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When Mrs. C., one of our favorite preschool teachers, learned we were adding a third child to our family, she congratulated my husband and I with hugs. Then, she made an observation that made me do a double take.
“Three children is the perfect number of children,“ she said, you won’t have any room for perfection.”
As a highly regarded 16-year veteran of our school’s staff and the mother of five successful children, Mrs. C. seems to perceive the notion as highly problematic for everyone. Striving to be the best you can be is the right path, she argues, but perfection does not allow the natural failings that builds our negotiating and coping skills--keys to true lifelong success and happiness.
How I wish I’d had this sage wisdom when my twins were born.
At the time, I approached parenting with the philosophy that the harder you tried, the better things would turn out. Such an outlook served me well professionally but I learned quickly it was downright silly when it came to rearing babies and managing what evolved into a busy family life.
No matter how perfect I tried to be, I could not force my charges to conform. Oh, I tried--I even called in reinforcements--but in the end, I ended up exhausted and defeated--with unhappy babies.
Five years into my parenting experience, I know better. Thanks to trial-and-error, I’ve learned that being a Good Enough Parent is much more fulfilling--and much more fun--than being a Perfect Parent.
Here’s what I’ve learned in brief.
1. Sleep when the babies (and toddlers) sleep. If you’re exhausted, you’re no good to anyone.
2. Try breastfeeding, ask for help from a lactation consultant if you struggle, but don’t feel ashamed or even bummed out if it doesn’t work out with twins. Plenty of formula-fed people grow up to do amazing things.
3. Keep everyone on the same schedule. To do otherwise is to sacrifice your own sleep and, thus, your well-being. Again, you can’t help others if you are a mess.
4. Find a sleep book you like to offer strategies and stick to it for three months. Without a routine, your wakeful nights could continue for years.
5. Call all those people who offered to help you before the babies were born and give them specific tasks you’d like them to help you with, ie. “ironing,” or “cleaning out the fridge.” Don’t worry, in a few years you’ll be in the position to give back.
6. If you run out of people to call and still need aid, raid the savings to hire good help. Low-interest college loans are readily available in the future but you’ll never forgive yourself if you fail to enjoy your babies and young children due to complete exhaustion.
7. Fast food is no longer a sin and downright imperative if you want to eat more than PB&J during your first two (or three) years of twin parenthood. Try the Dinner Station which assembles homemade frozen entrees for you, the prepared aisle of the grocery store, or chains like Baja Fresh which go beyond burgers and fries.
8. Give up the spotless house--your kids won’t remember it anyhow. Instead, give yourself two twenty-minute windows of “house homework” per day. Work on hygiene--the bathrooms, the kitchen, the laundry. (If your mother-in-law is coming, spray some Lysol in the air just prior for that just-cleaned scent.)
9. Take the children out of the house once per day, even if you’re just going around the block in the buggy.
10. Call one girlfriend from your previous life every couple of days even if you can only talk for eight minutes. If you neglect them, you won’t have anyone to go to coffee with when the kids start preschool.
11. Make new momma friends at the public library, the park and the swimming pool. These women know exactly where you are in life and can offer strategies on how to make more of your mothering experience.
12. Invite your husband to join you in the bedroom for more than “Jeopardy.” He won’t mind your new cooking and housekeeping techniques if “dessert” is served regularly.
13. Find a reliable grown-up babysitter and teach her to put your kids to bed. This will free up your evenings throughout elementary school while ensuring your children get the rest they need.
14. Find three inexpensive tween babysitters who live nearby and can jog over at a moment’s notice to keep your kids busy while you take down the Christmas decorations, clean out the garage, bake a truffle. These girls will soon move on to boyfriends and play practice, so invest in several people.
15. Find a discipline strategy that is reasonable for both you and your spouse. Aim for consistency.
16. Remember that even if you have a bad afternoon--or day--you can start over the following day. Remind yourself that kids don’t remember much before the age of five.
17. Don’t stress over potty training. Few teenagers go to college in Pampers.
18. Don’t stress over pacifiers. Your twins might end up with horizontal teeth, but they’ll fall out eventually.
19. Do check out what appear to be developmental delays. Your pediatrician, day care provider and schoolteachers will be able to guide you to service providers who can offer more detailed assessments. Tackle any issues with super-human strength.
20. Take lots of photographs and keep a journal or calendar to load up with memories. The days--and years--blur together quickly.
21. Carve out family time and family rituals--even small things like lunchbox notes build lifelong relationships.
22. Make birthdays a huge deal. You don’t have to spend a lot of money to do this and your kids will long remember being cherished above all else.
23. Trust your instincts. You’re usually right.
24. Take your birth control pills unless you’re absolutely, positively ready to add another family member to your clan.
25. Savor the good times, learn from the bad and know that life only happens once.
END**
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Fries vs. Baked Potato
If Opal the Nurse were not working for my obstetrican in the suburbs of Dallas, she could easily be cast as a waitress in some tiny, deep-fried diner in Alabama.
“Oh, Honey!” she chortels, shaking a pencil from her blonde cotton candy hairdo, “You want a C-section or a VBAC, hmm?”
The tone is that of an expert who has served up a thousands of really tasty sliders with an array of potato sides that are always considered worthy. Whichever meal you choose will be just fine, don’t you know, but you go ahead and look over the menu just to make yourself feel like you’ve sat atop things for awhile.
I shuffled my paper gown and Opal pats my hand comfortingly without looking up from my chart.
The thing is, I really don’t know what to do about this whole birthing deal.
Last time around, I just wanted the babies out by any means necessary before I exploded. And in the end, my twins were still upside down and backwards at 34 weeks when, low and behold, my body decided it could take no more and went toxic. The resident OB took one look at my elephant-sized ankles, booked an surgery suite then scooped out William and Elizabeth in no time flat.
(My only actual birthing memory is limited to my telling “Sharon”--I couldn’t remember the doctor’s last name who was in the process of unzipping me--that I needed another hit of anesthesia. She must have complied, as I do recall the cold swoosh of a certain numbing medicine as it flowed into my veins.)
Anyhow, the birth sufficed. The babies were out and I was, thankfully, no longer pregnant.
But according to many of my gal pals, it really is a whole lot better to do it the way nature intended. Sure, there is some pain involved, they tell me, but in the end it is pretty quick to dissipate, the mother’s body heals in no time and you’re off to the breastfeeding races.
My girlfriend Anna makes it seem nearly romantic.
“And there I was,” she told me as I listened enraptured, “Emma just slide out as the elevator doors opened!”
Michelle talks about giving birth standing up then cleaning her closets two days later.
Dana reports feeling like a “lioness.”
Most importantly, they all add that their babies were born alert, peaceful.
So, I’ve gone ahead and found a “natural birthing center” that assures pregnant women that they’ll be taught to manage their own pain while in the company of caring professionals--and 22 relatives (or pets,) if they so please.
I don’t tell Opal any of this. My thought is that she’d probably endorse any of the pies in her store, but she’d think I was downright funny if I asked her about the sugar-free, vegan Jell-o.
Opal rounds out our time together with a dozen more questions then shoos me down to the lab for a blood draw.
I confidently sit down, roll up my sleeves and let the technician do her thing.
Only she can’t seem to quite close the deal.
There is much moaning on her part about my teensy veins and their tendancy to “roll.”
She pokes my right arm once.
Then twice.
Then three times.
She sighs and starts over on my left hand.
Suddenly, my vision goes blurry and I start sweating so profusely that I feel rivulets of salt racing down from my neck, my back, my knees. I am nauseated beyond belief.
I realize that I am not about to pass out--I am about to die!
Moreover, none of the five medial professionals in the room are getting out their paddles or oxygen masks.
Why, these uncaring droids! I think. I am having a medical emergency and noone is even paying attention to my plight!
“Huh,” says the nurse who is working my hand. “You’re looking a little pale…”
No, I think, I am walking towards the white light… This is it: The End.
I promptly begin the Lord’s Prayer.
Someone props and orange juice up in my free hand.
“Now, now, Dear, you’re going to be fine,” Nurse Can’t Finda Vein says.
I use every last ounce of strength to crack open one eyeball.
“Call,” I puff, “Opal. Decided on C-section.”
I’m sure she’d even bring me a side of coleslaw if I asked nicely.
“Oh, Honey!” she chortels, shaking a pencil from her blonde cotton candy hairdo, “You want a C-section or a VBAC, hmm?”
The tone is that of an expert who has served up a thousands of really tasty sliders with an array of potato sides that are always considered worthy. Whichever meal you choose will be just fine, don’t you know, but you go ahead and look over the menu just to make yourself feel like you’ve sat atop things for awhile.
I shuffled my paper gown and Opal pats my hand comfortingly without looking up from my chart.
The thing is, I really don’t know what to do about this whole birthing deal.
Last time around, I just wanted the babies out by any means necessary before I exploded. And in the end, my twins were still upside down and backwards at 34 weeks when, low and behold, my body decided it could take no more and went toxic. The resident OB took one look at my elephant-sized ankles, booked an surgery suite then scooped out William and Elizabeth in no time flat.
(My only actual birthing memory is limited to my telling “Sharon”--I couldn’t remember the doctor’s last name who was in the process of unzipping me--that I needed another hit of anesthesia. She must have complied, as I do recall the cold swoosh of a certain numbing medicine as it flowed into my veins.)
Anyhow, the birth sufficed. The babies were out and I was, thankfully, no longer pregnant.
But according to many of my gal pals, it really is a whole lot better to do it the way nature intended. Sure, there is some pain involved, they tell me, but in the end it is pretty quick to dissipate, the mother’s body heals in no time and you’re off to the breastfeeding races.
My girlfriend Anna makes it seem nearly romantic.
“And there I was,” she told me as I listened enraptured, “Emma just slide out as the elevator doors opened!”
Michelle talks about giving birth standing up then cleaning her closets two days later.
Dana reports feeling like a “lioness.”
Most importantly, they all add that their babies were born alert, peaceful.
So, I’ve gone ahead and found a “natural birthing center” that assures pregnant women that they’ll be taught to manage their own pain while in the company of caring professionals--and 22 relatives (or pets,) if they so please.
I don’t tell Opal any of this. My thought is that she’d probably endorse any of the pies in her store, but she’d think I was downright funny if I asked her about the sugar-free, vegan Jell-o.
Opal rounds out our time together with a dozen more questions then shoos me down to the lab for a blood draw.
I confidently sit down, roll up my sleeves and let the technician do her thing.
Only she can’t seem to quite close the deal.
There is much moaning on her part about my teensy veins and their tendancy to “roll.”
She pokes my right arm once.
Then twice.
Then three times.
She sighs and starts over on my left hand.
Suddenly, my vision goes blurry and I start sweating so profusely that I feel rivulets of salt racing down from my neck, my back, my knees. I am nauseated beyond belief.
I realize that I am not about to pass out--I am about to die!
Moreover, none of the five medial professionals in the room are getting out their paddles or oxygen masks.
Why, these uncaring droids! I think. I am having a medical emergency and noone is even paying attention to my plight!
“Huh,” says the nurse who is working my hand. “You’re looking a little pale…”
No, I think, I am walking towards the white light… This is it: The End.
I promptly begin the Lord’s Prayer.
Someone props and orange juice up in my free hand.
“Now, now, Dear, you’re going to be fine,” Nurse Can’t Finda Vein says.
I use every last ounce of strength to crack open one eyeball.
“Call,” I puff, “Opal. Decided on C-section.”
I’m sure she’d even bring me a side of coleslaw if I asked nicely.
Secrets
Men get to plan engagements but it’s we women that get to tell the greatest news of all.
And knowing this was likely the Last Gigantic Secret I’d ever tell, I decided at 4:21 a.m. on January 12 to carefully keep the news to myself until my husband came home from a prolonged business trip overseas. Like a hen tending her egg (pun intended), I would position myself carefully over my secret, hiding it beneath my feathers no matter if the rooster was gone for two months.
Of course, it was like sitting on a volcano.
Be proud of me, dear reader: In the end, I told my husband first…if you don’t count the many other friends and strangers that sort of knew ahead of time.
You see, I had to call my BFF but I didn’t so much as tell her as ask her to talk me down from the edge of a tall, scary bridge. In a matter of 30 minutes, she managed to find a forklift and eased me back into the river of life unharmed. If it hadn’t have been for Michelle, my twins would have been left with the responsibility of calling 911.
Then, my beloved sister-in-law called to wish me a happy birthday. And since she shares my husband’s DNA, this really means there are no secrets with her.
Next, I went on my morning power walk with my gal pal Anna--who clearly had to know my circumstance just in case I passed out at a crosswalk. (I do think I made it out of the parking lot, knowledge encased.)
That afternoon, I started panicking again and touched based with Dana in Wisconsin, my uber-wise granola-momma mentor who has three children and could explain to me the precise benefits of a larger family. Really, she’s more of a psychologist and we all that doctor-patient relationships are confidential.
Of course, I had to tell Aunt Cindy I had violated #20 on the Bridesmaid Checklist--the very one I had authored the previous week. I never even mentioned the “P” word but she knew darn well that #20 was “Thou shall not get pregnant and ruin the bridesmaid-to-groomsmen ratio.” (See previous blog post: “Cindy’s Wedding.”)
My former sorority sister Angie is a Sherlock-Holmes type who happened to be in the car with Aunt Cindy as they drove through a raging blizzard when I rang with news of the violation. Angie put two and two together on her own but I didn’t actually have a conversation with her, so she can’t be considered in the mix.
Of course, I had to e-mail Laura, another former sorority sister, when she e-mailed me the news of her own twin pregnancy. We all know that e-mail isn’t a real conversation.
I admit I might have let on to Stacey, my college roommate, but information shared with a girlfriend you’ve lived with for more than three years is like telling a sister and thus the rules of DNA apply.
Mind you, all of this non-telling happened over the course of eight day, which is really a pretty good secret-to-day ratio especially when you consider all the people I completely avoided telling when I heard from them.
This list includes:
My own parents, who I see nearly every day.
My lovely mother-in-law, who spent 45 minutes praising my parenting skills about 10 hours after I found out about The Secret.
Three of my fabulous preschool momma friends who chaperoned a roller skating play date, one of whom nearly got the news when we had a conversation about how “happy we are that we no longer have to carry all our baby gear around.”
W. & E.’s godmother Jessica, who is privy to every last one of my other secrets and called from Washington D.C. to catch up.
At least I didn’t have to worry about keeping mum around the passengers of Flight 1345 on Saturday, January 17.
The news was obvious to them: I stood at Terminal D24 at the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport clutching in my hand a 3-foot-tall balloon in the shape of a cartoon baby. Dozens of complete strangers walked by me and congratulated me.
Still, it took my own husband and entire escalator ride to get the picture.
He started at the balloon in a fugue of jetlag.
“What the?” he said. “Were they out of ‘Welcome Home’ balloons?”
Only then did I crack the secret of the egg.
And knowing this was likely the Last Gigantic Secret I’d ever tell, I decided at 4:21 a.m. on January 12 to carefully keep the news to myself until my husband came home from a prolonged business trip overseas. Like a hen tending her egg (pun intended), I would position myself carefully over my secret, hiding it beneath my feathers no matter if the rooster was gone for two months.
Of course, it was like sitting on a volcano.
Be proud of me, dear reader: In the end, I told my husband first…if you don’t count the many other friends and strangers that sort of knew ahead of time.
You see, I had to call my BFF but I didn’t so much as tell her as ask her to talk me down from the edge of a tall, scary bridge. In a matter of 30 minutes, she managed to find a forklift and eased me back into the river of life unharmed. If it hadn’t have been for Michelle, my twins would have been left with the responsibility of calling 911.
Then, my beloved sister-in-law called to wish me a happy birthday. And since she shares my husband’s DNA, this really means there are no secrets with her.
Next, I went on my morning power walk with my gal pal Anna--who clearly had to know my circumstance just in case I passed out at a crosswalk. (I do think I made it out of the parking lot, knowledge encased.)
That afternoon, I started panicking again and touched based with Dana in Wisconsin, my uber-wise granola-momma mentor who has three children and could explain to me the precise benefits of a larger family. Really, she’s more of a psychologist and we all that doctor-patient relationships are confidential.
Of course, I had to tell Aunt Cindy I had violated #20 on the Bridesmaid Checklist--the very one I had authored the previous week. I never even mentioned the “P” word but she knew darn well that #20 was “Thou shall not get pregnant and ruin the bridesmaid-to-groomsmen ratio.” (See previous blog post: “Cindy’s Wedding.”)
My former sorority sister Angie is a Sherlock-Holmes type who happened to be in the car with Aunt Cindy as they drove through a raging blizzard when I rang with news of the violation. Angie put two and two together on her own but I didn’t actually have a conversation with her, so she can’t be considered in the mix.
Of course, I had to e-mail Laura, another former sorority sister, when she e-mailed me the news of her own twin pregnancy. We all know that e-mail isn’t a real conversation.
I admit I might have let on to Stacey, my college roommate, but information shared with a girlfriend you’ve lived with for more than three years is like telling a sister and thus the rules of DNA apply.
Mind you, all of this non-telling happened over the course of eight day, which is really a pretty good secret-to-day ratio especially when you consider all the people I completely avoided telling when I heard from them.
This list includes:
My own parents, who I see nearly every day.
My lovely mother-in-law, who spent 45 minutes praising my parenting skills about 10 hours after I found out about The Secret.
Three of my fabulous preschool momma friends who chaperoned a roller skating play date, one of whom nearly got the news when we had a conversation about how “happy we are that we no longer have to carry all our baby gear around.”
W. & E.’s godmother Jessica, who is privy to every last one of my other secrets and called from Washington D.C. to catch up.
At least I didn’t have to worry about keeping mum around the passengers of Flight 1345 on Saturday, January 17.
The news was obvious to them: I stood at Terminal D24 at the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport clutching in my hand a 3-foot-tall balloon in the shape of a cartoon baby. Dozens of complete strangers walked by me and congratulated me.
Still, it took my own husband and entire escalator ride to get the picture.
He started at the balloon in a fugue of jetlag.
“What the?” he said. “Were they out of ‘Welcome Home’ balloons?”
Only then did I crack the secret of the egg.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
One For the Road
I took the test at 4:17 a.m., 14 hours and seventeen minutes after I’d turned 35, 21 hours after my husband had left for Korea on a business trip that did not include a determined return date.
I took it knowing my four-year-old twins would be up in 90 minutes looking for someone stable to make them breakfast.
I took it following my first foray back into a complicated reporting project that demanded my every attention to detail.
I took it believing that my reproductive system was eternally jinxed, as discussed by various highly paid medical practitioners working at nationally known clinics.
I took it after assuring my parents only the previous night that “We are done…we can not handle any more.”
There I sat on the potty listening to the January wind roar, my polka-dot jammies pooled around my ankles squinting with my now-middle-aged eyes at two lines on a white plastic stick.
Huh.
I fished around inside the trash can and pulled out the instructions.
Pregnanto.
Clearly, I should have paid better attention to my professor in my college Spanish course.
I turned over the directions and looked at the diagram.
Pregnant.
Huh.
Huh?
Huh!
There was a glorious, blue streak of pure joy—after all, we had figured that if nature ever cooperated, we would gladly accommodate.
Then, a prayer of thanks to the Lord above and a request for good health all around.
I might have cried.
I can’t remember.
Next, came this tumble of thoughts:
• Oh, shit!
• Shitshitshitshitshitshit!
• I’m going to start puking any minute and I still have the Christmas decorations up. I wonder if I could strap a bucket around my neck to keep the carpet clean while I strip the living room tree of ornaments?
• I’m going to have to explain to the twins how the egg actually meets the spe rm. Elizabeth is going to ask questions. She’s going to demand diagrams.
• Let’s see, if I conceived in December, this baby won’t be due until the fall, which means I won’t have to worry about academic red-shirting come, what, 2012?
• I am going to be really, really old by 2012.
• Did Brenda already sell those really cute designer maternity jeans of hers at the last twin club consignment sale?
• Maybe I can wait to tell Jim after the next Mastercard flips. Would that be unethical?
• Speaking of ethics, would it be unethical of me to call my BFF first for moral support, especially given that my husband is several time zones (and one day) ahead of me? Technically, Jim and Michelle would be hearing the news on the same day…
• When did I take all that Mucinex for my allergies?
• When did I drink all that wine with my girlfriends?
• Just how much Diet Coke did I consume in the past four weeks?
• We’re going to have to put up a fence around the pool.
• I like the name Charlotte. And Caroline. And Henry.
• I will seriously die if triplets are involved.
• Does one save a urine-soaked pregnancy test as a memento?
I pitched the test, pulled up my jammies, turned off the light and slipped back into my now-cold bed.
A new life had begun—it was going to require I rest up.
I took it knowing my four-year-old twins would be up in 90 minutes looking for someone stable to make them breakfast.
I took it following my first foray back into a complicated reporting project that demanded my every attention to detail.
I took it believing that my reproductive system was eternally jinxed, as discussed by various highly paid medical practitioners working at nationally known clinics.
I took it after assuring my parents only the previous night that “We are done…we can not handle any more.”
There I sat on the potty listening to the January wind roar, my polka-dot jammies pooled around my ankles squinting with my now-middle-aged eyes at two lines on a white plastic stick.
Huh.
I fished around inside the trash can and pulled out the instructions.
Pregnanto.
Clearly, I should have paid better attention to my professor in my college Spanish course.
I turned over the directions and looked at the diagram.
Pregnant.
Huh.
Huh?
Huh!
There was a glorious, blue streak of pure joy—after all, we had figured that if nature ever cooperated, we would gladly accommodate.
Then, a prayer of thanks to the Lord above and a request for good health all around.
I might have cried.
I can’t remember.
Next, came this tumble of thoughts:
• Oh, shit!
• Shitshitshitshitshitshit!
• I’m going to start puking any minute and I still have the Christmas decorations up. I wonder if I could strap a bucket around my neck to keep the carpet clean while I strip the living room tree of ornaments?
• I’m going to have to explain to the twins how the egg actually meets the spe rm. Elizabeth is going to ask questions. She’s going to demand diagrams.
• Let’s see, if I conceived in December, this baby won’t be due until the fall, which means I won’t have to worry about academic red-shirting come, what, 2012?
• I am going to be really, really old by 2012.
• Did Brenda already sell those really cute designer maternity jeans of hers at the last twin club consignment sale?
• Maybe I can wait to tell Jim after the next Mastercard flips. Would that be unethical?
• Speaking of ethics, would it be unethical of me to call my BFF first for moral support, especially given that my husband is several time zones (and one day) ahead of me? Technically, Jim and Michelle would be hearing the news on the same day…
• When did I take all that Mucinex for my allergies?
• When did I drink all that wine with my girlfriends?
• Just how much Diet Coke did I consume in the past four weeks?
• We’re going to have to put up a fence around the pool.
• I like the name Charlotte. And Caroline. And Henry.
• I will seriously die if triplets are involved.
• Does one save a urine-soaked pregnancy test as a memento?
I pitched the test, pulled up my jammies, turned off the light and slipped back into my now-cold bed.
A new life had begun—it was going to require I rest up.
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