Being mother to twins feels like wrestling a giant squid. There’s always another unexpected strangle hold coming to pull me under. But now that I’ve been a mom for four months, I’m learning to get this beast under control – sort of.
In the past few weeks, I’ve experienced glimpses of the thing I used to call “life.” Matt and I went to brunch -– twice -- with the babies. We also once socialized outside our home with the boys. We drove to the San Fernando Valley for a pumpkin carving party. Admittedly, we did not actually carve pumpkins. We showed up an hour early and left 30 minutes after the party started. But we went and that’s the point.
We’ve also started to just go ahead and venture out with August and Fin because the other choice is to stay at home for the next 18 years. Our little adventures have had mixed results: We’ve been to Trader Joe’s on a Sunday afternoon to grocery shop (bad idea); a nursery to look for flowers for the garden (too many bees!); a Halloween party for multiples (a success!); and Costco (terrifying, babies or no babies).
It’s not been easy -– nothing is easy anymore -– but I see hints of a new “normal” emerging. I still feel like I’m fighting a giant squid and I certainly look like I’ve taken a beating -- my hair is unkempt and I rarely wear makeup. But I fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans and I managed to watch the season premiere of “Top Chef.” With the help of a part-time nanny, I’ve gone grocery shopping, to yoga, to a doctor’s appointment, to the mall. I’ve become expert at loading the babies and their stroller into my car or just getting ‘em all out on the sidewalk to a stroll. I’ve even briefly carried both babies at once now that they can hold their own heads up.
So the new normal is a very, very scaled back version of the old normal: 20-25 minutes of free time at a stretch, brief appearances at barbeques, movies on Netflix instead of in the theater, lunch out but never dinner. But it’s fine. I mean, I’ve said in the past that I don’t care if I never go out to a nice dinner or sleep in past six a.m. again. That’s not exactly true. I ache for a morning of lounging in bed reading the paper, for enough personal time to go to the gym, but we -– my family and I –- are birthing a new life together. We're taking baby steps to figure out how to walk and later to run and that’s all I can ask for right now.
NOTE: typos are bad and I try not post them. But, as I mentioned, I have twins, which means I can’t always proofread as well as I’d like. Thanks for your understanding.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Flexing New Muscles
August is getting really good at holding his head up. He lays on the bed, hoists his noggin off the blanket and smiles proudly like he’s saying, “Hey Mom, look at me!”
But the new skill has taken a lot of work. As August raises his head, his body shakes, he pants and strains until he finally lets it fall back down with a light thud. That’s how parenting feels to me – I strain and pant and then collapse. But like August, I’m getting better it, and the accomplishment of each day can make me feel shiny and proud.
Still, learning to parent is like learning to flex new muscles. Last Friday, I was facing my first full day with both boys alone. I normally go a stretch of four or five hours by myself with them, but 10 hours… Ug. A whole day would include at least 3 feedings, 8 diaper changes and probably 4 meltdowns.
So, I flexed a new muscle: I asked for help.
I literally put out a plea on Facebook saying I needed assistance taking care of my babies. I tried to make it come across as light-hearted and funny to hide my desperation, but it was a serious request.
The crazy part is that people answered the call. I ended up with three babysitting “shifts” to my day. First, a very old friend of mine named Debbie drove all the way across town after dropping her own two kids off at school to come over and hold my babies. She helped put the boys down for a nap, get them up later and allowed me a few moments to actually prepare and eat food. Here’s the crazy part: Until recently, I hadn’t been in contact with Debbie for 20 years. We ran into each other at our high school reunion, realized we both lived in L.A. and vowed to get together. But we never did – until I had kids.
One day a month or so ago, Debbie showed up at my door with fresh tamales, all sorts of baby hand-me-downs and just wonderful positive energy. And then on Friday, she came over in my hour of need. I mean, my heart is practically breaking over her generosity.
What I’m finding out late in life, but not too late, is that it’s okay to ask for help. And even more shocking: People are willing to give it.
The rest of my day was filled with equally amazing acts of kindness. My sister-in-law showed up to help with the boys’ midday feeding. She shrugged off a large amount of spit up down her arm and even started the task of cleaning up an explosive diaper issue, which I simply could not let her complete. Some jobs really are just for parents to do.
Later a new friend, Kyle, came over with a gift for the babies even though he’s already given them one! Then he proceeded to spend more than two hours with me and the boys. He held August for 30 whiny, wiggly, fussy minutes before his feeding – then Kyle stayed and fed him! I mean, what? He saw my babies at their crying, inconsolable worst (well, not quite worst!) And he still stuck around for more.
It’s like the sky has opened up and beamed angels into my life. And they are helping me learn to hold my head up.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Motherhood Infidelity
The absolute hardest thing about having twins is the cheating.
At least that’s what it seems like when I am holding one baby, but smiling and cooing at the other one over his shoulder. I feel like a married woman who’s flirting with another man.
The other day I sat on the couch with Finley to my left and August to my right. I rubbed their tummies, massaged their little legs and talked to each of them, alternately bobbing from side-to-side like a crazed metronome. It was exhausting.
Yesterday, I smooched August as he was lying on the bed learning to roll from his tummy to his back. “Yay! Good job!” I said to him and planted enthusiastic kisses on his big round cheek and soft neck. I clapped and smiled at him. He smiled back happily cooing at me and making me feel like I just lit up his whole world.
I was beaming – for a moment. Then Matt, who was holding our other son right next to me, said, “You have to hold Finley now. He’s looking at you with August and he’s crying. He needs your attention, too.”
I am constantly aware of trying to spread my affection equally between my two boys, and of generally failing. When August and Fin were in the NICU, I’d sometimes end up holding and feeding Finley twice in a day and not spending any quality time with August, or vice versa. I’d go home that night feeling guilty and vowing to focus on August the next day.
This concept of splitting my attention equally is not new. I am an only child. While only children get the benefit of all their parents’ attention, we also have the burden of trying to please two parents.
I remember vividly going on a walk in the Sierra Mountains with my parents when I was about 12 years old and being hyper-aware of the amount of time I spent with Mom and Dad. If I pointed out a particularly beautiful wild flower to Mom, I tried to then share a moment appreciating the stunning view with Dad. I was utterly exhausted by the effort of keeping track of and maintaining equal contact with both of them.
At some point, I realized I can never slice myself perfectly down the middle. My relationship with each parent is separate, but not equal. Still, each Christmas I make sure to buy both parents the same number of gifts. They each get one “big” present and several small ones that all equal out to be roughly the same cost. I even make a list comparing Dad’s gifts to Mom’s: he gets a CD, so she gets some bubble bath etc.
With August and Finley, sometimes at the end of a day I feel like one of them has been deprived of his mommy time. Part of my parental fatigue is caused by keeping a running tally of what I did with each boy. How many times did I feed August vs. Finley today? Did I spend more minutes doing tummy time with one of them? Who got more hugs, kisses, cuddles?
Matt often jokingly asks me, “Which baby is your favorite?” I quip back, “Whichever one isn’t crying.”
In truth, I am determined not to favor one baby over the other and I’m devastated knowing I will surely fail. I take solace in the knowledge that as they get older I will have a unique relationship with each son. And for now, I’ll keep trying to match a kiss for a kiss.
Monday, September 19, 2011
I Think We're Alone Now
When I was a teenager I babysat to make spending money, but I had a secret: I was afraid to be alone with the kids I was minding. Now, I am alone with two babies many hours every day and that old fear still bubbles up.
In the mornings as Matt leaves for work and the night nurse heads off into the sunrise, I think, "Don't leave me alone with these babies! What am I going to do when they wake up?"
Of course they always wake up (thank god) and I overcome the fear long enough to do the things you're supposed to do with babies: Pick them up, cuddle them, kiss them, feed them, change them, sing to them, love them. But under the surface the anxiety looms.
I'm not scared of an accident happening. I'm mostly just terrified that August and Finley will cry loudly and uncontrollably. Which they sometimes do. I’m scared they'll cry so long and so loudly that I'll start to cry too, that I'll just sink onto the ground saying, "I can't do this!" or that a neighbor will call child protective services and the three of us will be discovered wailing on the floor of the babies' room and be hauled off by the authorities.
There's also this: Part of it is a fear that I lack the leadership skills to helm a family.
Let me tell you an embarrassing story. When I was in the sixth grade, I was elected class president for the second half of the school year. This was a huge deal because I'd just moved to town at the beginning of the year, so the fact that my new classmates liked me enough to make me their president was really an honor.
But then when the class president from the first semester – a supremely confident and popular girl -- announced my name, she said, "Well, come on up to the front of the room, Marla." She wanted me to take over the rest of the election process, which included taking nominations for vice president etc., and writing the candidates' names on the chalkboard. I have always had awful handwriting and been a terrible speller, so I was petrified to write on the blackboard. I thought everyone would suddenly realize I was not worthy of their votes. I was so scared that I told the teacher I didn't want to be president after all.
It may sound silly, but that decision is one of my biggest regrets. Of course, I should have faced my fears and just gone ahead and been president. I mean, if George W. Bush can be president of the United States, I could handle being president of the sixth grade, right? Anyway, sometimes I still feel like that little girl who doesn't want to be class president. All my self-doubt comes out and I think, "Who left me in charge of these small babies? I'm not qualified for this. There must be some mistake. What if I mess up?"
But the deed is done. I am the president of mommyhood for August and Finley. I can't step down. So when that door closes in the mornings and I'm alone with them, I acknowledge the panic then move on. I'm even starting to enjoy our alone time because of the other feelings it occasionally brings out like confidence, peace and flashes of joy.
In the mornings as Matt leaves for work and the night nurse heads off into the sunrise, I think, "Don't leave me alone with these babies! What am I going to do when they wake up?"
Of course they always wake up (thank god) and I overcome the fear long enough to do the things you're supposed to do with babies: Pick them up, cuddle them, kiss them, feed them, change them, sing to them, love them. But under the surface the anxiety looms.
I'm not scared of an accident happening. I'm mostly just terrified that August and Finley will cry loudly and uncontrollably. Which they sometimes do. I’m scared they'll cry so long and so loudly that I'll start to cry too, that I'll just sink onto the ground saying, "I can't do this!" or that a neighbor will call child protective services and the three of us will be discovered wailing on the floor of the babies' room and be hauled off by the authorities.
There's also this: Part of it is a fear that I lack the leadership skills to helm a family.
Let me tell you an embarrassing story. When I was in the sixth grade, I was elected class president for the second half of the school year. This was a huge deal because I'd just moved to town at the beginning of the year, so the fact that my new classmates liked me enough to make me their president was really an honor.
But then when the class president from the first semester – a supremely confident and popular girl -- announced my name, she said, "Well, come on up to the front of the room, Marla." She wanted me to take over the rest of the election process, which included taking nominations for vice president etc., and writing the candidates' names on the chalkboard. I have always had awful handwriting and been a terrible speller, so I was petrified to write on the blackboard. I thought everyone would suddenly realize I was not worthy of their votes. I was so scared that I told the teacher I didn't want to be president after all.
It may sound silly, but that decision is one of my biggest regrets. Of course, I should have faced my fears and just gone ahead and been president. I mean, if George W. Bush can be president of the United States, I could handle being president of the sixth grade, right? Anyway, sometimes I still feel like that little girl who doesn't want to be class president. All my self-doubt comes out and I think, "Who left me in charge of these small babies? I'm not qualified for this. There must be some mistake. What if I mess up?"
But the deed is done. I am the president of mommyhood for August and Finley. I can't step down. So when that door closes in the mornings and I'm alone with them, I acknowledge the panic then move on. I'm even starting to enjoy our alone time because of the other feelings it occasionally brings out like confidence, peace and flashes of joy.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Showdown in the Afternoon
I know I recently gushed over motherhood, but yesterday certainly tested my commitment to that sentiment.
Most days I manage to keep the chorus of crying – mine and the babies' – to a minimum. But yesterday turned into crymageddon when August and Finley simultaneously woke up from their naps upset and angry.
My usual strategy with two crying babies is to console one first, give him a pacifier and then put him into whatever baby-holding apparatus is available. Next, I start the process again with screaming baby no. 2, and soon everyone is back from the brink.
But maybe the babies have gotten wise to me. They do not want to be soothed and then dropped into some swing or Boppy pillow. They want to be with Mom – and not just near me, but ON me, in my arms, cuddled against my chest at all times. Believe me, I have tried to cuddle two infants in my arms, but it's basically impossible. Or at least it is for me. With their little unsteady heads bobbing and waving, I need both hands to secure one baby.
Yesterday afternoon, every time I thought I had one baby calm and tried to put him down, he'd start howling again. After a few minutes of this, I realized there was no way I'd get both babies to be quiet at once. I thought I might just have to live with this gut-wrenching, ear-piercing wailing forever. What the hell was I going to do? I considered running into the street and yelling "Help!" in the hopes that some passer-by would come inside and hold a baby. Or just running out into the street and leaving all together. Instead, I decided I would keep Finley calm and I would leave August, who was absolutely apoplectic, in a bouncy chair in his room alone.
"I'm going to heat up the bottles," I said, then walked out while he yelled at the top of his lungs.
As the bottles warmed up, I cuddled Fin in the kitchen and let his brother scream the kind of scream that sounds like it means 'I am dying! I am on FIRE! The world is coming to an END!' I tested the bottles, I heated the water more. The whole processed seemed to be taking an age. All the while, August was yelling like he was being tortured.
Finally, I couldn't listen to that awful cry anymore, so I walked into the room. August had his eyes wide open and was staring at the door looking horrified, as if he thought he'd been abandoned. When he saw me, his cries started to subside. He took some deep breaths. I did the same. I sat on the couch, put my foot onto the bouncy chair and started to bounce August. He looked up at the little stuffed birdies attached to his chair and stopped crying all together.
If August was an adult, we both would have felt a little embarrassed by the scene we'd caused and would apologize to each other. "I'm sorry I got so upset and yelled at you," he would say. "I'm sorry I stormed out," I would say. Then we'd hug. Without that kind of reconciliation possible, I moved my foot so I was touching August's leg and bounced him a little faster. He stared at me quiet and unblinking.
"I love you and I will never leave you," I told him. He sniffled and furrowed his brow like he was about to wail again, but then decided not to.
We sat like that for a long time. Me bouncing August in his chair. Him coming to terms with just being near me. Finley asleep on my chest. In that quiet aftermath of the crying storm, it felt like we were making a pact to stick together, try our best and accept that none of us are perfect.
Most days I manage to keep the chorus of crying – mine and the babies' – to a minimum. But yesterday turned into crymageddon when August and Finley simultaneously woke up from their naps upset and angry.
My usual strategy with two crying babies is to console one first, give him a pacifier and then put him into whatever baby-holding apparatus is available. Next, I start the process again with screaming baby no. 2, and soon everyone is back from the brink.
But maybe the babies have gotten wise to me. They do not want to be soothed and then dropped into some swing or Boppy pillow. They want to be with Mom – and not just near me, but ON me, in my arms, cuddled against my chest at all times. Believe me, I have tried to cuddle two infants in my arms, but it's basically impossible. Or at least it is for me. With their little unsteady heads bobbing and waving, I need both hands to secure one baby.
Yesterday afternoon, every time I thought I had one baby calm and tried to put him down, he'd start howling again. After a few minutes of this, I realized there was no way I'd get both babies to be quiet at once. I thought I might just have to live with this gut-wrenching, ear-piercing wailing forever. What the hell was I going to do? I considered running into the street and yelling "Help!" in the hopes that some passer-by would come inside and hold a baby. Or just running out into the street and leaving all together. Instead, I decided I would keep Finley calm and I would leave August, who was absolutely apoplectic, in a bouncy chair in his room alone.
"I'm going to heat up the bottles," I said, then walked out while he yelled at the top of his lungs.
As the bottles warmed up, I cuddled Fin in the kitchen and let his brother scream the kind of scream that sounds like it means 'I am dying! I am on FIRE! The world is coming to an END!' I tested the bottles, I heated the water more. The whole processed seemed to be taking an age. All the while, August was yelling like he was being tortured.
Finally, I couldn't listen to that awful cry anymore, so I walked into the room. August had his eyes wide open and was staring at the door looking horrified, as if he thought he'd been abandoned. When he saw me, his cries started to subside. He took some deep breaths. I did the same. I sat on the couch, put my foot onto the bouncy chair and started to bounce August. He looked up at the little stuffed birdies attached to his chair and stopped crying all together.
If August was an adult, we both would have felt a little embarrassed by the scene we'd caused and would apologize to each other. "I'm sorry I got so upset and yelled at you," he would say. "I'm sorry I stormed out," I would say. Then we'd hug. Without that kind of reconciliation possible, I moved my foot so I was touching August's leg and bounced him a little faster. He stared at me quiet and unblinking.
"I love you and I will never leave you," I told him. He sniffled and furrowed his brow like he was about to wail again, but then decided not to.
We sat like that for a long time. Me bouncing August in his chair. Him coming to terms with just being near me. Finley asleep on my chest. In that quiet aftermath of the crying storm, it felt like we were making a pact to stick together, try our best and accept that none of us are perfect.
Friday, September 9, 2011
My So Called Life
Since giving birth, I have missed out on a lot of things.
For instance, I haven't seen the last Harry Potter movie. I think I am the only person in the world who doesn't know who wins -– Harry or Voldemort. I may never know (but please don't tell me!). I'm going to miss a fabulous party in Palm Springs this weekend. For months I haven't been to the gym or a store that sells anything other than diapers or groceries. I have missed birthday parties and barbecues. Hell, I have missed this entire summer.
But, here's the crazy thing: I don't care.
I feel like I shouldn't be enjoying life as a mom yet because right now parenthood consists of cleaning up crap, doing laundry, washing bottles, being screamed at by tiny humans, having an aching back, getting little sleep and essentially being a prisoner in my own home. You know what, though, I totally love it.
August and Finley, to me, are the most divine creatures ever to be made. When I had my first "conversation" with August as he learned to coo, it felt like witnessing a miracle. When Finley smiles at me with his huge gummy grin, it's so much better than Harry Potter. Watching them kick their legs in absolute delight at the stuffed octopus that plays an annoying tune is worth missing a million brunches.
That's not to say that I love motherhood every minute of every day. There are some very dark moments. There are times when Matt looks at me and I know we are both thinking, 'What the hell have we done?' We've done something irrevocable. We can't give these kids back. They are our responsibility for the next 18 years at least. That idea can stop my heart. How will we ever manage that emotionally, physically, financially? I can't go there.
But I can think about the daily sacrifices -– about how one year ago I was in Hawaii on vacation and now I'm lucky to go for a walk around the block. About how my hands are dry and cracked from washing dishes and poop stains. I feel seasick from fatigue. My stomach is fat. My old clothes don't fit. I don't know when I will ever see my friends again or break a sweat at a great aerobics class or savor blueberry pancakes during a leisurely brunch or sleep in past 6 a.m. It could be years. But so what.
Now I have what it took me years to even know I wanted: A home filled with love and noise and chaos and real hard, trying, amazing life.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Breast of Times, the Worst of Times
Taking care of one baby is no problem, but I'll tell you what is a huge problem for me: breastfeeding.
Breastfeeding is one thing about motherhood that I imagined would be easy -- baby comes out, roots around, latches on, and soon you're whipping out your boob in line at Starbucks with your baby slung around your body.
Not for me. In my story, the babies come out, get whisked to the NICU and have a feeding tube stuck down their throats.
For three weeks, nurses painstakingly taught August and Fin to be able to eat tiny amounts of expressed breast milk from tiny bottles. While the babies were there, I did work on breastfeeding. I met with a lactation consultant and learned how to position the babies, how to squeeze milk into their mouths and watch their suck swallow reflex. I breastfed both babies a handful of times in the hospital.
Once I got home, though, it all fell apart. The exhaustion and the frequency of their meals beat me down so that somehow pumping and feeding milk to them in bottles seemed easier.
Then August and Finley's appetites quickly out-paced my breast milk production, so we introduced formula. Every day, I'd half-heartedly try to get one of them to breastfeed, but they would scream –- really scream –- and push me away like I was poisonous. It may sound silly, but I felt so totally hurt and rejected by my sons. The breastfeeding sessions usually ended with all of us in tears -– and a bottle in the baby's mouth.
I've been ashamed to admit it, but I'm a breastfeeding failure.
Then, I turned a corner, sort of. I met a nurse while Finley was at the hospital last week. She asked me why he wasn't breastfeeding. (Don't even get me started on how people look down on non-breastfeeding moms.) I told her about the NICU and the screaming babies and my feelings of rejection. She stared at me with steely look -– not pity or judgment –- and said, "It's not too late."
The nurse told me that if, for one day, I made August or Fin try the breast at every single feeding, if I pushed through our mutual frustration, by the next day the baby would know how to breastfeed. So, I spent one horribly exhausting day with August yelling, crying, throwing his head back, and pushing his little fists into me at every feeding –- and then he did it. He learned to breastfeed. I tried it with Finley, too, and got him to take partial feedings from me.
It's still not easy. I'm never going to be that laid back earth mama with two babies breastfeeding at once. Both boys still often take a bottle with a mixture of breast milk and formula. I still pump about a million times a day. And I can only get Finley to take one boob -- it's a work in progress -- but I finally, finally, finally can breastfeed my boys.
Breastfeeding is one thing about motherhood that I imagined would be easy -- baby comes out, roots around, latches on, and soon you're whipping out your boob in line at Starbucks with your baby slung around your body.
Not for me. In my story, the babies come out, get whisked to the NICU and have a feeding tube stuck down their throats.
For three weeks, nurses painstakingly taught August and Fin to be able to eat tiny amounts of expressed breast milk from tiny bottles. While the babies were there, I did work on breastfeeding. I met with a lactation consultant and learned how to position the babies, how to squeeze milk into their mouths and watch their suck swallow reflex. I breastfed both babies a handful of times in the hospital.
Once I got home, though, it all fell apart. The exhaustion and the frequency of their meals beat me down so that somehow pumping and feeding milk to them in bottles seemed easier.
Then August and Finley's appetites quickly out-paced my breast milk production, so we introduced formula. Every day, I'd half-heartedly try to get one of them to breastfeed, but they would scream –- really scream –- and push me away like I was poisonous. It may sound silly, but I felt so totally hurt and rejected by my sons. The breastfeeding sessions usually ended with all of us in tears -– and a bottle in the baby's mouth.
I've been ashamed to admit it, but I'm a breastfeeding failure.
Then, I turned a corner, sort of. I met a nurse while Finley was at the hospital last week. She asked me why he wasn't breastfeeding. (Don't even get me started on how people look down on non-breastfeeding moms.) I told her about the NICU and the screaming babies and my feelings of rejection. She stared at me with steely look -– not pity or judgment –- and said, "It's not too late."
The nurse told me that if, for one day, I made August or Fin try the breast at every single feeding, if I pushed through our mutual frustration, by the next day the baby would know how to breastfeed. So, I spent one horribly exhausting day with August yelling, crying, throwing his head back, and pushing his little fists into me at every feeding –- and then he did it. He learned to breastfeed. I tried it with Finley, too, and got him to take partial feedings from me.
It's still not easy. I'm never going to be that laid back earth mama with two babies breastfeeding at once. Both boys still often take a bottle with a mixture of breast milk and formula. I still pump about a million times a day. And I can only get Finley to take one boob -- it's a work in progress -- but I finally, finally, finally can breastfeed my boys.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
One Baby, No Problem
Okay, this might not earn me any new friends, but I just have to say it: People who complain about taking care of one baby have no idea how easy they have it.
For reasons I will explain later, Finley had to spend the night in the hospital last night. We knew this was coming, so Matt and I decided I'd take the day shift with Fin at the hospital and Matt would stay with him at night. So that meant I'd be home with August all night and into the morning alone. (Our night nurse currently doesn’t work Wed. nights)
As the day approached, I was a bundle of nerves. I debated whether or not to ask my dad to drive in from Palm Springs to help me take care of August. I've been alone with both babies for a few white-knuckled hours at a time, but this would be at least 16 hours of just us two. Yikes!
August can really scream – especially when he's hungry. And I am so sleep-deprived that I literally feel dizzy almost all day, every day, like I am walking around on a ship swaying side-to-side. Usually Matt is here in solidarity with me as we stumble through the haze of 2 a.m. feedings. Would I be able to keep it together by myself all night? Would August come out unscathed? Would I?
Well, I have my answer and I'm here to tell you that the last 12 hours have been like a vacation. I feel like I've been getting a massage on the beach in Hawaii. Sure, August ate at 11:30 p.m., 2:30 a.m. and again at 6:30 a.m. Yes, he yelled bloody murder while I warmed up his bottle up and he got fussy for no clear reason right before bed. But so what – it was only one baby!
My life has become about the physical and mental act of balancing two babies who both want to be soothed, held, fed, changed and entertained at the same time. Taking care of one baby is like juggling one ball – just plain easy. Mostly.
This morning after his 6:30 a.m. feeding, August went back to bed. I took a shower and shaved my legs. Seriously, I had time for personal grooming. I made coffee and oatmeal and was able to consume both!
When August woke up around 8 a.m., I waltzed into his room and cooed to him, "Good morning, August. Good morning!" He grunted and half smiled. I rubbed his tummy and picked him up as sun streamed into the room. I held him to me and nuzzled his neck. In return … he spit up all over the front of my shirt. So much for my vacation.
Friday, August 5, 2011
My Dirty Secret
Yes, I have twins and it's totally, crazily hard. But I have to reveal a secret, something that makes me feel ashamed and like a whiny, entitled snot.
I have help. Lots of help.
Five nights a week, a night nurse comes to our house at 10:30 p.m. and takes care of our babies until 6:30 a.m. I still (usually) wake up to pump milk at some ungodly hour like 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. or 4 a.m., but Matt and I basically get six hours of sleep on those five nights.
I realize that lots of people – normal people with jobs and no kids and fun lives -- function on that much sleep. But for me six hours of sleep is like eating frozen yogurt when I really want gelato. It satiates me, but it pales in comparison to the delicious treat (or eight hours of sleep) I truly crave.
During the two days a week when we don't have help, Matt and I are like cranky, crazed zombies – pale and sunken, angry, grunting and mindlessly eating whatever is in our paths.
And that's not all: For the last several weeks, my mother has been renting an apartment nearby and coming to help me every day. She arrives at about 10 a.m. and helps me all day with August and Finley. She feeds the boys, changes them, does laundry, washes dishes, makes lunch and even waters the yard and sweeps up the giant dust bunnies created by the plush rug in the boys' room. She encourages me to nap, which I rarely manage to do, and she babysat while I got my hair cut and went to the eye doctor.
When I step back and look at my situation, it seems like taking care of twins should be a piece of moist chocolate cake. But even with the night nurse and attentive grandparents and friends bringing over homemade dinners, this is the hardest thing I have ever done. Having twins is relentless and exhausting and all consuming.
Whenever I leave the house, I imagine scenarios in which I use having twins as an excuse for all sorts of bad behavior like violating traffic laws or cutting in line at CVS. I picture a cop pulling me over for running a yellow/red light and telling him, "I just had twins. I'm sleep-deprived. I can't think straight. My life is on fire." That is how it feels, like the life I knew is burning to the ground. It's okay – a new, lush life will grow up in its place -- but the process is searing and arduous and confusing. I mean, even this blog post has gotten off track. …. The point I set out to make was the fessing up about all the help I'm getting taking care of my twins. People all seem to feel so sorry for me as a new parent. I feel badly taking their sympathy without revealing the full picture. So now that the curtain has been lifted, you can decide whether or not I deserve your sympathy and respect. I hope I do.
One last note: for me, the experience of parenthood is like a shift of the Earth's continental plates. It is connecting me to the continent of humanity. I am no longer an island. I have always been the kind of person who does not like to ask for help, but this has forced me to be humble, to seek and accept people's support and kindness. It's a jarring experience, but I think it's making me more complete.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The Indignities of Parenthood
As an adult without children, I was able to go through life mostly avoiding humiliation. Sure there were some drunk dialing incidents in my 20s, some public stumbles, the time I forgot to mute my phone during a work call, but my everyday life was fairly safe. Parenthood, on the other hand, comes with daily humiliations and indignities.
Pee: On one of August's first nights home, I was changing his diaper at about 3 a.m. when I was hit in the face, in my hair and in the eye with something unidentifiable. In my sleep-deprived haze, I imagined I'd walked through a spider web made by something the size of that spider from the third "Lord of the Rings" movie. I jumped back in horror trying to process what was happening. Then Matt pointed out that it was a strong, steady stream of urine. And that was just the first time I got peed on. Now that both August and Finley are home, being urinated on is a regular part of my days.
The hands-free breast pumping bra: The garment is like a thick black bandeau with two holes cut for your nipples. It seems like it could almost be sexy, except that two bags of milk are hanging off your boobs and your stretched out post-pregnancy belly bulges out from underneath it.
Hygiene: I used to be clean. I showered every single day. Now I'm the kind of person you'd see wandering around Target in milk-stained pajama pants and her shirt on inside out, and wonder 'What was that woman thinking when she left the house?' The answer: She wasn't.
Sanity or lack thereof: There's a Paul Simon song that goes "Losing love is like a window in your heart. Everybody sees you're blown apart." I think the same goes for having twins. People can see I have been blown apart by storm August & Finley. All the veneer and decorum has been blasted away by fatigue and crying jags and poop smeared blankets. There are moments of bliss, like right now when they are both asleep looking adorable and I'm writing on my blog for the first times since they've been home. But in general, the polish has come off my life – haircuts, manicures, showers, high heeled shoes, parties and movies are gone for the moment. Instead I am stripped to bare essentials – holding, soothing, feeding, washing, helping….mothering the best I can.
Pee: On one of August's first nights home, I was changing his diaper at about 3 a.m. when I was hit in the face, in my hair and in the eye with something unidentifiable. In my sleep-deprived haze, I imagined I'd walked through a spider web made by something the size of that spider from the third "Lord of the Rings" movie. I jumped back in horror trying to process what was happening. Then Matt pointed out that it was a strong, steady stream of urine. And that was just the first time I got peed on. Now that both August and Finley are home, being urinated on is a regular part of my days.
The hands-free breast pumping bra: The garment is like a thick black bandeau with two holes cut for your nipples. It seems like it could almost be sexy, except that two bags of milk are hanging off your boobs and your stretched out post-pregnancy belly bulges out from underneath it.
Hygiene: I used to be clean. I showered every single day. Now I'm the kind of person you'd see wandering around Target in milk-stained pajama pants and her shirt on inside out, and wonder 'What was that woman thinking when she left the house?' The answer: She wasn't.
Sanity or lack thereof: There's a Paul Simon song that goes "Losing love is like a window in your heart. Everybody sees you're blown apart." I think the same goes for having twins. People can see I have been blown apart by storm August & Finley. All the veneer and decorum has been blasted away by fatigue and crying jags and poop smeared blankets. There are moments of bliss, like right now when they are both asleep looking adorable and I'm writing on my blog for the first times since they've been home. But in general, the polish has come off my life – haircuts, manicures, showers, high heeled shoes, parties and movies are gone for the moment. Instead I am stripped to bare essentials – holding, soothing, feeding, washing, helping….mothering the best I can.
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