Olympic Fever

**Warning** This post (as it won't be surprising to most) deals with poop. If you're grossed out, not interested, or are some classy person who thinks mommy-blog posts about poop are cliche, then just go check out Cake Wrecks or something.

USA!! USA!! Like most of America, Nora and Nolan are super excited about the 2012 Summer Olympics. Their enthusiasm is somewhat of a surprise, however, due to their tender age and the fact that they're not allowed to watch television, but let's not squelch passion for physical activity, nor good old fashioned patriotism!

In an homage to the ancient games the twins have created their own Olympic event. Thinking themselves quite clever, they named this contest the 25M Twin BM Relay ("Get it, Mom?" they giggled. "The 'M' isn't meters it's minutes and instead of an IM relay it's.." Yeah, yeah, kids. We get it.) The BM Relay's debut was just this morning, as a matter of fact!


After enjoying a delicious breakfast of cinnamon apple banana oatmeal, Nora, Nolan, and I adjourned to the nursery for diaper changes, playtime, then ultimately nap. As both were quite pungent, I could tell I had my work cut out for me. Miss Nora was first and, as expected, had destroyed her diaper. No big deal. I changed her then set her down on the floor to play. That's when the fun began.

Here is the official rulebook description of the Olympic 25M Twin BM Relay:
-The Mother shall have no prior knowledge that the event has begun, nor even of its existence.
-The relay should ideally take place when there is Somewhere To Go Soon.
-Order of Events for Relay
    1. Twin A has a poopy diaper, gets changed by The Mother
    2. Twin A is sat upon the blanket to play.
    3a. Twin B has a poopy diaper, gets changed.
    3b. Simultaneously Twin A must let out a loud grunt, indicating poo is nigh.
    3c. The Mother shall say "Oh no you don't! Ugh! I just changed you!"
    3d. Twin B will pee on The Mother while she's not looking (Extra points awarded if he gets his own face as well)
    4. The Mother will change Twin B's outfit. (Extra points awarded for swearing)
    5. Twin B is sat upon the blanket to play.
    6. Twin A has a poopy diaper, gets changed.
    6b. Simultaneously Twin B must let out a loud grunt, indicating poo is nigh.
    6c. The Mother shall say "Are you kidding me?! What is this? Some kind of poop relay?!"
    7. Twin A is sat upon the blanket to play.
    8.  Twin B has a poopy diaper, gets changed. (Extra points awarded for swearing here also)
    9. Twin B is sat upon the blanket to play.
   10. Top points awarded if The Mother actually cries when both twins look at her and laugh out loud at their own hilarity. 

Congratulations!  Nora and Nolan have won the gold!

Finish this Sentence...

Clothes __________
 a) make the man.
 b) aren't necessary. (I'm a nudist.)
 c) transform a (more or less) rational woman into a pathetic, blubbering mess on the nursery floor, surrounded by a mountain of outgrown onesies, as she wipes tears off of her phone screen while texting her husband about how her babies are growing up so fast.

The correct answer here is C (clearly). I'm not a nudist, nor have I intentions on becoming one. Then again, I never had intentions of becoming a clinging, sentimental mommy who gets weepy thinking about how quickly her precious, tiny angels are turning into adults who will leave her and never want her kisses and snuggles ever again. Ugh.

To combat this rising crazy, er, panic that my babies are growing up too quickly for the past several days I've been forcing Nora and Nolan into outfits that are too small for them, because I'm not ready to let go yet (totally not crazy). Have you ever seen a six month old in high waters? How about a dress that is now approximately a t-shirt? If they're still wearing 3 month sizes they're still only 3 months, right?!(again, not crazy)

So, yeah...best intentions. I guess we'll see how the nudist thing turns out after all.

Outfits for their 2 Week doctor appointment. <3

Passive Aggression and the Almighty Baby Monitor

"Oh look, Nora, Mommy left the wipes open...again"

"Nolan, you know you're not supposed to watch TV! Let's turn it off."

"You know, guys, you could just tell Mommy that you don't like show tunes."

Our poor children. Perhaps they'll never know that they are really just pawns in the intricate game of passive aggression between me and Corey. Please keep in mind that my husband and I love each other very much and we communicate well, but also keep in mind that we are married. To each other. In the olden days it was just the dog bearing the weighty burden of our off-hand remarks, snarky comments, and scathing criticisms delivered in loving baby-talk ("Brenley! Why did you leave Daddy's shoes in front of the door for me to trip on?!"). Lucky for her, we now have two more non-speaking life forms off of which to bounce our true feelings and frustrations.

This emotional immaturity doesn't stop at verbal digs, oh no. There are myriad sighs, eye rolls, cupboard slams, and hardwood floor stomps to really drive home those subtle-but-not-really-subtle hints of displeasure. A few of my favorites center around the Almighty Baby Monitor.

The baby monitor is a necessary evil. It's a fantastic tool, yet you find yourself bound to it, night after night: a slave to its hypnotizing static, remote camera panning, and night vision. Yes, our house is only 1600 square feet and we really could hear them anywhere, but the monitor gives you the most crucial information of your entire day or night: ARE THE BABIES STILL ASLEEP?! If they are not, then someone has to go in there...and you don't want it to be you.

There are a few passive aggressive ways to avoid the nighttime nursery visit. First, keeping it simple, is to just pretend that you didn't wake up when you heard your daughter wake out of a sound sleep screaming like a banshee at 2:30am. Fake sleep. Make your partner get her. It is imperative to follow this up with a concerned (and appropriately groggy sounding) "Is everything okay? Is someone up? Oh, I didn't even hear her!" when your partner returns to bed. I admit I do this. I am a jerk.

Corey likes the I'm Going Downstairs To Play Video Games But Text Me If They Wake Up approach. Yeah, if one of the babies is crying I'm going to grab my phone and text you in the basement to let you know that one of the babies is crying instead of going in there and putting a stop to it before the other one wakes up. Probably not. This one is a good one.

The last one we are both guilty of. Once we have put the kids to bed one of us will grab the monitor and set it on the coffee table so we can keep an eye on them. Here's the sneaky part...when putting the monitor on the coffee table you have to put it (nonchalantly) as close to the other person as possible without their noticing. That way if there's a sound they have to check the monitor making them feel obligated to go in and you can stay on the couch, comfortably sipping your second (second, right?) glass of wine and playing Words With Friends. Perfect.

Cautionary Tale

Today was a frightening day. I knew that it would come eventually, but why so soon? Only at six months? A mother likes to think she can keep her babies little and safe and sheltered forever, but that's not the case.

Nolan got his first bruise. On his forehead. I feel terrible. I tried to protect him, but there was nothing I could do, especially against such a vicious attack from such a depraved individual and his nasty little accomplice.

Dennis Hopper (left) and Beefy the Cow. These two deserve the worst the system has to offer.

That's them, folks, the ones who hurt my baby. None other than Dennis Hopper and Beefy the Cow. Even writing their names and seeing their foul faces fills my mouth with bile and my heart with anger. How did this happen? Let me share our tale of pain and woe so that it might not happen to you and yours!

Nora, Nolan, and I were playing on the floor and I was helping Nolan practice sitting. Dennis Hopper and Beefy the Cow had been loitering, innocently enough, on our blanket. I could see no reason for them to not be there...they had gotten along well with the children in the past.

Suddenly, Nolan's disproportionately heavy head caused him to lose his balance, falling right into Dennis' waiting trap. As poor Nolan's head made audible contact with Dennis' hard face, Beefy just sat and watched, wearing that malicious smirk on his stupid little face.

It was over almost as soon as it began, even though these things seem to happen in slow motion to those involved. After the attack I have to say I was extremely proud of Nolan's reaction. I scooped him up and got him out of reach of the repugnant pair. He hardly cried at all and the only medical attention needed was a few well-placed kisses. Nolan is at home recovering now.

I can't say that Dennis Hopper and his pal Beefy are going to be so lucky, however. This is a warning to everyone out there. If you hurt my child, I will hurt you.

I'm putting you on notice, Dennis. You best watch your back.

The System. Is Down.

Please bear with us as we have not posted in a few days. Unfortunately our laptop has come down with a sudden case of Got-Water-Spilled-On-It and it's really annoying to write a blog from an iPhone. Until we get it fixed/replaced, we just might be maintaining radio silence. Hope to see you all soon!!

24 weeks later: a father's recollection of our first months with twins (part three)

Denouement

In a few days, our babies will be six months old. This week, they learned how to roll over from all angles and body positions. The supplemental bottles we started off with have been replaced with oatmeal cereal, and we’ll soon introduce vegetables and fruit to their menu. The Crying-to-Laughing ratio has swung decidedly in favor of laughter for both of them (most of the time), and the differences in their personalities have become evident and delightful. Sometimes I look at this progression and it’s hard to believe. Thinking back to how agonizingly slow those first weeks seemed--when I’d lie in bed in between feedings, awake in spite of the 96 minutes of sleep I’d gotten over the course of the day and thinking of ways I could take it all back and get a do-over—I’m amazed at how time can pass so quickly. I suspect this won’t be the last time this happens.

Recently, a friend of mine—whose wife is pregnant with their first child, and who I hadn’t seen in a few months—stopped by our place to visit and have a drink. After checking to see if my wife was in earshot he looked at me, eyes wide, and said “Be honest, man--what am I in for?”

For a second, I almost was. I was tempted to tell our story, to try explaining The Feeding Schedule and describe how during those first weeks, the differences between night and day, weekend and weekday, are largely semantic and wholly irrelevant. I almost broke out the Charlie Brown Football Analogy to illustrate how in the beginning, every "good" day makes it seem like you're tantalizingly close to a breakthrough, and in spite of all your better judgment you allow yourself to think, "man, today's the day I finally kick that damn ball!" but in the end you wind up on your back anyway, staring up at the ceiling, bewildered, wondering how it all went so wrong, so quickly. 

Instead, I handed him a beer and said “Well buddy, all I can say is your life is going to change, that’s for sure.” Let him find out for himself. Besides, they’re only having one baby anyway. How hard can it be?

24 weeks later: a father's recollection of our first months with twins (part two)

Part II   

One of the most common (and least helpful) things expectant parents hear is, “Boy, your life is really going to change!” As parents of twins, this became a daily occurrence. Family members, friends, and strangers at the store all seemed linked by a common need to let us know that when our babies arrived, “things are sure going to be different!” 

Thankfully, we were already on top of it and had vowed we’d be ready for this new and different lifestyle. My wife had scoured the library and local bookstores for materials on parenthood. We interviewed friends who already had children for hints, tips, and lessons learned from their experiences. We enrolled in hours of classes to help us prepare for the twins. We spent a weekend with a group of expectant parents studying Childbirth Education, took eight hours of night classes on nursing, and finished off the trifecta with a two-hour course titled “Mommy and Me,” a riveting yet touching experience where I learned the practical application of rectal thermometry.

Well-studied on parenting stories and with these classes under our belts, I felt we had a handle on how much change we were in for, thought we’d settle in fairly quickly once we got past the Great Unknown of the actual delivery. As an example, here’s a conversation between my wife and I during our first day in the hospital:

Me: “The nurses are going to ask whether we want the babies to sleep in the nursery tonight. I think we should say no—I mean, we’re going to be going home in the next few days and we won’t be able to pass them off to a nurse or a nursery then, so we might as well get started having them around tonight, right?”

Kate: “Makes sense, OK, let’s do it.”

This noble plan lasted until 9:00 p.m. By 9:30, after a frantic call to our nurse, the babies were resting peacefully (presumably) in the nursery. Kate and I were fast asleep (definitively) in our room…until midnight, that is, when the nurses brought Nolan and Nora in for their 12:00 feeding. And thus, we were introduced to The Feeding Schedule.

Ah, The Feeding Schedule: the one common thread initiating all new mothers and fathers into the collective kick-in-the-groin that is new parenthood. Mention The Feeding Schedule to any new parent you meet and I promise you that eight in ten will either cross themselves, shuddering, or break into tears. I firmly believe that whatever diabolical super genius devised The Feeding Schedule is also responsible for constructing Dick Cheney and unleashing Him upon this unsuspecting world.

Anyway...The Feeding Schedule. We were instructed to feed our newborns every three hours. Because of their low birth weights (5 lbs., 4 oz. for Nolan; 6 lbs. for Nora), we also had to supplement these feedings with small bottles. Our schedule consisted of round-the-clock feedings beginning at 12:00 a.m. and continuing through to midnight, when the schedule would begin again. In the early days, a typical feeding session went something like this: wake up 10 minutes prior to feeding time to get things prepared; wake up the babies with a diaper change; settle on the couch for feeding; wake up babies again (in those days, we actually worked to keep them awake--hilarious, I know); 20-30 minutes of intermittent nursing, followed by another 20-30 minutes of bottles; put twins back in the crib; clean up; back to sleep. A typical feeding session lasted anywhere from 60-90 minutes, which put us back in bed about an hour and a half before we had to get up for the next round. Rinse. Repeat. For 10 weeks.

That’s right—10 weeks. As we got into these routines and the babies got a little older, things became slightly more efficient--like a NASCAR pit crew we were frantically exploring ways to shave off precious minutes here and eliminate wasted seconds there, all in the quest for two full, unbroken hours of sleep between feedings. The first time we pulled it off in under 50 minutes we celebrated with a euphoria that bordered on the hysteric, and I place it fondly among our first parenting “success” stories. But even achieving these efficiencies, those first three months were brutal. I can count on one hand the number of nights where we had more than 4 hours of unbroken sleep, and those first weeks passed in a blur of coffee refills, missed meals, bad movies on FX, and marathons of Teen Mom and Jersey Shore. Thanks to 24-hour play loops, night and day held no real significance; I remember sitting on my couch one night watching Armageddon, holding babies in each arm, only to find myself in the same position the next day watching the exact same scene. Like that Bill Murray movie, Groundhog Day, only no one was laughing.

And so it went, all through January and into February. Finally Nora cracked the 10-pound barrier, and almost immediately she began sleeping through the night. Nolan soon followed. The shift was so abrupt and unexpected I didn’t believe it at first, sure it was some kind of trap. The first night I woke nearly every hour to check the monitor, certain something was wrong. The second night was every other hour; by the third night, I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, we’d reached that mythical Promised Land at which our parents and friends had hinted, that time when “it gets better.” I woke on the morning of the fourth day, seven (nearly) uninterrupted hours of sleep later, surprised to see the calendar read March.

24 weeks later: a father's recollection of our first months with twins

A caveat: for my first post on this blog, I decided to write my version of our delivery story, including my (admittedly hazy) memories of the first few months of parenthood. It captures essentially the first 3 months of our experience with Nora and Nolan, so it's a little long (for which I apologize). I've broken it into 3 parts, which I hope you'll enjoy and which--if nothing else--I hope will serve as a reminder to Kate and I if--somewhere down the line--we forget what the concept of "having a baby" really entails. Here's to us never forgetting.

***

Part I

7:45 a.m. on Monday, January 9. My wife—36 weeks and 3 days pregnant with twins—sat beside me in her doctor’s office when he popped his head in, looked at us, and asked, “So you guys want to have some babies today?”

To be fair, we weren’t completely shocked by this question. Because we were having twins our pregnancy was considered ‘high risk,’ and we had been warned from the beginning to expect an earlier delivery than a traditional single-baby birth. Her doctors had suggested we prepare for bed-rest by Thanksgiving, at the latest; my wife, being the determined (stubborn?) woman she is, promised she would make it through Christmas. Now, despite two brief hospitalizations for pre-term labor scares and weeks of increasingly-frequent contractions, she had carried them into 2012, and we were essentially “playing out the string” until her due-date arrived or the babies forced the issue (whichever came first). The previous night, after experiencing an alarming number of contractions and an assortment of other pregnancy-induced discomforts, her doctor suggested we come in for a check-up early the next morning.

My wife and I stared at him. Though not wholly surprised by his question, “Not Shocked” and “Completely Prepared” are totally different concepts. “Yes?” she said, and I half-nodded, half-shrugged in agreement. Her doctor picked up the phone and dialed the Mother/Baby ward at the hospital to confirm scheduling. Holding his hand over the mouthpiece, he asked “How does 9:30 work for you guys?” 

Within the hour we were checked into a hospital room, frantically texting/calling family and friends. Several nurses stopped in to perform pre-surgery prep work on my wife (and to drop off the stylish hospital scrubs I’d be sporting during the process). At 9:30, we walked in to an operating room made chaotic and terrifying by a whirlwind of medical professionals (twin births require double the number of attendants). By 9:50 all the prep work had been completed. “OK,” the doctor said, “let’s deliver some babies!”

At 10:01 my daughter Nora was born, and my son Nolan followed her into the world at 10:03. At 10:10, I woke to find myself on the floor of the operating room after passing out from the realization that I now had two newborn babies to care for. Ok, the last thing didn’t really happen, but the “overwhelmingess” was definite; I had doctors sounding very doctor-y as they explained baby-minutia in one ear, nurses rapidly firing off to-do lists, all amidst the backdrop of two crying newborns who were suddenly and irrevocably mine. The hours following the delivery room were a blur spent in a constant shuffle between the nursery (to spend time with our new babies), the recovery room (to check on my wife), and on the phone with my travel agent desperately looking for the first flight SOMEWHERE ELSE (kidding—sort of). At some point my kids received their first shots; at another, they must have had their footprints taken for our baby books, because those prints exist and I have no recollection of it occurring; later, someone must have given me their unofficial birth certificates and DNA samples because I found them scattered on the floor with my hospital scrubs the next morning. Parents and in-laws came to visit, left, and came by again. Finally, around 3:30 p.m., we settled into our room, each of us holding a sleeping, peaceful baby—a new mother and father confident and ready to face the challenges and responsibilities of mothering and fathering.

Yeah right.

Smoke Signals

It's a lovely Friday morning, already 90 and humid at 7am and I wake up with a low-grade fever. No big deal, just slightly annoying. I'm trying to pull it together for the babies, but they're having none of it. Instead they're focusing all of their little baby energy on being cute then irritating in turn. On the play mat in the nursery they maniacally shift from whimsically amused at the colorful toys I offer to royally pissed at the exact same toys mere seconds later.

Going back to bed is my heart's deepest desire at the moment, but in my slightly feverish state all I can do is look at the clock and hope. It will be here soon, oh so soon. I can almost taste those two magic words on my tongue, tantalizing, like a cold Mike's Hard Mango Punch..."nap time." Right on time I see the cues; eye rubbing, yawning, losing interest in playing. We are ready to rock. Nolan easily goes to sleep but Nora needs a little convincing, so I rock her for a while.

Finally...blissful nap time. They should be good for about an hour and a half. I decide that I'm going to try to get a little rest, too, and maybe sleep off this fever. I lay my head down on the pillow, close my eyes and

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The earsplitting sound from the hallway echoed and bounced off of the wood floors. With a racing heart, my first thought is not "Fire!" Rather it's "Oh my God, did it wake the babies up?!" I check the monitor. Miraculously they're still asleep!

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

There is clearly no smoke in the house, so it must the the battery. I yank the step stool out of the hall closet as quietly as possible, hop on, and open up the casing to check the battery type.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Like a cat, I jump off the stool and land silently on my feet, setting off at a sprint for the kitchen. "Dear Jesus, please let us have a 9 volt battery!" I whisper to myself.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Rummaging through the drawer, I find one. Triumph! I race back to the hallway and try to put the new battery in, BUT IT WON'T ATTACH TO THE CONNECTORS!!!

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

I frantically try to jam the damn thing in, growing more desperate by the second. Finally, it clicks into place. No more beeps; the smoke detector once again hangs above our heads, a silent guardian. Check the monitor again; amazing. They're still asleep! I slog back to the bedroom and flop down on the bed, so grateful that the ordeal is over. I lie down for my well-deserved nap and

Nolan wakes up. Awesome.

Happy Friday!

Hello Complete Stranger...

...Would you mind taking a photo of the spectacle that is Me Taking My Twins Grocery Shopping?

Yeah, that is probably not going to happen, which is why I have included an illustration courtesy of MS Paint (the idea to do this was inspired by my good friend Julia).

Left arm (or anything else for that matter) not drawn to scale.

Yes, that is an artist's (me) rendition of a mother (also me) pushing a double Snap 'n Go stroller full o' babies whilst dragging behind her (still me) a cart of groceries. Today we had reached the absolute limit of how-long-can-we-put-off-going-to-the-store and I was forced to take the babies to get groceries ALONE!

It went better than I expected, but took twice as long. This in part was due to the whole pushing-while-pulling maneuvering I was doing throughout the store. It was also partially due to the fact that we had to take about a 15 minute time out from shopping to go all the way back across the store because BOTH Nora and Nolan pooped and had to be changed! Aggh!

The third thing that kept me from my normal speedy and efficient trip through the aisles of Meijer was the curiosity, amusement, and horror expressed by the other customers. People kept stopping me to ask questions, offer help, and make comments. Reactions ranged from the most common "You've really got your hands full!", to "Wow!", "Do you need a hand?", one wide-eyed "Dear God!", and sometimes just laughter accompanied by a shaking head. I just smile, keep pushing/pulling/walking and try to avoid the people who try to stop me and tell me about their sister or niece or neighbor who has twins.

Overall, it was a successful trip and the people are Meijer are amazingly helpful. They even called a guy to help me load the groceries into my car! Now I know that I can handle the Grocery Trip with Twins and perhaps next time I will get up the nerve to ask a stranger to take a picture!

A Mother's Haiku

I'm suffocating

In baby farts while nursing.

Dear God, help me now.

Adventures in Babysitting

Attempting to find someone to care for your babies when you return to work is a daunting task...in fact, it's a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. 

First, you have to get a name. This can be a surprising pain in the ass. Considering child care is a business you would think that these women would want to be found, but apparently that's not the case. Recommendations from friends, neighbors of family members, and word of mouth is usually how you find these people, and if not then you go to a website like care.com (this is where we're at now. Ugh.). 

Next, you call each person and get the basic information; hours, fees, do they have room for infant twins, is the location convenient, etc. If all those things work out, and the person doesn't accidentally let slip that she wears a coat made of human skin, the next logical thing to do is meet the person and see her home. Theoretically from talking to her twice and seeing her house (after she cleaned it all up because she knew you were coming, of course) you should be able to trust this stranger with your precious babies. Done and done,

Except there is a part of the process that you didn't really think about when you first started. One that personal/professional recommendations, the promises from accredited websites, and all the well-worded caregiver profiles in the world can't erase.

That part is called "Wading Through the Crazy," and it is bizarre and terrifying.

One woman we met was 50+ years old, with waist-length platinum blond hair, and answered her door wearing a low-cut tank top and jean shorts that showed her butt cheeks. (This is the woman who, after talking to her on the phone for about 4 minutes to set up the meeting I perpetually referred to as the "Possible Smoker." I was right) When we came into her living room, not only did she not turn the blaring television off (or even lower the volume) but she actually laid down on her couch while we were interviewing her. Very professional.

One thing that has really helped in the Crazy Wade is Facebook. Do you know how many people don't have their profiles set to private? Thank god, or else I would have ended up meeting a 300lb teddy bear collector named Betty who has Facebook photo albums entitled "Baby Angels" (contains 14 pictures of, yes, baby angels), "Winnie the Pooh, Betty Boop, and Tinker Bell, too!" (14 pictures), and "JESUS" (39 artist renderings of Jesus in everyday situations, guiding the faithful). I am not making this up.

I truly hope that we find someone not crazy who can take care of the babies, and I hope it happens soon. I don't know how many more weird Betty-like surprises I can take in this search, and unfortunately in that "JESUS" album there was no picture of a lost mother-of-twins being guided toward finding the perfect caregiver.

 This was taken from Betty's JESUS album

Why We Don't Have Nice Things...(and neither should our friends)

Does Hallmark make a card that says 'I'm sorry my baby pooped all over the wall and carpet in your guest room, but we really had a lovely time and would like to visit again'?

Well, they should.

This weekend we were visiting our awesome friends B & K whose son is only 5 days younger than the twins. This was our first non-family overnight with the babies, and the first non-family-with-two-4-month-olds overnight hosting situation for our friends. No one quite knew what to expect.

Nolan and Nora were a bit cranky, but we were still able to get them and baby J put down for bed relatively easily. The adults were then able to relax a bit, have a drink or two, laugh, and try to remember what life was like before babies. It was a lot of fun even though, compared to a year ago, there were fewer drinks consumed and a much earlier bedtime for us all!

We all headed to bed: Corey and  I in one bedroom with the baby monitor, and the babies in their Pack n Plays in another. Around 4am we heard Nora start to fuss so Corey went to check it out. I remained in bed half-asleep, half-listening to what was going on in the other room. I heard the rustlings of a diaper being changed, nothing big. Suddenly out of the relative silence through the monitor I hear the unmistakable squishy-splat sound of a large, forceful and all-together unexpected bowel movement.

"Oh God!" came the desperate whisper of my husband through the monitor speaker. 

I jumped out of bed to come to my partner's aid. Rushing into the room I can see the horror of what happened reflected in Corey's eyes. Nora apparently exploded. Everywhere. Poo. Everywhere. It was all over her sleeper, blanket, and body. It was covering the dresser on which we had set up a changing station. There was poo on the wall and on the Pack n Play. It was all over the white carpet of the bedroom. Let me take a moment to remind you that we were guests here...these were not our things covered in feces, rather our friends'. Dear God.

So, at 4am, exhausted and slightly hungover (from the whole 2.5 drinks I consumed) I run downstairs and start going through our friends' cabinets looking for old towels, carpet cleaner, disinfectant, a bucket. Anything. We frantically cleaned up our daughter and as much of the poo as we could in the dark. Oh, did I mention we did this silently in the dark so we wouldn't wake up Nolan? Yeah.

We ended up getting everything cleaned up eventually and we got Nora back to sleep. There was kind of an awkward moment at breakfast when we had to explain to B & K what had happened, but of course they were great about it. Overall, I'd say it was a good visit.

Let's Play "Name that Fluid!"

If you are a parent you are all-too-familiar with the various leaking orifices that make up a child. Spit up, saliva, pee, poo, blood, eye gunk, you name it. Babies are disgusting. At first you make a big deal of it, calling your spouse over to see the poor diaper your daughter just destroyed or shrieking "Aaahh! Aaaahh!" when your son pees in his own face. It doesn't take long to grow (pretty much) completely numb to this kind of thing, and you find yourself covered, daily, in bodily fluids of all kinds. No big deal, just part of the package.

Today was something a little bit different, however. I was sitting on the couch finishing up nursing the twins, engrossed in my episode of LOST on Netflix, when suddenly I felt a strange sensation. At first, I couldn't quite place the feeling, even though it felt familiar. I felt warm...and wet. Oh. My. God. Did I just PEE myself?! I couldn't believe it! I didn't even remember feeling the need to pee, let alone feeling it urgently enough to wet myself on the couch!

I hurriedly set the babies down and, in horror, confirmed that my crotch was indeed soaked. Still shocked at how this could have happened, It wasn't until I looked at Nolan, who gave me a huge, gummy smile that I suddenly realized what had happened

While I was disgusted that Nolan ninja-spit up in my lap (even into my underwear. Awful), I couldn't help but smile because I didn't actually pee myself, as I originally feared. I'll take that as a win any day.

Delivering Terror

Corey and I were up feeding the twins late last night when we realized there was a white car in our driveway, running and with its lights on. Obviously we were surprised, since it was 2am, but in our exhausted state we thought that just maybe it was my dad? He has a white car. As I was holding a half-asleep Nora we were discussing just why my dad would be in our driveway at 2am when I saw a man walk by our front window! Moments later, there was a loud knock at the door. I almost dropped the baby.

You want to be wide awake for a late night feeding? Have a Prime Time Pizza guy loudly knock on your door at 2am by mistake. That'll get your heart pumping.

A New Parent Mini-Conversation

Me- "What's that on Nolan's forehead? Is that blood?!"
Corey "I dunno! Is that a bruise or something? What happened to him!?"
Me- "Oh wait...it's just chocolate. He's fine."

Ugh.

It is not even noon and we have gone through 15 diapers so far today...yikes. Babies, you need to decide: college or diapers? I'll be patiently waiting for your response. Thank you.

A New Parent Story

Order of events:

--Kate is jostled awake in the wee hours of the morning

--To her surprise, someone (me) is reaching out for her, attempting to pick her up by cupping the back of her head while at the same time supporting her back.

--"Um, what are you doing," she asks.

--I pause, confused, before replying, "Oh, you're not Nora. I apologize."

--I lie back down. We both quickly return to sleep.

Sadly, this is not a first for us.

Where We're Going We Don't Need Roads

Seven years ago today, a 24 1/2-year old Corey was getting ready for a drinks-and-darts first date at Mulligan's with a certain lucky lady named Kate. I wonder...if 31 1/2-year old Corey could jump in his Delorean (after feeding and changing his 6-week old newborn twins, of course) and go back to that night in February 2005...what would he say?

Surprise!

I know that everyone thinks their children are amazing, attractive, smart, and talented, but mine really are. For example, last night I was changing Nolan and trying to be careful about it (you know how unpredictable little boy babies can be while being changed). As I'm standing next to the changing table, half-asleep, I feel the oddest sensation down around my feet.

Somehow my son just managed to pee IN my socks. Incredible.

Kicking Butt

When one's days and nights are an endless cycle of monotony, sleeplessness, and stress (ie. by being a stay at home mom of twins) it is necessary to celebrate the small victories and accomplishments, or else there would be scores of mothers-of-multiples walking off cliff edges in the style of lemmings. So please forgive me as I do a bit of bragging, for my sanity's sake.

Today I celebrate because it is the first day that I have successfully packed up Nora & Nolan with their gear, strapped them into their car seats, and actually ran errands...alone! True, they were all drive-thru errands, but this accomplishment should not go unrecognized.

In addition, the weather has been so unseasonably amazing lately that I was able to take them for a walk in the double stroller AND bring the dog with us! We couldn't go very far because a) I'm still not 100% after the C-section and b) I took twins for a walk in the double stroller AND brought the dog with us, c'mon. But wow did it feel great to get out of the house and get some fresh air!

First Date

Last night Corey and I has our first Date Night since Nora & Nolan were born. It was nothing extravagant, we just went out to a neighborhood place for a drink and an appetizer, but what an amazing feeling to be outside of the four walls of your house! In all we were only gone for about an hour. Honestly we wanted to be gone for longer and we were in no rush to get home, but we're just so tired that it wasn't really worth being gone any longer.

I have to say I expected going out and leaving the babies to be harder than it actually was. I have heard so many times from friends and coworkers that I'll feel so guilty, I'll check my texts a thousand times, I'll make Nana send me photos on her phone...

Nope. Nothing. I don't know if that makes me selfish or a bad mother (I'm assuming not) but not once did I look at my phone, feel guilty, or really think about the babies. Oops.

Instead I feasted on goat cheese and fresh bread, savored a strawberry basil martini, and enjoyed the company of my incredible husband. Who (as a result of martini after nine months of sobriety) then had to drive me home to my wonderful babies, who I ended up missing after all...just a bit.

Goooo Team!

As new parents Corey and I are learning all kinds of interesting things and developing many new and useful skills. Even though we had never done them before, holding, changing, bathing, nursing, and dressing babies are all jobs that are becoming second nature. Our success at not letting our children die of exposure or starvation can mostly be chalked up to good ol' teamwork. With two babies, we really have to work together to make the logistics of caring for both come together.

If we were to entertain a guest, our visitor would most likely find us in the living room (see previous post), each sitting on a couch and each holding a baby. This is how we spend most of our time. One parent. One couch. One baby.

Because of this setup Corey and I have unexpectedly developed an awesome talent. Despite my almost crippling lack of coordination and athletic ability we now are able to throw things (blankets, burp cloths, camera, remote, etc) from couch to couch and catch said object in one hand while holding a baby in the other. No misses, no drops. Teamwork.

It's pretty impressive, really...so be impressed.

Living (Hell) Room

Our house is shrinking.

Since coming home from the hospital we have set up our base of operations in the living room. We put up a Pack n Play in the corner so we can set the babies down every once in a while, and they can nap. We feed them in the living room. We try to nap on the couches. We eat in there.

Large chunks of the house itself seem to be missing. I thought I remembered it having more square footage when we bought it. Bedroom? What bedroom? It's not like I need my bed for any reason and I've been wearing the same sweats for 3 days. Bathroom, yeah, but who has time for a shower? I would go to the kitchen but it's basically just a sink used for washing pump parts now. Thank goodness nice people keep bringing me food. Yum. We still have a basement? Interesting. I see no evidence of that fact.

Adding to the claustrophobia is that we have the TV on almost constantly; mind-numbing reality shows, the Weather Channel, sitcom reruns. We like to watch movies but we a) can't commit to a full movie because we'll just have to stop it when we feed/change/whatever the babies and b) all of our movies are downstairs, which, remember, we're not sure if that still exists.To remedy this we've been watching movie channels like FX, AMC, and the like. Did you know they play the same movies over and over again? We know now. 2012, Armageddon, Day After Tomorrow, Star Trek.We've seen these movies (or parts of them) so many times that combined with the lack of sleep it's starting to have an effect.

All Ben Affleck and no sleep make Kate and Corey...something, something.

Please. Let us out.

Still Alive

We have officially survived being home with Nolan and Nora for 24 hours. I just wanted to let everyone know, in case you were concerned. I can't say how much longer that will last, however. Whew.

Christened

It's official: on January 13, 2012, at approximately 7:00 p.m., my boy peed on me for the first time. I really think this should come with a prize, like a badge, or a certificate, or a decoder ring or something.

-Corey

Set 'Em Up

“Okay, go ahead and get dressed then walk over to the hospital. Labor & Delivery will be expecting you. I’d say the babies will be here before noon.”

It was 7:45am.

We weren’t necessarily expecting this. I had only brought The Suitcase as a precaution. The dog was at home still, there were dishes in the sink.  I mean, yeah we were 36 weeks and 3 days pregnant with twins and I couldn’t WAIT to not be pregnant anymore, but this was it. It was going to be REAL. No turning back; full on parent-hood was apparently less than four hours away...and we were terrified.

After nine months of my doctor warning of bed rest and premature labor, we walked (well, I waddled) across the skywalk to the L&D unit, bellied up to the nurses’ station at about 8am and half-stated, half-asked, “Hi. We’re supposed to have our babies now?”

A flurry of activity ensued. I was taken to a room where I changed into my gown and was given an IV. Corey ran home to get his things (we had been pretty certain we’d be going back home to wash those dishes) and a rapid succession of texts and phone calls were fired off, informing our loved ones that today was the day! By 9:45 Corey was changed into his scrubs and we were walking hand-in-hand down the hallway (my other hand was holding the back of my gown closed…yikes) to the OR. As we passed the nurses’ station everyone was cheering and waving; wishing us luck and telling us how they couldn’t wait to meet the babies. 

As we rounded the corner we could see the OR through the open door. Clean, cool, and calm, the sight of it offered a bit of relief from my nervousness and made my pulse slow slightly as we walked in. “Turn left,” the nurse said.

Apparently that was not our OR.

As we turned, an entirely different scene came into focus. This one was loud with sounds of beeping, loud talking, alarms, and other machines. It seemed as if the room itself was moving because there were so many doctors, nurses, and techs hurrying about, making adjustments and setting up equipment. The table at the center seemed to be a tiny, motionless island in a sea of chaotic preparations. My eyes were huge as they sat me on the table to administer the spinal. I don’t even remember where Corey was at this time, but the nurses held my hand as they placed the spinal and I cried, saying I was scared and wasn’t ready. 

The anesthesia started to work immediately and it felt like the most intense case of pins-and-needles I have every experienced…then I was just numb. This must have cheered me up, because I remember loudly telling the nurses that I was disappointed they couldn’t see my feet (I was wearing socks) because I had had a pedicure and got the right toes painted pink and the left toes blue. Very important stuff.

After a few pretty unpleasant few minutes on the table (I was not feeling well at all) and not even three hours after leaving our house that morning, at 10:01am on Monday, January 9 Nora Rose was born and her brother, Nolan Joseph joined us two minutes later.

And that is how our story begins.