Following Up

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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.

So Far

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Max is doing great after his surgery, you guys. Thank you for thinking of us, thank you for asking about him, thank you again for your kindness. It's fills up my heart to know that we have so many friends out there. I love you all!!

If you're interested, here's how everything went down:

I woke up at 5:15 on Tuesday morning and got ready. I had packed our bag the night before {diapers, slippers, books, crayons, stickers, and Christian's iPad}, so at 6:00 I scooped Max out of bed, put his coat on over his jams, and put him in the car. It was still dark when we arrived at the surgery center, but Max was happy to be awake and didn't seem to notice being hungry. There was a fish tank in the waiting room {did I take that as a sign, again, that we were in the right place? Yes I did, of course I did} and my phone to keep him entertained before we got checked in.

Once paperwork was signed, a nursed called us back and gave me a tiny hospital gown {not as tiny as Maggie's, though, thank goodness} and three Cars stickers. I made a big deal of showing Max how cool the stickers were, got him to say "car" for each one, stuck them on the front of his gown and patted them down, then quickly distracted him with crayons. Because Max is the kind of kid who likes to rip stickers off his clothes and then play with them in his hands until all the sticky is gone, and then he ends up sad and confused. I signed more paperwork while Max dumped all the crayons in his lap.

Soon after we were bored of playing with all the things in my bag and Max was working hard on rearranging the apps on Christian's iPad, they were ready for him. The nurse had said to me earlier, "If you don't mind, when they take him back please just stay standing right there until he can't see you anymore, so he doesn't think you've left. That'll help him feel better." To which my heart said both duh! and sob. But then the second he was through the doors, she was all, "alright, back to the waiting room with you!" And I didn't have the emotional capacity to be annoyed with her because I was concentrated on the fact that I could still see Max every few seconds as the doors kept swinging open, clutching his Foofa and looking forward.

Here's the thing: it doesn't get easier, handing your child over to the doctor and watching them walk away with your baby. Even for a surgery as simple and routine as Max's. I know there are mothers out there who have been through much more with their children because of medical conditions. I know how blessed I am to have three healthy kids. But it doesn't get easier, and it's still scary.

The good thing is that literally ten minutes after I sat down in the waiting room, the doctor came to find me to tell me that he was done. Everything went well, and they found a lot of fluid behind his ears. Soon a nurse came to take me back to Max in the recovery room. Unlike the times that Maggie has woken up from anesthesia, and has been a little upset but mostly groggy and tired and clingy, Max was upset and in pain and MAD. He was red-faced and inconsolable, with Tylenol dripping out of his open mouth. I soon gave up on calming him down and just got him dressed so we could leave.

He started to feel better in the car, and once we got home he was doing well. Throughout the morning he would sometimes start crying and tug on one of his ears, but by the afternoon he was totally back to normal. That boy, he's a tough one.

Every time someone asks me how Max is doing, I hear this subtext {whether they mean for it to be there or not} of "AND CAN HE HEAR NOW??" And I'm hesitant to respond. His doctor said that it could take a while for there to be a noticeable difference, which is why his follow-up visit and hearing test at the ENT aren't scheduled for another couple of weeks.

I don't want to say that I can't tell a difference as much as I was expecting, even though it's the truth, because I feel like that's resigning myself to disappointment. I don't want to say that I think I've definitely noticed some difference, even though that's also the truth, because I don't want to turn out wrong. I'm holding off on making any definite conclusions for now. I'm trying to be patient until we know for sure.

The Heavy Stuff

You may remember that almost three weeks ago I published this post, which was completely normal and ordinary {and maybe a little boring, as is often the case with Instagram dumps} except that I mentioned that we were going through "some heavy stuff" and I wasn't ready to talk about it yet. I thought I would be ready to talk about it later in the week, and I wasn't, and I apologize for not mentioning it again until now. But I'm ready to talk about it now.

In this post I talked about how Max might need speech therapy. After a couple months and a few evaluations, we've decided that yes, we are pursuing that option for him. While he seems more interested {much more!} in communicating now that he did then, his speech and comprehension are still very limited.

Part of the process involved with getting him qualified for speech therapy was doing a hearing test, to make sure that his slow speech development wasn't connected to any kind of hearing loss. And at first I didn't pay much attention to the possibility. But then in the days leading up to Max's hearing test, I started to feel a terrible sense of dread in my heart. It's like nothing I've ever felt before, this ongoing heaviness that weighed on me and stressed me out {and caused me to be extremely grumpy with everyone around me, as I'm sure Christian will attest}. I became suspicious, and then almost positive that his hearing wasn't perfect. The way he was often so focused on whatever he was playing with, the way he had trouble pronouncing the few words he knew {saying "gah!" for "car"}, and the way he sometimes just mouthed sounds instead of vocalizing them added to my conviction. I was worried about what hearing loss would mean for him, in his life.



When we did have his hearing tested, the results weren't surprising. He isn't deaf {of course; that's something we would have noticed before now}, but he did exhibit minor to moderate hearing loss. The audiologist explained that she also couldn't detect his eardrum vibrating at all. She suspected a problem with the middle ear, and not permanent hearing loss. While he can hear loud sounds, most vocal sounds are indistinct, so it sounds like he's underwater. While that was all good news, I left the audiologist that morning feeling frustrated. I had braced myself for a difficult diagnosis, and instead had been told that the results were inconclusive, that we should have his ears checked {she kept saying that she wasn't a doctor, so she couldn't say for sure, but that he probably had fluid in his ears from his most recent cold, three weeks earlier, and recommended scheduling a visit with our pediatrician, who might then pass us along to an ENT}, and that we could have his hearing tested again in four weeks.

I wanted this hearing problem of Max's to be fixed as soon as possible. I wanted to communicate with my son, and I wanted to do it yesterday. Instead it just felt like I was stuck in a web of red tape.

I ranted about the audiologist a little to my friends and family, and then made an appointment with an ENT for as soon as possible. I didn't want to go to the pediatrician and have someone tell me AGAIN that they weren't sure for sure what was going on. We were able to get in to see the ENT sooner than I had anticipated, for which I was grateful. When we went, the waiting room had a big tank of fish, which felt like a sign that we were in a place that could help us {for no other reason than Max loves fish, and I was feeling very emotional}.

The doctor came in quickly, examined Max quickly, and quickly explained that Max had fluid behind his eardrum, and we could either give him antibiotics and hope it went away, or put tubes in his ears. Since Max had been on antibiotics recently, I said yes, please, let's put tubes in his ears. The doctor agreed with me that the fluid has almost certainly been there for longer than three weeks, and has probably been there long enough to inhibit his speech development {a year or more}. He was confident that tubes would drain the fluid and restore Max's hearing completely.

And that's where we are now. Max is scheduled for surgery to put tubes in his ears on Tuesday. The main emotion I'm feeling is excitement for him; I can't wait for my boy to be able to hear perfectly. {Although part of me is just remembering the two times Maggie has had surgery, and how hard it was to hand her over to the doctor.}

I had a dream last night that took place a couple months from now. Max was sitting on the couch just a few feet away from me. When I spoke softly to him, he heard me. When I asked him "where's Max?" he patted his chest and repeated, "Max." It was everything I'm hoping for us in the coming months; that Max will hear, that his speech and comprehension will skyrocket with the help of therapy, that the world of sound will bring him incredible joy and understanding.

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.

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.

Six Maxwell Facts

1. He can't go long without his blankie; it's been his comfort object from early on. We often toss it over our shoulders when holding him so he can snuggle his face in it, but what he really likes to do is chew on the corners. All four are stained a yellowish brown from Max chewing on them with food in his mouth. I know, gross much? {We've tried stain treating them. They won't come clean.}

He alternates between being a sweet little cuddlebug and an energetic let-me-go-I-just-want-to-MOVE baby boy. He'll often come up to me just to get a hug, but once he decides it's over, it's over and he's gone. He also loves to have me sing to him and rub his back.

2. His favorite song is "If You're Happy and You Know It" and enjoys clapping his hands along when we sing. He'll request a rendition of our "happy song" by clapping his hands at me. He also loves "The Itsy Bitsy Spider," especially the part about the sun -- he thinks it's funny when I make my hands into a circle and peek at him through them. I like to think that his favorite song is "Rockabye Baby," because it's the first song I ever sang to him when he was in the hospital, but really I think he likes "Hush, Little Baby" better.

3. He recently learned how to climb up onto our couch, and loves to crawl all over it, getting into things he previously couldn't reach. {Also trying to climb onto our end tables, pushing over lamps, and falling onto the floor.} His favorite thing is to get onto the one arm of the couch and drop objects into the fireplace. Can't find the remote? Odds are, that's where it is. Last time my phone went missing, I checked the fireplace and there it was, along with a coaster, a thank you note, and a plastic ball.

He can be quite the troublemaker. I know he's just testing and learning his boundaries, doing something over and over no matter how many times or in what tone we say "no," but it does get frustrating when he looks you straight in the face, smiles, and then does it again. It's a challenge to be clear with him what's allowed, and not let discipline turn into a game. {He loves games.}

4. His first word was "uh-oh," which he initially pronounced more like a little baby duck quack, "ah!" It changed into more of a "uh-uh," and only in the past week has he started actually vocalizing a true "uh-oh." He says it about 150 times a day {our for-reals-no-joke estimate}. He sometimes changes "uh-oh" to "oh-oh" when he sees a no-no -- something he knows he's not supposed to touch or he's reminded of something he's not supposed to do. He will also, on occasion, say "mamamama," "dadada," and make puppy sounds: "oof oof oof."

5. He's a definite people person {certainly much more so than his sister, who only likes to interact with strangers to the extent that they don't touch her}, and will often go to anyone who reaches for him. He's got a charming habit of acting shy when someone tries to flirt with him -- looking away and smiling and looking back with those big Muppet baby eyes of his. Even with us he'll turn his face when we go to give him kisses.

6. He loves pushing his walker back and forth across the living room; he pretty much thinks he's the coolest kid thing ever, moving around on his feet. Take a look:

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.

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!

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?

Conversations About Captain

I just wanted to add this little tidbit to last week's post about how we came up with Max' first name.

Before we brought the babies home from the hospital, I had to call and make an appointment with their pediatrician for a follow-up appointment. I explained to the scheduler about our situation, that the babies had been in the hospital but were coming home now. She then started asking me their basic info {names, birthdates, etc.} so she could put them in the computer. Maggie's information we got through no problem, but afterwards we had this conversation:

"And the other baby's first name?"
"His first name?"
"Yes, his first name."
"Captain."
"I'm sorry?"
"It's Captain?"
"Can you spell that for me?"
"C-A-P-T-A-I-N."
"...Male?"
"Yes."

We now get those lovely automated messages from our pediatrician's office, reminding us of our appointment times -- the ones where one robot voice says most of the message, but a second robot voice jumps in for the names, dates, and times. Ours sound like this:

"This is a message reminding you that... a member of your family... and... Maggie... have an appointment for Thursday, August 21st at 1:00 pm. If you have any questions, please call..."

Because if people are confused about my son's name, you better believe robots are.

Captain Maxwell Plautz

How DID Max's first name come about? I'm pretty certain it was Christian's doing
but am curious about the whole story.


When Christian and I decided that our first son's first name would be Captain, we had an idea of the reactions we were going to receive. We knew a lot of people would think it was strange. Even worse, we knew the puns would start and probably cease only after a very long time. But I'm starting in the middle; I should start at the beginning.

The beginning is sometime during the summer of 1996, when my mother-in-law was extremely pregnant with Christian's youngest brother, Alex. {It might have started even earlier than that, with the creation of my father-in-law's brain, but for the purposes of this story I'm starting in '96.} Christian's parents knew they were going to call their sixth son Alex, but they also knew it was going to be his middle name.

They needed a first name; one that sounded good with Alexander. During the ongoing discussion my father-in-law suggested Captain, but this idea was immediately rejected by my mother-in-law. My mother-in-law has very strong ideas about what makes a good name, and Captain does not fit her requirements. They settled instead on Benjamin.

-----
Fast forward twelve years. Christian and I were engaged in early 2008, and one of my favorite conversation topics was baby names. I remember that pretty early on we decided that none of our children would have names that started with P, because that would be like the cheesiest thing ever. However, the exact series of events -- when we realized we both loved the name Max, when we decided to give our first boy Christian's same initials, or when he told me his father's unorthodox suggestion for Alex -- it's all mixed up in my head.

I do remember that after Christian related the story about his dad and Captain, I said, "That is an awesome name." And he looked at me and said, "Are you serious? Because if you're serious, that would be really cool."

The problem with picking out your children's names more than three years in advance {a few months into our marriage we had chosen ten, in total} is that family members have more than three years to make fun of them before anything is actually set in stone. In our case, our family members had three years to doubt that we'd follow through. "Are you really going to name your son Captain?" was a frequent question. My sister even said, "If you name your son Captain, then your kids can't play with my kids." But we had our minds made up, and endless iterations of "Aye aye, Captain" weren't going to stop us.

Honestly, I hardly ever think about the fact that my son's name is Captain. {I think about it a lot less than I ever thought about Maggie's extra thumb.} We call him Max or Maxwell 90 percent of the time. The other ten percent Christian calls him Buddy, and I call him my Maxi-Bear.