Blood Knuckles

My Mom put a funny spin on our current not-so-funny situation. You see, 2 out of 3 boys have pink eye. So lovely. Mom said that on Christmas Day we may be confused and think it's Easter since there may be so many little pink-eyed bunnies hopping around. Well put, Mom, well put.

Not only are a few eyes pink, my poor hands look so beaten up that I look like a professional boxer. Perhaps I should tape my knuckles and make myself look like a tough gal rather than appearing like a tired Mom with sick children at home. You see, if you don't have children, the reason my hands look awful is because I have to wash them and wash them and wash them and wash them and wash them. I don't think there is a lotion on the market that could soothe my poor cracked skin. It gets so bad my knuckles bleed which is, again, just lovely.

Just in time for the holidays, we have a virus or two parading through the children, waving its nasty flags of snot, vomit and ug. It's beautiful to behold. I'm hoping that this will all go away in the next day or two and then we'll all be virus free to enjoy the holidays. Since too much hope can lead to exceptional disappointment and since disappointment is rather unpleasant and all too frequent these days I'm trying to cope with what is going on and do the best that I can. Of course, I still stress out and worry that my boys will be sick on our ridiculously long drive (yes, we're driving) to Salt Lake City, UT, from Dallas, TX. If you didn't think I was insane before, you'll have the confirmation you needed because we're totally nutso.

Rather than visions of sugar plums, I'm having visions of barfing babes in car seats and tearful parents, racing as fast as we can to SLC without, of course, endangering our precious, vomiting babes. We'll see. Until then, I'll scrub my epidermis religiously, try to keep the babies from crawling in recently spewed vomit and medicate, medicate, medicate the boys until we're all well again.

So, my Christmas wish for all you parents out there is: May your children be healthy, may your nights be quiet, may your hearts be happy and may your knuckles be soft and smooth. Peace to all.

The sun does set

The sun has set and so are my aching muscles and bones. Over the last few weeks, things have been pretty mild and even fun at times. I've enjoyed the feeling that maybe we're getting past the harder times. Overall, we are but the last few days have been rife with examples to the contrary.

Amusing things come to mind such as Neil's unrelenting pursuit for arguments. The best I've heard yet was his demand that I make the sun rise again. I guess it might not seem absurd to him. It's flattering to think that he thinks I'm that powerful. Of course, the fact that he says no to me all the time suggests that he doesn't respect my god like powers enough.

The twins are being pretty adorable these days and enjoy playing together. The biggest challenge is when their two minds work together to create even more unsafe activities with which to entertain each other. They give me a whole new respect for team work. Of course, it's also dangerous when they don't work together such as when Evan pushes a toy on which Dylan is standing.

Today provided two exciting episodes that I would have been happy enough to have allowed someone else to experience. The first one involved our television and Neil. The TV has been a concern of ours for a long time and Chris and I had not determined the best way to secure it. As far as we could tell, our biggest concern was that the twins would accidentally knock it over but we felt we had a little time until they could reach it. Classic parent mistake: we focused on the wrong kid. Duh. We thought Neil was disinclined for such activities but, today, he decided that moving the TV would be a good thing to do. As I was talking on the phone, I watched as he began to move it and I ran faster than I have in a long time in order to prevent it from falling. Neil subsequently had nap time.

With the strength that I didn't have (hence, part of the reason I'm hurting tonight), I lifted the TV over my head and put it on the highest part of the entertainment center. This took Herculean strength and engenuity, neither of which I found easily. The TV was moved. I had a beer. God forgive me, I had a beer.

The next pleasant event this evening involved bath time. Chris was having a rare evening out so I was in charge of bath time tonight. I had just finished bathing all 3 boys. The twins were in a play pen fussing for me to return and Neil was in the bath demanding bubble time. It was a no bubble night and that was that. Neil didn't agree and wanted to argue with me about getting out of the tub. All patience spent, I wasn't going to argue with him so I started to pick him up out of the tub and slipped. Bam. Nothing like a nice tub to hit at the end of a hard day. Can't wait to see the bruises. Being the hilarious 2 year old, Neil yelled loudly about how he hurt (his latest drama - a fly buzzing by him would send him into a tail spin). He wasn't the one who fell. Of course, I couldn't let him win the argument just because I couldn't stay on my feet so, a little more carefully, I hauled his little self out of the tub and ended that argument.

Part of me wants to get all philosophical right now about where I am in my life and the important role I play in these boys' lives and the rest of me, the tired me, just wants to be so thankful that the sun has set and that the sun won't rise for a few more hours. If I could make the sun rise at will, I might ask it to rise a few more hours later just so I could get some sleep!

Pausing to think about thanking

It's difficult to be thankful when you can't think straight. I've been suffering from crooked thinking the last few weeks. For those of you who read my posts, you'll notice it has been a while since I last wrote. I have had plenty to write about but, to be honest, things have been so unpleasant and exhausting that I was afraid to vent my feelings because I was concerned my friends and family might think I have lost my marbles. Ok, so I have but I'm at least on the ground looking for those little, round rascals and have found a few that have escaped me. Meanwhile, the air is chilling and the holidays are starting.

Thanksgiving has never been my favorite and I rarely get into the spirit of it but I felt the need this afternoon to actually welcome the true spirit of being thankful. The holiday provides an opportunity for us to pause and reflect, to take stock of what our life is right now in this very moment and to acknowledge the positive in our lives rather than dwell on what we're missing, wanting, yearning for. Of course, this is just an opportunity and many of us are so busy with life and our reactions to it that we barely have time to think about what to be thankful for. To sit and be thankful is an important exercise though because, if we don't do this occasionally, we run the risk of being bitter and negative and unpleasant. Such sad qualities, in my opinion, tend to discourage others from wanting to be near you. It blinds you from good opportunities and sucks the happiness out of life.

I used to resist the idea of Thanksgiving because of the history of the holiday and what it represented. I still don't like the historical aspect of it. Happy pilgrims, happy "Indians". It all seems simplistic and unreal to me. I've decided to ignore that though and embrace what I want it to be. I can't do anything about how our ancestors treated Native Americans but I can focus my attention on my family and friends and ponder how immensely blessed I am despite how hard life is and can be. It is hard. It is extremely hard but I have beautiful babies. I have a strong, amazing husband. My parents, my brother, sister-in-law, neice and nephew, my parents-in-laws and the rest of my husband's family, my extended family - they are all good people. Wonderful, sweet, smart, funny, creative, loving people and my gratitude for them flows through my veins and I wish them all the same, deep happiness that they bring me.

Although I can't promise that I won't get annoyed with how crazy my life is these days or that I won't look to the heavens and ask (no, scream), "what the hell, man?" at least in the deep recesses of my being I will still know that life is good even though it isn't always.

Sending my love to everyone. Happy Thanksgiving.

One year hurl-dle

Our house as been astir with birthday tidings as the twins had their first birthday. We were all swept up in the celebration of a hard year finished and the excitement of their darling, little lives. We partied. We celebrated. We joined with super friends and family and it was a good time. The boys were showered in sweet, generous gifts which are like gifts to Chris and I as well.

As we recovered from the excitement, family returned to their respective homes and friends returned to their lives, a little virus was lurking. During the party preparation, we made a few jokes about how we hoped that the twins wouldn't get sick during their first birthday party like poor Neil did on his. Perhaps it should have been a clue at Neil's party that he wasn't feeling well when he refused to eat the cake I had baked for him. (It had nothing to do with my cooking, of course.) After having enjoyed the majority of the party, the secret virus revealed itself as Neil hurled what food he had eaten that afternoon. At the twins' party, the contrast with Neil's was evident as both boys eagerly, and messily, gobbled up their birthday cake. (It had nothing to do with the fact that Chris made their cake.)

At last! We got to celebrate a first birthday party without barfing!

Little did we know though about the secret virus. Perhaps it was laughing at us as it spread throughout our family, waiting until our guard was down, before it revealed itself. It first showed up the night before my husband's parents returned home. My father-in-law became ill but we thought it was due to his normally healthy diet being disrupted by our less than nutritious fare. But then, Dylan threw up. We hoped it was a coincidence and that maybe it was due to the fact that we had just started introducing milk to his diet. But then, Evan threw up. Then Neil threw up. Then I threw up and then Chris threw up.

Barf was everywhere.

Everywhere.

We scrambled for towels, sheets, bed spreads, diapers, anything that would catch, wipe up or remove the barf. It would be cruel of me to provide details that no one would ever want to hear so I'll just allude to how disgusting it was - I saw semi-processed food that I never want to eat again as long as I live.

The washer and dryer ran all night as we barfed and cleaned and barfed and cleaned. It started on Wednesday. Today is Sunday and Chris is the last of us to be recovering from it. So desperate to prevent a relapse of this insipid and evil virus, I stooped to buying Lysol instead of making my own green concoction (which had been my goal for the next time I bought cleaning solution). Screw that! I want chemicals, I want the equivalent of a virus-killing nuclear bomb to go off in this house to eradicate the demon. I'll be green next time.

So, the one year birthday has passed and the barf too seems to have passed. I'm hoping for a calm few weeks just to recover before Neil's 3rd birthday party. Let's hope that we don't have anything in store for us on that one.

Full

As I was sitting with my 3 year old, I have to admit that I wasn't being 100% present. I had a lot on my mind and was concerned about things. I was worried about money issues, about the future and how well we were caring for our little guys. Although lately it seems I meet a lot of parents who don't appear to have any financial concerns, I know we're not the only ones struggling every pay check to make ends meet. We're not irresponsible people and we know how to manage our money. You just can't budget for twins, hospital bills, expensive formula, food thickeners, bad plumbing in the new-to-us house, and so forth. We've had more than our share of the unexpected and it's eaten all the reserves we had so responsibly secured. It weighs on us but we're becoming more and more skilled at living on as little as necessary but, at times, it's hard not feel beaten down and like a leach on our sweet and generous parents. It's hard to feel like the grown-up parents that we have become while we're calling home asking for money. We intend to get past this. It just isn't happening as quickly as we'd like.

So, with emotions and thoughts such as these beating around my tired brain I finally stop and hear what Neil is saying to me. Without any prompting he is saying, "Neil's tummy is full." I'm not sure what inspired him to say that but the impact of his words poured through me and warmed my heart and eased my spirit. I looked at all my sons and acknowledged that all their tummies were full, that they were happy and felt loved and that was all the wealth we needed. All I want is for my babies to have full tummies and that will make my heart full of peace.

Interestingly, Chris experienced a similar feeling a day or two prior and he shared it with me the evening after Neil told me about his tummy. After coming home from a hard day at work, we were all out in the backyard horsing around. Neil and Chris were pushing Evan in a toy car around and around the yard. Neil and Evan were squealing with pleasure while Dylan was getting into some kind of trouble as usual. He too put aside his feelings of being poor and realized that we had the wealth that truly counted.

So, we'll take care of our 3 little treasures. We'll invest in them and nurture them and we'll be richer than our wildest dreams.

Piece of my soul

I've been assigned by my husband to take a moment. I can't imagine why I might need one. The last few hours have been filled with needy babies, ridiculous tantrums, pokes and jabs - some unintentional and others quite on purpose. After pulling myself off the kitchen floor (where I had been bottle feeding the twins), replacing my glasses that had just been ripped roughly off my face by a smiling Dylan and pulling my disheveled and drooled on hair back out of my face I spoke toward the sky the following, motherly comment addressed to no child in particular: "Yes, please take yet one more piece of my soul."

Ok, so that was a bit extreme. Of course, after having said it, I looked over at Chris who just laughed and so did I. What a motherly thing to say. Actually, it is quite motherly in that I know I'm not the first mom to feel a bit stripped of self-hood while wiggly, parasitic (albeit adorable) babies, crawl, pull and harass every reachable part of my body. Slimed, bitten, scorned, yelled at, whined to, needed, demanded, needed, demanded, wanted. It can be a bit much at times and, at those times, it's hard to have the best perspective so it was understandable that I needed to say, "yes, please take yet one more piece of my soul."

It was such a naughty thing to say and so crummy of me that it felt super to say it. I almost felt a little weight was pulled off me (no, it wasn't Dylan climbing off of me - he was being distracted by his daddy). So, I walked out of the room and into the computer room and shut the door. Quiet. Well, except for the muffled sounds of children on the other side of the door. Perhaps if I can stay in here for just a few more minutes, I can regain my mental integrity and allow my nerves to feel unstimulated for just enough time for them to relax and be at peace even if it is just for a moment.

All the peace-love-carry my baby all the time-never let them cry-type-moms will likely frown at my detachment. That's ok because I'll take their criticism any day - it's nothing compared to my normal world so bring it on. I'd love to see a mother of 3 boys all under the age of 3 carry her babies all the time. Wouldn't that be a riot? Seriously, though, if a mom finds that kind of parenting satisfying the more power to them. Of course, I still want to see one juggling 3 boys like mine. [Devilish laughter]

So, I'm feeling a little more refreshed and ready to face the night time madness (a/k/a bath and night-night time). Perhaps a nice cold brew might help take the edge off a little more then I'll be able to sit back (it's hard to do when they're climbing all over you but I mean this figuratively) and drink in the beauty (not the beer - I only want one) of my children who actually fill my soul when they're not ripping it to shreds.

Our return

Although the sun had already set, the lights from all the stores and billboards pierced the night sky as we drove down I-35 into Austin, Texas. I had entered Austin this way many times before but never like this. A lot had changed in Austin and in me since I was here last.

Looking at all the development along the freeway initially made me wonder if Austin was more like Dallas nowadays. By that I mean, whether it had become yet another shopping mecca consumed by huge chain stores and product-hungry people desperately trying to make enough money to get their fix on things that made their life easier, prettier, cooler. As I was evaluating my surroundings, I took stock of my own world. Here we were driving into Austin in our minivan. Neil was singing his ABCs (although it was nearly 10:00 at night), Dylan was cooing in his deep, raspy voice and Evan was whimpering as he tried to sleep. I couldn't help but giggle.

When I lived in Austin years ago, it was a cool city to be in but it was only starting to become the rage that it has become. Properties were expensive but it wasn't insane like it is now. It was a great city to just be whatever you felt you needed to be. Although there was always a bit of pressure to be weird, creative, radical, there were a few normal people floating around too. (There probably were a lot more normal people there than I realized, though, but I spent most of my time around the not-so-normal.) Now, I am sort of normal but the weird, hippy freak in me would like to come out again given the opportunity.

When I thought of my young days in Austin, I remembered protests, silly, silly times with friends, my never ending quest for a good guy, hiking and biking in beautiful country, but I also remembered being lonely, insecure and struggling to find my place. I definitely don't experience those feelings anymore. Can't say I miss that one bit. I remember the free lifestyle: sitting for hours drinking coffee while translating Latin, spending time with boyfriends with whom I've lost contact, wearing a path on the sidewalks of the university over countless days during school. The newly found independence of a college student was intoxicating and I miss that but I wouldn't trade it for the world nowadays. Although I'm not independent like I was then, I am surrounded by my loved ones. I married so amazingly well. My husband is truly the love of my life and he continues to awaken my senses and inspire me to live fully and completely together with him as we raise our precious baby boys. I did good.

So, we spent the day in Austin and we had fun. There were moments of peace and happiness and moments of exhaustion and frustration. Can't have one without the other these days. It's ok though because overall life is fabulous. After meeting with good friends and eating good food, touring old haunts, we got in the car and drove home. Sleeping in our own bed with the babies snoring in their own rooms, we knew we had survived our first car trip adventure and were glad to be home.

Beyond blah

He bent over and began drawing the map while I looked over his shoulder. He explained his markings as he drew. "You take this road then get on the trail here. You'll turn right then cross a bridge. . ."

I was getting excited. I was going on an adventure.

I grabbed the backpack filled with only the bare essentials (keys, garage door opener, wallet, cell phone - I am a mom so have to have the phone) and hurried out the door carrying my map.

Despite how exhausting the day had been I felt excitement over the possibility of doing something new and different. I put my helmet on and climbed onto my bike. I was off and I was free.

The air blew all over me making me conscious of the tension I had been carrying. I relaxed and road. My muscles remembered the motion of riding and fell into a rhythm and my breath increased. It felt good and I felt alive. After all, I was going on an adventure. Alone.

I crept along residential streets and watched as enormous cars passed by me. I wondered what the drivers thought of me. What story did they make for me? Was I a nuisance to them? An out of shape mom out for a rare ride? A 30-something chic trying to be 16 again? Surely they didn't think I was a hippy, liberal freak who was intentionally biking instead of driving. Not in this neighborhood. Even if they existed, people like that don't look like me. Right?

Wrong, of course. I am a hippy, liberal freak and my adventure was that I was making a routine errand fun. I was going to a pharmacy to pick up stuff for my twin boys. As boring as this errand might sound, it was fun. I got to exercise and feel my blood pumping. I got to see a different part of our community - I road a bike path that is only seen by those of us willing to go to it. I also got to prove to myself that I could do it because it was a longer ride than I had been doing and the stuff I was buying was heavy and would weigh me down on the way back.

So, call me a hippy freak. I had the option to drive to the pharmacy but instead I managed to get exercise, to practice my philosophy of reducing my impact on the abuse of our environment, and I made something that would have been a drag into something fun which gave me a sense of accomplishment and a sense of adventure. Next time you need to go on a lame errand, think of ways that could make even that task fun. It's an opportunity. You just have to take it.

Jaded

Going to the grocery store shouldn't be a big deal. Of course, hauling the dudes in and then getting through the whole process of selecting, buying, bagging, and leaving isn't uneventful and is often punctuated with moments of, "don't touch that!" or "you're ok, baby," and "we'll be leaving soon, hon." Today was no different with one exception: an odd moment with a stranger.

I'm used to people ogling the twins. It happens practically every time we go somewhere and usually multiple times per outing. Today, I only had the twins with me because we had just dropped Neil off for school so I pulled into the parking lot and opened both side doors of our lovely minivan. Not completely unexpectedly, a man approached me to ask about the twins. Never one to dilly dally, I proceeded to pull the stroller out while talking with him. He said the usual things at first and seemed to be just a normal, nice guy but then he started to tip over into the "what is this guy up to?" category.

He got closer to the car and to Dylan who happened to be on that side of the car and started talking baby talk which is fine but I didn't feel comfortable with him getting closer to Dylan. At surprising speed, my brain processed the situation like a detective: unknown white male in his 50s, possibly retired, wearing tropical shirt and slightly disheveled appearance. Outwardly friendly but unknown intentions. Uncomfortably close to my babies and overly solicitous of their attention. So, is this guy purely just a sweet man who likes babies or is he up to something?

Meanwhile, I'm still just trying to go in the store. The only thing preventing me from doing that is this man who has now gotten between Dylan and I so that I can't actually reach in and get him so, as politely as I can, I firmly tell him, "excuse me" so that I can get Dylan out of the car. He quickly moved out of the way which makes me feel better although I'm not sure about this guy still. I put Dylan in the stroller and looked up to see the man sticking his head through the car toward Evan who is on other side. WTF, dude? He is trying to get Evan to smile and Evan wonders who the heck he is just like me. Good boy, Evan!

Rather than leave Dylan near the man, I wheeled the stroller around to Evan's side in order to get him out. This whole time the man had been rattling on about how wonderful children are and how he was on his way to read to 3 year olds. Ordinarily, I would have asked him where he was going to be doing that but, frankly, I didn't care. The nice side of me thought that perhaps he was just a nice, retired guy that likes to spend time with children. The cynical side of me thought that he fit sexual predator characteristics and that he enjoyed being near children whether he managed to assault or not. Of course, I'm not proud to feel that way but I owe it to my children to not put them at risk.

Thankfully, the interaction soon ended and, although he went into the same store that I did, I didn't run into him again while I was there. As he walked away finally, he told me that he wished us a good life and he made a special point to say, "a good life, not just a good day." I thanked him for his kind statement but I just couldn't believe him and I didn't truly accept his words. If anything, he further confirmed my idea that he was borderline coo coo or disingenuous. Perhaps it wasn't the words that he said but how he said it. It had a fraudulent air to it but he seemed convinced that he felt everyone would trust him. That's fine but I didn't.

Am I the coo coo one for not trusting this man? Perhaps. Did I owe it to this man to trust him? No. Although I like to be nice to people, I owe it to my children to protect them even if that means that I might hurt someone's feelings. If the man was just a nice guy with no ulterior motives, he could benefit from learning to back off a bit. I know I'm not the only mom who has found herself aghast at the behavior of strangers toward their children. If he was a freak, then I'm glad to be rid of him.

Trashy mama

My anticipation is building. I'm starting to see signs that it's coming up soon. As I drive down the road, scanning the surroundings, I start to fantasize about what I'll find. No, it's not the red apple sale at Foley's - not even a sale at BabiesRUs. It's almost bulk trash pick up time and I'm ready to scavenge, to dumpster dive, to retrieve completely functional objects left outside by people who just can't deal with one more thing.

Trash. What is trash anyway? You put it outside and a weight is lifted. Less junk. When I find something like a perfectly good table I wonder why the table had pushed the balance in their previous owner's head and inspired them to wish it away. Was it an ex-boyfriend's? Did a cat pee pee on it? Did it just not go with that fabulous new carpet they just installed? Resisting the urge to go knock on their door and ask what the hell were they thinking I instead will stop my car and load it into the back. I feel a thrill not unlike finding the best sale in town - and only I know about it - at least in this alley at this very moment.

So what do I do with the things that I find? I use them. I decorate them, fix them, whatever they might need. I keep them, sell them, freecycle them but mostly I keep them out of the landfill - the illusive landfill that few of us ever see. If you haven't gone and seen a landfill, you might find it amazing how much trash we are capable of producing. Humans are capable of creating beautiful and inspiring things on grand scales but we're also capable of producing a ridiculous amount of trash - a large volume of which is completely fine and usable.

I'm very tempted to jump on a soap box here about the price our environment pays for the production of a ridiculous amount of products and their subsequent disposal but I'll resist it (with the exception of this sentence). I won't even pretend that I haven't been guilty of throwing things away just because I didn't have the time or energy to deal with it. I understand the feeling but it's worth resisting because the "trash" doesn't just go away. Not only that but it took resources (oil, metal, wood, human labor, etc.) to create whatever it was and, by throwing away something useful, one trivializes and ignores the energy used to create it in the first place. So, although it's a little embarrassing to say that I dumpster dive, I will say that there is nothing to be ashamed of by digging through other's trash considering that in a sad number of instances what's being thrown out shouldn't be trash in the first place.

A bear, a duck and a blanket

The house has gotten quiet and my babies are sleeping. Each of my three little boys is cozy in their beds snuggled up with their favorite companions: a bear, a duck or a blanket. How precious they are to my boys and to me.

My Mom calls the bear, "stinky bear". I'd have to agree. He does emit a rather nasty odor despite any efforts to clean him. He used to be so cute. I remember when my cousin brought him to the hospital after Neil was born almost three years ago. Little did I know then how important he would be. After all, we had already gotten tons and tons of stuffed animals so here was just one more. Of course, even I could tell there was something unusually cute about him. The fact that his company-provided name was Slacker made him even more charming and unique.

It took Neil a few months to decide that the bear was the one too. For a long while, Neil didn't seem drawn to any particular thing like a toy or blanket, although pacifiers were essential. One day, though, something changed and he decided that the bear would do. He's been a good bear. He's lived a hard life and it shows. Nothing like being spit up on, dragged by one arm, smashed and picked at to make a bear show his age. I need to make sure we take good care of him because we need him to be around a long time.

I have noticed over the last few months that Dylan and Evan are beginning to claim their companions. Looks like we made a $50 mistake by buying other bears (different ones) from the same company that brought us Slacker. We even picked bears that even looked a little like the boys but, as parents are apt to do, we made assumptions about our kids' likes and dislikes and were inescapably wrong. Dylan, who is huge, oddly has picked a tiny duck. I can't help but chuckle at the sight of this enormous baby snuggling up to his little duck who is already looking worse than the bear. Dylan's favorite activity is to suck on the duck's beak. I'm concerned ducky may need some cosmetic surgery shortly.

Ever the rebel, Evan has leaped outside the realm of small, animal-like creatures and instead has chosen blankets. Although he doesn't seem to be particularly attached to one specific blanket, he does seem to like the blanket made by his great-grandmother. I applaud his choice. Not only is it perfect that he picked something that was lovingly made specifically for him, I can wash it! Also, it is so well made that he actually might not be able to destroy it. Of course, it is even more irreplaceable than the bear and duck since it is truly one of a kind.

So now as the boys sleep and the house cools after a hot day, I listen to the quiet of the house and am thankful that my babies are lovingly holding their special companions as they dream sweet dreams. Maybe tomorrow I'll wash the bear, make sure the duck's beak is ok and wash the blanket to make sure they stay with us as long as they can. I can't help but feel a little akin to the bear, the duck and the blanket since I often feel dragged, smashed and spit up on but I also know how it feels to be loved and to feel irreplaceable and it's nice.

Little tricks

After stating that I have my hands full, the second most common comment is, "how do you do it?" as they stare with mixed amusement and horror at my three, wiggling boys. My most frequent responses are, "I don't" (which I'm not sure what I mean by that), "It's nuts but it's fun" (for those who can't imagine not loving every minute of it - obviously, people who have no clue), and, if the boys are really acting up, I just grunt and shrug my shoulders while controlling my urge to throttle the person who is somehow challenging my already limited amount of patience.

Of course, I could be a bit more helpful, though, so I'm going to try to start writing periodic emails on little tricks I have come up with to manage the chaos. No one likes long lists so I'm going to keep this relatively short and sweet. Hope these are helpful to someone out there:

* One of my most recent tricks that has proved handy is pouring a 1/4 cup or 1/2 cup of water (I totally don't measure - I'm just giving you an idea) onto the tray of the twins' high chairs at the end of their feeding but before I want to get them out. The high chairs we have have a nice large tray that is recessed enough to hold the babies' foods. Benefits of this are: babies are supremely entertained by splashing like mad in it which helps wash their already messy hands and their face to some degree depending on how enthusiastic their splashing is; it cools them off when it's hot; and it helps to begin cleaning the messy junk off the tray.

* In an effort to reuse things around the house, we found a fun way to reuse the Graduates Veggie Puff containers. After the boys have finished eating one, we clean it and tear the advertising label off so that it's just white. (For those of you who haven't had the privilege of getting these, they have a unique shape that is cylindrical but with a curve in it.) It dawned on me that they're shaped like bowling pins. We have collected enough of them now that we place them on the hardwood floor in our living room like they are set up for bowling and we let the big buy (and us when we can't control ourselves) have at it with a fun game of bowling using whatever balls we can grab at the time. It's fun, it's cheap and it keeps garbage out of the trash.

* Our oldest is a very passionate dude. When he likes doing something, particularly an activity that he hasn't done before, he goes absolutely nuts. An example is that he has been introduced to alphabet games on the computer. His first experience with the games was so amazing to him that he absolutely flipped out when we had to stop. Flipped out. Rather than avoiding the activity altogether I started using a timer to give him a clear idea how long he could play. So, I set the timer for 30 minutes and he knows now when the timer goes off it's time for some other activity. The first time we did it he was a little grumpy but the second time he just jumped and ran out of the room. It was super.

Anyway, these are some things that have helped me and perhaps they could help someone else. Although some are "original" to me in that I came up with it without having heard about the idea from someone else (i.e., they're probably not totally original), the timer idea for sure is something I had heard about and wanted to pass on.

I'd love to hear from you too. If you'd like to share a trick of yours, please comment to this post so that we can all help each other out.

Embracing motherhood

Every cell of my body is baptized in motherly fluids. Embryonic, breast milk, tears, blood, sweat. Then later, formula, spit up, and urine. I've been expanded, divided, engorged, disgorged, stretched and emptied, kissed and kicked. Still, I'm stronger now and, as much as I feel like I've spent every ounce of energy, I somehow have the endurance to keep going. I didn't know how much of a fighter I was until I actually had to fight. The early years with this many young children is reminiscent of being in the trenches. Of course, these boys aren't my enemy but they sure can act like drill sergeants at times.

Becoming a mom awakens ones senses. I feel the wildness in me when my wolf-like senses reveal a quietly crying baby on the other side of the house, my sense of smell tunes into a smelly diaper that no one else smells, or the 6th sense of "something isn't quite right". It took me a while to tap into this instinct but now I can't shut it off. I don't want to though. It's invigorating. My body is doing what it is meant to do and I'm embracing that.

Of course, smelling a dirty diaper is less than pleasant. Smelling, or rather, inhaling the beautiful scent of my babies is unimaginably sublime. Feeling the sensation of stepping on half-chewed food is disgusting but feeling my oldest's little fingers trying to tickle my foot is amusing and fun. Holding my babies feels so good. If only I could hold them all at the same time. One of my favorite times with my boys is when I lay on the floor and they all jump, crawl and attack me. Like a dog with her puppies, they slobber all over me and step in places they shouldn't but I love it and I close my eyes and listen to their squeals and laughter and my innate motherly self feels immersed in beauty. I give myself over to them and I couldn't be happier

Beyond green

I'm inherently insecure although I'm getting over it these days. I can't afford to be. Having said that, I might be deemed obnoxious since my strong opinions are becoming less diluted and polite. If I didn't have three children who are my responsibility and whose future I'm profoundly interested in, I probably would still be secretly sending in money to Sierra Club and other environmental organizations while hypocritically driving to the store instead of biking or using a billion paper towels a day to keep things clean.

Having been raised in Texas, I should be used to being different. I was a vegetarian in high school when my fellow students either never thought twice about meat or were actively raising cattle as a part of "Ag". I didn't go to church. I was less interested in fashion than I was human rights and the state of the world. People didn't understand me then and they still don't quite understand me now. I seem so normal but I'm very weird, apparently. Even in the early days of our marriage, my hubby saw me as the environmentalist in our family but now he may have even surpassed me. Go figure.

I hate self-righteousness so I hope I don't come across that way. I don't expect everyone to believe what I do. The road to becoming an environmentally minded person is varied. Some people are born with an interest in nature and have the fortune to be surrounded by people who help them experience it from an early age. Others reach it from a health perspective when they realize how their mortality is influenced heavily by what we dump into our environment. Still others may begin focusing on the environment when it occurs to them how much our way of life may soon be challenged by our supreme dependence on the finite resource of oil. I'm sure there are many other avenues to it but those are just a few. I personally always had an interest in nature and had the fortune to be introduced to its magic by my parents and family. In my family, life is celebrated in all its beauteous and magnificent forms.

I'm experiencing a metamorphosis these days and I think I may becoming something even more radical than I was in the past. I used to talk myself out of changing certain things I did because I was plain cynical about the impact it would have. It's hard to feel like you're making any difference when you're surrounded by Hummers and huge SUVs. At least in Dallas, people are almost arrogant about not being environmentally conscious. After all, it's a God-given right that we do everything big, bad and wasteful. What I find particularly amusing is when a wasteful practice such as throwing any and everything away is considered not only normal but THE way. When you go to the trouble of freecycling, reusing, recycling you're weird. Strange that being resourceful and unwasteful is not valued these days. I don't get it. What is there to be proud of of throwing more shit into a landfill? Beats me.

So, my hubby and I are doing a little at a time to change our lives from wasteful to resourceful. From changing light bulbs to energy-efficient ones, using torn up receiving blankets instead of paper towels, biking or riding the train instead of driving, we're living more simply and mindfully. Many would argue that we're inherently violating environmental ethics by having had 3 children. True. We've added to overpopulation by doing more than "replacing" ourselves. All I can say is that it was unintentional (although very welcomed). Our goal is to raise our children in an environment which will hopefully encourage them to respect their place in this world and help them understand how choices make a direct impact on the world despite what some may believe. Ultimately, there being here has served more as an inspiration for us to fight for what we believe in - for us to live how we feel our society needs to in order for our kids to have a better quality of life than they'd have if we didn't.

Ordinary beauty

I have a suspicion (or perhaps it's my conscience whispering to me) that some of my friends or family who have heard me vent about how insane my life is now wonder why I don't seem grateful for the fact that we were able to have children after all the struggles we had in order to have children in the first place. Simply put, isn't this what we wanted? Isn't this what we were begging for? Yes, it is but. . .

So, my conscience has been tumbling this question around for quite some time now - about 2 years and 9 months to be exact - and I finally feel that I understand. Essentially, one never knows what it's like to have your own child. Your own. Not someone else's. Not your brother's. Not your friend's. Your own. It's entirely different. If you haven't experienced it yourself, don't pretend you understand because you don't. Trust me. I thought I had an idea but I had no idea. Becoming a parent is a transformation of your entire being and has to be experienced in order to be understood. You can't empathize about this no matter how open-minded you are. If I had to sum up why it's because you can't imagine how much you can love a child and you also can't understand the immense responsibility that comes with raising your own child. Parenting can warm a cold, hard soul or can bring you to your knees begging for mercy. It's a blessing and a beating and it's worth it.

With this new understanding and acceptance, I have begun to open my eyes. The monotony of caring for young children at home can be brutal. Wake up 7:00 a.m. Feed twins. 7:30 oldest wakes up. Feed him. Feed self. Put laundry on. Change diapers, clothes. Prepare lunch. Serve lunch. Clean messy faces, etc., etc. Tedious. It doesn't have to be though. That's the amazing thing. For example, during a grueling diaper marathon (i.e., changing 3 dirty diapers one after the other), I might find myself covered in poo yet one of my babies might give me a smile that just makes me feel so good or my oldest might make me so proud by bringing me a diaper to change his baby brother. It's simple. It's pure. It's sweet and it's fleeting but another moment is always around the corner.

This morning, I sat in the living room and watched the twins playing on the floor. They were laughing and stealing toys back and forth from each other. My oldest was napping in his room. I was sitting on our couch folding the day's laundry and I felt at peace. My babies were fed and happy and I was relaxing as I folded each of my babys' clothes. Little jammies, shirts, shorts. Each little tiny outfit held special meaning to me and I pictured each little rascal in their clothes. I could have just been annoyed by yet another load of laundry but instead I took my time with each article of clothes and carefully folded each one. The sun shown down from the sky light above me and I felt blessed and complete.

There is a beauty to our routine and our life here and I'm thankful that I see it. I remember my Dad once telling me when I was a kid how we can make ourselves learn to enjoy things that we don't like (in this instance, I was grumbling about having to do the dishes). I often remember him telling me that as I did my chores. At the time, I thought that he was just trying to get me to quit griping and do whatever chore needed to be done. Now, though, I understand he did really mean what he was saying. I realize that I have a choice to see beauty in the little things and that that in itself is a gift. I could sit and grumble about how hard my life is - and certainly it definitely has had it's moments - but I'd be missing an opportunity to live fully, experiencing each sacred moment. Although I may still vent from time to time, I do hope to keep this perspective. I feel thankful that my life is rich with both ordinary and extraordinary beauty and I embrace it.

Anger, relief, rest and return

I was right, although I didn't believe myself. The so-called expert hoodwinked me into thinking he knew my body better than I did. His clinical data seemed more legitimate than the pain I was experiencing but whatever. I woke up from the surgery to discover that the surgeon now understood why I was in pain: my fallopian tube was corkscrewed around the ovary and ovary ligament. It was wrapped several times around it preventing the fluid in the tube (the diameter of an orange) from draining. Hmmm...sound painful? It was apparently very rare and surprised everyone. One of the nurses told me that I was "a mess in there". I wanted to ask her if she wouldn't mind checking out my head since I let the surgeon convince me that the hydrosalpinx shouldn't be that painful.

Initially, I was very mad at him for being an arrogant physician blinded by data but then I realized that I really was mad at myself for letting him convince me I was wrong. Lesson learned hopefully. Thankfully, Dr. Hays had listened to me and knew me well enough to know that I don't cry wolf.

My recovery has been decent. I could not have done it without the amazing support of my hubby's parents. More than anyone on this planet, they know the day in and day out of our lives here. It helps to share that with someone so that we don't feel so isolated and misunderstood.

Although I'm still in a little pain, especially when lifting babes a lot, I'm improving. I'm a little concerned that something else may be going on but it's still too early to tell. Too tired and too busy to worry about it yet. I'll try to give my body time to heal.

This isn't the most exciting post I have ever written but I felt I needed to write a follow up to my previous one. I have several other posts that I would like to write that were inspired by the events of the last few weeks. Although the dullness of this post might suggest that the events over the last few weeks were uneventful, they actually provided some inspiration which I hope will be conveyed on the blog in the future.

Peace and good health to all.

Under the knife

I have surgery tomorrow, and I have mixed emotions and adrenaline flowing through my veins. I guess tomorrow anesthetic will course through them and send me on a journey which will hopefully be uneventful and anticlimactic. I don't need any more drama.

I've been calm about it up until tonight. Although it is appreciated and welcomed, the "good luck" phone calls from family only seem to highlight the concern of others about my well being and thus send my mind down the path of what if. No need to explain the what ifs in this scenario: Cancer, surgeon error, whatever. Those thoughts then lead to my husband, my babies, my family. Phrases such as "if this happens, then we'll have to open you up" and "blood transfusion" and "vascular surgeon", etc. spoken by the surgeon echo in my head. With all the paperwork you have to sign about the rare but horrible consequences of surgery, I wish there were an option to sign one that says, "don't tell me a damn thing and just do it." Guess that doesn't cover their butt enough and Lord knows they don't care about mine (in reference to the lovely hospital gown I'll be sporting tomorrow).

Ah, well. It's a day I've been hoping for because I'd like my life to return to "normal". I am glad it's here finally but now it's time to hope it goes well. I'll hug and kiss my babes a little more tonight. Let's just hope my next post is about how great I feel now.

Praise for Dr. Tracy Hays

She is truly a beam of sunshine in the darkest of times. I have had my share of those dark times over the last few years. From infertility to preterm labor with twins to chronic pelvic pain, Dr. Hays helped me stay focused on what was important, listened to all my fears and concerns regardless of how irrational or unfounded, and managed the care of myself and my sweet, darling babies with great professionalism, warmth and attentiveness. I could not ask for a better doctor.

Tomorrow, I'm having surgery to hopefully alleviate the pain I've been experiencing for the last few weeks. Throughout this stressful time, she has repeatedly been an advocate for me and has not only monitored my physical well being she has taken into consideration how surgery affects how I function as a mother to 3 babies. She listens and she acts. I feel understood by her, and I feel cared for in a way that most physicians couldn't possibly replicate.

She is more than a doctor. She brings to her job something special that anyone who works around her is immediately aware of. I appreciate everything she has done for me. Thank you, Dr. Hays.

A glimpse of beauty

Today, I witnessed beauty in a most unexpected way. What started as a routine appointment with my sons' cranial-facial surgeon transformed into a moving experience involving a young man I'll call Juan. (I do know his actual name but do not feel I should divulge it publicly.)

I had all three boys with me and we took over the waiting room as we are apt to do. Just the size of the stroller alone tends to dominate typically small waiting rooms of specialists like this surgeon's. We found ourselves crammed into a corner only inches away from a young man who was obviously there as a patient. I say obviously because his outward appearance was grossly misshapen. His most striking feature was that one of his eyes appeared to always be open very wide and he had various scars and irregularities throughout his face. As much as I hate to admit it, he was very difficult to look at without succumbing to the urge to look away. It was heartbreaking.

As we got situated - toys distributed, snacks obtained - we settled in to wait for our turn. The room was full of other patients but I was drawn to this young man and could not help but read his body language which was detached and withdrawn. He quietly sat eating a snack. My oldest was busy exploring the room for a while and then he saw him. I could tell Neil didn't understand what he was seeing - he's only 2.5 years old after all. I watched him look over several times and stare. I'm in the habit of suggesting Neil say hello to other children in the hopes that he learns to feel comfortable talking with other children. I suggested he say hello because I wanted him to understand that this little boy was just another person and that we should talk with him rather than stare. The boy quietly said hello back. His expression indicated that he was surprised that we said hello.

Toys were picked up from the floor and handed back to fussing babies, more snacks were dug out of my bag and the boy began to uncurl from his chair and become interested in the twins who were closest to him. The twins giggled and squealed to him just as they would anyone else and I think that made him comfortable. I made comments to him about the twins and began to talk with him casually and he relaxed more and more.

As I was talking with him, I tried to figure out where his mom or dad were. No one seemed to participate in our conversation. People who were sitting next to him were called into appointments and then I'd realize that they weren't with him. The room began to empty and eventually there was only him, my children and a young woman who had been talking on a cell phone across the room. She came to sit next to him but didn't talk with him. She continued to do whatever she was doing in her controlled, professional manner. Was this his mom? I tried to involve her in our increasingly more dynamic conversation but she only smiled mildly and seemed disinterested. I didn't push it.

Meanwhile, I found out his name - he showed me his hospital bracelet and I introduced him to my boys. Juan had clearly become taken with Evan, one of the twins. Juan seemed delighted by Evan's spastic, squealing fits and was very warm toward him. He began to ask questions such as whether he could crawl and such. I got Evan out of the stroller and placed him on the floor. Juan offered to watch him for me. He got down in the floor with him and kept his hands close to him to keep him from falling. He asked me if Evan liked toys. I said yes so he reached in his little bag and pulled out a gingerbread man from some fast food restaurant and handed it to Evan.

Ok, my mom instincts wanted to rush over and clean the toy before Evan put it in his mouth but I couldn't do it. The germ nut in me didn't want to expose my baby to germs from a child who has been in the hospital and who has been exposed himself to no telling what but I stopped myself. This darling little child wanted to share something with my baby and there was so much love in this action that I couldn't possibly trample on his desire to hand him the toy. Evan immediately put it in his mouth. Of course. I apologized and the boy said it was no big deal - he would wash it off later. He shrugged it off and sat smiling as he watched Evan play with his toy.

The nurse finally called our name. Of course, every one of my boys was out of the stroller by now and it took ages to get everyone strapped in and the bags repacked in order for us to leave. In the midst of the chaotic shuffle, Evan accidentally fell over on his back. He was fine - just the typical spill any child takes on a normal day. As I started to bend over to get him, Juan gets down and cradles Evan so gently, slowly lifting him up to me. He did it with such tenderness that I was almost moved to tears. This horribly deformed child had a beauty in him that few would ever stop to see.

We said our goodbyes and I wished him luck on his upcoming surgery and we left. I was still thinking of him and mentioned him to the nurse. I found out why his "mom" didn't seem very interested in him. She was his case worker. The nurse explained in a more candid moment than I've seen in a while in the medical field (thanks to the ridiculously rigid rules of HIPPA) she explained to me how he travelled very far to see this doctor, that he had no mama in his life and that he had a very sad story which she didn't divulge and I was afraid to hear. She then commented on how sweet a boy he was and how everyone in the office cared about him. I was humbled by this little boy's story and was moved by his tenderness toward my baby despite how hard the world had been for him.

The doctor was going to perform surgery on his eye tomorrow and, although I'm not a Christian or part of any other organized religion, I will pray to the heavens to bless this sweet child.

If you found this post inspiring and would like to help children like Juan, visit the World Cranialfacial Foundation at http://www.worldcf.org/. Juan's surgeon is affiliated with this organization so it's possible that he may be receiving assistance from this foundation for his care.

Corpus meus

My body and I have been through a lot together. We went through the usual things like birth, colds, puberty, pregnancy and multiple childbirths. What once was supple and young, my body has become more worn and stretched - no longer smooth and unblemished. Scars have appeared, moles darkened, weird red dots punctuate parts of my skin. I don't recognize myself at times yet I also have a hard time comprehending that I'm 34 years old and I'm not as sexy as I used to be. Damn!

My poor body has put up with me. I gave it shots in its stomach and intoxicated it with hormones. I forced it to mature a ridiculous amount of eggs and had my body cut in order to remove these potential vessels of life. I put embryos in my womb who sometimes stayed and sometimes didn't. I made my body pregnant with 1 then later 2 babies - pushing my body beyond its natural tendencies.

It's not like my body just sat there and took it though. It made sure I knew that shots hurt, my ovaries didn't like being ridiculously large, that my mood was sure as hell not going to be pleasant thanks to the PMS cocktail of hormones and to get me back my body gave me lots of stretch marks, a belly whose muscles won't strengthen and now a fallopian tube that is inflated like a balloon in order to remind me that I messed with it and I am now to pay.

How should I make peace with my body? I guess I should accept my body for how she has changed and be thankful that she made it as well as she did. I will let my body enjoy holding the beautiful babies she nurtured and protected - I'll breathe in their scent - the one that only a mama can smell and enjoy. I will have my tube repaired surgically although my body may not like that but, once that is done, maybe she'll forgive me and understand that I appreciate her and all that she's done. I'll quit asking her to be the young body she used to be and learn to see that she earned the scars and stretch marks triumphantly and gallantly as she endured tremendous strain and challenges. She deserves that and so do I. Thank you, body, for my babies, for the love which pours through my veins each time my babies smile at me.

It will be ok

The thunder came so suddenly we all jumped. Chris and I just laughed and looked at each other but then paused to see which of our 3 children would wake up crying. Tonight, it was Neil who hadn't actually fallen asleep yet but had been quiet nonetheless. It was his scared cry so I went to his room to comfort him.

I wrapped my arms around his trembling body and told him it was ok. Funny thing is he didn't act scared - his young bravado was evident as he said, "hi, mommy" as nonchalantly as he could - but the fact that he was shaking told me enough. After a minute, thinking he was fine, I started to leave but he grabbed my arm and made it clear that he wasn't ready for me to go yet. I had already told him his requisite 4 bed times stories and I was too tired of them to say them once again so I made up a story about a little, lonely cloud who made friends with other clouds and they danced and played in the sky. They clapped (thunder) and flashed their flashlights (lightning - not original but, hey, I was improvising). His body visibly calmed but soon he wanted me to "hang out with Neil" (i.e., play). It was time to go. He needed to sleep and I needed a moment of free time before I went to bed. I tucked him into his bed and gave him a hug. I told him again that he was ok - that the clouds were just playing and he told me, reassuringly, "you're ok, Mommy".

Last night, hearing him say that brought a chuckle up from my belly and warmed my heart. Tonight, after having another trying day (Neil had to get blood drawn for an allergy test, physical therapy for Evan, no phone call from doctor regarding my potential surgery, and discovery of a potentially huge plumbing issue with our house), I reminded myself of his sweet words and tried to reassure myself with his sweet words. Now, I'm going to go get a hug.

Son rising

It's 5:37 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Evan is awake and having his morning bottle. The house is quiet and dark. As I hold him, I see the sky begin to lighten as the earth turns toward the sun. I look down to see him looking at me with smiling eyes, and I forgive him for waking me up so early. I give him a kiss. He smiles and continues to eat.



I enjoy holding and feeding my babies. Cradling their little bodies in my arms as they gladly drink their milk. I particularly like their first morning feedings because they're eager for the food and they're just a little bit sleepy so they rest and eat calmly. Their little hair is often messed up and their eyes are puffy from a good night's sleep. Warm to the touch, their soft bodies are snuggly and I wrap myself around them as I slowly awaken as well.



Our connection is strong and our bond is firm. It is not less because they are fed from a bottle, although there are plenty who would tell me I'm missing something. It's different - that's true - but it's not less. The love in my eyes and the love in theirs is all that there needs to be. They're bellies are full. They're healthy and strong. That's all a mom can ask for.



The bottle is almost empty now and the sunlight is shining through the trees. It will be daytime soon and the daily hustle will begin. For now, though, I snuggle with Evan and listen for the stirrings of Dylan and Neil. Like a mama bird listening for the chirps of her babies, I sit and listen for the day to begin.

Maternal mantra

So many things are out of my control and that can really get me down. There is a point, however, when so many things become so obviously uncontrollable that it pushes me to a point of revelation: I am not in control and that's that. Why fight it? What good does it do me other than make me more miserable? Of course, my revelation has been felt by many people, including Buddha and his followers to name a few. I guess the Christian philosophy has its own way of viewing this same conundrum in similar terms by the idea of "Let go. Let God." Either way, the act of letting go is amazingly restorative and often provides a perspective not otherwise available via an anxious mindset.

Although I have often found myself pondering events in my life in terms of what I can and cannot control, I find myself repeatedly returning to this question now that I'm a mom. Perhaps the fact that I have a tendency toward being a "Type A" personality has made parenting a challenge for me at times. From the most basic situation such as how many of my three kids has a dirty diaper to whether one of my sons needs a helmet, physical therapy, surgery, whatever. I often feel like I'm walking a high wire - I'm balancing what I can control with what I can't. I do my best to control the environment in such a way to lead to a more peaceful and orderly household. We have schedules and rules, discipline and consequences but I try to do it in a fashion that allows fun, creativity and spontaneity. Meanwhile, someone has a dirty diaper, another needs a bottle and the other is asking me the same question over and over and over and over.

In my best moments, I experience a peacefulness amid confined chaos. In the worst, I'm a raving lunatic who feels as if she's herding cats. When times get tough, though, I just need to remember to breathe deeply and repeat to myself, "it is what it is," and change that diaper, feed the baby, mop up the mess. . . and move on.

Pass out

Here I am at the end of a very long week. I'm drinking and I'm feeling better than I have in a while. Could it be the alcohol? Perhaps. It might also be that I at least got some decent lab results indicating that my risk for ovarian cancer is low. I'm pleased with that. It may also be that my Mom came over and rescued me today and helped me regain perspective. I was having a very bad morning until she showed up.

As my body is forced to relax via the sweet, brown bottle at my fingertips, I am reminded of the sensation that one feels right before going under anesthesia. It won't be long before I'll be experiencing that once again. Under the knife. It's clear to me that my state of mind is less than desirable these days considering I find the idea of surgery as a way to rest. Pretty sad.

I will let go and be at their mercy. I will lay there and sleep while they slice me open. I will be manipulated and cut and parts of me removed but at least I get to rest.

I will wake up in pain. I'll be awoken by countless nurses and poked and prodded but then I'll be able to sleep once again. Three days paid for by insurance. I couldn't pay for a 3-day vacation so maybe this is the next best thing.

I don't like it either anymore too bad

My 2 1/2 year old is a rascal. He even knows it because he sometimes says, "Neil is a punk," after doing something rotten. I can't imagine where he got that.

His favorite new thing to say more often than I care to hear it is, "I don't like it either anymore too bad!" This phrase has morphed and changed over time. It first started out as, "I like it," even though he clearly was stating that he didn't. Once he got the concept of "don't" down then it became, "I don't like it." As you can guess the additional words were added until it became, "I don't like it either anymore too bad."

I feel I must explain the "too bad" part since that was all my fault. When you're trapped in the house with youngsters, it's easy to become rather infantile in response to some of their annoying behavior. I swear Neil can inspire a tamper-like tantrum in me after hearing him repeat something annoying and whiny for 3 hours. So, being the mature person that I am, I once responded, "too bad" when he kept whining for something silly like watching a video of himself ("Neil show") or not liking getting his diaper changed. Yes, it was sweet and understanding of me but, if you've spent considerable time with a 2 year old who has a very profound sense of entitlement, you'd understand 100%. Anyway, realizing there was some power in that phrase, my son gladly added it to his now favorite phrase.

The funny thing is that right now I totally know what he feels like when he says it because I feel like throwing a tantrum myself. I'm not the least bit excited about having to have surgery. I don't like not knowing whether I have cancer. I probably don't but, damn, I have enough shit going on. I'm the mother of 3 small children and I'm not really excited about the possibility that their lives (not to mention mine but this is how moms are) might get severely disrupted if mommy gets sick. Ah, jeez. So, in the spirit of my dear, darling toot of a son, I feel compelled to scream at the heavens, "I don't like it either anymore too bad!"

Poop on my face

In the middle of juggling the twins during their bath, my husband noticed that I had something on my face. He lovingly reached up to pick it off then realized with horror that it was baby poop. While I shrugged as if that happens everyday, Chris grimaced and suggested I go wash my face. I couldn't help but feel that that moment summed up today.

We're facing more poop. For those of you who know us well, you've heard about how crazy our lives have been over the last year or so. Apparently, it's time for us to endure another trial of sorts. How much of a trial is unknown at this point. I'm hoping for a small one but we'll see.

Today, I went to the doctor to see what was up with my left ovary. Most people probably can't tell where their ovary is much less whether something is unusual but, after all the IVF procedures and subsequent hyperstimulation (ridiculous amount of eggs produced) that I had endured, I had a really good feel for when something wasn't quite right with one of my ovaries.

So I had a sono. A cyst that had been small and benign in the past was much bigger. Whether it's benign still remains to be seen. Either way, it has to be removed surgically.

This is what lies ahead so far: Another sono, surgery, 3 nights in hospital, no driving for 2 weeks, recovery for who knows how long. Meanwhile, I have 3 babies who need me and a tired, tired husband who has just had enough of all this crap. We just can't catch a break these days. We endure but, man, we've been kicked and tossed and hassled and we're just damn tired of it. We somehow laugh despite all this - such as when he said that my ovaries were causing problems yet again. After all, I was the ova-achiever. These guys (or should I say gals) just don't know when to stop.

Good thing we don't either. So, I went and washed the poop off my face and went back to work. I kissed my babies a little more tonight, hugged them a little tighter. Let's just hope that surgery is all we have to deal with now.

Pause for peace

We all slowed down when the bus began to flash its lights and the stop sign moved into position. Three lanes of traffic came to a stop as small children began to descend its steps and walk to their waiting parents. I couldn't see how many children were leaving the bus but I guessed about 5 as I watched the bus jiggle and move with the eager footsteps of the children. It was taking a long time.

I looked around at all the cars stopped with me, wondering which jerk would honk their horn, which angry driver was muttering under their breath for the kids to hurry up already. Nobody made a sound, no breaks were being pumped. For a brief moment, the hostile, egocentric, drivers of Dallas restrained themselves out of their collective interest in these unknown childrens' welfare. How nice and peaceful.

I then began to wonder if these same patient drivers supported the war in Iraq or any war advocated by the Commander in Chief for that matter. Did they care about the welfare of the children in countries we invaded? Just as I was having these thoughts, I heard an NPR report about a school that had been bombed in Afghanistan. More children dead. How horrific. Isn't that awful to any human being? Shouldn't it be?

We all began to drive again and the people who were driving like jerks before had returned to their tailgaiting, cutting-off ways, and I continued on driving with my three, darling babies in the car. I couldn't help but wondered if they cared about my babies as they drove along carelessly. Maybe, unlike the bus with its flashing lights and its stop sign that forced us to notice its precious cargo, they can't see my babies. Just like the bombers didn't see the children huddled in their classroom.

Maybe it's not that we don't care. Maybe we need to be forced to pause. I would imagine many drivers would not stop for the school bus if it wasn't a law, if they wouldn't get a ticket for disobeying. Perhaps if our government encouraged diplomacy instead of war we might pause enough to care.

To the father of my babies

He can change a diaper in the dark and snap the snaps to the horribly complicated outfits while barely awake. He does it without complaint or thanks.

We met in 1999. I was a mess and he was lonely. He held me patiently as I hesitated to trust him. He waited. I trusted.

We had fun and lots of it. We shared great friends and great times, beautiful moments. Our wedding, our honeymoon in Hawaii gave us peaceful memories that we can always look back on.

We struggled to have children and suffered losses. We looked toward the unknown together and stubbornly never gave up.

Being parents is a lot harder than we ever thought it would be. God, how we love our babies. Boy can they kick our asses. We've muscled through it together and are feeling more sure-footed and tested. We'll be ok and so will they.

He is even sexier than he was when I met him. When he rolls out of bed to feed a baby or comforts my soul in times of uncertainty and despair, he is so solidly there and reliable. He's so strong and sure and true. And, damn, he's still a hotty.

My babies are lucky to have him and I couldn't do it without him. I really could not do it without him.

I love you, honey. Happy Father's Day.

Mindfully mindless

I have to have my wits about me. Is Dylan near anything that he shouldn't put in his mouth? What is Neil climbing on now? Why is Evan crying? Is he sleepy, hungry?

Pacing the house from one child to the next. Lifting and caressing, laying down and kissing. My back hurts and I'm bruised. Some of them are sleeping so what can I do until they wake up? I'm so tired of doing the dishes, doing laundry. What can I do for me?

Hmmmm.....

What was that? Someone crying. What now? Guess they're ok now.

What can I do for me? Maybe I can watch a show but it's boring.

Maybe I can. . .who is awake? How long until I have to go in there and get them? Is it dinner time?

Running out of time for me. The evening madness is soon to begin. Dinner, baths, storytime. Guess I'll have to wait until tomorrow for me.

Star Sisters

As we sat around the pool talking and listening to one another, I paused to enjoy it. We're here together again and it feels great. Like planets in a galaxy, we each have our own orbits that take us on our individual paths but we always reunite when our orbits reconnect. I find myself wishing we could be together more often because it's so good but it's ok. I trust the fact that the heavens will bring us back together.

Our lives are very different. One of us is preparing to take one of life's biggest steps by marrying the man she loves; one lovingly yet sadly is accepting her son's departure to far away lands as he pushes for success yet struggles with life choices he has to face; one is enjoying her prime as she embraces her aspirations and those of her husband's, lovingly supporting one another; another is struggling to shed feelings of despair and exhaustion as she tries to be more than she is to her darling babes. Two new faces joined us and each brought with them their stories and blessed the night with their vitality. We shared ourselves and served one another with laughter, humility and love. As we drank in the beauty of the night, the coolness of the water, we bonded yet again and sprinkled each other with our moon dust and merriment.

My girls. My friends. My sisters of the stars. May our orbits always find each other.

What I Can't Afford

I can't afford to be in a bad mood. I can't afford to be distracted. I can't afford to be sick. I can't afford to be angry. I can't afford to be selfish. I can't afford to be tired. I can't afford to be absent. I can't afford to be stupid. I can't afford to be sleepy. Why?

These things delay or prevent me from doing things that have to get done: physical therapy nail trimming lotion applying diaper changing tummy time doctor appointments medicine administering love giving school enrolling disciplining. (Commas intentionally left off since none of these things occur independently - they blur together and are often simultaneous.)

I'm human though so I'm in debt to my babies because I get in bad moods, get distracted, get sick, get angry, am selfish, am tired, am occasionally absent, am stupid, am sleepy.

They say that mom's need to take care of themselves in order to take care of their babies but I can't help but wonder when can I? I can't afford to.

Blessed to death

If my days could be described by the words that I speak more often than any others they'd be: "I'm tired."
"No, Neil."
"Stop yelling."
"Hi, sweetie."
"Do you have a poopie diaper?"
"Are you hungry?"
"Oh, God, you're heavy."
"Let's go take a nap."
"I love you soooooo much."

If my days could be described by my body language it would be:
Rubbing my eyes in exasperation
Refixing my hair to get it out of my face
Making silent screams of bad, bad words to the ceiling
Smiling my proud mama smile
Rubbing my aching back
Rubbing my messed up wrist
Pulling my damn pants up again
Grimacing
Sighing
Sighing
Sighing
Smiling eyes tearing
Sad eyes tearing
Alert, concerned eyes seeking

If my days could be described by the emotions that flood me, they'd be:
Exhaustion
Peace
Exasperation
Joy
Love
Anger
Frustration
Isolation
Confusion
Guilt
Hope
Pride
Despair
Concern
Relief

If my appearance could describe my life it would be:
Pooching mama belly
Stretch marks
Tired eyes
Smeared makeup or none at all
Messy clothes
Bad hair
Dry, cracked skin on my overwashed hands
Dirty feet
Disheveled

My words, my gestures, my emotions and my appearance describe my life as it is: chaotic and insane shit and bliss. It's such a crazy mix of good and bad that is still worth every minute. I wouldn't trade it for the world, although I'd love a fucking break. Let's face it, I've been blessed to death.

Good Bad Good Bad Good Bad Good: The Ever Changing Mood of a Stay at Home Parent

I used to have concrete ideas regarding whether a day was good or bad. It was simple to me. It was either good or bad. Nowadays, I can't say that anymore because it changes constantly. I may wake up to a good morning but 10 minutes later feel like it's the worst day I've ever had. I started to notice this when we had our first son. I learned to think in terms of good and bad moments. I might be able to say a day was ok if more good moments occurred than bad. If there were more bad moments than good, though, it was a crummy day.

These days it's hard to even characterize a day or a moment because even a single moment can be split three different ways - by three different children. I might be having a horrible moment with one child while somehow sharing a peaceful moment with another and may just be having a calm but neutral one with the third - all at the same time. Basically, my moments have been divided into thirds now. In some ways it just makes life more interesting and rich but in another it can be schizophrenigenic (an excellent term coined - as far as I know - by a family friend). To put it simply, it can be maddening.

Here is an example from this very evening. One of the twins, Evan, was having a difficult time sleeping. I finally had some luck soothing him by rubbing his back slowly and his little eyes slowly closed. I marvelled at how beautiful his eyes are. His lashes are so long and dark. His little hands so cute and cuddly. I looked over at the other crib where his twin, Dylan, was sleeping and I quietly chuckled about his position. He had his round bum in the air and he'd crammed his face into the mattress. I thought to myself how I needed to reposition his head as soon as Evan was asleep. I heard Neil laughing with his daddy in the other room and I was filled with peace but then it began to change. Neil began to yell. Evan began to wake up. Neil screamed louder. Evan screamed louder still. Dylan was fine for a little while but he began to stir. My peaceful thoughts were replaced with silent pleas for Neil to shut up! He didn't want to have the bath that he has EVERY night but fights over having EVERY night that he ends up enjoying ridiculously then hates getting out of. (The logic of two-year-olds is amazing but that's another post for another day.)

Anyway, the tenderness I was feeling for all my babies was still there but I was annoyed with Neil, frustrated with Evan and mystified with Dylan who was calm for the longest but even he succumbed to the madness eventually. All three babies were crying and it was time for me to go to another room before I wigged out. If you've never heard three babies crying at the top of their lungs with no hope of consoling them, you'd understand why I needed to do that.

So, how did it all end? After calming myself down, I began to settle the babies down. I tucked Neil in bed after telling him the requisite "night-night" stories exactly like I do every night. (Deviations in plot or subject matter are strictly prohibited - he notices every little detail.) I finished with the story his Grammy told him and now is a part of our evening ritual: I told him how he is the luckiest boy in the whole world and then named all the people who love him. My shoulders became less tense and my anger subsided as I softly told him that his mommy and daddy love him so very much. I gave him a good night kiss and he told me "night night" as I left.

Meanwhile, the twins grumbled for a minute or two longer but they soon settled down and slept to the sound of peaceful, lullaby music. All was good except for the fact that we'd run out of trash bags and Chris was about to put the 300 lbs worth of dirty diapers out in our City trash bin and couldn't do it until he had more. Exhausted, he set off for the store and I went to the computer. Now that everyone is asleep, formula is made, dishes are clean, and laundry is under control, I have to start my paying job. After that's done maybe I can sleep. Despite having to work, and since the boys are sleeping quietly, I'd most assuredly have to say that this is a good moment. I'm going to enjoy it.

Going the distance

Certain events in my life have motivated me to explore the concept of distance. On the surface, the term "distance" seems pretty concrete and graspable when defined as a separation of two points - when it is defined in terms of physicality. Distance is harder to comprehend when it is defined in terms of feelings such as emotional separation and remoteness. We can measure physical distance with tools but emotional distance is not quantifiable. It's personal and subjective.

What I find most difficult to untangle is how the concept of physical distance can impact emotional distance - how we each make choices regarding how we allow physical distance to impact emotional distance and connectedness. Is it necessary that individuals be near each other in order to remain emotionally connected? I think that question has to be made by each person and is often made differently. I, for one, feel that physical proximity is not integral to a close and loving relationship. As the saying goes, "distance makes the heart grow fonder".

In my life, I have had many instances where I made a conscious choice to remain connected or to disconnect from another when they were leaving. This morning, I received a phone call from one such friend, my dearest friend, who now lives on the other side of the world - in Switzerland. She is the closest thing to a sister that I have but, if I had made different choices, she could have just been another person that I used to know. I have never, nor will I ever, regret that choice. My life is richest with her in it. It would have been a great personal loss if I had let her slip through my fingers.

I often wonder what our relationship would have been like and would be like now if she and I lived in the same city as we once did. Would we be closer? How much fun we would have! Would I love her more? Perhaps but I doubt it. Our connection is so deep that the miles between us seem immaterial. I wish we could get together with her and watch our children grow up alongside each other. I wish she and I could grow old together - to sit on a front porch sipping ice tea in our old age but I accept that that won't be the case. She has her own life there as I have my life here. We remain committed to each other, and I wouldn't trade our relationship for the world.

My perspective isn't held by everyone though. I know others who feel that proximity is necessary for a close relationship. I don't discount the fact that it is harder when you can't always go and be with someone you love but there are ways to be connected regardless of proximity. It may not be ideal but love really has no boundaries and is not measurable by inches and miles - not unless we choose to define it so.

Unlike physical distance which can be easily defined and understood by many, emotional distance is in the control of each individual. It is a conscious choice that can have far reaching implications. It is much harder to overcome emotional distance than it is to overcome the physical. I can get on a plane or drive a car but I can't open a heart that has closed itself off. I can't go the distance alone. I hope I don't have to.

Herbs, beer and boogers

I'm having a much deserved beer tonight. Ok, I lied. I'm having a much deserved 2nd beer tonight. I expect it might even be a 3 beer night. Today wasn't any worse than any other day. It just was

another

day

filled with the usual shit.

The boys pooped a billion times. I've been covered in so many bodily fluids lately that I'm completely immune to it. I have to remind myself that poo is dirty and I must wash my hands because I'm almost so desensitized by being covered in it. Now, THAT's messed up.

Here is a summation of today's fun: Waking at 4:00 a.m. to Evan yet again. Cry, cry, cry, fucking crying again. No reason. He's ready to be up. We're sure as hell not. Who wins? He does. The dude won't go back to sleep. Fuck all the experts. My babies are bad asses. They're not some little wusses you hear about that fall back to sleep after crying for 10-15 minutes. Nope. These dudes are hard core. So, Mr. Evan wins. He gets to sleep with Mommy in the guest bedroom so Daddy can get some fucking sleep so he can make money and feed his little punkass kids and, occasionally, me (though you wouldn't guess I don't eat much since I'm STILL trying to lose my insane pregnancy weight).

The most positive aspect of the day was a groovy visit from my Uncle Don. Neil loves him now that he knows that when Uncle Don comes he brings food Daddy doesn't want him to eat: Chicken strips and french fries. God love him. I have to admit that I like what he brings me: Fat wrapped in a bun - well, a burger and fries. Ok, so it's not helping me lose the weight but I need a little SOMETHING. Anyway, Uncle Don rules. My babies love him and so do I.

The rest of the day was feeding, tickling, kissing and harassing my little buggers. Evan's physical therapy was more of a focus today since the surgeon said his torticollis isn't resolving fast enough and he'll have to consider surgery if he doesn't improve in the next 3-4 months. (Evan was smushed in the womb by his twin, Dylan, so he has a shortened neck muscle that makes his head tilt to the left.) My mommy guilt is insane these days so I tried to stretch the little stubborn toot's neck every chance I had. He hates it so it's a lot of fun to do. Surgery would be totally sucky though and I'd feel like the world's worst mom if he has to have it.

Anyway, the rest of the day was "uneventful" in that nothing other than the usual crazy shit happened. I finally started reading some peak oil junk my hubby wants me to read. Ok, maybe Portland would be a great place to live. The question is: how the Hell do we get there with any money left over? Can we get there with my family's blessing/understanding? What about my need for REAL Tex-Mex? Will I go even more coo coo without sunshine?

The day ended with the twins getting a fabulous bath in our kitchen sink with their big brother harassing them and running madly away (as if they could get him if they tried) and Neil deciding I was his personal booger rag as he repeatedly blew his nose (while laughing) against my leg. Eeeuw. It's a damn good thing I'm gross and thought it was funny. I then promptly chased him around with the real booger rag as he fled with glea.

Now, I'm having a mature woman's moment. I'm having a break. I just read some info on growing herbs since I've started cultivating them in our greenhouse. I'm feeling all domestic and good. I just finished my beer and will be seeking the third and hope the boys go to sleep soon and sleep the whole entire night. We'll see. I may drink one more beer just to make the fantasy seem real.

Peak what?

Picture this: It's my 34th birthday and I'm feeling every bit of it. My in-laws have generously volunteered to watch our 3 babies so that my husband, Chris, and I can have a date. A date - what is that? You've all heard it before. Another parent bemoaning never having a chance to get out and be an adult. Yeah, well, don't discount it until you've been in my shoes. Of course, let's not discuss my shoes - old, dilapidated, abused, cheap shoes.





Back to the story. My hubby and I have gone to our old haunt - a great little Tex-Mex restaurant we used to go to in our no-child days or BWHC (before we had children) days and our pre-twin days, a/k/a WNDOL (when Neil dominated our lives) days. We pigged out and we drank. It felt great. . . until Chris took the conversation away from the exciting and never ending conversation of what the Hell to do with [insert child's name here] to the topic beginning with "we're going to die."





Maybe that's not bleak enough. Let's see, this should cover it: he didn't expect to ever teach our oldest (2 1/2 years old) to drive and he wouldn't be surprised if our children's' life expectancies would be no more than 50 years old. Whoa! Screech. Where's my fucking margarita?





It wasn't April Fool's Day - he actually missed that this year for the first time. What crazy prank was he pulling? Well, his prank isn't so dang funny and I wish I could pretend his concerns weren't valid. It was at this dinner that he explained to me about peak oil.





Peak what? Exactly. In a nutshell, according to peak oil people (POPs), our oil will max out. Before we actually run out of oil, we will reach a maximum amount of oil we can pump (peak oil). The problem is that demand will continue to rise beyond that which is available. What will that lead to? Mass disruption of the economy, peace, prosperity, etc., etc. All in all, they forecast a pretty grim future, although some are a little more optimistic than others. So where does my husband lie in the continuum of POPs? He's in the "things are going to be horrible" end of the spectrum. The question for me now is where do I stand?



The answer is: I have no idea. Do I believe we'll run out of oil eventually? Yes. It's a finite resource. It's nonrenewable so therefore we will run out. Will it be soon? Likely, yes, unless we make drastic changes which I don't think most of us will be willing to do without a very strong incentive. In other words, when the choice is taken out of our hands because oil is too expensive. I also have some nagging anecdotal evidence: I have a relative who specialized in looking for oil as a geologist for various gasoline companies such as Exxon. I asked him years ago whether we'd run out of oil. He said yes without hesitation and explained that everyone in his field knew that. When I asked when he said in about 20 years. That was around 10 years ago. Hmmmm.



I'm not going to spell out all the technical support for or against the idea of peak oil because there are tons of sites which do that far better than I could possibly dream (or care to do for that matter). I think most credible sources at least acknowledge the reality that oil isn't going to last and we need another energy source. The biggest problem is where is this energy source? Most people, including me, have resolved any rising anxiety by convincing ourselves that some nerd will figure this all out. We all bow to the God of technology asking for this new saviour. "Please, God, bring us a new energy so that I can drive 45 minutes to work while gabbing on my cell phone. Please let my life continue to be easy."

So, where are these nerds? Who are they? Are you one? Do you know someone? I'd love to talk with them. Maybe they can call me and explain to me how they're going to fix everything so that every driver in the U.S. right can relax.

Meanwhile, my husband is acting coo-coo. After my uplifting birthday date, we continued to talk about our future. I began to read. Maybe I'm a little coo-coo too. We have 3 little babies we brought into this world and now we're hoping they won't hate us for it. I've started buying books on how to be more self-reliant. We're starting to garden. We're debating about whether we want to stay in the ugly suburb we're in. My husband feels we need to make changes to get ready. Get ready. GET READY! It feels so extreme and yet, when I read information about it from POPs who seem to know what they're talking about, my adrenaline does begin to pump and I feel like doing something. Anything. I hug my babies tighter. I kiss them more often and I try to not laugh at my husband as he experiments with reading a book by candlelight. Abe fucking Lincoln, man. So, is he crazy? I don't think so but I wish he were.

I remember

I once went to a doctor who explained how the body had its own memory. He relied on that memory when he investigated cases of potential fraudulent injuries. He'd look for signs their body would make that indicated whether the injury actually occurred or not. He told me this after my own body showed signs of past injury about which I hadn't even told him. He read my body's responses and asked me whether I had dislocated my right kneecap before. Yes, I absolutely had many years prior as a cheerleader. Although I continued talking with him regarding my injury, my mind was focused on the stunning fact that he knew something about me that few people knew just by observing how I subconsciously reacted when he examined my knee. I have since forgotten the physical therapy exercises he recommended but I haven't forgotten that my body has its own memory of which I may not always be aware. I jokingly referred to it as my carnal knowledge.

I was reminded of this idea recently in another unexpected way. I had been given a wonderful gift from my parents, one that I was so looking forward to: a full body massage. In the last 2 and 1/2 years, I have given birth and cared for 3 boys - 2 of which are twins who are now 7 months old. These years were bursting with innumerable trials and tribulations, joys and blessings, successes and concerns. Basically, I had been through a hell of a lot and I needed some TLC.

I trotted off to the spa and slowly left behind my typical mother thoughts about my babies as I drove further from home and closer to my retreat. I practically glowed when I arrived and quickly settled into a moment for me. The room was dark, lit only with candles. Music softly played and washed over me. Peace and quiet are so rare these days. Peaceful sounds make me pause and listen. The masseur was perfect. She talked only briefly and gave me my space. I disrobed and laid on the table and began to let go.

The more my body relaxed the more tension I realized was there. Years of tension that no booze or hours away from home could wash away. I tried to relax as much as I could but then that became a stressor in and of itself so I stopped. I worked on just letting myself be.

As she massaged my muscles, she was like an archaeologist digging down through the layers of memory trapped in my body. In my case, they were memories and emotions that I had unknowingly buried in order to survive the many difficult situations I had experienced in the last few years. As she massaged, my body began to quietly tell me its story.

I began to revisit the last 2 1/2 years, particularly since I became pregnant with the twins. Emotions that I had tried to keep in check so that I could just get through the latest crisis, concern, discomfort. I remembered the first sonos that played havoc with our emotions as we were told both babies would make it, one would make it, both would make it, one would surely die and then both would make it. I began to remember what it was like to have 2 babies living in my belly, kicking me. I remember being afraid - how could I possibly handle twins? I remember not being able to hold my 2 year old when he needed me, being on bed rest, having a hard time even turning over.

Then there was the hospital - the long four weeks when I was ripped from my home and family to live with nurses and doctors. Alone in a room with the babies in my stomach, waiting and wondering what would happen to me and the twins. The birth - so welcomed yet so feared. 34 weeks - 6 weeks premature. 12 people in the operating room. One baby ok. One not. They were tiny. One in the room with us. One in NICU. Bonding with Evan but afraid to change his diaper because he was so small. Dylan with his face covered with breathing apparatus. His chest sinking down deeply as he struggled to breathe. I couldn't hold him yet. Later, so tiny he was placed skin to skin with me - placed down my shirt in what the nurses referred to as the kangaroo hold. That's when he really became my baby. Coming home and falling asleep with my 2 year old who was so confused and scared. One baby came home. One in the hospital then all of us home.

Each memory and emotion was being massaged out and I secretly cried tears that I had not let myself shed. I will cry more later when they're older or during my next massage.