Flavor.

It's been a beautiful, crazy, amazing, and stressful year. My driver's license, which I renewed this fall after a particularly eventful and sleepless night, looks oddly out of sequence with the last one, taken the day after I returned from our honeymoon - tan, rested, and glowing. The stress and exhaustion has taken a toll on more than just my driver's license picture. I've been introduced to entirely new worlds of how-crazy-I-can-become on next to no sleep and lord knows how many hours of nursing and bouncing babies.

Things are getting easier now. The exhaustion and craziness are fading away. But every now and again, I'm confronted with a reminder of how things were. It's in these moments that I realize Kyle really deserves a medal, or at least some good therapy.

On Saturday:

Kyle walks into the dining room where I'm feeding the babies some lunch.

"I have something to tell you."

I look up at him. What could this be? I offer a tentative, you-can-totally-tell-me-anything-and-I-won't-get-angry "okay."

"It's not a big deal. But I don't want you to be upset." He punctuates this with a nervous laugh.

"Well what?" My mind races.

Long pause.

"I don't want you to buy me plain potato chips any more. I want flavor. Always at least some sort of flavor."

"Oh." I start to breathe again. "Okay."

Flavor. How reasonable. But it makes me wonder.

Just how scary was I?

5

Tomorrow is my five year wedding anniversary. Well, not just my anniversary. Go figure, it's my husband's also. I struggle with this issue of language in my blog. Whether to say I or we. Mine or ours. Me or us. Partly because I am the author and don't want to speak for him, to drag him into my crazy ramblings. But partly because he's private and I respect that. I tease that people must read my blog and think that I'm a single parent, or that I make all the decisions, or that he's just not that involved. Until today. Happy anniversary, babe. I'm breaching your privacy.

I fell in love with Kyle in high school. We started off casually dating and making good use of empty parking lots. I had no idea I was falling in love until one day in study hall I sat watching him and noticed that he had gone from being just a boy to being a boy who glowed. A luminescent, golden glow. Regular high school boys do not glow. Not before you love them.

We dated for the next six years, and when I was finally certain that it would never happen, he asked me to marry him. I said yes.

Never in my life have I ever been so sure of anything as I have always been of Kyle. He is the most perfect human being I have ever known. He's good at life.

He is quietly confident and confidently quiet. He is proud, sensitive, and determined. He is the best listener. He never just tries - he does. He is fiercely loyal and wiser than he'll take credit for.

He cooks dinner.

Through infertility he stood by me, carried me, dragged me, pushed me, pulled me, saved me and saved me again.

He gives me the big piece whenever we share something good.

He is genuine, honest, and beautifully good.

As a father, he is unfailingly patient. When the babies were born and I couldn't be with them, he stayed with me until I was okay and then rushed to be by their side. He stood vigil over them in their little isolettes for over five hours telling them to fight and be strong. He is even more magnificent as a father than I'd ever imagined. He changes diapers, reads books, sings lullabies, wears a Moby wrap, tickles, plays, and wakes up with us at 3am. He holds us steady and strong as a family.

We've been married for five years, together for twelve. I still have a crush on this man.

A thousand times over, I am a better person because of him.

I love this journey.

to capture it.

It was a year ago yesterday that we learned we were finally going to have a baby. So much was wrapped into the emotion of that day. The end of a journey. The start of a journey.

Life really is beautiful.

(Thank you, Jill, for the beautiful belly pictures)

Things We've Tried

Going into this whole baby thing, I was a wee bit unprepared for the challenges of nighttime. I imagined that bedtime in more competently run households would look something like this:

"Oh goodness gracious. It's 5pm. Time for bed." Loving mother picks up sweet and smiling baby, who definitely does not have a huge explosion of poop in his diaper, and brings him into his beautiful nursery. Lullabies fill the air, which smells like baby powder and cookies. She places her sleepy baby, who has not made a peep aside from contented coos which accompany his smile, into his crib, where he gently sighs and goes to sleep. Mother kisses baby's forehead and goes into the dining room. Of course, her dashingly handsome husband has made dinner, lit the candles, and decantered a bottle of perfectly aged Cabernet.

So in the beginning, thinking myself at least slightly competent, I was a bit surprised as I became acquainted with the realities of nighttime with babies. Picture it: Eleven PM. One baby is methodically tearing off my right nipple while the other smooshes poop with his foot while my dashingly handsome husband wrestles with a cloth diaper. Instead of a warm dinner with the perfect wine, I'm scooping frosting out of the can with my finger and drinking a beer. No one sleeps.

Five months in, we've refined this routine a bit. We've set a more reasonable bedtime (which is kind of more a goal than a reality most days. Like winning the lottery.) Our main dilemma seems to be that we cannot figure out who should sleep where. Short of trying out the crib ourselves, we've tried just about everything. Rather than cry about it (although I DO - usually at 2am) or swear about it (that comes at 3am, trucker-style), it seems most prudent to simply laugh. Just not while crying and swearing. That's when they send you away.

The things we've tried.

In some semblance of chronological order.

(Please note that in the below scenarios, the term "sleep" is used lightly. Unless noted otherwise, the term "sleep" refers to 1-2 hour stretches of sleep followed by voracious nursing.)

1. Babies in the crib (co-sleeper style, next to the bed). Parents in the bed. Result: 0 sleep. Babies hate the crib. Make bizarre, slightly humorous, slightly terrifying, chirping noises. This setup leads to...

2. Each parent sleeps with a baby on his/her chest. Sitting up. All night long. Result: Babies sleep beautifully. Parents do not sleep. Develop back/neck/shoulder issues. This setup leads to...

3. Again, each parent sleeps with a baby on his/her chest. Sitting up. All night long. Result: Babies sleep beautifully. Parents sleep beautifully too. Because now we're too exhausted to let a little "sitting up" ruin the potential for sleep. This setup continues until babies discover they prefer to sleep with their faces wedged in an armpit. Safety issue...on to the next setup.

4. Daddy sleeps in bed like a normal person. Mommy wedges herself as close to daddy as possible. This leaves half the bed open for babies, who are now in the bed sleeping parallel to one another and perpendicular to mommy, who wraps her arms around the two of them like a big mommy-arm baby gate. Result: Everyone sleeps. This continues until babies get too long to safely fit perpendicular to mommy and threaten to tumble off the bed.

5. Daddy sleeps on an air mattress on the floor next to the crib and the bed. Mommy continues with babies as in setup 4. Result: Everyone sleeps. Mommy feels tremendous guilt over daddy sleeping on the air mattress. Invites him back into bed under the conditions that...

6. Daddy sleeps at the foot of the bed, perpendicular to mommy. Mommy and daddy are forming an L. Babies continue to sleep in mommy's arm-gate. Result: Mommy kicks daddy. Daddy kicks mommy. Babies sleep. Did I mention Daddy is 6'6"? Sleeping sideways on a queen size bed?

7. Mommy and daddy switch positions. (This is sounding like a creepy, TMI, "how babies are made" type story at this point). Babies remain in mommy-gate. Result: Mommy kicks daddy. Daddy kicks mommy. Babies sleep.

8. Mommy and Daddy decide to try the Pack N' Play in place of the crib. Result: 0 sleep. Babies hate the Pack N' Play. Return of the bizarre, slightly humorous, slightly terrifying, chirping noises.

9. Everyone in the bed. Laying in the traditional direction. Result: Beautiful, blissful sleep. For all.

10. Mommy gets nervous babies will get smothered in the bed. Mommy and daddy attempt to teach the babies to love the crib. Result: Tears had by all. Except maybe daddy. 0 sleep. Repeat this for many, many, many nights.

11. Same as scenario 10, except for that Rhys is in the car seat in the crib, Quin is just regular ol' in the crib. Result: Rhys sleeps beautifully. For 4-7 hour stretches. Tears had by everyone else. Ok, just mommy and Quin.

12. Mommy sleeps on a futon mattress on the floor with Quin. Rhys sleeps in his car seat in the crib. Daddy sleeps in the bed alone. Result: Sleep is had for all. Especially daddy. Mommy develops severe back pain. Chiropractic bills are mounting.

13. Daddy in the bed. Mommy in the bed. Quin in the bed. Rhys in the car seat in the crib. Result: Everybody sleeps. Mommy feels tremendous guilt that Rhys is alone in the crib.

Oh, where will our travels lead us next? I'm not sure, although I'm willing to bet it will involve more tremendous guilt and the chiropractor.

Tuesday

I'm a wee bit hormonal.

Case in point: I called my husband on his way to work this morning, crying rather hysterically because he forgot to bring the laundry downstairs for me. Clearly, he forgot this extremely important task because he no longer loves me.

Perhaps you're wondering why I don't bring the damn laundry downstairs myself? Well normally I would, but it just so happens that being two days post egg retrieval (12 eggies!), my ovaries hurt.

Normally, I'm a delight to be married to. And for all of you who are jealous of my sweet husband, wishing that you were married to me, let me assure you that YOU DO NOT want to be married to me this week. Despite all of my beauty, charm, and wit, despite my fantastic cooking skills and domestic fortitude, I seem to be lacking in the sanity department.

I think that this is justified for a variety of reasons.

1. I have ten fertilized eggs sitting in a petri dish in Boston waiting for their mommy. My uterus is much more comfy than some sterile petri dish. Clearly, I'm suffering seperation anxiety.

2. My house absolutely has to be meticulously and spotlessly clean. And it's not. If I do not get it perfectly clean in the next few hours, my eggies might prefer to continue their petri dish inhabitation. And it's hard to clean, cause my ovaries hurt.

3. I am testing a not-yet-FDA approved form of Progesterone. Was this really a good idea? For the next 3-12 weeks, my woo-woo is home to what looks like a big, foamy life-saver. And last night it made me puke up popcorn. Have you ever puked up popcorn before? All those little kernally things get just as stuck on their way back up as they do on their way down. More so, even. I still have kernals in my nose. And I am NOT a puker. I'm the type of girl who will throw up in my mouth a little and then swallow it back down to avoid puking for real. So let me tell you I do not appreciate violently puking popcorn for close to 30 minutes. Plus, I don't think it's normal or healthy to puke blood.

4. I'm trying to make sure my uterus is prepped to be a good home to my eggies. And it's a lot of damn pressure.