November 29, 2007

One More Milestone in the Long Road of Milestones

On Tuesday Nora had a pretty good day. We had a minimal screaming session, and in fact she - wait for it - settled herself to sleep.

Twice.

And one of those times? In the movie theatre. The babies and I, we have a newly installed weekly ritual of going to the Newbies movies together. I love going, and I love going with them. So far they've been brilliant there. It's a Mommy-Baby thing now. I hope it lasts.

Anyway, last night Nick was fast asleep in the bean bag, so I got a snoozy Nora out of the bean bag first. I changed her. For once she wasn't screaming. She was looking around, sucking her hand, blinking her eyes. I held her up and smiled at her.

"Hello my little sparrow," I say, smiling. "It's nice to see you happy."

She looks at me.

She blinks.

And she opens her mouth into an enormous smile, her deep dimple on her right cheek a kissable line, her pink gums exposed.

Oh my God.

"Sparrow..." I say softly. "Did you just smile at Mommy?" I smile to see if I can get her to do it again.

She looks at me, and she lights up again. Dimple flashing, gums a bubblegum pink, and her eyes turned up in happiness.

My little girl smiled at me.

Twice.

And for once, I'm pretty sure it wasn't gas.

I came unglued.

For that, I'll buy her a car.

-H.

PS-my family arrive today for a long weekend. I'm looking forward to seeing them. It'll also make a nice diversion from the arguments and depression that took over the house again last night, a cloud as heavy as last week's. I keep telling myself it'll get better, especially once we get past the Nora screaming hump. I even believe that.

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November 28, 2007

A Day in the Life

I'm sure you wonder just what the hell I do with my day, much like you wonder about the meaning of life and what marshmallow cream is REALLY made of.

So...wanna know how the life of a mother of twins runs?

OK.

6:30-7 am - Wake up to sound of birds singing, the sun shining, and the milk man making his morning rounds. Oh, also there's at least one baby crying. If Nora's involved, then make that one baby crying and one baby screaming a blue streak. Struggle into clothes I left in a heap by the bed in a haze the night brefore (although I do have a system whereby I chuck a clean pair of knickers on the floor each night. This means that although my clothes may have spit up on them from the day before, at least my beaver is in new happy territory.)

7 - Pee and brush teeth

7:02 - Make way downstairs. Throw Gorby out to the back garden to take care of his own goddamn needs. Pop bottles in microwave. Grind coffee beans and boil water. Set up bibs, burping cloths, and bottles on couch.

7:05 - Go upstairs to babies. Talk soothingly. Turn on the Rainforest Bouncer, as they watch the lights while I change them. Administer Infacol. Change diapers (usually to sounds of screaming, as they both hate having their diapers changed). Talk to Nora in happy tones, to encourage happy behavior. Fail miserably.

7:08 - Carry babies downstairs. Hand one off to Angus, who has been getting himself up and teeth brushed. I feed one, he feeds one.

The rest of the day isn't as exact, but it goes more or less like this:

8:00 - Feeding and burping done. Nora usually goes right back to sleep, whereas Nick usually is awake after the first feed.

8 - 10:00 - Interact with Nick and make breakfast.

10:00 - 10:30 - One of us walks that ridiculous animal known as Gorby. If Angus walks him, I take a shower. Change out of spit-uppy cloths. Load washing machine with dirty clothes.

10:30 - Remind myself to feed cat.

10:30 - 11:00 - Laundry. Fold previous day's laundry draped on rack in the living room (we are dryer-less. Also? Winter. So clothes dried inside.) Start new load with every piece of dirty laundry I can find.

11:00 - Feeding time. Warm bottles. I know some people frown on this and some are ok with it, but we discussed it with the midwives and our GP, and they have said that keeping a supply of bottles in the fridge is ok, as long as it's never more than 24 hours. It never is. So the bottom shelf in our fridge usually looks something like this:


Bottles for them and for us


There's a bottle of something in there for everyone. Keeping a daily supply of bottles isn't for everyone, but it works for us and both babies are still alive, so something must be working ok.

Remove bottles from microwave and shake vigorously. Get burp cloths and bibs assembled.

11 - Change babies. Administer Infacol. Feed babies. I usually feed both of them at the same time myself, as Angus is working. I like doing it, and he's not the one on maternity leave. This is my first shot at watching about 30 minutes of TV, as I have it on while feeding them. This is how life is. Life is 30 minutes of TV all strung together.

12 - Finish feeding babies. Try to put them down. Enjoy various degrees of success.

12:10 - If Angus is home, make lunch. If home alone, skip lunch. Load washing machine with next load of laundry. Try to blog and/or read email. Usually fail on both counts.

12:30 - Load dishwasher with lunch dishes.

12:34 - Wish I hadn't cut my hair.

12:35 - Hang up laundry on drying rack.

12:44 - Cat reminds me she wants some food, please.

12:45 - Make bottles. We have a bottle drying rack which I love. Actually, we have 3 of them. What can I say, we have twins who use a lot of bottles.


Bottle rack


We were in the sterilization of bottles phase in the beginning, in that we boiled the bottles before use. We've long since given up on that, and they get run through the dishwasher using specially designed bottle baskets that we bought. Some frown on this practice, but again the midwife and the doctor were fine with it, and our kids? Still alive. Clearly the dishwasher is ok.

12:58 - Wish I'd cut more of my hair off.

1:00 - Put laundry away. Clean.

2:00 - Clean.

2:25 - Must feed cat.

2:30 - Make us a cup of tea. Caffeine shot badly needed. We run on about 5 hours a night of sleep, we'll take caffeine any way we can get it. Mainlining the stuff has indeed occurred to me.

3:00 - Change babies. Feeding time at the zoo again. Warm bottles, administer Infacol, get bibs, yadda yadda yadda.

3:30 - Try to encourage play time, using Rainforest Bouncer, Aquarium Swing, playgym, or a yellow teething giraffe from Auntie Statia that they both adore. Try to stop playtime before hitting overstimulization. Usually fail spectacularly. At the end of this playtime Nora usually commences the scream-a-thon.

4:00 - Try to console Nora. Fail. Put Nora to bed.

4:25 - Clean. Unload dishwasher. Dishwasher and washing machine are unloaded as soon as they finish. If I fall behind, I'll never catch up again. It's like The Running Man, only without the guns.

4:28 - Fuck. Forgot cat again.

4:40 - Try to console Nora.

4:45 - Clean. OK, it's not like we live in a fucking pigsty or anything, but there is ALWAYS something needing cleaning. Is the living room largely tidy? Yes ("largely" being the key word there). Is the bathroom clean? Yes. Is there toothpaste on the mirror? Most likely, but it hasn't killed anyone yet. Or maybe it has. I haven't tidied the loft yet, perhaps there's something up there I should know about, perhaps Crest really IS a killer.

5:15 - Try to console Nora. Nora scoffs my consolation techniques. She demands my A game.

5:30 - Clean/console Nora/have The Simpsons running in the background/try to read email. Potentially even getting a reply or two off.

5:58 - Try to stop Maggie from marching on the neighbor's homes in anger. Feed cat. Finally. She promises to destroy an item of my clothing in response.

6:00 - Go upstairs to console Nora. Discover Nora has worked herself out of her swaddle and diaper. Change diaper, Nora, and bedding. Try to soothe Nora, give up, load washing machine with more dirty laundry and open bottle of wine. Between Nora's colicky fits and Nick's possetting, we go through a lot of laundry.

6:30 - Try to console Nora.

6:45 - Start fire in fireplace. Convince self that a fire will make it all better.

7:00 - Change babies. Feed babies. Nick is usually awake after this feeding, while his little sister goes back upstairs to continue off the screaming. I've started bringing a spare car seat into the kitchen with me so he can keep me company while I cook. Nick's definition of helping is to look around and keep his mouth in a permanent "O" position. He's damn cute. I'm not biased or anything.

7:15 - Try to console Nora. Switch on White Noise CD.

7:20 - Remember I'd been meaning to bathe Gorby. Figure he can wait until tomorrow. Get broom to chase buzzards away from him.

8:00 - Enjoy silence of Nora sleeping.

8:05 - Nora has awoken, remembers she was supposed to be angry, and is screaming again.

8:10 - More wine.

8:12 - Wish I hadn't have cut my hair.

8:30 - Dinner is served. Nick getting dozy.

9:00 - Load dishes into dishwasher.

9:30 - Try to console Nora.

9:45 - Put Nick down to sleep. Pat self on back for how calm Nick is. Promise Nick he can have his choice of universities as a reward.

10:00 - Another glass of wine? Don't mind if I do.

10:02- Maybe shorter hair would be better.

10:15 - Every other day the babies get a bath. Not the most peaceful of times. Cue screaming on levels that Edvard Munch would be impressed by. Regardless of bath/no bath the babies get a change of clothing - again, in Nora's case.

11:00 - Finish feeding. Burping time.

11:30 - Babies go to bed. They usually go to sleep immediately (apart from last night when Nick decided to get in on Nora's screaming action and he cried All. Night. Long.)

11:40 - Walk dog. Put screen over fireplace. Brush teeth. Put new pair of knickers on the floor (preparation, people!).

Midnight - Collapse into bed.

Midnight - 6 am - 50% of the time the babies sleep through the night. The other 50% one of them wakes up. We have learned through many, many nights of experience that if one of them wakes up, they're not actually hungry. Try to feed them and they're simply not interested. So if a baby wakes up, they get moved to the travel cot so as not to wake the other twin up (we use a Boppy as a crib seperator during the day, as if one kicks the other one then both are awake. One can scream all it wants, it won't wake the other, but if they boot each other they both wake up. At night, though, they like to sleep next to each other, so the Boppy comes down. Who knew a pregnancy pillow would be so damn helpful?)

That's the schedule. Lather, rinse, repeat. That's it in a nutshell. So if you wonder why I'm not blogging daily (although I do try to upload a photo daily. I often fail at that, too.), why I'm late at replying to emails right now (if I can reply to them at all, which I'm not. I am really sorry about that, too, but I really don't get any spare time these days), or what the hell I'm talking about by being bogged down with housework and screaming...well, you know why.


-H.

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November 27, 2007

A Reminder

Sometimes, having twins is so hard.

The crying, the feeding times, the colic, the impact on our relationship, the sheer amount of laundry that is created...

And sometimes, like today, like with my babies 20 minutes ago just before I had to rouse them for their last feed, like with the day the two of them and I have had, one of those days that will go down in the books as a good day, I'm reminded of just how amazing they really are.


The power of twins


It's the little moments like these that remind me that every single minute is worth it.

I hope that they're best friends forever.

-H.

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November 26, 2007

Math is Hard, Barbie

I'm having a hard time putting things into words, really. Not a usual complaint, in fact most of the time I need to dial down the verbosity, but sometimes I do get stuck.

Thanksgiving passed by in a whir of Thanksgivinglessness. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It was a harder holiday than usual, not least because the day before the big turkey day we had a discussion that contained the topic of discussion of leaving. Leaving for a longer term than my 24 hour hotel yearning. Leaving for a term that included a question mark.

And really any dining room table talk that includes the idea of leaving for any length of time is a bad conversation to have.

I guess we hit a new low. Somewhere along the way we had stopped communicating and started resenting. We didn't talk to each other with respect while arguing. We both needed some work. We converged on many layers of upset from many layers of life that piled on the table like a many layered dream coat.

The leaving talk was parked behind the scary shed, a place neither of us want to venture in the dark.

You read that having a baby changes the family dynamics, that having a baby changes people. And it does. Disregard this saying at your peril, but brace yourself for large changes in how you are as a couple. They say it's mathematical, but I feel that's a little formulaic, it's not like we're equations. If X = me and Y = baby then Z = me wondering how baby affects the day to day while the laugh track to Will & Grace plays in the background. Thus:

X (me) + Y (baby) = day to day chaos.

There is a lot missing in this equation for me. The obvious being what happens if Y = babies, as I have no concept of what raising one infant is like versus the two that I have. I also need my equation updated to reflect the fact that Angus has already been down this route. So:

X (me) + (Y*2twins)/W (Angus changing nappies) = Rare moment of drama as seen in M*A*S*H final episode.

But that's not all of it. What the equation is missing is that although Angus went through IVF with me, that he found the bottom of a cup attractive and he held my hand as I recovered, it doesn't mean he actively wanted children. He did this for me, but not because he wanted children, not at all. He's not the only man - I've had emails from women whose husbands did not want children/more children. We're the silent masses. No one talks about this equation because we don't want our husbands judged. We don't want our loves of our lives judged...and we don't want to be judged either. We're one of those Dear Abby columns:

Dear Abby -

I want a baby so badly I'm willing to kneecap prospective ice skating stars. My husband doesn't want a baby, not at all. How can I convince him to come around and help me realize the one thing I want more than size 4 thighs? Will he ever come around?

Love,
Distraught Ovarian Reserve

PS-and how can I get him to want to marry me? Like, feel like he'll die if he doesn't marry me and spend the rest of his life with me?


Dear Abby's reply would be along these lines:


Dear DOR,

Get a clue. You can't change a person, and you can't make them want something they don't want. By all means, ask him/trick him/beg him/bribe him/nag him into having a baby, but suck it up once the baby arrives and your man resents you, because not all men look at their newborn babies and the slate is wiped clean. Some men don't "come around", babe. And you'll only have size 4 thighs if you put those peanut butter crackers down, dear.

Signed,
Abby

PS- please. If you thought he wouldn't come around over the babies thing, what on earth makes you think he wants to look to his left and see you in white? White is UNFLATTERING, dear. Remember that.


You read about it. You see sappy Hollywood films about it. But for some, once the baby arrives, the ending doesn't change. They still don't want babies. They still would rather be in 2006 than 2007. Not all men fall instantly in love with their babies and immediately forgive the babies their mothers' sins. Some men love their babies, but...

No one asks Angus how he's doing. You have a baby, the mother and baby get asked constantly. We get checked and monitored, we get quizzes to evaluate our emotional state and prodded to evaluate our physical one. We go up and down like whore's drawers but the dad, well, he gets to sit in the background. I'm not a guy, but I can imagine this is an emotional roller coaster for them, too. Like we get postpartum depression, I can't believe that some men don't get depressed. Like me, Angus has been through wild highs and dismal lows since we boarded the baby train. Life has changed, and anytime you have change you have uncertainty. If you have uncertainty, surely you have worry. If you have worry, you can get the blues. Men, they are truly affected by the arrival of a baby, too.

But no one ever asks them how they are.

No one ever offers to help them.

My equation mutates then.

X (me) + (Y*2twins)/W (Angus changing nappies while handling the changes life has thrown our way) + X is unable to help him = Confusing time not unlike trying to understand what the fuck Stephen Hawking is talking about.

Add to it the fact that we have twins. And while Nick is sweetness and light most of the time - a truly easygoing baby who is completely content to just look around and curl up like a prawn, a tiny little guy who nearly fits into newborn clothes almost two months after he was born - there is his sister to contend with. Where Nick is an old soul content to take life calmly, Nora is a force 10 hurricane. We still battle her agressiveness and her colic. She's an easy baby to love, but thanks to the horrific screaming, she's not the easiest baby to like.

Sometimes though she curls up on your chest. She looks at you with her absolutely enormous eyes, and her expression says Please Mommy. Don't give up on me yet. And I kiss her wrinkled forehead and tell her that I will give her chance after chance after chance.

But maybe we're getting better. We spent the weekend with the babies, and had a good time actually. We drove to East Grinstead to take the babies to see Angus' mother. We then stopped in at his brothers'. We had to leave their house early as Nora started into a real tear, but overall it was a good day. And yesterday we drove down to Somerset to a home and renovations exposition. Angus had Nick in the Baby Bjorn and I had Nora in the sling, and Angus was literally stopped every few minutes as people cooed over the visible Nick (Nora was hidden more in the sling). We drove home and laughed and talked and the babies snoozed.

And when Angus stopped in a town to buy us some lunch yesterday he came out with presents for the babies. They are the first gifts he has bought them and I absolutely loved them. We had a good weekend, the two of us. The four of us, actually (apart from several screaming episodes, of course).

Sobering talks were had last week. Maybe they were the kick in the ass that we needed.

I've left every relationship I've ever had without so much as leaving a twenty on the nightstand. But I've packed my running shoes. If I'm not supposed to be with Angus, I'm not supposed to be with anyone. I'm not giving up.

Neither is Angus.

So my equation:

X (me) + (Y*2twins)/W (Angus changing nappies while handling the changes life has thrown our way) + X unable to help him/W bought presents for the babies*Nora's screaming is killing us + Travolta and Newton John singing "You're the One That I Want" = I don't even know anymore. Want some Ramen for lunch?

-H.

PS-J.M. and Lisa both mentioned Elf. As a matter of fact, the day after Thanksgiving I popped that DVD in the player. I've watched the film now. Twice. And no signs of me stopping yet.

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November 21, 2007

Low

Yesterday the babies had their 6 week check-up. They're fine, other than being underweight, but unfortunately they haven't grown as much as they should have over the past 2 weeks, so next week we go back and check and see how they're doing. The doctor isn't worried, we'll just keep an eye on it, and he pronounced them fit and healthy, even if we are a few weeks behind developmentally. Nora was so pleased to get naked and weighed she even hosed down his bed, his growth chart, and the scales. My little girl did not get her bladder capacity from me then.

On the way home from the hospital we busted into what's become perhaps the biggest argument of our relationship so far. It's many pronged, with antlers anchoring many layers of anger and frustration. It has taken hold of our household and punctured it with silence. We haven't spoken a word to each other yet today, and I don't know when that's going to change. I'm not sure what to talk about, except to ask which of the bottles he made up this morning are the White ones, so if you're reading this, Angus, perhaps you can identify said bottles?

There are a few specific things we're unhappy with each other about, which I won't get into, but I can't help but feel so dragged down. Once, if I had a problem, we'd sit down and work it out patiently and calmly. Now I feel I just have to suck it up and deal with the sarcasm. This, in turn, makes me drill into Angus even more which simply creates a vicious cycle.

The straw that broke the camel's back for me happened yesterday. I feel like from sunup to sundown my entire day is taking care of the house and babies, including dog walking, meal cooking, a million loads of laundry and dishes, taking trash out, feeding, burping, tidying...it just doesn't end. Ever. And I feel like I'm doing everything and not only not getting any sign of appreciation, but he actually complains a great deal that the house is a disaster. I could handle it if only he didn't complain. I just can't take the added pressure. Me, I've been throwing things away. Lots of things. Things I love, things from my childhood, things that are pretty. Everything must go. I took bags of things out to the garbage bin last night. The garbagemen are coming today, they'll take my things away, and I'll look at the back of the truck and think At least they can't come back in.

And the house is not great, but my constant cleaning is at least keeping it to a bare minimum. I tell him that everytime he says the house is a disaster I take it personally, so he took that as a sign to walk around the house and point out all the flaws. This, combined with a few other very sensitive arguments we're having, finally bubbled over the side of the boiling pot. It's not an argument about cleaning. In typical coupledom, it's an argument about everything else, cleaning was just the catalyst to get the lid open.

So I finally snapped yesterday. I told Angus I wanted to be away from him. I took the babies with me to the grocery store (but only after being told to be away as long as I possibly could, please, by Angus). I bought a cup of coffee at the store's Starbucks. A gingerbread latte, it arrived lukewarm, but I drank it anyway, the babies snoozing in their carriers. I sat there on the green fake velveteen chair and drank my coffee as slowly as I could.

And what I wanted to do was check into a hotel with the babies. Not forever, just for one night. Just 24 hours with me and my children. We would do everything that I'm not allowed to do with them (You're just giving them exactly what they want!). They would sleep on my chest, and when they got tired of that I would make a nest of pillows and have them sleep next to me. I would hold them whenever I wanted to. I would nap beside them (oh God, to nap beside them). Maybe at some point I'd drink a chocolate shake, most likely not, I would just be with them and not do dishes, and not do laundry, and not pet the dog, and not stress about Angus' stresses, and not do anything, really. I wouldn't even say a word, I'd have no laptop and no phone, I'd just sleep and be with them.

And then I would come home. I wouldn't be away forever. It would just be a moment I could have to hold on to, a break from the stress and angst.

After I finished my coffee I did some grocery shopping. I wanted another cup of coffee in that pitiful Starbucks but Nora was getting very angry and was shouting, so I knew we had to go. So I came home.

Never before have I felt that I wanted to leave before yesterday.

I don't want to feel that way again.

So we're not talking, but I don't really know how to talk anyway. He just gets sarcastic and aggressive, I just turn into a tangential harpie who takes a small argument and goes global, taking my stresses and exploding them across my vocabulary. I really need to learn when to shut the fuck up, I guess. I'd like to fix the situation (not least because I'd like to know which bottles are the White ones), but I'm so furious I can hardly believe it.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Or not, in my case. I found a cinema nearby that has something called Newbies, where parents and their new babies can take in a morning movie and not worry about pissing off the other patrons as we're all there with babies. I think I'll take the babies to that. I need to get out more with them - now that my travel ban is over, it's time to face the fact that I feel very stressed about leaving the house, especially with thim. It's time to live life now.

In the meantime, I'll clean. And throw away things. Because the less I am the better.

-H.

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November 19, 2007

Homesickness For Traditions That May Never Come

Thanksgiving is on Thursday.

Or at least it is for most people in the land I come from.

For me, it'll be just another Thursday in a year of 52 Thursdays.

This month will mark my 8 year anniversary of living in Europe. I left the States just after Thanksgiving in 1999 and I haven't been back for a long period since. It was a choice I made to follow a job and a boy and a dream (not sure which order those should go in) and I haven't regretted it a bit. Moving away was something I should have done, in that misty smoky sense it's something I was meant to do. My life, my health, my happiness, my heart, my babies...they're all part of this magical evolution I have been going through since moving away.

But it doesn't stop me from being incredibly homesick sometimes.

Ask anyone who's moved to another culture - although you gain so much, sometimes you lose a part of you in missing the traditions and holidays that you are leaving behind.

I cooked my first Thanksgiving dinner when I was 18. I've cooked a big Thanksgiving every year since then bar 2003, the year I was laid off from my job. That year I went out to dinner. With Angus. And fell in love all over again.

So 15 years of turkey cooking will be put by the wayside this year. We realized Thanksgiving was coming and got some invites out but we'd left it too late, and none of our friends can come. We've cancelled Thanksgiving in this house this year, and since Christmas is at his mother's it'll be a turkey-free year this year.

It makes me sad.

Not just because I don't mind cooking turkey and I have a killer turkey recipe, but because something will be missing this year. A celebration we always have won't take place and it makes me sad. I'm not crazy enough to throw a huge Thanksgiving dinner together for just two of us (one of whom doesn't eat turkey) and it's not like I have loads of free time or anything. But a part of who I am will be quiet this year.

Now that I have children of my own I'm even more sensitive to traditions and ensuring they're a part of my celebrations and memories. I have a fierce, painful lump in my heart, as I wish I could give them the memories I had.

I want them to wake up on Thursday morning giggling, and head downstairs towards the smell of cooking pancakes and sausages. Maple syrup and melting butter should be almost tangible in the air. The kitchen will be a war zone, filled with a countertop of stuffing settling in a bowl and a pale naked turkey in a large pan by the sink. Breakfast should be a noisy happy affair, eaten to the tune of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.

I always dreamt I'd watch that damn parade with kids. "Look! There's the Cat in the Hat!" I would exclaim, and one my kids would get excited and bounce around. "There's Garfield! There's Snoopy! There's Kermit!" Each inflatable character would elicit squeals of delight that crescendoed into a storm as the penultimate character wrapped up the parade. "And look! LOOK! There's Santa! Santa's coming soon, sweetheart!"

Football would come on then. It doesn't matter that I'm not too bothered about football, it doesn't matter that I wouldn't watch it really. The sound of fans cheering, decked out in scarves and gloves and their breath visible in the TV air would keep me going. First downs and second downs would accompany the Thanksgiving touchdown.

At some point we'd reach a point of stasis, and we'd turn on a film. Something comical and ridiculous. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Uncle Buck. Bubble Boy. Something as background laughter to the laughter we had inside. We'd nibble on bits and bites as the rising smell of turkey filled the house and home. A pumpkin pie would be cooling on the side, accompanied by a silent dark and crusty pecan pie.

Later, my kids would be able to race in and open the cans of biscuits. They'd peel the cardboard off into a greasy spiral and whack the thin sides against the cabinet, feeling the tube explode, revealing white gooshing pastry. Things would be piping and boiling on the stove - the gravy, the vegetables. The slick sides of the cranberry sauce would coat the tongue in bitterness. Once the biscuits were in (the last step), the air would be orgasmic with scents.

We'd all sit down, jostling at the table set with finery we never ordinarily use. We'd stuff ourselves silly and then relax in the living room to the swooshing sound of the dishwaser earning its keep. Some would doze, others watch a fillm. All would return for helpings and a sandwich of cooled turkey meat. TV would be fabulous that evening, marked with animated kids specials that turn into great family films. Thoughts that night would turn to Christmas, and shopping, and decorations.

We would go to sleep full and happy, penning Santa notes in our heads and vowing to be good the rest of the year if only...

But none of that will happen. It certainly won't happen this year (although the babies are so small it's not like they'd notice it now). But for the long foreseeable future it won't be happening anyway. We don't get football here (we get a highlights program that's not worth the effort). We don't get the Macy's day parade and naturally there are no Thanksgiving animated specials on TV, even though I own most of them on DVD in a relentless quest I have to give my kids what memories I do have. And this year, there is no Thanksgiving.

On Thursday we'll wake up and it'll be any other Thursday. I'll watch Home For the Holidays, we'll have mac and cheese for dinner, and at some point I'll feel very sorry for myself, which is silly and I'll make myself stop as soon as I can. I'll pop the cork out of the wine. It's freezing cold here so we'll have a fire early on in the day, the fireplace becoming a beacon of welcome and light.

And on Thursday I'll hug the babies close and be extra lenient (I see a sleeping-on-mommy's-chest session coming on) and I will whisper in their ears that as they grow we will have our own traditions as a family, that Thanksgiving will hopefully be something that means as much to them as it means to me, that someday they can make a wish and split the wishbone and we can collapse into a heap on the sofa at night and that Santa is coming, are you ready?

Until then...

-H.

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November 16, 2007

Why I Did What I Did

The other day I followed a link to a blog that linked to me (I check these things sometimes, it's always nice to know who's out there in the ether). This blog is in a foreign language, one of whom the only thing I know how to say is "A beer, please," (because really-does one need to say anything more than that in life?). But I used Babelfish to tell me what the hell was going on and, although Babelfish is ridiculously clumsy, I think I got the gist of it.

Basically, the blog was wondering why people go through IVF to have their own biological children.

My immediate reaction upon reading this blog was "We do it because it's so much goddamn fun!". My second reaction was "Fuck you." My third reaction was "Fuck you." My fourth reaction - post-tranquilizer and a glass of wine - was "Fair enough question, I guess, you should dial it down a bit, Hel. And I was just - ooooooh, look! Something sparkly!"

The answer to why some women want to try for biological kids is simple. It's "Because." The same answer you give to a 5 year-old asking why they have to take a bath, the same thing you told your 16 year-old date when you dumped them, the same answer you wish you could give your boss on explaining why you're late. The answer is "because". The question, actually, is one that no one should be asking of another person.

First off, lemme just say this - IVF sucks. It sucks great big, thorny, stinky donkey balls. It's about the least fun thing in the world ever, and that includes dealing with Angus' ex-wife, paying taxes, and getting a bikini wax. All at the same time. While menstruating. And having to watch old episodes of Knots Landing. If you know someone going through IVF, then buy them something. Make them dinner. Do not ask them how it's going or what the results are and for God's sake, don't do something as lame as tell them to "just relax". These women are hopped up on mouse hormones. They can kill you as soon as look at you.

Why do women go through IVF? Because they want to have a family. Why do women adopt? Because they want to have a family. Whose role is it to judge what choice a woman makes, either way? In my world, it's no one's.

Years ago I decided that life for me would be without children. There were many reasons I thought this, including one medical one, and so I made my peace knowing that if a child were to ever pop into my life it would be via adoption.

When I went through my first round of IVF in 2001, although my mind was changing about children I went through IVF for the wrong reasons - I was trying to save my sinking marriage to my child-keen husband. He absolutely positively refused to consider adoption, as he said that he could never love a non-biological child of his. I started IVF for not great reasons, but from the moment they put the embryos back in I wanted nothing more than for it to work.

Fast forward to now. Although we investigated it here in the UK, we didn't pursue adoption for two reasons -

1) Many orphanages (especially foreign ones) have fees they cannot explain other than to say they're along the lines of mandatory donations. Angus feels very firmly that this is simply excess money for a child, and he positively cannot stomach the idea of what he feels equates to "buying" a baby. He does not judge those who pursue this route, he just knows it is not for him.

2) We would never have passed the criteria to adopt. Divorces, us not being married, age differences, total estrangement from half of my family, children from a previous marriage and my history of mental illness were all strikes against us. We did look at the criteria form and I really honestly believe we would never have been selected, not ever. The possibility to "just adopt" wasn't really going to happen.

When you go through IVF, you hear that a lot - "just adopt", as in "Why don't you just adopt?" "Just" is an ugly, ugly word. Just adopt, just reduce, just accept, just relax, just a minute. There's no room for "just". "Just" infers "what the hell is wrong with you, this is so simple?" There's no "just" about adoption, for some families adoption is harder than trying fertility treatment. If you know someone who has adopted then you should salute them - they've been through a lot. I look at parents with adopted children and think of them as being so amazing and so strong.

I know a lot of women want to be pregnant, they want to experience the feeling of carrying the baby, birth, breastfeeding, everything. I honestly believe there's a biological instinct in some women that is maybe stronger than others with regards to actually experiencing pregnancy - for me personally, I wasn't actually looking forward to the "I'm pregnant" part of the Zero-to-Baby stage, I didn't expect to love it and pregnancy lived up to my expectations of not loving it. But even though it wasn't my cup of tea I can understand now why some women do love the pregnancy part - it is nice to know that there's someone with you all the time, and being so close to IVF for so long there is one basic fact that I have learned - a growing baby is a fucking miracle, regardless of if it came from a petri dish or a night of loving or an orphanage.

I was one of those who didn't have to have my own child to love it unconditionally, and I have always been 100% ok with adoption (screening procedure aside). Having said that, though, one of my favorite things to do while looking at my babies is to search their faces and see if any signs or vestiges of me show up in their profiles. I do understand that this is why most couples try fertility treatment - playing Whose Eyes Does Baby Have? is a really fun game. If I had adopted, I have no doubt I would have found some other game that would enable me to stare into my baby's eyes with the same degree of wonder and love.

I think parenting does that to a person.

Having a baby is hard no matter how you have them. It's scary when you start IVF. It must be scary to fill out the paperwork describing your life for a caseworker. It can apparently be scary having them the old-fashioned bedroom way. I haven't ever had the pleasure of trying for a baby the normal way but Angus tells me that the first time you have sex "without the net" it feels really strange and like you're attempting something of huge magnitude, even if it's just a post-curry bonk.

I don't think it's up to any of us to judge why another woman goes through fertility treatment versus adoption, why some women want to breastfeed and others don't, why infertility hurts and why some move on, or anything else along these fraught emotional lines. I think we should just accept and support even if our own horizons don't have space to understand what motivates the people we read or know or love.

Throughout my pregnancy, I was lucky enough to have some close, wonderful friends. They made my time go easier. One of them even painted me a lovely, amazing picture.


"Gaia"


This picture, it's fantastic. Hidden in the swirls and loops are words that the artist put in place for me. One word in particular haunts me - "Worthy". It says "worthy". And after all these attempts and prayers and tears and hopes, I can't help but feel, perhaps self-righteously, that I am worthy of being these babies' mother, the way probably that every woman who tries and tries and tries in whatever method they venture to have children feel. There's something in the painting that helps me feel that this biological imperative that I lived up to had something in it that has made me a richer person in a sense that I can't put my finger on. For me, the fertility treatment was the right choice, not just because I have what I think are two beautiful children, but because there's something in me that changed for having done so, and it's changed in a good (yet profound) way. It's become a part of who I am.

I look back on the IVF days (there were 5 attempts in 6 years, which in my mind makes me a long-term veteran that can give the finger to people that want to give me shit) and feel not unlike some kind of war veteran who has comrades and war buddies that I fought alongside. The infertile community isn't always the easiest to get along with, either - there is a lot of resentment, a lot of pain, a lot of anger, all mixed in with a healthy shovel full of support. If you get pregnant a lot of your IVF war buddies leave you bleeding on the battlefield. Once you have a baby, for some it's as good as crossing enemy lines. I don't think it's because women are looking for backs to stab, but because having a baby is such a hugely painful topic for women stuck in the fertility war.

Every woman has a story for why she is on whatever path she's on.

It's not up to us to question why they've made the choice they have.

It's up to us to hold their hands along the way.

-H.

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November 15, 2007

Dear Sir -

Dear the Makers of Infacol,

We have a 6 week old daughter who has been crying for near to 3 weeks now. Oh wait...did I say crying? Hahahahahaha, silly me. I'm so forgetful, must be all that drinking I've been doing. I really meant she's been screaming, as in "I'm auditioning to be Neve Campbell's stand-in for her next horror film" screaming. Screaming. For 3 weeks now. And did I mention she's one of twins?

Anyway, as a last ditch effort I bought your product on Sunday. I was in a daze, you had a white sparkly box, it promised to solve all my problems, assemble all our baby furniture and end world hunger, and I thought: Fuck it. Why not?

I started her on Infacol on Sunday night.

It's now Thursday (is it Thursday? I never know which day of the week it is anymore. When you have twin infants - one of them has colic - you just pray to the powers that be to get you through the goddamn day. Is it Thanksgiving yet? Is it time to start watching Elf yet?) Our daughter is down from 7 hours of screaming a day to maybe an hour or so. This hour or so, we have learned, is simply her way of trying to settle herself to sleep. Her brother, he can put himself to sleep. Our daughter, not so much, but we understand that Infacol cannot fix this particular issue even if we do think that Infacol is the new elixir of life. I hope this letter doesn't jinx things and the screaming returns, because there's only so much more alcohol poisoning my liver can take.

In short, oh wise warriors of Infacol-Land, we are writing to say thank you. It took a few days, but your product appears to be helping our otherwise limitless nightmare. Strangely enough our daughter appears to like the taste of the stuff even if it does smell like orange Starburst, and they're my least favorite flavor in the pack, the ones I save until the end and then reluctantly eat or else fob them off on someone else and look all benevolent when really I'm giving them the orange ones because I don't like them so much.

I am so grateful you wouldn't believe it. Whatever you need - a kidney, a letter of reference, a blow job, what have you - you just give me a shout. I owe you so much. If the peace persists then soon I may even be able to remove my bicycle helmet and can quit repeatedly slamming my head against the wall. We'll be continuing the Infacol until she starts college (don't want to give it up too early, after all) and hope that it continues to aid us getting through this collicky hell.

With Hugs and Peace and Love and Anything Else That Implies Immense Gratitude,

Helen

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November 13, 2007

Lost Amongst the Aisles

On Sunday Angus, perhaps sensing that I had tied a knot at the end of my rope and was just hanging on, sent me to the store by myself. I am still technically on a driving ban (you're not allowed to drive for 6 weeks after a C-section for insurance purposes, and I have one more day of the ban to serve out). With the exception of one afternoon where Angus took the babies to see his mother, it was the first time I'd been apart from the babies since they were born. I hadn't showered and still had spit-up on me in several locations, the babies were due their next feeding in 20 minutes (they are actually on a pretty good routine now, although Nick is going through a growth spurt) and Nora had been screaming for 3 hours at that point. I simply changed out of my pajama pants into jeans, and I took Angus up on his offer.

I drove 2 miles to our local Waitrose.

Inside, I was overwhelmed. I don't get out much. My days start with babies at 6:30-7 and end with babies at 11:30-midnight. I've been to the grocery store with Angus and the babies 3 times since they arrived, and each time I found my senses assaulted, naked and bleeding and staring confused at the range of toothpastes available. Once I can start driving I've promised to get out more, to get back into life. To be honest, I haven't missed it. I can go days lately without getting out, I just don't mind.

I found myself randomly picking things up and putting them down. I didn't know what I really needed. Milk, I needed milk. A lemon, we could do with a lemon. Shall I make pasta for lunch tomorrow? What about curried red snapper for dinner?

As I walked through the aisles my mind wandered. The women in my life, they're causing me grief. It's the women.

My hand coursed over the surface of a shiny eggplant, the skin stretched tight and about to burst. I thought of my sister and her latest, which I find to be the absolute height of selfishness and I almost never use that word as it was hurled far too frequently at me when I was growing up. I have written off my sister and her judgemental ineptitude, but it doesn't mean she's not on my periphery in other people's lives. I take her scorn and throw it back in her sanctimonious face. She is not my sister anymore.

My anger is grotesque.

I wander through the pasta, seeing spinach spirals and wholewheat penne. I buy both. You can never have too much pasta.

I think of my mother and her clipped, brusque emails. She is not a part of my life or the babies' lives either, and in some ways I regret that as the babies should know her to some extent. But then she wanted to not have contact and she gets just that. I rage about how the other grandchild and grandchildren-to-be get to be the center of the world when I have four children of my own that should see the universe gravitate around them. She has no shrine for my children, they are not the benchmark of perfection, they get compared to what she views as perfection. Then again, I would prefer it was this way, so I have myself to blame as well. I'm sick of them reading my site and my feelings.

I head into the baby aisle, once an area of no-go to a nearly superstitious level, and I buy every colic product they have on the shelf.

The products are beginning to blur together. I backtrack to the cheese section. I am so tired all of a sudden, I need my second wind, or my third, or my fourth, or however many breezes I've been through that day.

I pick up some chicken breast for Melissa's lunches. Her work experience ends soon and she goes home on Thursday. I love the kid, I really do. She called me her Mum to the hairdresser the other day, when she and I both cut huge chunks of our hair off. I love her, but I am getting tired of picking up after her despite repeated nagging. I put some rules down - she had nine Diet Cokes in three hours the other night, I've now restricted her to a mximum of three a day. She listens and respects my instruction. I feel like we're getting somewhere, I put a rule down and it's being followed and I feel that's huge. I love the kid but I'm ashamed to admit I'm ready for her to go home now, I want to have a lack of Kanye West and The Killers playing in the house.

Truffle oil. Surely I need some truffle oil. Doesn't everyone need truffle oil? And dried porcini mushrooms? I'd rather have dried wild mushrooms. Where are those?

I think of Nora. Little Nora, who I bonded with during those dark hours in the hospital when it was just her and I. Angus was home after visiting hours, Nick was under the microscope in special care, and it was Nora and I in our darkened room. I remember looking over at her sleeping next to me. She was an angel, an absolute angel.

Where did she go, my beautiful sweet daughter? Will she really come back by about 12 weeks, and can colic truly be put behind us? Will the screaming really stop? We've tried everything, and I miss my little girl like you wouldn't believe.

I walk through the spices and can taste the labels on the glass jars floating in the wind. It tastes like glue and India, like paper and France, like a recipe I can almost touch. I need to book our tickets for the holiday. We're running short on time. How can I keep Nora from screaming on the plane? The babies need snowsuits - the ones I bought them are 0-3m and clearly won't be fitting them for a long time. I have got to book a condo, they're rapidly disappearing and we need accommodation. My thoughts are random and fly to fast to hold.

I have been stressed. Very stressed. Stressed in ways I cannot articulate nor define. Ass bleed has returned, but I try to take the days in stride. Angus and I are doing very well, united against the front of everything. On Wednesday we have to go into London to the U.S. Embassy, where we finally got an appointment to register the babies and apply for their passports. I know there's a good chance we will both lose our tempers there, as everything is maddeningly slow and bureaucratic. It will also be my first time in London since my rest began during the pregnancy. It has been 3 months. I get overwhelmed in Waitrose, I don't know how I'll handle London.

I pay for my purchases, and for once I can't remember what I bought. I think about things. I hold on to it all. I keep going forward.

I go home to a house that needs cleaning again, and I marvel at my two tiny babies that are wearing my favorite outfits of theirs. I realize it's likely the last time they'll wear these outfits, as they really are outgrowing them and I need to accept it.

I love my babies with a space a million years long.

-H.

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November 11, 2007

My Eyes Are Like Pissholes in the Snow

20% of all babies get colic.

With two babies, surely our chances were higher that we'd get a collicky baby.

We did.

This is week number three of Nora Screaming the House Down. We finally have a reason why even if we don't have a cure, and she's perfectly healthy (just a bit underweight), she's just got colic. It's beginning to wear all of us - and our relationships - down.

We've tried everything. We've tried rocking, cuddling, crying it out, soothing, back patting, extra winding, carrying her in a sling, bouncy chairs, swings, carrying her in our arms in a variety of positions, holding her against our hearts, walking up and down stairs, and trying to sleep with her. We use Dr. Brown's bottles which are supposed to help prevent colic, to no avail. We've tried white noise - dishwashers, washing machines, running water, radio static, me repeatedly saying "shhhh" all with no success. The vacuum cleaner does soothe her briefly, but only for a very short while. I've ordered a CD that plays "Baby Specific" white noise, we'll see how that works. We've tried bathing, talking to her, trying to stimulate her with toys suitable for her developmental stage, baby massage, and shutting the door and walking away. We did try gripe water (colic water) last night, and it did seem to work as it produced a series of massive belches and she settled not too long afterwards, but neither of us are crazy about constantly medicating her.

Most babies - Nick being one of them - sometimes cry but then settle themselves to sleep. Not Nora. That girl can work a screaming session for hours. It's currently 1:30 in the afternoon. She's been screaming since 10, and it's not going to stop anytime soon I know.

They say that a baby crying is programmed to be one of the most annoying sounds to a human. And it is. Nora, in particular, has an extremely aggressive, violent cry that is simultaneously ear-bleeding and heartbreaking at the same time. I hate it for her when she cries but nothing I do seems to help.

This morning after both of them sleeping all night, Angus and I fed them and then he sweetly agreed to bring them into bed with us as a special occasion. The four of us napped from 7 - 9, and I had Nora fast asleep on my chest. I know this is naughty, I know we shouldn't do it, but my God it was heaven. She can be such an incredible angel, it's so amazing, and when she's awake and in a good mood the interaction is fantastic and she's an utter delight.

She can also be Damian.

Last night I had an event I'm not proud of. She had worked herself into a frenzy in the early evening as she does most early evenings. She could not be consoled. Nothing I did was right. I was exhausted, I'd spent most of yesterday feeling quite stressed but was unable to articulate why, and I couldn't face another night of her screaming. Melissa had been feeding her but when Nora spit up Melissa passed her off to me and then put her clothes in the wash as she can't stand to have baby spit up on her. I'm really pleased Melissa wants to help feed them, but I can't face all the laundry involved when she does help. Then again, maybe there's something wrong with me, maybe I should immediately launder everything I get baby bloop on.

So last night I was holding Nora who was going increasingly nuclear, and I melted down. At that moment I knew I had to put Nora down and walk away from her for a while. I'm not saying I would hurt her, not ever, but for a moment I could understand what motivates some people to snap and hurt their babies. I carried her upstairs and swaddled her and laid her in her cot and shut the door. I feel really, really ashamed for how angry I was feeling with her. I know I would never shake her or hit her or anything like that, but for one second I knew I had to be away from her.

When she gets really worked up she has to be put in her cot and we walk away. The midwife and the health visitor discussed this with us, and it's their recommendation and our last resort. So when we do this, Nora stays apoplectic...and she works her way all over the crib. To add further insult to injury, this usually means she gets herself out of her swaddle (they don't sleep well without the swaddle, they get too insecure, and she only disentangles herself from her swaddle during the daytime, never at night) and she manages to rip her diaper off daily. This means more laundry. And of course yesterday my nightmare finally came true and she ripped off a diaper that had been freshly pooed in, so the bedding, the clothing, and the kid had to be immediately washed. Which, of course, only made her angrier.

It's so exhausting. As I type this she's up there screaming her head off. Nick's joined in. And now they both produce tears, and it's even more agonizing, because you go in their room and tears are streaming and nothing you can do will stop them (when Nick does it he's just overtired, and usually sorts himself out). I want to fix it all but I can't, and I know that they will outgrow it they just can't get there fast enough. In the meantime we're all exhausted, I'm trying to keep their crying from really driving Angus crazy and heading down a dark path. I also feel terrible - Nora gets most of the attention over Nick as we try to resolve the screaming, but at the same time everyone loves Nick and wants to hold him and be with him as he's really an extremely easygoing baby.

And there is so much fucking housework to do it's eating me inside. I can't keep up with it. And now we have items all over the house as we're renovating Melissa's room for her and everything in the room is now in the hallway and living room. I don't mind the renovations, actually (Melissa and Angus are doing all of them) as it does help end the argument about who gets the new room in the extension (if we're putting this much time and money into her room then she's staying put. End of story.) It's just I can't see the forest for the trees and my mind is telling me to keep cleaning the house, just keep cleaning the house, everything will be better, everyone will be happier, let's just clean the house.

I deal with my stress this morning by throwing away a huge chunk of my wardrobe.

Somehow, it helps.

Gotta' go, it's soon feeding time and screaming time again, only I'll cave and administer gripe water if it keeps going on too long because none of us can take the consant screaming.

I feel like a very bad mother indeed.

-H.

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November 09, 2007

Plumbing

Men, look away! Look away now, lest you be blinded!

(Just kidding. But it is a continuation of yesterday, so if you read then you'd better put down that hoagie.)

OK, so the Mooncup? She is all right. A little strange, a little unusual, but I think I'm a convert.

Strangely, for someone with so many phobias (including a phobia of poo. Don't ask, just accept) I have no real issues with menstrual blood. I don't love it or anything, I'm not rocking the house with joy when I flow like a river, but if I get a little on my hands I just shrug and head for the soap and water. I also don't panic if a little blood gets elsewhere, I simply clean it up and don't stress about sterilizing everything within a 3 mile radius. Additionally after all this IVF and UTI stuff I've become pretty familiar with the love tunnel anyhow, so maneuvering some silicone goods in my golden chute doesn't bother me.

I got my Mooncup yesterday (Mooncup is the same thing as a Diva Cup. It's all Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone here, everyone's gotta' change a name or two). I unwrapped it and was floored. This thing, this Mooncup? It was enormous. How the fuck was this thing ever going to fit in there? What the hell, did they think I was the proud owner of a vaginal Grand Canyon? I followed the website's advice-as I'd had a child (or two) via C-section and am over 30 that therefore qualifies me as needing the A Cup (and I haven't been an A Cup since puberty. Ah, the good old days.) If I hadn't had kids and was under 30 I'd be in the B Cup, so clearly those of us who are aging and reproducing are supposed to have chutes that wobble in the wind or something.

The instructions tell you that you can urinate and such while wearing it, which struck me as strange, but ok. They tell you to not have sex while wearing it, which is perhaps as far from my mind as possible when I'm nesting a little silicone alien in there. It also says not to share the Mooncup with other menstruating women. Um....gross. Seriously. Do they really have to put that in the instructions? What, do most users of the Mooncup live on a commune or something?

I decided to give it a go. I cleaned it, headed for the bathroom, and nervously braced myself. Why nervously? Well, call me crazy, but unless it's a blood-supply laced part of Angus, a fiberglass OB tampon, or something powered by double-A batteries (what?), in general things don't go in there (previous IVF ultrasound wandings notwithstanding). It felt a little strange to think that a funnel was going in, but ok, I wanted to give it the old college try for the environment.

You're supposed to fold the silicone cup in half, then fold it again, then insert. You're ideally supposed to be squatting or sitting to do this, which is always fun when you're in a bathroom, but I continued to be prepared. I squatted, feeling not unlike a tribal native about to do the African Anteater Ritual, and folded my cup. I folded again. I headed for insertion.

And seeing as I'm flooded with hormones wrecking havoc on my system, the damn thing got stuck.

I removed it, put some water on the sides, and tried again.

This time it worked.

It's a very, very strange sensation when the cup finally passes what I assume is the pubic bone and unfolds. I felt like Mary Poppins was opening her little umbrella in there, you can almost hear it unfolding and feel the sides suction to you. But the fit was good (I guess I do have a vaginal Grand Canyon in there after all), and I didn't feel the cup once it was in place.

I had some problems with the stem. The instructions aren't clear as to how far the thing is supposed to go up, and I was unnerved by it looking like a drinking straw popping out of my hooch. I pushed it in further. Then further.

Then I panicked.

I pictured it disappearing up inside of me. I would be the new urban legend, Richard Gere and his gerbils would be superceded by me in the ER, crying and telling people not to tell anyone, while the health professionals would gather round my X-ray and laugh like Dr. Hibbert and say "Homer? Looks like your little funnel has wound up somewhere near your lungs. It's ok, at least when you breathe you'll sound like you have internal bagpipes! Ah he he he." (that last laugh part should sound like Dr. Hibbert laughing in your head. I'm just trying to help the image here.) I know this isn't possible, the uterus will stop anything from heading in there, and the cervix usually is only the size of a pinhole. I was being unreasonable. The Mooncup was not going to disappear. Still, I felt freaked out.

So I walked around with the stem sticking out a bit.

It kinda' hurt.

I decided to revise my approach, suck it up, and be a big girl.

I pushed the stem in further until I couldn't feel it when I walked.

Bingo.

After about 4 hours, I decided the time had come for the next stage-I needed to drain and clean it. You're supposed to pull the stem sideways to break the seal, or else do as Erin suggested and use a finger down the side of it to stop the suction while using your pelvic floor to push it out. I decided to go for option A, pulling the stem sideways. I started to pull.

Nothing happened.

I pulled more.

The damn thing was not giving.

Oh God, I thought. Will I have to call Angus and his trusty pliers in for some assistance? If I do that, does that mean we'll never shag again?

I realized that the thing was suctioned, so I angled it so that air could stop the suction. That worked. It started to give, and I had a weird sensation of a drain being pulled out of a bathtub as it came out.

It really wasn't messy at all, and there is something perversely interesting at being able to note how much blood you've lost ("Oh, it's only a 2.5cc day is it? Rock on!") They don't prepare you for the fact that the blood congeals into one big clot though, so if you use this Mooncuppy thing then be prepared for that. I rinsed out the cup thoroughly with some soap and hot water and re-inserted.

Later in the day, unnerved by the image of bathwater swirling down a drain, I tried method B. I have to say that Erin's method of using a finger and/or using your vaginal muscles to push it out is the way to go. It's much easier, doesn't feel uncomfortable, and eases the Dr. Hibbert panic.

On the whole I like the thing. I didn't leak, there really isn't any mess, and you honestly forget it's in there. It definitely beats having to lug around tampons (who am I kidding, I don't go anywhere) and it's nice to go to bed at night and know that you're not going to be getting up a lot to change tampons/pads. I'll continue using it.

Sorry if this was all TMI, but the web seems a bit low on info about these things and I figured maybe you wanted to know how it worked.

The things that I'll do for you.

-H.

PS-To S in NYC (didn't know if you wanted to be anonymous, so thought I would err on the safe side!) I got the two gorgeous blankets today. Thank you so much. The babies are moving from swaddling to blankets during the day now, and these are perfect for them. Thank you, they're beautiful!

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:15 AM | Comments (34) | Add Comment
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November 08, 2007

I Got Your Crunchy Granola Right Here, Baby

I had lochia for five weeks.

FIVE.

My bleeding finally stopped on Tuesday, which was just in time for the mother of all periods to come in the very next day (because that's how my luck is and we all need a little anemia check from time to time, no?)

I have caved and finally bought one of those Mooncups, which arrived this morning. I figure I'm doing enough damage by dropping off around 15 disposable diapers a day (the guilt is huge, especially as the environmentally friendly disposables cost three times as much as the "Fuck You, Mother Nature" ones. And we debated cloth diapers but figured with twins we wouldn't be able to keep up with them. It's likely true-I'm already doing about 2 loads of laundry a day and if I had to do any more laundry than that I would start carrying around a box of Calgon laundry detergent and crowing "Ancient Chinese secret, huh?" in my worst Chinese accent. My dad would be so proud.) This Mooncuppy thing is supposed to save me from dumping tons of tampons into landfill and considering a box of tampons runs from £4-6 and I go through 2 boxes per period, it should save some dosh, too.

I'll let you know how I get on. I'll confess it feels pretty strange to think that I've stuffed a miniature funnel up my cootch in hopes of catching the badness. I feel like a Betty Crocker recipe for the dark side, all for my hopes of helping the environment and not supplying Tampax with any more of my salary. I'm hoping someone will smack me if I ever get to the stage where I'm making homemade tie-dyed spiritual fairies that I sell half-naked at Renaissance fairs or if I grow out and braid my armpit hair.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go build a wigwam out of hemp.

-H.

PS-are there any men left reading this site, or has my bodily function talk truly run you all off?

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:34 PM | Comments (28) | Add Comment
Post contains 356 words, total size 2 kb.

November 07, 2007

Progress Is Our Middle Name

Last week the Lemonheads were weighed. Nora's weight has gone up to 7 pounds, and Nick is up to 6 pounds 8 ounces. So almost newborn size, which isn't too bad considering they're 5 weeks old today. In total, they've gained about a pound since birth (I know this seems obsessive, but preemie babies mean you watch every single ounce. Our babies weren't even severely premature, I can't imagine how it feels to have this go on for months and months and months.)

At least Nick's eating. Angus discovered that Nick could benefit from a larger nipple so that the bottle flow comes out faster and easier (note to self: watch Nick when he gets to pub drinking age). This means he doesn't exhaust himself trying to drink, so now both babies are drinking the same amount during the day. As a consequence, we don't spend our time worrying if we can get him to eat or not. The kid eats.

He just doesn't grow.

He is so, so tiny.

In the beginning, people flocked to Nora, she of the perfect baby face and rosebud lips. People liked to feed the amiable Nora, to hold her more solid form, to inhale the top of her heard. Nick, whose head is indeed regaining a less "I was stuffed in my mother's pelvis and all I got is this lousy T-shirt" shape, was less popular. That is, until Nora went through a rough patch where all she did was scream.

Then it was her and I.

Melissa, Jeff, and even Angus to some extent enjoy being around Nick more as he's the easier-going of the two, he's the one that just likes to look around, he's the one less likely to get stroppy. Nora has a temperament a lot like I am told I had when I was a baby - she wakes up and you have approximately 10 seconds to get to her before the screaming starts. And when I say screaming, I mean exactly that. Windows could shatter from the force of this kids' lungpower. Eardrums bleed. Dogs commit harikari. When she wakes up she has needs, and these needs must be attended to RIGHT FUCKING NOW. We've learned that if you miss this window and she reaches that stage (said stage also available after feedings, so very equal opportunity here) then she becomes Inconsolable and there is nothing you can do (and we tried, honestly). Absolutely nothing. She has to scream it out and put herself to sleep, which is fun for the whole household.

But I adore her.

Absolutely adore her.

Just as much as I adore him.

And she's breaking her screaming habit, so hopefully it'll all get better soon. I really love my little girl but Great Scott she's got one of the most vociferous and annoying cries I have ever heard on a baby - when she really gets going she reaches what I call the Dolphin Stage, as she turns purple, goes rock hard, and sounds like she's communicating with Flipper. Nick, on the other hand, has a cry that sounds like a bellows that is very low on air. His cries aren't remotely angry, loud, or annoying. That's worth its weight in gold, he can pick which university he wants to go to when he's older, his low-key crying should be rewarded.

They currently both have colds, so our house has a lot of cranky baby going on. They're congested and so get the business end of some saline and that helpful nose sucker bulb, known as The Great Red Plastic Bulb of Hell, or by its other name Dear God Mom Why Do You Hate Me So Much? (called such names because get that thing out and cue screaming the likes of which you have never heard before, no matter how many teen horror flicks you have seen). I'm changing cot sheets and onesies a few times a day, as it's Puke Central here. I know they're not really ill, it's just a cold, but it still makes me feel terrible watching them not feel well.

The health visitor was pleased with their progress. Both babies are below average for weight but are on the bell curve just fine and are gaining weight, so we're working on it. Developmentally, we're going to be behind for some time. As the babies were 4 weeks premature, they're only just at the stage that newborns are at, which feels weird as they were sprung from the sunroof 5 weeks ago. They're awake a lot more than they were, although they're not really someone you can get contact with. The babies like to mimic our faces and are less stressy about being touched (and in fact both babies like to cuddle), and Nick is very keen on lights and lighting fixtures (much to Angus' absolute delight). I'm not worried about them-the health visitor said the babies will start to catch up with other babies around 6-12 months of age, so we'll take it one day at a time. In the meantime, I'll be honest - I'm enjoying their prolonged infancy, although I am looking forward to the days when they'll smile at us and laugh.

Size-wise, they're teeny. They still don't fit newborn clothes, although my very favorite outfit of theirs is a size preemie baby and was given to them by Angus' Mum. They absolutely swam in the outfits two days after being born:


Teeny babies


(If the coloring looks off, it's because both babies were very jaundiced.)

And this is them now, finally filling out my favorite onesies of theirs:


Teeny babies getting bigger

The label of the onesie is Cherokee, sold in the U.S. by my beloved Target and sold in the U.K. by Tesco. There's a gigantic Tesco near us, I can check and see if they have these outfits in newborn size, only it feels like I am chasing something I shouldn't be chasing. I can't keep my babies in the puppy and bunny outfits until they get to college, no matter how much I want to. My Lemonheads, they're growing, and it makes me both incredibly happy and inconsolably sad.

-H.

PS-Jeff's gone home (more on his visit shortly) and I've been dealing with the babies' colds. I owe a few emails and they're coming, I've just been snowed under, sorry!

PPS-am debating a haircut. Thoughts?

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:37 AM | Comments (30) | Add Comment
Post contains 1070 words, total size 6 kb.

November 05, 2007

Back in the Saddle Again

SEX.

(Bet that got your attention, yes?)

You probably expected to check in on this site and read about either

A) me feeling mental

or

B) me gushing about babies

and both are still correct, but I have other things going on as well.

Angus and I are a very affectionate couple in the bedroom and always have been (not so much with the public displays of affection though. We're not big hand-holders really). While I wouldn't say that sex was the cornerstone of our relationship, I will say that it is one of the substances used in the walls of our home (or some other building-related metaphor that implies "integral part of daily life". I'm a little tired, so my metaphor skills are a bit off just now. You can make the leap there, I'm sure you can.) It's one of the areas of our life where we are open and honest and have always tried to be ourselves in.

Enter that time in a woman's life where the sex life pretty much goes out the window for a short while.

I was one of those pregnant women that was always in the mood. Always. From the first trimester to the last, I was up for it. The problem was as I grew our options shrunk. Once my stomach got really large, not only was it physically impossible to do nearly every position, but if you so much as squeezed my stomach just a little I would be riding the Vomit Coaster. Our sex life was reduced to one position and due to the hormones taking control of various factors of my body, we really couldn't go for very long.

Cue exit of stomach tenants, and a reassessment was needed.

After a C-section we were advised to abstain from the monkey bars for 3 weeks. I did ask the midwife about this, and consequently got the questions about birth control, as just after giving birth women are at their most fertile. I told the midwife birth control wasn't a problem. She persisted. I grinned and explained that unless I checked my driver's license and it suddently said "Last name: Mary, First name: Virgin" then it wasn't a problem, and I held up one of my little IVF babies and explained why I wasn't worried. We got the all-clear at the 3 week mark.

So 3 weeks then. It was the longest we had been without touching each other in that way since we got together. We had last bumped uglies on the morning of the 2nd of October, the day before the babies arrived.

(What? It's not like we knew they were coming within 36 hours when we went for it that morning. Like I said, I was one of those very-on pregnant women. That, and I knew that sex could trigger labor, and I was in such bad shape I was willing to take those odds.)

So when we hit 3 weeks to the day since my Cesaerean, we got back in the saddle again.

I have to confess - I was pretty nervous. What if it didn't feel the same? I know the babies had come out via the sunroof, but still-could something have changed? Would it feel like it always had? Would he mind the fact that I still had to wear a sports bra, lest I lactate all over him? And what about my body?

Ah yes, my body. My body, my body, my bane of my existence. For my entire life I've been at war with how I look. Too fat, too round, too tall, too long legs, too round face...I have an arsenal of criticisms waiting for me.

Until now.

This is going to sound very, very strange, but here it is - I may be depressed. I may be upset. I may not be myself. But I am suddently very happy with how I look. In fact, I'll be honest...for the first time in my entire life, I fucking love my body.

Before you send me hate mail about how full of myself I am, hear me out. As I've been clear about on this site, in terms of abusing me no one holds a candle to myself as the Key Tearer Down of Helen's Self-Esteem. I can break me down in ways you couldn't imagine. When I was pregnant, as I simply grew and grew and grew, I didn't tear myself apart as I knew the growing, it was for a reason.

But suddenly, while pregnant, I perused a few older photos of myself and thought: Why was I so hard on myself? What did I have to hate myself so much about, I looked fine? Angus was always saying how much he loved my body, what did I have against loving myself?

And a part of me knew then what I should've known all along - you can be happy with yourself if you only try.

Now that the babies are evicted, I look at my body all the time. I have managed to lose the baby weight and then some - I weigh less than I did before I got pregnant. I think this is what feeling low and having twins will do for you - the babies took most of the weight and running around trying to run a household and manage two babies has taken the rest. All of my old clothes fit. My body has clearly been impacted - I have a very long C-section scar that is still sensitive, and it runs from mid-thigh to mid-thigh on my lower stomach. My navel is stretched to hell, that funny navel ring scar that appeared during pregnancy is now a permanent feature, and I have a prominent linea negra running down the lower part of my stomach. I clearly have some sit-ups in my future (not for a while though) as the skin is thick and slightly loose. Standing up my stomach is not so bad looking, but when I kneel down I look like I'm made of melting silly putty, as the stretched out skin heads south.

I have never in my life loved how I look.

Until now.

Now I love my very imperfect body and luckily for me Angus loves my sagging-stomached body too. I may look great only to him and I, but that's ok with me and I will never take my shape for granted again. I'll take my silly putty stomach any day, and I think I look fantastic, much better than I ever have, much better than I deserve. I feel very proud of how I've changed throughout this entire year and a part of me hopes that the linea negra never leaves so that I can have a reminder of this part of my life.

So when week 3 approached and the OK for nocturnal naughtiness was given, we took them up on it. And we have been doing so ever since, amazed that we can get so close again when for months we were so far away. I was worried that pregnancy might affect this part of my life, maybe all women worry about that. But nothing has changed, unless you count how it's actually gotten better. Maybe it's my self-confidence making me enjoy it more, maybe it's that we're aging like fine wines, or fuckit, maybe it's just because it's good, I dunno. All I know is that I'm glad this part of my life is back again.

The funny thing is it really is just like dusting off your shins, picking up the fallen ten speed, and getting your feet back on the pedals.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:15 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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November 02, 2007

A Couple of White Helens, Sitting Around Talking

A group of people, lounging around on a worn out purple velveteen couch, suddenly stop talking.

"Hey, uh, anyone seen Helen?" asks one particularly brash character.

"Last time I saw her was 9 am, and she was popping herbal tranquilizers again," replies one of them in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Oooh, I love those," interjects one of them, an airy-fairy creature known as Helen Hippy. "They work so well. Takes all of your stresses, anxiety, and anger away."

"Yeah." adds Practical Helen. "As long as you don't mind taking drugs to clear your head, then sure. Whatever works."

"But she spends her days in her pajamas," Helen Hippy says nervously, biting her lower lip. "I'm sure that having babies is sending her downhill."

"You're such a fucking pillock," replies Helen the Volatile. "She wore her pajamas every day before the babies were born."

"There's no need to come at me with such negative energy," Helen Hippy says pertly. "I'm only stating that she is in a depression for the past few weeks, that's all."

"The health visitor did say that Helen is suffering from Postnatal Depression," Practical Helen points out. "They'll keep her under observation, then potentially she'll start psychotherapy and anti-depressants in the next few weeks."

"Oh Christ, not another psychotherapist. She's just done all that! Why do it again?" moans Helen the Volatile. "We've chucked thousands of pounds at psychotherapists just to what? Do it all over again?"

"Different problems need different analysis," Practical Helen replies.

"She really needs to get to the source of her troubles," Helen Hippy says, stirring the air with a sparkly pink wand. "As a person, she'll be limited in her development until she can reach her inner child."

"God you're annoying," Helen the Volatile spits.

"Actually, I have to agree. You're pretty annoying," Practical Helen validates.

Helen Hippy sighs and looks at the quiet figure on her left. "Don't you have anything to add, Little Helen?"

Little Helen looks at the people on the couches, discussing Helen's psyche. "Not really. I'm feeling pretty quiet. This morning I watched as Helen went into the babies' room and fed them and just stared out the window. She's feeling pretty overwhelmed these days, and doesn't know how to talk about anything."

Helen Hippy sighs again. "Maybe she needs a nice concoction of wormwood."

"You wanna serve her absynthe, think that'll solve her problems?" Helen the Volatile asks, eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

"Well it's better than anything you've come up with!" shouts Helen Hippy, finally losing her cool. "All you do is shoot all the ideas down, for Chrissakes!"

"I have laundry to do," worries Practical Helen.

"You're always doing fucking laundry," Helen the Volatile shoots back.

"There's a lot to do when you have 4 kids in the house," replies Practical Helen.

"What happened to Careerwoman Helen, she surely would have something to say about all this," wonders Helen the Volatile.

"She buggered off right about the time the twins arrived. Haven't seen her since," replies Practical Helen, biting into an orange.

"Helen's losing her way," Helen Hippy says sadly.

"She's fucking mental," Helen the Volatile agrees.

"I need to do the dishes," Practical Helen says, frowning.

"But she loves her babies," Little Helen says softly. "She really does."

The others look at her. "We know that. It's just she's not herself," replies Helen the Volatile.

They sit there in silence.

A door opens. "I'm not disassociating, you know," comes Helen's voice. "I don't do that anymore. I'm just a bit disjointed. I can't seem to get out of my head."

"You're crazy," Helen the Volatile shouts out. "We saw you this morning, sitting there in the twins' room, feeding them and staring out of the window. You looked fucking nuts, babe."

"I know. I just couldn't take the household for a minute. Melissa and Jeff were playing with the dog, MTV was blaring, people were shouting, things were happening, and I just couldn't cope." came Helen's voice. "I don't know how to handle things right now. Even talking to the health visitor was hard, and I shouldn't find that kind of thing hard."

The Helens sit there in silence.

Then, the sound of a baby crying comes in.

"Nora's screaming," says Practical Helen.

"Master of the Fucking Obvious," replies Helen the Volatile, rolling her eyes. "Nora's been screaming for days."

Helen's voice comes in again. "It's ok. I don't mind. I'll go see to her. I'll see you guys later, we'll try to work this out."

And Helen goes again, as she has been for some time now.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:21 PM | Comments (29) | Add Comment
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