The Terrible... One-and-a-halfs?

I've often heard that the second half of the year is the most challenging, and boy are my boys proving that point lately.  They are one and a half now (more accurately, they are 21 months, or 20 months if you go by their "corrected" age) and they are Trouble with a capital "T."  I don't remember the princess being this mischievous at this age, but maybe I've just conveniently blocked it out.  Or maybe it's just that, being twins, they have a permanent partner in crime.  The rule of thumb seems to be if it's there to be gotten into, they get into it.  If it's available to be climbed on, it's scaled in a nanosecond.  If there are buttons to be pushed...

You get the idea.

We have set up what we call "baby jails."  There is indoor baby jail in the living room which provide the boys a safe place to play inside, and my parents surprised me by popping by one day and putting up some garden fencing around our outdoor play area (they were probably horrified by my tales of chasing one toddler to the back door only to look up to find the other at the driveway).  Either way, now the kids have safe places to play in.

And with that apparently comes their next mission... how do I escape?

We joke that I must have watched one too many episodes of "Prison Break" in the wee hours of breast feeding the boys, because Thing One, the older twin, is like Houdini.  Any kind of barricade is good for about a day or so, then suddenly, wham!  He's broken out, on the other side, hands in the air, looking at me like, "Hey!  Did you see what I just did?  Wasn't it so cool?"  And the princess is screaming that he's in her room, picking up her hamsters or touching her stuff again, while Thing Two is totally absorbed in his Matchbox cars and could care less.

And SNEAKY.  My boy Houdini doesn't just hop the fence at any old time.  He waits for a prime opening, like when I'm smack in the middle of changing Matchbox car boy's diaper.  Now, after three little ones I'm an old diapering pro, but I'm not magic.  Somehow he's got it down to a science to the exact moment I'm too far in the middle of changing to stop him, plus he's QUIET.  He's got the upper body strength of a six year old and before I know it, I hear the tell-tale scraping sound of his favorite off-limits item- the broom.

Yup, the broom. 

The child just lives to pretend to clean.  All he wants to do is sweep the floor (when he's not terrorizing his sister).  How can I deprive him of that small joy?  So the gates of baby jail open.  Until he starts scaling the kitchen counters.  Then we're back to where we started.

One of the things I've found lately that keeps everyone happily playing (inside the gates of baby jail) is a game I picked up from the good people at the zoo.  Yes, the zoo.  They have a little exhibit called "Our Big Backyard" and in it is something called the "Creativity Corner."  It was there my little tykes spent TWO HOURS playing with- I am not making this up- a whisk and a wooden spoon.  The princess explored more aspects of the exhibit and played with more of the musical instruments and things but the boys were happy to be entertained with the "kitchen" box of playthings... things that I keep not six feet from where they play in baby jail everyday.  Now, thanks to my parents, we have a zoo membership, so it's not like we paid big money for them to play with kitchen utensils, but still... it drove me a little batty.  So, needless to say, when we got home, I rounded up my own box of kitchen playthings that I put out every once in awhile (which Monk does not understand- "They have toys" he says.  "Why are you giving them your potato masher?"  I wish I understood the allure myself, I think) and they are happy to mix, mash, and bang away to their heart's content.

Until Houdini slips past me again...

The Sick Bell

So we have something in our house I call the sick bell.  I give it to Katy when she is feeling so icky that she really can't be getting in and out of bed to ask me for things.  As you can imagine, this happens fairly infrequently.  But the idea of having Mommy cater to her every whim sounds like a fabulous idea, so this was our conversation last night.  (I should also mention that Katy has had a chest cold for the past few days, and has been coughing and taking Tylenol).

Katy: Mom, can I ask you a question?

Me: Sure, sweetie.

Katy:  Can I have something?

Me:  What is the "something?"

Katy:  A bell.  You know, a bell is really helpful, is does "ding ding" and tells you when I need something.

Me:  I know, but you aren't sick enough for the bell.  You can get out of bed and move your body and tell me yourself when you need something.

Katy.  Oh.

Me:  Yup.

Katy:  Mom?  Can I ask you something?

Me: Sure sweetie.

Katy:  (coughing)  I think I need some more medicine.

Me:  You already had your medicine.

Katy:  I know, but I think I need MORE medicine.  Like when I'm REALLY sick.

Me:  Really?  What's wrong?

Katy:  Um, my shingdalalala (unintelligible) hurts.

Me:  Really.

Katy:  Yes, really. And then I need the bell.

Me:  I might have more medicine, but that means you are too sick to go to Grandma's house.

Katy:  Oh.

Me:  Yeah.

Katy:  Hmm.

Me:  Does it still hurt?  Should I find the medicine?

Katy:  You know what, Mom?  I feel better now.  I think I want to play Legos instead.

Me:  Wow.  Are you sure you don't need to rest?

Katy:  No.  Legos, please.


And I thought this kind of deception started much later in childhood.  Apparently not.

Twin Potty Training

Potty training with twin boys is proving to be quite the experience.  I'm not even sure they're ready to be trained.  But since they wake up every morning and promptly take off their diapers and take simultaneous dumps on the carpet, I figure they must be at least partly ready.  So last week I hauled out a little potty from Katy's potty training days.  After gathering lots of advice from my pals on Facebook, I started sitting them on the little pot during diaper changes.

Immediately I made a huge mistake.  I offered M&Ms for sitting on the pot.

Ooops.

By the end of the very first day the boys had figured out that if they "asked" to sit on the potty, they would get chocolate.  You can imagine how that went.

By day two the chocolate was gone (sad face), but I was still putting the kids on the pot at every diaper change.  Without the novelty of the chocolate, though, there was nothing to make them stay sitting, and they wouldn't stay sitting on the little pot for more than a second.  I took what I could get, and then put the diaper on and figured that they would get it eventually. 

So far, I've been wrong.

And I've been missing one diaper change- the very first one of the day.  The way our day goes, In the mornings, I bring the boys in the living room and get them settled with toys and such before leaving them to get their breakfast, etc.  As SOON as I leave the room, they take off their pants, their diapers, and poop on the floor.  One day I returned to find Eli swaying at the entrance of baby jail and peeing through the baby jail gates, totally oblivious to the world around him.  Nice.

So today I decided to wait on breakfast (and coffee... this sacrifice is a testament to how much I love my children) and I pulled the potty into baby jail, pulled off diapers and waited for signs that they were ready to "go."

Nothing.  For over an hour.  Nothing.

Finally, my own need to pee over came the need to train, so I slapped diapers on and removed the potty and headed for the head myself.

I returned to two dirty diapers.

At least they didn't take them off this time.

I give up.

Next step: Maybe carpeting the inside of the potty since they like to poop on the floor so much?

Back to Work

After a six week hiatus, it's time for both Ruben and I to get back to our respective jobs.  Today he goes back to work and so do I- as full-time mommy here at the Anzora household.  My seizures held us back from doing what we both do normally, but now that my medications are straightened out, it's time to get everything and everyone back to their own places.  It was kind of nice, in between periods of unconsciousness, to be together more.  On the other hand, I think we're both ready to be back doing what we've been doing- Ruben out working and me taking care of things here at home.

The kids, on the other hand, were a little shocked this morning when mommy woke up with them this morning and not Papa.  I think this whole day will be a little bit of an adjustment period, and I hope Ruben doesn't expect much housework to get done and/or dinner to be ready when he gets home as I am spending most of my time on the floor with the kiddos.  Having time to type during a rare quiet moment during Elmo is the exception (and I guess I could be spending this time doing said housework, but, well, shhhhh....).

Stay tuned...

Baby Smackdown

The twins have reached that delightful age where they have turned our living room into the newest version of the Ultimate Fighting Championship fight ring. If one has a toy, a cup, or just looks at the other the wrong way, a slew of hitting, kicking, punching, yelling, screaming, biting, eye-gouging, and various below-the-(diaper)-belt tactics ensue. I can try to separate them, but they will just find each other and go back at it until the issue has been resolved. As a parent who never wants to see her offspring in pain, I have to judge how far to let this go (Yelling in the face? Fine. A knuckle up the other's nostril? Cause for a time-out). Part of me wants to stop them from causing the other any pain at all, part of me wants them to learn to work things out on their own. Since I was not around when Mr. Cool was this little, I have to assume this is normal boy or twin behavior. Still, it's a little unnerving to watch my little angels undergoing their struggles for independence, both from me and from one another. Our days are suddenly full of battles- whether for toys or attention, over transgressions real or imagined- it makes for crazy days. Luckily, at the end of the day all of the boo-boos have been kissed, all of the fights have been forgotten, and my two little boys fall asleep contentedly within arm's reach of one another, dreaming sweet dreams.

Monk and I fall exhaustedly into bed at the end of each day too, a little more battle worn, a little smarter (remote controls placed up high one night, knowledge that the "orange cup" is the favorite and causes all-out brawls no matter the contents the next).

And so it goes. Until the next morning...

Happy Birthday to Me

Things are going relatively well around here. I had another birthday, I'm another year older. As my husband commented, "You've had a rough year!" And I had to agree. But now I feel like I'm on steadier ground, surrounded by a better support system, and I learned a lot about myself- namely that I'm not expendable. My family really does need ME, not just anyone, to be the wife and the mom here. And as good as that feels, it's also scary at the same time. I'm reminded of what a huge responsibility this is, to be a wife and a mom.




But when I look at their faces, I know everything has been worth it. I might not have made the best choices along the way, but hopefully I can make up for that somehow, and it won't affect them in the long run. Every parent must make some mistakes, right? Some just bigger than others. All I can do now is try to make better choices now and be the best wife and mom I can be, and give myself a break.


Sounds like a good resolution for 2012.

Brotherly Love

The twins awoke at 4am this morning, which while you're all gasping out there in cyberspace, is a normal time for us, considering their bedtime of 6pm (hey, it works for us).

Their first fight was at 4:09.

Ah, so it has started.

I had often wondered why parents of twins or children very close in age would get them the same toys or clothes- to me if two children means twice the amount of stuff, then might as well get as much bang for your buck as you can, right? Double the wardrobe with different pieces, extend the toy closet with different toys, etc. Why treat each child the same by getting them each the same toy to play with or the same outfit to wear.

Now I realize. It's not so much for the kids' enjoyment as it is to preserve the parents' sanity. The number and severity of fights we have over toys on an hourly basis would frustrate the Dalai Lama. And for two boys who began life as one, they sure do know exactly how to beat the crap out of one another. Some fights would put Ultimate Fighting Champions to shame with all the hitting, kicking, eye gouging, biting, and jumping upon.

This post would be longer but one twin has the other in a headlock...

Moms and Grandmas

Soon, I will be the mother of a four year old. Unbelievable.

Some days I'm not sure I "fit" in that category, "mothers of four year olds." I have very distinct memories about what mothers or grandmothers do. Moms are awesome. They are there to get you off the bus, when you are little they give you donuts to eat when Mr. Rogers comes on, when you are older they let you buy something in the store next to the parts store where they work and you can eat it while you do your "homework" while sitting on a huge stack of tires. They let you cry about stupid stuff, then they make sure you splash some cold water on your face. They hug you when you need it, and more when you think you don't. They tell you what classes to take. They give you advice whether you want it or not, and when you don't want it, they say it twice to make sure you get it. After a certain amount of time has passed, they'll even laugh with you about the advice you *didn't* take (in my case a certain ex-husband), playfully nudge you on the shoulder, and chide you with a, "What *were* you thinking?"

Moms forgive mistakes. All of them.

If moms are great, grandmothers are even better. My mom is the perfect grandmother. She's a great example to my daughter of a strong, smart, independent woman. The Princess *adores* her grandparents, my parents. I'm so glad that she has a strong bond with them. My own grandmother was... there aren't words good enough to describe her. She knew everything about everything, and there wasn't anything she couldn't do or make or whip up out of thin air, she knew things about you before you knew them about yourself sometimes, and I swear my mom is becoming just like her.

Everyone should be so lucky.

Having Babies vs. Raising Children

I had an epiphany of sorts recently. I'm no longer "having babies" so much as I'm "raising children," if that makes sense to those of you out there on the other side of blog-land.

After putting together a family of four kids (one ready made and three cooked to order) and saying goodbye to one cat, we no longer seem like the "young" family that I still feel like. Although we are over thirty (me just barely, Monk *cough, cough* a bit more), and I find fewer and fewer reasons to be at the baby consignment shop unless I'm dropping off a load of "well-loved-by-the-twins" items, it doesn't set off a rampaging case of hormones like it did after the Princess was born. I guess this is what it feels like to know you're done 'having' kids and ready to move on to the next phase in your life. Rasising them to be happy, healthy, productive members of society.

Eeek.

One problem- although I envisioned that stage happening for my kids while I was pregnant many times, it was always like it was a movie on fast-forward.* The before-you-know-it-they're-one-the-its-kindergarten-then-it's-college-oh-my-they're-grown-and-out-of-the-house kind of movie. In real life there are oh-so-many decisions to make, which really translates to oh-so-many ways to screw up. I think so far we're doing an okay job. I mean, of course, we can look back and see a bunch of things that we coulda shoulda woulda done differently, but we not too anxious to build another human just to try out some new parenting techniques. I figure we'll hone the ones we've got and test 'em out on this crew, see what we get.

Funny to think that 20, 30, 40 years ago- our parents were saying the same things?



*Fast Forward. That was a great movie, wasn't it? At least a great bad movie. Right up there with Who's That Girl with Madonna. :) Okay, NOW I'm showing my age!

Thanksgiving

I have a lot to be thankful for this year.


My boys are growing like weeds- a little wild and out of control, but strong and resilient in all the right ways. The Princess is, too. She's in preschool now and it's a perfect fit for her. She's made a lot of friends and loves her teachers. The oldest, Mr. Cool, is a senior this year, and I hate that we are so far away from him, but I am grateful that he is growing up to be a wonderful young man. I am so proud of everything my kids are doing- from guitar solos and prom to giggling babies and fingerpaint.

And I have my health. What's left of it, anyway. :) Physically, I could be better. The fibromyalgia is kicking my ass, leaving me with pain and tingling in my legs that waxes and wanes with no rhyme or reason. Plus a few other bonus issues.

Mentally... *sigh* you know what? Not that great. I mean, I guess I could lie to you and tell you things have been all roses and lollipops since my last post when the boys were just six months old, but it would be a big huge lie. Some of you who follow my blog already know that. As condensed as I can make it, here's what's been happening in the last six months or so...

I had some minor surgery. Not too big of a deal, but I wasn't able to care for the kids for a few months afterwards. Day care was set up for the munchkins, and some heroic friends and family stepped in to even do some night care. Despite the fabulous support network we had in place, I think this is where I started to get more depressed. I already had post-partum depression, I already felt like a crappy mom that didn't know what the hell she was doing half the time with two little boys that seemed to zap the life right out of me.

(And let me just insert here- Hopefully it's understood, but just in case- I don't share my experiences looking for pity or sympathy, I share in hopes that it will help someone else that might be going through something similar, and they will feel less alone because of reading about my experiences).

Day care ended and the kids were home for what we hopefully called "summer vacation." On Monk's days off I took the kids to the zoo and playground. We did art projects. We played outside. We had high hopes of getting at least the Princess back to school in the fall for the morning session, but we had no way of getting her there and back. More depression. Hopelessness loomed. Pain worsened.

Then I went ahead with a "solution" that I had been thinking about for awhile.

I tried to kill myself.

It made sense at the time.

As simplistic as those words are, they are pretty brutal when just written on the page like that, like they could be any sentence. I will try to explain, to work up to it, but really, nothing helps. You'll either understand and forgive or not. I hope you try to understand. (And if you are reading this and you are in the same place, there is help out there- Suicide Prevention Hotline 1800-365-4044 or 401-272-4044, Butler Hospital Patient Assessment Services 401-455-6214 or 401-455-6215. Or you can always call 911 or go to your nearest emergency room).

Here is the part where I try to explain. I still don't think the words exist for how awful I felt, or how much pain I was in. I really thought that my kids would be a lot better off with someone else as their mom, and the fact that three of them are so young only made me more sure of my decision. I figured they would forget me and learn to love a new mommy and eventually that would be the only mommy they would remember. I even had a person chosen who I thought would be a terrific mom to my kids (her handling of the whole situation proved otherwise). I figured the kids would get way more from her and my parents than me, always in pain, taking all kinds of pills to try to manage it, not to mention my other health problems. And of course there's Monk, who despite how much I complain sometimes, is really a good dad and I knew with me gone he would step up and be able to take care of everything (especially since I had made a list of instructions of everything he needed to remember to do). :)

Obviously, my plan was thwarted.

Not a bad thing.

What I was really surprised by was Monk. After they shipped me off to the crazy house (exactly what I needed, and very restful, by the way), they told me that he had arrived and wanted to speak to me. I was afraid. This was not my plan. Never when I was thinking it through did I think someone would stop me somehow. Now I was faced with a whole new set of challenges- namely, what do I tell people? Oddly enough, as okay as I had become with the idea of people eventually finding out I had taken my own life, telling them I had just "tried" to- but failed- seemed like... well, I know I should have been grateful, but it just seemed like one more thing I failed at, just like I had been a failure at being a good mom. So when the staff told me my dear husband had trekked "all the way" up to the hospital to see me, I was so scared of what he would say, what he would think of me. I thought it was a good possibility that he was coming to tell me he was taking the kids and I would get the divorce papers in the mail. But when he walked into the room, he hugged me (despite my sweat-stained paper clothes), the tightest hug he's ever given me, and choked back tears as he gently asked me what was going on and what did I need? I was shocked. I know he's my husband and all, but I guess the depression really clouded my judgement- I figured he would be relieved to be rid of me and all my problems. I was totally wrong, luckily I can see that now.

Since then our marriage has really grown stronger in some ways, but that's not to say that everything has been perfect- far from it. We've both had a lot of work to do, and it's been overwhelming sometimes. We've said things we shouldn't have. We've fought in front of the kids- something I especially hate doing. But we've also learned to appreciate each other in different ways, and not to take each other for granted (usually).

Some other things I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving weekend are: my church and my faith in God. Without the people in my church praying specifically for my recovery and a little peace for my mixed up soul, I don't know if I'd still be here. I'm thankful for my family and friends who stood by me while I sorted everything out, and helped out when we needed them to.

So I'm glad my plan didn't work. There's still a lot of stress in my world, but I'm a little better equipped to deal with it now. And I'm much happier, not to mention grateful to be alive and with my family for another holiday.

Say What, Mr. Ferber?

So, sleep training worked... somewhat. And when I say "somewhat," I mean it worked for one of my cherubs. I instituted a new bedtime routine (as opposed to our old routine of Mommy crying, rocking, and begging the boys to fall asleep- while it faithfully ocurred each and every evening, it was definitely lacking in effectiveness). We put on pajamas, listened to a little bedtime music, drank a bottle, sang a song, and with eyelids heavy with sleep, tuck in with a pat or two and it's hel-lo dreamland. Within a night or two he slept through til the next morning, sometimes waking once or twice in the middle of the night for a hit of Pedialyte or a hug. But all in all, the whole schedule/sleep training deal was a dream.

My other boy, the one I sometimes admit that I fantasize selling to the gypsies, as my mother used to say, not so much. He might fall asleep on his own if I could lay him down drowsy, the problem is, he never is. I'm convinced the boy never needs sleep and the fact that he was the first twin to become mobile by rolling and scooting scares the crap out of me... I picture a three year old who never naps and only sleeps forty-five minutes a night wreaking havoc so much until I'm forced to go on one of those daytime talk shows for help ("Next we'll talk to one mom who actually has Red Bull instead of blood running through her veins..."). It was this non-drowsiness factor that led me to attempt the Ferber-cry-it-out (not that he ever calls it that) method today at nap times.

Now, the problem with twins is that just because you have two hands, and there are two children- well, that doesn't make things even. Even though I really wanted to continue sleep training the way I was going with Thing One, putting him down sleepy, fact is, there just isn't enough of 'me' to go around to do that (a fact that I, of course, still feel guilty about. Moms, you know what I mean). So poor Thing One had to join in the latest Cry It Out and Break Mommy's Heart chapter of sleep training. Luckily (for Mommy? Or Him? Or all of us?) he shone through again and was out like a light in less than fifteen minutes.

Not so for Thing Two.

First of all, I separated the boys, lest they cry and keep one another awake, so they were in different beds, at different ends of the house. Other than that, I tried to keep everything the same. They both had music, about the same amount of ambient light, the biggest difference (besides not being together and being able to beat the crap out of one another) was Thing One was in a crib and Thing Two was in a playpen. Both had been changed and fed before going down.

Didn't matter.

My boy cried. And cried. And cried and cried and cried.

I went in every ten minutes (I admit, I've only read the Cliff notes of Ferber's method, but my plan seemed to be pretty reasonably well thought out... or so I thought). I patted, tried to soothe and calm, all without picking him up and holding him.

It took willpower I didn't know I had. I cleaned the bathroom four times. I reorganized the linen closet. I let the Princess fingerpaint. Anything to distract myself from what I was doing- or at least, what I felt like I was doing, which was breaking my young son's heart.

In the end, he slept. It took about 40 minutes of crying at the morning naptime before he fell asleep. For the afternoon nap, after an hour and twenty minutes of crying (and most of it the coughing, jagged-breathing, hiccupping type of crying), I caved. He had pooped, so I picked him up to change him and his little fists grabbed onto me just like when he was a newborn (six whole months ago! Such a long time!) and I could feel his little body just muckle right onto me with all his might. How could I put him down again? My boy was sad, scared, and he wanted, needed his Mommy. How could I say no? Call me a sucker, a softee, ,but he'll only be little for a little while longer... there's got to be a way to make naptime go smoothly while preserving my sanity.

As soon as I figure out what it is, I'll let you know.

Mommy the Sleep Nazi

So,the boys are six months old now, and last week after a series of events (one of which was me dissolving into tears because I couldn't open a jar of pickles... can you say 'sleep deprivation?'), I decided that feeding-on-demand was just not working for us any more. The boys were up at night eating- I kid you not- five to seven times every night. Even the pediatrician was floored. And, of course, they hardly ever awoke at the same time. So I spent a few days and used every waking moment I had available (and I have to tell you, I don't have a whole lot of them) to research babies and sleep, sleep training and schedules.

With the Princess, she created her own schedule of sorts pretty early on- I know we certainly didn't put her on one, but she awoke, ate, played, and napped at the same times each day. I never realized how wonderfully lucky we were until now. And truth be told, I think each boy would do the same, but the times they "want" to do things do not coincide- and to keep Mommy out of the big building with the padded rooms and the nice men in the white coats, it looks like they need some help coordinating their schedules.

So I read, I researched, I took notes, I planned. I tried to talk it over with Monk but at the first mention of the phrase "sleep training" and "schedules" his eyes glazed over and he started to steal glances at the tv while I was talking... so I worked on developing a plan and Wednesday night was the first night of putting that plan into action. A lot of it I took from a, uh, "borrowed" copy of the Sleep Sense Workbook (Dana Obleman's program- pretty awesome, I'm still looking for a copy of that ebook to thumb through). The idea is to teach the boys how to fall asleep without needing any help- like the bottle they've been jonesing for in the middle of the night (my fault). So a few nights ago the boys went to bed after a "bedtime routine" (something else I've never been big on- I don't know what it is, but give me a rule, even one I institute myself and something inside me yearns to break it), and since they are both a very healthy weight, they don't "need" to eat overnight. So I decided no more nighttime bottles. And what's more, I carried it a step further and created a schedule for them for the daytime where they only get three 8 ounce bottles a day. And I know it's early, they've only been on this new schedule for less than a week, but...

They are doing AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!

I really thought they were going to protest a lot more and insist on having a bottle to be soothed back to sleep, but apparently I have totally underestimated the power of my singing the ABCs. From the time I put them down at around 7pm til about 3am the first night, all I had to do to help one twin go back to sleep was hug him, pat his back, and croon the ABC song. I think it's fair to say I was totally shocked at how much easier it was than I thought it was going to be. True, I had to totally throw out my idea of not picking up the twins (I figure we get away from the bottle first... baby steps, so to speak).

On the other hand, I don't know what happened after 3am. Maybe I just hit a wall myself, too tired to comply with my own rules, or maybe it's because both boys woke up at the same time and I was just too flustered (and sleepy) to think straight. But at that 3am wake up is when I caved and both boys got a bottle of watered-down Pedialyte, and I brought someone to the couch to snuggle with me. By that time the Monk was also up, and he took a baby until he left for work. But I still am considering it a MAJOR success, especially since the rest of the day went so well also.

They have really taken to the whole schedule thing (apparently they haven't gotten their Mommy's rule-breaking impetus). They seem very content, despite the fact that they are eating, not kidding, more than ten less bottles per day than they used to. We're still finding our way, and I suspect we will be for awhile still, but knowing that there's a light at the end of the tunnel has done wonders to improve my outlook on things... six solid months of sleep deprivation is a looooong time (Abu Grahib's got nothing on moms of multiples, let me tell you). Hopefully the overnights start going smoother, and they start staying asleep for longer stretches and being able to soothe themselves back to sleep in the middle of the night.

As I write this, the boys are napping!!! Praise GOD! :)

Hard to believe we went from the first photo to the second in the short space of one week!!!

Parenting Without Facebook

This year, for Lent, I've decided to give up Facebook. As the mom of a three year old and six month old twins, I had pretty slim pickin's in the "what to give up" department. Food? No, need that. Water? No, need that. Clothes? Pretty sure other people prefer I keep those on (my hubby may actually be in favor of a naked forty days). So it came down to Facebook or the Today Show- two things that I try to fit in my crazy days between diapers, bottles, tears, strained peas, and clothing and stripping Barbie countless times.

Since I decided to go without my social network, I haven't really thought about it too much. I made the decision about a month ago, but tonight, hours away from Ash Wednesday, I'm starting to wonder... what am I doing? How will I get by the next month without being able to ask all my "friends" which soy formula they think is best, which sleep strategy works for training your kids to fall asleep on their own? How will I tell my brother I need an oil change? I'll have to actually (gasp!) pick up the phone and give him a call? Who DOES that sort of thing any more? I mean, yes, I call my parents, sure, but that's because my mom tried Facebook once for a few months before reverting back to the Stone Age (to be fair she does have email... not that she emails me). What have I done?

Then I think... the reason why... Jesus. He did so much for us... (what an understatement!)... for me to do this one little thing for Him... even though it seems huge in my life, is really insignificant.

So, the next month and a half will come and go, and I'll have to make my decisions without input from the Facebook community, and I won't know what's happening with everyone out there, either, which is weird, I have to admit. But every day, when I think of logging in (and I know I will, it's a habit), I'll think of my blessed Lord and Savior and what He did for me, who definitely did not deserve it... and I will be thankful. And that, to me, is just a part of what Lent is all about.

What "Karma's" Around...

I remember, when I was much, much younger, in the BC days (Before Children) when I would watch other parents or caregivers with their kids and think, "How can they let their kids act like that? If that were MY kid, I would MAKE her listen!"

Oh, blissful, blissful ignorance.

The other day, I was out doing errands with my three kids. Our last stop was the pharmacy, where I usually use their god-send of a drive-thru. For some reason that I cannot recall now, I elected to traipse inside with all three kids.

Now, I love all of my children. Most days I wouldn't trade them for anything. The problem with having more than two, however, is that once you have more kids than you have hands, all bets are off. And any parents of 3+ kids will tell you, the big problem is never caused by the baby, snugly secured in the baby carrier. Often the problem is caused by the rambunctious almost-three-year-old. The same child who, months earlier, you could take anywhere without a problem.

Now? Problem.

Other times that I've gone into the pharmacy, the Princess has played in the toy aisle and/or been doted on by the pharmacy staff, showered with compliments and lollipops. This time around, however, Thing One and Thing Two were more the center of attention. All was good while our prescriptions were being filled, but when it was time to go, the Princess dug in her heels and flat out refused (which is becoming a familiar refrain). With Thing Two in my arms and Thing one in his carrier, I cycled through my options. Previously, I would have just picked up my oldest daughter and carried her out of the store, no matter how much she protested, then dealt with the "talking-to" portion in the car. With no way to do that, I wasn't sure what to do. Using my most stern parenting growl ("You come here right this moment young lady!") without invoking any threat that I couldn't fulfill- she's called my bluff before and I know better now- I told her it was time to go. Then she did something I don't think she's ever done before.

She ran away.

Have you ever tried to chase a three year old while loaded down with two babies, their winter gear, and prescriptions (which include six large bottles of Pedialyte)? It's not pretty. I really had no idea what to do. And I felt like the entire pharmacy staff was watching me, waiting to judge whatever decision I made next. Do I let her run around the store and assume she'll get back to me eventually (and that she won't run out through the automatic doors, or that some stranger won't lure her outside with the promise of a Snickers bar)? Do I put down the baby who is in the infant carrier and take off around the store looking for my firstborn? Do I just plop down on the floor in front of the checkout counter and rip into whatever candy bar is closest and try to pretend none of this is really happening?

While the last option was tempting, I went with the second one- I left Thing One at the pharmacy checkout and walked the store perimeter until I found my little Princess.

The story doesn't end there. Nor does it get any better.

The chasing, throwing things, kicking things continued until I could catch up to her and literally caught her in my free arm. Then, another dilemma. How to get out of the store? A kindly staff member helped me get everyone and everything out to the car, but not before the princess practically took out a Christmas card display and cookie kiosk, and I accidentally smacked my young son in the head with a bottle of grape Pedialyte.

After thanking the very nice staff person profusely, I sat in the car with my three now-wailing children and just thought quiet thoughts to myself. I was so incredibly angry with my daughter for acting, well, her age, as my husband pointed out when I came home and reiterated the whole, long, embarrassing tale to him. After all, I wasn't angry with my sons for crying while we were out- they're babies, it's what they do. So why was I upset that my daughter showed her three-year-old colors while we were out in public? Is the opinion of the Rite Aid staff really THAT important to me? I'm pretty sure from the looks on their faces more than one of them were having the same thoughts that I used to have when I saw people out with their misbehaving kids- "How can she let her kid get away with that? If that were MY kid I would lay down the law! I would MAKE her listen!" Does it really matter that much to me what they think?

I'd love to say no, it doesn't matter at all, but I'd totally be lying. It might not keep me up at night, but there's also a part of me that doesn't really want to be known as the world's worst parent, either. Although you also might argue that to write this blog the way I do, and to be as honest about the parenting issues that arise as I have been, caring about what other people think can't be my number one concern or else you wouldn't be reading this.

As for judging other people's parenting and thinking I knew it all? Once I had my own kids, I was cured of that. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure that the trait is genetic. If my friends' stories are to be believed, I also have a sneaking suspicion that it might rear its ugly head again when I become a grandparent.

Runaway Birthday Train

I bet you thought my blogging days had run their course, didn't you?

I don't blame you. I'm a harried mother of three, with no time to pee unattended, never mind constructing complex paragraphs.

Nevertheless, I'm managing. Blogging is turning out to be a real sanity saver for me. Even though I'm usually only able to write my posts a few phrases or sentences at a time, constantly being interrupted by baby issues or big girl queries, it's worth it. And the comments that people have posted have been great- I've really enjoyed hearing your feedback. I figure if I can let just one other mom or dad (or grandma or whomever) know that they're not the only one to have the occasional crazy thought, I think it makes it all worthwhile (never mind the added benefit to me- just getting things out of my head to make room for more craziness- don't want things to get too cluttered up there).

We celebrated the Princess' third birthday on Saturday. Having a Christmastime birthday is a dilemma- one I know firsthand, as mine falls a few days after the 25th. My parents tried to get me to celebrate my "half" birthday when I was a kid, so I could have outdoor summer parties instead of cramming everyone into the living room, but I wouldn't have it. In fact, I was usually so stubborn as to insist that we celebrate my birthday always on my real birthday- not the weekend before or after. My mom was always pretty great about trying to let me do whatever I wanted to do for my birthday, she always made it special despite it being during the time of the year when everything is already festive and special because of the holidays. I hope I can do the same thing for my daughter.

Kids' birthday parties seem to have taken a turn for the extravagant. Maybe this is a familiar refrain to you, but I'll say it again. Parties that I went to as a kid were pretty simple affairs- your friends came to your house, there was cake, ice cream, presents, pin the tail on the donkey, goody bags, and then they went home. The whole thing took two, maybe three hours tops. Sometimes there was pizza. Or a pinata. Your mom made your cake. Having a theme meant that the napkins and the plates you ate your cake off of had the same cartoon character on them. There was either no prize for winning pin the tail on the donkey, or if there was, only the kid who actually won got one. And it was the same dime store junky toy that the goody bags were filled with, along with teeth-rotting candy. You opened your presents at the party, in front of your guests, and said thank you. Your brothers and sisters didn't get any gifts, just you. In between all this, you and your guests just played.

And everyone had a good time! Amazing, huh? Considering we didn't have party planners, printed invitations, professional entertainment, dancers, DVD invitations, rented photo booths (for favors), "location parties" (the closest we got to a location party was Chuck E. Cheeses)... the list goes on. And the gifts! Oh my. Am I the only one who wonders how anyone can afford all this? Christmastime birthday or not, I can pretty much guarantee that the Princess will never celebrate her birthday with the help of a caricaturist. Her party over the weekend was more like the ones my friends and I used to have. The kids raced around and played in the Princess' room (and everywhere else). I made a simple "cook-out-eat-in" dinner (beef, chicken, and veggie shish kabobs). We sang Happy Birthday, ate cake, and watched her open her presents and say thank you to her guests. The grown-ups seemed to equally enjoy themselves while they ate chips and dip and chatted, albeit over the dull roar of the paper Happy Birthday horns I had found on the cheap months ago.

The most important part? The Princess had a GREAT time. And all of her guests had a blast, too. All of the expensive and extravagant stuff that other parents do- I think maybe it's sometimes more for them than for the kids. Kind of a "look at what a great parent I am, I got my kid a ______ for for his birthday!" I don't know, I could be totally wrong. And they're kind of shooting themselves in the foot- I mean, once you've given your kid a party with a pony, magician, and light show there's really no going back to Funfetti cake and Hoodsie cups out on the deck at home, is there?

Oh well. Every parent has to do what he/she thinks is best for his/her kid(s), right? We've been to at least one birthday party this past year with a bounce house, and it was perfect. And who knows? Maybe one day I'll trade in my clearance-rack, obnoxiously loud paper horns and hop on the bounce house birthday bandwagon. Stranger things have happened.

Happy Wife, Happy Life

You know the old saying- "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." I frequently remind my husband, the Monk, of this. I think he mostly underestimates its power, but every once in awhile he seems to get it (and if you are interested in knowing the story behind how Monk got his name, I have put a note in at the bottom of the post). Yesterday was one such time.

Now, my dear husband is many wonderful things, but a baby person he is not. He will make a wonderful grandfather one day (far, FAR in the future). He loves other people's babies, mostly I think because once they start to poop or cry he can hand them back (and who can blame him, really?). I think he used up all of his baby tolerance with the Princess. Before she was born he and I worked opposite shifts, and he also worked a second day job. To save money on day care, he did something that not many men in his generation would do- he quit one of his jobs to stay home with the Princess while I worked during the day. And he did a wonderful job.


Now that our situation has changed (new state, new home, new jobs), Monk is working (at a job he loves- praise God!) and I'm at home with the kids. Eventually I'll go back to work- some days I can't wait to trade my pjs in for pumps, other days I can't imagine leaving my babies (even though there are times I try to pawn them off on the UPS guy. He says that's not what the post office means by "if it fits, it ships"). But for now I'm home, and my day revolves around Goldfish crackers and naptimes, bottles, boobs, and burping. Any stay-at-home parent can tell you, it's a rewarding job, but also exhausting. I love my children, and I'm glad to be able to be here for them, but you would have to pay me an outrageously exorbitant amount of money to do this same job for someone else. My husband sees how much work three kids under three are and I think if he had to take over for me for more than a few hours at a time, he just might be pushed to auction the kids off on eBay (another reason you should always read the whole ad and never go by just the picture).


But yesterday my dear man was really there for me. He called me from work- something we usually reserve for kid and house emergencies- just to see how I was doing. Then when he came home, he immediately took over with Thing One and Thing Two so I could finish working on preparing a craft activity for the Princess' birthday party this weekend. And he didn't gripe or say anything when I told him I would start dinner after I finished reading a chapter in my book. I made sweet and sour chicken for dinner and it came out really sticky sweet, which I know he doesn't care for much, but he ate it and didn't say a word about it. Then at quarter to seven when Thing One was still super fussy (he had been since lunch), I mentioned to Monk that a ride in the car would probably help (the car can almost always calm down the boys when they're at their fussiest, but with gas prices we hold out as long as possible). Normally I think he would have reminded me that he has to go to bed soon, or about the gas, or that he doesn't like me going out at night. Instead he agreed with me, and told me it was probably a good idea if I got out and took some time for myself (albeit with a fussy baby, which was fine with me- it was only one of them) before I started the "night shift." When I came home and unloaded the groceries, Monk found a Christmas special on TV for the Princess, and I popped some popcorn (okay, so I slightly burned some popcorn), and we all sat together and watched Kris Kringle in a Claymation special that has to be older than I am while we held and patted and rocked our two cranky boys.

Some of you might be green with envy at my unbelievable good luck to land a husband so wonderfully kind, caring, and considerate. Others of you are scoffing at the fact that I'm thrilled to get our of the house to grocery shoping for an hour still with a baby in tow. That's the beauty of relationships- you never really know what the inside of other people's are like, what makes them tick. What I really hope Monk sees from yesterday is what a better mood I was in- because of him. The rest of my day wasn't any different from any other day. The Princess was still her stubborn, opinionated, accident-prone, almost-three-year-old self. The twins were fussy most of the day, save for a late-morning nap. But Monk's midday phone call just to check on me and see how I was doing gave me some strength to deal with the trials of the day. And his being understanding of things that are probably not the way he would like (see note below about his nickname) made all the difference to me.

Spouses aren't perfect (despite the fact that my husband has been trained to tell me that I am), but I think that really paying attention to your husband or wife and giving him/her the benefit of the doubt (Do you really think that I leave the laundry unfolded just to make you nuts? Or maybe I just haven't gotten to it yet?) go a long way in sustaining a marriage and being good parents together. Plus, I try always to be aware that my kids have a front-row seat for my marriage- I don't want them to grow up believing that I think their dad is anything less than the kind, funny, warmhearted guy I fell in love with.

Monk and I have a pretty good marriage. There are times we drive each other crazy. That's okay. Sometimes we argue, and I think that's okay too. The key, I think, is to accept the other person for who he/she is, flaws, faults, and all, and understand that he/she probably isn't going to change just because you feel a certain way (and I think Monk would tell you that I am more successful at the whole "accepting and understanding" thing, although he's always improving). This is not a first marriage for either of us. We went into this relationship with a better understanding of ourselves than we had in the past- we knew what we wanted, what we liked, what we didn't like. We had already established routines and ways of doing things. So early in our marriage when Monk kept looking for bread at every meal and I would tell him he didn't need bread, we were eating rice or pasta or whatever, and he would say, "But I want bread" and I would tell him "But you don't need it" until he finally would get up and find a loaf of bread on his own, it just made me realize more- my job as his wife is to accept him and love him, not to change him. All the nutrition facts in the world weren't going to change a 40+ year habit of having bread with every meal. And why did it matter to me, really? Because it's not as healthy? He had taken care of himself before he married me, he could probably continue making his own decisions. Sure, if he had been used to having, say, cocaine with every meal instead of bread it would have been another issue... but if my choice is to fight with him about how I don't think he needs bread, or just let him eat what he wants, why not just let him eat what he wants? If I didn't change his mind the first time I brought it up, I'm not going to change it the fiftieth time I bring it up. So why waste the effort and create stress and crankiness?

I understand this approach and way of thinking won't work for everyone. That's okay. Everyone has to do what they think is best for themselves, and their marriage. As for us... we have ups and downs, but at the end of it all, I'm glad I have Monk beside me, for better or worse.

It's taken me the better part of the day to write this post. Gotta get it in where I can, between diaper changes, readings of Knuffle Bunny, breastfeeding, burping, crying (almost all of which is the boys). Need to get started on dinner- steak on the grill, rice, snap peas... mmmmm...

And, of course, bread.

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About Monk's nickname:

As per blogging privacy standards, I chose aliases for the members of my family whom I talk about (even though many of you check my blog because you know me, hopefully eventually I'll reach people who don't owe me favors). My husband is Monk. To understand this you need to familliar with the USA television show of the same name- it's about an obsessive compulsive detective who solves crimes. While my hubby doesn't fight crime, he is extremely particular about things- neatness topping the list. "A place for everything and everything in its place" could be his own personal motto. He can't stand clutter. He has to keep things clean (he rakes the leaves daily, lest the yard look "messy"). Unfortunately for him, I am what you might call more of an "organized chaos" kind of person. I don't like clutter, but despite my best efforts, it follows me wherever I go (I would be happy to leave the leaves where they fall- maybe mulch them over the grass- I hear it's supposed to make good fertilizer for the next year. When I mentioned this to my husband he looked at me like I had suggested we strip naked and make snow angels on the White House lawn). Like I said, it's all about love and acceptance. And maybe the occassional Valium.

When Mama Needs A Time-Out

First off, let me take a second to say thank you to everyone who has left comments and/or told me how much they enjoy reading what I'm writing- I really, really appreciate your kind words and encouragement. Thanks for taking a moment to let me know how you feel. It means a lot to me. :)
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There are so many things about pregnancy and parenting that they don't tell you. My gripe today is how much quality bathroom time I still log in post-partum. I kind of thought after the kids were born my constant trips to the bathroom would be over. Turns out I was wrong- I'm still high-tailing it to the head at an alarming rate of frequency, but for different reasons now. Now I go to give myself a time-out.

Don't get me wrong- I knew life would get much harder after the twins were born. But since the Princess was such as easy baby, I don't think I had a clue about just how difficult it could be, or how frustrated or lost I could feel.

Thing One and Thing Two are pretty fussy babies, which is common with preemies (although the Princess was also a preemie, and she was not like this, nowhere close). They have trouble just sitting, being content. They have difficulty falling asleep. They have difficulty staying asleep. No matter what formula we try, they end up with painful gas bubbles that make them scream out in pain. They are happiest just being held all the time, or having their backs patted, but with two of them, plus the Princess, that can be a tall order most of the time.

And sometimes, no matter what we do, they still cry. And cry. And cry.

And sometimes, so does Mommy.

But other times I just get so frustrated- after literally hours of crying where nothing works to comfort the babies, and the Princess inevitably spills something/breaks something/doesn't make it to the potty... or just something else just typical of an almost-three-year-old- and I find myself close to losing it. I escape to the bathroom (after making sure the kids are all safe, of course- I'm angry, not an idiot). I count to ten, twenty, a hundred. I take deep breaths. I look at the time and count the hours until my husband will be home. I think about what I can do with the kids to break the crankiness cycle. Can we go outside? Is there something special we can do? A snack the Princess can have or a game she can play? Is there anything that I can try (or try again) with the twins to calm them or get them to sleep? Should I call my cousin (my go-to source of instant sanity) or the kids' pediatrician? And I think about the days I had my kids, and being pregnant with them. I think of my daughter and stepson, how quickly they've grown up already, and how as difficult as this time is with the little ones, I really don't want to wish it away any faster than it's going to fly by anyway.

While I'm ungritting my teeth and pulling myself back from the edge, the kids are (gasp!) alone. If they cry, they cry. But barring a meteor hitting the earth, they're safe, and I'm just in the next room. And I don't want to end up being the mom in the orange jumpsuit on the "Don't Shake Jake" commercials. So taking a time-out when I need one is okay in my book. But from what I've heard from comments from other parents (not necessarily directed at me, but in general), not everyone thinks this way, which is unfortunate. People seem to see it as a sign of weakness- as if as soon as you have a baby, you automatically become Super Woman, and no longer succumb to normal human behavior. I think it's just that kind of thinking that makes women (and men) feel badly and less likely to seek help for a problem she/he might have because she/he doesn't want to be perceived as "weak" or a "bad" parent. In reality, it's just the opposite. Seeking help is what makes you a better parent, and happier person.

I almost decided not to post about this here. I liked the idea of keeping up the facade of being the perfect mom (or at least a reasonable facsimilie). But I hope if I share how I feel and what I'm going through, other moms (or dads or grandparents) will feel better and be more honest with themselves about not being perfect and sometimes feeling overwhelmed themselves. You know, I hate that I have this temper, but I've had it all my life, and it was unreasonable to think that it would disappear when I had kids and wouldn't affect the way I parent. Luckily, I was self-aware enough to take steps to deal with it before it could hurt my kids.

Unfortunately, I couldn't stop genetics. My daughter, the Princess, seems to have inherited my temper. It could just be her age, but I see so much of myself in her. She gets so angry at the smallest frustration or bump in the road. In a way I feel lucky- I know how it feels to get so mad and not be able to focus on anything else, and I hope that I can help her deal with it as she gets older and her frustrations become bigger than not wanting to take a nap or not being allowed a second popsicle.

So, I hope all of you reading understand where I'm at on all of this, and I hope that by reading about my less-than-perfect mothering you can gain a greater sense of understanding of your own parenting, or maybe someone else's. And hopefully we can all work to keep from making snap judgements of others based on what we might perceive to be weaknesses.

In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be the bathroom... counting to a hundred.

Canceling Christmas?

It's that most wonderful time of year... time to buy our kids stuff they don't need, and already have too much of so I can spend even more time "helping" the Princess pick up the toys that seem to permanently cover the floor of her room. Don't get me wrong- I love the holidays. I used to beg my parents to let me have a Christmas tree in my room growing up. And now that we have kids, I love sharing our family traditions with them and teaching them about the birth of the Christ child. What I don't love is the shopping for gifts that we can't really afford and not really knowing what to get in the first place. Like many families trying to live only on one income, our finances are stretched super tight. So this year I announced some changes our family would be making for Christmas.

Change #1: No gifts. Santa Claus is still visiting the kids (albeit on a much smaller scale), but as for all of the other gifts I go crazy trying to figure out- not happening this year. Instead, we'll see each other at holiday parties and such, and try to (as corny as it sounds) "give the gift of time together." After all, as we all get older, it's the only thing I know I want, and really enjoy, from the family (okay, there are a few family members who I would rather they sent me a gift card to Smokey Bones, or even a Dustbuster, but all in all, time together is good).

Change #2: Homemade gifts only. When I told my husband about this, you would have thought I said I was going to give him a fart for Christmas (and considering what he got me last year- nothing- you'd think he'd be happy to be off the hook). The gifts that we exchange in the family- the kids, my husband, and I- all must be homemade. Nothing storebought. I mean, this is what the family on 7th Heaven does and they're super perfect, so it must be a good idea, right? :) And I have to say, I'm glad I'm instituting this now. Shopping for parents is always tough- what do you get them that expresses how much you love them, how grateful you are for their parenting, for always being there for you, and says, "Merry Christmas!" One year I bought them a toaster that I knew they liked. Not that they didn't use it or like it, but I bet it wasn't as meaningful as the Christmas ornaments I made them in college when I was p-o-o-r (and which will probably also hang on my tree one day- the toaster bit the dust a few years ago). Last year my brother (who is now known as "the good one") got them a butcher block of knives. It took me a good month to get over being jealous of how happy my parents were with his gift compared to mine (which I can't even remember now- how sad is that?). Anyway, I want our kids to give us stuff from their heart- drawings, paintings, coupons for hugs or chores, whatever. I think it helps to tap into what Christmas is really about.

That's it. We'll still decorate, put up lights, the tree, bake Christmas cookies, drink egg nog, make fudge... and dare I say that I think the "no gifts" rule will lessen the stress that usually comes along with Christmas, making the holiday more enjoyable? I also have to say that when I announced our no gifts Christmas plan, everyone was supportive. I shouldn't be surprised- with the economy the way it is, I know we're not the only family struggling to make ends meet. And with the way the world is, I guess I'm not the only one looking to find meaning and make lasting memories with the ones I love, and to instill that value in my children.

So, what do I want for Christmas? My stepson, Mr. Cool, is an artist and photographer, I'm hoping he uses some of those talents to make something for me. The Princess is pretty artisitc herself (although we recently had to institute a crayon ban after continued unauthorized "wall art" kept appearing in her room). Thing One and Thing Two could make my day just by taking a nap at the same time. And my husband, Monk? He makes his own jewelry, so I'm kind of hoping for a necklace with everyone's birthstone on it. But I'd be happy with a hug and a foot rub.

Sanity Optional

As this is my first post, let me get a few introductory remarks out of the way. I'm a thirty-something mom to an almost-three-year-old princess and three month old identical boy twins (whom I affectionately refer to as Thing One and Thing Two). I'm also a stepmom to an incredibly smart and talented 16-year-old young man, (calling him a boy no longer feels appropriate) who I'll call "Mr. Cool" and I'm a usually loving, sometimes cranky wife to my dear husband who I have nicknamed, "Monk" (more on that later). My life seems to have more than the usual level of craziness in it since the twins were born, and my goal with this blog is to share some of our daily insanity with all of you in cyberspace with the hope that you might glean something from it (birth control?) and I can have a place to let off a little steam without causing bodily injury. Since the people mentioned above take up most of my waking (and a healthy portion of what should be my sleeping) hours, this might very well be the only post you ever read. In case that's true, let me make this one worthwhile... some anecdotes from my life staying at home with three kids, all still in diapers (more or less).

We get up between 7 and 8am. By "get up" I mean I have finally fallen asleep after the twins' last feeding, probably around 6ish, and I groggily open my eyes to my little Princess peering at me from next to me on the makeshift bed I have created on the floor of our living room (more on that later, too). Since the boys eat every 2 hours or so (and sleep in between on a good night), needless to say I would love to be heading straight for the coffee pot. Unfortunately, shortly after the boys were born I was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer, which means no coffee for me (and since I have been the ulcer route in the past, with some disastrous results, I actually heed the doctor's advice). Hopefully at this point the boys are sleeping through my discussion about breakfast choices with the Princess (pretty much the same every morning- apple, banana, or cereal) and also my saying no to the whining for verboten items she asks for (M&Ms, popsicles, fruit snacks). Once she has her fingers wrapped around an apple slice dunked in peanut butter, I can finally escape to the bathroom to power pee. Inevitably, this is when Thing One (or Thing Two) will awaken (and wail- loudly) and the Princess will start to chant, "The baby's crying, the baby's crying, the baby's crying!" One of the two will wake up the other baby, who will also start to wail. My daughter's chanting will ramp up a beat so I start to hear, "Thebaby'scryingthebabyscryingTHEBABY'SCRYING, MAMA!!!"

And this is where I commit my first bad mommy sin of the day. I let them cry. All of them. I don't dawdle, but I take the time to take my pills, get something to drink (usually water in the absence of being allowed to indulge in hot, caffeinated goodness), and something I can eat with one hand (crackers, bowl of cereal, freeze dried fruit). I put some milk in the bottle warmer. And THEN I pick up a wailing infant and start with the diaper-changing, clothes-changing, baby-talking, baby-feeding portion of the morning. And I have to admit, I don't really feel that badly about it.

Okay, so I feel a little bad. Part of me wishes I could pick them up whenever they so much as hiccupped. Another part of me is more realistic, and knows that I didn't even do that for my daughter as a baby, knows that it's good for kids to try to learn to soothe themselves, and knows that I am doing the best that I can.

Still... it kind of sucks. Listening to your kids cry and not being able to help them, for whatever reason (even if that reason is you want a Pop-Tart). But that's pretty much how the rest of my day goes- someone always needs me- usually at the same time as someone else- and I need to choose who I pay attention to first, and who can wait. Unfortunately, I have to admit, my older daughter seems to get the shaft in this situation a lot since the twins arrived. She's been pretty good about it, but she's still just a little girl (no matter how much older or more capable she may seem in comparison), and it's starting to wear on her. I try to give her some special time together whenever I can- when I run errands sans babies, or if the boys happen to nap at the same time (although when they nap at all it's cause for celebration). All in all, I think she's adjusting to life with twice the number of brothers she previously had pretty well.

And speaking of her older brother- my stepson- she adores him. Absolutely worships the ground he walks on. And Mr. Cool is excellent with her. He was just here for almost a week, visiting over the holiday, and it's always great to have him here. We love seeing him, of course, but the Princess- just mention her older brother and her whole face lights up. He travels back and forth between here and his other home on the train, and the Princess is fond of saying, "Brudder is on the train? I go see brudder on the train, Mama!" I hope her love for him only grows as they get older.

The little ones are up and about again... not that they haven't been while I've been writing this post, but there's a limit to what I can do while typing (never mind trying to sustain the same train of thought while listening to my daughter's latest Curious George tale). Hopefully I can find the time to write again before the boys start college...