Two for the Price of One: My Take on Twins

6 Replies

Never in my life had I ever imagined having twins. Or any multiple birth combination for that matter.

Apparently, this is unusual, as evidenced by the fact that every pregnant woman I’ve spoken with seems to have given some thought to the matter. All have mentioned something about either worrying that they might have twins or wishing that it would be so. But for some reason, the possibility just didn’t occur to me.

We didn’t investigate fertility treatments for either of my pregnancies and twins don’t run in our families (unless you include some older southerners who had kid counts in the double digits—which I don’t). And once I actually became a mother, I felt pretty strongly that having multiple newborns in the house was an unappealing concept at best. In fact, I have a clear memory of holding a screaming two-month-old Oliver after a night of much pacing and little sleep, looking at my husband and saying, “I don’t know how people survive twins…I couldn’t do it!”

Eighteen months after giving birth to my eldest, we welcomed two more screaming non-sleepers into our family: George and Eleanor. And I have to say—they are absolutely one of the best things that I never wanted to happen to me.

I’m not going to lie; newborn twins are hard work…. But I had already walked the gauntlet of first baby midnight (and 2:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m…) feedings. I had delivered a nine-pound boy with a huge head and lasted a week before realizing that no, the pain I was experiencing was not normal, and YES, I really did need something more than an ice pack to deal with it. I tried to nurse and learned that my body doesn’t produce enough milk for one, let alone two babies. I discovered that I suffer from postpartum depression. And, after a year of living on just a few hours of sleep per night, I had the amazing revelation that yes, Virginia, there is an end to that tunnel of madness. A light, even!

So when I had to relive it all again—in a double dose to boot—it wasn’t nearly as draining the second time around. I knew what to expect and how to cope. I was even trained to function well no matter how exhausted I might be. My normal sleep patterns had been held hostage for so long that I didn’t remember what it was like to wake up to anything other than a direct summons from a tiny dictator. It just didn’t seem like a big deal to me with the twins. It was what it was, and I had somewhat of a map for the road ahead.

Which is why I was a little surprised by how impressed people were with my ability to take care of infant twins. I thought my first baby experience was much more of an emotional roller coaster. The twins provided some logistical complications, but I think the culture shock of inviting one baby into my home for the first time was just as difficult a lifestyle transition as it would have been to take on two.

The logistics of simultaneous infant care can’t be dismissed entirely though…. Having done it once for one baby, I obviously saw how much more complicated it was with two. For example: People often tell mothers of newborns to “sleep when the baby sleeps.” After George and Eleanor were born, my response to this was, “Which one?!” They rarely napped at the same time.

They definitely didn’t snooze while waiting their turn for the bath. During my maternity leave, I conducted this daily event in the morning while Oliver was at daycare. Chris was at work so I didn’t have an extra set of hands to cuddle one baby while the other was being washed. Without fail, the one not in the bath would scream his or her head off, not the most soothing of soundtracks. And inevitably, whichever twin I selected to bathe first would poop in the tub, adding several minutes of scouring and refilling to the process.

The weekly visits to our pediatrician were completely unexpected. The twins were smaller than their older brother was, born three weeks early to his one week late. And they always seemed to have some issue that required a prescription. If it wasn’t reflux, it was eczema. This was new to me—my chubby firstborn was the picture of health. He was taken to the doctor for well checks and inoculations only. And don’t get me started on two babies getting jabbed with needles. Double the fun indeed!

Then there were those days that Oliver was added to the mix due to some inconvenient daycare no-no like a fever or pink eye. Try putting a sick eighteen-month old down for a nap while two hungry newborns are wailing on another floor.

Good times.

Night feedings really weren’t that hard once I figured out how to feed two babies at once. But that particular honeymoon ended when I decided it was time to stop waking up the sleeping twin when the other cried for a bottle. An obvious requirement in training a baby to sleep through the night is to NOT wake them up. So when one twin woke up, I’d let the other sleep. And the sleeping baby would of course decide to be hungry the very second that I started to fall asleep again.

Luckily, Oliver was such a stinky sleeper for the first year that the twins’ move into a fairly normal, though staggered, one to two feedings per night schedule mirrored his previous tendency to wake me up at least three to four times.

Isn’t it funny how much energy is focused on sleep during the first year of a child’s life? Their sleep…our sleep…if any of us will ever sleep again…why does HE always sleep through the crying…? Epilogue: I still get up at least once a night to soothe a crying child or move an interloper back into their own bed. My new goal is to sleep though the night when they’re tweens.

Back to twins though…yeah – they’re twice as much work in some respects. But when it comes to having your first baby (or babies), it’s hard to compare experiences. Each is different and full of varying challenges. And at the end of the day, there are too many personal and situational factors involved to say who has the easier time of it. It’s ALL hard.

No matter how many babies are in your house, you only know your own. The fact that other people out there might have more babies than you do doesn’t change your own feelings or perceptions. And I would say as much to new mothers who went wide eyed at the sight of two tiny babies in my double stroller.

This is also the reason why I was somewhat taken aback by certain twin moms’ superior attitude and condescending comments about how much harder it was to take care of two babies. That’s not necessarily true. And there are some definite perks that give mothers of multiples an advantage.

A woman who has a two year old, a four year old and a six year old might be dealing with two separate school drop offs with a toddler in tow. I would put Oliver on the bus and then drop the other two off at their preschool.

A woman with one three year old has to act as her child’s friend and companion when no other kids are around. But I could glance at my twins and without a trace of guilt say, “I’m making your dinner, go play!”

And seriously—anyone out there who thinks that they’ve cornered the market on parenting challenges with twins really needs to meet some of the special needs moms I know. Or the ones with TRIPLETS!

There is always a trump card out there. And being well aware of that, I tend to get over myself pretty quickly on a bad day.

I’ve often thought that whatever you get generally ends up being perfect for you. If nothing else, because it’s all you know. And here is what I know about my own twins:

I have two amazing little people in my house to provide friendship, companionship and typical behavior modeling for my other (and equally amazing) son with learning delays.

I have a little boy who makes me laugh more than any other person in the world. One who can do anything he sets his mind to; who charms everyone he meets, and assumes that he’s welcome wherever he wants to go. There isn’t anyone like him. He is literally unforgettable. He makes me want to dare myself to be more—to be brave and bold.

I have a little girl who dances through life with a joy and enthusiasm that I couldn’t muster on my happiest of days. She is a beam of sunshine in our family. She loves with abandon and will conclude her worst tantrums with hugs and earnest apologies. She makes me want to take myself less seriously, to open my heart more readily.

I have the honor of being their mother. All three of them. And I think that’s what all mothers have in common: this gift of raising unique individuals who teach us who we are and who we want to be. They bring out our best and our worst and if we’re smart, we pay attention.

I am proud to be a mother of twins. Not because I figured out how to change two diapers at the same time in a public bathroom. But because they’re mine. Just like their brother is mine. Just like all children belong to their mothers. Two babies…one baby…five babies…they all belong to us. Just as we so unquestionably belong to them.

Originally posted on Health News, HERE.

Lake…Big Lake.

13 Replies

Are we still quoting from Sixteen Candles? I guess I still do…

And whenever I think about lakes I think about the Donger. As I did just now since I’m about to post a ton of pictures from our trip to Catoctin Lake on Sunday.

It’s been so hot in the DC area lately that Chris suggested we head for the mountains, and hopefully cooler temperatures. Instead of baking at our community pool, we could take a picnic to a nearby lake.

This particular lake was about an hour and a half away – a drive that wasn’t too painful, but long enough to require a little planning. And by planning, I mean that Chris did research and then Sunday morning, I asked him, “are we still going to that lake?” Then ensued a confused flurry of towels and bathing suits, followed by a stop at the closest grocery store where Chris ran in to pick up our picnic lunch. And by picnic lunch, I mean two pieces of fried chicken that only he and Eleanor would touch, a box of butter crackers and a can of spray cheese.

Luckily, it my “cheat day” for the low carb diet I’ve been doing and I had already consumed a hearty breakfast.

Then we were off to the lake!

Now, when Chris had proposed this trip, I – with my lack of lake experience – had pictured a quiet spot reached via brambly path. So I was more than a little surprised by the packed parking lot and crowded beach.

There were even lifeguards!

Not exactly “oh the humanity!” – but not far from it…

It was really pretty though if you looked at the view above the heads of the crowd.

I also liked all of bright umbrellas against the dark green foliage.

More importantly – the kids LOVED it!

Chris and I didn’t really swim since we had to keep an eye on the kids (of course that’s why!). So my pictures of him were more like this:

And (unprecedented!) he actually took some pictures of me. This was the only one that turned out though…

You see, there is a reason that I am the official family photographer. It’s just not Chris’ forte. He doesn’t have a lot of patience for setting up a shot and his sense of composition isn’t the best.

Here is a perfect example:

Seems like it would be a fine picture, but I’m turned at a strange – and entirely unflattering – angle. And check out my siamese twin!

But hey – good intentions and all that…

After we (meaning the parents) had enough of the lake, we took a short (and daughter-who-needs-to-rest-every-ten-paces friendly) hike.

And then my camera battery died. But you know – if you’ve seen one tree or rock formation, you’ve seen them all.

And NOW I have to get the kids out of the house since they are literally ripping it apart as I type. Think it’s time for the pool. Which is quite honestly more my speed. It’s walkable, the water is fish-free and I’m the one packing snacks.

Hope you’re staying cool!

Back from the Beach

18 Replies

We got back from California late Saturday night and I feel like I’m still recovering. Words aren’t happening for me…so here are some pictures:

Taking approximately one million pictures on vacation helped to ease some of my anxiety over losing six months of pictures the other week. There is still a chance that the data could be retrieved (my friend hasn’t had a chance to look at my computer yet), but I’m not holding my breath.

And now I need to catch up on a week of e-mail correspondence and read a thousand blog posts. See you when I come up for air!

I Didn’t Know

Leave a reply

I have three children and my oldest, Oliver is six. He is a big boy—tall and strong—and all boy. He climbs trees and hurtles into swimming pools. He loves nothing better than a good patch of dirt. We jokingly call him Pig Pen since he will often return from such a spot, haloed in dust, his clothes emitting puffs of dirt with each step. Ice cream cones are a full body experience. Napkins are a joke. This degree of messiness requires a washcloth at minimum. His requests to “come look at this,” often involve a worm.

These are some of the qualities and quirks that come to mind when I think of Oliver. They are so defining. And they are almost all related to sensory integration disorder. Which includes auditory processing disorder…which translates into significant language and communication delays. It also affects his motor planning. My amazing son who can walk a balance beam like a gymnast, who taught himself to swim, who can carry a full basket of folded laundry up the stairs…can’t hit a tennis ball. He can’t follow simple directions to touch his left hand to his right ear and his right hand to his left ear. He can’t process that kind of information—hear it, understand it, do it. It gets scrambled. For all of his strength, coordination and love of physical activities, he can’t play sports. Or even tag.

This can change—but it will take time. And hard work. And money. And a label recognized by the public school system.

It’s both encouraging and daunting.

Having a special needs child is not something I ever thought about when I was pregnant with Oliver. Everyone knows that it’s possible, but I think we tend to see that possibility the same way we do car accidents and winning lottery tickets. We know it could happen, but we don’t expect it to happen to us.

And many of us don’t even know that it’s happened to us until our children are long past the early months of worry. The more serious worries over SIDS and their “ability to thrive,” and the less serious (but all consuming) concern about sleep schedules. Oliver was two when we discovered his delays.

He was absolutely perfect when he was born. Arriving one week late and HUGE, he was 9 pounds and the most beautiful baby I had ever seen (of course!). I’ll admit that my first impression was more along the lines of “red and squashy” but after a few hours, his looks made a dramatic improvement.

He was a stinky sleeper, but I got used to that. We had two years of healthy well checks at the pediatrician. He rolled over and smiled when he was supposed to. He was walking shortly after his first birthday and loved to be with people. He would walk into any party and make himself at home. He was the baby that you could hand off to anyone—no separation anxiety or shyness. In our innocence/ignorance, we actually said that it looked like we didn’t have to worry about autism.

How could I have known that in a couple of years, he would be diagnosed with PDD/NOS—the catch-all category of the autism spectrum. My friend Sarah defines this as “we don’t really know what is wrong with your child – but there is something wrong with him…”

I didn’t know that I would have an autistic son—or a son with sensory integration disorder or auditory processing disorder…. The labels don’t matter. They all equate to the same things: fear, worry, money, meetings, appointments, guilt, and heart-wrenching hope. I didn’t know that this would be the rhythm of my day—the back beat of my heartbeat.

But I also didn’t know that I would have a son who reads my emotions better than any other person in the world. He will come to me when I’m feeling low but looking as if I haven’t a care in the world, “Mommy, are you crying? Not crying?” He understands and can see “crying on the inside.” Most emotionally evolved grownups don’t see that.

I didn’t know that I would have a son who would teach me to be a much better person. To be more patient, tolerant and compassionate. He’s taught me not to judge until I have the full story. And to not even judge after that. I’ve learned that there is never just one right answer. And that sometimes there isn’t any answer at all. That we all do our best and sometimes that has to be good enough.

I didn’t know that I could admire one of my own children so much. And try to emulate him. Oliver’s first teacher once said to me, “life is very hard for Oliver.” And it was meant to be taken at face value—life really is hard for him. Things that come easily to others—asking for something, joining a game, understanding directions—are difficult for him.

Oliver navigates the world with an upside down map. He never speaks the local dialect. And in effect, he’s learned to work hard, be his own man and give others space to have their own differences. I think we could all try to be a little bit more like Oliver.

I would be lying if I said I never experienced moments of frustration or self-pity. Don’t we all? At the end of the day though, I consider myself to be very lucky to have three beautiful, happy, healthy children. They are all full of potential—yes, even Oliver. And as much as I hope, wish and pray for them, I don’t know what their futures hold. Motherhood doesn’t come with a crystal ball. We don’t even get a compass.

But there is something to be said for this lack of certainty. Not knowing allows us to dream. And that is what keeps us going when times are tough. For every bad day, there is the possibility of a miracle on the horizon…or at least some good days. And the best we can do is learn more about ourselves and each other in between them.

I once said that I didn’t think I could be a good mother to a special needs child. That it would be too hard for me.

I didn’t know.
That I was wrong.
Originally posted on Health News, HERE.

The Good News and the Bad News (New Writing Opportunity and BlogHer 2011 VOTY)

10 Replies

First, the good!

I’m going to write regularly (twice a month) for a new website, HealthNews. And no – I don’t have any knowledge of or experience in the health industry. Unless you count two maternity ward stays and a hernia repair surgery in the hospital. I haven’t confirmed this, but I actually don’t think that counts… There is a blogger community growing there though – people who write about all things parenting. And I DO have knowledge of and experience in that!

I’m honored to be part of this, and just posted my first article: I Didn’t Know.

Here is the beginning:

I have three children and my oldest, Oliver is six. He is a big boy – tall and strong – and all boy. He climbs trees and hurtles into swimming pools. He loves nothing better than a good patch of dirt. We jokingly call him Pig Pen since he will often return from such a spot, haloed in dust – his clothes emitting puffs of dirt with each step. Ice cream cones are a full body experience. Napkins are a joke. This degree of messiness requires a wash cloth at minimum. His requests to “come look at this,” often involve a worm.

These are some of the qualities and quirks that come to mind when I think of Oliver. They are so defining. And they are almost all related to sensory integration disorder. Which includes auditory processing disorder…which translates into significant language and communication delays. It also affects his motor planning. My amazing son who can walk a balance beam like a gymnast – who taught himself to swim – who can carry a full basket of folded laundry up the stairs…can’t hit a tennis ball. He can’t follow simple directions to touch his left hand to his right ear and his right hand to his left ear. He can’t process that kind of information – hear it, understand it, do it. It gets scrambled. For all of his strength, coordination and love of physical activities – he can’t play sports. Or even tag.

This can change – but it will take time. And hard work. And money. And a label recognized by the public school system.

It’s both encouraging and daunting.

Having a special needs child is not something I ever thought about when I was pregnant with Oliver. Everyone knows that it’s possible, but I think we tend to see that possibility the same way we do car accidents and winning lottery tickets. We know it could happen, but we don’t expect it to happen to us.

And many of us don’t even know that it’s happened to us until our children are long past the early months of worry. The more serious worries over SIDS and their “ability to thrive,” and the less serious (but all consuming) concern about sleep schedules. Oliver was two when we discovered his delays.

Click here to read the rest…

So that’s exciting…

In other news – meaning “the bad” – I got my “thanks for submitting, but…” email from BlogHer for this year’s Voices of the Year today.

And just like most others in the same boat, I find it more disappointing than surprising (if that makes sense). And a small disappointment at that since I saw submitting my work more as an act of self validation than a request for recognition.

You see – I’ve already thought it through. Last year in fact. And I wrote about it then. I’d like to repost (most of) that here so anyone feeling rejected or slighted (or generally shitty about things) might drop by and feel validated by me. For having the courage to put yourself out there. To think you’re worth recognition, and to let others know about it.

Anyway – here it is for what it’s worth:

BlogHer Voices of The Year Were Announced Today! My Reaction: The Good the Bad and the (Sad But True) Ugly

First the good!

When I glanced through the list of finalists this morning, I was thrilled to see that some of my very favorite bloggers (and even friends) will actually present in a couple of weeks at 2010 BlogHer Voices of the Year. I can honestly say that I’ve read pretty much every post from some of these writers (I mean – since I’ve been blogging…their pre-2008 material is before my time), and to think that they have been honored for words that made me laugh and/or cry makes me feel part of something bigger than my own little piece of Internet real estate.

So the very first thing I want to do is congratulate…

[blah blah blah – love her – link – blah blah blah – love her – link…]

I can’t wait to hear them read their words on stage AND to see the art that will be auctioned off reflecting each piece.

[blah blah – friend contributing her photography for the auction – link – blah blah… seriously – I am congratulating my ass off here…]

But what about the bad? What could be bad about that?

Well – here’s the bad.

One of MY nominations that I was so confident would be in the top 15 didn’t get picked. But it’s not all bad…

[blah blah – that friend and some others WERE actually in the top 75 and would be recognized at the reception – blah blah – GO TEAM!]

So yeah – many wonderful blog friends have been recognized in one way or another. I’m really happy for them – and can’t wait to tell them so in person.

But.

There’s the ugly…

I’m sorry – but I’m trying to keep it real here because…well no reason really – I just feel like it today. And lucky you – you get to hear about it!

Before I get into the muck and grime, I’ll start with a little tale about a three year old angel of a girl named Eleanor. Eleanor is a delight. She’s lovely and full of fun (and – cough, cough – my daughter) – and she is at a very impressionable age.

The other week, we were in California on vacation with my in laws who had a fantastic time being a very bad influence on my children. Late night baseball game outings…unlimited snack food that they never get at home…special presents just because they want them… You know – grandparent stuff. And one evening my sweet little girl was lucky enough to have their undivided attention. They played a kids’ bingo game with the odds drastically stacked in Eleanor’s favor.

And then the sh*t talking started.

Mama Sue: Eleanor – we’re not going to let Papa win! YOU’RE going to win.

Eleanor (very much liking this line of thought): Yeah! YOU’RE not going to win Papa. I’M going to win. You CAN’T win!

And so on and so on and so on [insert uproarious indulgent grandparental laughter here].

SO CUTE, right?

I actually thanked them at the time for my own future hell to come when faced with the next preschool gaming situation.

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and we are playing another bingo game at home (what is it with us bingo anyway? We may as well hustle on over to the community center for seniors’ night out this Friday…) Anyway – we were playing a very fair game that included Eleanor, a semi-involved George and a completely disinterested Oliver. Eleanor immediately started in with her “I’m gonna win” talk, even though her brothers couldn’t have cared less. Since no one was getting special treatment, George (who may have been in the kitchen looking for snacks at the time) won.

Chris said, “Hey look! George is the winner!” And…Eleanor fell to pieces. She really believed that she would always win. No one ever talked to her about the reality of losing. So after some piercing glares and and semi-subtle head tilting from me, Chris took Eleanor aside to talk about what it means to lose.

And as I listened, it occurred to me that the bottom line is the same for everyone regardless of age. If you lose – you have to keep trying. Don’t get mad – just try again. It’s not anyone’s favorite answer. In fact, it’s tedious at best…but it’s very simply true. You really can’t win them all. In fact you might lose them all – but you have to try to have a chance.

SO that brings me to the ugly involved in this year’s BlogHer Voices of the Year selections. As much as we are over the moon excited for the winners – it’s unavoidable that some others were very disappointed.

Because you know what? I’m one of them. And I’m hideously embarrassed to admit that.

When a good friend asked if I’d like her to submit anything for me, I honestly hadn’t considered even trying. I mean, I like what I write, and my small circle of friends and readers give me positive feedback – but I’ve never been the one picked out of the crowd. Always a bridesmaid and never a bride and all that… And really that’s been kind of fine with me because I’ve always felt far more comfortable in the faded perimeter of the spotlight.

But just the idea of submitting something of mine gave birth to “what if.” And that is a very powerful concept. So for once I was bold and asked for recognition. I forwarded two links to posts that mean a lot to me – ones that fill me with emotion when I read them – and said “send them in.” Doesn’t sound like much – but it’s a BIG deal for a mild mannered girl such as myself.

Then time passed and my “what if” was put into the proper perspective. It was a “wouldn’t that be nice – but it’s highly unlikely” (the overcompensating, insecure hope of “what if”).

Most of the time, I really didn’t consider it, but every once in a while something would be mentioned about Voices of the Year, and I’d notice that pretty little “what if” sparkling on my right hand ring finger. I’d taken it for granted, but was happy to admire it now and again.

At some point last week, I read that the 75 finalists as well as the 15 winners would be announced today. And I did something previously unthinkable.

I hoped.

I dreamed.

I even planned.

Why not? I typically live so small – what would it hurt to think big for a little while. Even knowing that disappointment was probable, couldn’t I weigh the universe in my favor with my longing? The Secret said it totally works! Ah well…I think we all let our imaginations get the best of us sometimes.

Last night when I was talking to Chris about BlogHer and the agenda (he’s in the conference planning world, so he’s actually interested), I explained how the Voices of the Year session was planned. I mentioned that I had a couple of posts submitted, “but – they’re two out of a thousand – so you know…”

His reaction was a little more positive though. He said “why not you?”

And that small part of me that wants to be bigger than I really am thought, “that’s right! Why NOT me?” So for one whole night I believed in myself. Not just “what if” – but “why not?”

Well – I don’t need to give too much detail on the obvious outcome. Even if you’re not familiar with the list of finalists, you can pretty much guess that I wasn’t one of them.

And I was disappointed. Not so much that I wasn’t one of the top 15 (remember – I like the peripheral area of the spotlight), but more so because the words that once poured directly out of my heart weren’t even an almost.

It’s not pretty – but it’s the truth. And we’ve all experienced this at some point in our lives, so I’m not afraid to put it out there. I would be very surprised if there was anyone who couldn’t relate to this on some level.

But you know what? I don’t think disappointment or jealousy or envy are so bad. They’re just feelings. And at the very best, they are a sign of trying. Of wanting. Of putting ourselves out there and risking rejection. There is honor in that. And I’m proud of my battle scars.

Envy isn’t a particularly attractive emotion – it’s even classified as a sin (one of the top seven!). But a little green eyed monster never hurts anyone if kept on a short leash (and kenneled as quickly as possible). At worst – it shows our ugly. At best, it keeps us real.

So for anyone else who felt a little “why not me” today (or even “why never me?“), I’d like to honor you for trying. It takes courage to try. You’d be surprised how many people never do.

And in return, I’d like to ask you one thing. Please read my own small attempts:

I Never Thought I’d Wear Sunglasses (Alternatively Titled: Shooting Practice Starts Tomorrow)

I am so proud of those words. This blog is the first real writing that I’ve ever done outside of work documents and personal e-mails. I always lived so small – never tried to be noticed. I had ideas but didn’t bother to recognize their value.

Then I started a blog. A small thing really – but so big in my own cautious little world. Putting words online is literally putting yourself out there. Asking to been seen and heard – and it’s opened my eyes to endless possibility for me.

I may never win anything – but I’ll keep trying. Because “what if” holds far more power then “why bother.”

And what about you? I want to hear your voice too. Did you submit something there or elsewhere? Did you find out that a friend did so for you? OR did you not even try for fear of disappointment or exposure? Send me a link to the words that make you proud, the ones that make you believe in yourself – or should. I will read them.

I still believe in myself. And I’ll probably submit something of my own next year. I hope you do the same.

Have courage. Be bold. Keep trying.

Hey – it worked for Susan Lucci.

So that’s what I had to say about BlogHer VOTY in 2010. It’s how I still feel in 2011.

And you know what? I totally submitted that.

Hell Hath No Fury…

12 Replies

…like a woman watching her special needs son have a nervous breakdown in his adapted aquatics swim lesson because the instructor was 18 minutes late.

For a half hour class.

On the first day of class.

But first let me give a little background about me and fury.

I rarely have any.

I am one of those people who just doesn’t get very mad. Or if I do get mad it’s short lived and quickly dismissed if there is a good explanation on hand. I hate feeling angry. I’d rather things be pleasant. It’s not that I’m this sunshiny type who thinks every day is a big ice cream sundae party or anything (and I have the prescription to prove it) – but anger and drama just exhaust me. Kind of like walking around Home Depot. It sounds good when I first walk in, but then I get overwhelmed and want to run back out the door.

I have a good friend who is married to a British man. She jokingly complains about how exasperating he can be with his emotionally detached way of avoiding or ignoring tension and conflict. And it makes me think that I’d be very good at being British… Or even just a WASP. I could totally do “let’s just pretend it never happened darling – be a love get me another cocktail, will you?“

Alas – neither has been my lot, and instead I am married to a very emotionally evolved and passionate sometimes-hothead and have three children who operate on levels ranging from unpredictable to full on CRAY-CRAY. So as you can imagine, I spend much of my time looking like a deer caught in headlights.

Then I just “keep calm and carry on,” good Brit that I am.

But back to my fury. It does happen sometimes. And it almost always has something to do with one of my children. This time it was Oliver, my six year old.

Two Saturdays ago, he had one of the worst first time swim lessons I could have possibly imagined.

Here is why it shouldn’t have happened:

1. Oliver LOVES the water. He is a natural swimmer and taught himself to dog paddle and swim under water last summer. He leaps in without any floatation devices and would be thrilled if you threw him in (he’d be happy to push you in as well – for future reference). He has no fear when it comes to the pool.

2. I took Oliver and the twins to the rec center where his lessons would take place several days in advance. Since he wasn’t used to that pool, I thought it might be a good idea to make sure it was familiar and had good memories of fun times with his family. I probably didn’t even need to do this as he was practically IN the pool by the time I had stripped down to my bathing suit.

3. I spoke with someone at the aquatics center to learn more about how the lessons were handled. And I was assured that unless parents felt they needed to be present, it was always best to just hustle the young students in and then quickly disappear. Since Oliver does best with authority if I’m not around to confuse matters, this sounded perfect to me. And I could go upstairs to watch from an observation room.

4. We arrived at the lesson five minutes early so I could chat with the instructor – give her a little background on Oliver’s communication delays and his current level of ability in the pool. Since she wasn’t there when I arrived, I gave my speech to the assistant manager (a.k.a. one of the people with clip boards) and then to the volunteer, who showed up right around the start time of 11 a.m.

5. Oliver was lying by the side of the pool and literally rolled in when we told him it was finally time to start the lesson. He barely glanced in my direction as I gave him a brief wave and said I’d be “up there” watching.

6. For a full ten minutes I watched my water baby splash happily around with kick boards and other teaching aids. He was having a great time. He didn’t miss me or feel the least bit threatened by the notion of a lesson or wary of the new people and other little girl sharing his class time.

This should have been a fabulous start to his swim lessons this summer.

It wasn’t.

Here is why:

1. The actual instructor was late, so the volunteer had to try to keep the two students busy in their one small area until the class could start.

2. Ten minutes is a long time for a special needs child to stay content in a small space with no structured activity. My son is not sedentary. And he likes to do his own thing. So if he’s in a teaching environment, it is absolutely imperative that there is an authority figure with a plan running the show. Fifteen minutes is far too long to wait for that.

3. The above describes pretty much ANY special needs child.

4. The above describes pretty much ANY CHILD.

5. When Oliver did try to swim out of the official lesson area, he was pulled back and essentially told that he needed to stay put. This would make no sense to him and would inevitably be perceived as aggression.

6. ….aaaaannnd that’s when he would start looking for me. The last person who was obviously in charge. And I wasn’t there.

I was in the observation room. Watching Oliver being dragged back into the water again and again by the kind volunteer. And as he became more and more agitated, his confusion transitioned into defiance and then frustrated tears, AND THEN body shaking sobs like I’ve never seen before (he hardly EVER cries). And I slowly transformed from proud mommy to concerned parent to horrified onlooker to absolutely furious mother who wanted to charge downstairs, pull my wailing son from the pool and demand to know what the fuck kind of special needs class this was?!

But I stayed put. Unlike Oliver, I understood that I had to stay in my small designated area.

He is young and still learning the rules, but I am old and I know them all too well. While he needed to wait for the instructor in the area of the pool assigned to his class, I needed to stay out of the way. To let the professionals do their job. And if they had a rocky start, I still had to let them try to pull it together. They had to win his trust without any interference from me. The minute I appeared, Oliver would learn that if he cried and made a scene, mommy would come and save him. And they would lose all credibility.

So I watched.

I watched the instructor arrive and try to engage with my hysterical son. After a few minutes, it was obvious that he wanted nothing to do with her and she moved on to work with the other (easier and more compliant) student.

I wanted to hug the volunteer – she stayed with him the whole time and I could see the concern and sympathy on her face from my perch one floor above.

Fifteen minutes later at the end of the half hour lesson, I walked stiffly into the pool area to collect Oliver. I could barely talk to the clipboard people, but somehow managed an incredulous, “what happened?” I don’t think I even heard the apologies or excuses about being understaffed and assurances that this particular instructor is NEVER late.

You know what? I get it. Mistakes happen. People have personal emergencies and get stuck in traffic behind ten car pile ups. Volunteers are left alone with two students and do their best to keep them entertained as long as they possibly can. Management calls cell phones and leaves messages on voice mail and starts to put on their own bathing suits to fill in for the missing instructors.

But in the fifteen (by my watch, eighteen) minutes that all of those good intentions transpired and/or were thwarted, my son – my beautiful, incandescent son with his all consuming love of swimming – suffered.

And that made my blood boil.

I asked the volunteer what happened and then told her exactly why it shouldn’t have. I also thanked her for doing the best she could – but that didn’t diminish my all consuming anger. My fury.

Then I held my son for a while and comforted him. I calmed him down. I promised him a visit to Dairy Queen. I suggested that we might try again next week. I told him that I was proud of how well he did. That I watched him when he was swimming and I was so proud. I agreed that he could get changed and that we would leave.

I silently cursed the whole comedy of errors and its seemingly inept cast for ruining swim lessons for my son in less than 30 minutes.

While waiting for use of the family changing room I talked to the assistant manager, got more information about what happened (little more than I already knew – that this particular instructor had never been late before) and pointed out that this was the worst time to be late – on the first day of swim lessons for special needs children.

As Oliver calmed down and became more interested in the ice cream I promised and less concerned with the drama that just unfolded, I also found myself relaxing. I was still mad, but I didn’t feel like actually throttling anyone.

I wasn’t furious anymore. I was weary. I wanted to turn back time and go get my bathing suit – even though I didn’t think of it until the last minute and we had to leave immediately in order to be there a few minutes early to talk to the instructor. I wanted to be able to get in the water with Oliver while we were waiting – to help the volunteer keep him busy until the instructor arrived. I wanted him to have a fun lesson. I wanted him to leave the pool smiling – not sobbing.

I wanted to pretend that it didn’t happen. To just carry on and make things pleasant.

I just didn’t want to deal with it anymore.

And at that point, there wasn’t anything more I could do. I got mad, said everything there was to say and saved my child from misery. What else was there?

Only one more thing. I walked Oliver back to the pool to thank the volunteer and say goodbye. I thought they both needed that.

Later while watching Oliver finish his ice cream cone, I realized that I wasn’t furious anymore. I still thought it was a complete disaster and wasn’t at all happy about it…but I was already thinking along the lines of damage control.

I knew that we had to go back to that pool as soon as possible. To make it fun – a place where he would want to go. And I would have to get in the pool with him for the next lesson. To make it feel safe. I would have to interact with the instructor who had filled me with rage less than an hour earlier. I would have to make it work. For Oliver’s sake.

And I did.

We did visit the pool as a family the following day. And we made it fun. Then I brought Oliver back for his lesson last Saturday. And I wore my bathing suit.

When we saw the volunteer, he looked at her and (miracle!) said, “do you want to swim with me?” Then we all got into the pool together. I chatted with the instructor and told her about Oliver. I didn’t mention the previous week.

I watched Oliver have a wonderful time and then moved away to the whirlpool – where I could still see him, but have less of an obvious presence.

And it was fine. After 20 minutes, Oliver said he was tired and wanted to leave, and we all decided to call it a win and not enforce the full 30 minutes. Next time we could firm. This time it was better to just end on a good note. Which we did.

Frankly, I was amazed by how well it went – that Oliver was so easy going about everything and needed very little coaxing from me to get in the pool with the volunteer and the instructor.

But that’s kind of the way he is. His drama is brief. He recovers quickly. And he moves on without lingering remorse or grudge holding.

Maybe he’s like me. Maybe he just wants to keep everything pleasant.

If that’s true, he’ll be a better person for it. He faces so many challenges now, and there will be plenty of others later. He doesn’t have an easy path to follow, and an even temper may serve him well.

He may also find life somewhat wearying because of it…I know I do often enough. But he’ll innately know how to put the best face on things, keep moving forward and not sweat the small stuff.

He’ll be a survivor.

At best? He’ll be happier than most. At worst? I’ll just move to England with him and we can be emotionally detached expats with the rest of the Brits. Hopefully we can find a place with a pool.

Monday Links (and Happy Birthday America!)

2 Replies

Took a little break to restock on links. Here’s some favorites from the past couple of weeks:

Good advice on backing up your blog. Did anyone ever tell you that you should do that? (via Issa)

The social media equivalent of “blood brothers”

Remember Fashion Plates?

Going to BlogHer ’11 in San Diego? Here are suggestions for “What’s the closest” to the conference hotel.

Yay for kids out of school!

Fab furniture makeover

This Fathers Day post (told you it’s been a couple of weeks…) made me laugh out loud

Hilarious He Said/She Said on having a third.

This is magical (not pretty – but so true it hurts)

Loving this “beach bag alternative”

A beautiful story about names

Love this attempt to get inside a special needs (or any) child’s head

OF COURSE – a salute to America’s birthday

And we shall conclude with “What might have happened to Ophelia if only she had a Sassy Gay Friend“

*Very sad side note: I was going to add a picture of our July 4th festivities (celebrated early at a neighborhood party yesterday) but my computer started projectile vomiting and my pictures file is now EMPTY. This would include every picture I’ve taken since January 1 – all of which I’ve been meaning to back up, but… I’m heartbroken…but hopeful that some computer geek – I mean STUD might be able to come to my rescue tomorrow. Fingers crossed…

I Forgot That Summer Could be Scary…

13 Replies

With the Fourth of July approaching, fireworks stands are everywhere. And no one gets more excited about fireworks than my husband. He can’t restrain himself – it’s inevitable that he will purchase some long before the actual holiday.

This year, all three kids have real memories of fireworks displays past and they were thrilled to have their own private show in front of our house on Saturday. That is – until it actually took place.

Eleanor, who still talks about the smiley face fireworks she saw in the sky the night of her uncle’s Fourth of July wedding, didn’t realize that the explosions would be closer to earth this time. And she was not pleased. At all.

I was taking pictures of the kids to catch their reactions and she gave me one hell of a reaction…

The pictures end there as I had to take her inside. But I do have some earlier shots of smiling faces during the less threatening sparklers and colorful smoke bombs.

Still experimenting with my new camera… Really do need to read the manual. The smokey shots make my children look like ghosts.

Eleanor is the only fraidy cat – but I remember how that felt. I can imagine standing at adult knee level torn between clinging to a parent’s leg and holding my hands over my ears. That booming noise seemed to shake the earth. It was terrifying.

Another big summer threat back then was killer bees. Okay – so I didn’t grow up around killer bees – but that is the way we perceived them. So much time was spent “being a flower” or “a statue” in hopes that they would buzz away without stinging us. I remember the stories about that boy who accidentally swallowed a bee that crawled into his soda can and stung his throat until it swelled up and he almost died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital… Urban legends about bees were a summer tradition. As were war stories about the stings we survived or narrowly missed.

How funny to be the grownup flicking away bees and telling our kids that if we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.

We have several lovely butterfly bushes in our front yard, but this summer the butterflies have been scarce. Instead we have a colony of bumble bees coming to visit each day.

Aren’t they gorgeous? And not at all nefarious looking… In fact, we’ve had to keep reminding the kids that while they aren’t really all that dangerous, they still have stingers and we shouldn’t touch them.

And of course – my sensory integration disorder son who can’t NOT touch something to save his life has been petting them. I thought that yesterday when George got stung by a wasp at the pool (flew up under his sun shirt – it was awful) we would all learn a good lesson about why petting bumble bees could be very unpleasant…

Not so much. Oliver was back petting the bees today. And of course he got stung. There were some tears and not just a little outrage. But he recovered quickly and didn’t refuse to walk out the front door later. This was encouraging since it means he probably won’t have a severe bee phobia (like his more recent fear of small dogs – not big dogs, mind you – just the small ones) sending him screaming into the street at the sight of yellow stripes… But it also means that he may not be phased by the experience and will go back to his bee keeper ways tomorrow.

My money is on the bee petting. Time to chat with the pharmacist about remedies…and buy Eleanor some ear plugs.

An Audacious Start to the Summer

14 Replies

School ended for Oliver yesterday, making today our first official day of summer vacation. Typically, this would find me scratching my head over what I can do with them ALL DAY.

We have the pool and the YMCA – but that really only covers two or three hours at a time. And playing outside can’t be an all-day event in Washington, DC heat…

So it goes without saying that television time is inevitable. They enjoy a snack and some AC while watching a cartoon or two. And I’m able to clean up and MAYBE even get in some computer time.

Until this summer.

This summer, I decided that we would try something absolutely insane (for us…for me). An idea that in previous years would make me laugh, roll my eyes or simply say, “good luck with that.” Or all three.

I unplugged the TV and told the kids that it’s broken.

This has nothing to do with any negative opinions about television. I’ve always had a fondness for the idiot box. I watched an ungodly amount of TV growing up and think back with nostalgia on the days when you would settle for whatever you could find on the six or so available channels. How else would I have seen every episode of The Facts of Life and Laverne and Shirley?

Yes – I watched a lot of TV…but I also read more than any of my friends and still managed to spend hours of each day playing outside. My brain didn’t rot and my imagination didn’t suffer. I am not anti-TV.

And I’ve never felt like the constant stream of DVDs, Netflix on demand or PBS Kids programming has ever negatively affected my own children. They don’t sit drooling in front of the television – they play. And given the option, they would pick playing outside over any favored cartoon. If anything, TV has given them all kinds of new information via Sid the Science Kid or Dora-Dora-Dora Can’t IGNORE YA! As annoying as children’s programming can be – most of the current preschool genre shows are pretty educational.

But here is my current problem: For a while now, Oliver has been picking up the dialogue and gestures presented by the characters in the shows he watches.

It started with Thomas and Friends. Can I tell you how many times a day he says something in a British accent? And while it’s super cute – it’s not exactly normal. Especially when he’s saying things like, “Nonsense! I am very cross, indeed.” I’d say that on any playground in America, that’s just asking for an thorough ass kicking. Indeed.

And it’s gotten worse since we put Netflix streaming on our Wii and they now have access to all kinds of cartoons like the Pink Panther, Tom and Jerry and the more recent, Pingu. At least he was using actual words when he was emulating the locomotive inhabitants of Sodor. NOW he’s starting to use cartoon postures and gestures (and worse – weird noises) to communicate.

I am not raising a mime. If this is what the TV is doing for his language development right now? Then we need a break.

And I also think George could do with a little less time on the Wii. It makes him aggressive and obnoxious. I’m not going into detail – but take my word for it – George needs a break too.

So…no TV for a while. It’s been three days, and surprisingly, not all that painful. No one has died of boredom or driven me to drink (well, no more than usual). I think we may all actually survive my outrageous act of hubris. Only time will tell.

Another rather bold (for me) move I’ve made in the the past few days is to nominate a few of my posts for BlogHer’s Voices of the Year. Like everyone else, I’ve had friends offer to nominate posts for me, but I liked the idea of doing it myself. They can say, “just send me the links and I’ll nominate you,” but if I’m the one actually selecting the posts…then I say just do it. Claim it. Own it.

Where’s the shame in that? Even if no one else thought my writing was worth anything – I did. And that’s certainly worth something.

I actually submitted three of my posts. One in the category of Life (which is vast) and two in Niche (one of which probably wasn’t best categorized by “niche” – but too late now). Ironically enough – I couldn’t come up with something for Humor. From this blog which I had originally started as a humor blog… I guess I’ve raised my standards for funny. 

Besides, the idea of standing on a stage reading a humor piece to the sound of deafening silence? I may be feeling bold…but I’m not feeling suicidal! I thought it was best to stick with a few un-funny submissions.

So there it is – I’m starting the summer with some bravado. I’m I’m triple dog daring it to just try to get the best of me. I’m seeing its heat and torpor and raising it a water balloon fight.

And all on a low carb diet. I’m out of control!

I may be chasing kids around the pool for hours on end and running endless laps at the YMCA to buy them some time in the kids’ gym – but hey, I’ll be super thin.

Or just too tired to notice that I’m losing my mind…

It’s going to be a long ten weeks.

The Lock Up and The Opium Den

4 Replies

Last summer, I started to write a post that was titled “The Lock Up.” I never finished it due to Blogger eating the first five paragraphs and my subsequent need to step away from the computer before I did anything foolish. Like smash it with the heaviest item at hand… Then I never did get back to it.

I had planned to tell stories about how we used to lock up 75% of the rooms in our house so that children couldn’t ruin things. We would lock their bedroom doors so they couldn’t get in during the day. We’d lock the bathroom doors so that they wouldn’t stuff the toilet full of paper or worse, play in the water.

We would even hide everyday objects like bedroom lamps. As far as the lamps go, we worried about them getting broken at night and the switch knobs disappearing during the day. Seriously! There was a time that we had only one knob for all the lamps in our house because someone twisted them all off and hid them godknowswhere. It was madness – walking around with a single switch knob, having to screw it onto any lamp that we wanted to turn on…

But it seemed like everything was like that back then. Having three children born within 18 months – and naughty ones at that – made for some high level security requirements in my house. And all of that locking them out meant that we were locking ourselves out as well. We had to keep “keys” in high places so that we could enter those rooms at will.

Over a year ago, I asked Eleanor to pose with our two pick locks of choice.

The first type we came up with was a thin wooden skewer – typically used for shish kabobs:

Very easy to hide on top of a door sill.

But more often than not, I found myself fashioning keys out of wire hangers (something I discovered when I accidentally locked myself in then three year old Oliver’s room one night with him crying outside the door):

These had to be kept high on a shelf since the kids were definitely working out how to use them. But as Oliver, George and Eleanor grew taller and wilier, I could see the golden age of locked doors coming to a close. Milestones are so bittersweet…

Here is an example of why door locking was so necessary back then.

One day, I went into the twins’ old bedroom/storage room/place we kept the kids’ dressers room and noticed that someone had pee peed a little on one of the nice upholstered chairs I had stowed in there until I could figure out what to do with them.

I locked the door and then called my mother for cleaning advice. She told me to use a little Spray & Wash and then to add some water – all within the pattern of the fabric to avoid unsightly water staining. Having completed this task, I walked out of the room (forgetting to lock the door AND leaving the spray bottle behind) and continued our chat.

When I went back to check on how it was drying, I found that someone had squirted Spray & Wash all over the chair – with no regard for staying within the pattern to avoid water stains! I was livid, but had only myself to blame for not putting the bottle away and locking the door.

After cleaning up the mess (again) I descended the stairs and at the landing, noticed a very strong stink of parmesan cheese. This didn’t come as a complete surprise since they were all addicts and would eat it straight out of the can if I let them. But the strange thing was that I couldn’t find evidence of the cheese anywhere.

I went back upstairs to inquire about the cheese fumes and found Oliver unrolling all of the toilet paper into one huge pile. He was thrilled and asked me what I thought of his mountain. I have no recollection of my reply, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the praise he was hoping for.

Once that mess was cleaned up, I was able to locate the twins and get them to explain the cheese smell. They played dumb for a while – but finally told me to look in the sink where I found a “mountain” of parmesan.

There is a reason why I never find time to dust.

I dragged everyone out to do errands before they could do any further damage and kept a better eye on them for the rest of the afternoon. It’s not easy – but if you just keep tabs on your children, they’re much less likely to destroy anything.

Feeling very pleased with myself, I decided to really make an afternoon of it and apply a little makeup. So I grabbed a mascara and lip gloss and opened the powder room door to find…a mountain of unrolled toilet paper.

And Oliver wins by an empty cardboard tube!

I should probably explain why I had to lock up the bedroom where they slept as well. Even though I had pulled every stick of furniture out of that room – they still found ways to torture me. They would prop their toddler bed mattresses against the wall to make “caves.” which would be kind of cute if it didn’t usually degenerate into their other favorite game of “make the stairs one big slide.”

Do you know what fits perfectly on our stairs? Three toddler bed mattresses.

I finally had to throw them out. No one was sleeping on them anyway. They preferred to burrow together in a big puppy pile at night on the quilts I would lay out for them. And even before I got rid of the mattresses, it was a very sad looking bedroom. No furniture other than three little pallets strewn around the perimeter…

I called it The Opium Den.

But as our toddlers and young preschooler have matured into older preschoolers and an elementary school student, we’ve slowly started unlocking doors. And just last weekend  we bought them all real beds so they wouldn’t have to sleep like animals anymore. There was even decorating involved! A huge development in our tiny townhouse.

I wrote all about the project on Style Key West today – so drop by and check it out!

And now I need to fall into my own bed. We’ve been passing around a fever all week, my bad knee is aching and I’m on day #5 of a new low carb diet that’s making me crave dessert like you wouldn’t believe.

It’s the hard knock life INDEED.

Wishing you all a great weekend and Fathers Day!