Following Up

{ image via }

So we had Max's post-op appointment at the ENT last Tuesday, to make sure his new ear tubes were doing well and that his hearing had improved {you can read more about our journey to help Max hear better here and here}. And... well, and it was possibly the worst experience of my life. {And possibly I'm being a little bit over-dramatic.}

I think it all came down to a big huge mistake that I made, which was trying to take all three kids with me to the appointment. I should have just gone by myself and said, "Don't worry, doc, I would know if anything was wrong with his ears." But I didn't. I felt like probably Max should be there, and I was in a mood to prove that I could be super-mom and keep three kids happy during {what I was sure would be} a very short outing.

Here's how everything went down: we arrived at the ENT and it was raining. I had to take Maggie and Lucy out of the car and buckle them into the double stroller in the rain, then take out Max and have him hold my hand as we walked through the parking lot in the rain. {Usually when I take all three kids out of the house, I put the twins in the stroller and I wear Lucy, but since this was Max's appointment, I figured he would need to be out of the stroller more than once, and I didn't want to make Maggie jealous if she couldn't get out of the stroller too. I was trying to think three steps ahead, as always.}

We checked in, I had to fill out a ridiculous Patient Update form, and then we went to the playroom to wait. We waited a long time. A long long time. A time so long that Maggie was already getting irritated with other children who dared to touch "her" toys and "her" books, Lucy had decided that there was nothing interesting enough to keep her awake and she'd like her second nap now, please, and Max was just everywhere {but mostly touching Maggie and her toys and her books}.

Finally a nurse called us back to an exam room. I think she had fun watching me try to hold Max's hand and push the stroller through the hallway and then pick Max up because he was fussing and carry him in one arm and push the stroller with the other. She must have had fun, because she certainly didn't offer to help me. In the exam room, we waited for another long time. Long enough for my kids to finish eating the snacks that I had brought for them and for Max to fall off the exam chair and hit his head on the floor when I wasn't looking. Long enough for me to hear our doctor in the next room yakking it up with people who clearly didn't need his services anymore.

Seeing the doctor took about two minutes {he literally came in, shook my hand, looked in both of Max's ears, said, "Well, they're both open. Do you have any questions?" and left}, but it was only the first part of our appointment. The second part was to visit the audiologist and have another hearing test. So we walked with a different nurse down the hallway {this one did offer to help me, bless her} to a different waiting area; she stuck our folder in a plastic bin hanging on the wall and left.

While we waited, we played a fun game where Max sat in one of the waiting area chairs and played on my phone, and Lucy and Maggie {in the stroller} and I {pushing them} would say, "Okay, bye bye, Max!" and walk away from him, and then turn around and say, "Oh there you are!" and walk past him in the other direction saying, "Okay, bye bye, Max!"

It was a completely boring game, but it kept my kids happy for ten minutes until a lady came out of an office and said, "Oh, didn't they tell you? We only have one audiologist here today and she's backed up. There are at least two people ahead of you." It was then that I said, "I don't know how long we can wait" and planned to pack my kids up in the car and go home lalready. But I still really wanted someone to tell me that my son could for sure hear perfectly, so I let the lady talk me into waiting in the playroom. She said it would be twenty more minutes at the most, which seemed doable.

Well, it was not twenty more minutes. It was thirty-five. Thirty-five minutes of trying to keep my kids happy in a room full of toys they were bored with and other kids who kept taking their Munos and Foofas. But we stayed. We stayed until the audiologist came to collect us, and the poor lady seemed even more tired and frustrated and just done than I was, which made me feel a little bit better. Better enough that I talked myself into the possibility of Maggie and Lucy staying happy while I took Max into the testing room by myself.

Maggie and Lucy did not stay happy while I took Max into the testing room. I tried to ignore the sounds of my two screaming girls and keep Max's attention on the puzzle I had in my hands while the test was going on. After a few minutes, however, the audiologist came back in and admitted that she couldn't get a completely accurate result because your kids are too darn loud. {That's not exactly how she put it, but that's what she meant. She then referred to Lucy as a boy, which made me not like her anymore.}

So then we left. I didn't get the reassurance that I wanted: "Yes, definitely he can hear all the way better now." Instead I got a "probably he can mostly hear better," a tension headache, and a nine-month-old who fell asleep as soon as I turned the car on. I'm thinking of going back with just Max and asking for another hearing test; I'm the kind of person who second-guesses everything until I get an answer that's for sure for sure, and I'd like this whole big event in my kid's life to end happily.

If you're still reading this post, thank you. I hope you don't mind that I spent eleven paragraphs complaining about a single afternoon; it really wasn't the hardest thing that's ever happened to me {obviously}, but it was an incredibly frustrating hour and a half.

A Post About Guilt

{ a photo entirely irrelevant to this post: my sweet pudgy Lucy in her first sink bath }

Here's what I've been thinking about lately:

I still have some guilt in the dusty corners of my heart. Guilt that's been there since Max and Maggie were born and that has lately been rearing its ugly head. Usually I only feel this guilt when I see pictures of babies in the NICU, their too-skinny baby bodies hooked up to monitors and wires and tubes. Even then I don't often recognize it for what it actually is; I only feel it as pain.

When our pediatrician suggested, at Max's 18-month well visit, that Max might need speech therapy, I felt that as pain at first also. I didn't understand why it hurt me; I have truthfully said several times since then {and I'll say it again!} that I'm not worried about Max. I'm not worried about his language skills or any kind of developmental delays. He's a happy, healthy, smart little boy and he makes me so proud and there is nothing about him that concerns me. {Okay, so I get a little concerned that he likes to walk around with his blankie over his head, but only because he always ends up running into something and hurting himself.} It was the phrase "this isn't uncommon for children who were born prematurely" that did it.

Because honestly, it boils down to the fact that I feel guilty that my twins were born seven weeks early. I feel guilty that they had to spend two weeks in the NICU. And oh, so much guilt that I couldn't be there with them every hour for their first two weeks of life. That I couldn't hold them close to me when they needed me so badly. That they were pricked with IVs in their hands and feet and foreheads, and I wasn't even there when it happened to experience the pain with them.

I feel guilty because I was 24 {and an immature 24} when I was pregnant with my twins. I didn't understand yet the responsibility that was being placed on me, and I didn't take seriously enough the care that I already owed my children. When my doctors started giving me physical restrictions to encourage a healthy pregnancy {no sex, no exercise, then bed rest, and eventually continued monitoring and hospitalization}, I stubbornly chafed against rules that I saw as unnecessary. I insisted that I was fine, and I figured my babes were fine. I thought they would be okay if they were born at 32 weeks, and I viewed early labor as being preferable to a four-week-long hospital stay.

I cringe when I remember those thoughts. How could I?

My attitude changed immediately when they were born. I saw them, my tiny four-pound babies, and suddenly my heart was in constant danger of breaking. I was overwhelmed by love, more love than I had ever felt in my life, but it was almost unbearable to see them struggling to survive and adapt. I was proud of my children for being so strong, but I was also so sorry; babies shouldn't have to be strong. I should have been strong for them.

If there's one thing I learned during the two weeks they stayed in the NICU, it's that my life wasn't about me anymore. It's a lesson that I've tried to remember for the past 21 months, those words that ran through my head again and again: it's not about you.

At this point, it's almost irrelevant whether Max's speech abilities are related to his premature birth. I can't blame all of the obstacles my twins will face in their lives on myself, and I can't go back and change what happened.

I'm not really sure how to end this post; I don't have a way to wrap everything up nicely or a message to take away. This post was more about working through my feelings than anything else. Thank you for reading, though, if you're still reading.

Family Pictures

I mentioned almost two months ago that we were planning on getting our family picture taken. Well, it's been a long time coming {what with photo shoots being scheduled, rained out, and then rescheduled}, but they're here! They're here! I got the e-mail yesterday that our pictures were ready and I did a little dance of joy. Hurray hurray for family pictures.

I honestly couldn't be more thrilled with them. Leah did an amazing job of capturing how we are in our lives right now and our relationships with each other, which is exactly what I wanted. {If you live nearby, you should check her out. Oh yes yes yes, you should.} I especially love that she got shots of Max with his blankie and Maggie with her teddy; those lovies are dear to my heart.

Without further ado, here are all the family pictures in the world. {My apologies to those who would prefer fewer pictures; I'm not up for getting yelled at by those who want to see them all.}



All photos in this post by Leah Watkins Photography.

The Piggy War

{ one strand of Maggie's hair in an adorable curlicue }

Lately, Maggie and I have been at odds. We disagree about her hair. I have decided that I think teeny pigtails are the cutest things ever. Maggie has decided that she hates pigtails.

If I gather up even the smallest collection of her fine strawberry blondies, Maggie shakes her head and shoos me away with her hand and says, "dondondondondondon't." I try anyway. I turn on TV so she's distracted. I sit her in a Bumbo so she can't get away. I give her the comb so she has something to play with. None of it works. But when it does work, she still pulls her pigtails out as soon as she can.

The thing is, I want to be the kind of mother who lets her kids be themselves. Be free. Have fun. I want to say: Play in the mud! Splash all the puddles! Color with markers! Pick out your own clothes!

But I'm not good at being that kind of mother when it comes to hair. And faces. I want a clean face and cute hair. My fingers start itching when Max's hair gets a little long, mostly because I start to see all the uneven spots from his last haircut. Haircuts from Mom are free, but they are also terrible. At least in our house.

With Maggie, I either want her hair in pigtails every day, or I want to cut it in the back so she doesn't have a baby mullet. Is that so wrong? Sometimes I think a better mother would just let her child be, but then other times I think I think that just because that's what my mother would have done.

Oh, dilemmas!

What it Means

Being a mother of three means that I am always touching one of my children, from the moment I wake up when Christian brings Lucy to me in the morning, to the moment I lay my Lovey down to sleep at night. With Lucy, it's mostly nursing all.day.long. And there's so much Max-and-Maggie-touching in between: changing diapers, cuddling to read books, picking up to go somewhere faster, comforting with blankies in tow, fishing "ickies" out of mouths, games of chasing and tackling, and {my favorite} kissing. I'm used to it, and most of the time I love it. The only thing I can't stand is whiny and clingy touching, especially if it goes on for an extended period of time for no reason.

Being a mother of three means that more often than not, the TV is on at our house. Before Lucy was born, I knew TV would be part of my plan to keep the peace once she was home. I started showing Max and Maggie Oswald because it's the least obnoxious kids' show I've seen. We started with just an episode a day, and it took a little while before they started actually paying attention, but now they love it. {And if you're wondering, "Is she actually saying that she got her kids hooked on TV when they were just one year old on purpose?" then the answer is YES. I make no apologies for my parenting techniques.} They now watch a healthy mix of Oswald, Blue's Clues, and classic Disney movies. We can always work on weaning them off TV when they're older and our lives are less insane.

Being a mother of three means that my body is under a lot of strain. Besides the usual {carrying two 20-pound babies up the stairs at the same time, that kind of thing}, I'm now also caring for and breastfeeding a two-month-old. I realized how close I was to physically hitting my limit when I started getting migraines, some of which didn't go away for days. Ugh! I went to the doctor and she told me what I already knew, I needed to be drinking more water and getting more sleep. I've been trying; I know I need to take care of myself in order to take care of my family. I pop half a dozen vitamins every day to help: a prenatal vitamin and vitamin D as recommended by my OB/GYN, magnesium to keep migraines away, and two giant calcium supplements because I'm off dairy {it upsets Lucy's tummy}. There are still days, at least one a week, when the clock hits 2:30 pm and I don't know how I'm going to stay awake until Christian gets home.




Being a mother of three means that I'm thinking three steps ahead about things that most people don't even think about. Pick up both Max's and Maggie's blankies before you get them out of bed at the end of naptime; it's a lot harder to pick up a blankie with a kid in each arm. Lay out clean diapers, pajamas, and lotion {and have an episode of Oswald ready to go} before Christian comes downstairs with post-bath babies. Don't get two diapers out of the basket for diaper changes; get four -- you'll need them later anyway and it will be handy to have them in the middle of the floor, right next to the wipes. The key to thinking three steps ahead is going about your normal baby-caring business and then, blerg! everyone's crying and you realize you should have done things differently.

Being a mother of three means that free time never just happens, ever. I'm caring for children literally starting the exact moment I wake up, and then all morning. If Lucy ever happens to be asleep when Max and Maggie go down for their nap, I use that time to eat {I usually have both my breakfast and lunch during their naptime}, shower, sleep, or take care of house business. There's enough work to go around even after Christian gets home to keep us both busy until Max and Maggie's bedtime, and then I want to spend the precious two hours before we need to go to bed with Christian, not doing something alone. I have a hundreds of items competing for first place on my when-I-get-a-minute list, and several long-overdue errands I need to run. And you all know I haven't blogged in almost a month.

And all of that? It's all okay. I'm exhausted and sometimes I wear the same shirt five days in a row, Febreezing it before I put it on again in the morning, but I wouldn't trade this time with my little family for anything. We're doing this three-babes-under-seventeen-months thing, and amazingly, it's working for us. Sometimes I realize how happy I am, how much I love what I do and how worthwhile it is, and I'm overwhelmed. I know I'll miss this era when it's over.

On Breastfeeding & Closeness

Here's what I have to say:

I tried breastfeeding Max and Maggie. I really did. In the hours after they were born, I was so disappointed that I couldn't nurse them right away, but I understood that that's what happens when your babes are born seven weeks early and then get rushed off to the NICU before you can even get a good look at them. I was also excited and happy to provide them with breast milk, and proud when what I pumped nourished their tiny bodies so well.

We tried breastfeeding in the two weeks they stayed in the hospital, but our opportunities for nursing were scarce, and I wasn't brave enough to ask the nurses to help me often. My little babes were oh so fragile, and I was still cautious when I held them.

After we brought them home, we tried again. We visited a lactation consultant and made a plan for how to wean them off bottles. But nursing hurt like fire, like nothing I had ever experienced, and I cried and cried until I couldn't take it anymore and I pulled my babies away from me. I worried about not knowing exactly how much food they were getting. When we were so concerned with every little bit of weight gain, not being able to measure their intake was troublesome. And I was so tired. I felt like I couldn't try to do any more than I was doing. I could only survive.

Eventually we switched to formula. Christian said it was my decision, and I prayed to know what was right. What was best for us, as a family. I felt that I received the answer: formula is a good choice.



After hearing all that, you may not believe me when I say that I have strong feelings about breastfeeding. My mother taught me that breastfeeding is important, that breast milk is best for babies. I never doubted her; I had an incredibly hard time overcoming the guilt that came with my decision to give Max and Maggie formula. I knew that when the next baby came, we would try breastfeeding again.

When Lucy was born, she was fat. She was healthy, strong, and eager to eat. So much about her birth, the normalcy of her arrival and the sweet plumpness of her existence, healed the pain that was left in my heart after the experience of Max and Maggie's birth. She excelled at nursing instantly. The lactation consultants who visited our hospital room exclaimed over how well she did. I was happy. It was easy. We snuggled together in our hospital room and I smelled her fuzzy head when she slept on me.

I feel so lucky, so blessed that breastfeeding has been almost effortless for Lucy and me. It was painful at first {after one 40-minute feeding she left me bleeding}, and we're still working on discreet public nursing, but trying to breastfeed Max and Maggie felt like trying to run with my ankles tied together. Breastfeeding Lucy feels like flying.



So here it is, what I really want to say:

When we visited the lactation consultant for help with Max and Maggie, she gave us all kinds of literature. One pamphlet I remember was printed on yellow paper; it advocated the benefits of breastfeeding. I remember that pamphlet specifically because certain parts of it haunted me as I tried to make my decision about how to feed my first two children.

There was a quote in that pamphlet from a woman who said that she had breastfed some of her children and bottle-fed others. Because of the bonding that occurs during breastfeeding, she claimed she felt closer to the breastfed children than to the bottle-fed children.

Maybe you can understand why that would upset me, as a new mother. One who is trying to do what's best for her children and exhausting herself with the effort. I felt like I had failed. I was worried that I had permanently damaged my relationship with my Max and Maggie. I was worried that if I had more children, I would love them more.

But now I know for myself. I have breastfed a child and I have bottle-fed children and I can tell you because I know, I know that how you choose to feed your baby does not determine your relationship with them. I know because I look at Max and Maggie, my wonderful darling one-year-olds, and the love that I feel for them is unrestrained. After what the three of us have been through together, nothing could diminish our relationship.

Breastfeeding has brought Lucy and me closer, I know that, too. I'm grateful for that blessing.

But I think of that pamphlet now, and it seriously pisses me off.

A Happy List

{All is forgiven, Maggie. You are just too adorable.}

Last night was one of those nights when, just as I was ready to get into my bed, Maggie started crying in hers like spiders were crawling all over her.

Christian says that it's not something I need to worry about, our kids being bitten by spiders, but I've been bitten in my sleep on at least six occasions, with multiple bites each time, in at least four different houses. And it seems like maybe I have this je ne sais qua that attracts spiders to me -- perhaps spiders, like dogs, can tell when humans are afraid of them? Only it's not so much that I'm afraid of spiders as that I loathe them like I loathe nothing else. But if I have this characteristic that attracts spiders, and really, I think the evidence is in my favor on this one, then possibly that characteristic is genetic. And in that case, I feel like baby-biting-spiders ARE something to worry about.

But back to last night. I was already frustrated because I had been playing the.worst.game.ever all evening. Also I hadn't {still haven't} gone into labor, and I was pretty tired. And my three frustrations were melding into one big super frustration, much like the three tornadoes in The Day After Tomorrow come together to create a super tornado that destroys downtown LA.

So when I heard Maggie, I hit a wall. {If you remember, this has happened before.} I let myself slide to the floor, I muddled around in a pool of self-pity for a while, then I gathered myself together and went in to comfort her. It took me a while to get her back to sleep, and even after I did, she woke up when I put her back in bed and cried a little more -- just long enough to wake up Max. She woke up again at 3:45, and then she was up for the day at 6:30. Um, it was a rough night. And today is another in a string of cloudy, gloomy days.

All this is to say, I could use some happiness. So here are eleven {bonus!} things that are making me happy right now:

1. Getting my anniversary/birthday/Mother's Day present in the mail yesterday.
2. My new hat {marked down even more in-store} and nail polish {the mint color}, purchased during a spontaneous date-night trip to Urban Outfitters on Friday.
3. Discovering that the bushes in front of our house are gardenias. They are just covered in blossoms, and smell heavenly.
4. One-year-old head smell. It's not the same as newborn head smell, but it's pretty fantastic in its own way.
5. Yesterday Max picked up Maggie's doll and handed it to her when she was fussy; it was the first nice thing I've ever seen him do for her. And then...
6. The fact that after I praised him for being so nice to his sister, Max took the doll away so he could give it to her again.
7. Cookout. Any time, always. It's worth the now 40-minute round trip.
8. Borrowed maxi dresses from my sister-in-law, which have given me a break from my one pair of maternity jeans that still fit.
9. Getting to spend one-on-one time with my babes individually. It's such a treat.
10. Hearing Christian say sweet things about our children {both born and as-yet-unborn}. I find myself falling in love with him over and over again.
11. I can now count on one hand the days left until my due date. We're getting close!

What's making you happy right now?

P.S. You can read more happy lists right here.

Six Maggie Facts

{Maggie sticking close while watching Oswald yesterday; she wants to be in physical contact with me almost all of the time.}

1. She's a little chatterbox. For a few months we tried and tried to get her to say "dada" and it seemed like she got so close, but we were afraid of jumping the gun by claiming it as her first word. Then it seemed like one day, she just got it. She now says "da-dee" {or sometimes "did-ee"}, "mama" {my favorite}, the most adorable little "uh-oh" whenever anything falls on the floor, "ah!" {for eye}, and a whispered "chi-chi" {for Jesus} at pictures in frames on the wall. When she looks out our back window and sees the swings she says "whee! whee!"

She's good at imitating, so if you tell her the name of something enough times, she'll often repeat it back to you, but I don't think she could come up with the word again on her own. She's said "eh" for egg, "bo" for ball, "nana" or sometimes just "na" for banana, and "mo" for more.

2. We're also working on some signs; raising the roof is her version of "all done," and very occasionally she'll condescend to pat herself on the chest as a reluctant "please." We try "book" and "more," but I think they're too close to clapping {which she does whenever someone else claps, says the word "clap," or says "yay!"} for her to be able to differentiate at this point.

3. She learned how to crawl shortly after her first birthday. We've talked about it with her pediatrician, and we know that she's just on her own timeline, but boy have we made fun of her for starting to crawl when most of her peers were learning to walk! It's such a welcome development for her to be able to move herself {almost} wherever she likes. She and Max often crawl off and play together on their own, which I think is just so awesome. She's taken to suddenly crawling as fast as she can across the floor while yelling "ahhhh!" which we interpret as "charge!" She's good at pulling up, cruising, and climbing all the way to the top of the stairs, but can't quite manage to get onto the couch by herself yet {Max can}.

4. Her most favorite thing to do is read books. All the books; she's even pulled off some of our adult books off the bookshelves in the office and asked me to read them to her. {I love encouraging her to read, but I don't think she's ready for Michael Crichton's Timeline just yet.} She'll crawl into my lap {or what's left of my lap; she always wants to sit on one of my legs while we read} and gesture at the books she sees until I start reading. She loves to turn the pages, but doesn't always wait until I'm finished with one before moving on to the next. She'll often get bored of a book halfway through and adamantly close it and gesture at other books instead.

Some of our best-loved books are: Brown Bear, Brown Bear {and its sequels}, Each Peach Pear Plum, The Runaway Bunny, Where the Wild Things Are, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, I Love You Through and Through, The Biggest Kiss, Mr. Brown Can Moo, and Harry the Dirty Dog.

5. Her second favorite thing to do is point at my eyes, nose, mouth, and teeth in turn and have me say what they are. She actually loves to point/poke her finger into all eyes, including her dolls' eyes, eyes in books, spots in books that she interprets as eyes, and {unfortunately for him} Max's eyes. Even though she's getting pretty good at finding others' eyes, she often points/sticks her finger in her own ear and mistakenly says "ah!"

6. My favorite thing for her to do {it's seriously the most adorable thing I've ever seen}:

Birthday

The day came. It actually, in all reality, came. My sweet babies, my darling Maggie Elaine and Captain Maxwell turned one whole year old today. And thankfully, Christian and I were not so short-sighted and unbelieving as to not make preparations.





I stayed up until midnight last night finishing a teepee for a special birthday surprise {tutorial from here}. We gave the babes their presents this morning: a walker for Max, and a little piano for Maggie. So far, they both love the piano and seem confused by the walker except that they both know they hate to use it for walking.

Christian stayed home from work and we visited the North Carolina Zoo today. We scheduled our departure so they could have their first nap in the car, and our plan worked perfectly; they fell asleep in their new big kid car seats and slept the whole way. Once there, we quickly realized that one year old, as mature as it may sound, is still too young to get any real excitement out of the zoo. It was also very warm, and we spent a lot more time walking than we had expected. Nevertheless, they were champs.

We drove home during second naps, and then Christian was gracious enough to take over while I crashed. We weren't ready for birthday celebrations to be over, so we got back into the car after dinner and visited Goodberry's for ice cream and some good brick-slapping. Our kids were exhausted by bed time, and Maggie in particular required constant holding. We sang them a Happy Birthday song and told them about all the things they accomplished during the past year before putting them down.

It's strange, but looking at them and seeing how old they are makes me realize that even though they're mine, and I've spent every day of their lives taking care of them, there's still so much about them I have to learn. There's more getting to know them the more they grow, and I'm so glad I have the opportunity to spend time with them.

Dear babes, I love you so much. I told you today that I love you times a hundred, but really I hope you know I love you times infinity. Thank you for making me a mama; it's my favorite.

Days Like This

It must be said: yesterday was a terrible day. A horrible, no good, very bad day. No one was sick or injured or teething {I think}, but nonetheless it was a day filled with whining and frustration and crying {hey, everyone, tears all around! On me!}. Also, it was a day filled with:

- Max's shoes not fitting onto his huge feet when we were trying to get ready to go to Target, even though I could have sworn they were the right size.

- Throwing said shoes across the room because seriously, WTH, shoes??

- Max going to Target barefoot.

- Babies getting antsy at Target because their mama is looking at all the baby shoes, trying to find a pair that might fit her son's giant clown feet, instead of pushing the cart around.

- Max continually pulling on Maggie's jacket sleeve, and Maggie fussing.

- Max pulling really hard, or pinching, or possibly biting Maggie's arm in the cereal aisle, and Maggie losing it completely.

- Carrying Maggie in one arm for the remainder of our Target trip to keep her happy and to keep Max from upsetting her again; pushing a ginormous double cart with the other arm.

- Buying ice cream because the day sucks so hard.

- Buying two baby gates, in the hopes that one of them might keep Max from climbing up the stairs.

- Max whining, clinging to my feet, and climbing up the back of my legs while I put away groceries even though, ohmygoodness! Child, nothing is wrong!

- Trying Max's new shoes on his feet, only to discover that somehow they are also too small.

- Throwing said shoes across the room because seriously, WTH, shoes??

- Opening the carton of ice cream and sharing it with babies, hoping a treat would reset the day and help everyone be happy and normal again.

- Attempting to talk to my mom on the phone about what a terrible day it had been, but not being able to because of two babies, pulling on me and trying to eat the phone.

- Giving everyone a timeout/hiding in the bathroom for a minute so I don't start yelling or being mean. Twice.

- Feeling like a coward for hiding from my kids.

- Trying to calm babies down, but not being able to. Max not being content with just one side of me and clawing at Maggie, trying to get to my other side; Maggie consequently screaming so loud and scaring Max.

- Calling Christian sobbing because I'm beyond rational thought and need him to tell me what to do.

-Coming downstairs after talking to Christian to find Max trying to find comfort in my sweatshirt, since his blanket was in the washing machine.

- Trying to give babies lunch, but having Maggie cry and cling to me every time I put her in her booster seat.

- Holding and rocking babies until my arms hurt. Singing lullaby songs over and over and over.

- Finally being able to feed babies lunch. Realizing Maggie needs to go down for a nap immediately afterward.

- Maggie rolling over no less than six times while I tried to give her a pre-nap diaper change.

- Putting both babies in bed and feeling too exhausted to move. Having a massive headache.

- Suffering through several more meltdowns and tantrums post-nap, most of them involving Max crawling over Maggie's hands.

- Pulling Max off the stairs before he climbed too high four times.

- Starting to cry in front of the babies, and feeling awful because it scared and confused them.

- Wishing and wishing for Christian to come home.

- Christian coming home and offering to take care of the babes while I take a nap because he could tell how tired I was.

- Crying out of relief for a minute before going to sleep.

- Waking up and feeling more normal.

- Having to put Max in one of Maggie's sleepers for bedtime because I never finished doing baby laundry.

- Being glad the day was over and that I never had to live through it again.

Goodbye

On Sunday night, I was exhausted. I hadn't gotten a nap for two days, Christian and I had stayed up late both Saturday and Sunday nights {first for Stake Conference, and then to watch the Oscars, which are both very important and absolutely worth missing sleep}, and even though Sunday was my morning to sleep in, Christian had to wake me up to get ready for church.

So by the conclusion of our weekend, I was ready for rest. I was beyond reasonable emotion when, less than an hour after I had fallen asleep, Maggie woke up crying. It was my turn to take care of babies who make noise in the nighttime, so up I got up, left my bed and my sleeping husband, and closed the door behind myself to leave them in peace.

Our policy with crying babes {at least between the hours of 7:30 pm and 6:30 am} is to let them soothe themselves back to sleep. Usually it doesn't take long; there have been early mornings when Max made noise at 4:30, 5:45, and 6:30, and I got up every time, only to have him silent again within five minutes. We often doze on the couch while waiting them out and keeping a droopy eye on the clock.

However, I soon realized that Maggie wasn't going back to sleep quickly. Not only did she not stop crying and make her baby sleep song, but her cries weren't normal; they were the kind that pierced my heart and gave me physical pain. I sat at the top of the stairs and thought about all of the terrible possibilities; the things that my rational brain knew hadn't happened to her, and that my mother-brain imagined in vivid detail. I cried in frustration and exhaustion and confusion.

I went back to where Christian was sleeping and sobbed hysterically. I didn't understand, I didn't know what to do, I couldn't listen to her anymore, I couldn't do nothing, I was afraid of doing the wrong thing, I was worried about her. Christian, being the incredible husband and hero of mine that he is, took charge; he told me to sleep and not worry anymore. My love for him grew three sizes even before I was finished blowing my nose.

It turned out that I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't not worry, but Christian's quiet compassion helped to calm me. I got up again, my mind resolved. I went in to my dear Maggiebaby and held her tight. She put her arms around my neck and clasped fistfuls of my shirt tight in her tiny fists, making small sad baby sounds. We sat down in the glider and I held her against my chest and we rocked and rocked and rocked until she fell -- finally -- asleep.

As we rocked, I tried to remember the last time she had allowed herself to sleep on me. I wondered when she might again. And the word that kept coming to my mind was "goodbye." So before I put her back in bed, where she slept peacefully the rest of the night, I talked to her in my mind.

Goodbye to my little tiny baby, you will soon not be a baby anymore. You are growing up so fast. Goodbye to our time together when you needed me so desperately, and wanted me always more than anyone. Goodbye to the days when I gave everything I had to you and your brother and we just barely got by. Goodbye, my sweetheart newborn, my very first baby, the heart of my heart.

I will be your mama forever {thank you for making me a mama} but you will grow up healthy and happy and strong, and you will not stay my baby. I love you so very much, darling.

*beautiful mother & baby photo by DelaLane Photography

The Grossest

I have to say, I'm not surprised that having kids has brought along a few messy moments. I just would have guessed, before Max and Maggie were born, that the grossest experiences of motherhood would include dirty diapers. But in my overall experience, that hasn't been the case. {Maybe because we lucked into buying the most blowout-proof diapers ever? We love our Pampers Swaddlers.} Other than the occasional Max-pees-on-something-with-his-diaper-off incident {once hitting his own face}, the gross memories that come to mind have to do with spit up. Two, in particular, are terribly memorable:

- Before I got too pregnant, I used to play a game with my babies where I would lay on my back, position them on my legs, and then lift them into the air, holding them tight under the arms. I did it with a "one, two, THREE!" that went super high. I know I'm not describing this game very well, but just try and picture it anyway, okay? One evening in January I was playing with Max, and he was being so adorable that I added in a part after the "THREE!" where I brought him down and kissed him on the mouth. After playing for a few minutes, I brought him down for a kiss, and he laughed, and then spit up. In my mouth. My first reaction was to sit up and spit it right back out, at which point it went straight down my shirt. And, you know, all around in there. Thinking about it still makes me feel a little queasy.

- One day last week I quickly ran upstairs while the babies were happily occupied so I could get dressed. After throwing on jeans and a v-neck tee {my go-to pregnant outfit, always}, I heard a thunk and then Max started crying. It wasn't a big deal; Max loves to explore, but always has a hard time when he inevitably loses his balance and falls. I helped him recover, and then... found Maggie on her tummy in the kitchen, licking up a puddle of spit up. She also had it all over her face. I assume it was hers, since it wasn't anywhere near Max, but that's still only marginally better than if it had been her brother's. I had to act quickly to keep her from getting it all over her pants as well as she saw me, turned and started scooting toward me.

What are the most disgusting things that have happened to you or that you've witnessed, kid-wise? Can you top my stories? I'd love to hear them!

*image via frames of reading road
If you know the original source of this image, please let me know. THANKS SO MUCH!

One of My Favorites

I absolutely love getting to see Christian being a father; it's one of the things I've enjoyed most about having children. Seeing him give Maggie her bedtime bottle is just the sweetest. He cuddles her close and rests his mouth against her little peach-fuzz-covered head. He sings her songs -- "Rocket Man," "Hallelujah," "Hotel California," and "Yellow Submarine." I like to stay quiet and listen because it's so beautiful to me.

On Babies Growing Up

Christian and I play a game wherein we pretend that March 20th is never going to happen again. Our babies will be eleven months and 28 days old on March 19th, and then the world will stop. Time will no longer move forward, and our babies will never be one year old. How could they? It was just weeks ago that we brought them home from the hospital.



In my heart I've already resigned myself to the inevitable. Refusing to acknowledge how old they are doesn't keep me from seeing how big they've gotten. Or how much they've learned. Or the growing up they've done.

Maggiebaby is finally taking an interest in crawling. She loves to scoot around on the floor like an inchworm; I think she realizes that sometimes the only way to get what she wants is to get it for herself. For example, I'm never going to hand her dust bunnies to eat. That's gross. But when she's on her belly she can move around and pick up all the little fuzz balls she wants, and she seems to want all of them. She can even stick them in her mouth when I'm not looking. Sneaky Maggie. {Sneaky like Buddy.}



Max got his first haircut today. I put him in a polo shirt and saw {to my horror!} that he had a little mullet peeking over the collar. Since I happen to know that mullets aren't Max's style, and since I wouldn't trust anyone else with scissors near my son's head, I sat him in his booster seat and trimmed those shaggy hairs away. I admit it, it broke my heart. I almost cried when the first lock of my baby's hair fell to the floor. Then when we were done I changed him into two-piece pajamas. He is turning into just the biggest boy.



What happened to my tiny little grasshopper babies?

The Story of Our Yesterday

Prologue


My Maggiebaby was born with an extra thumb. Christian told me, after he had been to see our newly born babies and as I was being stitched up post-delivery, that our girl had a tiny extra digit. I thought he was kidding, but he told me that he "was strictly instructed not to make any jokes at this point," which was good advice.

It was never a big deal to us, this extra thumb -- we claimed our right as new parents to call our daughter perfect regardless, and meant that description with all our hearts. Since then I've smiled to myself whenever I hear soon-to-be mothers and fathers wish for ten fingers and ten toes. Um, how about eleven fingers?

Chapter 1


Christian and I put off having this little thumb dealt with. At first, perhaps, because she was such a tiny baby and we couldn't bear the thought of her going through surgery. After that point I blame exhaustion, and the fact that it was such a nothing issue for us. We made a few "what has three thumbs?" jokes, and planned to show what would be embarrassing pictures to her future boyfriends, but otherwise almost never thought of it. Eventually, though, we made an appointment to see a pediatric orthopedist, and then scheduled surgery to have that eleventh finger removed.

It was at this point I began to worry. My Maggiebaby under general anesthesia? My Maggiebaby not allowed to eat anything after midnight? I prayed to allay my fears, and did my best to have faith.

Chapter 2


The night before her surgery, we kept Maggie up extra late in the hope that she would sleep longer. In the early morning I listened closely for her sleepy voice, and ran in to give her a pacifier every time she stirred. At 8:00, however, she was definitely awake, and we still had an hour before we even needed to leave for the hospital. When she realized I wasn't going to feed her, I found it necessary to employ techniques I had learned from mothers with colicky babies, and we vacuumed the living room for 45 minutes. She did a good job in her car seat, and waited patiently while I checked us in and gave out our insurance information. At 10:30 they took us back to the waiting area where I changed her into the smallest hospital gown ever made. I prepared myself to keep her happy for another hour and a half until she was scheduled to go back for surgery.

Chapter 3


My Maggiebaby, who before yesterday I might have described as "a little fussy at times," has proved herself to be a champion among babies. The sweetest, the best-natured, the absolutely most patient baby. Maggie was not taken into surgery at 12:15. Maggie was taken into surgery at 3:00. Our doctor was delayed by an operation that took much longer than expected. And my darling girl, my adorable firstborn child, who usually waits no more than five hours between feedings, was miraculously content with her pacifier while we waited. She dozed for long periods of time on her pathetically small gurney, occasionally waking and wanting to be held, or to watch TV.

At one point, when my patience was wearing thin and she let out a weak little cry, I began sobbing to a sympathetic nurse about how she hadn't eaten for fifteen hours, and should we just give up and go home already? I'm not ashamed to admit, I think my baby is a better person than I am. She is amazing to me.

Chapter 4


The surgery, once begun, only lasted 15 minutes. She didn't even need an IV, and thank goodness -- I've had enough of baby IVs. I was told it was a simple procedure that went well. She has one stitch, which is dissolvable and should fall out on its own. The bandage on her hand, the doctor told me, could be taken off at home if we felt it was too tight. We could give her baby Tylenol if we thought she was in pain.

When I was allowed to go back to Recovery, she was in the arms of a comfortingly mothering nurse, sucking down her second bottle of Pedialyte. When I held her, she let me know just what she thought of the events of the day. All of the frustration and rage she had been holding back were now vented on me. She yelled until she suddenly fell asleep on my shoulder. I quietly packed us up, and as we were driving off the hospital campus, I cried again and said prayers of gratitude that the whole ordeal was over.

Epilogue


Maggie is doing well. She's been a little more sleepy than usual, I think is the biggest difference. Her hand seems a little sensitive when we pull it through the sleeves of her clothing, but she doesn't mind gnawing on the bandage when the urge to suck her thumb strikes. And now, ten fingers and ten toes -- that's what's important, right guys?