Tag Archives: Little Ones

Forever Changed

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My first baby was born at 41 weeks. He apparently had no desire to leave such warm, cozy accommodations—with 24-hour room service, no less! And while I couldn’t really blame him, it seemed an eviction notice was in order.

So early one spring morning, we picked up the bag that had been sitting by the door for weeks, and left for the hospital. I would be induced and, if all went as planned, we would be new parents by the end of the day. My mother and aunt had come to stay with us, and later told me that as they watched me lumber to the car with my husband Chris’ support, they looked at each other and said, “Their lives will never be the same again…”

Everyone knows that having children changes your life forever. Priorities are reevaluated, careers are modified to decrease office hours or just put on hold entirely, and vacations become more complicated than enjoyable…. In general, every decision is made with your child’s best interests in mind. It’s no longer all about you. But I have of yet to meet anyone who would want their old life back.

And, of course, there are the fantasies that we all try to sell ourselves and each other like, “It will be easier once they don’t need constant supervision,” “I can go back to work when they’re all in school,” or my personal favorite, “We can start traveling again when they’re older.”

Now that my “babies” are becoming kids, I have a slightly more realistic view….

Yes, it is a whole new world of closing the bathroom door when I take a shower. And personal space and time for myself are actually making their way back into the daily rotation, but decreasing the once constant supervision of my children has its price: I’m also losing that tight control on their immediate safety.

Once they started walking down stairs unassisted, it became possible—and even expected—that they may fall now and again. I never knew how bad that fall might be, and their independence grows by the minute.

By allowing them to cross our neighborhood streets without holding my hand, I’ve taken yet another step toward something that could never in a million years be considered easy. Nonstop supervision of babies and toddlers may be exhausting, but watching them grow up and make their own decisions—both good and bad—is terrifying. The loss of control is anything but “easy.” I can’t even think about what this will be like when they’re teenagers…

Luckily, the teen years are still a way off, but school days are already in full swing. Next year, my twins will start kindergarten and finally, all three of my children will be in school full-time, five days a week. This would seem like the obvious time to return to a “paying” job, right? I always thought so, but it’s not nearly as simple in action than in theory. Oliver’s first year in elementary school provided a first-hand reminder of the fact that school hours and vacation days do not exactly match up with those offered to full time office employees.

Most people leave work at 5:00 p.m., but Oliver’s school bus drops him off a couple of hours before the typical work day comes to a close. Some parents I know are able to work flex hours, but commute distance and overtime hours may also play a role. And I could go on about sick days, federal holidays and summer vacation….

But the point is that “going back to work” will never be the same as when you left; even if you were a working parent for a while. I was, but back then, I could drop my children at daycare as early as 7:00 a.m. and pick them up at 6:00 p.m. And it was year-round. School starts sometime after 8:00 a.m. and ends around 3:00 p.m. And there are over ten weeks of the year that school is closed for vacation. There is no getting around the need for additional childcare. And it comes as no surprise that so many primary caregivers find part-time jobs or work that they can do from home.

I could never consider every angle of the kids in school/working parents/required childcare love triangle in a paragraph or two. Each family figures out what works best for them and there are unlimited factors. For my own family, commute, daycare expenses, special needs therapies, schedule availability, and work travel all play a role in why I’m currently a stay-at-home mom. And figuring out how to segue back into the workforce in the next couple of years will be challenging.

One of the things I miss most about my career before kids is the travel. I was a conference planner and had the opportunity to visit beach resorts, historic cities and even international destinations. I loved it.

But once I brought that first baby home, the fun travel sounded more like torture. How does one separate from the love of their life for several days, let alone a week? I quickly found a job that didn’t involve any nights away from home.

Personal travel was still an option, and as long as I had my baby with me, I didn’t mind leaving home. But as that little baby grew older, became mobile, and needed his own seat on an airplane, everything changed.

At one time, my carry-on bag held books, magazines, and possibly a little pillow for napping. But now I pack snacks and coloring books. Mini-DVD players can be a lifesaver, but they tend to take up 80 percent of your purse space. Napping on flights has become a thing of the past (unless you are my husband). Instead, I spend hours searching for Thomas Trains under seats and escorting small people to the bathroom. And once we arrive at our destination, the real fun begins.

Remember relaxing vacations spent reading by the pool, dining at romantic restaurants, and sleeping in? Yeah, me too. But just barely.

Those memories are slowly fading into legend. Needless to say, it’s rare that I even open a book on our family vacations. Restaurants must be “kid friendly,” and there is no snooze button on the three living alarm clocks that wake me up early no matter where we are.

Any kind of travel requires months of planning, mental preparation, and saved pennies (FIVE seats on a flight!). It’s not that our vacations aren’t fun, but we put more thought into the enjoyment of our children than our own.

But like every other parent I’ve ever met, I don’t regret any of it.

I’ll happily go on economical family road trips and catch the sunrise instead of sleeping in. And I’m confident that I’ll eventually find a great career that I would never have discovered without the schedule limitations that my children have created.

For the loss of every previous luxury, I’ve gained invaluable family time…memories…learning experiences.

I’ll admit that I don’t love the worry that goes hand in hand with each day’s incremental loosening of apron strings. But again, there is a trade off. Watching people you created grow up and find their own way is an incredible gift.

I have my share of anxiety about the unknown future, but I also have plenty of hope. And I try to focus on that.

We waited until our early thirties to start a family, and I’m glad that we had that time before. But as much as I enjoyed my life before becoming a mother, I honestly feel like I’m living the one I was meant to have now.

Originally posted on Health News HERE.

A Guest Post and Links AND Happy Halloween!

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On Saturday, Varda of The Squashed Bologna (a.k.a. @squashedmom) asked me to contribute to her Special Needs Siblings Saturday (SNSS) feature. This was more than an honor, and let me tell you – if you ever do guest post for Varda, she will make you feel like a celebrity in her introduction. Talk about VIP treatment!

Please come visit me there and leave a comment so she knows I have friends. And click on the button below to see more SNSS posts.

SNSS

Thanks so much Varda!

I also found a number of links to share this week. Hope you enjoy them:

In Support of Anna! (Have you written something? Let me know.)
Utilizing the Power of Social Media
Tweet for Margaret
For Jack: Will You Help Us #LiftMargaret? (Also on Chicago Now)
Online Community Rallies for a Girl Who Lost Brother

So I’m not the only one who thinks being sick in bed sounds kind of great…
Silence of the Lambs masks for kids!
We all have different parenting styles – so why sweat (judge) the small stuff?
Too funny: “faking anger” with your kids to make a point (and yes – I totally do this)
Feeling sentimental about mess – I should try this…
A great reminder to be as intrusive as you want about what your kids are doing online.
Want to feature a home project or decor job? Tips for taking better room “interiors” pictures for your blog.

FINALLY – it’s Halloween today. And in spite of Saturday’s snow and the current toe-numbing temperature outside, we are very excited!

Have a fabulous night of fake gore and Disney princesses!

(Want to comment? Click the cake in the top left corner of this post – or just click HERE.)

Dynamic Family Dynamics

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1/17/14

This post was originally published on The Squashed Bologna in October 2011. I came across the link and decided to retroactively publish it here too. Hard to believe that was over two years ago…

Dynamic Family Dynamics

Often when asked about the level of chaos and drama in my house, I’ll say that “I have a special needs child, an explosive child and a girl.” That pretty much sums it up.

But let me backtrack a bit.

I have three children – Oliver, my six year old, and George and Eleanor, my five year old twins. And just in case you’re wondering – no, that age difference was not planned. Nor was the two-for-one pregnancy. But no matter how dramatic and chaotic it may be, I never lose sight of how lucky I am to have these three entirely unique people in my life – to be able to watch them grow.

Like any other parent, I once looked into my children’s newborn faces and dreamed about their futures. I imagined them as happy and healthy kids. So close in age, they would be friends. They would grow up together and then go on to attend college, find careers… have families.

I always knew that they were really just on loan to me. I would raise them, but they would eventually leave to find their own way in the world. And I looked forward to watching it all unfold.

We had some basic expectations for the roles they would play, of course. Oliver would be the big brother, and look out for his not-that-much younger siblings. Eleanor would be a daddy’s girl because they all are in my husband’s extended family. George would be the middle child – even though he is only a minute older than his sister – and as a loud and demanding infant, he seemed destined to be a handful.

And some of this ended up being true. Eleanor is a shameless daddy’s girl and George has taken the term “handful” to a whole new level. But Oliver is not your average, everyday big brother. He is my special needs child.

The twins were born when he was 18 months old. And around that time, it was becoming obvious that he was different from other toddlers. His speech wasn’t developing with the lightning speed that I witnessed in other kids. He wasn’t as social and trusting. He was more interested in throwing blocks in than he was in using them to build towers.

Years later, after special needs preschool and various therapies, Oliver is sweet, handsome boy with severe sensory processing disorders. He also has an Autism Spectrum label: PDD-NOS (pervasive developmental disorder – not otherwise specified).

The behaviors and challenges that qualify him for a Spectrum label are primarily noticeable in his communication and language skills, but he also has some more subtle problems with motor skills. We’ve been lucky to find a couple of alternative therapies that have been nothing short of magic as far as I’m concerned. And Oliver is always making progress – moving forward. But it’s never fast enough for him to catch up to, let alone keep up with, his peers.

And it’s not just other kids his age anymore. Oliver is now officially behind the skill levels of his siblings. Over time, George and Eleanor have become my barometer for what Oliver will hopefully learn how to do.

People are confused by our oldest son because he “looks normal.” But they haven’t witnessed Oliver’s daily struggles with things that have come so naturally to his brother and sister. Like sustaining conversation, understanding the rules in games and making friends. They don’t understand why it’s George who plays light sabers with the older boys across the street while Oliver plays with Thomas trains in the dirt. It should be the other way around, right?

They also have no idea how incredibly painful this is to watch.

For all of my love for them as individuals – all of my gratitude for their health and happiness – it breaks my heart to see my oldest fade into the background while his younger brother and sister become such stars. To see the babies of the family take over so many of the older sibling roles that should have been Oliver’s, by right.

And I know that sounds petty and unfair – to expect that the oldest would automatically be the front man for the band…the leader of the pack. But that’s the typical family dynamic, right? And didn’t I expect to have a “typical” family? Didn’t we all?

So my husband and I have had to put aside some of our new parent dreams and expectations for our children – our family. It was hard. And sometimes I still feel a little sad. I worry.

I worry about the near future when the twins start asking questions about why they can do things that their big brother can’t. So far, they haven’t. They don’t compare our family to others. It seems normal to them that George is the one who complains about Oliver messing up his…whatever it is he’s doing (remember – George is my explosive child, and there’s always a crisis). Or for Eleanor to act as spokesperson for her big brother when people ask him questions he’s not yet developmentally capable of answering.

But as we become less insular and spend more time with the rest of the world at large, it’s inevitable that my two younger children will wonder why we’re different from other families.

To be perfectly honest, I’ve avoided thinking about this for a long time. On some level, I’ve been wishing that Oliver would just become “normal enough.” That therapies and IEP reports aside, the kids in our neighborhood – and George and Eleanor – would see him as just another kid. Maybe a little goofy or quirky sometimes – but not so much that he couldn’t fly under the radar.

Then maybe someday when Oliver would be capable of engaging in a complex discussion, we could all talk about his personal challenges. Together as a family – with Oliver participating in this conversation about him.

It shouldn’t matter, I know. But I just really hate the idea of talking about Oliver to his siblings before I can talk to HIM about everything. I would feel like a betrayal. Like it was now me denying him his right to be the older brother.

I may have to do that someday – but I’m not ready. Not yet.

In a way – these ideas are entirely new for our family. We haven’t had to think about them.

So I don’t have personal stories to tell about how our children work around the special needs that make Oliver different from other six year olds. As of yet, the twins don’t really recognize that Oliver is different. He’s just Oliver. And I’m selfishly holding on to that as long as possible with no plan for the future.

Until now, I guess. Until I began writing this and reading about the experiences of other families with “special needs siblings.”

I’ve written numerous posts about Oliver’s special needs on my own blog, but this is the first time that I’ve actually addressed the issue of how those special needs affect his relationships with his siblings. And because I’ve always taken the Scarlett O’Hara approach of dealing with what I have to today, and leaving the rest for tomorrow – I’m now in uncharted waters.

I love the idea of Oliver being the big brother an taking care of his little brother and sister. But for now, and possibly for a long time (possibly forever) that’s not going to be our reality. In a couple of years it may be the younger brother and sister standing between Oliver and bullies on the playground. It’s still too soon to tell – but not so far off that I can’t imagine that possible future.

Will they stand up for Oliver? I think Eleanor would. As a girl, she has an innate maternal side. She seeks to nurture in a way that her brothers just don’t. But George? I don’t know about George.

He is so full of enthusiasm for life, that he doesn’t always notice other people as he races to grab the brass ring. He means well – but he’s a scrapper. He may unwittingly trample Oliver in his efforts to follow the older boys with their war games and skateboard ramps. I just don’t know.

But I do know that this is going to be painful at times… and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified by the uncertain future. That I didn’t wonder how many more of my dreams that future will will steal from me.

But I find great comfort in the fact that some of my dreams are already coming true. My children are happy and healthy. They are friends. They are growing up together. They may or may not all go to college, but each one of them can find a purpose in life – something they can consider their career.

Probably the most important dream I have for them is family. The families I once imagined for them included marriage and children. And right now I have no reason to doubt that this is possible for them. For all of them.

My dream of them all having their own families might actually come true. And it might not. But it doesn’t matter because whether they get married or not – have children or not – they will always have each other.

They will always be a family.

She’s so damn smart sometimes…

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A conversation that just happened two minutes ago…

Eleanor: Mommy – when the tooth fairy brings Oliver a toy tonight…

Me: The Tooth Fairy isn’t going to bring a toy. She did that the first few times, but I think this time, she’ll just leave a dollar. [Note: Since Oliver started losing teeth right before he turned six and until recently his delays made teaching him about money a bit challenging, we opted for a toy instead.]

Eleanor: That’s good because the train she brought him broke. [Note #2: We weren’t prepared for the first tooth loss and Chris had to run to the closest convenience store that night. The toy selection wasn’t exactly top shelf…]

Me: Well – it was the first time she came to our house and she may not have understood that Oliver likes Thomas trains and not the big cheap ones. The Tooth Fairy means well, even if she doesn’t always make the best decisions…

Eleanor: Then she really needs to talk to Daddy.

Me: Why would the Tooth Fairy need to talk to Daddy?

Eleanor: Because Daddy buys the toys that she brings.

Our days of sneaking things in the door when they’re not looking are OVER.

Make Mine A Double.

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This is a repost of something I wrote a few months after starting this blog. In honor of my twins’ birthday, I shared their birth story – which started with a trip to the hair salon and ended with my husband almost passing out.

I think it’s a good one. So here it is again. Hope you enjoy hearing it as much as I love telling it. To everyone. Pretty much anywhere. No matter how disinterested they may be…

Exactly five years ago (give or take a week), I looked like this:

And yes – it was just as uncomfortable as it appears. And what is even more outrageous is that I remember looking at that picture and thinking it was “flattering” – that it made my stomach look less gigantic than it actually was. So apparently, I was even bigger in real life. People who have never been pregnant before can pick themselves up off the floor now. It’s not like that happens overnight. You do have some time to get used to it.

Enough about my enormous stomach though. I am showing embarrassing pictures of myself as an opening for the story of the birth of my twins. It’s their birthday! On October 9, 2006, at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) I gave birth to George and Eleanor Hood. They looked like this shortly after they departed my body:

And no – they were not nearly as angelic as they appear. Actually, they were perfectly sweet babies – it’s just that there were two of them. And having had one newborn already – I knew the difference between one screaming baby and two screaming babies. It’s simple math: 2 x 1 baby = 1 seriously deranged mother. But that’s another story.

On the morning of October 9, 2006, I had a feeling that the end was near. While my scheduled c-section (my “baby A,” George was breech) wasn’t supposed to take place for another week, I just didn’t feel right. And of course I was already four centimeters dilated and showing some “signs” that are TMI for even this blog. Also, we had just moved into a new house three weeks prior and I was still carrying my 35 lb. 18 month old up and down the stairs. This probably helped to speed things along.

The bags were packed and waiting by the door and I was finally resigned to the fact that George was not going to turn over for me, and I would have to have my first experience with surgery. Awake. One word: barbaric.

We were as ready as we were ever going to be – and I decided that I would spend the day trying to wrap things up at work, even though it was a federal holiday and the office was closed. It’s like I knew…

I won’t get into the details of the day – mainly because I barely remember them. But at about 5:00 p.m. I was ready to leave. I felt the urge to do some errands, so I called Chris and told him that I would be running late, and that he’d have to do Oliver’s bedtime routine (which he was more or less covering already in preparation for my post surgery limitations). Then I was off to the mall.

First stop – the cosmetics department at Nordstom. I was running low on concealer, and you know – this is a huge priority for someone that expects to be sequestered to their house for several months. I have to look good for the mail man and all. Then I headed over to Suissa, a hair salon where I had a history of success with random stylists (I’m notorious for being a walk in client).

When I arrived, the receptionist smiled at me and told me that I was the third expectant mother to come in that day. My first thought was that I hoped the others were as far along as I was and also sporting ill fitting maternity clothes that hinted at a penchant for inappropriate belly baring. I didn’t want to be “the big one” when they talked about the run on pregnant ladies that day. She told me that Giamcome would be able to take me immediately. (I don’t remember his name – but I once had another stylist named Giacome, and I think it suits my no name guy.)

Giacome? Not that much of a talker. But that suited me well enough, as my mind was racing in fifty different directions, and I didn’t mind NOT playing 20 questions with him as he pretended to be interested in my pregnancy. But one persistent thought running through the rest was that I was starting to worry about incontinence (don’t worry – this isn’t a story about incontinence – but it’s relevant in context). All day, I had been feeling a little…well, loose – for lack of a better word. I had never experienced incontinence before, and I was wondering if this was an early sign.

It was while my hair was being washed that I had the first pang of concern. There was definitely something going on down there – and I was feeling extremely grateful for the long black gown that covered my legs. At this point, I was thinking that I might look as if I had just had accident – or more accurately, that I HAD had an accident. But at the end of the day, I’m an optimist, and I hoped that it either wouldn’t show once I was standing up – or that maybe it would be dry by the time I had to unveil myself.

The haircut was uneventful. It was looking exactly like what I had requested and Giacome continued to play the strong silent type. But about ten minutes into the blow dry, something rather significant happened. I suddenly knew that I was not experiencing incontinence. I had my water broken for me in the hospital when I had my first son, and while this was not the same, there were definite similarities. It finally dawned on me: I wasn’t peeing my pants – I was going into labor.

I had never spontaneously gone into labor before. My 9 lb. 2 oz. first born was a week late and I had to be induced. And I was expecting a scheduled c-section for the twins. So I was completely unprepared for the slapstick situation of having my water break during my blow dry at the Tysons Corner Suissa where I was a goddamn walk in for god’s sake. Oh my god! Damn!

But I’m nothing if I’m not practical. And I never panic. So I quietly weighed my options as Giacome continued to smooth and straighten my hair. I had done this once before, and I knew that I had some time before I actually went into real labor. At this point I wasn’t even having contractions. Oh what the hell – my hair was only half done, and I figured that it wouldn’t hurt anything if I just let him finish. I deserved to have perfect hair for my first surgery. Awake. BARBARIC I tell you!

Plus – I kind of needed time to figure out what I was going to tell Giacome. I couldn’t imagine that this was something that happened every day at Suissa. So when he finally finished his last flicks and fluffs, it was time for me to break the news. I said, “so Giacome…I have to tell you something. I THINK that my water may have broken.” He looked at me blankly – and if he did say anything, I don’t remember what it was. At this point I was beginning to wonder if he was actually mute.

Then I stood up and he removed the vinyl drape. And that’s when I realized that my water hadn’t really broken yet – it was just starting to break. It was only when was vertical and gravity took over that it really BROKE. All over. With sound effects. I was truly in a sitcom from hell. And as an added bonus, that morning I decided not to wear the black pants that I had sported every day for the past two months. No – I was feeling “khaki.” And there was no camoflauging the river of amniotic fluid running down my legs.

Giamcome looked me. I looked at him. And then as if we had the same thought at the same time, we both looked at the chair where I had been sitting. Thank god it was the usual fake leather. I can’t even imagine the humiliation of leaving a soggy chair in my wake. I guess I expected more of a puddle – but maybe my pants absorbed most of it. All that was left was what you might find after a very sweaty person in shorts got up from a vinyl seat. And in silence, stoic Giacome switched on the hair drier and commenced to cleaning up my mess.

The receptionist’s desk was conveniently located directly behind me, so I grabbed her attention and explained that I’d have to settle up rather quickly. And I would have to use her phone because – of course – I left my cell at home that morning. I called Chris – told him to get the bags, make the necessary calls, take Oliver to our plan A person, and if she wasn’t home, to our plan B person. And then I was ready to go.

The receptionist was incredibly sweet and asked if there was anything she could do for me. I couldn’t really think of anything… She wasn’t a doctor, and she had already helped me with the walk in appointment… And a pedicure was definitely out of the question. So I said that I thought not. But then she offered to get my car for me – and that sounded like a great idea since I seemed to be losing gallons of amniotic fluid with every step I took. And I was pretty sure that I’d needed to keep some in there for another hour or two.

After some discussion about where I may or may not have parked (pregnant women NEVER remember where they park), I handed her my key chain and told her to “walk in that direction and just start clicking.” Eventually she’d hear the “beep-beep” noise.

While I was waiting outside for her, strategically covering my soaked pants with my purse, it occurred to me that I hadn’t called my doctor. Rookie mistake! And I didn’t have my cell… so had to again rely upon the kindness of strangers. The only person in speaking distance was a touristy looking guy who I think I remember as being Japanese. Either way – he definitely didn’t speak much English, and I could only hope my appearance made up for any confusion over the translation for “broken water.” Apparently it did since he handed the phone over without any questions.

Just as I signed off with my doctor’s answering service, the receptionist peeled around the corner in my car. I handed the man back his phone and realized that I had never said goodbye to Giacome. Seems like we should have hugged or something. But it was too late, and it didn’t seem appropriate to hug the Japanese tourist. We didn’t have quite as much of a history, and you know – I was really wet.

With effusive thanks to the receptionist and the tourist, I was finally on my way to the hospital.

I was very lucky in that I didn’t start having painful contractions until I arrived at the hospital. It was only when I was sitting in some light traffic, that I started thinking about the fact that I might not be able to drive if my barely perceptible contractions became more intense. I was definitely rethinking that decision to let Giacome finish my blow dry before leaving for the hospital.

Ideally, Chris would have been driving me – but it was important that I go to the hospital immediately. And he had to drop Oliver off before coming to meet me.

It was a little anti-climactic when I first arrived. I drove around for a bit looking for a good parking place, and then I stopped to give someone directions on my way into the building. Once I reached the reception area, I had to wait in line behind people who were interrogating the receptionists about whether it was possible to order vegan meals from the cafeteria. Okay – I just totally made that last part up. But I did have to wait in line behind a bunch of people that did not have blood pouring out of a gunshot wound OR amniotic fluid streaming down their legs.

Eventually I was sent up to Labor & Delivery where I finally got a little service! Actually – it was a bit disconcerting because when I provided my name, the nurse said, “oh – your doctor just called. She’s very worried about you.” I asked if I should be worried about me. She clarified that since surgery was necessary, they wanted to check me out right away. So off I went to triage.

Here is where the pregnancy crazies come into play. The young nurse who “checked me out” said, “oh yes – I can feel that head.” Now – this made me very excited because last I heard, George (who was positioned to be the first one to come out) had his little heiny jammed firmly into my birth canal. Could he possibly have turned? Could I skip the whole major abdominal surgery thing and have the twins the old fashioned way? I was really getting psyched about this.

Then my doctor arrived. She is great and I trust her implicitly, but that woman is strictly no nonsense. I told her about the miraculous head sighting (or feeling), and she gave me one of her famous looks. “Kate,” she said, “it is almost impossible for that to happen now. They have very little room to move at this point.” But I wanted my fantasy to be real, so I begged her to check – just to make sure. She agreed to go get the ultrasound equipment, and I could literally feel her eyes rolling as she walked away from me. Long story short, the nurse gave me false hope. She felt George’s butt, not his head.

Shortly after my disappointing news, Chris arrived looking like he had just parachuted onto the front lawn of the hospital. He was excited though and I needed some positive energy in my little corner of triage.

Then I noticed that he only had one bag with him. I had packed two. Was it the bag with my skincare products and my toothbrush and my comfy socks? No – it was the bag with my DVD player and my books and magazines. I asked him if the other bag was in the car, and he said, “what other bag?” I said, “um, the one sitting right next to this one?” Nope – didn’t ring a bell. I expect that when I called to tell him my water had broken, he didn’t register anything more than, “water broken…blah blah blah…hospital…blah blah blah…Oliver…blah blah blah…bag.” Oh well – at least I could watch some Gilmore Girls if I got bored.

As much as I really was dreading the surgery part, I was happy to see my anesthesiologist and get the news that it was go time. The contractions were becoming more than uncomfortable. And Chris was starting to get on my nerves, all windblown and positive with only one suitcase… Men.

Since I had expected to have a c-section, I knew what to expect. I kissed Chris and told him that I’d see him in the OR. He had to scrub in. Then the anesthesiologist and I walked down the hall together. Which seemed weird. I was kind of expecting to be wheeled in on a gurney. Or to at least be pushed in via wheelchair.

The next thing that I remember finding a little unnerving is that when I lay down on the operating table (which was so thin I thought I might fall off – is it me or do you picture something more along the lines of a dining table?) I was completely stripped below my chest. I don’t know why this would surprise me since I’m familiar with the area where they make the incision. But I just didn’t picture being naked. Especially with strange men wandering around talking about sports. Everyone seemed a bit too jovial for my liking… What did they think this was, Gray’s Anatomy? Were they going to be too busy flirting across my blood and guts to notice that I was bleeding out? No – I wasn’t overly fond of the banter. I wanted them to come to MY surgery with their A game.

Anyone who has had a c-section before may have noticed that I skipped the part about having a needle poked into my lower back to administer the spinal block. It wasn’t my favorite part – but it was over quickly enough. Let’s leave it at that. But the actual effects of the spinal block made me want to jump up and run screaming out of the room (if I could actually move my lower body that is). They had positioned me so that my knees were up in the air, and then suddenly my lower body just disappeared. But I knew that my feet were on the table and my knees were bent. BUT I couldn’t feel them. This made me ca-ra-zy! But once they moved my legs back down so that they were on the table again (couldn’t feel it – but I knew they were doing it – eeeeww!), I felt better.

I also noticed that the numbness reached up to my chest and I was finding it hard to breath. Of course that could have been due to the general sense of panic, but the numbness didn’t help. Finally I couldn’t stand the jokes and the sports and the numbness and the tiny table and that fact that I was AWAKE for all of this, and I pulled off my oxygen mask and clutched the arm of the closest nurse. I dragged her down so her face was right next to mine and said, “listen – I just need to tell someone…I’m REALLY SCARED.” She kindly patted me on the shoulder, replaced my oxygen mask, and told Chris who had just entered the room to come hold my hand.

And then it started. I of course couldn’t see what was going on since there were about ten inches of sheet screening my view. But Chris had to actually avert his eyes since he was sitting up. He was given instructions to stay facing me if he didn’t want to “see anything.” Chris and I are pretty much in agreement when it comes to the inner workings of the human body. We never want to see anything.

Most of the procedure was a blur – but suddenly, there was George with a full head of dark hair. He was pink and screaming – and he looked nothing like my first baby. So it was kind of like having my first baby – if that makes sense. I had never seen anything like him. Chris went to go look at him as they started to pull Eleanor out. She looked a little bizarre since she was up in the top of my uterus and didn’t get washed off the way George did when my water broke. She was covered in vernix – but she looked more like Oliver did when I had him (just a little light brown hair on her head). But she was a girl and that was new to me. Chris watched them clean her off and saw both babies get weighed. George was 5 lbs. 11 oz. and Eleanor was 5 lbs. 12 oz. They were so tiny.

It was at this point that Chris decided to come back and talk to me. Big mistake. Or it wouldn’t have been if he turned back the way he had come: facing me. Instead he went in the other direction, and got a perfect view of the intern inspecting my uterus (outside of my body) and then shoving it back in. A nurse had to grab his arm as his legs started to buckle. He didn’t actually faint, but he almost did. Now that’s an image that will haunt your dreams. And he wasn’t too keen on what he saw during the “regular” birth of our first son. You know how the doctor says you have to wait six weeks before you can have sex? Six weeks after I had Oliver, Chris looked at me, and said in complete seriousness, “I’m not ready.”

Stop making faces Chris – that last line is crucial to the story. Well maybe not – but it’s really funny.

So that’s it! We got to hold our babies and take a picture and then all kinds of drama began the next day. But that is a story for another day. Today (or Sunday) is a birthday. And while I’ve never been one to get sentimental about the miracle of birth – I’m VERY sentimental about the birth of my own little angels.

Happy Birthday George and Eleanor. I love you so very much.

Hope Hurts

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A while ago, a friend of mine wrote about how mothers of autistic children cry all the time. She explained that the tears of happiness are just as plentiful as those of sadness. And to be honest, I had never really thought about it before.

After considering this idea, I decided that I almost never cry about my own “Spectrum” son, Oliver, unless I’m happy. And I wondered why. Why would I be more likely to burst into tears over one of Oliver’s triumphs? I’m not exactly known for being particularly emotional or effusive. I never cry at weddings. Expressions of love from family and friends make me smile, not tear up. I don’t really cry that much in general.

I’m definitely one for the frustrated tears though. It’s the reason why my children refer to my recent attempt to travel solo with them to Florida as “Remember that time you cried in Key West?” So wouldn’t it make far more sense for me to fall to pieces when faced with adversity?

And maybe that is the case most of the time…but not when it comes to Oliver.

I literally can’t think about scary “what ifs” when it comes to my son. If I allowed myself to actually go there…to imagine the worst…I wouldn’t be able to function.

We all have different reasons for our emotional reactions. We’re different people—our special needs kids have different challenges and levels of potential. We adapt to all of that and don’t look back. Or at least we try to focus on today. We don’t make plans for a future if it seems uncertain.

Certainty plays a significant role in the emotional life of a mom with a special needs child.

Some know exactly what the road ahead holds for them. I recently read a heartbreaking accountof one mother’s sorrow over her severely bipolar son’s life as “Pinocchio.” She only gets to see him as “a real boy” a few times a year, when his true personality randomly—miraculously—emerges to initiate meaningful conversation. To hear him talk about his hopes and dreams is a gift that comes with the terrible price of knowing the truth. She knows that he will always be dependent on her. She knows that he will never get married or have children. She knows that she will have to live for mere moments in her relationship with him. This certainty hurts.

But others—like me—don’t really know what the far future holds. We are allowed to dream a little. Or a lot…

Oliver’s processing disorders make him very delayed, but slow progress is better than none. I see how different he is from the other kids his age—and that’s hard—but I also see how different he is from the boy he was last year. He speaks in full sentences now. He doesn’t roll around on the floor while the teacher is reading a book (or at least that’s what she tells me). He’s more interested in other people. He wants friends. He participates in the world at large.

So I focus on that. I compare him only to himself. And as I marvel at how far he’s come, I assume that he will continue to achieve. That he’ll eventually catch up. I fervently hope that this will happen when he’s young and won’t remember being so different. As a six year old, he views others through his own eyes. He doesn’t view himself through theirs.

I rarely imagine what life will be like if this doesn’t happen. It hurts too much. Uncertainty has it’s own price.

Instead, I conjure clear images of the near future; of him learning to read and being able to have real conversations with friends. I throw money at therapies that seem to work for him. I look him in the eye and tell him he’s totally weird, and that I like that about him. I’m fairly certain that he won’t eventually grow out of his quirkiness. So I want him to embrace it, see it as something that makes him, “him.” I imagine him a little older and a lot more confident, possibly befriending other kids who seem a bit lost.

I hope a lot. And I believe that it’s all possible. That anything is possible.

And that hurts. Because if anything is possible, then it might not work out the way that I’d like it. He might not catch up. He might not be confident or embrace his otherness. Or he might never see the difference and just feel like an outsider

Every day, I encounter lovely people who are just a little strange. They seem to be off tempo with the rush of humanity swirling around them. They miss beats, they smile too wide. They seem somewhat odd and make others feel slightly uncomfortable. And I do what we all do. I smile back. I respond positively to their a-bit-too-muchness. I’m kind. I set a good example for my children.

I don’t like to think about the fact that an uncertain future may hold something similar for my own son. The image of him being someone who inspires people to be kind in spite of their discomfort shouldn’t make me sad…but as long as there are other possibilities, it will. If this is what the future holds for him, we’ll all be fine, and we’ll be happy. But for now I just hope for something else.

My heart clenches when I think about those “what ifs.” And I do feel some guilt over this because I am SO LUCKY to have been given the option of hoping and dreaming for my child—a very basic element of parenting that’s not afforded to all. And as much as I may have more worry and heartbreak than some parents of typical kids, there are just as many who would take offense to my attitude. How dare I feel anything but grateful for a sweet, loving boy with all of this potential? He smiles at me. He talks to me. He can run and play. He’s healthy.  He’s alive.

But in the darkest corners of our hearts, we allow ourselves to be selfish, to want more, to push aside gratitude and make way for secret fears.

This hurts more than anything—to hope so much, knowing that it may be for nothing. To feel the shame of not fully appreciating the gift of a precious child—my son who has made me a better person for knowing him.

So I don’t give the scary “what ifs” very much of my attention. I acknowledge those feelings from afar. Then I stuff them in a box and place them out of sight. I focus on my hope.

I don’t cry when I see Oliver struggling with words that come so easily to his younger brother and sister. I don’t cry when I see work coming home from school that is so obviously behind what he should be able to do at his age. And I absolutely DO NOT cry when he does. I smile and help and tell him he can do it. That it’s O.K. It will all be O.K.

All the while, that box or fear and worry and sorrow and anger fills up. And it gets harder to swallow the lump in my throat, to draw air into my lungs when it feels like all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. To move when I feel paralyzed at the sight of demons lurking in our uncertain future.

And then something wonderful happens. I see him playing a game with other kids, maybe even leading them for brief moments. Or I hear him singing a recognizable song. I witness him correcting his father’s misstep in complicated Lego construction, actually saying “No Daddy, that’s backwards.” To be given a view into the future reflecting all of my hope brings tears to my eyes.

I can cry tears of happiness when my hope is validated. It’s safe to open the box and air out my fears. I can let myself cry when I’m happy, when I know that I’ll be able to stop crying.

And that is why. For me, there is no option of angry or defeated tears. I simply can’t go there. If I did, I don’t know if I’d be able to come back.

And I’m needed here. My hope is important. I believe in the power of it. I will make good things happen through sheer willpower alone. At the very least, I’m going to try.

So if you ever see me crying over my son, yes, there are a lot of emotions involved and I’d be lying to say that they didn’t include the dark and scary ones. But I’ll be smiling. And I’ll be hoping.

Originally posted on Health News, HERE.

What Do You Mean You Don’t Want the Sequined Leopard Ballerina Flats?!

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Thank you to Crocs for sponsoring this blog post. Please click here to learn more about Crocs’ new Back to School line. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective. All opinions expressed here are my own.

While I’ve enjoyed the summer months of trips to the community pool and daily ice cream cones (I’m not kidding…I now have very spoiled – and chubby – children), it’s definitely time for everyone to get back to some structure. We need other grownups with degrees in education to get involved here.

So in case you were wondering – no, I don’t home school. I don’t have the talent for keeping small children organized. Most of our summer activities have involved me running up and down the stairs yelling at people to put on their pants because, “we’re late!” This is the house of chaos and not conducive to learning anything beyond the skill of baking the best chocolate chip cookies.

And I’m very lucky in that my preschoolers and soon-to-be first grader love school. Not sure how long that will last, but I’m enjoying it for now. Seeing them light up at the mention of beloved teachers, buying $1,000 in school supplies (KIDDING! sort of), and trying to convince them that “no, it’s not autumn yet and coats will be uncomfortable in the 90 degree heat“… It’s been fun getting ready for next week.

And what could be more fun than shoe shopping?! I mean, unless you’re that guy I married or something…

I, personally have fond memories of buying new school shoes. Primarily because I always had to wear a uniform and shoes were the one area where you could be different. So of course we all bought the same popular pair of shoes each year. But the point is that we CHOSE the same pair of popular shoes. Ah, freedom.

Since my children are enrolled in preschool and the the public elementary school, pretty much anything goes for shoes. And since they’re little, they can get away with wearing purple go go boots and people would still say, “CUTE!” So as far as I’m concerned, there are few restrictions on back to school shoe shopping.

It’s a little early to start stocking up on corduroy and plaid in the DC area, so I feel no rush to buy complete fall wardrobes just yet. But children who live in flip flops all summer definitely need more appropriate footwear for the first day of school. And yesterday, with that in mind, I dragged them all to the mall.

Here is the level of enthusiasm I was working with:

Eleanor wore sensible play clothes (because a trip to the the mall ALWAYS includes time at the germ encrusted children’s play area) and a couple of head bands. Then she pulled the outfit together with a pink and green giraffe print purse. Never one to bother with superfluous accessories, she put the bag to good use by stuffing it full of other headband options. One can never be too prepared…

George wore a red polo shirt with red athletic shorts (monochromatic is very hot right now). He also wanted a bag to carry to the mall, but I convinced Eleanor that her generous offer to loan him her pink and white seersucker purse with the bamboo handles would be wasted, as he doesn’t even wear headbands.

Oliver wore the shirt and shorts that I handed him and could have cared less about handbags or headbands. Thank god for Oliver.

And we were off for a fun afternoon of shoe shopping!

Our first and last stop was a popular chain of children’s stores that may have even been around when I was a kid. And the selection was varied as opposed to vast – which is a huge plus when your children have the attention span of…um, children.

The sales associate was very helpful and immediately offered to measure everyone’s feet.

Then I had a fight with George about how he already had sneakers and we were buying “school shoes.” Which makes no sense since he wears sneakers to school…but I was thinking more along the lines of leather and suede. Either way, we were at an impasse, so I decided to move on to Eleanor.

My daughter was mesmerized by the wall of “girly shoes.”

So I was all ready to have FUN with her selections.

Then we systematically disagreed on every pair of shoes on the wall.

She relented a bit and agreed to look at my preferences. One of which I thought would be right up her alley with its bling sequins and leopard print.

She tried them on…

…but wasn’t quite as amped about them as I had expected.

I told her to keep looking and moved on to Oliver, but after seeing this…

…I decided that the boys were a lost cause and they could just wear their sneakers to school.

In the meantime, Eleanor decided to consider boots, and everything fell into place.

The only problem is that she now wants to wear those boots with shorts, dresses, pajamas… She’s taking the sales girl’s comment that “they go with everything” VERY literally.

But that’s fine. I’m thrilled that she loves her new school shoes. Even if she technically shouldn’t be wearing them until people start frequenting pumpkin patches…

I still love the idea of back to school shoe shopping. And maybe it will get easier as the kids get older and don’t lie down on the floor when they get bored. Or maybe I’ll be arguing with Eleanor over why I think stilettos aren’t appropriate footwear for the fourth grade… Only time will tell. In the meantime, I’ll just chalk it all up to creative expression and hope that no one ever asks me to buy them purple go go boots.

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By the way – how cute are THESE!?

And her birthday IS in October…

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Also – check out this Crocs video. Click on your favorite shoes to link to details and look for Easter Eggs hidden within the video.

Find them for a surprise with your next purchase!

Lucky

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I tend to think of myself as a very lucky person.

I didn’t see things that way for a long time, but at almost 40 years old, it’s become very clear to me that I lead a rather charmed life.

Things always work out. No matter how bad something may seem at the time, it always offers that promised silver lining. And I’m always handed the opportunity for hope.

Every bad day (or let’s be honest, every bad week or even month…um, year – life can be hard sometimes) is followed by one that takes my breath away with its beauty and potential. Like someone’s saying, “see – I told you to stick around…and now don’t you appreciate it even more?“

So yeah – I get it now. If we don’t have any bad days, we won’t truly appreciate the good ones. While it doesn’t make that awful feeling of despair or depression feel any better, I always have that window out. I know something better is coming my way, and I just have to have faith in that. To focus on hope.

I spend a lot of time hoping. I think all parents do.

I remember being younger and hearing people say things like, “the most important thing is that you have your health.” It’s only as I get older that I’m finally starting to understand this. To not see it as a trite string of words that miss the point (duh – that’s obvious – doesn’t make me feel any better). But really – it is the bottom line.

This is why I’m so lucky. Because everyone I love is healthy. Or at least getting through whatever health issue they face. And I think that counts.

My mother has had three different kinds of cancer over the past fourteen years. She was in remission for nine and then had to do it all over again – twice – in the past three years. That’s a lot of fighting – and many would have given up. But she didn’t. And she works, and has friends and looks for the good in every day. She enjoys her life and is thankful for it. For her health. And I am so lucky for all of that.

My oldest son is one of the healthiest people I know – despite his refusal to eat anything but variations of cheese on bread. He also has developmental delays. And as he gets older and continues to have them, I get scared. I worry about the future. I do everything I can to try to help. I throw all the money that I have (and don’t have) at therapies that aren’t covered by insurance or offered through our school system. I spend almost every day actively refusing to do anything but hope. And the fact that I am even offered that luxury makes me very lucky.

I have numerous other people in my life who are going through all kinds of physical and emotional challenges. They range from minor to severe – life threatening to soul crushing. And I see them all fighting. Getting through it. Finding their own silver linings. They inspire me to keep hoping. They remind me of how lucky I am to know them. My lucky pennies.

Last week I noticed a strange lump on the back of Eleanor’s knee. It’s huge and it scared the hell out of me. I took her to the doctor and was given an order for an ultrasound and an x-ray. When I found I couldn’t get an appointment until the following week, I was assured by the doctor that it wouldn’t matter. A week wouldn’t make a difference.

I asked questions about whether I should be worried. And was told that it was probably just a benign tumor. But of course no one can tell me what it is with absolute certainty. Instead of focusing on the scary possibilities, I chose to assume it’s fine. To make plans for how we’ll prepare her for the idea of surgery (because benign or not, it will have to come out).

The past week has flown by. I’ve kept myself distracted and only allowed the “it’s nothing” thoughts any air time. And I really do believe that this will be okay. I have hope. I may be scared, but not enough to get in the way of hope. And I know how lucky I am to be able to say that.

When people tell me that I have my hands full (usually when they see me stuffing all three of my wild children into a shopping cart and handing them doughnuts to prevent any escape attempts) I often make the joke that I have a special needs child, an “explosive” child and a girl. This is true. They are a handful. They are not easy and they drive me absolutely crazy sometimes. But god, am I lucky to have them.

Right now – this very minute – I can say that I have three healthy children. I believe in my heart that they will be okay. I can have all the hope I want.

I’m so lucky…

UPDATE: It looks like Eleanor just has a bakers cyst. I’m not sure if it will have to be removed or if it will eventually go away on its own – but I’m SO relieved…

What No One Tells You When You Have a Baby

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I think I flush the toilets in my house approximately 25 times a day. And I can count on one hand how many times I do it for myself. It seems like almost every time I walk into a bathroom, I find yet another un-flushed toilet. Often stuffed with the equivalent of an entire roll of toilet paper. All of this toilet activity is messy and inconvenient, and incredibly time consuming.

I now feel lucky if I’m summoned to help with personal hygiene. As unappealing as it may be—at least I’m given some control over how the room is left. Having potty-trained little ones at home has created an entire new category in my housekeeping duties. One that makes me consider adding the position of “janitor” to my professional resume. I think I’ve cleaned more toilets in the last year than I ever did in the previous ten.

Then I remember those years I had all three children in diapers.

Fondly.

I’m serious. For all of the talking people do about getting kids out of diapers, I am sorely disappointed by this much touted milestone. No one ever mentions what happens AFTER potty training. We’re led to believe that once our offspring learn to use the bathroom without M&M incentives, we will be freed from daily involvement with those particular bodily functions.

Not so much. And this is just ONE of the things that more experienced parents let you believe when you’re staggering through the obstacle course of new parent challenges. I guess they know that the idea of a finish line is what helps you get through the day. Keeps hope alive and all that.

But altruistic or not—they still withhold the truth. They let you believe that things will get better sooner as opposed to later. That your baby will be easier as they get older. That you won’t still be talking about poop and lack of sleep when your children enter elementary school….

The sleep thing is huge. I read three books in the two months after my oldest, Oliver, was born. One was a Girlfriend’s Guide to not stealing the closest vehicle and making a run for the Mexican border—or something like that. The other two were tomes as thick as my left thigh devoted to teaching your baby how to sleep through the night.

I often find it funny how we spend around 40 weeks waiting for our babies to be born, and then we spend the next 10+ years waiting for them to go to sleep. Maybe it’s the allure of “free time” to get things done around the house or to eat a meal without having to get up every five seconds…. Or maybe it’s the fact that we have such visceral memories about them not sleeping without a preparatory hour of rocking, shushing, pacing, pleading, bribing, weeping. But when those little eyelids finally do close in slumber, we all break into an internal Hallelujah chorus from Handel’s Messiah.

And in those early months of night feedings and pacifier searches, we yearn for the approaching age when “they’ll sleep through the night.” To which other parents will agree that, yes, it is very freeing to have children who don’t need to be soothed to sleep and to actually get a full eight hours in before the alarm clock buzzes.

Maybe some of them are lucky and they really are telling the truth…. But this hasn’t been my experience. Sure—there was a brief toddler period where they would be so exhausted from the busy day that they would crash at bedtime. And they even slept soundly until at least dawn. But sometime during preschool, I saw a shift.

While they didn’t need to be rocked to sleep, they did require extra books and music and glasses of water and one more good night kiss. They wouldn’t just pass out anymore. They would stand at the top of the stairs calling “MOMMY!” They would declare that there were monsters in the closet and noises outside the window. They would wake at 3:00 a.m. with nightmares. And they would crawl into bed with us.

And so continues our nocturnal life. I live in fear of what the coming night holds in store for me. It is just as common for me to wake up with three children in my bed as it is to wake up alone in one of theirs. You often hear about the “musical beds” game a family plays throughout the night. You never know where you’ll be when the music stops (driving many to musical meds—but that’s another subject altogether).

So just in case you were wondering, no, my children do not sleep through the night (at least, not all at the same time). As a result, neither do I.

Another baby-related issue with which all new parents have to contend is spit up. It’s neverending. Babies spit up after they eat…because they were jostled at bit…as the result of acid reflux…. It’s gross. And it smells. “But not to worry,” parents of older children will assure you, “Once your baby starts sitting up, the spit up will end.”

What they neglect to mention is that babies start sitting up roughly around the time that they start eating more solid food. Not just mushy rice cereal—which incidentally, bears a strong resemblance to spit up—but table food. Cubes of carrot and melon. Peas and tiny bits of meat. And teething cookies! All excellent items to induce gagging.

It takes a while for babies to learn how to eat real food, and no parent will escape that fun-filled learning curve. It usually involves some projectile vomit, or my personal favorite, the lying down puke that ends up on hair and inside ears.

And I most feel for those poor parents of toddlers like my twins, who shove fingers and spoons into their mouths to gag themselves on purpose.

Ever have three children with a stomach flu? Enough said.

No one ever tells you about the vomit.

And the list goes on…

We look forward to getting rid of that cumbersome stroller. But then we have to chase them around shopping malls or beg them to walk faster. Or even worse – carry them.

We long for a day when everyone can put on their own seatbelts. A state of affairs that ushers in an entirely new genre of nagging: “Did you put on your seat belt? Why aren’t you wearing your seatbelt? You ALWAYS wear a seatbelt! NEVER take off your seat belt while I’m driving! Get back into your seat and BUCKLE THAT SEATBELT!“

Finally – my own personal favorite, “When they can all dress themselves.” I now spend hours of my week begging people to put on pants or locked in battles of will regarding what classifies as an appropriate outfit: “It’s time to get dressed… Come on, we’re going to be late…Why aren’t you dressed, you’ve been upstairs for twenty minutes… No you can’t wear your party dress to the playground… You can’t go outside without pants… It’s too cold for a tank top… No – tights are NOT pants… WHERE ARE YOUR PANTS?”

Before having children who can dress themselves, we see other kids in the grocery store wearing tutus with jeans or layered shirts in the middle of August and we wonder, “What were those parents thinking?!” Well, they were probably thinking, “We’re ten minutes late and you’re no longer nude—let’s go!”

No one—not ONE friend ever warned me about these things.

Or maybe they did. Maybe I was just too focused on self-preservation to listen. But if they did try to tell me, they certainly didn’t force the issue.

So I put it all in the same category of non-disclosure. I never got the memo.

With one exception.

But there are some people out there who are more than happy to set you straight.

The most experienced of parents—the ones who have grown children, who have made it through all of the milestones and lived to tell the tale—will break code and provide you with at least one very specific insight into what the future holds.

Without a doubt, each and every one of those parents will tell you, “Just wait until they’re teenagers….”

Originally posted on Health News, HERE.

Two for the Price of One: My Take on Twins

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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.