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.  

The one with the gorgeous chin.

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

I have a loose and unwritten rule that aside from Kyle and the babies, I don't blog about friends and family in a direct manner. Sure, they pop up as bystanders in certain posts, but for the most part, I leave well enough alone. Because.

Loose and unwritten rules, however, beg to be broken. So really, it's been a matter of waiting for the right occasion. I'm not sure I can think of any better occasion than one that takes high expectations, joy, anticipation, alcohol, copious amounts of food, stress, and goodwill toward all - stuffs them together in a cramped and overly warm living room, throws on some decorations, and presses play on Silent Night. If David Sedaris serves up his holidays on ice, I suppose this year I served ours not on ice, but fork-mashed, with sweet potatoes and breast milk.

***

A week before Christmas, my parents were at my house helping me get ready for a big family dinner to celebrate my sister's arrival from the West Coast. While my mother and I cooked ridiculous amounts of food, my father played with the babies. Holding Rhys, he commented how much Rhys looks like Kyle. "Actually," I told him, "lately I think he looks a lot like I did as a baby." He looked at Rhys and then back at me. "You know, I can kind of see it. He definitely has your chin." My chin, I thought. "I didn't realize my chin was all that distinctive." I stopped chopping vegetables for a moment to consider this new piece of information. Am I known for my chin? When describing me, do people say, "ahhh, yes, April. The one with the gorgeous chin." And what is it about my chin that makes it so distinctive? Its graceful curve? Softly jutting point? "Well," I asked, "what about my chin? In what way does he have my chin?"

My father blushed a little. He rarely blushes. He cleared his throat. Made a little cough. "You know. Your..." and then he made a little waving motion in front of his neck. "No." I said, perhaps a bit pointedly. "I don't know." And so he waved his hand again. A neck to chin and chin to neck sort of wave.

"Are you saying I have a double chin?"

He shrugged a little and grinned sheepishly. "Well yeah."

Don't be alarmed if you just heard a loud crash. It was nothing more than my illusions of a graceful chin shattering on the floor.

"I do NOT have a double chin! And neither does Rhys!"

"Well," he said, "his is just baby fat."

My father is a kind and loving man. A bit generous with his honest opinions, perhaps, but kind and loving. And so I chose my response carefully.

"You" I exclaimed, jutting my chin out ever so subtly "just earned yourself a spot on my blog."

And so here we are.

I'm sorry. Were you having a hard time reading this? Was my enormous double chin blocking your view?

Oh, and happy holidays. From Kyle, the babies, me, and my grotesquely fat chin.

Food...meh.

They say you cannot live off of vitamins alone. That vitamins are for "supplementation," a sort of nutritional insurance policy, if you will.

But I wonder. Maybe they're just saying that. Maybe you can live off of vitamins alone. Maybe the need to eat actual food is simply a fictionalization brought on by lobbyists just like corn subsidies and the rest of our corrupt food system in the US.

See, I have recently given up food. So you can probably understand why I'm hopeful that perhaps boatloads of vitamins will be enough to keep me kicking.

First it was dairy, and then soy. My determination to exclusively breastfeed wasn't about to be squashed by a little reflux and the delicate, immature digestive systems of my little loves. After months of cheating and sneaking teensy bits of dairy here and there, I finally kicked the habit and stocked the house with sheep's milk cheese, coconut milk ice cream, Earth Balance butter substitute, and goat's milk.

Problem solved.

I sat back and started counting the days until the babies' digestive systems would allow for the delicious reintroduction of things like MOZZARELLA (sigh) and BEN AND JERRY'S (sniff).

And then something happened.

I share a lot with you, Internet. I've shared stirrup stories and incidents of accidentally urinating on myself. I've shared postpartum depression and infertility. And all that sharing has been nice. But I have standards. There is a line. I actually didn't know if I had one, one of those line thingies. But I do. And I've stumbled upon it. Suffice to say, I am not going to share details. But something happened. It happened once, then twice, and then a third time. Three days in a row.

And I was concerned. Alarmed, even.

It involved blood and what I could only suspect might be my intestines. Ahem. The line.

I called the doctor. Made an appointment. She and I had a nice long chat.

The good news? Now I can breastfeed until the babies are eleven (I won't) because who cares if their still young digestive systems are finicky about what I put into my mouth?

Because apparently, my own digestive system has developed some raging, bloody (The line. The LINE...dammit!) finicky-ness of its own.

Did my doctor suggest a colonoscopy? Oh yes she did. And to avoid having a camera poking all about the business of my bum, I've decided to take option B and first try cutting out gluten and kissing dairy goodbye for...forever?

If things improve? Apparently I have colitis.

If things don't? Hello, bum-cam. And in the back of my mind, I am trying to quell the raging fear that I have cancer in my butt.

Until then, I am living on a totally delicious diet of, um, vitamins.

And can I just add that there are like, a lot of body parts? Pretty, glamorous things like arms and legs, and then neutral things like noses and toes. Yet with so many options, I, with my inability to respect the line, end up with issues in my effing ass.

That's right, Internet. It is all EFFED UP. My derriere. Butt. Bottom. Booty. Tush. Keister. Heinie. Rear. Caboose. Fanny. Rump. Badonkadonk.

Crap. (Get it? Get it?)

Screw the line.

Erranding with the babes

So sometimes we have to venture out into the real world. For the first few months, we weren't allowed to do this. Preemies, flu season. But now we are, and we do.

For grocery shopping, I typically wear one baby on my back and one on my front. We get lots of looks. As fellow shoppers approach me from the front, it tends to go, "Oh look! She's wearing her baby! How quaint..." as if my ears are non-functional what with the baby hanging off my front and all. And then they, or I, turn to the side. "Oh LOOK NOW! TWO BABIES! Hah! She has babies hanging off all over the place!" Like I'm Octomom and there are children peeking out from behind my kneecaps and underneath my armpits.

My babies are superbly well-behaved (at least at this juncture in life...but let's talk again in a year, shall we?) in public. Even when odd strangers approach and (Oh yes they do) touch their cheeks and hands and get all face-to-face with them while I stand stiffly and smile my most "get the F*** away from my babies before I cause you bodily harm" smile.

This past weekend, while at the grocery store, I met a woman who at first just seemed elderly and quite cute, in her square-toed heels and orange hair. And then. She offered to take my babies home. "I think I'll keep them..." I stammered, and went on my way, glad to be done with her. But. She was one of those parallel shoppers. On the same rhythm. You know the deal. In the same aisles. Reaching for the same ground turkey. All. Through. The. Store. The fact that I was on the same pace as a woman in her late eighties didn't enthuse me, either. And at every encounter, my ability to believe in the innocence of her offers wavered. By aisle ten, I was getting an amazingly creepy promise that "I'll find a way to sneak them home with me, I will!"

And I'm amazed by the fellow shoppers who meander toward us, circling in awe and saying, "God that must be heavy on your back!" What? Carrying thirty pounds of twin? Yes, in fact, it is. And so I'd like to make this trip as quick as possible. And standing around while you circle us isn't helping.

Monday was an erranding day. The peculiar task of cashing a Bank of America check from Fairpoint (who sucks, and wouldn't have owed us a check if they didn't screw up all their billing in the first place) in a town I rarely shop in and don't know what is where. And then the task of shopping at Trader Joe's, my new love and the reason for us being in a town where my non-existent navigational skills become even more scarce.

Not knowing my way around, I wasn't sure how I'd cash my check. Because the odds of running into my bank, with my luck, in a strange town, are not good. So when I saw a Bank of America, NOT my bank, but the bank the check was cut from, I was psyched. In fact, I was thinking that I'm superbly lucky in life and that the Universe absolutely loves me. I pulled in and up to the drive through. And saw a sign that said "Drive through services are for Bank of America customers only. Other customers, please come inside." WTF. I have six month old twins in the back seat. I was already sandwiched in line. I pulled up to the tubey thing, inserted my check and ID, and sent it away through the vacuum-ish pipe. I crossed my fingers and waited, hoping that my $107.48 would magically appear back to me in a neat little envelope and absolutely zero flack from the teller.

"Ma'am. Ma'am? Do you have an account here?"

Flack.

"I don't. But I do have six month old twins in the car, and really don't want to get them out just to cash a check." Twin babies always help make the case.

"Ma'am, if you don't have an account, we can't serve you through the drive through. We need your thumb print to cash your check."

Apparently twin babies have little sway at Bank of America.

By the way, Bank of America (just in case you're reading): you're not the Bank of Zurich. This isn't the Da Vinci Code. I'm not Tom Hanks. My thumb print? Really? All I want is my $107.48 back from the idiot thieves at Fairpoint.

"Ok. Well, I really can't come in, sooo..."

"We can send somebody out to your car to stand with your babies while you run in." A second, eager looking teller waved to me from the window.

Leave my sweet babies waiting in the car on a 90 degree day while a total stranger stands watch so that I can run inside and have my thumb scanned? Tempting.

"Umm. I'm not leaving my babies." Bank of America suddenly felt creepy. I made a Da Vinci Code-ish getaway and didn't look back.

About half a mile down the road, I found my bank. They cashed my check, returning the $107.48 to its rightful owner. They did not request to scan my thumb or stand watch over my children.

Trader Joe's was a smashing success. Especially if you consider repeatedly zerberting at your six month old twins to make them laugh! not cry! throughout the entire store to be a success. And if people judge me for excessive zerberting in public as though I'm having a bizarre oral seizure, I don't care. We stocked up on baked pea chips (quite delicious), barbecue sauce, and some newly released and excessively fantastic gummy candies. The babies were confused for girl babies only once, prompting me to assure the embarrassed and confused shopper that my children are quite comfortable in their masculinity and that apologies would not be necessary.

I'm getting used to this life. And I like it.

I know. I know!

I've read Fast Food Nation. I've read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I've read The Omnivore's Dilemma.

Actually, I've read the first three quarters of Fast Food Nation two or three times, which basically counts as reading the whole book at least once. For some reason I can't take the plunge and make it through the end. And Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I read about half way, until I felt like poking myself in the eyeball with a dull pencil and using an asparagus spear to knock Barbara Kingsolver off her high horse. Omnivore's Dilemma, I gave up after about 90 pages, after asking myself for the thirtieth time why Barbara Kingsolver was re-writing a more boring version of Animal, Vegetable, Miracle under the pseudonym of Michael Pollan. So.

Be that what it may, I'm fairly educated about food. We eat mostly organic. We buy local when we can, and we know that whole grains are good and white bread is evil (although we love a good baguette and damn it, a little evil is okay sometimes). I spent much of my college career living with nutrition majors. I was actually enrolled in culinary school at one point, although dropped out before starting because of an opportunity I couldn't resist at work. So.

I should know better.

And I do. But that doesn't stop me.

I have a fast food habit.

Perhaps it's because I have two babies and often the only way I'm guaranteed a meal is if someone literally throws it at me through my car window. Perhaps it's because they wrap the food in irrisistable and crinkly wax paper. Perhaps it's because Dairy Queen gives me my meal in an inviting little box all my own. Perhaps.

I'm not proud of my habit. But YUM! Fake meat flavor! Salt! Grease!

Why do I divulge these secrets? Usually it's because I have no filter, and the overwhelming urge to make frequent confessionals. This time, there's more of a purpose. I'm hoping that this particular post may catch the eye of some sort of fast food researcher who frequents small but excessively important blogs like my own for consumer feedback and will promptly take my complaints and suggestions back to the source and guarantee my continued addiction. So.

I'm going to start with Dunkin' Donuts, because you have seriously pissed me off. To start with? Your donuts are not delicious. Krispy Kreme is where it's at. You cannot touch them. However, Krispy Kreme does not find my part of the country appealing, apparently, and I cannot travel to Florida every time I want a donut. So please. PLEASE. Make me a good donut.

And then there's the issue of consistency. I would like to clarify for you that the reason I purchase food from you is that I assume you can make it better or faster than I can do myself. You're right on in the faster department. But better? That's a crap shoot. When I order a small, french vanilla iced coffee with extra cream and extra sugar, that's what I want. Every time. (Although total nix on that cream right now -dairy- but for future reference, this is important). So why is it that half the time, I get a cup of cream with an inch of grainy sugar at the bottom and a splash of coffee, and other times, I get a cup of ice with a shot of coffee and a hint of sugar, and other times I get an almost black cup of lukewarm but sweet coffee? I feel like I need to crawl through the drivethrough window and make the damn thing myself. I want consistency!

And lastly. This is a large bone to pick. Why, oh why, has my most local Dunkin' Donuts recently hired what I can only surmise to be one of the Singing Quiznos Rodents? With the scary teeth? Who has on two separate occasions responded to my attempts to order at the little microphone box with the rude prompt to "just drive up" and then berated me for having a car that makes a noise like "nails on a chalk board"???? Okay, Dunkin' Donuts. I get it. I don't drive a nice car. But I want my effing crappy donut and inconsistent coffee, okay? So shut up, quit whining about that noise (and NO, Quiznos creature, I don't know why my car makes that noise and I don't like it any better than you do) and give me my damn food.

And then there's Wendy's. Just who do you think you are, Dave Thomas? Don't think I haven't noticed that you've raised your prices. And that you no longer serve "Biggie" items. And that your value menu is crap. And no more Dr. Pepper? You're not that good. Especially without the Dr. Pepper. I'm shifting my loyalties.

To Dairy Queen. Ironic, because I am not allowed to eat dairy. But as soon as I can, Dairy Queen, I'm going to go visit and go buck wild on the real meat of your menu. Until then, however, I am totally tickled silly that you give me my food in a box. And that your burgers are so much more burger-y than everyone else's. And your fries, oh. Wow and yummyliciuos-ness.

So yeah. I have a fast food habit.

Naughty Mommy

I had a frappe.  A big, delicious, foamy vanilla frappe.

Rhys and Quin spent the next two days blowing chunks.  I would use the more refined term "spitting up," but that gives the impression of something almost delicate, and definitely watery.  The yellow curds and clumps that spurted from their poor little mouths were not delicate, nor were they watery.

Dairy allergy?  Confirmed.

Interesting, because I asked our doctor at the last visit if there was any test that could be performed to confirm such an allergy, and she said no.  Apparently what she meant is that there is no humane test.  But inhumane, weak-willed mother tests?  Totally exist.

It is my sincere hope that the memory of my sweet babes bathed in vomit will last me through the summer and its wistful ice cream season, and that this memory will dissuade me from another weak moment where I gorge myself on the evil delights of dairy.

I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I am supremely excited to say that I HAVE found some worthy alternatives to delicious food that I now cannot eat.  The most heavenly and amazing of these alternatives is Pure Decadence Coconut Milk Soy Free and Dairy Free Frozen Dessert.  Or, in more succinct terms, coconut milk ice cream.  Holy Wow.  I don't care if you're allowed all the ice cream you can stomach.  Try this stuff.  It is A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.  I would eat it even if I were allowed dairy.  It's that good.  And I am not a "substitutions" kinda girl.  Margarine?  Sucks (and, it just so happens, is not any healthier than butter.)  Sugar substitutes?  I spit on you.     Tofurky?  You're not fooling me.  Give me the damn bird.  But Pure Decadence?  Pure, and decadent.

In addition to my rapidly growing addiction to coconut milk ice cream, I've also managed to develop quite the palate for lactation cookies.  These call for butter, which I'm now substituting with coconut oil.  Coconuts kind of rock my world these days.  If you are a person who is currently lactating, thinking of lactating, or not lactating at all, I HIGHLY recommend these cookies.  They are delicious.  And kind of healthy.  And I ate 15 today.  Really.  Actually maybe more.

Because I know you're wondering, let me quench your thirst for more knowledge about these intriguing morsels:

Yes, they increase milk supply.

No, you will not develop breasts or miraculous lactation just by eating them.  Ask my husband.

If you're going to make them, and I highly suggest it, don't cook them for more than 8 minutes.  They should look kind of raw and puffy when they come out of the oven.  They'll set up.

I'm searching for a good closing line.  Maybe a little wisdom to impart.  But really?  I'm drinking a Guinness and thinking about food.  That's my wisdom for now.  Guinness and food.

And I should mention.  I'm writing this post in advance for future publishing.  So if it's time stamped something like 9AM, please try to convince yourself that I have not yet resorted to pouring Guinness on my morning granola.  Although I think that would be pretty heavenly.

A few follow ups to recent posts because you're obviously hanging on the edge of your seat in wonder.

I finished the jar of frosting I was working on, although it took me a little longer than expected. Incidentally, I still have three Cherry Dr. Pepper's in the fridge.

I ran my 5K. Neither of my breasts dislodged from their home on my chest, and nobody got me confused with Pam Anderson. I held a solid 12 minute mile for a total time of 35 minutes and 26 seconds. I scowled at all of the 90 year old ballerina gazelles who beat me. The beer was smooth, malty, and really everything I'd hoped for.

My house has moved up from dump status. I'd now probably classify it as a pig sty. I did, however, throw away the box of used wipes containing the dried poop particles, and that felt pretty uplifting. On the downside, there is a bag of rotting shrimp (raw, mind you) in my garbage. Does. Not. Smell. Good. Yet do you see me taking out the trash? Or writing a post?

I miss my TV. I totally miss it. And probably called that one a bit early, since it had been gone for about two seconds when I erringly bragged about being all wholesome and not missing it.

The babies are even more beautiful every single day.

                                           

What I Eat

I have this organic cotton tank top that’s screen printed with lovely purple vegetables and the words, “what I eat.” I wear it to channel that sexy-hippy-chic vibe.

Lately I’ve been considering creating an updated version of the shirt, or at least taking out a Sharpie and sketching in a few additional food items to more accurately reflect my breastfeeding diet. Because I’m really just a liar if I omit the fact that half-cooked brownies have become the staple of a food group I like to call “calories: get ‘em fast.”


Although I did not enjoy pregnancy, I am adoring my newly acquired role as a mother. Throughout my pregnancy, there were two aspects of motherhood that I particularly looked forward to: cloth diapers and breastfeeding. More about diapers later. When I was pregnant and would explain to people that I planned to breastfeed not one, but two babies, I got a lot of mixed reactions. Especially when I’d add in that I hoped to nurse the twins for about two years. Oh lord. One of THOSE.

I have to admit that I’m quite proud to be successfully breastfeeding twins. It was a rocky start trying to learn to breastfeed in the NICU. The doctors told me that I couldn’t make milk rich enough in calories to get the twins to grow. They tried to convince me to mix Enfamil formula with my breast milk and feed it to the babies from bottles once they were discharged from the hospital. I took a tip from the DARE program and ‘just said “no.” So it’s pretty amazing to consider that at ten weeks old, my little preemies are almost triple their birth weights.

Needless to say, I am a fan of boob-feeding. I won’t review all the benefits babies get from breastfeeding; but the benefits are wonderful and the main reason I was adamant about nursing. But I think that the benefits moms get from breastfeeding sometimes get left out. For instance, boobs are a nice little bonus. Large boobs have replaced my medium-sized pregnancy boobs, which replaced my small-sized regular boobs. I may become a wet nurse after the babies wean just to keep these puppies around.


So boobs are good. But they’re not nearly as great as food.

I can eat anything.


I’ve read that you need an extra 500 calories per day to nurse a baby. So I’m guessing that I need an extra 1000 to nurse two. But the reality is, no matter what I eat, I can’t seem to eat enough.

Here’s an example. A few nights ago I was cooking a healthy meal salad with chicken on top. After cooking the chicken, I removed the skin and set it aside to throw away. Mere seconds after doing so, I found myself innocently cutting carrots while absolutely devouring crispy, dripping, chicken skin. And not just a little taste. Every. Last. Piece. Ouch. And for those of you with relatively normal appetites who aren’t nursing two insatiable little babies, I totally groove with the fact that this is DISGUSTING. In fact, many items in the “calories: get ‘em fast” food group are fairly disgusting to the non-calorie deprived person.

Perhaps less disgusting but similarly disturbing is the maniacal way in which I consume sugar, which packs a nice calorie punch. I’ve taken to making batches of brownies from the box, and sprucing them up by dumping loads of caramel sundae sauce, chocolate sauce, and coconut on top before cooking. And I use the term “cooking” rather lightly. Because these days, I only allow my brownies to cook until the edges are firm, at which point I remove them from the oven to let the goopy middle “set.” Once set, I dive in. I can put away a batch of those bad boys in about a day.


And sometimes I just go straight to the source. I wish I was lying when I tell you that in the last two weeks, I’ve eaten three jars of caramel sauce straight from the jar with a spoon. I try to tell myself it’s like pudding, but I hardly even care because it’s just so damn good. I’ve been brushing my teeth a lot, lest they should realize what I am doing and just go ahead and rot and fall out as a good preventive measure.

Here's where it’s really amazing. Cellulite that I used to pretend didn’t exist seems to have taken a hint and hit the road. I once again fit into my skinny underwear - you know you have some - the ones that suddenly cut the circulation off at the thighs a little bit. Circulation is cut no more - not for this caramel swigging babe. I’m eating and eating, and I’m the amazing shrinking woman. With large-ish breasts, mind you.


I’m not sure I’d ever realized life could be this great. I eat naughty, naughty foods. I’m the skinniest I’ve been in years, with the biggest boobs of my life. I think they should make a breastfeeding commercial out of me. Because hey Enfamil. Does your formula do all that?