The Baby Juggler

What the babies are up to

Mini can climb out of her crib. 

It all started about a week ago.  The babies seem to not able to nurse or bottle to sleep any longer, so after much ado and babies getting up to lots of high jinks, we settled them into their cribs to go to sleep.  While they were awake.

So, we heard some crying, then some shrieking (with glee, not fury), then, as we were for some reason looking at the door to the babies' room, it opened.  By itself.  Well, not by itself but not propelled by me or J.  And it was Mini, with a shit-eating grin on her face, as if to say, "See?  What I did?  Aren't you proud?"

SO, we put her back in both times she climbed out that night before she finally fell asleep.

The NEXT night she climbed out of her crib, then later climbed into Jr.'s crib, then climbed out of her crib AGAIN and must have fallen and hit her head as she began crying.  At our wit's end, we decided to lower her crib rails so that when she climbed out she would at least do it in somewhat more safety.  I explained to her very patiently that once we put her in her crib she needs to stay there.

Tonight, she did NOT climb out but she did cry to me several times, when I would go in, lie her back down (or lay, or whatever), rub her back, tell her she was a good girl, it's bedtime, and she would settle down again for a few minutes.  We only did this three or four times in a short period, so hopefully we are working towards a resolution to what three nights ago I thought was the end of my semi-sane existence.

On a positive note, language seems to be taking off, with the babies putting two words together and I SWEAR it they are sometimes putting three words together. 

Some common things heard in our house this week:

"Dat unnn (that one)"

"Dunno"

"I want it"

"No, I doooond (no, I don't)"

"mommy eyes"

"mama eyes"

Oh, speaking of which, they began to say "Mimi" last Friday for "Mommy" (me) follwed by "mommy" but Sunday afternoon.  They now clearly differentiate "mommy" (me) and "mama" (J).

They can point to and say some semblence of the following body parts:

eyes

ears

nose

mouth

teeth

tongue

lips

cheek

chin

forehead

hair

tummy

bellybutton

elbow

arm

fingers

hands

genitals

knees

ankles

feet

toes

Geniuses, can we all agree on that?

Typepad, you've changed. I don't recognize you anymore

What can I say.  I've been busy reading blogs, but otherwise just living my life, not feeling like writing about it.  I DO want to document the babies' development and tell what I hope are funny stories about life with two toddlers, but I am inherently lazy.  It seems I can run and lose weight or I can blog, not both. 

Recent good news.  I have dropped down to a size 12.  I think I am still a big 12, but a 12 nonetheless. 

About two Fridays past I went into Nordstrom at my lunch hour, strolled around one of the departments for about 2 minutes and 23 seconds, and quickly began to hyperventilate. 

Shopping overwhelms me. 

I don't know if I've mentioned that I've been wearing about three of the same pants to work for the last 18 and a half months.  A cotton pair of Gap's slightly dressier pants size 14, ANOTHER cotton pair of perhaps Gap cotton dressier pants size 16, and a pair of khakis, Gap.  These pants were becoming tired and threadbare, but the Scottish thrifty genes took hold and kept telling me that I would lose this baby weight SOON, VERY VERY SOON, cause I was breastfeeding/pumping sustaining life solely through my breasts for TWO babies.  Hm.  When this fantastic weight loss breastfeeding proponents shout to the world did not miraculously occur, I settled into my pants, thinking I could live in them another six months or so, then fit into my old wardrobe of 12s, then down to my slightly larger wardrobe of 10s.  Hm. 

I have been running and working out much more consistently in the past three months, and I think it is finally paying off.  I told J how overwhelmed I became at Nordstroms and she offered to do a preview shopping for me.  I chose Nordstroms because J swears by the clothing quality, the amazing customer service, and they were having a huge sale this past week.  Prices are really very low.  SO, J took last Saturday and pre-shopped.  I told her to chose 14 pants and size XL shirts, to not be fooled, even if they look to big.  I told her I was a perfect XL. 

Imagine my surprise when almost everything I tried on was too large.  So I got almost everything in a size 12 or large shirt.  And I feel good, more like me again than I have since the babies took over my body almost two and a half years ago.  I am still not at the weight at which I feel most comfortable, but I am getting closer to it.  There are changes, my stomach holds more fat than it used to, bigger love handles and extra skin; but they are changes I may come to terms with if I can feel more comfortable in my clothes. 

Or not.  You might still find out one day that I am vacationing in South Africa, getting a tummy tuck.

Just sitting here listening to music

I love this post by Emmie.  "I am mama, hear me bray."  Only a mother of multiples can really understand.

I am musically illiterate.  If you are not an Indigo Girl or some other feminist lesbian with an acoustic guitar, I will probably not be into your music.  When I say "into" (I just can't do it, put that comma before that quote.  It goes against everything I believe in), I mean I won't be buying your CD to listen to in the car.  Interestingly enough, I know more lyrics than most people I know.  I've been known to hear someone make some innocuous statement, like, "oh, check out those rhinestones on her shirt," and break into Like a Rhinestone Cowboy.  My personal record was a hot day helping a my job move a residence from one apartment complex to another (it was a residential home for crazy kids- very not PC of me, I know).  I think every comment someone made I had a song to follow-up.  I know, I wanted to kill me too.

I'm sitting here listening to one of my favorite non-lesbian male singers (I can't comment on the status of his feminism) who sounds a lot like James Taylor (also one of the few non-lesbian male (is that redundant?) singers I like) who does play acoustic guitar.  Listening to him gives me a pre-baby flashback.  The memory is physical; I feel young and unencumbered, feeling all the possibilities of my life again, before those possibilities were fulfilled. 

EDITED TO ADD:  Incidentally enough, I accidentally posted this, it wasn't finished.  I swear I hit "draft" when my son pulled me from my reverie of the past by screaming awake from his nap.  Ah well, thought not finished but as worthy of publishing as some of my other posts.

Down the potty

So.

My son and his developmental leaps.  Jr. was always the one who wanted to stand before he could sit-up unsupported.  He wants to fly when he is just beginning his toddler trots. 

Monday is my day at home with the babies.  **Did I mention I am back at work 4 days a week?  It is my opinion that work is a vacation day.  My job is fairly stress-free (as much as my neurosis let anything be stress-free), so going to work is usually relaxing "me" time.  ALTHOUGH, a 4 day work-week fells MUCH longer than a 3 day work week.  Couldn't I have a 3 day work week and a one "work on me" day?**

Anywhooo, Monday was a potty training nightmare.  My son has suddenly developed an intense interest in using the potty to pee.  He still refuses to poop on purpose in the potty.  I think I mentioned the napping and diaper fiascos of last week.  Well, J had been pushing encouraging the babies, Jr. especially since he is very interested, to use their potties all weekend.  Jr. will pull down his pants at a moments notice, so we'll say, "Jr., do you want to use the potty?"  Inevitably this is follwed by a vigorous headshake (from him) in the affirmative.  So we rush him to the potty and watch him pee (he is good at this!  He pees on command!). 

So.

Monday I made the mistake of thinking I could put them in their cribs for ten minutes while I showered without changing them into their footless one piece zip-up pajamas (our new weapon against Crib Poop Fest 2006).  Instead, I heard a shriek of glee, a shreik so high pitched and, well, shriek-y that it was admired from miles around by every would-be "B" movie horror-cult actress wanna-be for its, well, shriekiness.  I, of course, rushed into the babies' bedroom wondering WHAT WAS MAKING HIM SO HAPPY? 

He made a beautifully formed poop directly onto the center of his blanket.  He was standing in front of said poop, admiring it AND I suspect trying to aim his urine stream at it.   I calmly picked-up the evidence and disposed of it in his dry diaper (why did I waste a diaper, why not the toilet you might ask?  Because I am a dweeb, I answer).  I wisely placed a new diaper on him then placed him in his one-piece pajamas.  I could go on, of course to detail the monotonous diaper changing and pooping that commenced for the rest of the day between both babies.  I will not bore you, but suffice it to say that much of my time that day was spent putting out fires (and no, not paper bags of poop alit on my front doorstep, but the proverbial fires, if that's the correct usage of proverbial-  I am a bit self-conscious about my terrible grammar, knowing Liza may be reading this and she IS a Master of the English Language).   I will, however, share one story with the Internet, about how that evening, after sweating and toiling over Poop Parties and pulling pants and diapers up and down, putting babies on and off the potty, pulling babies off of the bathroom stool, pulling babies one at a time out of the bathtub that one baby would climb into whilst I was attending the other, washing hands, dressing babies, wiping bottoms, Jr. and Mini were taking their bath.  They are easy to bathe together now, and Jr. stood-up in peeing stance and started to "push" (yes I was going to let him pee in the tub, NO don't judge me, I'm sure he does it all the time UNDER the water, why not encourage self-controlled peeing in an easy to clean up place, pee is sterile after all).  He pushed and pushed and pushed.  Suddenly, another perfectly formed poop fell out of his bottom and into the tub.  I snatched Mini up so fast and called to J to "come and get the baby girl!"  I then whisked Jr. out of the tub and commenced wiping and cleaning, blah, blah, blah.  Phew. 

I am ready to throw in the towel.  I will pay for diapers for years and years.  I am willing to incur my mother's wrath and let my kids potty train themselves by three, four, five, er, six years old.  Potty training is a pain the ass.  I will be pulling pants down and up and taking diapers on and off a million gazillion times a day!  Don't wanna!  Too lazy.

Or I'll just let J do all the work.  I have, after all, breastfed and (I fear) will be breastfeeding for a time to come.

**  Liza, I was going to try to "parenthesize" that sentence and make it grammatically exciting for you to mentally check and edit, but then got too lazy.  I DID notice, however, my tense use changes quite a bit throughout this post, making me the grammatical Sybil.

When reality slaps you in the face (and other places)...

You know you've been breastfeeding a looooooong time when...

you lean over (braless) quickly in your sleeping t-shirt and your own traitorous breast slaps you in the stomach.