Trattoria Breve

Values

2012-01-25T16:14:00.002-05:00

Oh, New York, how I love you. I just bought a sweater and a hot chocolate. The sweater was $5. The hot chocolate was $6.

Vagaries of the Young and Hungry

2010-12-14T20:02:00.002-05:00

Tonight, between dinner and bedtime, Thyme disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, he returned to the living room, holding a large box of sopressata.

"Didn't you already brush your teeth?" I asked. Both boys have been debriefed on the threat that sugar poses to teeth.

He nodded vigorously. At that point, Sage piped up.

"It's hot sopressata, not sweet."

Cleaning a Couch

2010-07-22T16:34:00.000-04:00

The only effective way to clean a couch is to burn it.

I'm hearing voices in my head...

2010-05-02T20:46:00.002-04:00

...but that's because two toddlers have been screaming in my ear all night. Whatever problems I have, auditory hallucinations aren't among them. At least, not anymore. I took a pretty good hit to the chin the other day, and my ears were ringing for a while after that, but now I'm left with only a bruise.

Look at me, blogging again, like it's 2005.

So, tonight Sage screamed and bucked as I attempted to place him in the bathtub. I would have skipped it, but he and Thyme spent at least an hour playing in the sort of dirt patch surrounding a tree that many of the city's pent-up large dogs have probably taken delight in defiling. I struggled and wrestled him in, and then finally handed him a cup with which to play in the water. After calming down and playing quietly with it for about ten minutes, he turned to me with his little soggy head and asked, "Why I didn't want to take a bath?"

I thought my evening would be clear after that, but then Thyme peed the carpet, requiring that I hurry along the diaper-applying process. Then, Sage refused to wear a clean diaper. I was dealing with that just fine until he actually went and FISHED A USED WET DIAPER OUT OF THE TRASH AND DEMANDED THAT I PUT IT ON HIM. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHICH CHILD SOILED IT ORIGINALLY. I flatly refused, and finally coaxed him into a dry one. Then Thyme demanded the wet one. I am not kidding. After that, Ty and I fed them on the fly, catching the scraps of food that they flung in an effort to get some sustenance for ourselves.

This night hasn't been all that unusual. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I often have nothing but a birth control pill for breakfast.

Broken Fashion Plate

2010-02-11T13:47:00.004-05:00

You can tell I'm having a difficult week because of the way I dressed today to take the kids to school. I wore my old Costco pajama top beneath my coat, the one I've been wearing since Tuesday. That's something I would never usually do. Usually, when I wear my pajamas out in public, they're no more than 24 hours old.

Take Monday, for example. The pajamas I wore to sign my children up for school for next year, at the first-come-first-served registration place, were less than 12 hours old. I think that's some kind of record. I even wore underwear underneath them, and I would have pulled on pants, too, had my much-more-awake-than-me mother not scream-whispered, "Don't get dressed! Just GO!" in my ear. She knew; she had run all the way from the school to my apartment, because my cellphone was off and I slept right through my ringing landline. I had set my alarm for 6:30 so that I could relieve my wonderful parents at 7, who were doing the early shift waiting in line. Lo and behold, registration started early, and now my mom doesn't need to have a stress test for quite awhile. She is clearly in better shape than me, because I ran the same distance, and I still feel like I've been hit by a Mack truck.

It was worth it, though. We got about 90% of the schedule we wanted. Bottom line is, WE GOT IN. Chalk one up for the little guy. Actually, the little guys.

Waste, Post-Haste

2010-02-08T15:08:00.003-05:00

When Ty and I got married, his old bachelor “love seat” served briefly as our living room couch. I put a stop to that not quite as promptly as I did the sublet from his ex-girlfriend, or his old mattress, but with all due haste nonetheless. Said loveseat became mere extra seating, and, upon the arrival of Sage and Thyme, was further demoted to a baby-changing area. As they grew and the composition of their diets changed from primarily liquids to primarily solids, we even did away with the waterproof pad and towel that covered the upholstery.

In doing so, perhaps we were finally too hasty.

Things I’ve learned in the past week include, feces is a protein stain! Who knew? Vomit, apparently, is a protein stain as well, according to the good folks at Woolite Stain Solutions, who, by the way, have singlehandedly managed to save our living room rug, which is the most expensive household item we own that isn’t somehow connected with food or sleeping. Props to you, Woolite. Props to you.

And speaking of rugs...while I try not to strain my imagination in contemplating the protein stains that Ty’s loveseat saw before I came on the scene, I’m quite certain that they were obtained more enjoyably than its modern protein stains.

Games People Play

2010-01-15T14:06:00.001-05:00

So now I’m in the process of applying to local nursery schools for next year. I missed one of the application deadlines.

Do you know why? Because the deadline was November 30th.

When I was applying to college, I applied to a Seven Sisters school. The application deadline was January 15th. I also applied to an Ivy League school. That application deadline was January 1st.

Another local nursery school has a more forgiving deadline: February 1st. They notify you whether you got in during the first week of March. (Here, I should add that the nonrefundable down payment for next year at our current school--in other words, the only school we currently have two guaranteed spaces--is due in early February.)

When I got into college, my school notified me that I’d gotten in before the end of January.

The payment needed to hold my spot in college was approximately one-fourth of what I will be required to pay to hold ONE spot for ONE of my children.

And, as we all know (all 0.3 of my regular readers, anyway), I HAVE TWINS.

I probably shouldn’t count on getting into the March school, though, as I’ve called them twice to find out minor issues like 1) the hours my children would be in class next year, assuming they got in, and 2) how much tuition I would be paying, and they’ve never returned my phone calls.

I’ve defaulted to the old maxim: If you have to ask, you probably can’t afford it.

In the meantime, my brilliant children continue to make me feel guilty for not absolutely getting them into the Very Best School in America, by asking questions such as, “Where do shadows come from?” and then listening intently to my explanation. Later on, they’ll say over dinner, “Light is both a particle and a wave, Daddy.”

They ask so many wonderful questions, it’s exhausting. So exhausting that I’ve had to resort to some tricks.

“Sage,” I say. “Do you want to play a game?”

“Yeah.”

“How about you, Thyme?”

“Yes!”

“Ok, we’re going to play Sleep Study.”

“I want to play Seep Tuddy.”

“Good. Here’s how you play: I’m the subject, and you’re the researchers.”

“I’m the ree-searcher.”

“Good. And I have to be asleep, and you have to monitor my pulse while I sleep. Now, here, you each have to hold one of my wrists, ok? I’ll be asleep, and you’ll be monitoring my wrists, got it?”

“Got it.”

They each grab one of my wrists and stare at it, expectantly, while I close my eyes.

“Don’t let go, okay?”

“Kay!”

I got about 90 seconds of sleep out of the deal, which was enough time for Ty to boil water for coffee and tea without tiny fingers trying to interfere. Not too shabby, if you ask me.

On Raising Twins, Part 27

2009-10-06T21:40:00.003-04:00

Raising twins is fucking hard.

The other day I remarked to someone--a well-meaning individual who obviously doesn't know me or my family AT ALL--that my children have started attending a nursery school.

"How nice!" he remarked cheerfully. "Now you'll finally be able to relax a little bit!"

I looked at his wide, open eyes and friendly grin, swallowed my bitter bile, and suppressed the true tale like Valtrex does herpes.

"Yeah!" I chirped. "Great!"

What I didn't tell him was that the nursery school is located in a different neighborhood, a dimension of sight, yes plenty, and sound, even more, but no convenient mass transit from my neighborhood. The subway station has not one but two steep staircases, and isn't all that close to the school or my home anyway. I also didn't tell him that, while my children possess the physical heft of four-year-olds, they are developmentally right on target for their age of two and a half, meaning tantrums, and physical acting-out, and lots of it, and it's all very heavy. One needs a stroller to control such children on a journey like that. Except one needs two strollers, because I. HAVE. TWINS.

Notice I didn't say "one needs a double stroller." I shouldn't even have said "one." There is simply no way for a single person to take two such children on a bus by herself. None. It is physically impossible. With two, it's not physically impossible. Just physically unbearable. So, twice a week, the blessed babysitter and I gamely embark on the Quest of Insanity.

Why would I do this, you ask? Because the school is incredible, and because I live in New York City. Have you ever heard the stories about getting your children into a good preschool in New York City? Go ahead, Google it. I'll wait. Got it? Okay. Now, imagine trying to get TWO SPACES IN THE SAME CLASS. If I had to walk them there on my head, I would do it.

But I don't have to do it on my head. I am lucky; I have the bus. The bus, which is just high enough off the ground that it's nearly impossible for a tantruming two-year-old boy, even one the size of a Great Dane, to step up to it smoothly. The bus, which gives us just enough time to pay our fares before lurching off, but not enough time to get our children (hopefully) to a seat while balancing strollers on our forearms. Oh, and on the way back, the walk is uphill.

Come to think, of it, it's all uphill.

The Thin Ice Post

2009-09-22T10:27:00.006-04:00

"My boys are scared of the UPS man," I announced one day at lunch.

"Is he black?" asked my black friend.*

"As a matter of fact, he is, but that's not why they're scared of him," I replied.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, they see black people every day in our rather integrated neighborhood. They love the FreshDirect guys, one of whom is black. Oh, and there was the black cop the other day parked on the corner--they were in awe of him and his cop car."

"Plus, don't they have a crush on Sally?" asked my white friend.

"Yeah, they love Sally. They tell me she's a lady with a 'gina."

Sally nodded.

The mystery continued until I got home. Then, the case began to crack when Sage greeted me at the door.

"The P-yous-S man, little bit scary," he told me in earnest. "I don't like his hat."

"He was wearing a big rain hat," the babysitter told me.

The hat! The HAT! Of course.

The next day, we passed some kind of behatted male guard. Who was white.

"Aaaaah! Aaaah! P-yous-S man!" Thyme screamed.

Shortly thereafter, we passed a hat-free black man.

"Is that a UPS man?" I asked them.

"That's not a P-yous-S man. That's a regular man," Sage pointed.

I paused for a moment to breathe the deepest sigh of relief I've breathed since my C-section concluded, and then we were on our way.

*Yes, I'm aware of the inherent irony in writing a racial-awareness post and referring to her as "my black friend," but she's into irony and refers to herself that way.

Of Life and Death

2009-07-29T10:10:00.007-04:00

One Friday several weeks ago, I headed over to relieve the babysitter and was greeted at the baby gate by Sage.

"Mama! Mama! I have a bee!"

He articulated "bee" with exaggerated cuteness, grinned profoundly, and then handed me a tiny black beetle-like insect.

Startled, my fingers fumbled, and the "bee" scurried across my hands in a little dance. Sage and Thyme giggled with the delight they usually reserve for my aunt's bichon frise. Sage gently held out his tiny fingers and received the insect with astonishing care. My sons, who routinely kick my C-section scar during diaper changes and bash their skulls into my cheekbones, had fingers of gossamer when it came to this tiny little friend. I put aside my Urban Bitch desire for a hermetically-sealed, germ-free home and allowed The Bee free rein over both my carpet and my children.

The boys played happily with The Bee for a good chunk of time, until we had to venture out for the drive to my parents' house for the weekend. We--at least, I--didn't give the roaming insect another thought, we returned Sunday night, and, Monday morning, we prepped for the sitter's arrival.

Well, you can sort of guess what happened next. Heading through the baby gate, Sage remembered, "Oh, my bee!" and began to look for his friend. We found him, all right--legs up, on his back in the corner, pollinating The Great Flower in the Sky.

"Mama, fix The Bee!" Thyme bellowed. Sage handed me the insect eagerly, patiently waiting for me to revive it.

While I have absolutely no problem discussing penises, 'ginas, potties, pee, and poop with my two-year-olds, I have to say, death really rattles me. At a loss for what to tell them, I mumbled something about Mama needing to bring The Bee upstairs to fix him, hoping they'd forget.

No such luck. That afternoon, meeting me at the baby gate once again, Sage called out, "Mama! Mama fixed The Bee! Can I see it?"

The babysitter and I looked at each other and sighed. "They've been talking about it all day," she informed me. To them, this creature was as real and signficant as a dog or cat. Their first pet. Their first foray into their very own interspecies friendship venture. A contact with nature, with the universe, with life in an unfamiliar, if intriguing, form.

I panicked and did the only thing I could think to do: I lied.

"Listen, boys," I said as I knelt down, looking at their sweet, expectant faces, and trying to smile brightly. "I fixed The Bee, but he had to go home to his family." After some verbal back and forth, this seemed to satisfy them, and they went on to play. For days afterward, they would keep talking about The Bee and how he had to go home to his family. They would ask to see him in the park, and I would tell them that maybe they would.

Ty and I did a later postmortem (pun intended), and discussed how I could have better handled the incident, and age-appropriate ways to explain future such deaths to a two-year-old. "The Bee's all done." "The Bee's gone." "The Bee went to heaven."

I guess I just wanted to continue, as long as possible, the brief, brief moment in a child's life when Mama is magic, her kisses soothe wounds, her medicine makes you better, her food nourishes your hunger, and she injects life where there is none.

Current Statistics

2009-06-10T09:37:00.004-04:00

Weight: 124.4 (ok, 124.6 pounds). I.e., holding relatively steady (up .4 pounds since last recorded weigh-in several weeks ago), despite yesterday's mid-afternoon pastry festival. Which, by the way, was worth every calorie. Coconut icing. Coconut. Must be the stress, 'cause it sure isn't the exercise.

Physical status: Showered and dressed, a 50% improvement over yesterday.

Foreign objects on clothes: Mashed-up bits of Trader Joe's "This blueberry walks into a bar..." A marked improvement over yesterday's milk and toddler urine.

Foreign objects on couch: Milk.

Wounds: Scab from toddler scratch on forehead almost gone. Fresh toddler scratch on nose still smarting. Horrible thigh bruise from banging leg into a desk about 40% gone.

Failing at: Home life today--Thyme cried and refused to kiss me out of anger when I told him I had to go do my work. A major fallback from yesterday's failing at work, succeeding at home. In relatively good shape at work today, due to completing a major project way ahead of schedule. Relatively. Other projects still lag, and I won't be able to focus on them due to feeling sad about letting Thyme down.

This is the hardest, hardest balancing act I've ever done. No wonder I'm spent, physically, emotionally, and creatively. I don't care if Jon and Kate cheated on each other with horses; they should both be canonized.

Things to do this year

2009-05-26T14:39:00.001-04:00

1. Get DNA test for my twins.

Fresh out of the oven, they looked like two completely different children. Within hours, we started to have trouble telling them apart. It got to the point that we tagged one with a red (non-Kaballah) string when it came time to take off the hospital bracelet. Now, at 2+ years, I'm asked approximately five times a week whether they are identical. It would be nice to know the answer, although it is fun to come up with various different responses, depending on how I feel.

2. Buy new sweatpants.

The babysitter is really, really nice about pretending to ignore the hole in the bum each morning, but one of these days I'll have to take delivery of a UPS package or something. Besides, with two power poopers in her charge, she sees enough rear ends.

3. Go to the dermatologist.

It's time to get an updated quote on how much it would cost to remove all those little red dot things all over my body. And they have free hand cream samples in the waiting room. Plus, skin cancer screening, yada yada yada.

Arabellas everywhere!

2009-05-21T16:11:00.003-04:00

Last night I saw Atonement. So as not to spoil too much for anyone who hasn't seen it, all I'll say is, the wicked little girl's play features a character named Arabella!

Then, today...my necklace!

http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=24247488

And C.S. is BUYING IT FOR ME! Thank you so much, C.S.!

Is this an omen? Do I need to resume writing more seriously?

Melting Shot

2009-05-06T15:39:00.003-04:00

Okay, since I finally got a comment on my Marilyn Chambers post (much appreciation directed to my friend at Apathy Lounge), I will now get back to the business of filling in my remaining three readers (one of them is my mom) on what the kids are up to.

Since we at the Trattoria Breve are quite pretentious, we're teaching Sage and Thyme as much as we can about food. We're also teaching them a bit of Italian, but, so far, only the fun words. They know how to both say and pronounce parmigiano, and we recently got them started on extra virgin olive oil. Since they're only half Italian, we have to get the golden green liquid infused into their blood as soon as possible. I just hope it doesn't have the unintended consequence of correcting their adorable version of "Che fa" (loosely translated as, "What are you doing?" or "What do you want?" "Che" is pronounced "kay."). Currently, they say, "Key fa?" And they do it complete with hand gesture--index finger and thumb together, facing up, extended outwards and shaken a few times in rapid succession.

We provided them with some small pieces of ciabatta and their own individual dipping dishes. As I was placing the dipping dishes in front of them, my mind flashed to that Gary Larson "Far Side" (quotes for cartoon names, yes?) cartoon where there's a body on the floor of the kitchen and a puff of smoke or something, alongside an open copy of a book called Recipes for Disaster. Ty was sure the high chairs were going to get a hefty helping of lubrication. We were both pleasantly--and humorously--surprised.

Without batting an eyelash, both boys picked up their little-but-deep Pyrex dipping dishes and proceeded to down the oil in a single gulp. Ty pointed out that they were probably culturally confused; the Italian half embraced the olive oil, but their Anglo half called upon them to do it in shots.

In other news, I'm back on Weight Watchers after 2007's failed attempt. I've lost six pounds and feel significantly better.

I miss my blog.

Behind the Facade

2009-04-14T10:34:00.014-04:00

My MSN homepage lists entertainment headlines. This morning, the prime headline real estate, complete with photo and bold print, was devoted to rumors of Scarlett Johansson's crash dieting.

Below that, in small, regular print, a headline announced that an "adult film star" was dead at age 56. No photo. No name.

Marilyn Chambers, circa 1973

Born Marilyn Ann Briggs in the early 1950's, and raised in Westport, Connecticut, where she graduated from the well-regarded Staples High School, Marilyn Chambers initially rose to fame in the early 1970's, when she appeared in the X-rated film Behind the Green Door. Shortly after the release of the film, the media learned she was the young mother featured on the box of Ivory Snow. The same box that bore the slogan, "99 and 44/100% pure."

I have long been fascinated by her. Me, the practicing Catholic, mother of two toddlers, and lawyer. Something about her life. Something about her face. She's the "good girl gone bad."

Now, of course, viewed with a 2009 lens, one can't help but notice how un-pornstarlike she was. Small breasts. Almost boyish figure. Cute smile. Quirky features. At times pretty, at times beautiful, at times almost awkward-looking. The girl next door. Everywoman. Of course, this was one of the primary reasons for her success.

"Success." She had started out primed for a legitimate film career. She appeared in legitimate ads and in the film The Owl and the Pussycat. (Some people--OK, I--would argue that she's the best thing about that film.) Years later, she spoke of her choice to go into pornography. She explained that, in her naivete, she thought the sexual revolution would move in such a way that pornographic films would go so legitimate that the choice would help her career.

Of course, we know now that didn't happen. Like that other famous Marilyn, Chambers is an icon--but an icon of sorts. Not so legendary that her death takes priority over Scarlett Johansson's current diet. One might call Chambers one of the whipping girls of the sexual revolution. The embodiment of all that is good and bad about it.

This, I think, is the key to my fascination with her.

In the 1960's and 1970's, when society was telling us to free ourselves from the shackles of old-school morality, people like Chambers did exactly that. Publicly. On film. For posterity. She was celebrated for this...until. Until people grew uncomfortable watching other people have sex on film, in the company of other people. It was great, it was natural, it was a public manifestation of what everyone was having anyway, and...there was something not quite right about it. So taboo!

So taboo, in fact, that the mainstream media deemed most of these men and women untouchable for legitimate work. The industry that sold us--and sells us--everything BUT sex largely refused to work with people who had sold ACTUAL sex. Scarlett Johansson can talk about sex, show her breasts, even simulate sex all the wants, and still get the headline. The woman who embodies the fruition of those fantasies, though...her death is relegated to a point further down on the page. Her Richard Corliss-penned obituary in Time online represents a new low in journalism from a supposedly "legitimate" source, trumpeting that Chambers is "is 99 and 44/100% dead." Classy writing, that. As if finding her mother's lifeless body on Easter Sunday weren't bad enough for her surviving seventeen-year-old daughter.

Chambers's death reminds me a bit of the death of actress Carrie Snodgress. Longtime readers know that one of my favorite films is Diary of a Mad Housewife, arguably Snodgress's best role and claim to whatever fame she has. After partnering with Neil Young and bearing his child, for which she retreated from her once-promising career, he ditched her and ultimately drastically reduced his support payments. She died a few years ago in her 50's, with her now-grown child by her side. I couldn't help but think, at the time, that if only they had been married, she wouldn't have had the financial struggles she had. She would have had an easier time getting support for herself and her child, after her partner abandoned ship on the life they had planned together. She, too, had freed herself from a shackle of sorts--but one that would have helped her. She did, after all, choose to pursue the life that typically accompanies the "shackle" of marriage. Just not the institution itself.

Chambers's story is a bit less tragic. There was no lengthy illness. There were no apologies for her choices, or her success, or her type of success. For that, I really and truly respect her. She had specific talents and she made the most of them. But she also forces society to take a hard look at what it wants, and whether it can really live with its own goals.

Dear Diary

2009-01-20T21:28:00.005-05:00

Today Barack Obama was sworn in as 44th President of the United States. I wasn't. Instead, I fielded certain young persons' questions about the incongruity of Grover Monster making pee-pee in the potty book when he has no visible penis ("He has one, but they don't show it, because he likes to keep it private").

By the way--where IS Grover these days??? He's getting entirely too little airtime.

Oh no! Oh no!

2009-01-14T10:36:00.004-05:00

Because we are moderately extravagant, Ty and I subscribe to a variety of cable channels. Because we are moderately cheap, we almost always refuse to pay for additional On Demand-type services. Therefore, we must keep ourselves content with the free On Demand offerings for any given time period.

Because we have twin boys and also have jobs and also occasionally feel the need to maintain sanity, we allow our children to watch a small amount of television, even though they are shy of two years old.

Against our better judgment, we opened the Barney and Friends floodgates. My dear readers, please learn from my mistakes.

Barney delights my children. They happily watch and sing and clap while Ty and I sit on the couch, moaning, groaning, smacking our hands to our foreheads, and muttering occasional under-the-breath phrases to each other such as "stupid," or "saccharine," or "contrived," or "fake," or "please stab me in the eyeballs with a sharpened spoon." We vow to show no more Barney. Then, the inevitable end of the episode approaches, and Barney sings "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family..." and images of children cuddling with their family members are displayed, our children crawl into our laps and cuddle with us, and we, of course, soften and melt and decide, oh, okay, maybe just a little more Barney in the future.

Not long ago, our cable service offered six episodes of Barney On Demand. In a tired stupor, I turned on one of them, which featured B.J. (tee hee) playing with balls (tee hee HEE). At one point, a whole bunch of balls of different colors fell on her (him? it?).

She might as well have reached through the television and offered each of my children a simultaneous ice cream cone and back rub.

"Oh no!" I said to my sons, cheerfully. "All the balls fell!"

They looked at me, their eyes huge.

"More Oh No?! More Oh No?!"

"Sure," I said, rolling back the footage. They watched it again, enthralled.

"More Oh No? More Oh No?" They watched it another half a dozen times.

This was, maybe, six weeks ago?

They are still asking for "More Oh NO?!" a good four or five times a week.

Here's the problem: the episode has DISAPPEARED. The cable offerings went from six episodes to four. I watched each of the four episodes TWICE just to make sure I wasn't missing the clip.

I did at least an hour's worth of research and I'm pretty sure I FINALLY figured out the name of the episode ("Let's Play Games!"), as well as the season (9) and episode (12). But I can't find it on VHS or DVD anywhere.

Oh.
NO.

Things that are pissing me off today

2009-01-08T11:55:00.010-05:00

1. The ubiquitous, ridiculous fashion advice to "raid your grandmother's jewelry box" for "the perfect brooch." How fucking stupid. One of my grandmothers died a few years ago; thanks for bringing that up. The other one, in her mid-eighties, is still working, and still very much in need of whatever exists in her jewelry box that approaches a brooch. Which probably isn't much; she was never the flashy type. Who are these grandmothers who are just walking around willy-nilly with tons of cool brooches sitting around in jewelry boxes for the taking? Are they supposed to let their own bosoms go unadorned while their granddaughters, with the blessing of every fashion editor in America, have at their possessions, unfettered by the bounds of common decency?

2. Blackberry seeds juxtaposed with dental crevices. 'Nuff said.

3. Laryngitis. GO AWAY ALREADY. I haven't got time.

4. Toddler sippy cups with easy-off lids. HELLO?

5. Snow boots that dig into my feet. Anything that hideously puffy-looking shouldn't leave blisters.

6. Those "skinny" jeans that make anorexic sixteen-year-olds look fat.

7. Lady Elaine Fairchilde. Mr. Rogers, I love you, always have, and always will, but this puppet terrifies my children. Yesterday, they asked me to draw pictures of her "in jail." Repeatedly throughout the day. What is with the long, red wino nose and sour expression? She makes me want to make-believe that X the Owl is a board-certified plastic surgeon who enjoys a challenge.

8. My inability to draw a Tim Gunn bobblehead doll. Two separate people walked in the room, looked at my picture, and asked, "Is that Woody Allen?"

A Quick Quiz

2008-12-18T14:53:00.002-05:00

Q: When is a snowstorm most likely to hit New York City?

a) On a Saturday when you have no plans and lots of hot chocolate ingredients

b) The day after you buy snow boots

c) Never

d) On a weekday when you have finally snagged an appointment to take your two sick children to the pediatrician, your best friend is flying into the city, and an important client has requested a meeting and you have agreed, even though it means you will have to go out of your way and shift your entire schedule around to do it.

Things That Backfire Repeatedly

2008-12-12T13:31:00.004-05:00

Sage and Thyme regularly perform a little ritual we refer to as the 8 PM Shuffle. At approximately 7:50, the requests intensify for songs, stories, drawings, water, baths, toys, flashlights, dinner, Tetley English Breakfast Tea, visits from distant relatives, and basically anything that may possibly delay bedtime.

Several weeks ago, in an attempt to streamline our bedtime ritual, relax the kids, and reduce the intensity of the 8 PM Shuffle, my mother brought us a CD of spa music. We played it once (this was back before our CD player was a hostage of the Talians). Sage and Thyme tolerated it--maybe even enjoyed it--and asked to see the cover of the CD. Said CD cover featured a photo of a woman lying on a spa table. It was not compelling enough to warrant comment from either child, other than, "CD."

Fast-forward to now. Desperate for ANY SOUND OTHER THAN TALIAN, we ultimately resorted to that time-honored parental technique: deceit.

ARABELLA, perhaps a little too cheerfully: We have a new Italian CD!

SAGE: Talian.

THYME: Talian?

ARABELLA: Yes, Talian! Would you like to hear this new Italian CD?

SAGE: Talian.

THYME: Talian?

ARABELLA: Ok, here we go!

(Begins playing CD.)

(Brief, expectant pause from children as the music starts.)

SAGE: LADY! LADY! LADY! AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! NO! NO LADY! TALIAN! TALIAN!!!

(Hurls body onto ground, sobbing.)

ARABELLA: Ok! OK! No more lady! Talian!

(Immediately changes CD to Real Talian. Music starts.)

SAGE, quietly: No lady. No lady.

(pause)

SAGE, barely audibly: Go 'way, Lady.

(pause)

SAGE: Talian.

(Calmly begins to crayon the walls.)

Things That Backfire

2008-12-09T14:52:00.005-05:00

While pregnant, I joyfully fantasized about teaching my children about their heritage. I bought them a CD called Baby's First Steps: Italian. It consists of lots of songs and stories. It is wonderful.

The first 75 times.

ARABELLA, standing by the CD player: "Would you like to hear Free to Be You and Me?"

SAGE: "No. Talian."

ARABELLA: "How about Joni Mitchell?"

SAGE: "Talian."

ARABELLA: "Mozart?"

SAGE: "TALIAN!"

ARABELLA, timidly: "Bach?"

THYME: "Bach?"

SAGE: "TALIAN! TALIAN!!!!"

(Sobs. Stamps feet. Throws tiny body on floor and pounds fists.)

THYME, softly: "Talian?"

ARABELLA: "Ok, ok. Italian."

(Brief pause as Arabella fiddles with CD player.)

SAGE: "TALIAN! MORE TALIAN!!!"

(Shakes fists. Kicks feet. Conjures up demons that lurk below.)

(music starts)

SAGE: "Talian."

(Proceeds to pick Cheerios out of carpet, contentedly.)

Quote of the Day

2008-12-04T11:06:00.002-05:00

From Us Weekly, December 8, 2008: "Don't look for any deep reason the Texas-born [Ashlee] Simpson-Wentz and her Illinois-bred husband opted to give son Bronx the same name as the NYC borough."

Why I may start my own search engine

2008-12-02T14:41:00.002-05:00

Because I'd like decent results when I search for "cheapest Caillou doll ever." A related search: "who do I have to sleep with to find a decent Caillou doll for less than $30 that is IN STOCK NOW."

Mother of the Year

2008-11-20T15:48:00.002-05:00

I thought nursing twins was rough.

Live Broadcast by Ustream.TV

See more at Shiba Inu Puppy Cam!

Cheap and Environmentally Friendly: Tip #1

2008-11-20T12:30:00.003-05:00

Intended to be the first entry in an intermittently ongoing series.

When sending a package, especially a padded envelope, through some shipping carrier that utilizes pre-stuck labels, put clear packing tape on the package surface prior to sticking on the label. The label will peel off easily and the padded envelope, box, etc. can easily and neatly be re-used.

Please feel free to post any related tips!

Why vote?

2008-11-04T10:24:00.006-05:00

I'll be heading out to vote in a few minutes.

Here's a little secret I've been keeping from, oh, basically everyone in my life: I don't care very much who wins. I harbor a sneaking suspicion that they're both good men with decent hearts, and with different strengths and weaknesses. Ditto their running mates (except for the "men" part).

So why vote?

I live in New York. I can head out and vote for Obama. I can head out and vote for McCain. I can stay home and ~~raid the birthday cake that I baked for the babysitter~~ get a ton of work done. It doesn't matter. ~~The size of my thighs will remain constant regardless.~~ Obama will win my state regardless.

So why vote?

I possess a hefty dose of cynicism about the process of selecting a president. Not about our system, necessarily. Though flawed, I think, for the most part, it's about as good as it can be. It's more like when I had to write a thesis in college and I had tremendous troubles getting it done, even though I cranked out good papers on a regular basis. It was a thesis. How could I possibly write a thesis when my undergrad knowledge of the subject about which I was writing barely scratched the surface of the total knowledge that existed about that subject? How can I, we--anyone--select a president? The only people who know what being President entails are actual former Presidents, and even they faced their presidencies under entirely different sets of circumstances than any other Presidents. The rest of us--well, how can we possibly know what it's like? How can we possibly know who's the best person for the job? We can attend rallies and read newspapers and scrutinize records and watch cable news until our eyes fall out of our heads, but how can we ever really know a candidate, who he is, how he makes decisions, and what's in his heart?

So why vote?

Well, there are all the people who suffered and died so that I could. It's certainly the civic thing to do.

Quite simply, though, I vote not just because it's the civic thing to do, but because it's the civil thing to do.

We live in an age when people holding opinions different from those in their general surroundings are scared silent at cocktail parties. One of our presidential candidates has been improperly labeled a Muslim and a terrorist, thereby insulting both him and the thousands of good and decent Muslims in our own country. The sitting President, a man who has had to make decisions that none of us can imagine making, has been the victim of more hatred and vitriol than I ever thought possible. Another candidate, the female GOVERNOR OF A STATE, has publicly been told by another elected official (another female, no less!) that her "primary qualification" is that she "hasn't had an abortion."

Enough. I'm sick to death of the hatred, vitriol, and malice. It seems to me that one of the last bastions of civility is being able to go into a booth, close a curtain, and pull a lever, to say, "I support this person for office." Not, "This other person is evil and stupid, and so are all the people who support him," but "I SUPPORT THIS PERSON."

Regardless of who wins, please begin the winner's term of office with an open mind and a civil tongue. Satire? Fine. Criticism? No problem. Disagreement? Absolutely. But, please, no malice. No hatred. No acid. No vitriol. It's high time we brought back support for the institution of President.

Real-Life Fright

2008-10-30T10:43:00.001-04:00

My thirteen-year-old cousin, the sweetest kid you will ever meet (he designs birthday cards for his baby cousins, for example), is having an incredibly sucky surgery today for complications due to Crohn's disease. He has to stay in the hospital overnight and will miss Halloween. Please pray for him.

One Fine Autumn Evening

2008-10-29T12:04:00.005-04:00

Excited about the (not quite) new double tricycle that I scored from Craigslist for a steal, I decided to take the boys for a little ride around our neighborhood.

Our bumpy, uneven, cracked-sidewalk neighborhood. A ride. With children too young to pedal, on a vintage tricycle with a slightly-crooked front wheel. Even when locked in place, the trike consistently veered to the right. There was a pushing handle for me, but it was virtually useless.

The ride went something like this:

Push, push, straighten.

Push, push, straighten.

"Fuck!" shouted a child.

"Yes, sweetie, that IS a TRUCK. TRuck. TRuck. Say TRUCK."

"Tuck!"

"Good!"

"Fuck!"

"TRUCK!"

"FUCK!"

"Look, look over here! It's a pumpkin!"

"Pumkin!"

"Yes, pumpkin!"

"That?"

"Oh, that? That's a SKELETON. Say, SKELETON!"

Pause.

"SUCKING!"

The Spice Boys

2008-10-22T20:38:00.004-04:00

I don't care if you're not reading me anymore--I shall keep posting anyway, for I do believe I've gotten my groove back! And it only took 19+ months!

One of the problems with having twins, at least MY twins, is that one of them always, always wants what the other has. This is compounded, in my case, by my passion for weird and vintage crap. While it may be possible to score one fabulously-priced old-school tricycle at a yard sale for a song, it is virtually impossible to score two. This is why I wind up entertaining my sons with, say, sticks of lip balm.

Since even my very lip balm is awesomely quirky, procured from Etsy, I have multiple tubes in multiple flavors, but no two of the same scent. Tonight, when both boys were exhausted and in precocious-terrible-twos throes of a love-hate relationship with Vintage Potty Elmo, my father dabbed at the sore nose of one child with lip balm. That was it; they HAD to have more.

I managed to scrounge up two tubes. Thyme was Peppermint and Sage was Cinnamon. Once they applied the mashed-up balm to their heads like pomade, it became rather easy to tell them apart by scent. Because when life gives these boys lemons, they put it in their hair.

UPDATE: The cinnamon fragrance has officially survived a shampoo.

Beware of washable crayons.

2008-10-21T11:47:00.002-04:00

Even if they have "washability that you can trust." They're not making that up, they really DO wash off pretty easily, but that's just the beginning of a whole new set of problems.

So, Sage and Thyme, who, in reality, have what multiple people have told me are "artsy-sounding names," are acting rather true to their names. Each day, they create elaborate murals, full of multicolored streaks and swirls. Right there, on our walls. They are, surprisingly enough, pretty good about cleanup. I give them each a diaper wipe, and they make everything "All cleam-a!"

Last night, I was changing Thyme. When I change him, he usually shows his lack of patience by kicking me in my Cesarean scar tissue. This makes it rather difficult for me to supervise his brother.

In a fit of cleanliness that can only be described as "Crawfordesque crazy," Sage pulled out a diaper wipe and began furiously scrubbing at the walls.

The problem was--that diaper wipe?

It was used.

Why I spend too much money

2008-10-16T09:47:00.005-04:00

Not too long ago, I miraculously finished reading The Complete Tightwad Gazette, by Amy Dacyczyn. I highly recommend it if you're looking for ways to curb your spending. Yes, it's a bit dated, and some of her suggestions are pretty out-there, but I find myself implementing many of her tips and going back to the book again and again for recipes.

However, I find myself unable to become a true "tightwad." This is partially due to my passion for Humboldt Fog, and partially due to mornings like the one I had today.

After I exited through the malfunctioning $70 baby gate to wash the greenish shit (yes, literal shit) off my hands, I turned, suspicious of the sudden quiet. One child had managed to pry open the cap on the tube of generic Desitin--which, by the way, is completely inferior to the original. Why? Because it immediately melts all over your fingers and gets everywhere, while the original stays relatively solid until it is spread on the bumcheeks. The other child had managed to empty the tub of every. single. diaper wipe (approximately $4 per box for the kind that doesn't irritate my children's skin). In the spirit of frugality, I did wad them all up and stuff them back in the box, but of course I'll have two flailing toddlers to control as I try to pull the mashed-up wad out of the box during diaper changes, so they'll probably wind up wreaking some other kind of expensive havoc as I attempt to salvage a twenty-cent wipe. The truly frugal, I know, would make their own diaper wipes, or use a washcloth, but I'd like to know how they have the energy.

Then, I sat down to change the SECOND poopy diaper. You can imagine how well that went.

Amy Dacyczyn did all her frugal exercises while raising SIX children, two of them twins. Apparently, she is made of hardier stock than me. I would like very much to shake her hand. Right after I wash mine. Again.

Maybe I watched too much Dexter while I was pregnant?

2008-10-14T16:40:00.004-04:00

The other day, Sage walked over to me, smacked me in the face, and said, "Cry." Then, he stared at me expectantly.

After the shock wore off, it took all my strength not to crack up, but I did manage to sniffle out injured sounds, explain that hitting is not allowed in our house, it hurts, he wouldn't like it if someone hit him, etc. He simply looked at me with one of those little evil-baby smiles plastered across his face, and then wandered off to crayon the walls. Meanwhile, I checked to make sure the knife drawer was still babyproofed.

He's always, always right, if only you listen

2008-10-08T10:28:00.010-04:00

Sage and Thyme are currently going through a fearful phase. Each morning, when I enter their room, I am greeted with a litany of their current fears.

"Mama! Go 'way, eah-pain-ah!" Sage cries and gestures to the blank wall.

Said blank wall was once occupied by a cool-looking Ikea print of an old-fashioned airplane. After a certain point, it simply had to go. That certain point happened shortly after Sage noticed that airplanes, in all their scary, noisy glory, fly over our apartment approximately 342,567 times per day.

"Airplane all gone!" I announce, kissing the top of his head.

"Mama! Heatuh?" Thyme chimes in.

Ty and I had two or three quasi-sleepless nights before we realized that it was the space heater that was terrorizing our children. The silent, barely-visible space heater. We mistakenly believed that our children would prefer this unobtrusive object to having icicles form on the ends of their cute little noses. The heater now occupies the valuable real estate in our bedroom closet, and my suits have been relegated to the living room.

"Heater all gone!" I announce, kissing the top of his head.

"Gunn?" Sage asks.

"Gunn all gone!" I reply.

Don't twist your knickers--no, I do not expose my children to guns. The Gunn in question is my beloved Tim Gunn bobblehead doll.

I once thought that my fussy children would find him entertaining. So, I trotted him out and told them that he found them FAB-U-LOUS! He promptly scared the shit out of them.

Ever since then (approximately two months ago), it's been, "Go 'way, Gunn!" or "Gunn gone?" About 18 times a day. However, Mr. Gunn made an appearance last night at dinner.

It was probably about the fourth or fifth time I was crawling around on my hands and knees under the high chair, tracking seltzer and organic red peppers and antibiotic-free chicken with my sweatpants-clad knees. Ty and I had asked the children to STOP THROWING THEIR FOOD ON THE FLOOR at least 24 times. Finally, we had had it.

"If you throw your food on the floor one more time, Tim Gunn will come back," we told them.

Sage, aka The Instigator, looked me right in the eye and tossed a lovingly-cooked black bean over his left shoulder, brazenly tempting fate.

With that, Tim Gunn was placed before them, head wobbling back and forth, telling them to "Make it work!" Much like Kenley before them, they did NOT like this. He retreated back into the bedroom, but not until he had told them that they had to stop throwing their food on the floor, as it was "messy" and "boring" and "cheap" (having borrowed his costar Heidi Klum's three favorite comments--fortunately, he didn't tell them that their boobs were in the wrong place).

I think dinner will be a little bit neater tonight. After all, I can't want them to succeed more than they do.

Journey of Three Flights of Steps

2008-09-26T13:22:00.003-04:00

Our old pediatrician was a bitch, who made one too many rude comments about the shape of my sons' heads. (For the record, their heads are perfect--even the neurosurgeon she referred us to said so. However, to paraphrase my mother, "I think there's something wrong with HER [the pediatrician's] head.")

Our new pediatrician is well worth the three flights of subway steps it takes to get to her. For the uninitiated, the New York subway system involves many many flights of steep stairs. There is no better sensitivity training for those who lack sympathy for the disabled. Because I had sex one Tuesday morning (what seems like) several years ago, it is now my lot in life to scale these steps with not one but TWO approaching-thirty-pounds each children, a stroller heavier than a Mini Cooper, and all their attendant toddler gear. This is actually a physical impossibility for one person. Therefore, I never go anywhere beyond walking distance with the two children unless I have someone else with me. And I usually have to wind up treating that person to lunch, just so I'm not blacklisted from the friendship pool after putting that person through such a grueling workout.

Today, I was lucky: only one son had succumbed to horrible diaper rash, so I was able to swing it on my own. The poor kid must take after his clotrimazole-stockpiling mother. When the recommended regimen of Bacitracin failed to do the trick, we headed back for a script for something stronger, more difficult to procure, and more expensive.

The pediatrician's office is located in a posh neighborhood. An incredibly beautiful posh neighborhood. I always feel a little bit inadequate when I walk through there, because I don't push a Bugaboo and wear jeans from Old Navy. Well, actually from Old Navy via the secondhand store, because I'd rather spend my money on cheese. But I digress.

Anyway, the pediatrician's office is a veritable United Nations of different languages. On the last visit, I conversed in Italian with a fellow twin parent. This visit, there were four languages going in the waiting room: regular American English, British English, Spanish, and French. What all the parents had in common was an extraordinary lack of sleep and a deep sense of regret that we hadn't ourselves invented Elmo and copyrighted him long ago.

We left with our prescription, a lollipop, and inspiration for an actual blog post. A good morning was had by all.

The Accidental Has-Been

2008-09-24T16:09:00.002-04:00

More than a decade ago, I had a really fun summer job that involved attending black-tie events with celebrities.

Now, on a good day, I get to attend the shower.

A little less than a decade ago, I stood in bright, shiny collegiate graduation gear while members of an esteemed committee taught me a secret handshake.

Within the past few weeks, one of my sons quickly squatted in the bathtub, grunted, and then handed--yes, HANDED--me a solid, perfectly-formed turd. "Rock," he pronounced.

Lines are forming around my eyes almost as quickly as Italian vocabulary words are fleeing my brain.

Am I a shell of my former self, or am I something new entirely?

Which way is really "it"?

Mamalujo to the Rescue

2008-09-04T12:58:00.003-04:00

A while back, I wrote about how my twin sons fought bitterly over possession of a bright round plastic apple, the Happy Apple. I was forced to confiscate said apple and save it for emergencies, such as a diaper-change bribe or a sick-child doctor visit. This was a huge pity, as the Apple, true to its name, made me happy, and ownership of the tempting Apple was more for me than my children.

The mighty Mamalujo to the rescue! For those of you unfortunate enough to be unfamiliar with his work, please check out his blog immediately. He is that rare combination of Professional Smart Guy and Good Soul. His current post, "Dear Daughter," is particularly touching.

Mamalujo immediately announced that he had that most elusive of objects, a spare Happy Apple, and then he NEATLY PACKED IT UP AND SENT IT TO ME. Done.

Mamalujo, do you know how happy you have made my children? Do you know how happy you have made my husband and me? Now, at dinnertime, instead of hearing two toddlers banging their sippy cups against their food trays and screaming, we hear choruses of "Apple. Apple!" and the toy's trademark soft, gentle chime. You have restored peace to the Trattoria Breve, and we thank you for it.

The Happy Apple Catastrophe

2008-07-30T09:37:00.009-04:00

Because I have unlimited free time, I like to browse through old toys on Ebay that I remember from my childhood.

Enter the Fisher-Price Happy Apple, pictured above. It's a medium-sized plastic apple, virtually indestructible, that plays a soft chime sound when moved. I considered bidding, balked at the starting price, and moved on with my life.

Yesterday, while perusing the selection of 1980's workout tapes and corporate giveaway mugs at my local Salvation Army, I stumbled upon an unbelievable bargain: said Happy Apple, for only $1.49. Convinced this was an omen (yes, I'm that gullible), I bought it for my boys.

This was the first mistake. I should have known that the 1970's childhood of a singleton girl isn't the best model for recreation for the 2000's childhood of twin boys.

Last night, after Sage and Thyme were sleepily tucked into bed, I pulled out my rubber gloves, dish soap, and scrubby sponge, and lovingly got to work on banishing prior-owner germs from the Happy Apple. I set the scrubbed Apple on a soon-to-be-sunny windowsill and went to bed.

When I awoke today, it was like Christmas morning. (Well, Christmas morning if Christmas morning involves twin boys saying "Mama, mama, mama" into the monitor while banging against their cribs until you rouse yourself into consciousness.) Once the necessary morning activities were completed, I rushed over to the windowsill and retrieved my sparkling Happy Apple. Was it my imagination, or had its grin gotten even larger overnight?

Hiding it behind my back, I approached my happily playing children.

"Boys! Oh, boys! Mommy has a surprise for you!"

I handed it to Thyme, who was the closest. He took it gingerly, shook it, realized it was ball-shaped and made sounds, and proceeded repeatedly to whack its hard plastic body against the floor with glee. This did not go unnoticed by Sage, who rushed over and wrestled it from him.

Needless to say, before very long, the morning had descended into a heap of tangled small bodies, tears, screaming, and attempted biting.

Long story short, if anybody has a vintage Fisher-Price Happy Apple to sell me, I'm offering $1.49. I'd pay more, but then they'd argue about whose Happy Apple was more expensive.

---

This post is dedicated to the beautiful and talented Tink, who actually created a holiday in my honor. I am eternally grateful, Tink.

"Smaland" is a misnomer

2008-07-24T10:04:00.004-04:00

New York City has a brand-spankin'-new Ikea. It was only a matter of time before we would load Sage and Thyme into the ol' automobile, blast the AC, and head down there on an ill-conceived outing that would last several hours more than any of us expected.

I'll just give you the highlights.

"Smaland," Ikea's child-friendly area that allows parents to shop in relative peace, is open only to children of a certain height, and children who don't poop their pants. They all but had a big, bright, cheerful, yellow-and-blue sign with the big red outstretched heart and arms that said, "Children who don't poop their pants and are old enough to be past the most annoying and dangerous mobile phase are welcome."

Moving on.....

We waited to speak to some kitchen guy for about ten minutes before realizing that he wasn't in fact an Ikea employee, but merely a private citizen wearing a yellow shirt.

While Ty tracked down an actual employee, I stayed with both boys, one of whom began lifting up my skirt and saying, "Poopy? Poopy?" Real loud.

You know how Ikea has those glass display cases where they show a machine repeatedly opening and closing, say, a drawer, to simulate wear and tear? Well, we performed such tests all on our own.

A strange man looked a split-second too long at my children, and nearly got a low-priced Scandinavian-designed kitchen implement shoved into his eyeball. DON'T MESS WITH MAMA.

In a shocking twist of fate, Sage and Thyme preferred the meatballs to the lingonberries. (Usually, they go for sweet.)

Mama earned herself a Daim cake, and absolutely refused to share. Sorry, boys; some things are sacred.

-----

Everybody (who still reads after my extended absences), please congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Lashes on their recent wedding!

On Twins, Part III

2008-07-16T12:21:00.003-04:00

Today I read about an acquaintance who just gave birth to twins, one over seven pounds and the other over six, vaginally and without anesthesia. She successfully and simultaneously produced one child of each sex.

At first, I felt a little jealous. I didn't deliver vaginally and without anesthesia. I didn't simultaneously produce one child of each sex. I didn't produce two children over six pounds. Then, I felt pissed off at myself for feeling jealous.

I imagine plenty of women were a little bit jealous when I had twins. In fact, I know it for sure. Another acquaintance, one still struggling to conceive, told me that all she wants is "one healthy baby." She's a good person and will be a wonderful mother; she deserves to have a healthy baby. I felt so bad, telling her about my good news. I remember being in her shoes, the struggle, the feeling of inadequacy. Then, the discovery that I'd conceived! Then, the discovery that it was....TWINS! And my world turned topsy-turvy.

I genuinely feel that having twins was the best thing that ever happened to me. But I can't deny that I still, in the dim dark recesses of my mind, mourn not having had the one-mother, one-baby experience. Co-sleeping. Easier nursing. Happy cuddling with one child without the other crying, sad and alone. Being able to carry, transport, and care for my children on my own, despite the physical limitations of a C-section. Having had a much greater chance at not having a C-section.

A friend of mine who gave birth more recently envies my stomach. I admit, I'm extremely proud at how I've bounced back. The "twin skin" that I so dreaded and feared wasn't inevitable! I look substantially like I did before, with the exception of four extra pounds. And, as I write that, it honestly tickles me a little bit that I can say that, and some women can't.

It never ends, the jealousy. So-and-so has a higher-end stroller. So-and-so had more than enough milk. So-and-so not only gave birth to triplets vaginally and with no anesthesia, but also gave birth to a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings, and then single-handedly cleaned up prior to delivering the afterbirth, then her stomach promptly shrank back and she sat down for some pumpkin pie.

The twins have helped me see this--the never-ending self-examination, the never-ending comparisons. If my body produced two beautiful children and I'm still second-guessing myself, I'm never going to stop. It's time to make peace with that, accept it, and let it go.

Did I say Monday?

2008-07-09T10:32:00.005-04:00

Because I actually meant, "three months from now."

On Twins, Part II

We recently had a Little Red Hen emergency. Naturally, I'll explain.

My father, ever hard-working, absolutely adores the folk tale of the Little Red Hen. The gist is, the Little Red Hen finds a grain of wheat. She asks all her animal friends to help her plant it. One by one, they all say, "Not I." So she does it herself. When it grows, she asks them for help reaping it (same response), grinding it into flour (ditto), making dough, etc. You get the picture. Then, when she removes the fresh, hot, crusty loaf from the oven, they all volunteer to help her eat it, and she turns them down and eats it herself. A good, classic tale, and an early female protagonist. I like it very much.

The storybook version was an early baby gift to my sons from my father. I read it to them many times, making the animal sounds each time. However, it wasn't until I animated one of the atmospheric background birds that it truly captured their attention. Sage ran all around the house making bird sounds. Out in public, he would make bird sound for anyone who would listen.

But, see, with twins, one child may adore a specific page in a book, and the other, not so much. One day, the babysitter left and I settled down with the Little Red Hen, intending to read it to my sons. I opened it up and prepared to make bird sounds.

But the page was gone. Torn clean from its Little Golden binding.

I searched the entire apartment--garbage pails, diaper pails (where shoes and washcloths frequently wind up, don't ask me why), the insides of tiny pairs of shoes, the minute spaces between radiators and walls, the refrigerator, the menu drawer. EVERYWHERE. No luck.

Frantic, I called Barnes and Noble. Nothing.

By now, there were frantic baby sobs in between the bird sounds. And Thyme was sobbing as well, knowing that something was up and I couldn't read the story.

Doubly desperate, I called our local anarchic-leaning book store, with which, due to my somewhat libertarian leanings, I'd frequently had philosophical differences of opinion. But, hey, desperate times call for desperate measures. I figured if anyone'd have Red, it'd be them (the irony of the capitalist nature of the story and the Commie-type title eluded me then, in my state of frantic parenting, but it kinda tickles me now).

THEY HAD IT. Screw philosophy. I made the guy promise to set it aside and headed down there as fast as my tired legs could carry me, two now-enormous babies, and a double stroller that's really heavier than it should be. I have forgiven the bookstore, for when I was hungry, they sold me a Hen.

The moral of the story is, when your child cries, your wants, needs, and opinions no longer matter. This is true, of course, for parents of singletons as well, but it's doubly-true with twins.

On Twins, Part I

2008-04-15T09:57:00.003-04:00

NOTE: This post is Part I in what I intend to be at least a three-part series on the art, science, and mess of raising twins. My goal is three posts before next Monday.

About me--I was once the sort of person who suffered guilt-induced anxiety attacks for using my student ID to get museum discounts the summer after I graduated from college. When store cashiers asked me questions like, "How ya doing?" I felt compelled to answer them with complete honesty. I sought out hand-sanitizer gel at specialty drugstores before it was widely available. I used multiple bottles of rubbing alcohol each year in the pursuit of clean ears alone. To say the least, I was a bit high-strung.

In the past thirteen months, though, through the magic of raising twins, all that anxious tension has melted away.

Here are some phrases I have found myself uttering and conversations I have found myself participating in with the utmost calmness and tranquility:

Arabella's Mom: "Arabella, Sage is crawling off with his dirty diaper!"
Arabella: "If it's poop, he can't play with it, but if it's only a urine diaper, then that's fine. Urine is sterile when it leaves the body."

"Please stop biting your brother's head."

"If you're going to dribble your milk from the bottle, at least do it on the carpet. It's more absorbent and leaves less to mop up."

Arabella's Mom: "Arabella, Thyme just put something strange in his mouth!"
Arabella (briefly checking): "Oh, that's ok. It's just paper."

Something on the Internet you've never ever heard before

2008-04-11T12:31:00.005-04:00

Now that I'm a wise old mother, I'm qualified to dispense advice, regardless of whether it has been requested or is appreciated.

So, here it is, my primary pearl of wisdom these days:

Don't follow your dreams......at the expense of your happiness.

People from my generation are taught that we can do anything, become anything, be anything, and that we should dare to dream, and dream big. Hey, little girl putting Barbie in a suit--want to be CEO of a big company? Do it! You kid over there screaming into the microphone--want to be a huge recording artist? Go ahead! Don't let your uptight parents, with all their talk of "reality" and "earning a living," get in your way.

Being a lawyer is probably in the list of the Top 25 Last Things I Ever Expected I Would Do. It's certainly one of the last things I ever thought I'd have any interest in.

You know what? I never had some radical conversion. I went into law school knowing fully that I probably never would. I was right. There was never an Aha! moment when the Rule Against Perpetuities suddenly struck me as scintillating. I've never read a single John Grisham novel; I seldom watch legal dramas; most of the time, I couldn't care less. My leisure hours are spent reading fiction, or autobiography, or science, or celebrity gossip. I like my work and find it interesting enough, but it's not my life's passion. In fact, I don't have one single life's passion; I have many. And being a lawyer is one path that allows me to indulge most of them.

I would have loved to be a doctor. I still think it's both a noble and fascinating calling. I could have had a lot of fun onstage. I would have loved to be a full-time writer; in fact, I haven't quite abandoned hope that I may possibly be one someday. But if not, no biggie. Being a lawyer, right now, in my life, allows me to earn a little money while spending a little time with my children. While gradually sewing a dress. And (occasionally, these days--still working on making it more frequent) writing blog posts. And it made it possible for me to date, meet my husband, get married, and have children, all before I hit thirty. I highly doubt I would have been able to have this fairly balanced life that I have if I had chosen any of the aforementioned other careers, although I likely would have loved my work.

But not exclusively. Doctors have their share of frustration and stress. Actors, even successful ones, get rendered obsolete pretty quickly. Writers get frustrated. Every single profession in the universe has its own complications, frustrations, and annoying aspects.

I have friends who followed their dreams--they pursued careers in medicine, acting, writing, etc. Some of them are quite successful at their chosen professions. Some of them are not. Some of them make huge amounts of money. Some of them make very little, and must supplement with other work. Many are my age, and are now hitting the point at which they are starting to take a long, hard look at their private lives. And many of them are seeing that they aren't where they had hoped to be at this point.

So, yes, by all means, think about whether you'll like your work. Don't go into something you'll hate, no matter what. Definitely go into something you can tolerate, and hopefully go into something that you'll find at least mildly interesting. And definitely think about your life as a whole. If you want a certain profession so much that you are willing to make the necessary sacrifices in your personal life, then do it. But be realistic about your chances of success, and if they're really low, and you can't bear the thought of making those sacrifices to your personal life for such a low chance of payoff, then do something else.

Don't go into music, acting, etc. if you require a certain income to fulfill your dreams for your personal life. This does not make you a sellout; it makes you a realist who is taking care of your whole self. Don't go into medicine if you definitely want to be married and have kids while you're young. Don't go into high finance if you'll hate it, and will be rich and miserable. Don't go into hotel management if you don't want to work weekends. Look at people you know who have happy, balanced lives, and ask them where they made sacrifices and where they didn't. Ask unhappy people what they would have done differently. Decide what's important to you in your life, what's not, and how you can put together a package that will fit together what you need to be reasonably happy. And, also, if at all possible, get yourself a TempurPedic bed. They rock.

The Yearlings

2008-03-06T12:19:00.003-05:00

To answer PTG's question in the comments to the previous post, Valentine's Day was a success. Tim Gunn arrived, neatly attired, bespectacled head bobbing and all, and Ty and I sat down to a festive dinner of bagels and lox. The babies, now being ONE YEAR OLD and each having an average of 6.5 teeth, are able to chomp a bit, and are even focusing on chomping stuff other than my fingers and shoulders, so they partook of the bagelfest.

My sons are now able to stand, though not yet walk without holding onto stuff. They smile and joke. They have full, tousled heads of hair. When I drink my mug of tea each morning, Thyme cries for a sip. Once, while lying down, Sage touched the laparoscopy scar on my navel. It tickled, and I laughed, and when I saw the delighted look on his face, I laughed even harder. He now wants to do it every day.

My babies are boys. They kick, and cry, and play, and clap their hands and sway when music is playing. When asked where the bear's nose is, they will point to it. If left seated alone with a book, they will turn the pages and speak out loud, telling themselves the story as they see it.

I still don't shower regularly. I still don't sleep through the night. Some mornings, if they get their hands on a particularly loud, fun toy, there is more banging on the floor of the playroom than Marilyn Chambers experienced between 1972 and 1985. I am not able to insert an edible morsel into my mouth without tears and protestation until I share. My upper arms are as muscular as my stomach is flabby. There always seem to be 400 people around. I now consider toilet paper to be a cosmetic, and perfume a cleansing product.

I have developed a depth of patience that I never thought I had within me. I cuddle, I feed, I clean. I protect from the scary duck with the red eyes. I'm the one to appeal to. I'm the one to get angry at. I'm the one to plant one's mouth on, in an imitation of the kisses I so frequently bestow.

I've changed, fundamentally and unalterably. I'm one year in. A full-fledged mother.

Dear Ty

2008-01-24T13:43:00.001-05:00

I know I said I want a bottle of Midori, but that was 3 am exhausted talk. This is what I really want for Valentine's Day.

So, yeah, Weight Watchers

2008-01-23T14:17:00.001-05:00

I lost six pounds, gained two, lost three, yada yada yada.

So, anyway, I'm consistently down about five. I did the Weight Watchers points tracking very faithfully until just before Christmas, and now I'm doing my own version of generally-healthful eating.

This past weekend, my little munchkins introduced a stomach virus into my system. I actually know the precise moment that it happened. It was last Friday. We were sitting in the doctor's office, because Sage had puked up his Split Pea and Carrot Soup in two long, separate puking sessions, and I needed to know how many additional crib sheets I was going to have to buy (i.e., what was it, would his brother get it, and how long would it last--a stomach virus, yes, of course, and far too long, respectively). The doctor was telling me "Up to ten days" (I kid you not), when Thyme (who was seated on my lap) turned around, removed his finger from his mouth, smiled his adorable little gap-toothed smile at me, and shoved his still-wet, salivaed finger into my own mouth. I then spent the next two days puking, and am still tummy-rumbly enough that my lunches consist of items such as mango slices, seltzer, and salt sucked off some pretzels.

The best punchline of all? According to our scale, I've gained three pounds since Saturday.

An Open Letter to Bob the Builder

2008-01-22T15:57:00.000-05:00

Dear Bob the Builder,

Not that I have, or would, because my children are only ten and a half months old, and we all know that if you so much as flick on the television only once to catch the traffic and weather prior to the day your child turns two that said child will convulse into a fit of seizures, ADD, and delayed linguistic abilities, but not so delayed that the child won't be able to state "It's all your fault!" (while crying) with astonishing clarity despite the broken baby-language-ness of it all,

BUT......

If I were to tune into your show, all the while explaining to my loving Italian father--who at that moment would be helping me with my children--what a wonderful show this is, I understand that I might be rewarded for my loyalty with the searing into our retinas of the image of a little, white-hatted, mustachioed, dark-haired, pizza-selling character who adds vowels to the end of every word.

Now, I understand that clay is not the most expressive of all media, and that one must occasionally resort to gimmicky devices in order to get one's point across. Hence, your lady character's sex is advertised by the fact that she wears earrings with her hardhat. That said, however, does one really need to resort to EVERY CARTOONISH STEREOTYPE IN THE UNIVERSE ROLLED INTO ONE CHARACTER?

Incidentally, I have rarely encountered an Italian accent (and certainly never such a bad one!) at a casual, by-the-slice pizzeria in the five boroughs of New York City, and I'm fairly certain that in the fictional world you inhabit--which looks a bit to me like the Midwest--such an accent would be even harder to come by.

If you'd like to feature an Italian character--a laudable idea, in my opinion--why not a plainclothes individual with an accent consistent with the fact that his ethnicity's big wave of emigration to the U.S. occurred 3-4 generations ago? If you'd like to feature an Italian character who has recently arrived in the U.S., how about fixing the accent and nixing the mustache and cute little hat? Armani is a far more likely scenario.

Sincerely,
Arabella

P.S. Tell your friends Curious George and Fireman Sam that I'm coming after them next.

Baby's Law

2007-12-27T12:26:00.000-05:00

We have a room that is about 95% covered in soft, clean, spit-up-and-Earth's-Best-Baby-Food-colored carpeting. We enforce a strict shoes-off policy in said room. Shoes go on a shoe rack by the door, on the hard flooring surface, where the dirt, trace remnants of animal feces, and bacteria can be contained within a relatively small space. Another area of the room is strewn with brightly-colored, light-up, musical toys. Another contains a soft, covered couch. A third contains a baby-safe jumping seat.

Guess the most compelling spot in the room. Just guess.

Thanksgiving

2007-11-23T21:25:00.000-05:00

The turkey was carved and consumed. Ty and I had completed the drive back to our home and were sitting on the floor, playing with our beautiful twin baby boys. My parents joined us a short while later; they were planning to stay overnight. They took off their shoes and got down to the serious business of playing with their grandchildren on the rug.

My father, ever sentimental, got this dreamy look in his eye.

"Whoever would have guessed that we'd be so lucky," he wondered aloud. "I mean, one would have been a tremendous blessing, but we got two! We have so much to be thankful for."

The babies gurgled and cooed. I smiled. "Awww, Dad. I know exactly what you mean."

He leaned back and sighed. "Imagine that. TWO parking spaces that are legal for tomorrow's alternate!"

Where the air is sweet

2007-11-15T11:55:00.000-05:00

A local restaurant closed while I was pregnant. This in itself isn't particularly noteworthy; there were probably a dozen local restaurants that closed while I was pregnant. Restaurant closings generally sadden me--I think the vast majority of them represent the failure of someone's dream. This one in particular, though, I'm having a hard time getting over.

The restaurant in question opened in 1972. It was, almost unbelievably, one of the first real, contemporary restaurants in what is now a thriving, restaurant-destination neighborhood in New York City. I was not yet a twinkle in my parents' eyes. They were three years into their thirty-eight-year marriage. Many weekends, they would grab a bite at this new place. Other weekends, they would pile their records, record player, and German shepherd into their VW Bug and take off, perhaps to an antiques auction where they'd pick up a Bob Dylan-esque brass bed, or perhaps just to lounge on big pillows in front of a fireplace.

When they tired of that, I came along. The restaurant being family-friendly, they kept right on going there for dinner, bringing me along in my little Aprica. In time, I grew old enough to play their arcade-style Pac-Man game before dinner and order raspberry cheesecake for dessert, which the waiters brought to me topped with whipped cream in the shape of a unicorn. I was beyond delighted.

In the throes of the '80's diet movement, the place built a salad bar. Somewhere along the way, the salad bar disappeared, along with the Pac-Man. The old-timers at the bar, much like the restaurant itself, and even its wooden dining-room tables, never seemed to go anywhere.

When Ty and I married, we realized that the restaurant had the best-tasting, best-priced steak in the neighborhood. We took full advantage. When I got pregnant, their French onion soup was one of the few foods that I could tolerate during the throes of morning sickness. We'd huddle in a booth, scared and thrilled, and dream of bringing our babies to this magical place that encapsulated the modern history of a neighborhood.

One Sunday, after Mass, we stopped in for their brunch, the best-kept brunch secret in town. $8, including brunch entree, rolls, coffee or tea, and Bloody Mary or mimosa. An unbelievable bargain in a town where going to a movie costs several dollars more than that.

You know what happened next. The dining room was dark. Some official-looking guy explained that the dining room was "closing for renovations." When the construction cleared away several months later, the storefront was hip, beautifully renovated, and completely different. Different looks, different menu, different crowd. Different name.

I know we aren't supposed to cling to ephemeral things in life: restaurants, stores, TV shows, even houses. But I can't help it. I can't help but miss beloved things that go away, and I can't help but crave a small degree of stability in a fluid world.

Wordgirl recently wrote about Sesame Street. This morning, my father remarked that he remembered when I watched it as a child, and how, with his grandsons, he's happy those days are back. I always loved the songs, the stories, and the Muppets when I was young. They provided me with a wonderful foundation. I just never imagined they'd provide me with a rock.

Strike it rich

2007-11-14T12:45:00.000-05:00

I support the WGA in their current striking efforts, for two reasons.

One, I think their demands are reasonable and justified.

Two, I cannot live without a third season of Dexter.

The happiest place on Long Island

2007-11-07T13:16:00.000-05:00

Yesterday Ty and I went to Ikea to get some kitchen stuff, seating, and adorable, inexpensive, anthropomorphic Scandinavian plush toys. And Swedish meatballs. I restrained myself and had steamed vegetables with them instead of potatoes, and only two small bites from the pool of lingonberries on the side of my plate, so the overall diet damage wasn't too bad.

Speaking of which, I'm down three pounds and feeling a little bit better. I still think there should be an activity entry in the Weight Watchers system for "lugging a writhing, screaming eight-month-old around while enduring head-butts and kicks to your breasts and genitals, 17 minutes," and that such an activity should be worth at least seven points, but, hey, I've discovered the delicious little Weight Watchers one-point cakes, so why ask for the moon when you have the stars.

Ikea during the week is an entirely different animal than Ikea on the weekend. It was so calm that Ty and I half expected to find Tord Bjorklund himself noshing on reasonably-priced gravlax in a quiet, sunny corner of the cafeteria, contemplating home-furnishings domination via a new line of brilliantly-designed sofabeds. There was enough room in the aisles that we were easily able to maneuver around the obligatory nitwit in four-inch heels who was there to buy two picture frames and score a day's worth of leisurely-paced windowshopping, and insisted on walking right smack in the middle of the footpath. Most of the children there with their parents were also preschool-aged or younger, so it hurt less than it would with some of the bigger kids when they hurled themselves at us from atop a Kramfors sofa or Lack coffee table.

I love Ikea. I really enjoy the meatballs, but I especially enjoy the fantasy that the chain wraps up for you in a saffron-colored bow, for only $5.99. Turn this corner, and you're a chic Stockholm bachelorette outfitting your new apartment, complete with a white leather chair and throwback shag rug. Head that way, and you and your spouse are pioneers in the country, building your own log cabin and your own kitchen to go with it. Like butcher block countertops? Saw your own! You may have entered the store on a low-carb diet, but, by george, you're going home with that pine bread box, and also with a festive green ceramic fondue pot! Each well-lit display offers you a peek into a new world--not unlike a Disney theme park. You can touch and play and build and arrange, and everything is brightly-colored and upbeat.

What surprising places make you happy?

A rollercoaster of a post

2007-10-31T14:55:00.000-04:00

You are going to be so jealous of me, and pity me so much, all within the space of a few measly paragraphs. Maybe less!

I gained either 25 or 35 pounds during my twin pregnancy, depending on whether you count the 10 pounds that I lost from barfing during the first trimester, and then regained.

A week after I gave birth to said twins, I stepped on the scale and learned that I had lost all of my pregnancy weight.

Since then, I've gained 10 pounds. Actually, I gained 10 pounds rather promptly after that. In spite of my learning that breastfeeding burns calories and helps you lose weight, and that breastmilk cures pinkeye, waxes your floors, buffs your hubcaps, and fellates your husband for you (ok, I made that last part up), it apparently doesn't burn enough calories that the new mother can consume two of her friend's homemade-but-professional-quality chocolate chip cookies....with each meal. I feel cheated.

So, once I realized that I was basically heavier four or five months postpartum than when I was four or five months pregnant, I set about to lose the weight, all by myself, without the assistance of any formal program.

Surely, my naturally sensible sensibilities would serve me well. I knew I had to get exercise. I knew I had to eat soundly, but that I shouldn't be too restrictive, lest I set myself up for failure. I should clearly factor reasonable treats into my eating plan.

M&M's Fun Packs, at 90 calories, are clearly reasonable treats, no? Ditto miniature Butterfingers, miniature Nestle's Crunches, and bags of pretzels. Oh, wait. Bags of pretzels aren't reasonable treats. But that's ok; I don't polish one off in one sitting too frequently. And it's important not to deprive yourself on special occasions--such as Sundays, for example, or when the local restaurant serves chocolate chip waffles as a special. What happened to my bag of Butterfingers? Who ate them all?

Do you see where this is heading?

Where this is heading is that I had a few hours to myself, and used it to clean out my closet. And realized how much stuff not only doesn't fit anymore, but REALLY doesn't fit.

I took a good long look at what I was doing, and I realized that, after 30 years of age and a twin pregnancy, I can't do this anymore. I am no longer the girl who can eat anything and get away with it.

So, last Thursday, I signed up for Weight Watchers, spontaneously. And, since then, I've lost two pounds. One of those pounds may be due to the enormous chunk of skin that one of my children gouged out of my nose mere moments after smiling and cooing and gazing lovingly into my eyes, but, hey, a pound is a pound.

The first few days were really hard. I'm allowed 19 points a day. A cup of tea with milk and sugar is two points. A regular bagel with butter is nine points. NINE. As surreal as the Fellini film upon which the musical of the same number is based. (You don't get the reference? 8 1/2, ok? The film is 8 1/2; the musical is Nine. There; now you can go to cocktail parties and be as faux-pretentious as me.)

Have I mentioned that I rank artificial sweeteners somewhere near the Olive Garden and unwanted dinner-hour telephone solicitations on the List of Things That I Don't Like?

But, I want my ass back, if only because I'm too cheap to go out and buy all new pants.

And, since I'm not a cheerleadery-meetings sort of person, I'm doing it alone, online, with only the other sarcastic, antisocial weight-denialists for company. So, to keep myself vaguely accountable, I will attempt to update you all on my progress. Wish me luck! And Happy Halloween!

Calm down

2007-10-24T04:53:00.000-04:00

Knowing that I'm a churchgoing Catholic, and therefore an Official Spiritual Person, a friend once asked me whether I believed in the concept of soulmates--more specifically, whether I believed that there is one person out there for each of us. My answer was, no, not really. I think there are many people out there that each of us could be compatible with, and I think that a marriage that's as practical as it is romantic is more likely to succeed.

I do, however, think it's important to marry the right person. For me, one of the biggest indicators that my husband was the right person was that ours was a relationship in which the person that I was before I met him didn't get lost. How's that for a mouthful? I'll explain even further. So many of us have had relationships in which we've given things up--from little things, like our single-person routines, to big things, like our friendships, our beloved activities, or even our identities. The end of such a relationship is double-devastating; you've given up yourself for this other person, and then you lose even the other person. You're faced with the prospect of having to meet someone else, but, before you can do that, you must get your own life back on track.

With Ty, I always felt like, devastated though I'd be if our relationship ended, I would still be myself. I'd still be the same celebrity gossip-loving, bad music-listening, semicolon-overusing person. Even though I've given up some things in the course of our relationship--even some things I used to think were big things--I've either learned that they really had very little to do with who I am, or I've given them up, willingly, for our greater good.

What am I getting at? Sorry about the crappy transition--do you see what time I'm posting this? What I'm getting at is that I don't remember the date of my last post. Having children has completely changed my ability to blog. I'll admit it--I thought, briefly, about stopping, and even discussed it with C.S. And the conclusion I've come to is that writing, in any form, is very important to me, and this blog, in particular, is very much a part of who I am. I love reading my comments. I look forward to Wordgirl's newest blog designs. I get a kick out of people finding Tink's blog by Googling "arabella tits" or whatever. In describing to a friend the feeling I had after giving birth, I explained it as a feeling similar to the feeling I had after meeting up with blog friends in Savannah. I just can't give it up.

What I can do is stop focusing on my dwindling site statistics and stop apologizing for my long absences. So, even if it's been awhile since my last post, please know that, at the crack of dawn some morning, I will finish feeding my boys and lie awake, in bed, restless, thinking of writing, until I ultimately give in and post before returning to bed, bleary-eyed but happy.

As I tell my children, Mommy always comes back.

An open letter to people who advised me to have children

2007-10-03T11:12:00.001-04:00

Dear People,

I knew this wouldn't be all peaches, unicorns, and rainbows. I expected sleepless nights. I expected my home to become infested by myriad weird, child-clinging bacteria. I expected urine all over my favorite furniture. I expected spit-up on my J. Crew suit. I even expected to outgrow said J. Crew suit (though not quite to this extent, but, hey, whatever). Even the twice-daily Mixing of the Vats of Formula, the Wriggling on the Changing Table, the Struggling to Get Sheets on the Mini-Crib Mattress, the Great Post-Bath Oatmeal Bowl Upset, the constant Lugging of Huge, Heavy Piles of Shit Everywhere We Go, the Delirium Resulting from Exposure to Too Much Electronic-Toy Bach, the Brilliance of the Infant Pain Relieving Medication Containing Red Dye, and the Screaming When I Will Not Provide the Baby With His Own Cup of Steaming Hot Tea are not entirely outside the realm of the unprecedented.

But nobody, and I mean NOBODY, warned me about The Endless, Endless Kicking of the Breasts and Genitals.

And this is information that would have proved useful. As in, condom-coupled-with-spermicide-and-the-sponge-and-the-Pill useful.

Biting of the breasts was one thing; that went with the breastfeeding territory. I signed on for that. But I never imagined, in a million years, that I would be signing on for bright mornings of picking up my sweet, smiling infant son from his crib, lovingly enduring his misguided affection as he gouges me in the eye, gurgles, and blows raspberries in my face, and then kissing the top of his sweet, baby-scented head and carrying him over to the changing table, singing all the while, prior to him serving five rapid-succession swift, efficient kicks to my C-section scar.

Then, of course, I finish changing his watery, poopy diaper (while he wriggles to and fro, trying to shove the Desitin and the dirty diaper in his mouth simultaneously), deposit him into his bouncy seat, and pick up his brother, patting myself on the back for the fact that his brother has only been crying for three minutes while I changed the other baby. The second baby, upset at not being in someone's arms, is equally upset at being in someone's arms, and promptly flings his fist against my breasts, head-butts my chin, and kicks me in the C-section scar, all within a four-second time span.

I might also add that this is when the phone starts to ring--both landline and cell--and the doorbell buzzer buzzes, typically for the delivery of someone else's package, except the carrier is too lazy actually to read the name on the bell and match it to the package.

Need I add that I'm unshowered and unbreakfasted? And that one phone call was about an extremely significant issue and one phone call was about an insignificant issue, and I'm not sure which one pissed me off more?

Sincerely,
Arabella

Things to do today

2007-09-27T11:41:00.001-04:00

1) Save world;
2) LAUNDRY;
3) Bitch out credit card company AGAIN;
4) Check to see if Spanx pants render prepregnancy dress wearable;
~~5) Deactivate Facebook account.~~ done

I Know, I Know

2007-09-24T11:55:00.000-04:00

Almost two weeks without a post! I can't believe it. However, fear not--or, fear greatly, depending on your perspective; I have zero intention of quitting. Various baby-related household projects have occupied my time, of late, but the majority of those projects are winding down.

No one got all the answers to the Travels with Arabella quiz! They are, as follows:

1) d; 2) d; 3) d; 4) c; 5) d; 6) a; 7) b; 8) c.

But I'm a sport, even if I hate sports. Here's your minor prize anyway. Stop complaining; I SAID it was minor:

Baby pants surround Daddy's pants

In other news, I have just weaned the boys, at 6 1/2 months of age. I didn't want to wean this early, but the boys basically lost all interest in nursing. The lovely Teebs sent me a link to a helpful article regarding the rarity of self-weaning before a year, and I've read similar information elsewhere, but, I'm here to tell you, these authors never met my boys. They are reaching for cups and mugs and computers and Us Weekly and pizza (no, I'm not giving them pizza; they're just reaching for it); they have no further use for lying down and eating like a baby. Other than the whole process being heartbreaking, there was virtually no physical discomfort, because the stepdown in nursing was gradual. Usually, of course, I'm a huge fan of free speech, but I'm having a hard enough time with this, and I'm going to invoke my blog-dictatorship rights and delete any comments that are anything other than supportive of my weaning. Now, please tell me I'm not a horrible mother.

I'm currently working on weaning the rest of the world, but it's proving significantly more difficult to get everyone else off my tits, you know? At least my boys latched onto me for nourishment. It seems that the vast majority of the universe likes to latch on just to mess with me.

Untitled

2007-09-11T10:17:00.000-04:00

Last night, Ty and I had one of those silly, dime-a-dozen marital arguments. Something on the order of, which of us sleeps less, does more chores, does more for the babies, etc. You know, the kind of debate that Lucy and Ricky ended with a draw, a laugh, and a shared steak with the Mertzes back in the '50's.

But, naturally, at 11:30 pm, it seemed quite serious. I woke up at 5:30 to tend to the babies, and was still vaguely pissed when I turned on the television at eight.

I had forgotten what day it was.

Not "forgotten" forgotten, mind you. It's been on my mind all week, yesterday included. It's something I think about periodically all throughout the year. It usually comes up when I least expect it. I'll see mall footage of a Sbarro's pizzeria, for example, and I'll get a flashback to the shops at the World Trade Center and think to myself, I ate pizza there, and now that place is completely annihilated.

Many stations were running replays of the live footage from that morning, with the simultaneously clear-and-fuzzy commentary that results when human beings mix shock recollection with legend and then try to explain what they're feeling. It was a beautiful, sunny day, the newscaster will say, but it wasn't. It was incredibly humid and hazy, and sweat poured down my forehead as I walked to class in my short-sleeved sweater set and black slacks. For weeks afterwards, New Yorkers jumped every time they heard a siren. This is true.

At this morning's memorial service, a man was recalling his wife, the mother of his children, who had worked in one of the Towers.

I thought of Ty, how he was not yet my husband, or even my betrothed, at that point. How he showed up that morning at my apartment, gray dust all over his suit composed of the ashes of thousands of other peoples' beloveds. How our relationship changed after that, and became more serious. It was clear that our dating life was over. We were grownups.

My sons fussed as I watched the footage. Sage was inconsolable this morning. He wanted a bottle; then he didn't. He wanted a nap, but wouldn't go to sleep. In the background, grim-faced individuals spoke of "anniversary reactions" and read the names of other peoples' baby boys and girls.

Ty kissed me before he left for work. We lingered for a moment.

Between us, all is forgiven.

Oh Boy, Oh Boy

2007-08-29T18:51:00.001-04:00

I have several confessions to make.

I hate football. Loathe, detest, and despise it. I'm no real fan of sports, in general, unless you count yoga, and the Yankees. Yankee baseball I can deal with.

I like my nature safely confined to manicured, relatively-bug free backyards with concrete patios, or behind clean glass. Clean glass containing air-conditioned air.

I can't imagine getting up at the crack of dawn to go fishing. I think I'd rather get up at the crack of dawn to clean a basement.

If my life depended on athletic prowess, this would be my eulogy.

I like pink.

I still have all my Barbie dolls. Some of them are on display in my home. And I keep acquiring MORE.

I still have all of the following, too: Cabbage Patch Kids, baby dolls, a bride doll (still on display in my old bedroom in my parents' home), play lipstick, and play purses.

Not too many years ago, I bought a tiny vintage apron for my theoretical future daughter. It was just too cute to resist.

Basically, I'm a girly girl.

And now I have two sons.

I am a bit intimidated by this.

I know many mothers without daughters fear missing out on things like clothes shopping, or wedding planning. These are things I can live without. My own wedding planning was extensive enough to carry me through the rest of my life. I frequently prefer to shop alone.

I am worried, however, that I will someday have an allergic reaction to the cloud of testosterone that will undoubtedly form near the crown moldings in my home. I may eventually have a nervous breakdown from having to empty the pockets of the pants of all the male members of my family prior to doing laundry (I always empty my own pockets before putting my pants in the hamper). I am worried I will someday fall into the toilet after the seat gets stuck in a permanently lifted position. I am worried that images of basketball games will get burned into the picture tubes of my television, and will be visible even when I turn the channel to Lifetime. Speaking of lifetimes, I fear for one filled with future mockings aimed at me due to my fondness for Us Weekly and Glamour's Do's and Don'ts.

Ty is a good sport. He rented The Devil Wears Prada for me and even watched it with me, and he's always patient whenever I scrutinize Tori Spelling's augmented cleavage gap out loud, or disappear into the shoe section at Lord & Taylor.

Mostly, though, I'm worried about living in a house where no one really, truly gets me on a fundamental level. And I'm worried about not having anything in common with my children. And I'm worried about them not respecting the things that interest me. Even the frivolous things--respecting them for the fluffy treats that they are.

I do have some traditionally-masculine traits: lawyering, for one. An interest in science. An appreciation for sarcasm and parody. A fascination with surgery, taxidermy, corpses, and the macabre. And gendered-activity distinction lines get blurred more and more. I just hope that I have enough within me, on a human level, separate from maleness or femaleness, that my children will want to be friends with me. At least until they hit 13; then, all bets are off.

Travels with Arabella

2007-08-27T21:25:00.000-04:00

(I apologize for my extended absence. I have been on a road trip visiting Ty's family. I had planned to blog along the way, but, alas, there wasn't any wireless to be had.)

The first person to email me the correct answers will win--oh, I don't know; a minor prize of some sort. What ever happened to the joy of just playing??? ;)

1.) How many members of Arabella's family woke up sick on the morning of their trip?

a) 1
b) 2
c) 3
d) 4

2.) Arabella did NOT engage in which of the following activities in the car?

a) pumping breastmilk
b) trimming her toenails
c) polishing her toenails
d) playing hand-held video games
e) playing Sudoku
f) eating (hey, I've got to give some freebies)

3.) Which of the following is NOT the name of an actual eating establishment that Arabella encountered on her trip?

a) De Vinci's
b) Johnny Carino's
c) Quaker Steak 'n Lube
d) Uncle Luigi's

4.) How long did it take Arabella to disassemble the second Pack 'n Play ?

a) 3 minutes
b) 7 minutes
c) 11 minutes
d) 19 minutes

5.) At one point, Arabella sang to her children to soothe them. How many verses of "Baby Beluga" did she sing?

a) 3
b) 6
c) 12
d) 17

6.) When did Arabella get asked to show her ID?

a) when buying Sudafed
b) when ordering a girly drink in a chain restaurant
c) when pulled over by a State Trooper
d) when entering an office building

7.) Approximately how much cheaper is a good massage in the Midwest than in New York City?

a) $25
b) $50
c) $75
d) $0

8.) Generic Desitin was available for $1.74 a tube. How many tubes did Arabella buy?

a) 1
b) 2
c) 3
d) 4

Thanks for playing!

Medicine Ball

2007-08-09T22:20:00.000-04:00

I had my first medicine-cabinet-away-from-home during my senior year of college. Even with only one de-facto bathroom to five bedrooms (the house's spare half bath gradually became the exclusive domain of the bulimic housemate who would disappear into it for lengthy periods of time), our situation was a major upgrade from the coed dorm bathrooms of the previous three years. Until then, afraid of having my personal hygiene implements misappropriated from the communal cubbies and used to shave someone else's dubiously-clean balls, I had carried them with me to and from the bathroom in a small plastic basket every time I wanted to use them, which was constantly.

The following year brought with it an embarrassment of riches--my own apartment, and, almost as good, my own huge, half-wall, three-paneled medicine cabinet with mirrors that could be angled so that one could scrutinize one's French twist! I wasted no time in filling it with every conceivable bottle and jar and bar and potion and gel. When phone conversations grew lengthy, I would often take the phone in the bathroom with me and chat as I repeatedly opened and closed the cabinets, admiring my stock of products and taking in every square centimeter of space with awe.

I soon moved into a nicer, better apartment. The stove burners were terrific, which was wonderful news for my budding culinary skills. The one drawback, though, was reduced medicine cabinet space. Fortunately, there were shelves right outside the bathroom that fulfilled almost the same purpose, so my awesome product collection traveled with me, intact. A small hand-held mirror served as a fine French-twist-scrutinizing supplement.

Then, the oldest story in the universe re-enacted itself for the trillionth time. You know--girl meets boy, girl marries boy, girl and boy move in together, and girl loses still more medicine cabinet space. This time, I had to pare down and get creative. Infrequently-used products were banished to shelves near the kitchen. My tallest bottles found a new home concealed in the built-in wall hamper, ingeniously, I thought.

Now, with two little boys, my days of having my own even-modest medicine cabinet are numbered. It's only a matter of time before lipsticks and luxe eye creams get shoved aside to make room for economy-sized Band-Aids, bubblegum-flavored toddler toothpaste, and foaming, brightly-colored hand soap in a dispenser shaped like a hippopotamus.

So, I'm starting my own meme. You know what you always want to do at parties? Well, below is a photograph of the interior of my medicine cabinet exactly as it appears this morning, August 15, 2007. I challenge you to post a photo of your own. No cheating--no moving aside the Monistat, no hiding the nipple cream. Just a photo of your toiletries, cosmetics, etc., in all their stark, beautiful nakedness.

Questions? Post them in the comments.

Phoning it in

2007-08-01T11:05:00.001-04:00

For the record, I have possessed cellphones at all times for approximately eight years, and I have never once lost or damaged a cellphone, but I have, on several occasions, been inconvenienced by someone else losing or damaging a cellphone, and this morning was basically the LAST STRAW, and I support the idea of implanting people with cellphone chips if it means that I will never ever again have to stand there in the hallway in my bare feet sweating fenugreek and calling a missing cellphone while one child drools all over my crisp $75 Brooks Brothers shirt and his brother screams and cries and three or four people need to walk exactly where I'm standing thereby forcing me to shift position as I balance said child(ren) while I dodge errant construction nails and all the while hunt unsuccessfully for the phantom phone at the bottom of a gooey, gooey diaper bag.

Tinking

2007-07-30T14:42:00.000-04:00

Tink has wonderfully and graciously named a holiday after me, and today is it. I love her. Even better, she's using the day to spread appreciation all around the blogosphere. Plus, she's hot. Make sure you stop at Pickled Beef today to join the love-in.

Those that know her need no encouragement to stop by her blog. She's endlessly creative, interesting, entertaining, and prolific. She's full of positive contradictions--young, yet very worldly; perpetually upbeat, yet never annoying; a little zany, yet completely sensible. Her photos are beautiful, her games are fun, and her recurring features--stream-of-consciousness thoughts, personal ad commentaries, beautiful photos, and especially Daily Hoop Conversations--are better than any you'd find in a newspaper or magazine.

Tink, thanks for all that you do. You are one of the brightest lights in the blogosphere.

C.S. Post Roast

2007-07-26T12:43:00.000-04:00

C.S. turns 30 today. Hooray!

In her honor, today's blogging will consist of potentially embarrassing and hopefully moderately humorous little tidbits about the busty best friend we all know and love.

1. C.S. once lived with a WASP. No, not a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant; an actual wasp. He made his way into her dorm room, and she didn't kill him or chase him out. They coexisted peacefully for almost a week. Yet, at the same time, she was terrified of these large, harmless, slow-flying bugs with triangular heads that neither of us had seen before or since, but proliferated on our college campus. She screamed for me when she saw one of them in her room.

2. C.S. has never barfed. And yet...this past spring, C.S. maxed out after holding Sage. She passed him to her mother approximately ten seconds before he barfed up an entire bottle. I was washing dishes at the sink, my back to them. I heard The Sound, and turned around in time only to see C.S.'s shocked mother completely coated in white, and C.S. doubled over with laughter.

3. Her teeth are enormous. Mine are small. We have often said that if one were to average our teeth, one would come up with some normal-sized chompers.

4. She puts on body spray by spritzing it into the air in front of her, then frantically waving her arms around.

5. She gets disgusted by people drinking milk with savory entrees.

6. She gets mad when people order the same thing as her, or as each other, in a restaurant.

It's for all these reasons, and many, many more, that I love her.

Happy birthday, C.S.!

The 8 Things Meme

2007-07-24T10:38:00.001-04:00

I have a vague memory of promising to do this. Of course, I also have a vague memory of my mother coming into my room in the middle of the night on Saturday (never happened), and, yesterday, out of the clear blue sky, I woke up with the realization that I had never really liked this guy that C.S. broke up with a long time ago and hasn't spoken to in years. So, I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed right now.

1. I have never successfully made what I would consider a really good vinaigrette. I've tried and tried and tried. I've used various permutations of ingredients, both ordinary and exotic--champagne vinegar, grapefruit juice, basil, sugar, wine, dill, vegetable oil, fresh garlic, roasted garlic, buttermilk--all to no avail. If anybody has any vinaigrette secrets, please share them with me.

2. I'm in the process of assembling a "go" bag for use in the event of an emergency. As part of this process, I spent part of yesterday looking at "survival knives" on the Internet instead of showering, and also contemplating whether I should include some decent reading material in the bag as a necessity, along with items such as water and matches.

3. The best pair of pants I've found in recent years came from Old Navy. I wear them several times a week. I think they cost me $20 about five years ago.

4. I have a lot of trouble whistling.

5. I love to eat breakfast foods for dinner.

6. I hate removing staples.

7. I love peaches, but I avoid them because of the extreme disappointment I feel when I bite into a mealy one, and for the life of me I can't tell from the outside which ones are mealy.

8. I wash most of my fruits and vegetables with soap and water.

A Question

2007-07-16T12:47:00.000-04:00

Q: When is a baby most likely to end his nursing strike?

A: During the precise 20-minute period that you have allotted for your only shower in 36 hours.

The dark side of the moon

2007-07-12T12:12:00.000-04:00

In spite of New Yorkers' reputation for rudeness, we have created an elaborate system of etiquette with regard to alternate parking. Basically, we all double-park on the side of the street that is not being cleaned. The police, and everyone else, tolerate this, because we generally leave notes in our windshields with addresses and/or cellphone numbers, in case the blocked-in individual needs to get out while the alternate is in effect. Additionally, it is understood that we will move our cars promptly at the appointed time, and probably a few minutes early. This system, generally speaking, works swimmingly, until some selfish bastard comes in and messes it all up.

This morning, our car was parked in a "Friday" spot. It being Thursday, we had an opportunity to move it to the other side of the street at the time that the Thursday parking restriction ended. In spite of needing to hunt around for an important file (which I have yet to find), I dutifully went to the car a few minutes prior to the appointed time, scanned the opposite side of the street and found My Perfect Parking Space, and prepared to nab it, only to find that I was almost completely blocked in. It would have taken the precision of a Swiss watch genetically combined with the brain and hands of a neurosurgeon in order to maneuver out of that spot.

So, I waited. Surely, the owner of the car would be along any minute.

I waited. Someone else nabbed the spot. No matter; there were still a few left.

And I waited and waited and waited. A kindly man finally came by; it looked like he was gesturing that he was going to move it.

"I'm sorry; it's not my car," he said. "But, if you'd like, I'll direct you out of the spot."

What seemed like 37 tense, sweaty minutes later, but was probably only about 6, I was on my way. The man had staved off oncoming traffic, had gotten me out of the spot uneventfully, and had bid me good day. God bless you, Nice Man, wherever you are.

Naturally, all the spots were gone by the time I got out. Except, of course, for the massive spot at the end of the block where parking is strictly prohibited for no apparent reason.

When all was said and done, I headed to the health-food store, where there were 7 employees chatting about how difficult their jobs were, yet nobody was available to help me get the bottle of fenugreek located on a shelf approximately four miles above sea level. The fenugreek is to increase my milk production, since it just sort of plummeted within the past few days, again, for no apparent reason. A minimally helpful breastfeeding book informed me that this can happen at around three or four months postpartum, and gave no further explanation. This is terribly inconvenient, as my children currently want to consume enough milk and/or formula each day to feed a small country, and I'd like as much of it to come from me as possible.

Today, I am having a lot of trouble finding my inner French girl.

So, instead, I think I am going to find my inner Irish girl, and have half a Guinness (good for lactation) while I pump. Judge not, lest ye be judged.

The World's Shortest Wine Review

2007-07-10T11:58:00.000-04:00

Trader Joe's Charles Shaw Collection Sauvignon Blanc:
It tastes good. It's $3 a bottle. Buy it.

(Plus, I got carded! Yay!)

Summer Evening

2007-07-03T19:52:00.001-04:00

Tonight, Sage and Thyme steadfastly refused to nurse, forcing me to pump in order to relieve the pain. They deemed the sight of me pumping insufficiently entertaining, though, and finally--and reluctantly--deigned to stop crying once I settled on precisely the right combination of rocking their bouncy seats with my feet (for those not in the know, a breast pump requires that you clutch the pump to your breasts with your hands, thereby ensuring that the time you spend pumping is as boring and inefficient as possible), and making up new and entertaining lyrics to "The Wheels on the Bus" (the bus in question is now occupied by Daddy, Joan Rivers, Nana, and several stuffed puppies).

When I finished pumping, Sage started to cry and refused to stop until I gave him the bottle earmarked for his brother. Then, he promptly fell asleep, providing an opening for Thyme to chime in. Chime in he did--splendidly. (This was also the moment at which Sage turned his head to The Bad Side That We Are Supposed to Discourage So His Head Doesn't Get Any Flatter, and the point at which I realized that I finally had an opening to clip Sage's surfboard-like nails, and I couldn't exploit it, because his brother was fussing.) Thyme refused food and comfort, preferring instead to stare in awe at the closed Venetian blinds while perched in an awkward pose in my arms that required me to contort my back. This lasted for roughly eight minutes before he began howling (although my stomach had been howling for at least 45 minutes). Once the howling commenced, we alternated the breast and two kinds of bottles until he decided what he wanted. He finally settled on expressed breast milk, and I seized the opportunity to shove a miniature Nestle's Crunch bar in my mouth.

Daddy will soon be home from his after-work drink with his colleagues.

Guess who will be making dinner tonight.

Quote of the Day

2007-07-03T10:23:00.000-04:00

Courtesy of Ty. Background: I heard that a former foe of mine had suffered a public humiliation, and was trying to glean as much information as I could from the Internet.

"I'm going to bed now. Have fun playing on schadenfreude dot com."

Misery and company

2007-06-29T18:46:00.001-04:00

For the first time in twelve years of friendship, C.S. and I are happy at the same time.

We've been simultaneously miserable plenty of times. There was the time we were so miserable that we collapsed in a fit of pathetic laughter at the state of our lives on the floor of a department-store dressing room in a decidedly understocked mall moments before it closed. C.S. was looking for a suit to wear to a stuffy corporate job interview; I was procrastinating during my thesis-writing. The skirt she was trying on didn't make it past her knees, she fell into a heap, and we laughed the kind of silent laughter that makes your stomach hurt.

There was the time a particularly scary bug got into her dorm room. I was recovering from a bad breakup; she was recovering from a bad final. We were both sleep-deprived and exhausted. I finally captured the beast in an upside-down glass embossed with our college logo, slid a playing card underneath it, and released it into the night, as we cried hysterical tears.

There was the time we drove to the 7-11 in the middle of a miserable night, bought an Entenmann's Marshmallow Iced Devil's Food Cake, and split it, consuming the entire thing until we were sick to our stomachs.

There was the time we scoured the entire city for a German chocolate cake (why do so many of our memories involve cake?), finally procured one, brought it home, stood around it, and, drooling with anticipation, wielded the knife to cut into it, just as our sick friend promptly sneezed all over it.

Now, I have two beautiful children. She is in a good relationship in a good environment that she has entirely created for herself.

I wonder if our friendship can survive this much happiness.

Taking care of business

2007-06-26T12:19:00.000-04:00

A number of you have asked me for photos of my babies. Believe me, I would love to post some. They are the cutest babies in the universe and they lower your blood pressure and cholesterol and bad-health-thingies within three seconds flat of glancing at them, and they are clearly the best, most beautiful things I've ever made, and I long to show them off, but I just can't, because then my mother would kill me, and then she'd kill my husband for letting me do it, and then the babies would be orphans, and then she'd get custody of them, and then, when they became teenagers, she would never ever ever let them watch cable television or put any salt on their food. So there. But she's right; she, and other members of my family, myself included, have had bad experiences with a scary stalker-type person who has used the Internet to find out information about us. Therefore, I'm not willing to take any chances with posting photos or certain identifying information. I'm sorry. Please don't take it personally.

Next: after discussing things with my husband and my mother, and virtually every pediatrician in the tri-state area, we have decided to decline SHOOTING X-RAYS INTO OUR INFANT SONS' SKULLS FOR NO GOOD REASON. I know, I know: I'm just too crunchy-granola to live.

Here's the deal: our sons like leaning their heads to one side. This probably has to do with them having been all squished up together inside my overtaxed womb. So, since baby heads are fairly soft, they are developing little flat spots on one side, a condition medically known as "plagiocephaly," and colloquially known as "flat head syndrome."

Try to imagine the joy a new mother experiences when a medical professional tells her that her beautiful, perfect sons may be suffering from "flat head syndrome."

But not to worry.

It can be corrected.

By wearing special, custom-made, probably-not-covered-by-insurance helmets, 24/7, for a year.

But, first, they need to get x-rays.

And then.......they need to see a NEUROSURGEON.

Or, if you listen to the doctor who gave the second opinion, you can just put a mobile on one side of their crib so they turn their head the other way. Either that, or see a neurosurgeon. Mobile, or neurosurgeon. Whatever. Six of one, half dozen of another.

So, we decided to decline the x-rays but consult with the neurosurgeon. And he couldn't have been nicer. Particularly with his pronouncement that our babies are fine and his recommendation that we do nothing right now, but if we want a perfect head shape, we might need to do the helmets, and we should come back in a few weeks.

So, the moral of the story, I think, is, if you live in an area with a lot of crazy, litigation-happy yuppies, and your pediatrician, probably in covering herself because she knows that you're a lawyer, sends you to the neurosurgeon, try not to worry about it too much and just go.

Speaking of being a lawyer....Mignon asked me some time ago what I'm doing about work. The answer, really, is quite simple: I have no fucking clue. Basically, I'm working, minimally, on a few minor projects. I was sort of gung-ho to get more work, but it's not coming as quickly and easily as I had hoped, and maybe that's not such a terrible thing, because I'm exhausted, but maybe it is terrible, because I'm also in need of money, and why the hell do exersaucers (and all other seats that don't require the baby to lean its head against the back) cost $80 anyway, and how come there are 3,451 children per square inch in my neighborhood, and no decent used baby gear within a 5-mile radius of my apartment on Craigslist?

So, in summary, we will be going back to the neurosurgeon and may or may not be putting our babies in helmets, and I may or may not ever be comfortable with the amount of work I do ever again. So, how's your day?

5 thoughts that are making me feel better about my day

2007-06-19T14:10:00.000-04:00

Because I haven't ~~phoned it in~~ compiled a list in a while, and I know you're all trembling with anticipation.

And also because I had a crappy night; the kids woke up at 12, 1, 2:30, 4, and 5. And an even crappier morning--the pediatrician wants them to go for head x-rays. When I went to the hospital to make an appointment (which the hospital doesn't take; you just have to show up with two screaming infants and wait until they're good and ready for you, never mind your babies' comfort and well-being, or your own life and schedule), I stopped in the chapel to say a little prayer that everything would turn out ok. That was when some dipshit repeatedly said to me, "Excuse me," until I looked up at her. Incidentally, I was not the only one in the chapel, although I was the only one with my eyes closed, my hands clasped, and my head bent in prayer.

What, you ask, did she have to say that was so earth-shattering that she had to talk to me at THAT PRECISE THIRTY-SECOND INTERVAL?

"What's today's date?"

And, now, on with the list:

1. Did you ever notice how you never see pictures of Angelina Jolie's butt? Maybe it's bony!

2. Air conditioning makes the kitchen cooler. Especially after you've just baked chocolate chip cookies instead of returning phone calls.

3. If you don't like mayonnaise, creme fraiche is a fabulous substitute.

4. The older your children get, the sooner they'll be able to take Benadryl.

5. Ice cream contains calcium.

A ton of bricks

2007-06-14T16:33:00.000-04:00

While the title of this post could easily describe the condition of my sons' diapers when they've consumed large quantities of soy formula (quite binding, that stuff is), I'm actually referring to how the lack of sleep is starting to affect me, now, at 15 weeks postpartum.

I was absolutely, positively, triple-latte-vintage-Katie-Couric-without-the-blinding-chompers chipper for the first month. Month two, even--no problem. Month three, there was barely a slowdown.

Then, all of a sudden, the fourth month began.

Now a few weeks into it, I have fallen asleep while 1) nursing, 2) holding bottles in my sons' mouths (yes, both of them at the same time), 3) rearranging clothing in drawers, 4) cleaning out my purse, which is generally an activity as comprehensive and fascinating as an archaeological dig, and 5) reading Us Weekly. Anyone who knows me in person will attest that that last one is particularly strange. I live for Us Weekly. I guess the cumulative lack of sleep has finally caught up with me.

By necessity, we now have to separate the boys at night. They are big and strong enough that they have begun to wake each other up, usually by smacking each other around. I expected them to start smacking each other around eventually, but I never thought it would happen this early. They're probably hoping to use that old but-most-of-my-motions-are-involuntary! standby as an excuse. Last night was the first night they slept in separate cribs. Hopefully, as they adjust, they'll benefit from not having their sleep interrupted by tiny little flailing fists, and they'll sleep for longer stretches, and then Mommy will be able to stay awake long enough to finish the Enquirer's Annual Celebrity Cellulite Issue.

Arabella on Baby Products You Might Like to Purchase

2007-06-12T15:05:00.000-04:00

(With apologies to Marge Simpson.)

Because 1) I am basically a great big product whore, and 2) I am sucking up to manufacturers of any of the following products in the hopes of winning a lucrative endorsement deal (stop laughing right now), and 3) I am a little bit bossy and like telling other people what to do, I hereby present you with my list of product recommendations that will help you get through the first several months of your baby's life.

Medela Pump in Style Advanced Backpack Breast Pump
It's a fully automatic breast pump that's almost as good as a hospital-grade breast pump. Costs a fortune and worth every penny. It's lightweight, portable, can be plugged in or used with batteries (or even a car cigarette lighter, if you purchase an adapter kit), and comes in a sleek black backpack that doesn't scream "breast pump" (a tote bag model is also available). It pumps both sides at once, and it's comfortable, not too loud, easy to operate, and easy to clean. If you plan to do any pumping at all, I highly recommend this product.

Dr. Brown's Natural Flow baby bottles
The liquid really does flow smoothly out of these bottles. A special vent in the bottle prevents the baby's suction from creating a vacuum effect. While this means there are more parts to clean than in standard bottles, it also means that bubbles don't form in the bottle liquid. Therefore, the baby swallows less air, which helps prevent gas, fussiness, and spit-up. The bottles are a bit pricey, but highly durable--much more so than cheap bottles. I like the sturdy, clear silicone nipples, too. They last a long time, and begin to yellow as they wear, so you can tell that they need to be replaced.

Avent IQ Steam Sterilizer
Pour in some water, press a button, and, a few minutes later, your bottles, pacifiers, etc. are sterilized. Much, much better than pots of boiling water on your stove! Easy to operate, too.

Kirkland Signature diapers
The best I've found. They feel soft, fit well, are inexpensive, and rarely leak. Plus, they don't leave crease marks on my babies' cute little butts, like every other diaper I've tried.

Pampers Sensitive wipes
These are gentle, and incredibly soft and silky.

Nestle Good Start Supreme formula
My children's pediatrician recommended this one as a good, easy-to-digest formula for supplementing. The consistency seems the most like breast milk of any formula I've tried.

The Amazing Miracle Blanket
I have seven years of postsecondary education, and, for the life of me, I can't swaddle a baby with a traditional blanket. This product makes it easy. There were two nights in a row that my children slept through an abbreviated version of the night, at about two months old. I credit this blanket, which makes me feel a lot better about the amount that I paid for it.

Chinese prefold cloth diapers
I use these as burp cloths. They are thick, absorbent, and fairly cheap. Plus, they last forever. I like the unbleached kind. I got mine at amazon.com.

Do you have any to add?

Merry Birthday

2007-06-04T11:44:00.000-04:00

This weekend, the twins turned three months old.

I know. I can't believe it either. Before I know it, they'll be big kids, and get bubblegum all over my collection of vintage Mad Magazines, and then they'll be grown up, and then they'll abandon me and marry puttanas, leaving me lonely and brokenhearted.

Ty, this is why I need a daughter.

We celebrated their birthday the only way we knew how--by eating delicious things that they can't eat. Because nothing says "three months old" like Entenmann's Chocolate Chip Crumb Loaf Cake with vanilla ice cream.

Then, we put the bathtub on the kitchen table and gave them a hugely embarrassing bath before a wide audience. And recorded every minute of it on video. Because nothing says, "my dear teenage son, you had better behave" than the threat of showing baby-bath videos to your kid's prom date.

After the bath, I was chided by my own parents for saying, "It puts the lotion on the skin or else it gets the bath again." They prefered more wholesome fare, like singing "The Turkey Ran Away" and "Must Be Santa." They may win the family-friendly award, but I win the award for matching the song to the occasion.

Of Moving Mountains

2007-05-25T09:23:00.001-04:00

By popular demand*, above is a picture of my pregnant belly (my "Arabelly!"), several weeks before the end of my pregnancy.

Yes, it got even larger.

Early in the pregnancy, when I found out I was carrying twins, I frantically did at least three or four Internet searches using variations on the term "twin skin," sobbing all the while. I brainstormed ways to raise thousands of disposable dollars so that I could get a tummy tuck. I purchased several jars of Tummy Honey Butter (highly recommended, by the way) at $20 a pop, and slathered it on religiously, morning and night. I lost about as much sleep over the anticipated condition of my stomach as I did to my shrinking bladder space.

As the pregnancy progressed, various other concerns began to overshadow my stomach worries. I stopped obsessing, and was pleased to discover that, at 32 weeks, I didn't even have a stretch mark. I was extremely fortunate; I managed to complete the pregnancy without them. I still feared, however, for crepey skin.

For a week or so after delivery, like many other women, I still looked pregnant. Gradually, my stomach went down. I got back into (most of) my prepregnancy jeans at about a month postpartum.

Now, at 12 weeks, my stomach is within spitting distance of where it was before. The skin isn't as firm as it was, but it's pretty darn close, and will probably continue to get more so. Surprisingly enough, what bothers me the most about the way I look now isn't the size of my stomach, or the condition of my skin, or even the cesarean scar that I dreaded and feared. What bothers me the most is my still-present linea nigra, and the largest scar from my laparoscopy, which, unfortunately, is located right in the path of the line.

It's strange; these two things bother me quite a bit. Yet, at the same time, I've never been more pleased with or proud of my body, and the astonishing feat it accomplished.

It's pretty easy for me now to post a picture of my large pregnant belly, even though I was fairly sensitive about it during my pregnancy. I'm still working up to showing my postpartum belly. Part of me really wants to; I'm proud of the pregnancy, and I'm proud of my recovery. All things considered, I look great. But I don't look the way I used to, the way I spent nearly thirty years of my life. I think I may try writing a short piece about it for The Shape of a Mother. If I do, I'll post the picture here. In the meantime, I'm just trying to make sense of myself as this new person. This mother.

*When I say "by popular demand," I mean, "My lovely friend Tammie asked me for this picture."

Congratulations!

2007-05-22T12:20:00.000-04:00

If you haven't already, please head over to Mean Girl to the Rescue! and congratulate my good friend Mrs. Harridan on the birth of her gorgeous baby boy!

Free Time

2007-05-14T21:20:00.000-04:00

When not cooking, watching the Yankees, or frantically mopping spit-up off the quasi-new, light-colored Crate and Barrel couch, Ty often makes up little songs. He's been doing it for years. His subject matter used to include, among other things, people who traipse through freshly-seeded areas in the park, ham-based food items, people who honk their horns loudly early in the morning, his cat's posterior, and my posterior. Now, of course, he has a wealth of new subject matter. Here are the titles of some of his recent selections:

It's Not Food, But Your Daddy Loves You

A Baby With Clean Genitals Is A Happy Baby

If You Stop Crying, I'll Buy You A Pony

And the catchiest of all...

We're Gonna Go To Bottleland (Where All The Babies Get Bottles All The Time).

A Conversation with C.S.

2007-05-10T15:55:00.000-04:00

While discussing my children...

Arabella: They're so much better than anything I've ever made before.

(pause)

Arabella (wistfully): Even better than the clay puppy mug I made in third grade.

C.S.: And that was some mug.

Arabella: It really was.

(pause)

Arabella: So what, it couldn't hold liquid. It had little ears.

C.S.: Ears trump usability.

Now With More Letdown!

2007-05-09T09:53:00.000-04:00

Having lost all sense of decency, I am requesting your assistance, dear readers, in selecting the most professional-looking outfit from the list of items below.

Please choose one item from each column:

Column A: Tops

1) Pink Brooks Brothers No-Iron shirt stained with melted green tea ice cream;
2) Yellow Brooks Brothers No-Iron shirt stained with a large circle of breast milk;
3) Blue Brooks Brothers No-Iron shirt stained with melted green tea ice cream AND a large circle of breast milk;
4) Crisp gray blazer stained with spit-up and tears.

Column B: Bottoms:

1) Prepregnancy gray tailored slacks that I no longer fit into, requiring that the top button remain undone;
2) Maternity khaki pants that, thankfully, are too large;
3) Forgiving brown tailored pants stained with--honestly, I have no idea;
4) Impeccably clean black sweatpants.

Column C: Accessories:

1) Medela Pump-in-Style Backpack;
2) Bella Band;
3) Comfy shoes;
4) A smile, complete with poppyseed bagel bits stuck between the teeth.

Thank God, and How Awful

2007-05-08T16:55:00.000-04:00

Last night, while intermittently reading about two-month-olds and the things they do, I was noticing how much fuller Sage's cheeks look and how much smoother Thyme's skin is. They've recently started sleeping during the night for four-or-five-hour stretches at a time. It occurred to me that, while they still bob their heads up and down while being held against my shoulder, looking for the breast, they no longer root around like baby birds while simply sitting in their baby seats. They're smiling up a storm, and they're almost ready for the Size 1-2 box of diapers that my mom bought for them at Costco.

My reaction, of course, was, Thank God, and How Awful.

We have lots of fun stuff to look forward to--babbling and crawling and walking. In the coming weeks, they will get increasingly smiley and interactive. But they will never again be newborns. Soon, the fontanels in the backs of their heads will begin to close. They will never again need their umbilical cord stump cleaned. They no longer fit into their first stretchies, and have long outgrown the hats they wore when we brought them home from the hospital.

So help me, this is hard. And wonderful. And unbelievable.

For TB

2007-04-29T19:27:00.000-04:00

My good friend Tammie has just given birth to a beautiful baby boy! If you haven't already, please head over to Soul Gardening to congratulate her. This post is in her honor.

The Best Ass-Vice I Got Before Having Kids:

1. "Don't hold babies too much, or you'll spoil them." Holding my babies is the best part of my day! I'd like to think it's the best part of theirs, too. Babies need to be held.

2. "If you keep using bottles, your babies will stop taking the breast." Said to me during Week 2. Two months and counting--they're still taking the breast. Apparently a handful of babies, if given bottles while learning to nurse, will refuse the breast. The rest of us get to pump milk, get some sleep, or just give our nipples a break.

3. "Enjoy the end of the pregnancy, because it's easier to take care of babies when they're inside than when they're outside." I was miserable at the end of my pregnancy. I was elated after delivery. Taking care of newborns isn't easy, but it's far from the horror that many people make it out to be. I think it's much, much better than being extremely pregnant.

The Best Advice I Got Before Having Kids:

1. "Swaddle your babies before putting them to sleep." It not only helps keep them on their backs, but it also keeps them from scratching themselves, and it helps them sleep longer, because they don't startle themselves and wake themselves up.

2. "Get a steam sterilizer." Makes life much, much easier than pots of boiling water.

3. "C-sections aren't as bad as they're made out to be." SO true. I'm sorry I wasted so much time worrying about one. Childbirth of any kind is hard; C-sections are no exception, but they're hardly a horror. And there are benefits to them: no episiotomies, no hemorrhoids, etc.

Much thanks to Cool Mom Picks, Her Bad Mother, and Mothergoosemouse for organizing this virtual shower, and congratulations also to the ladies at Mom-101 and A Mommy Story on their babies!

The Mommy Track

2007-04-27T14:09:00.000-04:00

For the first two weeks of my sons' lives, I never wanted to go out to dinner, work, or go shopping again.

"Would you like to take a nap?" My mom asked me. "I could watch the babies."

"No, thanks. I just want to sit in a chair and bury my face in my sons' heads."

"Would you like to go out for an hour or so to the store?" My dad inquired. "I could watch the babies."

"No, thanks. I just want to sit in a chair and bury my face in my sons' heads."

"Would the two of you like to go and get a bite to eat?" Our friends asked Ty and me. "We could come over and watch the babies."

"No, thanks. We just want to sit on the couch and bury our faces in our sons' heads."

Then, sometime in the midst of the diapers and the feedings and the tiny fingers and the chubby cheeks and the wonderfulness of having newborns at home, something happened.

I turned thirty.

"What would you like to do for your thirtieth birthday?" My family asked me.

"I want to sit in a chair and bury my face in my sons' heads. Oh, and eat cake, and takeout sushi," I replied. (After all, it HAD been nine months...)

When the last piece of yellowtail was gone, I opened my presents. Among my husband's generous offerings was a gift certificate to my favorite local clothing store. I remembered how I used to sneak away, in between grocery shopping and picking up dry cleaning, and spend a pleasant hour or so sorting through the racks there.

And I had turned thirty.

And babies--well, they cry a lot. And they poop.

And I got my bank statement. And, well, they aren't cheap.

So, a few weeks later, I started to think about doing some work.

Around the same time, someone I know called with some work for me. It was the kind of project I'd really like to do, but have long been afraid of doing. In fact, I've turned down similar work before. Not because I couldn't do it, but because I was scared to do it.

But, well--now things are different. I need some money. And I'm thirty. I am the mother of two children. I've had a C-section. I've injected myself daily for months. I've been solely responsible for the health of two unborn babies, who, towards the end of the pregnancy, depended on me focusing on their movements at all times and marking any changes, to make sure they stayed alive. Now I'm responsible for the health of two born babies. Babies who've doubled their weight in eight weeks. Babies who already smile, reach for their bottles, and sense when their parents enter the room.

It's time to stop being scared, isn't it?

As it turns out, thirty is pretty good.

Shakespeare and Sugar

2007-04-22T05:47:00.000-04:00

5:46 am. I'm exhausted. My computer, however, is wide awake, having loudly and obnoxiously chimed to announce the installation of a new version of SpamKiller. It also has offered me some variation on "java," but not the kind I really need right now.

We're baptizing the boys today. I've been hovering over them all night to make sure they're still breathing, because didn't Shakespeare say something about irony being a cruel bitch? Or is that just what happens when a pretentious former English major gets too little sleep?

Now Sage is crying. Stupid loud computer! It's going to be another one-handed post. Oh well. At least he's temporarily entertained by the sight of me in my reading glasses.

I have a bit of public-appearance anxiety about today. Ty and I were late to the Baptism meeting and all the other people had to move their chairs to expand their circle, and then I was really too tired to participate in any meaningful way.

I logged on to post this after feeding the babies and having put them back down to sleep. I had ambitious ideas; I was going to write about religion and my faith and how I never write about it and how it ties into other areas of my life and why it's important to me and how I reconcile it with things about myself that are seemingly inconsistent and Earth Day and spring and flowers and Baptismal waters and renewal, but now both babies are crying and Sage is puking all over my wishfully MILFy red nursing nightgown, so I'm going to have to settle for pretending that this post is a meaningful commentary on balancing one's own wants and needs and creativity with meeting the needs of one's children.

It looks like I'm up for good this morning. But screw the cereal I was going to eat for breakfast; I'm having the stale Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies.

The invisible invisible woman

2007-04-17T13:58:00.000-04:00

Dear Blogger,

Why don't you remember me on your login page even though I click "Remember Me" every single effing time I post????

I have been blogging with you for a year and a half. I stayed with you through thick and thin and smenita and Beta. Yet, I am less memorable to you than to a lady I bought a single pair of shoes from two years ago, who still smiles at me when I walk past her shop.

Oh, but it's okay...I have nothing better to do than type unnecessary words every single time I sit at my computer, while TWO hungry babies scream and poop.

Thanks a BUNCH.

Sincerely,
Arabella

Il Latte League: Arabella on Breastfeeding

2007-04-13T10:00:00.000-04:00

PLEASE NOTE: I am not a lactation consultant or medical professional of any kind. I am simply, to paraphrase Grover Monster, "a mother who is trying." Here is a bit of what I've learned in the past six weeks, while nursing my twins.

1. One thing that nobody tells you about breastfeeding is the tremendous time commitment involved. After giving birth, I was taught in the hospital that, to help milk come in and to keep it up, one initially needs to nurse or pump (or do a combination of the two) 8-12 times per 24 hour period (therefore, every two to three hours), for 15-20 minutes on each breast at each time. For example, if your baby nurses on each side for five minutes, then pump for 10-15 minutes on each side right afterwards. Yes, this means that...

...you will have to excuse yourself in the midst of a family gathering to go and pump. When your 80-year-old uncle asks why you're leaving the room, you will have to announce that you are going to "pump." He won't understand, and will ask you to clarify. You will need to explain that you are pumping milk--as in, from your breasts. Probably loudly, because it is always the relative who is hardest of hearing that asks such things. This explanation will not be nearly as embarrassing as it sounds, because 1) 531 different strangers will have seen you in several unsavory variations on naked during your delivery and subsequent recovery, 2) every man you have ever known will suddenly ask you about your breasts, and 3) at least one well-meaning relative, while attempting to cook you dinner or bake you something sweet, will spy your freshly-cleaned breast pump parts on the drainboard and mistake them for a funnel, and you will already have had to launch into an embarrassing explanation about what they really were for.

...you will not be able to be away from your baby and/or your pump for any length of time. This is okay; it is just one of many, many reasons why you need to clear your schedule and not plan on doing anything after you give birth.

...you will have to get up in the middle of the night even if you have someone helping you feed your baby/babies at night. It is still worth it to have help at night, though, if you are lucky enough to have someone offer. Pumping for 15 minutes twice during the night is way, way better than being up ALL night, and changing diapers, to boot.

...you may have to type a blog entry about breastfeeding with one hand while you clutch a baby at your breast with the other, not that I would know anything about that. Particularly not as I write this.

2. In spite of the time commitment, breastfeeding is still very, very much worthwhile. Aside from being so good for your baby, it really does help your uterus shrink back to its regular size, and it really does help you lose weight. Before very long, you will be able to go a little bit longer between pumping sessions, if you are pumping, and you will probably be able to empty your breasts in less than 15 minutes. Plus, you'll have huge knockers. Of course, if you can't, won't, or don't breastfeed, don't feel badly about it, and don't let anybody else make you feel badly about it, either! It's not easy.

3. Don't worry too much if you get off-schedule. Just pump or nurse as soon as you can, and then get right back on schedule. I went five hours on the day I was discharged from the hospital, and came home terrified and panicked about engorgement. I assembled my breast pump in a hurry and pumped as soon as I could; everything was fine.

4. Don't panic if you can't put your baby to your breast within 60 minutes of delivery, as is suggested by every lactation consultant (LC) in the universe.

5. Similarly, don't panic if you learn that the NICU or nursery staff has fed your baby formula, or has used bottles or pacifiers, also contrary to the advice suggested by every LC in the universe. In my very humble, completely biased, and totally inexperienced opinion, the threat of nipple confusion is greatly exaggerated. (Yes, bottles are easy, but breasts are warm and soft.) BUT...that said, make your wishes known, early and often, regarding whether you want the staff to avoid formula, bottles, and pacifiers. Remember, YOU are the parent. BUT...be flexible and realistic enough to listen to the advice of qualified professionals, if there is a real reason why your baby needs to be fed formula in order to thrive.

6. Breastfed babies eat more often than formula-fed babies (for example, it could be every two hours versus every three). If you make the decision both to breastfeed AND use formula, you may want to breastfeed during the day (for maximum fun and bonding) and use the formula at night (for maximum sleep).

7. When you first try putting your baby to the breast, hold your baby's head with the hand opposite the breast you're working with. Hold your breast with the other hand, behind the areola. Using your index and ring fingers (on the bottom) and thumb (on top), gently press your breast until it gets a bit more horizontal, like a sandwich. Hold the mayo and all other disgusting condiments. Touch your breast to your baby's nose, wait until he or she opens his or her mouth wide, and then guide the baby's head to the breast, not vice-versa. Put as much of the nipple AND areola into the baby's mouth as you can.

8. If at all possible, arrange to meet one-on-one with a lactation consultant. Do this as soon as you can.

9. Ask your friends for help and advice about breastfeeding. Or e-mail strangers on the Internet; whatever you prefer.

10. I have heard that, if you have the option, it is better to put your baby directly to the breast than to feed the baby pumped breast milk, the reason being that there is evidence that your body senses germs in the baby's mouth and manufactures antibodies to them. I do not know whether this is true, but if it is, it sure is cool. Pumped milk is quite rich in antibodies, too, though, so don't worry if you can't put your baby directly to your breast.

11. If possible, let the baby come off the breast himself/herself. If not, use your clean pinky finger to break the suction at the baby's mouth before pulling away.

12. If you have a C-section, talk to your doctor about taking your pain medication before a breastfeeding session to give it time to kick in. The reason for doing this is that breastfeeding makes your uterus contract, which can hurt a bit after a C-section. Make sure your doctor knows you are breastfeeding and prescribes a pain medication that is safe for breastfeeding. If it is like pulling teeth to try to get your pain medication out of the nursing staff, talk to your doctor and have him or her make it clear to the staff that you are to get your pain medication on time and without a hassle. If they make you "describe the pain" before they give you your medication, instead of saying "burning" or "numbness" or "stinging" or "4 on a scale of 1 to 10," one particularly descriptive way of doing so might be to say, "It's the kind of pain you feel when someone cuts your stomach open and then the same area is made to contract, so give me my ____ doctor-prescribed-and-authorized pills (insert expletive of choice)."

13. Breastfeeding may initially make you wince a little, but the pain shouldn't be overwhelming, by any stretch of the imagination. Pain is often caused by a poor latch. If you feel pain while breastfeeding, have a lactation consultant check the position of the baby's latch. For what it's worth, I found the so-called "pain" at the breast to be no big deal, and I'm a huge baby about stuff like that.

14. For further reading, I recommend So That's What They're For! by Janet Tamaro. Like most experts, she advocates exclusive breastfeeding, which made me feel a bit guilty, because I'm supplementing, but she does cut slack to mothers of twins and other special situations. Plus, the book is really funny.

15. Enjoy this special time with your baby!

Did You Know?

2007-04-12T15:29:00.000-04:00

You never stop feeling silly when you say the word "binky."

Even better, though, is when your father, recalling the brand-name "Nuk," calls your baby's pacifier a "nookie."

"Hey, baby. Want nookie?"

Afterglow

2007-04-04T11:40:00.000-04:00

After about five to ten minutes of this dubious nursing, the nice nurse gently suggested that I attend one of the breastfeeding classes being offered at the hospital. I picked up a schedule on the way back to my room.

During one of the endless visits from nurses to give me pills or injections, one of them wheeled a hospital-grade breast pump into my room. I cringed. To me, it seemed mysterious and potentially barbaric and painful.

"I'll just leave this here," she said. "When you're ready, let me know, and I'll set it up for you."

I wheeled it into the corner and tried not to look at it or think about it. Clearly, I was having trouble with this breastfeeding thing. With the odds stacked so significantly against me, I thought, was it any wonder? Formula and bottles and pacifiers and time lags. Oh my! I imagined every lactation consultant and breastfeeding advocate in the universe collectively letting out a huge sigh. Aaarrrgggghhh! You've made your babies lazy and they won't take your breast! Nipple confusion! Your milk will dry up! Your children will suffer! You'll have trouble bonding! It's harder with a C-section because it will hurt! It's harder if you have an epidural--your babies won't be interested! They should have been put to the breast within 60 minutes of delivery!

Some time later, I visited the NICU again to try to nurse. There had been a shift change. I told the nurse on duty that I was there to breastfeed.

"You've got five minutes," she told me. She was determined that the babies' diapers would be changed on the dot of the hour, and NOT ONE SECOND LATER.

I held Sage's brother to me, hereinafter Thyme. He fussed and cried and wouldn't take the breast, and my precious time (get it? Thyme?) rapidly came to a close. I would have cried, but Ty made some joke about the Nursing Gestapo, so I laughed instead. I resolved to try the breastfeeding class the next day.

When I showed up, there were three other women there. I was the only one in grungy pajamas and without my baby (babies). The other babies were in the nursery, not the NICU, so they were allowed to be with their mothers, who were clutching them to their breasts, and looked competent.

"You can bring your baby with you, if you'd like," the nurse in charge told me, as I introduced myself.

"My babies are in the NICU."

"Did you have twins? Congratulations!" She smiled. I felt a little bit better.

Then, instead of the blackboard-oriented lecture I was expecting, she asked if we were comfortable, and, one by one, she went around to each of us as we unbuttoned our blouses and she assessed our situations. I fairly quickly went from worrying that there was some Joe Francis-wannabe operating a hidden camera in the room to watching and learning.

The first woman had high-end pajamas and a baby with a gorgeous head of hair. I was intimidated by her, until she unbuttoned her blouse and the nurse diagnosed engorgement.

"He prefers one breast over the other," she explained, and winced as the nurse manually helped relieve her.

The next woman was young, bosomy, blond, and Scandinavian. Her baby had red hair and was completely adorable. When she unbuttoned her blouse, she revealed a well-fitting nursing bra complete with nursing pads. Again, I was intimidated, figuring she had it all together. As it turns out, she had a problem with positioning the baby at the breast.

The next woman had the oldest baby among all of us, and had been working on nursing the longest. She was getting the hang of it, but still had problems getting the baby to latch on.

Next, it was my turn.

"One of my babies latched on okay, but I don't think I have anything. Not even colostrum," I said softly.

I unbuttoned my blouse, and she told me that my babies would be able to latch on well. "Very good," she told me.

I brightened. It's amazing what ONE bit of positive feedback can do, even after a deluge of negativity.

"Here. Here's your colostrum," she said, showing me, for the first time, a drop of what looked like yellow ointment. "When did you deliver?"

"Almost 48 hours ago."

"You should start pumping."

"Really?"

"Yes, absolutely." She began to assemble a pumping contraption, hooked it up to a hospital-grade pump like the one in my room, and showed me how to hold the funnel-like cones to my breasts. The pump, on the lowest pressure, felt strange, but didn't really hurt.

The nurse instructed me to pump every 2-3 hours for 15-20 minutes at a time, and to try putting the babies to my breast whenever I could.

I followed her advice. I asked the other nurse to help me with the pump in my room. For several pumping sessions, I had nothing. When I tried putting the babies to my breast, I met with mixed success. Sage took to it a little bit easier than Thyme. I just kept trying. Thyme would learn to latch on over his first week of life, and, eventually, it would come just as naturally to him as it had to Sage. Persistence was the key.

By late the next day, I was producing minute quantities of a thick and, well, milky substance.

By the following morning, I was producing small quantities of what I had anticipated milk would look like.

I had done it. Contrary to basically all advice I had ever heard regarding how to establish successful breastfeeding. In spite of a C-section, a 19-hour lapse between delivery and first contact with the breast, and use of bottles, formula, and pacifiers, I had become a nursing mother. Of twins. And I still am. And I still use bottles and pacifiers and--gasp--formula, when I need to. And you know what? My babies are thriving. And they love nursing. And so do I. And I'm happy, and actually enjoying the initial postpartum period, after a very difficult pregnancy that could have made for significant postpartum depression. What on earth is wrong with what I'm doing? The answer is, NOTHING.

The moral of the story is, Don't let anybody, however well-intentioned, discourage you, or make you feel like it's all over just because something happens that prevents you from following every single bit of nursing advice. Do what you have to do for yourself and your babies, and keep at it.

To be continued.

Aftershock

2007-03-22T09:04:00.000-04:00

I remember being extremely relieved when I saw my babies, and saw that they were beautiful and alert. I was also terrified. Here were two people with their own appearances, ingrained personalities, likes, and dislikes. And I was their mother and it would be my job to get to know them and to take care of them in a way different from anyone else in the world. It really felt like meeting someone new, except I was partially responsible for their very existence.

After the C-section, the babies were taken to the NICU. I was wheeled to the recovery room. Along the way. I caught a glimpse of ~~a deflated balloon~~ my own stomach. I mentally reassured myself, "You just gave birth ten minutes ago; it will get better."

"Will my stomach....go down?" I groggily inquired of my obstetrician.

Without a momentary pause, he made one of those vigorous nods that people make when they are being totally honest. Have I mentioned that I adore my obstetrician?

In the recovery room, I was given some pain relief medication and my parents were able to join Ty and me. I felt shivery for about 20 minutes, and itchy (I learned this was a side effect of the anesthesia), and tired, but, overall, I didn't feel too bad. I had to stay in the recovery room for a while, but I encouraged Ty and my parents to go and see the babies. I was happy that they would be around family so soon after the birth, even if I couldn't be there myself. Ty took pictures to bring back to the recovery room for me.

The first night was hard. I was in pain and couldn't get out of bed on my own. My face was itchy; I asked for a cool washcloth, which I patted against my skin several times during the night to soothe the itching. I was tired and loopy from the surgery and the pain medicine. I was disappointed that I hadn't been able to nurse right away. I had initially been placed in a room with a woman who wanted both to keep her crying infant with her (us) all night AND to talk loudly on her cellphone every three minutes; my husband and parents spoke up in a hurry and got me moved so that I could get some sleep. I am eternally grateful.

The next day, I was encouraged to get up and move as much as I could. Since my babies were in the NICU, they couldn't be brought to my room; in order for me to see them, I had to get up, get in a wheelchair, and go to them. With the help of my husband and a nice nurse, we located a wheelchair and painstakingly maneuvered me into it. No easy feat. Ty pushed the wheelchair and I pushed my IV. We tried to call the NICU, but the line was busy. When we got down there, they didn't want to let us in, because it was time to do rounds.

I started to cry.

"This woman gave birth 19 hours ago and hasn't seen her babies," Ty told them.

"Well, next time, you should call," they said.

"WE DID. Your line was busy," Ty and I answered simultaneously.

It was our first test as parents.

I mustered up all my strength, broke out of my painkiller-and-surgery daze, and shot a DON'T-FUCK-WITH-US look at the NICU lady. I looked at Ty; his gaze made mine look like that of a timid bunny.

With that, they let us in.

Our babies were next to each other, but in their own little plastic bassinets.

I was terrified of them.

I was physically incapable of caring for them on my own, and I had no idea what to do. They were already being fed on a schedule, with formula, by nurses, which went against all my ideas of how I would be feeding my babies in their first day of life. I assumed I'd be breastfeeding immediately after giving birth, would have them in my room, and would nurse them on demand. I felt overwhelmed.

There was a nice nurse who was taking care of them. I told her I wanted to try to nurse. She handed me one of the babies, who hereafter will be referred to as Sage. Sage was the smaller of the two babies, but he was born first, and is therefore the "older brother."

The nurse showed me how to hold his head and position him at the breast. I held him to me and he immediately started to fuss and cry.

"You need to bring him to the breast and guide it into his mouth. He wants guidance. That's why he's getting frustrated."

With a few more tries, we got Sage to latch on successfully. It hurt considerably less than I expected, and Sage sucked away. It was a stirring maternal scene.

Ty smiled.

And I felt like the biggest failure in the world. I knew that nothing was coming out of my breast. I knew that milk took a few days to come in, but shouldn't there be colostrum? Shouldn't I be able to feel something coming out?

To be continued.

We interrupt this birth story...

2007-03-21T14:48:00.000-04:00

...for a momentary freakout.

My steam sterilizer stopped working for a half an hour and, oh my goodness, that was about the worst half hour of my life. Far worse than when the obstetrician was actually cutting into my stomach for the C-section.

TWINS. I have NEWBORN TWINS, with TINY STOMACHS. Sometimes they get hungry every hour. And they like their pumped breastmilk with a little formula chaser--a baby boilermaker, if you will. Do you know how many bottles we go through???

We called every store I could think of to try to get a replacement; none of them carried it. I was about to trade my kidney to an online merchant in exchange for overnight shipping of a replacement sterilizer, AND THEN...

My mother fiddled with the plug, and she made it work!!!

And she told me she's going to buy me a backup one, because "I don't ever want to see that look on your face again."

My mom is officially Queen of the Day.

And Then There Were Four

2007-03-09T13:40:00.000-05:00

Last week, two obstetricians, two anesthesiologists, two pediatricians, four nurses, and two scared parents--twelve people in all--entered a room.

A short while later, fourteen people left it.

A week ago today, I gave birth to two beautiful baby boys.

On Tuesday, their dad and I--assisted by two very excited grandparents armed with tank-like carseats, snowsuits, and assorted blankets--braved the bitter-cold New York winds and took them home.

Now I get it.

---
We arrived at the hospital before 7 am. I filled out a bit of paperwork, and then Ty and I were led into a nice quiet room. An IV was inserted and the process of induction began. Everything progressed swimmingly. Weeks of praying and kegels and strategic sleep positioning had paid off. Terrified of surgery and its attendant recovery while trying to care for twins, I was on track for the vaginal delivery that I wanted. We talked, laughed, watched TV, and chatted with my parents, who came in periodically for updates.

Contractions progressed. If you're not familiar with them, they feel very much like menstrual cramps. C.S. says that menstrual cramps are the "chicken" of women's health complaints--everything feels like them. When they became uncomfortably strong, I asked for the anesthesiologist to come in and start the epidural.

The epidural felt no worse than a simple injection in the back, and better than some injections in recent memory. Inserting it was a bit scary, because one is supposed to remain totally still, but one possible effect is that it causes a feeling like an electrical surge through one's leg. This happened to me--strongly--and scared me, and I moved a little bit, and then I got upset because I moved, but the doctor assured me that everything was fine.

Within a very short time after insertion, I felt WONDERFUL. Warm, tingly, cozy, and pain-relieved. If epidurals didn't require so much skill and advanced training for insertion, I'm sure that they would be sold on the street for phenomenal amounts of money.

Labor progressed. After a while, I started to get extremely uncomfortable. The pain was increasing, despite the epidural. I can't describe the feeling exactly--it wasn't horrendous pain or anything, but, yet, I knew that something wasn't right. I told the nurse, and the doctor came in to check things out.

He discovered that I was no longer dilating. The contractions had stopped being productive. What was happening was that my son's head was pushing hard against my cervix. I had been right about something being wrong. It became clear to me that my son and I might actually be hurting each other. The repeated bashing would ultimately cause fetal distress, and put both babies at risk. After 9 months of not wanting a C-section, my instincts suddenly switched over and told me that it was probably the right thing to do about five minutes before my doctor gently suggested, "Let's give it a little more time, and then maybe talk about an alternate plan." I felt at peace knowing that my thoughts were on the right track, that my body was telling me what I needed to do.

A short while (and no progress) later, my doctor pulled up a chair. He and I agreed to wait what we both considered to be a more than reasonable amount of time for my body to catch up, and then to proceed with a C-section. He answered all my questions. When the time was up, he checked; still no change. With that, the medical team sent Ty to don some scrubs while they pumped up my epidural and wheeled me into the OR.

In my opinion, the OR is an oddly peaceful place. I find the bright lighting soothing. A whole team is assembled, ready to tackle a challenge and get a job done. In the case of a C-section, there is a sense of wonder about the whole thing. Everyone knows that life is about to enter the room in all of its screaming, kicking, gooey glory. And as for the mothers, we lie still in the midst of all the energy and activity, meditating on our last few moments of being in one body with our babies before the end of a long road.

About ten minutes after Ty joined my side, we had babies. Pink, beautiful, wonderful babies. Babies with my hair and his nose. Babies with two families and at five nationalities flowing within their veins. The OR team held up the babies for me to kiss and smell, and placed them in Ty's arms. I couldn't hold them because of the anesthesia. That was probably the most frustrating part of the whole delivery, but I knew that they were happy in their daddy's arms, and that made it easier. I just sat and stared at them as long as I could.

I'll continue the story in my next post. Thanks for reading with me as I get my blogging-feet wet again. :)

Week 35 1/2 Update

2007-02-28T09:40:00.000-05:00

Thanks, everyone, for your kind thoughts and good wishes!

I'm still carrying the babies, although I saw my doctor yesterday and they could come at any time. If they don't come within the next few days, I'm due to be induced, as the risks of the liver complications for the babies start to outweigh the benefits of extra time in the womb.

I apologize for not having written more during this time, for not responding promptly to email, and for not having made my regular blog visits. I'm extremely huge and uncomfortable; I never thought I would make it this far into the pregnancy. Additionally, one of my medications has a sedative effect, and even though I spend a great deal of time thinking of writing topics, even the act of actually sitting at the computer and blogging is very tiring for me right now.

Hopefully, my next update will come soon, will involve me feeling more like my old self, and will happily announce the arrival of the babies. I'm very much looking forward to getting back to blogging. In the meantime, thanks so much for your patience. Please keep reading!

Surprise! A debate unrelated to being knocked up!

2007-02-16T09:44:00.000-05:00

I haven't given birth yet. Tomorrow I'll reach the 34-week mark, which is pretty good, in the world of twin pregnancies. I'm still itchy and resting and miserable, but feeling better about having gotten this far, and able to think a bit more clearly about something other than my own disheveled internal organs, in spite of the fact that pregnant women's brains supposedly shrink during the third trimester, which I find really scary! So, I am drinking a lot of water to combat this phenomenon. I assure you, this makes perfect sense to me.

The governor of Texas recently ordered that schoolgirls aged 11 or 12 within his state be vaccinated against HPV, the virus that causes cervical cancer. The vaccine, Gardasil, has received FDA approval and is relatively new to the market. The Texas order, naturally, has sparked tremendous debate. Some see it as essentially condoning sex among teenagers. Some see it as a huge life-saver and want all girls and women within the effective age range to be vaccinated.

In general, I'm pretty much in favor of vaccinations. I think they've enabled us to make tremendous strides towards eliminating childhood illnesses that used to be crippling and/or fatal, and eliminated a great deal of misery for children and parents. I'm also very much in favor of taking an active role in one's healthcare, though, and not blindly following advice that may not affect you, or that tramples all over your personal decisionmaking without a compelling justification. And I tend to exercise caution when deciding whether to use relatively new medications or vaccinations, regardless of whether they are rigorously tested and found to be safe and effective.

I have several problems with the Texas order. Not because I see it as condoning sex, but because I see it as a restriction on personal freedom in the absence of a compelling justification.

HPV is not like polio or whooping cough--one is not at risk of catching it through casual contact, which is the general justification for schools requiring vaccinations so as to prevent epidemics. HPV is a sexually transmitted infection. Even assuming that a significant number of young teenagers are sexually active, I highly doubt that a significant number of young teenagers are sexually active within the four walls of their schools--certainly not enough to reach epidemic proportions. Yes, I realize that schools often assume the role of looking out for the interests of their students in all aspects of their lives--in my opinion, at increasingly intrusive and uncomfortable levels--but I think that mandating a new vaccination that is not required to prevent an epidemic of illness at school is carrying this a bit too far. There are teenagers who aren't sexually active. There are also responsible parents who discuss such issues with their children, and help them to make informed decisions. Virtually all medications and vaccinations have benefits and risks. A non-sexually active teenage girl who takes an active role in her healthcare, assesses the benefits and risks, and has frank and open discussions with her parents may very reasonably decide not to partake of the HPV vaccination at this point. Do we really want to trample on the personal healthcare decisionmaking of such a person by virtue of the fact that she attends public school?

My other issue with this situation is that the vaccine is only approved--and would only be mandated--for girls. While only females can get cervical cancer, the HPV virus, in males, also causes penile and anal cancer--these cancers are less common than cervical cancer, but I imagine they also aren't fun. Plus, males can certainly carry and transmit HPV to women. Why make women bear the whole burden, yet again, of this sexual risk? And why deny males who wish to protect themselves through vaccination the opportunity to do so? The manufacturer of the vaccination is currently studying use of the vaccination in males to determine whether it would be safe and effective for them; it bothers me that this study did not take place at the same time as the studies on females.

Ok, my brain hurts. Back to the couch. Respectful comments on either side of the debate are welcome.

Madam Dignity

2007-02-11T13:52:00.000-05:00

Ok, here's what happened...

By the time last weekend rolled around, I had been feeling a bit itchy for a few days. I chalked it up to general pregnancy discomfort, water retention, etc., resigned myself to my fate, and scratched.

And scratched. And scratched. And scratched and scratched and scratched. At some point, Ty turned to me and said, "Maybe you should check the pregnancy book. This itching can't be normal," which, of course, is Nice Husband-speak for "Please stop covering me with your shed skin cells, as it is simultaneously disgusting and unnerving."

I got out the pregnancy book, turned to the index, and looked up "itching." I located the page--right smack in the middle of the section on Serious Pregnancy Complications. The advice was essentially, "if you feel itchy, call your doctor immediately." It turns out that itching can be a sign of liver complications.

Naturally, it was a weekend: I called my doctor's answering service for the first time. He called me back promptly, and told me to go to the hospital to have the babies checked out and to have some tests run.

As Ty and I prepared to go to the hospital, it occurred to us simultaneously that I might not come back for a long time. So, I grabbed my partially-packed suitcase that I'd planned to take with me when I went into labor.

Pregnant women out there: if ever you have such an instinct, I suggest you heed it. If you are pregnant with twins, I also suggest that you fill out a little card and tape it to your forehead. On it, write the answers to the following questions, because you meet approximately 24 people per day in a hospital, and every single one of them will ask you: 1) Identical or fraternal? 2) Was this through IVF? 3) Are they boys or girls? 4) Do they run in your family? and 5) Do you have any names picked out yet? I also recommend making up fake names for your answer to #5, or simply saying "No," because 90% of the time the person doing the asking will only throw cold water on your chosen names and upset you. If you make up fake names, make them really ridiculous, because your only hope of getting some peace is stunning your questioner into silence.

At the hospital, the itching played second fiddle when they discovered that I was having contractions and was dilated. They admitted me; I had to stay for three days.

I was coping okay with the giant plastic IV embedded in my wrist for 36 hours, the two enormous shots (one in each buttcheek), the looming prospect of emergency surgery, the complete and total lack of privacy, the monitoring of the outrageous quantities of urine coming out of my body every 20-30 minutes 24/7 (YOU try peeing for three), and the one-volume television, but what really sent me over the edge was the hospital beef stew.

Well, that, and learning that the babies have pushed my liver to a location that is essentially underneath my breast. The ultrasound technician who pointed this out to me also asked me, upon learning that I was having twins, whether I planned a "normal" delivery. One would think that a medical professional would be a bit more sensitive to terminology--as far as I know, there are essentially two ways to deliver a baby, and both of them are pretty common and therefore "normal." Had I been in a better mood, I would have responded, "Well, maybe the first one, but the second one I plan to shoot out of my left eye socket and into a basket across the room." Instead, I conjured up my last few CC's of cheer and responded, "We'll see." Repeatedly jamming the ultrasound wand against my breast and insisting that I breathe through my nose (virtually impossible these days) must not have fulfilled her sadism quotient for the day, because she responded, "Oh, you'll probably have to have a C-section," before she abandoned me on a stretcher in the hallway to wait for someone to take me back upstairs. I used the twenty-or-thirty-minute wait to will her five consecutive patients with simultaneous halitosis, B.O., and nasty, infectious rashes.

I was finally discharged, with the official diagnosis of uterine irritability. My uterus apparently takes after my personality.

After being discharged, I went for followup with my doctor, who comforted me greatly. He also told me to buy a maternity-support belt and sent me to a medical-supply store that apparently only hires hot young guys to work there, yet sells belts that, for example, hold fallen balls in place, or products that bear names like "Sir Dignity."

After buying the maternity belt, I went for another follow-up ultrasound. I was pulling my pants up when a woman in a white lab coat knocked at the door and immediately entered. She wasn't the woman who had performed my ultrasound, and apologized profusely for walking in on me while I was dressing.

"It's ok," I replied. "I have no shame."

She smiled. "Then this must be your second."

"Yes," I said. "I'm having twins. It's my first and my second all rolled into one."

Decision 2007

2007-01-30T09:16:00.000-05:00

Lately I've found myself in the position of having to research multiple unfamiliar issues and make decisions based on my research.

Decisionmaking, obviously, is nothing new to me: I'm nearly 30. I'm a lawyer. I make decisions all the time, and lots of them. But I think that, for me, the difficulty of the decisionmaking process is inversely proportional to how much I actually care about the decision I have to make. In other words, the less I care, the harder the decision.

What college to attend? No problem; that was important to me. Whether to marry Ty? Piece of cake. (Specifically, chocolate hazelnut cake with buttercream--another easy decision.) Choosing a wedding dress? I went to one store, tried on six, and picked the sixth one--the whole process took less than an hour, including the choice of which of the 72 or so available shades of white I wanted (I am not even kidding). Do I want children? Absolutely.

What kind of highchair to get? NOW we're entering problem territory. After several precious hours of research, I settled on one.

Carseats? Ugh. Simultaneously an official Very Important Decision, and one of the most boring things a human being can research. Using a base? The LATCH system versus standard belting? Compatibility with a travel system? My knowledge of carseats was limited to a memory of my brother, Mr. Lashes, joyfully smooshing a plastic eggfull of sticky, fluorescent-yellow Ghostbusters-inspired play ectoplasm from the 25-cent machine at the grocery store into the fabric of his seat, and my mother being thrilled that she was able to get the stain out.

I spent more hours on carseat research than on any other baby item. I finally settled on one that I felt good about, and communicated the information to kind and generous relatives who had expressed an interest in providing us with the carseats of our choice. We received the carseats and checked them out--they looked like sturdy little tanks. Perfect. Then, Consumer Reports came out with the Let's Scare The Parents Half to Death! study, and put our carseat on the Shit List, and their two "good" carseats sold out everywhere .00028 seconds later, and Ty and I lost a precious, precious half-night of sleep deciding what to do, and then a little later they said, Oops, never mind, the study wasn't conducted the way we thought, please turn to page 30 for an assessment of butter cookies in a tin.

Now, we're having some electrical work done. The electrician came by yesterday, and asked me to call the tech support guy at the company that manufactured the switches he was going to use, and I did, and he started asking me all kinds of questions about transformers, and magnetic versus electronic, and single pole versus double pole, and do I have a low voltage system? and I nearly lost it entirely and nearly screamed I HAVE TWO UNBORN CHILDREN GRIPPING AT MY RIBS LIKE WEE STRAPHANGERS; WHY DON'T YOU JUST LABEL YOUR FUCKING PRODUCTS IN PLAIN ENGLISH SO THAT THE AVERAGE PERSON CAN BUY THEM WITHOUT GRADUATING WITH HONORS FROM APEX TECHNICAL SCHOOL.

In the end, the guy gave me a model number for a switch that he said I needed, and I called every store within a reasonable distance of my apartment, and none of them had it, and then I found it online, and I requested that it be delivered overnight, and the website told me they couldn't provide me then with a quote for overnight delivery, and presented me with FOUR OPTIONS. A four-way decision about ELECTRICAL SWITCHES--ooooooh, my favorite! One such option was to request a quote by email or something, which was supposed to take up to one business day, which would totally defeat the purpose of overnight delivery. Another was to have the company call me with a quote, which was the one that I chose.

So, after 30-40 minutes of research, two phone calls, and over $200, my switches are on their way. $200. Have I mentioned that I'll be having some extra expenses in the near future?

This morning, the electrician called and told me that I really don't need those switches. Now, I need to decide whether to call the company right away and attempt to cancel the order to avoid the restocking fee, or to accept delivery of the package and have the switches here just in case he was mistaken, and then risk both restocking and reshipping fees and the hassle of lugging the switches in to be reshipped.

And I haven't yet decided what to eat for breakfast.

Blue Monday

2007-01-29T13:39:00.000-05:00

No, I'm not dead or in labor (assuming those are two different states of being).

For reasons that largely make no sense at all, yet, trust me, were very necessary, my activities over the past week have included research into low-voltage light switches, getting down on the floor and scrubbing away scuff marks, and pursuing a package that was shipped twice and still hasn't been delivered, despite my having been charged for it approximately seven weeks ago. (The first time it was shipped, the carrier decided that it would be just fine, instead of requiring a signature, to leave a large box outside a building, in plain sight, in New York City. Some thief is going to be extremely well-equipped for lactation, having made off with a wealth of breast shields.)

I recently had a slice of pizza for lunch. Then, I got up, moved around, had a conversation with my mother, etc. When I looked down, I found that a mushroom had securely housed itself on the prominent pregnant-belly shelf that has now formed where my lungs ought to be. It's a good thing I saw it, because that sucker wasn't going anywhere.

Week 30 Update

2007-01-22T10:18:00.000-05:00

Week 30 can be summed up with a few very simple lines, and one very simple anecdote.

The simple lines...

I am writing this on Ty's computer, because mine decided not to work today, as it does many days. Would that I could do the same.

The computer is in good company, as most electronic devices in our household are currently failing or threatening to fail.

I got less than four hours of sleep last night, so uncomfortable was I. When this happens, for some strange reason, I sneeze all day.

Sneezing is not fun when you're essentially the size of a woman who is 10 months pregnant.

The only clean garment I own AND fit into is The Itchy Sweater.

And now for the anecdote...

I went to the doctor on Friday, and immediately headed to the bathroom, as it had taken me nearly an hour to get there and my bladder is now the size of a tick. As soon as I came out, I was informed that the nurse wanted me to head to the back bathroom and provide a urine sample. It took me about forty seconds to head to the back bathroom.

I immediately refilled the cup, no problem.

Adult Children of Parents

2007-01-18T10:31:00.000-05:00

There are many, many benefits to having extremely involved parents who are thrilled that you are pregnant. Need help folding laundry? No problem. Want "a little hot chocolate"? Here are 84 fresh, piping ounces. Roast beef dinners show up at your doorstep, as do chocolate-covered almonds. However, the drawbacks are far funnier. These include:

-A pained expression on my dad's face, akin to that which he would make if I said to him, "I am going to renounce Catholicism and become an airport Hare Krishna," when I tell him that I will be working "past four pm."

-Parents--who have willingly gotten up at the crack of dawn and driven 25 miles in rush-hour traffic to take me to the doctor, as I am now forbidden to take the subway--showing up twenty minutes early as I am sitting on the toilet with a syringe half-stuck in my abdomen, bagel bits stuck between my unbrushed teeth, and a third of a cup of precious, precious tea waiting for me in the kitchen, and then cheerfully announcing that they will wait in the car until I am ready, and that "there is no hurry at all." When I get over feeling like I've just trampled seven puppies that belong to a sad orphan and finally get to the car, a ten-minute discussion ensues regarding whether I will be more comfortable in the front or back seat. While we duke it out, we all stand in the street next to the car and gently push each other towards the seats that we want each other to occupy, just for effect.

-Every discussion regarding any remotely real issue is concluded with some variation on the statement, "You shouldn't be worrying about this stuff now. Focus on those two little babies."

"But I was just wondering if you agree with the author of this article about pasta tha--"

"Arabella, don't worry about that. You need to relax now. Lean back and close your eyes."

Highlights from my week

2007-01-16T09:54:00.000-05:00

1. I no longer fit into any known pair of jeans, elasto-waistband or not.

2. Our telephone stopped working. I didn't tell anyone for twelve hours.

3. I forgot that a distant relative of ours was dead, and spoke about him as if he were not only alive, but able to do manual labor.

During my worst moments this week, I have been able to improve my mood considerably by thinking about the absolutely adorable twin-themed ornament that I received in the 2006 Ornament Exchange from the hilarious Feral Mom, who herself has some knowledge of late-in-a-twin-pregnancy angst:

Isn't it adorable? A big, belated blog thank-you, Feral Mom! If I ever get to the point where this doesn't cheer me up, you will know that I am totally and completely gone.

Fun with abstracts

2007-01-12T14:42:00.000-05:00

I recently Googled the phrase "night nurse" (along with some other equally innocuous words) and sorted through the results.

I haven't been this scared since I saw The Ring.

Here are some highlights from the results abstracts:

"BABY NIGHT NURSE WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN FRAUD CASES"

"They said the baby was fine. He wasn't."

"The night nurse stepped in and told me that they were coming to take my baby away."

"So I had as close to a near death experience as I care to have..."

"Daddy wants to knock up the night nurse"

"But in the case of my daughter's contraction of Whooping Cough, there was nothing I ... "

"Our night nurse confirmed what we had suspected - we were stuck in the CICU"

Um.....shit?