Full Hands

Every day some kind stranger holds a door open for me as I drive my boat of a double stroller through a heavy door (Whoever invented those little air locks for stores where you have to negotiate two sets of doors should have their foot run over with said stroller. Repeatedly.); they eye me and the two to four children with me and inevitably announce, “You sure must have your hands full!” It makes me want to stab them in the eye.

But before the eye stabbing comes the befuddlement. The stranger asks, “Oh, are they twins?” Why, oh why, on the face of the planet, would I have two identical babies in identical car seats, in a specially designed double stroller if they weren’t twins? Because I’m pretty sure it would be considered rude, I haven’t had the balls to stop and ask, “What other scenario would you propose?” I genuinely can’t think of one. Where would I get another baby? How would I manage to get an extra that looks EXACTLY like the first one? Under what circumstances would they have the same car seat? And how would they both look extremely related to my other children? Wouldn’t the most obvious solution be that they are in fact twins? As rare as twins might be to the average shopper, wouldn’t it be even more unusual for me to just be toting around an extra infant? Who does that?!

These thoughts whip through my mind every time. I wonder if this is the time that I’ll crack, and ask the stranger back, “What else would they be?” It’s coming one day. One day I’ll be more sleep deprived and drained than usual, and I will happily report back the fantasy created to explain the troubling presence of the second baby.

Then they tell me I have my hands full. I repress the full body scream and stabby feelings while I smile and say, “I sure do!” I generally try to keep moving at this point. People, especially older people, inevitably want to stop and admire the twins. I can understand the impulse. They are stunningly handsome, if I do say so myself. But I do not really want you touching my babies, no matter how many of them I have. I also do not really want to spend time telling you that they are in fact a handful and that yes, I am really busy. “Oh yes, big brother/sister is a great helper!” I report as I continue to edge away.

Just like people wrongly assume that a pregnant belly gives them license to say anything that pops into their heads, the presence of twin babies gives people the wrong impression that they can ask me whatever they like. People often ask their names (Why do you want to know, stalker?), how old they are (OK, that’s a pretty standard baby question.), were we surprised (The reason this irks me is too long for a parenthetical and probably requires its own blog post.), and do twins run in our family. Twins run on Josh’s side of the family, which has no bearing on my ability to ovulate more than one egg. Further, as identical twins are a random event with no genetic grounding yet identified by science, identicals don’t “run” in families. A-I do not wish to share my medical history with you, stranger. B-I do not wish to try and explain to you the difference between identical and fraternal twins. C-It’s none of your beeswax.

What these strangers don’t stop to think about is that every parent has their hands full. Parents with one child or seven have their hands full. It’s true that twins fill your hands in a different way, but even if I’d had four singletons, I would still be a very busy woman. I have three boys under three years old and a six year old with ADHD; life is busy. I spend all day asking and cajoling and ordering and separating short people and holding and shushing and nursing and laying babies down and changing diapers and doing all the things parents of small children do. This situation is not unique to me because I have twins. All mothers of small children feel the same way: like every day done with no major injuries to children or mother is an accomplishment.

So yes, I’m busy. Yes, my hands are ever so obviously full. I go to sleep more quickly and deeply than at any point previously in my life because I am exhausted at the end of each day. My life is so consumed with assuring the continued health and wellbeing of these tiny creatures that your classification of busy seems absurd to me.

More than that, when you announce, “You must have your hands full!” you say it in a way that smacks of a feeling of being put upon. You seem to say, subtly and sometimes not so subtly, that I am saddled with a hard road. It’s as if I am under some sort of punishment. Sometimes it’s as if you are smugly glad you’ve avoided whatever awful pitfall has landed me in this Hell I must live in (The pitfall is sex. And precociously dividing eggs.).

You, dear stranger, might mention to your partner that night, “I saw this poor woman with twins! And she had two other children!” Perhaps you mention how tired I looked, or how sweaty (Damn you, Alabama in August.), or how distracted. You might go on to say something like, “I can’t imagine it! Twins must be hard.”

You don’t get to take those twins home with you. You don’t see how they wave their arms and legs when I walk in the room, happy to see me and eager to be picked up. You don’t see the way they sometimes hold hands when they nurse together. You don’t get to hug two perfect tiny miracles. You also don’t get to cuddle the world’s cutest toddler boy. You don’t hear him encourage his younger brothers to talk, saying, “Ah-goo!” You don’t see how big sister watches over all three little brothers like a mother hen.  You don’t see the bigs gently rock the littles’ car seats to help settle them while I frantically try to pack the diaper bag.

My life is busy. My life is messy. But it is so incredibly beautiful. If you stop at thinking my hands are full, then you miss the fact that my heart is absolutely bursting. I constantly wonder how I could possibly be this lucky. I also constantly wonder how I will ever get the three boys to all nap at the same time. No one’s life is just one thing. No one’s journey can be defined by a trite phrase. If you want to tell me something, stranger, as you hold that door, wish me well and send me on my way. After all, I have my hands full.

Twinning

The twins seem to wake up just at the same time as J. This is also just about the same moment when Josh is heading out the door (H is already off on the bus), so most mornings are Mommy vs. All the Boys. As I shuttle twins between their room and mine, changing diapers and getting them ready for their breakfast, I can hear J start talking to himself and rolling around in his crib. J cannot be trusted to eat breakfast by himself, so he gets to wait in his crib while the twins eat. Thankfully, he’s kind of slow at waking up and rather likes having time to himself in his crib.

The twins are impatient, as all babes are, to get to breakfast, and waiting their turn while brother is getting changed or even latched, causes tears. I can’t tell you how many times the one is trying to latch himself on my boob or arm or stomach, while I’m getting the other latched. Once the three of us are settled, everything is fine. Tandem nursing has turned out to be much easier than I thought it would be. It helps tremendously that before the twins were born I’d already spent 3.5 years nursing babies. It also helped that I got a special twin nursing pillow (made by My Brest Friend). There’s room for both boys and generally I end up with at least one if not two hands free. This morning I got to spend their breakfast looking at wedding proofs of my sweet sister-in-law.

This is the giant pillow. (M on the right)

Inevitably at least one twin poops during breakfast. If the other doesn’t follow suit within moments, then he will in the middle of my breakfast later on. After nursing we do another round of diapering and set the twins up in their bouncy chairs in the kitchen. They tolerate those chairs infinitely better than either of our other two, who really didn’t like them. My life is made so much better by how incredibly laid back M and little J are. I can’t stress enough that my sanity is due more to their disposition than my parenting prowess.

While the twins chill in the kitchen, I head down the hall for the big boy. We cuddle and say good morning and change his diaper. Occasionally we even put his pajamas back on. J just learned how to take off his clothes. We are therefore going through an anti-clothing phase. (“At least it’s warmer weather,” she sighs to herself.) Then it’s time to get breakfast for J and myself. If I stay in eyesight then I can usually eat breakfast before the twins start freaking out. By the time we are both done eating, it’s usually been about an hour since the twins woke up, which means they start getting fussy. If I’m lucky, I can get the dishwasher emptied and the breakfast dishes put away before we start the nap dance.

Today Josh had a break in his schedule mid-morning and because the twins needed shots, we picked him up and headed to the clinic. It just so happened that this was during normal nap time. But it was that or no adult helper. Instead of waiting for nap time to shower, today I got to shower with one bouncy chair in the bathroom and the door open so the other twin, just outside the door, could also see in. It’s not my favorite, but my tender heart can’t take the dramatic increase in crying if I stuck them in their cribs, and I was too lazy to wake up early and shower before they woke up. I’ve trained J for years now to play in his crib during my shower, so he’s easy.

After my shower was another round of diapers, car seats, and coaxing J into clothing. It went well because his favorite color-changing Lightning McQueen shirt was clean. Everyone was loaded into the car and off we went to get Josh.

Shots went well; J also wanted to get shots, because somehow it seemed cool. He eventually settled for Cars stickers instead. We all headed out for lunch, where J refused to eat a single bite of the hamburger and fries he requested and both grown ups ended up holding babies while we ate. We dropped Daddy off, J asking, “Where Daddy go?!”  and headed home, praying that J wouldn’t fall asleep in the car and ruin the lengthy afternoon nap he usually takes. It’s never fun when he doesn’t nap. The twins did sleep because it’s impossible to keep them awake in the car at this point.

The nap dance began with carting all the boys upstairs because J decided walking was lame. I had to run back down and get J’s leftovers. When I came up J had one hand on each car seat handle and was rocking the twins and shushing them. Have I mentioned that he is the best big brother ever? My heart was appropriately melted. Then I had to harden it and leave the crying twins in their seats to take J back for his nap. He is the easiest child on the planet to put down, thankfully, so a few minutes later I came back out and decided that M was crying more, so he got picked up first. I changed everyone’s diaper, ferried them back to the bedroom, got us all situated, and within minutes they were asleep, happily nursing.

Now here is the thing about twins. I have long been a fan of nursing babies to sleep. It’s easy and kind of wonderful. When there are two of them and they’re up on this great, giant nursing pillow that looks vaguely like a pool inner tube on steroids, it’s nearly impossible for me of the short arms to keep them both asleep while I somehow unlatch them, put one down, pick up the other, remove the pillow, and transport him to his crib. Events were complicated today because little J pooped halfway through lunch. These boys do not like being poopy. If I didn’t change him, he wouldn’t stay asleep long.

So, I nursed them to sleep. They both woke up when I tried to put them down. I changed little J. I picked them both up, cause I’ve gotten good at that, and then paced the room, jiggled, and rocked them until I had them both asleep on me. It is incredibly sweet to have two babies asleep on you. It is also nearly impossible to put them down once you do. Only very rarely are they so tired that when I let one slip down into the nursery chair while I put down brother, the first doesn’t wake back up. This was not that day. So I put M down on the chair and little J in his crib. Then I picked M up and put him to sleep for the third time and finally into his crib.

I wandered out to the kitchen only to realize that in my haste to make it out the door this morning, I hadn’t actually cleaned up from breakfast. The oatmeal was on the counter, the dishes were on the table, and the dishwasher was full. Basically, I live right now in a state of perpetual motion, punctuated by enough moments of calm to keep my sanity. There are always dishes to put away, toys to pick up, diapers to sort, and babies to pick up. I can’t help but ending by sharing the well-known secret of how and why we do it. When those tiny men smile at me, I’d do anything in the world for them. And the same goes for the slightly bigger man and young lady down the hall.

One day things will slow down. The boys will be getting their own breakfast and certainly no longer handing out in the bathroom during my shower. And I try to remember that when I am about to lose it. This is my last time having babies. They’ll never be this small again. And every day will be easier than the day before.

Big Boy

I’ve discovered a special flavor of tenderness for this little man of mine—my rainbow baby, born after so much heartache. When this amazing little man came into my life and soothed all the raw places in my heart, I couldn’t help but have a little different attachment to him. I’m more protective of his babyhood. When you have your first, you’re so eager for them to grow. But this time, I just want him to stay small. And he refuses!

This is the child who wants to be big. He wants to sit in a big boy chair, drink his milk without a lid, and eat the exact same sandwich you are eating. He wants the toy that big sister wants; he would really like to ride her bike if only his legs would reach. He takes in everything, and conquers it.

He is also the child who greets me with an enthusiastic, “Mama!” every morning and any time I come home from running errands by myself. He literally runs into his Daddy’s arms every day, shouting, “Daddy!” with the biggest grin. So easy going, so happy; he makes life a joy.

He was my worry when I found out I was pregnant. H got 3½ years of my time all to herself. Poor J only gets 2 and a couple of months. He still wants to be held and soothed and rocked and cuddled. What will happen to him when both my arms are full of babies? Will he still know how very much I love him? I will have to make sure of it.

Of course, this little man also has a temper. He has a tendency to throw and hit—occasionally bite. We are learning all about gentle touches and inside voices. His vocabulary, so long limited to “Mama,” “Daddy,” and “There it is!” has begun to expand. Today his said shoes. This is big stuff.

I wondered to Josh the other night if I would feel this nostalgic for the twins or if I’d be so relieved at surviving that I’d just take a nap and call it good. I will probably be worse because they will be my last babies. And truthfully, it doesn’t matter which kid it is that is having a birthday, it reminds you of all the joy that child brings to your life (and frustration). This particular kiddo is just all the more special for being so desperately wanted and so beautifully starting to heal my heart.

Little J, I hope you always know how much I love you; how amazing your smile is; how capable I know you are; and that you can accomplish anything in this world. You will always be my little man, even when I have to look up at you.

Attention, Please

“H, sweetie. H? Look at me. Over here. I need you to put this book in your room and then get shoes on. OK?”

She looks at me and vaguely nods. I ask, “What did I just ask you to do?”

The vague look briefly intensifies and then turns to a look of anger/annoyance. I get something between a whine and a grunt.

“What did I ask you to do, please?” I repeat.

After one or two more exchanges of that sort, I finally get her to answer me in words. “I don’t remember,” she tells me, not looking at me.

And then we start again. It either ends in the book put away and the shoes on or it ends in a tantrum and some time out.

It was moments like that, plus a lot of other things that finally led us to take H to a developmental pediatrician right around her birthday this year. We’d begun to suspect that she had Inattentive ADHD, and it turns out that she does. I know those of you who know H are thinking, “No! She’s not hyperactive. She’s so sweet and quiet.” You’re right. She’s not hyperactive. It turns out there are two sub-types to ADHD: Hyperactive and Inattentive. She has the inattentive type.

Suddenly we had an explanation for her behavior. We knew why, at five, I still had to stand in her room and remind her of every item of clothing that needed to be put on—sometimes multiple times. We knew why she seemed to forget immediately the things we’d talk about. We knew why she was sometimes so rigid in her preference for routine—asking her to brush her teeth at the wrong time of the morning could spell disaster.

The news also brought me such mixed emotions. There was relief that we weren’t crazy; that something actually was going on. Relief too that I wasn’t just a bad parent who couldn’t teach her kid to be independent. But then there was the realization that this is a lifelong condition. There was the fear of the hurdles she’d have to overcome to be the independent, successful adult we want her to be. There was concern for how she’d manage in school, and whether this meant a lifetime of meds to improve her concentration.

It’s been a few months, and I still feel all of that. You can also add in the frustration I feel when I realize that her behavior is motivated by the ADHD, not her desire to drive me insane, yet there’s NOTHING I can do to change it. I suspect that this is kind of a new normal, which I hope will improve as she gets older and her understanding of her world and herself improves.

I recently read my awesome friend, S’s, blog. She’s a homeschooling mama and was talking about her struggle to reduce interruptions from her three boys as she tries to provide each one-on-one instruction during their school day. She talked to her oldest two about the issue, they brainstormed ideas, put them into action, and she saw progress immediately. The kids are doing great with it, and everyone is happier.

It was sort of like reading fiction for me. That would never happen in our house. I would take the same route to try and talk rationally, on her level, about the problem. She would tune out two minutes later and interrupt me to ask a complete non sequitor. I would try to redirect. The conversation would end with me realizing the entire content was completely lost on her. We’d try again later. I’d try to implement some simple strategies. If I managed to stay sane and incredibly consistent then we might see progress in two to four months.

I’m not kidding. I’m not exaggerating. She’s a smart kid. She’s a loving child. She just can’t concentrate long enough to listen and remember things most of the time.

What makes the entire situation more perverse is the fact that Josh and I are both extremely logical people. We are cause and effect people. We are problem solvers. We are practical. When H begins to sob uncontrollably in the middle of a project because she can’t open the lid to a jar, we are both baffled and bewildered. To us, this is no big deal. Try again. Ask a grown up. Problem solved. To her, it seems as though a dragon has appeared and inserted itself between her and all the happiness in the world. Getting her to “see reason” is so difficult. Even after we resolve the problem, you get the sense that she may not have learned the lesson you were hoping to teach.

The list goes on. Her ADHD touches all aspects of her life—intellectually, socially, and emotionally.

I’m hopefully not whining here or even really venting. My purpose today is just to be real and express my concerns. I’m also curious if anyone else has gone through this with a child. The further we travel this rabbit hole, the more likely it appears that we will at least need to try concentration meds. This is not something I am enthusiastic about. So far, removing gluten from her diet has improved her appetite (a huge win) and lessened her mood swings (also a huge win), but it has not addressed her main problem of inattention. We could try more extreme elimination diets, but I fear that we will start to see push back if we start taking away things she loves, like dairy. She’s five, and it’s really hard for her to understand the abstract interaction of food and behavior. On an everyday basis, we coach her as best we can on coping methods when she runs into a speed bump, but it can be hard to find the right language and approach that makes sense to her. It’s almost like she speaks a different language. We just don’t think the way she does, and I feel like that’s starting to show more and more.

At times, I feel so distressed and helpless. I keep hoping that as she gets older, she’ll understand more and things will just click. But I fear the reality is that as she gets older and life gets more complicated, the problem will only get worse as her meager coping skills become stretched to their limit. How do we help our kids when we don’t know what’s best for them? Meds can be a dangerous path. Side effects can be worse than the symptoms they alleviate. She may have to be on them for years, and we don’t really know the effect on a growing brain. But not giving drugs could carry a heavy price in terms of self-esteem and self-confidence with “untreated” ADHD. Does she really need them? Or is it just that I want an easy solution? And nowhere did anyone issue me that instruction manual kids were meant to come with.

The One Doing the Judging Is You

How often do we talk about the Mommy Wars? How often do we feel judged because we didn’t do something others did? Or did it too much? Or didn’t do it the same way? All the ways in which we feel judged have become exhausting.

This morning I read a new comment on a Facebook inquiry I’d posted to get some information on a new baby carrier. The people who had responded so far had been polite and helpful. The new comment blasted us for being judgmental of how other people use baby carriers. It was a “This makes me sick. Why can’t we all just get along?” sort of comment. The thing is, no one had said anything negative against other moms or even really against the carrier in question. We’d speculated on why the manufacturer made some changes, and someone who had tried the carrier commented that it wasn’t as comfortable as the old version.

I was honestly rather amused at this sudden “drama” over something pretty simple. It also gave me an A-ha moment. None of us had been intentionally judgmental, but this mom felt judged, not because of anything we said or did, but most likely because she was feeling insecure. The person who did the judging was her! She judged herself, using others as scapegoats.

Now, I don’t know this woman, and this post is not about her. It’s about all of us. We have all had these moments when we take innocent opinions or observations and turn them into judgments against ourselves. We put H into preschool pretty early, even though she was our only at the time. It was a decision we made for a lot of reasons, but most importantly, it worked for us. It made sense for our individual family. When we first moved here I ran into a lot of moms with kids H’s age, but many of those kids were younger siblings. These moms were at home with their youngest in a lot of these cases, and I heard a lot of talk saying, “I just can’t see sending Susie Q to preschool, because if I do, then why am I staying home?” or “I just really want another year at home with little Bertie before pre-K.” These are valid opinions. These women had different families from me. They were not super-subtle attempts to tell me that I was a lousy mother because not only was my three-year-old in preschool three full days a week, but she’d done two half-days the year before. Yet every once in a while, it did feel like judgment—because my decision was different from their decisions and because I was occasionally conflicted over my own decisions.

Some of the hottest topics that make moms feel most judged are the same ones that many of us can easily feel conflicted over: where we give birth, how we give birth, if we breast feed, how long we breast feed, if we work, if we stay home, etc. Every mother at some time has been carrying insecurities about her decisions on these topics. When she hears other moms expressing themselves on how they’ve done something and why, it can be easy to take the leap from intellectually understanding that the other moms are expressing opinions to emotionally responding to difference with defensiveness. From there it’s a tiny baby step to, “She’s judging me.”

There are of course times when people say mean things, on purpose, to judge and hurt others. That is clearly not ok, and hopefully we all avoid those people because they’re no good as friends. But the next time we read something on Facebook or a blog or hear something in person and we start to feel judged (or have someone accuse us of doing the judging), let’s all take a breath and a step back and ask ourselves, “How do I feel about this topic? Am I at peace with my decision? Does this person I’m in conversation with seem at peace?” If someone is not secure in themselves, then they’re going to be defensive, they’re going to lash out. It’s probably not personal. It’s a reaction we all have to protect our families.

The best thing we can do is to acknowledge the unrest in our own souls and grant grace to the unrest in others. We cannot grow, or get to that place of peace, while we hold on to our insecurities. Explore them. Ask questions. Discuss. You may learn something new that changes your mind or you may find that you are re-affirmed in your decision. Either way, choose discussion and fellowship—not judgment.