Category Archives: Twins: Our first year

Today’s Costco grocery trip by the numbers:

2 adults, (one a very kind and brave soul), 1 toddler, 2 almost three month old twins.

1 vomit incident involving gum and chocolate covered acai berries. 3 surpressed gag reflexes. 1 complete toddler outfit change. 1 hand and face washing.

Roughly 9 samples eaten. 14 items stacked around 2 car seats and said toddler. Including 1 jumbo toilet paper pack. 27 pitying looks from fellow shoppers.

2 screaming twins. 2 bottles mixed in the cafe area. 1 toddler escapee announcing to nearby onlookers that she is running away. 1 icecube eaten off the floor. 3 more gag reflex surpressions. 1 toddler strapped into the shopping cart and given a phone with a flashcard app.

1 suspicious baby toot. 3 strains. 1 attempted outfit save. 1 epic failure. 1 diaper blowout. 2 adults changing 1 baby covered in what seemed like 19 gallons of yellow goo poo. 1 discovery that the diaper bag outfits were for newborns. 1 baby looking like a sausage in a too small sleeper.

1 appropriately timed diaper change conducted in the appropriate bathroom location. 47 words exchanged with husband on the phone about a home arrival time. 2 precariously stacked carts exiting the store. 14 items placed in the back of the van. 3 children strapped into car seats.

1 hug of complete and unabashed gratitude exchanged with brave friend. 147 minutes spent in mild insanity. 5 seconds worrying about blood pressure. 1 tank of club member gas. 3 minutes spent figuring out if budget was kept in tact.

7 minutes spent plotting how to make trips to the store easier.

32 seconds realizing this is impossible.

11 swallows of lukewarm diet coke.

62 minutes home.

1. Heavy. Sigh.

Battle of the bottle vs breast

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Well, you probably could guess it was coming. At some point, I had to talk about boobs, right? I mean, babies don’t just feed themselves.

Believe me though, sometimes I wish they would.

So, feeding hasn’t exactly gone as planned with the twins. But to be honest, I don’t think there ever really was a plan.  I just sort of expected that things would work. Sure, I knew it was going to be awkward to get the hang of, but it was totally doable. I breastfed Ellis for almost the full first year, so I had a little prior experience. My friend Rachel gave me this really great twin feeding pillow, which I even remembered to bring to the hospital and dutifully pulled out every three hours when it was time for the girls to eat.

I. Was. Doing this. <insert Rocky theme song here>

***

indexIt’s interesting (okay, I think it is anyways) that how a woman feeds her baby gets a lot of hype. This is a little strange since babies HAVE to eat in order to survive, and there are really only two options for that – bottle, or breast. You’d think it wouldn’t have to be that big a deal. But I can’t tell you how many times I’ve surreptitiously been asked, “So, are you breastfeeding?” knowing that the answer was going to result in some sort of judgment, spoken or not.

I recently found an interesting article called “Why breastfeeding is a feminist issue” and this line in particular caught my attention:

“We live in an era when motherhood is hyper-competitive and driven by perfectionism. Everyone is trying to Get It Super Right Or Terrible Consequences Will Happen For Their Children, and everything seems to come down to mothers and their choices.”

I heartily agree with this (even if the reality of it makes me a little queasy), except for the last line.

Because sometimes, breastfeeding isn’t a choice. In fact, it’s a pretty stark reality: sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. And if it doesn’t, we all better dang well be thankful there’s an aisle in Target, or Kroger, or Safeway that has at least seven or eight different options to help ensure our babies don’t starve.

After all, that’s the whole point of feeding a baby, right?

***

Meanwhile, no matter how psyched up I was to breastfeed my twins, I couldn’t get around one small detail. I had no milk.

For six days after the girls were born, I breastfed, I pumped, and I even tried the Stanford University hand expression method that the lactation consultant was so gung ho about.

I got jack squat. Once in a while, a little colostrum would magically appear, and I’d breathe a sigh of relief. But after six days, I felt a little like a broken down old Holstein cow ready for retirement on the back forty.

detail_1255_medela_supplemental_nursing_system_00901Enter, the Medela SNS. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a stranger contraption. This little plastic bottle of formula hangs around your neck by a white nylon string. The bottom of the bottle has a little gauge on in that’s connected to two teeeeeeny little plastic tubes (think angel hair spaghetti) which are supposed to magically find their way into the baby’s mouth at the same time he or she is latching on to the breast. Open the gauge, and voila. While the baby nurses, a tiny stream of formula also makes its way into the baby’s mouth.

The point is to maintain breastfeeding patterns AND insure that the baby is actually getting a measurable amount of formula alongside. It’s great, in theory. Go Medela.

But in reality, at home on my couch, I found myself wanting to tear my ears off. Every feeding felt like huge production of screaming (me included) and stress. Are the girls positioned right? How about the tubes? Oh wait. Lucy spit hers out and dribbles of formula were streaming towards my armpits. Get it back in. Wipe armpit. Then Gabby moves. Her tube comes out. Ellis hollers “MAMA” for the hundredth time.

Relaxing was a joke. Bonding was not even on the table.

Meanwhile, the babies seemed hungry all the time, so by day four I quit scouring the books, searching online, and talking to friends. I threw away the SNS. I moved the special pillow. I busted into a tin of formula, found a couple of bottles, and bam. We fed the babies.

Afterwards, there was silence. Blessed, glorious, silence. The girls were like rag dolls, warm, snugly and totally not hungry.

***

When I had Ellis, I refused to use formula. She should be totally fine with whatever my body was producing, right? Except that we (family and friends included) all remember Ellis as the baby with the set of lungs that could rattle kettle lids. She was an adorable bundle of pure rage, mainly because she was hungry for the first two months of her life.

I didn’t know that though. I was blissfully ignorant in my thinking that breastfeeding was THE only option. Formula was BAD. I didn’t really have a reason, but I had basically been told I was superwoman if I breastfed, and sub-par if I didn’t by every birthing pamphlet, documentary, and mothering magazine. That was enough.dunce

Besides. If I didn’t breastfeed exclusively (all the freaking time) the baby wouldn’t get any of those really helpful antibodies and immune boosters and vitamins and nutrients that would ensure her status as a brilliant Mensa girl and her ability to calculate the circumference of each of Saturn’s rings.

This all changed rapidly when I had the twins.

The second I realized the twins were hungry, I had no qualms about feeding them formula. They had to eat SOMETHING, and I was, apparently, still broken.

You know what that decision felt like? Working up the courage to jump off the high dive for the first time. Liberating. Exhilarating. Shockingly Fresh. The babies were happy. I was no longer stressed that they weren’t getting enough to eat. My chest was getting a chance to heal. All of these were good things.

Meanwhile, I kept pumping in hopes that somehow my body would remember that it was actually supposed to be doing something. And on day six, my milk came. Not by the gallon or anything, but it was something. So I mixed it in with a little formula, and made sure that both babies got at least three ounces every time they ate.

A month later, I decided it was time to try breastfeeding again. Things had settled into a little bit of a pattern, and maybe we could make it work? Wrong again. The girls didn’t mind the switch, but they did mind staying awake long enough to eat. They also minded having to be efficient eaters. They’d nurse for half an hour each, fall asleep, and then wake up in an hour hungry again. I could fast see that exclusive nursing meant my butt might as well put roots down in the couch cushions.

So I kept up the pumping and bottle feeding, added formula whenever I came up a little short, and nursed every couple of days to make sure the girls would maintain that skill too. And here we are. Two and half months later, working the routine. Key word: Working.

***

images birdsIs my program perfect? Most definitely not. Sometimes I want to throw all the bottles and pump parts out the back door and run screaming away down the road because I’m so sick of washing everything. Talk about liberating.

But it works for us. The girls are growing. They are calm between feedings, and I never have to wonder if they got enough to eat. We’re up to around four or five ounces for each of them at every feeding now, most of the time exclusively breast milk. Each feeding time (including feeding, diapering, burping, pumping, and washing the dishes) takes about 45 minutes, which is about how long it would take if I were breast-feeding each baby separately.

This routine also works well with my toddler, who can “help” me feed the babies their bottles. Pumping is the only part that gets tricky with her around, since when I’m sitting down she wants to be on my lap, but whatever. We make do. We read books. We watch shows. We play blocks, play princesses, have tea parties, eat breakfast, or do whatever allows me to keep my torso mostly upright and near an outlet.

And the best part? I don’t feel guilty about it. Because no matter how politically charged the argument about breastfeeding is, it all boils down to helping my little ones thrive. If I can do that by breastfeeding, great. If I can do that by pumping and bottle feeding, awesome. If I can do that by using formula, splendid.

The end result should always and forever ONLY be about the BABY(IES). End of story.

PS – this quote kills me.

suote

Present duty, present pain, present pleasure

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IMG_20130918_095101_164Sorry, no post last week. We are in the middle of two really happy events – both Jason and my youngest brothers are/have gotten married back to back this month. That means last week I spent two days straight doing laundry, packing clothes, checklisting for a six hour road trip to South Dakota, etc. and the things I normally tried to sneak in (writing, eating lunch before 3 pm) took the last seat on the bus. And this week, I busted out my former life skills from working in a bridal shop and made a ribbon lined elbow length veil for my awesome future sister in law.

I also learned that putting said veil in the dryer FOR TWO MINUTES to try to shake out the wrinkles in the tulle will melt the whole dang thing.

Life lessons. IMG_1699

***

This week the twins are two months. Time passing, my how they’ve grown, etc. etc. Here’s my biggest PRAISE for this phase. We are all Sleeping. Through. The. Night. As in, they go to bed around 10:00 or 10:30 pm, and wake up pretty consistently at 5:30 or 6:00 am.

This feels a little like I’ve hijacked an ice cream truck and have a whole summer’s supply of those really bad for you but really good waffle cone drumsticks with the fudge drizzle on top. It’s amazing.

Here are a couple of mug shots from their recent photo documentation. My favorite might be Ellis “helping” by pointing out Lucy’s facial features while I’m trying to take pictures.

In other news, we had the two month check in this week. The good news is that the girls are starting to catch up to one another in weight- Gabrielle was at 10 lbs 14 oz, and Lucia at 10 lbs 1 oz. The bad news was that they had their shots. There are a lot of awful things in this world, but pinning down your infant on a hard clinic mattress and watching her get poked with a bunch of needles is pretty rough. Then again, coming down with whooping cough or some other Oregon trail-esque disease is way worse, so I count the shots as worth it.

***

 My friend Nate posted a great quote on Facebook the other day, and I’ve been thinking a lot about it.

From “The Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis”
TO MRS. RAY GARRETT: On the real program of the spiritual life—living in the present moment.
12 September 1960

The whole lesson of my life has been that no ‘methods of stimulation’ are of any lasting use. They are indeed like drugs—a stronger dose is needed each time and soon no possible dose is effective. We must not bother about thrills at all. Do the present duty—bear the present pain —enjoy the present pleasure—and leave emotions and ‘experiences’ to look after themselves.

That’s the programme, isn’t it?

I used to have a pretty big beef with the monotony of routine, but these days it saves my life. And as much as I feel like a fun-sucker to say it, the sweetest days can often be the ones with nothing going on. Those are the days Ellis climbs in my lap and we read story after story before nap time. I get to sit down on the couch with each baby individually and schnoogle with them. Laundry gets down, the chickens get let out, and some sort of creativity in the kitchen usually occurs in the form of supper.

Sounds a little like do the present duty, huh?

I completely love getting out and seeing friends and something other than my four walls, but no joke, it takes serious effort and lots of time. It’s like convincing yourself it’s fun to eat an orange. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t peel an orange properly. I usually end up hacking it open with a knife. And those little plastic orange peelers? Not helpful, unless you count squirting yourself continually in the eye with acid juice “help”. But the perfectly sweet, heaven-sent interior… that’s something entirely different. And it’s always worth it.

Do the present duty—bear the present pain —enjoy the present pleasure

At home or outside of it, I find myself doing all three of these, which makes my mind wander to a line from my grandpa’s favorite hymn Day by Day. Lovingly, it’s part of pain and pleasure, mingling toil with peace and rest.

I think these writers were on to something.

***

I ended the week listening to the newest Civil Wars album and holding my girls. Jason was chaperoning the elementary crowd at the homecoming football game (herding cats), but since the weather was calling for rain and the game started at Ellis’ bedtime, I kept the pink brigade at home and did a round of baths for everyone. And for a couple of hours after everyone was fed, bathed, and laid down, there was peace. Rest. Quiet. All of which I appreciated more because of their opposing activities during the week.

It was a moment of pure and present pleasure, and it fell over my shoulders like my favorite nubbly old sweater that I pulled out this week because apparently it’s cold now.

And all I can really say here is amen.

The six week aftermath

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August 31, 2013

August 31, 2013

My finger hovers over the button .

Cancel, or Delete?

I look at the picture again. Ellis is giggling. The gravel road is perfectly framed by late summer birch trees. There is movement, life. My hair is flying as I spin Ellis around. It is a good picture, except for one thing that really irks me.

My belly.

My belly in all of its post baby glory, hanging over the waist of my skirt, stretching out the pattern on my cotton tank top.

Cancel, or Delete?

***

The good part is that in the moment, I wasn’t thinking about my stomach at all. I was thankful for a walk that didn’t involve one or more kids screaming. There was sun, and there was warmth that spread out across my shoulders. I was happy to be playing with Ellis, cajoling her to walk a little further before nap time. I was even getting exercise that didn’t involve tromping up and down the stairs with two babies in my arms.

It’s easy to forget about your imperfections when you do simply that. Forget them.

But every time I walk past a mirror, I am reminded of my new contours. The extra weight I’m still carrying. And I’m also starting to notice something else creeping in around the edges.

It tastes of bitter.

***

The first time I looked at my post-pregnant-with-twins body in the mirror, I assessed the damage with a clinical eye. Stretch marks. Herniated belly button. Extra saggy baggy elephant skin under my navel. Pregnancy of any sort isn’t kind to the body during or after the fact. But pregnancy with twins is just downright mean.

And I’ve read the books. I’ve mentored young women, encouraging them to love themselves and the bodies they inhabit. I’ve written blog posts and essays and poetry about acceptance. About worth. About grace.

But it’s much easier to be the encourager than it is to be the one at the bottom of the pit with a rope I don’t want to climb.

I don’t particularly want to be nice to myself right now. I’m frustrated with how my clothes fit. I’m annoyed that my belly button protrudes out of anything I wear. I don’t feel like, well, me anymore. Which means something even worse.

I’m back to putting far too much stock in my physical appearance.

***

Last week, I scheduled my six week return visit to my doctor. After the nurse recorded all my vitals, the computer chimed a warning and a little black box appeared in the middle of the screen. She laughed, and turned the monitor towards me.

“Read this. You’ll like it.”

The monitor said something to the effect of “Warning. This patient has lost more than 10% body weight since the previous visit. Well check screening must be completed.”

Awesome.

My last clinic visit was six days before the girls were born. And my goal to gain fifty pounds? Accomplished. Thankfully it’s no small wonder that six weeks later, two thirds of it has disappeared. (I’m definitely a breastfeeding advocate for this (and many other) reasons.)

But now comes the hard part. The last fifteen pounds. Gaining back the muscle tone so that I’m not tired after a thirty minute walk pushing the stroller. And now, figuring out how to live with the reality of my stomach’s new topography.

If you’ve had twins, here’s the good news. The loose skin will tighten after a year or so. The herniated belly button is a bummer, but when you’re totally sure you’re done having kids, it’s a quick outpatient surgery to push it back in. The stretch marks will fade in six to twelve months, although their texture will always be there.

And the even better news? How you look does not have to change your ability to enjoy life.

Easy to say, less easy to practice.

But for what it’s worth, here’s what I’ve decided is a manageable set of rules  to deal with my new body.

  • Put away the clothes that don’t fit. It’s not enough to shove them to the back of the closet, unless you have a closet where you put them in a place you can’t see them.
  • Buy a few cute pieces you enjoy wearing. Don’t break the bank here, because you may not need them forever. But it’s easier to curb the “I don’t have anything to wear” frustration before it hits, not after.
  • Take the chaos out of meal planning. Focus on eating whole foods that require little prep and extra ingredients. No diet books. No powders. No pre-packaged mail ordered fifteen hundred dollar a month health food. I’m talking baked potatoes with broccoli, chives, and a little cheese. Oatmeal with berries. Apples with cinnamon and sugar. Chicken with veggies and rice. You’ve earned the right to go back to basic.
  • Ignore your mirror. Okay, brush your teeth and comb your hair. We’re all fine with that. But stop measuring yourself with your eyes. Put on your loose fitting clothes, make sure you don’t have baby spit up on them, and get on with your day. Clothes are just a necessary vehicle to accomplishing your goals. Once you put them on, you still have to do the rest. I can take care of my babies just as well in a size 10 as I can in a size 4.
  • Exercise when and however you can. Right now I’m taking a couple of walks a week, and am squeezing in couple of late evening pilates sessions. Never mind that my lower abs are shot and I can’t get through a regular routine. I’m still trying.
  • Stop talking about it. The more you give your imperfections attention, the bigger they seem. In short, take license to tell your inner critic to shut up.

And if all else fails, I’m buying myself a container of lowfat icecream and calling it good. Tomorrow is another day.

Welcome to the mom scene

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This Thursday, I explored new territory.

Yep. I went to my first mom’s group.

I’m a little late to the stay-at-home-mom scene. I’ve been working up until this point, so I was the one who had to politely decline morning bible study invites, midweek play dates, and spur of the moment trips to the zoo.

It was hard at first, being THAT mom. Feeling somehow disconnected from my daughter. But slowly I learned to give myself grace. An allowance for our circumstances. And to do the best I could with the time I did have with Ellis.

But today I saw things from the other side of the fence. Literally.

The mom’s group met at Sundance Mission Stables just north of Scandia. While the older kids were taught a lesson in grooming horses, the mamas with babies and toddlers in tow congregated in the horse barn with Barb, the owner. Barb had a single horse on a lead rope, and she asked each of us if we wanted to lead the horse around the ring, back it up, turn it around, etc.

As the women took their turns, it was evident many of them had never been around horses. Barb took this opportunity to connect how they asked the horse to obey with how they asked their children to obey.

Some of the women were timid. Some had difficulties asking the horse to back up. Some were not sure whether to lead or to follow the giant creature gently plodding the dirt ring of the enclosure.

And in the back of the group, I stood there thinking, “I’ve SO got this.”

I grew up around horses. I participated in horse camps, riding competitions, and even took English dressage lessons for a summer. If there’s one animal I know a lot about, it’s a horse.

So when it was my turn, I confidently walked up to the horse with Ellie on my hip, patted his nose and neck for a moment to introduce myself, and then firmly took the lead rope and led the horse around the ring.

After putting the horse through his paces and arriving back to Barb the facilitator, I expected to be congratulated. I was confident. In charge. I made sure the horse did everything it was supposed to.

Barb smiled and said, “Well, I can always tell a lot about a mom’s parenting style by the way she approaches the horse. This assertive, or even aggressive method certainly gets the job done, but leaves the door of resentment wide open for children later if they are not given a little more space, or rope on the lead.”

Aggressive? Assertive? I was thinking more like “Wow, she was great with that horse. See how she was calm and in control?”

Hm.

I smiled it off, made an offhand comment about having a little horse experience, and let the next mama take her turn. But inside, I felt off kilter. Me? Aggressive? Seriously? How does she decide this from how I walk a horse around the ring? Is she some sort of parenting guru? I’m so even keel. Kind. Calm. I DO NOT GET MA…

Oh. Right.

I am the parent who responds immediately with a raised voice if my daughter is doing something she shouldn’t. And I’ve done my fair share of shoulder-hauling to the timeout step in our house, and yes, I’ve spanked my daughter when she’s bitten me (it’s the only swattable offense in our house these days.)

I’ve also questioned how effective any of this really is. (Seriously. If my daughter puts herself in timeout when I point to the stairs, I might need to rethink things.)

***

Afterwards, I met some really great people, reconnected with an old friend, and breathed a prayer of thanks for the mothers that were prepared and brought more than an air temperature 32 ounce water bottle for their toddlers at snack time.

(I thought I was doing pretty good to remember the water bottle.)

The more I am faced with these everyday challenges, the more I realize I have a lot to learn about what children need. (Uh, snack food, for starters.)

But more so, I think I need a little more calm to balance my firm hand. A gentle voice instead of an angry one. The patience to get down at face level and talk a situation through instead of immediately resorting to time out. Don’t get me wrong. All the latters have their time and place. I just need to figure out which and when.

Preferably before the twins turn two. Which means I have a long ways to go.

***

Do you have a preferred parenting tactic for toddlers? I’d love to hear it. Really. Truly. Comment away.

PS – In other small accomplishments, I figured out how to completely collapse the stroller, and then forgot again when I had to leave and ended up manhandling it only half folded into the back of the van. I think I also got manure on my shirt in the process, but I’m just chalking that one up to the hazards of mom’s group on a farm.

Waiting – it’s now for everyone!

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Amazing what a steady diet of milk does in one month's time.

Amazing what a steady diet of milk does in one month’s time.  Lucy on the left, Gabby on the right.

Today, the twins are one month old.

It’s a little hard to believe, really. First of all, it’s somehow now late August. School will be starting soon, and I’m pretty sad that this is the first fall in the past four years that I won’t be pulling onto the Hamline University campus in a breathless mess and already three minutes late for class.

As I’m forever telling my girls these days, “You’re just going to have to wait.”

It’s kind of funny though, that after all those long pregnant months of waiting, I’m still finding it necessary to remind myself and my little family members that waiting is now a part of our lives. The need to exercise patience didn’t just disappear the moment the girls were born. If anything, it became more necessary.

But somehow, I still haven’t learned my lesson. I stand in front of the mirror and glare at my stomach, which has taken on the characteristics of a half deflated football. Oh, right. A half deflated football with a herniated belly button.

I am chasing after Ellis, reminding her to wait to go potty until I’m in the bathroom with her, lest we have another “I do it mama” feet in the toilet bowl incident.

I push out the phrase “can you wait a moment” with great regularity when I’m on the telephone in order to shift the phone to the shoulder my newborn is not wailing on.

I am living my life by the clock, and every three hour segment is like a small battle that’s been fought (and not always won.) A schedule for twins is a necessity, but sticking to the schedule means that someone, something, or somewhere is always going to have to wait. Me included.

All this waiting isn’t necessarily a bad thing. They say that twins develop a very healthy sense of patience early on because of the continual waiting for one or the other. And Ellis, for the first time in her only child kingdom, is learning what it means to have younger, needier siblings. As for me, well, I’m learning that a little crying doesn’t hurt anyone. In fact, the Mayo Clinic says:

Crying it out

If you’ve tried everything and your baby is still upset, consider letting your baby cry it out. Crying won’t hurt your baby — and sometimes the only way to stop a crying spell is to let it run its course.

Of course, listening to your baby wail can be agonizing. If you need to distract yourself for a few minutes, you might take a shower, call a friend or make something to eat. 

For the record, there is one thing I don’t have to wait for anymore. Growth. These girls are growing at a pace that rivals the clover trying to overtake my entire front yard. Here are their pictures at one month, and a cute one of big sister now that she’s two.

Getting them all together in one picture may, however, have to wait another month or two. Compliance for a two year old and two newborns with little neck support will require a little more training.

A hymn to real life, and to you.

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1148999_10151733553435502_2040390506_nFor the beauty of the earth.

These are Minnesota’s perfect summer days. They are long enough to be savored, and yet seem always a few hours too short. Jason has just finished mowing the lawn, and the yard is welcoming and wide.

For the glory of the skies.

A couple of nights ago, I took the garbage out and realized it was the first time I had set foot outside the house all day. Sometimes, the house feels like a cocoon. It is safe. Everything is close. Nothing can harm us. But the problem is this:

I can’t see the way the stars arch overhead, or how Jupiter really, honestly, does look red against the black of the night sky. So I stop. Put my hands behind my aching back. Stare at the sky. Breathe.

For the love which from our birth, over and around us lies.

I have not had to cook this week. Okay, except breakfast. (A recipe for blueberry cornmeal pancakes was just screaming to be tried.) But other than that, friends have brought us dinners every night. And that might not seem like a big deal, but every time someone takes the effort to carry a box or a basket of food across my messy threshold, I feel surrounded by love and care.

You know why? Because not making dinner saves me about two hours of food prep, cooking, dishwasher loading, hand washing, and cleanup. That is two hours more time to hold my little ones, who are fast growing. It’s time that the rest of the household enjoys in various ways. It is a blessing – a hand over my hand, stilling my activity, bringing me calm.

And the best part? Seeing friends. Sharing the babies – the soft warmth of them nestled into welcoming arms. I love the way Ellis scrambles up from whatever she’s doing when she hears a knock on the door, or how she gets a little bit sad when everyone leaves, and asks when her friends will come back again.

Lord of all to thee we raise,

I haven’t had nearly enough chances to respond to all the encouraging comments I’ve received on my blog posts over the past few months. And nothing short of going back and thanking each of you personally would be socially acceptable. But right now, I really can’t do it. So please accept what I’m about to share.

The words I’m lifting up are for you.

There were days when I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage all this new adventure. And you made me laugh with your comments. There were days I wrote funny, goofy little posts. And your responses made me smile. There were serious times when I was totally freaked out about what was coming. And the stats page telling me how many people had read my last post made me realize I wasn’t doing this alone.

My friend Jules told me this week how she much she better understood the phrase “it takes a village to raise a child” now that she had two. I wholeheartedly agreed. Without the extra hands that are helping us in so many various ways, I would be a wreck. (Okay, sometimes I’m still a wreck, but that’s really my own fault.) But because of you, I am encouraged. Lightened.

Raised.

This is my hymn today. I’m humming it around the house, and I’m thinking of you, my friends, my family, with love. With thankfulness. With heart.

This our hymn of grateful praise.

Life as we know it: the first two weeks

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This Friday evening, we went to Night on the Town in Almelund. It was a quintessential small town celebration – brass band in the park, classic car show, ice cream, Swedish sausage. I was just happy to get everyone out of the house on a perfect summer evening.

We loaded the girls in their stroller. Granted, it’s kind of a spectacle. But it must have been too much for one woman, who commented as she walked by:

You have my sympathies.

I have a strong case of Midwestern passive aggressive, so I just raised my eyebrows a bit, smiled, and said “Thank you.”

Your sympathies?

She hasn’t been around to see everything that transpired this week. Ellis made us roll on the floor laughing when she used her newest phrase, “No daddy, I don’t think so.” And Gabrielle sometimes smiled when she finished her bottle. Lucia still wanted to curl up like a little frog when I held her on my shoulder. And Jas and I? We kept each other sane with humor during our middle of the night dual feeding sessions.

Sympathy. Huh.

Yes, life as we know it is pretty different. Everything during the day revolves around a three hour schedule, which can be thrown out the second someone decides she’s hungry early. Entertaining Ellis (or just making sure she’s not coloring on the computer screen with a ball point pen) continues to be a challenge when I’m feeding little ones. Eating 3000 calories of the right kind of food every day is a feat of strength, and waking up in the middle of the night and the early hours of the morning makes me tired down to my bones.

But no matter how long the days get, I still wouldn’t say they’re worth sympathy. This period is short. (I think.) I’m taking the time, wherever I can, to hold the babies close. Let them fall asleep on my chest. Play with their long fingers. I love nuzzling the soft smoothness of their cheeks, which will soon enough be flushed with busyness and playtime.

Sympathy can take a hike.

However, in case you want a laugh, here are the top ten family changes I’ve noticed in the past two weeks.

  1. We cannot leave the house with any less than three trips to the van.
  2. Preparing to leave said house takes a solid hour and half.
  3. No matter how well I pick up the house at night, by noon, some sort of hurricane will scatter every bottle, diaper, rag, mega block, and plastic toddler toy we have in our possession.
  4. Ellis has developed a new word in her vocabulary. MINE.
  5. Ellis needs a dog.
  6. I need a new collection of recipes that I can prep in 15 minutes or less. Either that, or a personal chef. And a maid for the aforementioned mess hurricane.
  • PS. If you’re interested in helping us out with a meal, my friend Shara set up a meal tracker website for us. Just go to takethemameal.com, and sign in with our last name (Riebe) and password (1114). You may be promoted to sainthood in my book.
  1. The twins do better together than separate. All nap
    Bedtime stories require a little more arm strength.

    Bedtime stories require a little more arm strength.

    times find them crammed in the same bouncy seat, crib, or blanket. This is starting to be a challenge now that they are growing.

  2. Gabrielle will take any and all opportunities to relieve herself during diaper changes.
  3. We are averaging about a 100 diapers a week.
  4. Sleep is like Dairy Queen. I never get enough, and if things are really bad, I actually start to crave it.

There you have it. Life with newborn twins and two year old. I’m sure it will continue to get even more interesting, but for today, this is plenty. All I can say is that Grandma Doreen traveling here as I type, and we are more than looking forward to her helping hands for a week or two as we settle into the new normal.