with the girls that I wasn't dying to come home by the end of it. The secret: expectation management. As I mentioned in my last post, I went into this vacation with my eyes wide open, knowing it was going to be tiring and chaotic and nothing like pre-child trips of yore. But I very consciously decided not to be grumpy about this, and try, instead, to savor what is so fabulous and rewarding about having Clio and Elsa along for the ride.

Like introducing them to the wonderful game of bocce. The balls were a little too heavy for the girls to pick up, so we played a little-known, ancient variation on the game where you run up and down the bocce court waving your hands over your head and squealing, and occasionally kicking one of the balls. (It's still played this way in a certain village in Sardinia, I'm told.)

(More pictures after the jump)

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We are about to leave for another week's vacation, this time up to Sandy Island, on Lake Winnepesaukee. Long-time readers (does a year count as long?) will remember that we took the same trip this time last year. And we'll most likely continue to go to Sandy for the last week of summer -- or Week 9 as it's called up there -- for many years to come. Alastair's been going with his parents since he was four, and I've been going on and off (mostly on) since way back when A. and I were college sweethearts. (Can I get an "awww"?)

I'm feeling more relaxed going into this than I have other recent family trips, maybe because I've finally adjusted to the fact that vacationing with two babies/toddlers isn't vacationing as I've always known it, and that's OK. I am prepared. I am at peace. I have no illusions, and am determined to try enjoy it in all its chaos: dining hall meltdowns, sand-and-sunblock-sticky limbs, nights stuck in our cabin, etc. It also is going to be a lot of fun, I think, now that the girls are more person-like and observant, able to interact and explore and enjoy. And, oh yes, I will be accepting any babysitting help that is offered and begging for it if it isn't. (Julia, I know you're reading this!)

I won't have internet access on the island, so I probably won't be able to post for about a week. But please don't go away! Come and read again! Here...I'll create a cliffhanger: the First-Ever Elsa and Clio Current Events Trivia Challenge. But no answers until I'm back. Oh, the suspense!

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On a few recent occasions, I've noticed that the girls have shown interest in other kids' "pretend" toys -- dollhouses, train sets, play farms, etc. -- so I started keeping my eyes open for something along the same lines to add to their toy collection. (The toy collection which, incidentally, is gradually overtaking our living room, spreading like a brightly colored, plastic rash.)  I did some Craigslist searching, bid halfheartedly on a Fisher Price Noisy Farm on eBay (and didn't win), and posted on my MOT club listserv, but to no avail. In the end, it was Freecycle that did the trick.

Freecycle, in case you're not familiar with it, is a network of community groups/ listservs for giving and getting free stuff. It's a great way to get rid of things you don't need any more but don't want to bother trying to sell or wouldn't be able to, and also a wonderful to score a whole variety of random stuff for yourself -- everything from computers to books to extra zucchini from people's gardens. Its main purpose is to reduce waste, but it's also a great way to save money. So if you're both cheap and green(ish), like me, you absolutely must check it out. 

When I tried to explain the concept to my husband he was aghast. "You mean people just give stuff away? For free? Why don't they sell it? What's the matter with these people?"

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Remember how I said I wasn't going to write about bodily functions anymore?  I lied. Well, sort of. This isn't about Elsa and Clio's bodily functions, but my own. Puking, specifically. I spent several hours last night engaged in this delightful activity, my stomach repeatedly, violently insisting on purging itself of its contents long after there was nothing left to purge. It was wretched. On the bright side: at least there was women's gymnastics to watch in between pukes. And the US kicked ass!

After the medal ceremony and some final, valedictory heaves, I basically lay in bed moaning for awhile, because I felt so completely awful -- aching, shaky, spent. Eventually I fell asleep. Today, fortunately, there's been no more puking. But lots of aching and nausea and feeling exhausted. As I write this, I am snacking on my children's Goldfish crackers, bringing my total caloric intake for the day up into the triple digits, I hope. (Another bright side: easy 2 pound crash diet!)

Seriously, though, what is the deal with parenting and getting sick?

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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.

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I'd like to take this post to introduce the newest member of the Baby Squared household, Bobby. Who, you ask, is Bobby? Did we buy a hamster? Is it a long-lost cousin come to crash on our couch? Or have I been secretly pregnant for the past nine months and this is our new baby boy? No, no, no. Bobby is bright pink and made of molded plastic. There are two of him, actually -- one upstairs and one down. And Bobby isn't his actual name, it's just what Elsa calls him. It. OK, OK, enough with the personification ruse. I'm talking potties, people.

(You'll forgive me for not including any pictures in this post.) 

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We just got home from our vacation, and I've got many a picture to share. But first, may I just rant totally off-topic for a moment? It appears that the cat sitter we hired, who was supposed to come every other day while we were gone, did not come AT ALL. The cat's food and water dishes were empty, the litter box full, the mail sitting on the porch under the mail slot, untouched and -- most telling of all -- the tip we left for the sitter untaken.

I am absolutely livid, and quite tempted to write the name of the pet sitting service here so all you Bostonians / Cantabridgians / Somervillians, etc. out there can steer clear, and spread the word. But I'm going to refrain until I actually talk to the owner and find out what the deal is. Maybe there was some kind of terrible, tragic emergency. But still. If it had been a two week vacation, we might have come home to a dead cat. Thank goodness she's a resourceful kitty. It looks like she managed to get into the big bag of dry food. And I could swear there was one more bottle of Sauvignon blanc here when we left...

Anyway. This issue aside (grrrr), it feels good to be home. While I'm not particularly looking forward to going back to work -- things have been ker-azy busy lately -- I must admit, in many ways it's a lot easier than running around after the girls all day in unbabyproofed houses. But enough kvetching. Here. Some golden vacation moments:

A. encourages Clio to "splash splash splash" at our first trip to the beach. She wasn't a fan of the water, but she was a little less freaked out than she'd been on our trip to the beach at Marion. Baby steps, baby steps.

More pictures after the jump...

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So, we've spent the last few days at my aunt's house on the Jersey shore (Ocean City), along with lots and lots of relatives. It was very sweet to bring the girls to a place that is the source of such fond childhood memories for me. My family used to go down every summer for a few days or a week, when it was my grandmother's summer house. Time spent there consisted of long, sunburned days at the beach, playing in the sand and trying to catch the perfect wave on a boogie board; late afternoons reading or playing cards with Grandma on the porch; nights playing miniature golf and arcade games (Skeeball, anyone? Paperboy? OutRun?) and going on rides on the boardwalk.

I'm tired of complaining about how vacations aren't relaxing anymore. They aren't. And it sucks. Indeed. But it's also a whole new kind of rewarding to introduce your children to...well, everything. And, to be fair, grandparents and cousins and aunts were all very helpful with the girls, and A. and I actually did get to sneak away on our own a few times.

Unfortunately, Alastair's got the camera with the pics, and he's on tour in DC while I'm up here in NY at the in-laws' house for a couple of days, so I can't provide a pictoral summary of our adventures, but will do so as soon as A. and I are both in the same state again. In the meantime, I give you the top 5 cutest vacay moments....

5. Elsa repeatedly running down the wet sand on the beach toward the ocean, squealing with glee, and then, any time a wave approached, turning around and running in the other direction, saying, "No! No! No!"

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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).

(More photos after the jump)

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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 exasperating, 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?

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It is hot. Damned hot. Step-outside-and-it's-like-opening-an-oven-door hot. Too hot for the backyard or the park, at least in the middle of the day, when the sun is at full force. So today, I took the girls and myself (the Mister's out of town) to that air-conditioned mecca of merchandise: the mall. Believe me, malls are not high on my list of Places I Like to Spend Time. In fact, I kind of loathe shopping. But I needed to get out of the house -- particularly with A. being out of town and me being, well, bored -- and the eighteen-month-old air conditioned options are limited. They're too young for a matinee movie. Museums are expensive and logistically difficult. A long drive burns gas. You might as well shop.

It actually went reasonably well, to my surprise. I even managed to accomplished two of the three optional shopping goals I set for myself: a going away present for Jean, our sitter; a pair of pants to replace the ones recently stained and ruined by Elsa's antibiotics for impetigo (we couldn't get her to keep much of the stuff in her mouth), and a casual sundress for wearing on damned hot days like this. #1 and #3 were accomplished; I knew #2 was ambitious, but I actually did try on a couple of pairs, so it was a decent effort.

The first time I tried to bring the girls into a dressing room with me (handicapped dressing rooms are your friend!) they got antsy. As I've written before, toddlers require perpetual forward motion. Sitting in a parked stroller is not fun. Even while watching your mother put on a ruffly, puffy, empire-waisted sundress that makes her look like a giant cupcake and was obviously designed to be worn by someone ten years younger, ten pounds lighter and six inches taller. (Though I am highly doubtful that it would look good even on a woman of that description.)

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You ever just feel so madly in love with your children you want to kiss them on the mouth? Not in an incestuous, inappropriate way, of course. More like a hungry, aching, gleeful sort of way. Like Cookie Monster, if you will. Me want to kiss delicious baby!  Me cannot resist any longer! Num num num num num! 

And I do kiss them on the mouth sometimes -- a quick parental kiss on those teeny, soft little lips. But who ever thought I'd want to do even that? When I was a kid, I hated it when adults tried to kiss me on the mouth. My grandfather always puckered up for a loud, sillly smack on the lips, which I obliged but never really felt comfortable with. (He smelled like cigarettes and had very high blood pressure, so his lips were always slightly purple.) I even complained if my parents' kisses on my cheek were too wet. "Too much slush," I'd say.

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Apologies for the long pause between postings. We've been away for the past few days, staying with family friends in beautiful Marion, on Buzzards Bay, near the Cape. We brought the girls down last summer, when they were just six months old, and as we were leaving today we were told that if we brought them back next summer, too, that was it; we had to come down with them every year from there on out. Fine with me! It's a beautiful spot, and has all the elements of my ideal family summer getaway: the ocean, green grass and shady trees, an outdoor shower, shelves full of books, big family dinners, an easy, do-what-you-want-when-you-want sort of feel.

Not that we were exactly lounging around. The gals kept us good and busy. But it was easier in some ways than last year, when they were still nursing every three hours and didn't sleep through the night. And this year they could actually do things -- besides just smile and spit up. They colored with markers (none were swallowed, as far as I know) and kicked balls around in the yard with the big kids. They played with all manner of toys, representing three generations (A 1950s stacking toy, 1970s Fisher Price people, a present day Spongebob sprinkler). And, to my delight, they discovered the joys of playing in the sand -- something I always loved to do as a kid.

(More photos after the jump)

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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 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...)

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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...

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As of this weekend -- Saturday, to be precise -- Elsa and Clio are 18 months old. Or one-and-a-half, as Alastair prefers to say. He thinks they're old enough to be referred to in years now, but I want to hang onto their babydom just a little while longer, so I shall keep referring to them in months. But only until they're thirteen.

The last few months have been, admittedly, rather challenging at times. I think it peaked at sixteen months, around the time I wrote this post, whining about the physical exhaustion of running around after two very active, very needy toddlers. But I feel like in the past couple of weeks, things have turned a corner. Maybe it's because the girls have gotten a bit more physically confident and independent -- they don't fall flat on their faces quite as often, or get as upset when they do. Or maybe it's because their language skills are suddenly blossoming, so it's a little easier to understand what they want -- not to mention a helluva lot of fun teaching them new words. Or maybe it's just because we've adjusted. Just as the line of babyproofing in our house grows higher and higher (They can almost reach the kitchen counter now! Damn!) our patience and endurance climb to keep pace with their level of energy and interactivity.

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The whole language acquisition thing seems to be picking up 'round here. The girls keep surprising me with new words. Last week, I was getting the their breakfast ready -- Kashi waffles topped with applesauce, always a big hit -- and when I brought it to them, Elsa exclaimed "wa-foo!"

Oblivious as always, I first just smiled and repeated, in my dopey mom voice, "Yeah, wa-foo!" and then it hit me: by George, the girl is saying waffle! How long has she known this? Has she been holding out on me? Practicing in her crib at night? What else can she say? Pancakes? Eggs Benedict? So, of course, I started hooting "Yes! Waffles! That's right! Good girl! Waffles!" and trying to find ways to use "waffle" logically in sentences for the rest of the day. ("Remember at breakfast when you ate a waffle?" "You look very waffle today, Elsa!" "Dinnertime! We're not having waffles!")

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Is it the devil-may-care attitude? Perhaps. The ratty hair? Only after particularly messy meals. The drug and alcohol addiction? Not as far as I know. The millions and millions of dollars? Oh how I wish. No, what Elsa and Amy have in common is a nasty little skin infection called impetigo. Now, mind you, I don't follow the doings of Miss Winehouse too closely, and apparently her courageous battle with impetigo is old news. Newsweek, that bastion of serious journalism, covered it back in April. But I wasn't aware until we got home from the doctor's office yesterday when I did a Google image search for impetigo and up came dozens of shots of Amy Winehouse's bumpy-looking face (along with a bunch of grody photos of much worse impetigo than Elsa has).

In Elsa's case, it's a quarter-sized sore on her upper arm that looks rather like a popped blister. When it first showed up a few days ago, as a little red spot, we thought maybe the strap of the carseat or stroller had chafed her, and it had gotten a little irritated. It didn't seem to bother her at all, though, so we didn't think much of it. But a couple of days later it was suddenly much bigger, and there were some other little red dots around it, so we took her to the pediatrician. It took the doctor approximately .08 seconds to glance at her and say, "impetigo." (Which, when I'd seen written on lists of 'common childhood ailments' I'd always assumed to be pronounced im-PET-i-go. In fact, it's im-pe-TIE-go.)

Here's what it looks like....

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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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A big part of the article is spent discussing the role that assisted reproductcive technology (ART) plays in the burgeoning Mass. twin population, and the burden that twins pose on the healthcare system, due to premature births, complications, etc. The author makes a reasonable point in suggesting that fertility clinics educate their patients more fully about the chances of multiples with ART, encourage the transfer of only one embryo in IVF when possible, even if it means lower success rates for the clinic. But the fact is, infertile couples want success, too. Many try multiple IVFs to no avail. Implanting multiple embryos is done with the hope that even just ONE will develop into a pregnancy. Is it wrong for a couple to try for that? Has Suratt considered how painful and frustrating it