28 weeks

This morning I decided to make a smoothie.  Although I seem to have no trouble gaining weight in this pregnancy, I feel like really "taking care of myself" has been a struggle.  So a smoothie.  Full of brewer's yeast, wheat germ, flax seed, fruit, yogurt, milk, all the good stuff.  It took me ninety minutes to make.  Not because I had to pick the fruit, milk the cows, or even grind the flax seed myself.  No.  It was because I am Mama and this morning, that meant diapers and bartering for peace and returning boy bits into diapers where they rightfully belong.  But finally, I hit "blend" and had a luscious smoothie ready for my enjoyment.  Sixty minutes later, after taking two sips and spending at least three quarters of an hour searching for (but never finding) Cookie Monster, I decided to really buckle down and just drink the damn thing.  Enter toddlers into kitchen.  "Noothie! Noothie!"  Thirty minutes later, after consuming a good 80% of my breakfast, they were both busy tantruming over my glum announcement that our smoothie was all gone.

This is why I have not posted in four months.

This is the one thing that scares me about having a third baby.

I don't know how to get it all done.

Mothering, working, cleaning the house, making sure our refrigerator has more than an old jar of artichoke tapenade sitting on the top shelf, making sure we don't run out of dog food or milk or toilet paper, making sure Rhys and Quin know how much we love them and have the security in their world to grow into the people they deserve to be, making sure I remember to eat so that this new baby is born strong and healthy and robust...

...these are the things that I love and that consume me and often claim victory over my life.

And although it is crazy and full and hectic every second of every day, life has been really good. 

We're lucky.

I am still blown away by how lucky we are.

I still can't believe I'm pregnant.  From sex. 

By surprise.  Unplanned.

An infertile girl's dream come true.

Speaking of girls, I'm gestating one, and feeling pretty thrilled about that.

I have other things I need to write about.

I need to write about how I weaned the babies and it broke my heart, about how we're planning a VBAC and I'm simultaneously thrilled and terrified, about how this pregnancy has been an exercise in feeling confident in myself as a mother while finding the strength to ignore advice and input that isn't helpful to me, and  about how I'm trying to squeeze every last drop of experience out of this pregnancy to savor the right now.

It all has to come later, and I confess that I have no idea when that will be.  Maybe this week, maybe next month.  It all depends on how things go with my morning smoothie.

I don't post as much these days. I'm busy.

privacy

Using the facilities used to be a private matter in our house.

I liked that privacy.

There was a time in life when I would have assured you that there was nothing, nothing, that would ever cause me to let go of that privacy.

Enter Rhys and Quin.  Both literally and figuratively.  Into the bathroom.  Where I am.

They stagger in teetering like dizzy drunks with big toothy smiles and triumphantly signing, over and over again, POTTY!  POTTY!  POTTY!

I am SO glad we taught them to sign, so that in situations like this when I think that perhaps my dignity is still fully intact because after all, they are so young and still in diapers thus they do not use the POTTY - I can learn that in fact, my dignity is in shreds.  Yes.  Mommy is on the potty.

And I'll be damned if I know what to do while I'm sitting there, otherwise indisposed, and one of them falls and bumps his head on a corner and is now crying to be picked up.  Now mommy is on the potty and Quin is on her lap.

At which time it is only fair that Rhys discovers toilet paper.  And this toddler who is still learning coordination somehow manages to unravel the entire roll onto the floor before I've even figured out how to reach an arm out in a weak attempt to stop him.  Now mommy is on the potty and Quin is on her lap and Rhys is on the floor in a pile of toilet paper that mommy needs and cannot reach.

I've changed my mantra.

It now goes like this.


Privacy is overrated.  Privacy is overrated.  Privacy is overrated.  Privacy is overrated.  Privacy is overrated. I bet Kyle is pooping in peace at work.  Privacy is overrated.  Privacy is overrated.  Would anyone find out if I started stashing a bottle of vodka in here? Privacy is overrated.  Privacy is overrated.  Privacy is overrated.  Privacy is overrated.  Privacy is overrated.

It's nice to meet you!

I've fallen into the unfortunate habit of over-sharing the mundane details of our adventures in erranding, especially trips to the grocery store.

I'm sorry.  

I'm even more sorry that I have no real plans to stop.  

I tell myself, "okay.  Okay.  That's enough for a while," but then we go to the grocery store and while I'm wearing Quin on my front, he discovers the wonderful world of (and do excuse the lack of sophistication in the following term) motorboating.  Not the water sport, friends.  The face-in-cleavage kind.  With loud and exuberant sound effects.  And I'm pushing Rhys in the cart and he and I are shaking hands non-stop while I say emphatically, over and over again, "It's nice to meet you!" because that's our grocery store game and he finds it hilarious and it keeps him from jumping ship and escaping to the banana display.  And then Quin decides that motorboating is significantly more fun if he grabs onto my ears and pulls outward, so now we're really attracting attention as I push our cart with one hand trying to avoid a collision while one child practices manners, the other practices a total lack thereof, and my ears are stretched beyond the realms of normalcy and any pretense of comfort.  And as all this is happening, I'm thinking how I really need to do a post on this because I have no self control and I cannot stop.  

And so I'm sorry.

Bananas.

The babies are on a strike.  Actually, one baby is on a strike, the other crosses the picket line daily.

Babies, I have found, are fond of exercising their right to strike, especially when unionized as in the case of any and all sets of multiples.  In the past fifteen months, we've had nap strikes, poop strikes, nighttime-sleep strikes, walking strikes, and independent-play strikes.

As a member of executive management on this parental team, I've become a master at negotiating peaceful resolutions, which might come in handy right about now, since our latest strike is a biggie: food strike.

While Quin eats every last bite of food that crosses his path, Rhys has become quite exacting in his food standards.  Slowly, he has whittled his formerly diverse diet down to one favored food - banana.  All other foods are meticulously cast over the edge of his highchair tray and onto the floor, where at the conclusion of every meal, Quin and Bella hover, sharing delectable discarded morsels.

It's been a steady and slippery slope.  First he (Rhys) cut out egg - one of his favorite foods, second only to the wondrous banana.  Then it was toast.  Then oatmeal.  And so on.  If I am crafty and incredibly casual, sometimes I will have a short-lived bout of success at breaking his strict "bananas only" rule.  He'll nibble my toast, or have a bite of melon.  Before I even get my hopes up, he is puckering his face and dramatically wiping his tongue off with his pudgy hand.  I find myself wondering if humans can live on a diet comprised almost solely of bananas.    I find myself feeling more thankful than ever that he is still nursing.  I find myself wondering how many bananas it will take to push us back into poop-strike territory.

And here's the big deal: I'm not worried.  

Strike negotiations haven't commenced.  He wins.  

Don't get me wrong - I have certainly noticed  this new trend.  I've talked about it with other parents.  And here I am writing about it. 

But I haven't run to the internet, or one of the several options in my vast baby book library, to get advice.  I know it is a phase.  I get it.  I know it will pass.

If I didn't know any better, I might even say I'm relaxed.

Break out the red pens and fill in my report card, please.  The comments section will now read: "is a relaxed and confident mother." 

***

Okay.  So maybe we happen to have our fifteen month well-baby visit this Thursday.  So what if the banana-issue is at the top of my painfully long list of questions for the pediatrician.   I want my damn gold star.  

Ever found yourself screaming, "It's f@#^ing SLEEPY TIME!" at 3am? Well, mama, this post is for you.

There were a few times in college where I remember dramatically labeling myself "sleep deprived."  Doing so was kind of sexy.  Getting up and dragging oneself to class with tousled hair and last night's eye makeup smeared all over the left facial region said "I consider myself quite busy and important...too much so to shower before class.  Aren't I mysterious?"  Or something like that.  Young Hollywood seems to think itself chronically sleep deprived, with their ever-so-posh hospitalizations for "exhaustion."  

I have come to feel a bit territorial over the terms "sleep deprived" and "exhaustion."  Mothers are sleep deprived.  Every one else is just whiny.  (Disclaimer: My three-day sleep total = under twelve hours.  I am not rational, kind, or understanding at this moment.  Prepare to be offended.  Prepare to be horrified.  Just don't say I didn't warn you.)

Because our nation clearly has an issue tossing around the terms "sleep deprivation" and "exhaustion" like candy at a parade, let me attempt to set some new parameters to the concept.  If you cannot relate to the following incidents,  congratulations, you are NOT sleep deprived.  If you can, it's official.  You are sleep deprived.  Welcome to the club, sister.

You are definitely sleep deprived if...

• You are writing/reading this post while eating an entire batch of buttercream frosting with a spoon.  Caffeine is too obvious and reeks of trying to hard.
• Within the last week, you've turned to your husband at 4am and hissed, "I am going into the fucking kitchen to grab a fucking frying pan to fucking smash my fucking face in because I CANNOT fucking take any fucking more of this and I am so. fucking. tired." and he just rolled over and went back to sleep without saying a word because it's the third time you've threatened tonight and so far you seem to be making hollow threats.
• You've zoned out for A TEENSY SECOND in the grocery store and upon zoning back in you find your fifteen month old standing up on the seat of the cart leaning into the back to pop open a beer.
• In a desperate attempt to keep from becoming one of those mothers who yells, you've taken to loudly reciting children's books and songs when you've had it up to here: "I SAID A BOOM-CHICK-A-BOOM!  I SAID A BOOM-CHICK-A-BOOM!  I SAID A BOOM-CHICK-A-ROCKA-CHICK-A-ROCKA-CHICKA-BOOM!  Your children are terrified when you start to sing.
• You've screamed, "it's FUCKING sleepy time!" at 3am and wondered who the crazy screaming woman is and how she got into your bed.
• Yesterday you fell asleep laying in the middle of the living room floor with your fifteen month old twins playing loudly right next to you.  You woke up to find three sticky fingers in your nose, a thumb in your ear, and two smooshed noses pressed against your forehead.  
• You've run out of diapers but because you are too tired to go to the store, you pray that nobody will poop.  Of course somebody poops, at which time you are faced with either fashioning a diaper out of duct tape and paper towels or opening the diaper, removing the poop, and re-applying the diaper like it never happened.  Since this is purely a hypothetical situation, we do not need to get into discussing the choice that was made.

I think you get the gist here.  Of course, do keep in mind that, as stated above, these are all purely hypothetical situations which probably definitely NEVER HAPPENED in my house.  But if they happened to you, I think you should know that you are probably definitely not alone.  Wink wink.  

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you a terrifically large and hysterical panic attack.

As a responsible and duly prepared parent, I've been readying myself for toddler-hood.  

In my head it goes something like this: 

As we ease into their second year of life, the babies will have learned to talk - in complete and rational sentences.  They will sleep through the night and thus their parents will as well.  Shortly after their second birthday, they will begin to have tantrums.  Their coolly competent mother will respond to these tantrums with a loving, patient, and gracious chuckle.  She will share knowing looks with kind strangers who will sigh wistfully and say things like, "ahhhh.  The terrible twos."  As those strangers walk away, they know they will sleep better tonight, with the understanding that today's children are being raised by such masters of motherhood.  "She makes it look so easy" they will say.  Playful angelic fairies will fly around farting honey.

And now here's what happened in real life:

Toddler-hood came bursting through our front door without knocking.  Swinging and punching with closed fists.  The asshole punched me in the trachea.  My sweet babies woke up one day with the sole desire to point out my utter incompetence as a mother.  I'm not ready.  I have not formulated my tantrum response yet!  I have not mastered the gracious chuckle!  I have been forced to fly by the seat of my pants and it is threatening to tear wide open and show the entire world my granny-panties, which I have peed in twice today already.  I am master of nothing but inconsistency.  Tantrums send me into a tailspin.  My sweet and innocent babes let loose with demonic shrieks I am certain they are wholly incapable of and I will do anything and everything to just. make. it. stop.  And then I realize that I'm likely encouraging my beautiful children to grow up sounding like Veronica from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, speaking with bizarre British accents and saying, "mother, make me more crepes this instant!"  So the next tantrum I respond by ignoring it completely while a tiny voice in my head whispers "refrigerator mother....refrigerator mother...refrigerator mother."    I mentally kick Leo Kanner square in the testicles and hurry into the kitchen to make some chamomile tea before I lose control and just start drinking mouthwash.

I've looked into what it would take to develop a light drug problem to help ease this time.  Am having a hard time deciding between huffing glue and prescription pills.  I hear glue is easier to obtain.

Cinnamon and Angel Farts

When we were going through infertility, I was certain that the cruelest truth of our situation was that I was destined to be a mother. I am human; I have my flaws. Lots and lots of flaws. But motherhood? I could see it dangling in front of me, just out of reach. My unattainable destined perfection.

And then I became a mother.

Oprah did a show about a year ago on the truth behind motherhood. She featured successful mommy-bloggers like Dooce who confessed their deepest maternal woes and suggested that no matter how bright and glossy the exterior, we all have a poopy diaper or two stuffed under the couch that we're hoping nobody notices. And they were about a year ahead of me. Sleep deprived with two colicky preemies, I watched with a vague interest and no real connection. My entire life felt like that poopy diaper desperately hidden away. The idea of shining up the surface and slapping on a smile seemed insane and potentially harmful.

Now I get it.

And if it's not a wadded, soiled cloth diaper under my couch, it's the fact that I'm writing this while slowly sipping a shot glass full of maple syrup because I'm feeling too responsible to drink anything really serious at 9:52am but dammit my babies are sleeping and if that's not a reason to celebrate and imbibe on sweet condiments, I don't know what is.

I'm a year behind on the uptake, but I'd like to join the collectively pleading voices from that Oprah episode and ask WHY WHY WHY is it that so many mothers make this business look like cinnamon and angel farts?

Motherhood may be wonderful, and I believe it is, but it is also beautifully and recklessly real. I feel like life should suddenly come equipped with air bags and seat belts and a very serious helmet. For me.

I'm not the mother I expected I would be. I call Kyle and beg him to come home from work early. Demand, even. I try to reason with thirteen month olds. "This behavior is NOT ACCEPTABLE!" It is inevitable that at some point in the day, somebody will get hold of their toothbrush and demonically chase after Bella in a desperate attempt to brush her teeth. She will be having none of that and thus will settle for having her tail lavishly brushed with a toddler sized spin brush full of baby Orajel tooth cleanser. The meal I've spent thirty harried minutes lovingly preparing will be thrown over the side of the high chair. I will swear. I will grit my teeth and mumble and grunt and in the midst of it all will not be able to resist kissing those cute and chubby and defiant cheeks as I walk by. Somebody will vomit in my car. I will let that vomit dry using the excuse that it will be "easier" to clean up that way. My babies spend half their life looking like baby hobos with food smeared on their faces and banana gumming up their hair and I will leave it there because really? I don't have the energy to fight over that and besides, people spend a lot of money on strikingly similar spa treatments. I hold on for dear life and offer a snarky laugh at the timid and perfect mother I thought I would be.

This mother, this real life, breathing mother, is a human being.

Offense.

Facebook hasn't written back.

And Ellen hasn't called and said "yes! I will do a show on breastfeeding and fill my audience with lactating mamas who I will shower with lanolin cream and fancy nursing bras. Yes!" Oprah hasn't called either. And Tyra hasn't. And NPR hasn't. And my local news station hasn't.

And you know what? I think they're missing out on an opportunity. Because this image is still on Facebook, as the profile pic for the Big Boobs application, which has 55,842 monthly users:

And this image is still on Facebook, as the profile pic for the "Tits" application with 12, 260 monthly users:

And this image is still on Facebook, the profile pic for the "T i t s" fan page, with 1,863 fans:

And this image is still on Facebook, the profile pic for the group "Titties" with 580 members:

And I'd like to say I'm surprised. Because Facebook has a policy against sexually offensive material. And given the context of each of these pictures, I'd call them pretty damn sexually offensive. So I reported them. Each and every one. And included my letter to Facebook as my comment for each one. No response. No removal of the pictures.

But you know what picture Facebook did remove?

This one. Originally posted on the "Hey Facebook, breastfeeding is NOT obscene" group, with 258,448 members.

Here, where, after three years of infertility and a traumatic and pre-term birth, I finally tandem nursed my babies successfully for the first time. Facebook told me this picture was offensive. And warned me that they will delete my account if I continue to break the rules.

Hey Facebook?

Fuck you.

12 Month Checkup

5:30am

Half-assed effort to convince self that we enjoy waking up this early.

6:30am

Two diapers, successfully changed.

7:30am

Feed the babies breakfast. Feeling of smug confidence, knowing that today we will get to the babies' doctor's appointment not only on time, but a full fifteen minutes early like they ask. Babies eat Kiwi for the first time and love it. Plan to leave at 9:30.

9:27am

Both babies have fallen asleep following massive play session. Revise plan. We will leave at 10 and drive five over.

10:07am

Shit. Literally and figuratively. Two more diapers changed. Screw the "fifteen minutes early" suggestion.

10:16am

Driving.

11:06am

Pull into the parking lot for 11am appointment. Load Rhys into front carrier. Find a large chunk of Kiwi skin resting on Quin's shoulder, complete with tiny teeth marks and lots of saliva bubbles. Confused computation of time elapsed since breakfast. Certainty that all Kiwi skin was placed in the trash. Shrug it off. Hoist Quin onto hip. Sling massive diaper bag around neck. Run into the building.

11:13am

Waiting room. Babies want no part of quiet lap sitting. Give in. Two babies on the floor. Bolt in different directions. Water cooler. Cups. Lots of water. Carpet. Outlet. Visions of children's services intervening. Redirect. End tables. Magazines. Fire extinguisher. Visions of children's services intervening. Our name is called. Tiny prayer of thanks to a god I'm uncertain about.

11:17am

Neat and orderly exam room. Waiting for the doctor.

11:19am

Chaos. Bright red biohazard disposal can. Curious minds. Drumming on the can. Pushing the can. Pulling on the plastic liner. Attempts to open the lid. Visions of children's services intervening. Redirect. Privacy curtain. Peekaboo. Pull on the curtain. Tangle up in the curtain. Shrieks of delight. Bumped head. Crying. Soothing. Look! Puzzles and books! Little interest.

11:21am

Nurse arrives. Time for weights and lengths. Strong, foul odor. Poop. One more diaper, successfully changed. Wistful thoughts of potty training. Back to reality.

11:26

Doctor walks in. Lots of questions. Questions neatly written on paper. Babies want to eat paper. Redirect. Ask about everything. Everything. Doctor is patient. Babies are examined. Babies are healthy. Strong, foul odor. Poop. Naked Rhys. Distracted momma. Must get diaper. Splashing sound. Puddle. Splashing Quin. Laughing Rhys. Drenched wooden puzzle. Pee on Quin's face. Naked Rhys standing in the middle of it all. Pee covered feet. Relaxed doctor. "Urine is sterile." Puzzle in the sink. Wipe up the floor. Diaper is finally put in place. Back to questions. Chaos continues. Babies discover exam table. Stirrups. Can. Not. Resist. Babies discover secret corner behind exam table. Hidden electrical wires. Tiny space too small for big people. Momma squeezes in for baby removal. Second baby squeezes by. Doctor lends a hand. The list of questions is finally exhausted. Hot room. Time for shots. Tired momma. Waiting for the nurse. More biohazard can. More stirrups. More curtain. More corner of danger. Nurse returns. Shot out of stock. Sorry. Relieved momma. Oh wait. The family practice wing will have some. Waiting. Hot room. Sweaty momma. Tired momma. Biohazard can. Stirrups. Curtain. Corner. Books and puzzles are, apparently, boring. Nurse returns. Quin's up first. Prick. Hysterics. Rhys joins in to show his sympathy. Full lap. Not enough arms to fulfill necessary hugging and soothing. Rhys' turn. Prick. Hysterics haven't yet stopped from before. Intensify. Hot momma. Tired momma. Need. More. Arms. Band aids. Nurse says good bye. We are alone in the room. Hysterical. Hot. Overwhelmed. Must soothe. Must re-pack the diaper bag. Must put on coats. Babies on hips. Diaper bag around the neck. Massive. Heavy. Sippy cup falls out. Fuck. Just fuck. Bend down. Don't drop the babies. Sippy cup retrieved. Diaper bag spills onto floor. FUCK. Swearing. Sweating. Swearing. Quietly. Try again. Upright. Babies on hips. Diaper bag re-assembled. Out the door. Down the hall. Babies slipping. Stop. Hoist babies back up. Automatic door opening button is not working. Must need to be hit harder. Using elbow for this purpose. Hit. Hit. Hit. This will leave a bruise. FUCK IT. Open door with foot. Blow by checkout. Screw checkout. We're outside. Cool air. Almost to the car. Almost to the car. Where are the keys. ARGGGGHHH. Rhys is in. Diaper bag. So heavy. Pull off the neck. Sippy cup tumbles out. Rolls away. Retrieve it. Want to throw it. Babies are watching. Put it back in the bag. Quin deposited. Everyone is buckled up.

1:48pm

Turn the key in the ignition. Look at the clock on the dash. Holy mother of all mothers. Face flushes. Quick computation of time elapsed since arrival. Embarrassment. Wondering what note is going in the chart. "High needs." "Schedule PLENTY of time." Oh well.

1:49pm

Driving. Music. Sleeping babies.

We're all in one piece.

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?

And here I talk about poop again.

Holidays, fork-mashed with sweet potatoes and breast milk. Part three.

After the initial incident with the fireflies, our first real away-from-home stint with the babies was a success. An exhausting success, but a success all the same. By the time we were packed up and ready to make the journey back home, I was drooling over the idea of a four hour date with my pillow in the front seat of the car while Kyle drove. We had the babies in clean diapers, cozied up in pajamas and ready to be tucked into their car seats for some quality car-slumber. As we said our goodbyes, Kyle's mom held Quin up and made a face. "I think he pooped."

"Nope," I said, offering an optimistic and perhaps slightly desperate smile. "We just put him in a clean diaper. It's probably gas."

She gave him another sniff. "It's poop."

I took Quin from her, ready to prove the gas theory. I took a deep breath in. It didn't smell like gas. It didn't smell like poop - at least not any baby poop I'd ever been acquainted with. It didn't smell like anything that should be coming out of an innocent and squishy little baby. I sent Kyle to dig the diaper bag out of our warming and packed car, and set Quin down on the floor. Within seconds, one of the dogs ran over to him and started sniffing and licking. It was as I reached down to intervene that I noticed the green soupy seepage coming through the back of his pajamas and making a trail on the floor behind him. I flashed to the image of my soft and warm pillow in the front of the car. I wanted to be there. So tired. So close to making it home without major incident.

I picked Quin up and held him out at arms length in a feeble attempt to remain sludge-free. He swung his legs and cooed. Where the hell was Kyle? Hadn't I sent him for the diaper bag, like, five minutes ago? I looked around the kitchen at Kyle's family. I offered an "I'm totally relaxed right now" smile. Quin cooed and kicked. My arms burned. Where the hell was Kyle? I attempted a casual yell to Kyle's brother who was heading out to pack up his own car: "can you ask Kyle to hurry up? Maybe let him know that Quin has poop running down his legs and all over the place? Maybe remind him that I'm waiting for a diaper?" I offered a totally non-desperate smile. I scanned the room again at the smiling faces of Kyle's family.

When you try to have a baby for years, it's easy to fall into the thinking that when it finally happens, you'd better be damn good at it. Like you have to prove your worthiness. That all your heartache and pain and wanting was well spent because LOOK at those parenting skills that are finally able to be put to use. I try to ignore these thoughts, and in the privacy of my own mind, I usually can. But in front of other people? I am a crazed woman on a mission to prove my worth and competence as a maternal figure.

Holding Quin out at an increasingly weak arm's length, these thoughts took over. Must do something competent! screamed the nagging little voice that had convinced me of fireflies the previous evening. I shot a pleading glance toward the doorway, willing Kyle to walk through. No Kyle. I looked around and weighed my options. Remove the pajamas. Simple. Efficient. Necessary.

I unzipped Quin's pajamas and pulled his arms out. Without his arms to hold them up, his poop-laden pj's slid off his legs and landed on the floor in a squishy, sopping heap. Poop splattered on the floor. It splattered the cabinets next to us. It splattered the wall in front of us. It ran off his legs and landed in heavy wet plops below. The room started to spin. Must look competent. Do something! Do something! More plops. I saw the smiling and expectant faces of Kyle's family. More plops. As if the heavens had opened in a festive holiday poop storm. Do something! I shot a last desperate look to the door, and there was Kyle. His eyes wide, taking in the scene. Me, standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding our now mostly-naked-save-for-the-copiously-poop-filled-diaper baby out at arms length, a puddle of mushy poop below us, totally frozen. Seconds passed, our gazes locked. Plop, plop, plop.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!" The words burst out of me, louder and harsher than I'd probably have chosen if I'd had any warning that I was about to speak. And without warning I repeated it. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!"

And then time started again. Kyle's sister came to me and gently ushered us into the bathroom. We got Quin washed up, re-diapered, into clean pajamas. The asshole in my head kept us company the whole way.

Into the bathroom. You bring a poop-covered child into the bathroom. Bathrooms have water and soap.

Kitchens are a bad place for poop.

Weren't you the one who wanted babies more than anything in the world? You, who doesn't know how to handle a poopy diaper?

Nicely played. Way to show that you're a natural.

And so on and so forth. We said our goodbyes. I attempted some casual laughter and smiled and offered seventeen feeble apologies for the poop-covered kitchen.

We drove home. I drifted in and out of sleep, stewing in my mortification and carrying on quite the internal dialogue.

Nobody noticed.

Are you kidding? Everyone noticed!

This sort of thing happens all the time.

No. No it doesn't.

You're a new mom. Of twins!

And you did a bang-up job of demonstrating your motherly prowess.

And so on and so forth.

I later learned that as a last show of competence, we accidentally left the poop covered pajamas sitting in a mushy bundle on the floor, leading to Kyle's sister having to wash the pajamas and Kyle's mother having to transport them back home for us. Which I believe kind of seals the deal on everyone remembering this for a very long time.

Bundled

Holidays, fork-mashed with sweet potatoes and breast milk. Part two.

In my first holiday season as a mother, I decided I would sail through in a completely stress-less state, laughing and snickering at the ease of it all in a most festive holiday spirit. My strategy involved completing 98% of our Christmas shopping in one morning online, and cramming 98% of our holiday erranding into three insane days of babies-in-tow mayhem.

By day three of our festive erranding, my state of stress-less-ness was hanging by a very wispy little thread. Despite the seventeen degree weather and whipping wind, in and out of the car went the babies and I - unbuckling car seats, hoisting babies onto hips, using my feet to open doors and enter buildings, and maneuvering my wallet with my one free pinky finger before re-buckling car seats, tightening the straps, and heading to the next stop.

It was at our third-to-last stop where things started to get hairy. First was the fact that the store I chose to complete our shopping in did not have shopping carts as I'd hoped, leading to an unusual shopping experience that entailed wearing one baby on my front and holding the other on my hip, using my one free arm to shop, select, pay, and be done with it. And then there was the issue of the babies requiring nourishment. I had planned ahead and brought bottles of pumped milk to give the babies so I wouldn't have to tandem nurse in public. I was feeling quite satisfied with my forethought as I leaned into the backseat of the car with their bottles. It took me about four seconds to notice a bizarre, rotten cheese sort of smell. Almost like rotten milk. Rotten milk. Shit. I took the bottles away. The babies started to scream.

I got into the driver's seat, turned the key, and weighed my options as I drove to the next stop. All I had left to do was purchase a bottle of rum and go grocery shopping. On the plus side, the liquor and grocery stores were in the same mini-mall. On the negative side, that meant at least another two hours before we'd be home. And two babies screaming in the back seat, scorned by a mother who first fed them rotten milk and then had the gall to steal it away. I pulled into the parking lot and the babies' continued screaming made my decision for me: boobs. Lots and lots of boobs.

Getting the babies out of their seats and into the front of the car was challenging. Even more challenging was getting the three of us settled into the driver's seat, removing the babies' hats, mittens, and jackets, using my feet to kick the keys out of the ignition, and then not dropping the babies onto the floor as I pushed the seat back as far as it would go, unzipped my coat, and inched up my shirt in the most discreet parking-lot fashion I could muster. Keeping an eye out for overly curious cart-collection boys, I fed the babies, and all was well. Time to buy that rum, get those groceries, and get the hell home.

Except. I now had two babies in the front seat. Both needing to be re-bundled for the cold, both needing to somehow be carefully carried into the store, and me feeling perplexed about how to accomplish anything other than sit there and wait for a second set of arms and hands to sprout from my body. But I did it. I used my knees, my feet, my elbows, and my teeth. By the time I emerged into the parking lot, my car safely locked, both babies carefully bundled, Rhys happily on my front and Quin in the front of our cart, I felt really damn proud. Okay, so maybe Quin was precariously balanced in the cart because I couldn't get the seat belt to buckle and it was just too damn cold to mess with it any longer, but I had a death grip on him and we were on our way into the liquor store where I planned to buckle him in for real.

As we crossed the parking lot, I noticed an old woman break from her hurried path to bolt in my direction, yelling. I couldn't hear her at first, her voice lost in the wind. As she got closer, her shrill advice slapped me in the face. "YOU NEED TO BUNDLE YOUR BABIES!!!"

Well.

Perhaps it was a beautiful display of motherly decorum that led me straight into that liquor store without another glance in her direction. Perhaps it was my complete inability to think of an appropriately feisty response.

And so just in case it was the latter, let me take a minute to respond now.

Because I kind of think I've got this thing down.

Because not only were my children both wearing wool hats and mittens, not only were they wearing fleece lined pants and warm jackets, not only was I wearing one of them snugly on my chest and holding on to the other with every cell and muscle in my body, not only had I just whipped out my naked breasts in front of the entire parking lot to feed them, not only that, but have I spent my entire life waiting to love them and mother them. And maybe I'm not quite as perfect as I'd hoped to be, or wanted to be. Perhaps I am a bit sleep deprived and perhaps I have days where I NEED A BREAK. I am still doing the best that I can and have finally realized that I am a competent and fairly good mother to these two perfect babies. And I get it, parking lot lady. It breaks my heart and tears at my soul but I get it. I realize that as much as I love them and try to hold on to every bit of them and every second of every day, I know that life will go on and moments will pass by and sometimes it will be seventeen degrees and we will still have to leave the house and the wind might bite their sweet little noses and make them cold and I get it! I get it! I cannot always keep them warm enough. No matter how hard I try, life or the weather or some shrill stranger will butt in. And so I'm just doing the best that I can. In spite of life, in spite of the weather. And that is why being a mother is hard. Really fucking hard, parking lot lady. It is wonderful, and break-your-heart beautiful, and really, really hard.

My babies are bundled, parking lot lady. Bundled, and bundled, and bundled.

Today.

A little irony: me, sitting in the car outside of our local natural foods store, scarfing down a Whopper as fast as I can chew.

Not appreciated? Was the guy in the silver Honda next to me, shooting looks of judgement and disgust in my direction.

So listen up, you pretentious prick, lest you should be reading:

That's right. I was eating a Whopper. A big, fat, juicy Whopper. With mayonnaise, in-humanely raised beef, and processed cheese product. Whilst sitting outside a store that sells wholesome, organic and delicious food. With my two fussing babies in the backseat.

Yes, that was me.

You know why?

Because I forgot to eat. That's right. Forgot. All day.

And at 2pm, I got hungry.

Insane, nursing-two-babies on zero calorie input, put some EFFING nourishment in my stomach, HUNGRY.

Because somewhere, in the midst of changing poopy diapers, begging my children to take naps, and creating miraculous, edible milk-product from my breasts, I got distracted and forgot not only to eat, but to brush my teeth as well.

So judge away, Honda Man.

For what it's worth, I think it's thoroughly ironic to sit in judgement outside of a natural food store, so I suppose we sit in irony together.

That damn Whopper was good.

***

Yes, one of my children spit up copious amounts of breast milk once we were within the safely organic walls of said store. No, I am not a responsible mother and did not have any appropriate items with which to clean said spit up. Yes, I used the sleeve of my jacket instead. Looks of judgement? Yes.

Poop. Yup. Poop.

So if you were so excited to get to the juicy details and skimmed over the title, let me offer it once more. This post is about poop.

Is this what it has come to? Am I forever reduced to the intrigues of BM's? Will I ever get out of sweatpants and brush my hair again? And when will Pandora get it through its thick cyber-brain that I unequivocally do not want to listen to songs by Barney?

But the reality is that this is a fleeting moment in time. Almost nine months have gone by. Nine months! And when I wanted this, I wanted it all. I'm going to savor every last drop: the faces they make when trying a new food for the first time, their fascination with Bella's food dish, the sweet, cooing mamamamamamamamama sounds they make. And poop.

Prior to motherhood, I had heard tales of this ridiculous obsession with poop that afflicts many new mothers. I knew that I would never be one of those. And for the larger part of nine months, I haven't been. It kind of went like this: Babies eat. Babies poop. Parents change diapers. Repeat. What's there to get all in a tizzy about?

And then we started solid foods.

From there, poop has just really gotten, well, fun. Kind of like the train wreck that is Jon and Kate Plus Eight. You're sick of it, sick of them. Yet you can't seem to pull yourself away. You've Googled them on your lunch break just to get one more bit of delicious juiciness. You never know what it will be next. Or when they'll pop up in the news next to important stories like current events in Afghanistan. And so it goes with poop.

Sure, my new-found interest in poop does little for the resume. I don't care. It may be wildly indulgent of me, but I'm embracing this long-awaited milestone of motherhood and sharing. Poop stories. I'll keep them brief.

***

I get periodic emails from Babycenter.com which I find mostly annoying. Recently, one arrived in my inbox titled, "Baby Poop. A visual guide." UGH, I thought. How disgusting. How insulting. Like new mothers have no need to know about more important things in this world. Three seconds later I was scooping that email out of my trash box like it was candy and scanning through the images while performing a mental comparison of every diaper I've ever changed. Satisfied that my babies are the proud owners of normal bowel habits, I closed the email and promptly deleted my browsing history. (Now you have to know, don't you? Here.)

***

The other day I was changing Quin's diaper. I love to make the babies giggle by giving them big tummy tickles and raspberries. I was going in for some good gigglage when I noticed a tiny little bead in his belly button. What a bizarre find! I scooped out a perfectly round little piece of clay. And as I was inspecting this clay, racking my brain to figure out how it got in there, holding it close to my eye to determine it's origin, it came to me. Feces. Poop! On my finger. Close to my eye. Out of my child's belly button. A perfect little ball of poop. Do not judge my diaper changing abilities, or the thoroughness of my wiping. They're perfectly fine. The poop ball just happened. I don't know how.

***

Every night before bed, the babies get a warm bath. We've gotten into the habit of changing them on the living room floor (does anyone actually use a changing table?) and then leaving the dirty diapers and clothes while we give them their baths and put them to bed. Once they're asleep, we get to the business of taking care of our messy living room, including putting the dirty diapers in the wash. The other night, one of the babies had a particularly huge blowout. After getting them to sleep, we decided a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, would be the only fair way to determine which of us would be responsible for taking care of the poopy explosion. I looked over at the two dirty diapers, hoping I would not be the one. And then I did a double take. The diapers were still there, but totally poop-less. The wipes we had used were not on the pile of diapers and covers where we had left them, but rather set aside in a neat little bundle. Even these had barely a trace of what had been there only minutes before. I looked at Kyle. He looked at the diapers. And then we looked at Bella. Laying on her bed, licking her lips.

***

I feel better. Purged, even.

The cows? Are in the freezer.

This weekend we held a yard sale with my family. Time to clean out, mostly because I've been watching all those shows on TV about hoarders and am now overreacting by getting rid of such essentials as our dish rack. Who really needs a dish rack, anyway?

So we're at the yard sale, and apparently I'm not the only one who has been affected by those hoarding shows because nothing is selling. And I think my junk is decent junk that anyone would be lucky to have, but our customers seem to disagree. I'm bored.

Until a neighbor shows up. A neighbor who owns a farm. With a mule. And cows. The mule. The cows. And it may be the boredom, but I suddenly get gutsy and decide that this neighbor and I are going to have a little chat about her animals. Because I need to know a few things. Like, will a hammer protect me? And why do your animals froth at the mouth every time I walk by? And that fence. How sturdy is it?

And you know what she says, after she finishes laughing?

"Well you don't have to worry about the cows any more. They're in the freezer."

And I suppose that means I really don't have to bring up the hammer now. Because, overkill, right?

I learn that the mule is named Doc. And that he's quite "social." I can't bring myself to mention that I've been considering giving him a concussion with a carpentry tool. I certainly can't mention that I may have wished EEE on him.

She suggests that I not put my fingers through the fence. Okay. I can totally handle not offering my dainty fingers up like so many carrots for the chomping.

I get home and Google "mule meat." Turns out it's illegal. At least in San Fransisco. But I got tired of Googling after that.

I suppose I don't really want Doc to end up in the freezer anyway. If I can survive as the mother of twins, I can handle Doc.

But I'm keeping the hammer, just in case.

Copious amounts of snot.

So lately I've indulged in a little light bragging about the health of my children. Perhaps I am a bit sensitive about having had them two months early, but it seems the expectation is that preemies would be constantly sick and frail and snotty-nosed. But mine are not.

Aside from our initial stint in the NICU, the babies have been healthy for the larger part of eight months. We had a blip of a cold that lasted a day this spring, but that was it. And since I have two babies, that's like sixteen cumulative months of health. So I've been all, "Go me and my miraculous healseveryailmentbringitonH1N1you'vegotnothingontheseboobies breast milk."

Nobody likes a brag.

So of course what happened next is that we all got sick.

Rather than spending my week recounting our thrilling adventures to the Internet, I've instead been working on developing my bulb-syringe skills. And wondering if I'm the only mother who has to sit on her infant to create even the slightest chance of a successful nose/syringe interaction. And popping homeopathic cold remedies into the babies' mouths like Skittles.

Consider me humbled.

Growing.

While we were on our totally awesome and relaxing and you-should-be-jealous-of-its-fabulousity camping trip, Quin cut his first tooth. A tooth!

It is razor sharp and adorable. I'm waiting for him to bite a nipple off, and in my head have been practicing saying "NO" in a gentle yet firm voice. We'll see.

Would I bite you, Mama?

Rhys is also teething, although seems quite far from actually sprouting any teeth. Either way, I've been trying to be especially mindful and appreciative of these last few weeks of big, toothless grins.

These new days of teething have led to my becoming acquainted with a little product that moms-in-the-know have affectionately nicknamed "Baby Crack." Stop being horrified and just agree that it's funny.

Apparently the box itself provides some teething relief.

I know, I know. Good mothers do NOT allow their babies to chew on packaging.

My babies are seven months old. They are beautiful and growing. Looking through these pictures with Kyle tonight, we kept looking at each other and saying, "We MADE them!" Holy crap. We made beautiful little people.

My little Bee, Quin.

Rhys, my little Bear.

Livestock.

When I take the babies for a walk in our super-duper BOB stroller that cost more than my first car, I tend to bring a hammer along. For protection. Just in case. I think it's a hormonal thing. I used to go walking and running pre-babies totally hammer-less. But now. Babies. MY babies. What I lack in stature, I like to think I make up for in scrappiness. And innovation in weaponry choices, apparently.

And if I had to, I would use it.

I probably won't have to.

I realized this the other day when getting ready to take the babies out for a little stroll. I also realized that 1. I have an active imagination and 2. Imagination + hammer + willingness to use it, may = trouble.

In an effort to avoid having to leave our neighbors a note to the tune of, Dear Neighbors...I apologize for throwing a hammer at your dog. I thought she was a bear! Oopsies. Should we BBQ sometime? I decided that perhaps I should wean myself from the hammer. Immediately.

So we walked, hammer-less.

And really, at first, it was fine. The sky was blue, the birds chirping, and the teensiest wisp of fall hanging in the background.

But then we approached one of the several farms on our road. And I should take a moment here to explain that I live in the country. Grew up here. This does not, however, necessarily mean that I am a country-girl. For instance, and please do not laugh, I am terrified of horses. Because JEE-SHUSH. Look at those things. It's not just horses. I lack a general trust of bugs, dogs, and wildlife in general. Animals can sense my fear.

I pushed the stroller along the road, attempting to be absolutely casual as I scoped out what sort of farm-stuff might be hanging out in the field. Two cows. This I can handle. Cows, I am not so much afraid of. Like I am supposed to be intimidated by their ferocious moos. Feeling bold, I kind of threw my shoulders back and did a little "I can totally walk without a hammer" swagger.

And maybe that's what pissed them off. Because all of a sudden, these peaceful bovines charged their rickety fence. Cow-bells jingling, they did a sort of moo-growl and snorted steam out of their noses and flickered the fires of hell in their big ol' brown cow eyes. And they charged the fence again. And again.

I picked up my pace, thinking to myself, "I bet I should not run. I bet I should not run" and then I started running, pushing our massive stroller and startled babies in a DANGER! DANGER! kind of way. And then the cows started running too.

When cows run, the earth shakes. And their beastly hooves go CALLUMP! CALLOMP! And did I mention that these cows were sporting horns?

I ran until I could not run anymore. It is not easy to maintain a sprint while wearing Birkenstocks and pushing a double stroller down a bumpy dirt road and constantly looking over your shoulder to see if one of the Cows of Doom has broken through the fence yet to recreate the running of the bulls here in my very own neighborhood.

And all I can keep thinking is "I'm lactating too, bitch" like that really matters but it's the only thing I can think of that me and these cows have in common and perhaps we should all just go about our day in a peaceful manner and GOD are they lucky I don't have my hammer with me.

But then we have passed by them and hammer or no hammer, we're all safe and intact.

And don't you go thinking that I then was so shook-up that I turned us all around and retreated home. No sirree. Cause that would have meant doubling back past the Cows of Doom and Hell Fire and Poisonous Rattlesnake Venom all over again and NO WAY was I about to do that.

No, we took a nice long walk. Nice and long with fresh air and sunshine and the knowledge that those cows would have to go back inside sometime. And they did. And we went home.

Incidentally, I'm taking the babies for walk in just a couple minutes. Coming with us? My trusty little hammer.

Absolutes.

I've always found comfort in the philosophy that there are no absolutes. As though there's a Get Out of Jail Free card waiting around each and every corner if you can just remember to look for it. But although I find comfort in it, I don't live my life around it. I suspect that's true for most of us. And that can make things more complicated than they need to be. Getting caught up on something, anything, because that's the way we expect it to be. Or because that's the way it's supposed to be.

Am I making sense?

If I'm not, it's because there's a baby crying in the background. And with every little tear that is shed, a piece of me just crumples and dies.

Because I'm letting my babies cry.

On purpose.

Because there are no absolutes.

In my heart of hearts, I truly believed I would never resort to sleep training. To "crying it out."

I have.

What we were doing was not working. Not for the babies. Not for us.

For seven months, Kyle and I have dutifully responded to every cry within seconds. We have stayed up around the clock rocking, bouncing, and nursing the babies back to sleep. I don't really want anyone to know how many nights we got up every twenty minutes all night long and then dragged our exhausted selves out of bed the next morning to face the day. Sleep deprivation is scary. Dangerous.

It. Was. Not. Working.

I've agonized over this issue. Advice has been abundant. I've been terrified to do the wrong thing. And although I hate to admit it, I've been loathe to be judged.

And here I am.

Feeling confident. Feeling heartbroken. Feeling like I'm doing the right thing. Feeling the weight of responsibility that comes with really doing this right. Understanding commitment in a new way. Commitment that impacts my children.

Letting the babies cry breaks my heart. But this is ultimately not about me. It's about them. For them. Because they need sleep so that they can grow and develop. And because setting loving boundaries is our job as parents.

I would protect them from every sadness, every harm, every disappointment, if only I could.

I hate that I can't.

And I owe it to them, these babies that we have brought into this world, to be honest with myself about that.