Bedside Manner
On a Wednesday two weeks ago, I woke up with a familiar heaviness behind my eyes. As the day went on, light and noise became unbearable and I began to tremble. But, because I was the new guy, I soldiered on, hiding in my office and speaking in whispers to anyone dense enough to not recognize the pain in my face. The Beans were particularly excitable that evening. Their energy level seems to multiply exponentially as they get older, but that night, everything seemed louder and more intense. I gritted my teeth through bath time and was never happier to see Daddy Bean walk through the garage door. By Thursday, the migraine had settled in and made itself comfortable. I left the Beans with my mother-in-law and crawled into my bed-cocoon; the only thing that really helps it to go away. When Saturday came around and I was still in the throes of my headache, The Pie took things into her own hands.
From an early age, Maggie has taken on the “big sister” role with ease. She’s naturally bigger than Audrey and, even though she is only one minute older, and only by virtue of her placement in my womb, she has been charged with the duty of taking care of her little sister and of being the role model. She loves to help. She takes the dirty diapers to the garbage can, makes sure that Audrey has the right cup and scolds the dogs when they start to get too rough in their play. Whenever one of us coughs, she’s quick to ask, “Are you okay?” And no one knows better than her what will make you feel better. She even offers her beloved Cookie Monster if you are really a sorry case.
That Saturday morning, I lumbered downstairs and parked myself on the couch so that I could at least observe the play time, if I couldn’t participate. I pulled a blanket to my nose and covered my head with an extra pillow. I didn’t do much more than that throughout the day. Pie had known for a couple of days that I wasn’t right and on Saturday, she had had enough. With a concerned yet determined look on her face, she peered closely into mine and asked, “Are you okay, Momma?” I explained to her that my head hurt really bad and she replied, with confidence, “I make you feewl bettahh! Hee-ahh.” She deftly shoved Cookie No. 2 under my chin, tucked part of the blanket around him and peppered me with a few kisses. She continued to check on me throughout the day. When Daddy Bean mentioned from across the room that I should have some caffiene to help with the headache, I agreed that I might feel better after a pop.
“You wanna pop, Momma?” The Bean asked. I didn’t know that she had been paying attention. She seemed too busy trying to instigate a fight with her sister.
“Yeah baby. Daddy’s getting it.”
“Daddy. You have to get he a pop! You have to get he a pop!” Maggie wasn’t going to stand for any lollygagging. She marched into the kitchen where her father stood and looked up at him to show him that she meant business.
When she saw that he was acting on her commands, she returned to my side to assure me that relief was near. After I took a few sips, I looked at her and smiled.
“Thank you baby.”
“Daddy got you a pop. It make you feewl bettahh. You feewl bettahh now Mom?”
“Yes, my girl, I feel better now.”
“Oh. That’s good. I wuff you Mom.”
My very own Florence Nightengale!
Diary of a tired Momma Bean
Today I thought about potty-training again. Now that I’m down to only half a sleeve of diapers, I’m almost motivated to begin the “talk” again with Mags. Forget Peanut. She’s indicated to me in no uncertain terms that I should just LAY OFF.
Last night, I contemplated making a from scratch nutritious dinner. When I opened the freezer to take out some chicken, I spied the hot dogs. Hot dogs = full beans. Hey, at least I served it with a side of peas and carrots.
I can’t ask much of myself lately. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck and all I want to do is crawl into my jammies and under my blankies and sleep for a week. With everything that’s happened with Arisa and her family and the fact that I’ve up and moved to a new company altogether with my boss (which includes a longer commute, an earlier wake-up time and an immediate cease and desist of my Pumas/khakis uniform), I’d really love to find my life’s pause button. But I’m busy finding the blue sippy cup (because a two and a half year old doesn’t want to hear the excuse of why you didn’t do the dishes last night) and thinking of a creatively fabulous zero calorie four course dinner.
And because I don’t want to concentrate hard enough to invite the migraine that’s been knocking on the door of my head, I thought I’d answer Huckdoll’s tag from what seems like five years ago. (Sorry girlie - I know you’re going through your own thing right now. xox)
Here are the instructions:
1. Pick up the nearest book ( of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people. & post a comment here once you post it to your blog, so I can come see.
“Potty Training Sucks” by Janne Kimes, with Linda Sonna, Ph.D.
Yes. Seriously. And, no, I have no finished it. Read the title again. ‘Nuff said.
Page 123: When wiping your young one’s derriere, the challenge is that her butt is either sitting down on a potty where you can’t get to it, or standing up where her butt cheeks are clenched tighter than Joan Rivers’ face. You have to do some fancy moves to get the goods. If your kid likes to sit down to be wiped, have her lean forward.
Um.
You can’t make crap like this up. No pun intended.
Hopefully Page 123 isn’t a reflection of the rest of the book, because I learned absolutely nothing that is going to help me train these Beans.
And, I’m tagging everyone who is reading this that is willing and able. I’m tired and I have to find a blue sippy cup.
Logan Matthew
Thank you to everyone who sent your love and prayers to our family. We are still reeling but we now have something to hold onto. Emma’s twin brother, my nephew, Logan Matthew.
February 15, 2008
2:16 p.m.
6 lbs. 4 oz.
19 in.
Emma
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is youhere is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars aparti carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
ee cummings
Please consider donating to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. For Arisa, Matt, Jack and Logan. And for our dear little Emma.
The ABC Conversation
I was going to do a Wordless Wednesday this morning because I’m a little preoccupied by the fact that I was within inches of having a Jeep Wrangler delicately plant itself on my lap on this gloriously sloppy Michigan morning. (My heart is still in my throat.) But then I looked back at the last two posts and I chided myself for being so neglectful of my third fourth sixth child. Stuff’s been going on at the Bean household and I just can’t catch my breath or think of anything witty or life-changing. There are things like snowmen to be made, for goodness sakes!
The Pie is still frustrated and angry and I’m still trying to figure a way to channel her energy. Can a two year old have angst? I think a lot of twin moms do this: we observe one child’s behavior and determine that because it is different than the other child’s behavior, that something is wrong. I catch myself sometimes, when I dwell too much on Maggie’s state of mind, and I remind myself that, despite the fact that they shared my womb for eight months, they are different people. So far, we’ve glided through the terrible twos, with just a handful of tantrums, courtesy of Miss Pie, so I think that for the most part, she’s just fine. She just requires a different approach than A does and I’m still learning what that approach is.
And speaking of Peanut, I don’t believe she’s grown one inch or gained a pound since her check-up at two years. At that time, she was below the third percentile for weight and at the fifth percentile for height. When scouring the Internet, I’m met with contradictory suggestions on how to deal with this: give the child whole milk for added calories; don’t give the child liquids because that replaces solid foods; give the child high calorie foods, such as ice cream in place of yogurt; don’t draw attention to it. As Maggie has been growing, the difference in size has become much more noticeable to everyone. If I didn’t dress them alike or in coordinating outfits, people would assume that Mags is at least a year older than her sister. A is still in eighteen month old clothes and she feels to fragile and tiny when I hold her, that it seems like we baby her a little more to compensate for her frailty. It doesn’t help that her asthma medication causes loss of appetite and that she can’t partake in two weight gaining staples: peanut butter and eggs.
Despite my worries, they are thriving, bright, happy children. Last night, while I was sitting with them at dinner, the Beans began a conversation in which I was clearly the third wheel. It started with a comment about water (from what I gather) by Maggie. Audrey responded with a giggle and that set them both off. It was like watching a tennis match. My head turned from one Bean to another, listening to their lively discussion in a language that I think was mostly English, but which was peppered with a secret talk that only the two of them could understand. I smiled and once even attempted to jump in, but I was easily ignored as Maggie’s most recent statement sent them both into a fit of giggles. I almost felt lonely sitting there, invisible and uninvited, but I was too busy feeling so thankful and happy that they had such friendship between the two of them that I wished the dialog would have gone on just a little bit longer. But, finally, the giggles subsided and Audrey turned to look at me, as if she only just noticed that I had been sitting there the whole time.
“Momma, what you doing?”
Cherishing, my Little Bean, that’s what.
Winner of the Mother of the Week Award
Not Momma Bean, who while watching Lost last night, actually dropped the F-bomb when she heard Peanut begin to stir through the monitor. Lucky for the Bean, she held off on the full-on wailing until Eli Stone. (Not a bad show, by the way. Any show that can integrate one of George Michael’s greatest into a major part of their story-line is fine by me.) No one comes between me and Jack Shephard.
March for Babies 2008
I began participating in Walk America through donations to our friends’ walk, because their twin sons were born at 25 weeks. The boys spent four months in the neonatal intensive care unit of our hospital and to this day, although they are wonderfully crazy little boys, they are still experiencing some of the ramifications of being born so early. Little did we know that we would be faced with the fear of having our children born prematurely as well.
Premature birth seems to be growing in our country, or maybe I’m more aware of it now that people that I know and love are affected by it. I went into pre-term labor at 30 weeks. Thanks to my doctors, who knew how terrified I was to have my children endure the same fate as my godson and his brother, I was treated with the utmost of caution. They were very conservative in my treatment and even a little too cautious, but the result was that I gave birth at 36 weeks to two healthy beautiful girls. Although they were a month early, they did not spend one day in the NICU. Since then, we have been actively participating in Walk America, now called March for Babies.
Things like the treatment that my godson received in the hospital or the steroid injections I received while in preterm labor, to hasten the maturity of the Beans’ lungs, have been developed with the help of organizations like the March of Dimes. Advancement in treating these babies when they are born early, and their mothers during pregnancy, is crucial to making healthy happy children and productive adults.
Please consider making a tax deductible donation to March for Babies to help premature babies. You can help our walk here or go to the website to donate to the organization in general. Thank you!
In her tumbly.
2:00 P.M. Update: 2 more showers, several more blankets. It’s a good thing I’m a little OCD about blankets. She’s feverish and her color is drained but she’s smiling at least. Audrey was whisked away by my parents to enjoy a Sunday at the mall. Hopefully this isn’t like last time and a trip to the ER isn’t in our forecast.
And, hopefully, by the next vomit, I’ll have mastered the trick of getting the Bean to the toilet without completely destroying my living room carpet. So far, it’s Vomit: 5, Momma Bean: 0.
There’s a rumbly.
“What happened to Maggie?”
That’s what the little bean asked, on her hands and knees, cold sweat, tousled hair, staring down at tonight’s dinner. And lunch. And the ice cream we had at the mall for good behavior.
I’m sitting in the dark, Curious George on the television to cheer the little one up. I’m in between laundry cycles and two adult sized vomits. I’m up to my ears in stink in this house and wishing it was springtime so that I could throw open the windows. Febreeze will have to do for now. And not until Daddy returns home from his middle of the night trek to the convenience store for a bottle of baby Pepto and some air freshener.
We were at the second to last episode of Dexter Season 2 when we heard Audrey start to scream. I pressed pause and we listened for a minute. “Go pet her, she’ll go back to sleep,” J said. More because he was achy from running than his actual faith in my calming abilities. I waited another minute and when it didn’t stop, I trudged upstairs to see what I could do for the bean. When I opened the door, I was startled to see Mags sitting straight up in her crib, looking at me with a scowl. I sighed. So much for Dexter. I shushed Audrey and gathered them both into my arms and returned to the living room. “Make their bed,” I whispered, hopeful that I could keep the girls a bit drowsy still. J threw out their princess sleeping bags and set up a makeshift bed on the living room floor for them. That didn’t last long. Just a few minutes into Curious George, Maggie began tossing about. Then she coughed.
Afterwards, I bathed her and explained to her what had happened. She doesn’t get “vomit” or “throw up” or “puke”. She just knows that she feels like crap and she has a yucky taste in her mouth. I assured her that she would be fine and I settled her back into a cozy spot on the floor next to her sister. It lasted about 20 minutes. And then another ten.
Now, he’s back and the house smells a little less rank and we’ve got some medicine for the girl. But not in time. The third time, I was in the line of fire. But, we’re both bathed and clean and we’ve got clean blankies and a bucket near by. J is trying to soothe her to sleep and I’m crossing my fingers that she’s done. I don’t think I’ve been up past three since college.
Now that’s a Saturday night!
circa 2:36 A.M.
I’m cool like that.
I was discussing new! and edgy! music with my cousin the other day and I was feeling oh so ahead of the times. I can’t take all the credit because I get a lot of suggestions from others who are way cooler than me. I sent him along to lastfm and told him to look up this artist or that group. And, because I thought of it, I sent an invite to my other cousin, who has similar taste in music as me, so that we could share playlists and so that I could point her in the direction of my friend, who’s musical finds are always ahead of the pack.
And then I looked at my playlist.
The Wiggles are my top artist of the week.
Laurie Berkner is up there too. And Jack Johnson. Though I don’t view him as a musician for children, clearly he’s big in their world and I’ll admit that the album I was listening to is entitled Sing Alongs and Lullabies from the Movie Curious George. I’ve got a few interesting picks on my list but I think you lose street cred when a band whose groupies include three year olds, dinosaurs and octopi is at the top of your list.
And there’s this: whenever I fill out a meme (which I’m wont to complete when clients put a pause on their financial ruins and work is slow) and one of the questions is, “What is your favorite song?” I’m so tempted to give this as my answer.
Listen to it and I dare you to tell me you don’t tap your feet to it!
To make matters worse, I’m going to my first concert since Aerosmith, the night before my wedding shower. Seven years ago. No, I’m not going to see Foo Fighters, Matchbox Twenty or Ingrid Michaelson.
On Friday, we’re taking the Beans to see “Elmo Makes Music”. Should be fun. Aside from the fact that we’re going with two other sets of twins (and their parents…I’m not that crazy), I’m sure it’ll be a nice, relaxing evening full of progressive music and kick-ass stage performances. And, I hear Elmo plays a mean guitar.
Waiting for her big break.
Watch out Hannah Montana, The Pie is coming. And she’s good.
The anatomy of a mother’s thoughts.
The other day, as I was pushing 80 MPH in a 70 MPH zone, to get from Point A to Point B quickly, I glanced down and noticed for the first time how fast I was going. I was propelling myself and my children through a sea of metal at a rate higher than what was recommended for safety. I started to really think about what I was doing, that I was in a vehicle that was moving amongst other vehicles and that, though I was responsible for keeping my vehicle under control and safe as I was transporting my Beans, I had no control of anything or anyone around us. And we were moving fast. I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around it. I shook my head as if to physically rid the thoughts that were accumulating in my mind.
Obviously, I’m not going to stop driving, but the thought of what could potentially happen in a vehicle which, quite frankly, I’m not skilled at driving properly, jarred me.
And then I began to think of other things. Maybe all mothers do this at one point or another. Maybe the range of concern spirals from spontaneous curiosity to bone-chilling obsession. I just began thinking.
Of when they won’t be with me.
Of when they take the school bus for the first time.
Of when they ride their bikes around the neighborhood.
Of when they sit in a dark theater with their friends.
Of when they run to the store for a pack of gum.
And then I think about what may not physically hurt them but what may break their heart.
I admit that I once shed tears at the play area of the local mall. Granted, I may have been PMS-ing just a bit, but I sat along the sides with J and the other parents, watching the Beans play and interact with the other children. I saw their contradictory personalities in their play. A moved amongst the children with ease and confidence, and a bit of an attitude. M, on the other hand, gingerly followed her sister. Where she would normally be the aggressor between the two of them, she was timid and uncertain. At one point, Maggie tried to go to Audrey, who was looking in a mirror at the other side of the play area. A little boy was running between them and this frustrated Maggie and made her turn and run back to us in anger. We consoled her and gently pushed her back into the crowd and eventually she made it to Audrey. But the damage was done in my mind. I said to J, “What if, one day, she is left behind because Audrey is off with her friends? What if she feels intimidated or unwelcome?” It brought me to tears in the middle of the mall. I began thinking.
Of when they will have their heart broken.
Of when they will be lonely.
Of when they will feel different, unsure, scared.
Last night, Jack’s friend was killed in a car accident. I was afraid to call him. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to hear the anguish in his voice. I didn’t want to think that it could have easily been him.
I realize that I can’t protect them. Though I’d love to gather them up into a bubble of security and comfort for the rest of their lives, so that they never have to feel pain, physical or otherwise, I know that it’s not really what they need. I can’t keep them from mishaps, from accidents, from jerks or from failure. I can’t keep them from life. That would be the greatest crime.
Wordless Wednesday: Maggie and the “new” Uncle Mike
Well…it’s not going to be completely wordless because I have to announce that the Beans are going to be…
…wait for it…
Flower girls!
Tracy and Mike got engaged in December and they’ve asked the Beans to be in the wedding.
Commence oohing and awwing and begin the wait for disgustingly adorable dress choices.
Congratulations to Tracy and Mike!!!
Though, I will say that Maggie is a little bummed to have to share Uncle Mike with Aunt Tracy. She actually swoons.
Rejection
Maggie doesn’t love me.
She’s said so on more than one occasion. And it’s happening more frequently. She wants nothing to do with me. She wriggles out of my grasp; she won’t look me in the eye. She’s openly defiant. She’s two.
Audrey has a much gentler, democratic way of indicating her preference in parents. When Daddy Bean is gone, I’m her moon, her sun, her everything. She asks to call me when I am gone. When I walk through the door, she squeals in delight and runs full speed into my arms. When I swoop her up, she greedily hugs me, as if she hasn’t seen me in days, rather than a few short hours. I feel loved.
When he is there, she squirms away from me and burrows into his shoulder. Who wouldn’t? He’s got great shoulders! And I don’t mind it too much; it doesn’t hurt because I know what little time they have with him and I always feel a tinge of pride as I watch her idol worship from the sidelines.
Maggie, on the other hand, is a bit colder with her feelings. When she sees me, if she even looks up from what she is doing, gives me only half a glance. Sometimes she’ll ask, “Where’s Daddy?” as if the Work Fairy dropped off the wrong parent. In the morning, when I am getting her ready for the day and it is still too early for either of us to be reasonable, she will scream in anger at even my slightest touch. She refuses to let me take her out of her car seat, if J and I are both in the car. She won’t let me kiss her good-night.
The other day, while she was trying to escape my hold, I asked her if she loved me. I know it was silly of me and that she’s only a child throwing a tantrum, but when she repeatedly sobbed, “No, I love Daddy! I love Daddy, not Momma,” I welled up with tears.
I can’t help that it hurts my feelings when she rejects me. In the end, I realize that she’s just being a toddler and that it’s nothing personal. Actually, I’m quite thrilled that the Beans have such a loving relationship with their father – it reminds me of the one that me and my sisters have with our dad. But I’d love to go back to the old days when Maggie was my girl and I was hers.
Spartan Pride
They aren’t Spartans yet, but boy do they love Momma Bean’s alma mater. The Beans are showing off their favorite shirt and socks (and their training pants which, not five minutes after these photos were taken, were on the floor, in a pile of soggy mess). M has a book that Stacy bought for her that she flips through occassionally. Her favorite one is the page that has musical notes on it. Whenever she gets to that page, she demands that I sing the fight song to her. Soon, she’ll know it better than me. As it stands now, she’s got the “Rah, rah, fight team rah!” part down pat.
