Alarm Clocks and Boobs

My alarm went off at 4 am this morning. I lied in bed for a while listening to the soft, inconsistent burglaries of sleep. Then the alarm became more regular, more urgent, more intense.

Goddamnit. 

I got out of bed to fetch the offending offender. I trod through the living room, taking care to mind the obstacle course designed to break my neck: one double stroller, one Graco baby swing, two monkey bouncers, two exersaucers, and a drum that some parents thought would make a fine Christmas gift for a toddler. By this time, the second alarm clock has begun to sputter but softly. By the time I make it back to bed with the initial offender, the second alarm has hit full stride and demands a hit of the snooze button.

Sadie nursed for 10 minutes while Benjamin whined. When I finished nursing her I put her back in her crib and picked up her brother. 

It's crazy, but no matter how irritated I get that they're awake at 4 am, I still love the feeling of picking them up and having them nestle into me, half awake and faux hungry, looking for a breast, some love, some warmth. I love these night time feedings. During the day I feed them both at the same time. They lie awkwardly on my nursing pillow and wiggle around a lot. They almost always throw up right after (well, Sadie does. Bless her.) And we're often dodging the hands, feet and head of a well-intentioned, clumsy and over-eager (and sweet omigosh) big sister. But at night, I get to spend ten minutes alone with each of them, lying against me in bed, soft cold little hands curled against me and the soft, steady sound of their little mouths going to town. 

By the time I put Benjamin back in bed, Sadie is zonked out, oblivious to me and her brother. Benjamin gave a little whine as I put him down, but that's as far as the protestation went. He fell right asleep.

I, on the other hand, am wide awake now and ready for the day, and it's only 5 am.

And let's be real here. When I can sleep until 6 uninterrupted (mostly), I will be one very happy mama. 

To-Do

Growing Pains

Making tuna casserole tonight! Channeling my 1950's housewife! 

Benjamin started fussing during dinner prep this evening. Today I was on the fence about bringing in the exersaucer that's been sitting outside for the last year. While he was sitting in his bouncer Benjamin started kicking his legs and shaking his fists and starting his bored howl. 

"Fuck this."

I grabbed the exersaucer and brought it inside. It's caked with dirt and who knows what else, but I don't care. That kid is going in there, and he's gonna love it, so help me.

I plopped his butt in it. He loved it. His feet can't touch the floor and he has a hard time holding himself completely erect, but he fucking loves it. 

I washed it off with him sitting in it. He's happy, and he's smiling at me and I'm crying because I know it's all going to be super fast from here and I feel like an asshole for wishing and wishing for this time to come.

An Evening in the Life

4:15 I arrive home. The TV is blaring The Little Engine That Could. "Hey, ma. Benjamin is in there crying."

"Yeah, I just put him down. He has slept like 20 minutes this afternoon. He's tired. I'd let him try to sleep." He passes out.

Neil comes home at 4:35, sits down on the couch, and passes out. 10 minutes later I wake him up. "Spaghetti sound okay?"

4:50 I start the water for spaghetti. Benjamin starts crying. Turn off the water. Feed Benjamin. 20 minutes later, feed Sadie. 

5:30 Start the water again. Begin cooking spaghetti sauce.

While waiting for the sauce to cook, I unload the dishwasher. I pull a hot bowl out. "Ow!" 

Eliza shuffles over. "Mommy, are you okay, mommy?"

"Yeah, I just hurt my finger."

"I kiss it, mommy." I hold my finger out for her, and she pecks it. My eyes tear.

"Mommy, what is that?"

"Hamburger meat."

"I want hamburger. I want hamburger."

"No, not tonight, sweetie. Spaghetti."

By this point she's disinterested and walking away, thumb in mouth, mumbling about some hamburger she'll never have. 

2 minutes later, she's back. 

"Mommy, I want some cheese. I want some cheeeeeese."

"You can have some with dinner." 

Grated cheese falls on the floor. Eliza swoops in. 

"I want some more." Dirty fingers are searching for cheese in the Pyrex.

I shoo her fingers away from the glass. "Keep your hands out of there. If you want cheese, get what falls on the floor."

She looks to the floor for more cheese. I feel like an asshole.

A gurgling fart noise comes from the baby bouncers. 

"Sadie farted."

"Okay, let's go change her."

I pick up Sadie and take her to the changing table. Eliza says, "Change my diaper, mommy. Mommy, change my diaper."

"Do you have poop?"

"Yes."

While I'm changing Sadie's diaper, Eliza's hands are opening drawers and pulling out socks, shirts, pants, whatever she can grab.  

"Stop it. Stop."

She says, "I hurt myself, mommy." Maybe she shut the drawer a little bit on her hand? 

First things first. Put Sadie down. Feel, smell and look at Eliza's diaper.  No poop.

In the most disinterested manner possible, "Oooow. I hurt myself, mommy." She holds her finger up for me to kiss.

"There. Feel better?"

"Yeah," and she's gone, blanket in hand, other hand's thumb in her mouth.

I return to the kitchen and begin cutting up broccoli. 

Benjamin begins crying. Eliza comes over, "Mommy, I'm huuurt." She shows me her finger. 

"What happened?" I look for signs of distress, burns, smashes, scrapes, torn cuticles, a red spot. Nothing.

"Ow. I hurt."

I kiss her finger again.

Benjamin is still crying in the bouncer. I'm ready to drain the broccoli. 

"Mommy, I want up. I want up, mommy!" Fake sobs are nearing real tears. 

"I can't right now, sweetie. Dinner's almost ready."

"I want uuuuup. I want up, mommy! Mommy, I want up." Cue Benjamin crying.

"Neil, I'm drinking your beer!"

Benjamin continues crying. Eliza continues whining. Dinner is ready. 

I make Eliza a plate of food, pour her milk and water, and put it in on her high chair tray.

"You ready to eat, baby?"

"Yes, I'm ready." She raises her hands and waits for me to put her in her chair. I grab a bib from the table and put it on her. She looks down at it and looks up at me like I slapped her.

"This has oatmeal on it, mommy."

"It's okay. You can still eat your spaghettini."

"No."

"Really, it's okay."

"No! No! No! No! Noooooo!" Real tears.

Eliza cries for about 3 minutes. I quickly realize this was not the fight to fight.

"I want down. I want down, mommy. I want down."

"No spaghetti? You're not hungry?"

"I want down. My finger hurts."

I take her out of her high chair and she leans on me with her head in my lap throughout dinner. I feel like an asshole.

Dinner is done. 6:30. Bath time.

I take Sadie to the bedroom. Eliza follows and sits down on the floor. She grabs her big toe and sings, "This little piggy said whee whee whee." Sadie and I join her on the floor. We play with our little piggies. Eliza is tickled. I hold Sadie up and stand her on the floor. She's standing and smiling at me and Eliza. Eliza begins running around us in circles singing "whee whee whee."

I put Sadie down on the bed and bring Benjamin in the room. They both fuss the entire time I'm not holding them. Neil is bathing Eliza. 

"Okay, let's wash your tata."

"Neil, don't call it that. It's a vagina. 

Say vagina."

"I'm not saying that."

"That's what it's called."

"What about popo?"

"Uh, how about vagina? I'm not going to call my 2 year olds private parts a popo or a tata because you can't handle saying vagina. It's creepy. I don't want her having pet names for her vagina!"

"Fine, fine. I understand. Time to wash your va-GI-na." 

I mumble "idiot" under my breath. By this point both babies have been bathed, dried, diapered, lotioned and clothed for the final descent into sleep. I pull them on my nursing pillow and begin feeding them. Neil dries Eliza in the bathroom.

The babies pass out while eating, each stuck on a boob. 

Eliza says, "I'm hungry. I wanna eat."

Neil feeds Eliza the dinner she didn't eat, and I try to pry the babies off the boob without disturbing them too much. They both shrug up their shoulders, stretch out their little necks sand shake their heads back and forth. There will be crying.

I carry them to their room, put them in their cribs and kiss them good night. "I love you, babies."

I shut the door and wait for the crying. They both begin to wail within seconds of me shutting the door. Neil is playing songs to Eliza in her crib. I hear her yell out "Milk Train!" (Rollin in My Sweet Baby's Arms). 

The babies stop crying before eight. Eliza is down before eight. Successful night all around.

Monday

Going in for 2 crowns this morning, since my body continues the ever easier process of falling apart. Last weekend, part of my tooth broke off, like literally came off while I was chewing a piece of soft bread. This past weekend (yesterday) I got a clogged milk duct.

Few things are as terrible for this breast-feeding woman as a clogged duct, which will inevitably lead to antibiotics, which will in turn lead to... other not so pleasant bodily reactions. I spent hours last night massaging my boob and spraying renegade milk all over the house in futile attempts at relieving the clog, which ended with me crying in a hot shower- one last attempt to ease the pain and pressure, to no avail. 

The final act of a desperate lady:

Lying in bed, after a tense evening and talk with the husband, after about ten minutes of silence:

"Will you do me a favor?" I said.

"Sure."

"Will you suck on my boob?"

Silence.

30 seconds later. 

"That's a strange request."

"Never mind."

Dear Universe, 

Would you please give me one week with no sick children, no pink eye (me or my children), no sick husband, no mouth malfunctions, no allergy suffering, no painful boobs, and a few nights of sleeping straight til 5?

Forever yours,

Fiber girl

Re-Inspired

I recently gave birth to fraternal twins, a boy and a girl, and in the early throes of post-partum mania and blues I thought it would be a really good idea to journal. That didn't happen. Actually, I started to type an entry once, and I got 2 or 3 sentences in before screaming babies stopped me cold.

I could have started again. To be fair the babies weren't always screaming. I experienced a bout of bad timing the only time I ever attempted to write. After that, sleeping, eating, laundry, dishes, and oh yeah, my 2 year old daughter took precedence over my need to communicate.

The twins are now 3 1/2 months old, and things have calmed down considerably. My hormones have gone from raging ppd lady back to normal ebb and flo, raging pms lady. The babies now sleep mostly through the night. They smile and are adorable. They have their own room, they each have their own cribs, and I suppose most normalizing, I've returned to work, which brings me to a whole new level of domesticity challenges and work/life balance crises. 

A good friend of mine shared her blog with me today, and I found it fascinating and thought provoking. We talked about it over an over-priced brunch at this little place called Olivia. She joked that I should start a blog again. I laughed.  And then, as I knew would happen, as soon as I read her blog I wanted to write again.

Write about my experiences of being a mom, of being a mom of twins, of being a working mom, of being a judgy human, of working at a bong factory, of being a mom of 3, of being a wife with single-life fantasies, and of being a woman who is crazy in love with her husband, children, and life (most of the time). These are the themes I want to explore in an arena for people who are actually interested in such mundane conversations.