Present when I need it most

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It starts at 3:23 am, a hungry cry.

And then another, 4:08.

7:07 welcomes a broken chunk of window lattice, and Ellis rapping on the window. Followed by an exclamation. “Mama, I’m poopy.”

7:11, a glance in the mirror when no glance should have been taken, hair three days bedraggled, face a tired shade of pale.

Ellis asks me at 7:14 if I am crabby. I do not lie.

There is snow on the ground and the floors are chilly, so I attempt to build a fire at 7:34.

At 7:40, there is no longer a fire.

I am in the middle of a soggy bowl of Special K when the hunger chorus erupts from upstairs at 7:45.

8:30 – Diaper time for all three girls.

At 8:52, the twins are asleep in their swings. (And as a quick aside, one of the best pieces of advice someone gave me about living with twins was to never to put anything off. If the time is available to do something, it behooves you to make the most of it. So when my girls sleep, it’s the perfect time to get my toddler outside in the morning.)

I cajole Ellis into her snowsuit, boots, hat, and mittens.  We venture outside to let the chickens out, collect eggs, and generally burn off steam.

I am away from the clock at this point, but I know we have at least an hour or so of solid sleep time. Ellis needs to play outside as much as I need to go straight back to bed. She wins. Until suddenly the world is tragic, and the only way she can fight off her frustration is to flop face first into the snow when I’m trying to get her to walk. And then something happens.

I break. Every single frustrating minute from the morning pile-drives my patience and I have to fight back against the weight of it. So I yell. I yell at my daughter to stop laying in the snow so we can walk down the driveway. She yells back, and we both stand there, snorting steam into the winter air. I imagine we look like rams, heads lowered, ready to clash again at any moment.

I turn away, staring down the length of the snow-covered driveway. I feel a thousand miles away from anyone.

“A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.”

The verse from Proverbs 15 comes from out of nowhere, slips in the door without knocking, stands in front of me.

It is another confrontation. But this one I know how to handle.

I pick my little girl up off the ground, and then I get down on my knees in the snow. Her blue eyes are crystalline with tears. I apologize for my yelling, tell her I love her. The wind blows around us and I feel it pushing away the heat of my anger.

Happy now

Happy now

My daughter looks at me, wiping her nose on the back of her mitten, and says, I sorry too mama. I happy now. I laugh. Happy now is her code for everything’s okay. I’m ready to move on.

And just like that, it IS okay. We walk down the rest of the driveway, check the mailbox, come back to play on the play set, and journey off to go pick another bunch of wild grapes growing on our corn crib. They are incredibly sweet after the frost.

I grew up in the church, so I’m familiar with the phrase “the word of God is living and active”. I also get that it sounds a little fake, or maybe just too evangelical, but hear me out. Because I haven’t ever felt a bible verse be more present and real than in that moment, in the snow, having a face-off with my toddler.

The verse became more than a platitude. It became truth – real, actionable, truth. Anger put a sudden halt on my discipline, but Forgiveness let me walk hand in hand with my daughter.

I don’t have a lot of time for quiet, introspective Bible reading these days. I think God knows. I think He also understands, and in the moments when I’m almost ready to crumble, He carefully places a verse in my palms.

Then He waits for me to do something with it. Because it’s not enough just to know truth.Truth needs to be practiced, moment by moment, mess by mess, until it’s meaning emerges.

Living. Active. Present when I need it most.

Leveling the playing field of importance (why wiping butts counts for something too)

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Minnesota autumnIt’s November, and darkness narrows the margins of my landscape. It lingers later and later into the morning, and calls again far too early in the afternoon. Much of the color has been blown from the trees and fields. Only the framework of the growing season remains.

Sometimes I think bears have it right. Hibernation is a great idea.

I’m looking in the direction of winter, steeling myself. It has been a challenge to get out with the girls even when the sun is warm and daylight streams through the branches of the oak trees in my yard. But now there will be the need for hats. Mittens. Boots. Blankets. Extra everything just in case of emergency.

There will be long afternoons when everyone is restless. There will be floors to mop. A bathroom to clean, over and over. More art projects to stock for, and another collection of rags covered in glue and feathers to toss in the garbage.

There will be stretches of days when the weather is so inclement that it’s safer for me to keep the girls tucked in at home. There will be wind. Cold. More darkness.  And it will be very easy for me to listen a little bit longingly when I’m at the table with family and friends who are out and about, active in their worlds, doing their work.

I took a walk this weekend with a friend, and had the privilege of listening to her explain her work in the realm of therapy and healing. We kicked along in the leaves and dirt, pushing air through our lungs, needing the exercise in different ways – calm and contemplative for her, world widening and leg stretching for me.

IMG_2194(Let’s be honest. Sometimes the furthest walk I get in a day is to the chicken coop and back. PS. Our chickens finally started laying this week. Phew.)

At one point in the walk, she laughed and said something like “do you really want to hear all of this?” and I couldn’t say yes fast enough, because it was so nice to have the luxury of extended, uninterrupted discourse. But another answer, hidden and a little bit ugly, was there too.

I loved listening because I felt as though I didn’t have as much to say. And I didn’t have as much to say because I felt like what I spent my days doing was not as important.

I tried to laugh this off in some sort of offhanded joke about spending my time wiping bottoms. My friend laughed too, but then she said something I won’t forget any time soon.

She reminded me that there is a huge importance in raising a child who loves others instead of harming them.

That the world can be a dark place unless we know the One who is the light of the world.

That everything a parent, grandparent, caregiver, or extended family member does to further and support a child is necessary and beautiful because it creates a healthy, well-adjusted little person who cares for those around him or her.

It is important work.

I adore being home with my girls, but I’ve also had to push hard against feeling like I’m no longer contributing as well to society, to my church, to my family, or to my friends. That my home is now a place of chaos instead of a welcoming calm. That maybe I shouldn’t go out, see friends, or even take walks because of the potential for all hell to break loose when the girls get tired and hungry.

(This is where I also love being married to someone trained in psychology, because the best way Jason encourages me when I am afraid of something is to make me visualize the worst possible outcome. These days that’s basically a lot of screaming for a fairly short period of time until the problem is solved.)

It’s easy to keep spinning the unspoken fears that live in the back corners of our minds. But the broad and bright reality is that when we actually voice them, testing their truth against the air, we can finally see them as what they are. Fiction. Story. Nothing more.

But maybe what I also needed to hear was external validation. Validation to believe that I what I was doing was just as important as any the work of any doctor, teacher, or architect.

KindnessI’m not trying to get all “motherhood is the highest calling” here. The problem just repeats when any one person claims more importance than anyone else. I just want to believe the truth that raising a family is important, not because I have anything to prove, but because I owe it to my girls.

If I believe that my work is small, I may as well tell my girls that they are insignificant.

If I believe my world to be small, how can I show them how wide and big it actually is?

And if I believe that my worth is small, how can I teach them the steadiness of their value?

These are hard realities. They require action every time an unfounded fear darkens my eyes. But the practice of pushing them back, and the grace that results, is like the fire we continue to build night after night when the cold settles in sharply outside the windows, the crackling amber heat a solid wall against the pressing chill.

It may need to be coaxed day after day, match after match, but coals that are well-tended need only a brief reminder to burst brightly again into flame.

 

 

 

A litany of I’m sorry and thank you’s

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sorry-650x650To the gas station clerk about to close when I come busting through the door at 10:02 pm and make a beeline for the milk cooler: I’m sorry, and thank you. Breakfast time is a lot less stressful when there’s no one crying about dry cereal.

To my chickens: Thanks for understanding that half the time I can’t physically get out of the door of my house to let you out of the coop until after 10 am. Please don’t hold it against me. And please start laying eggs soon.

To the friend across the table: yes, I see my daughter chewing on her silverware and putting obscene amounts of butter on her bread. But more importantly, I see you. And I want to talk to you. We may have to remind ourselves to focus five times a minute, but our time together is worth it.

To the person on the phone: I’m sorry it sounds like I have Tourrette’s Syndrome. Wow, really? I think – STOP PUTTING YOUR FINGER IN THE BABY’S EAR – we can do that. I promise I’m listening. I’m just also playing referee.

To my husband: Buddy, someday soon I will be able to wipe the sleep out of my eyes, join you for breakfast every day, and have a real, uninterrupted conversation. It’ll be like a date every morning, except that I might also make the coffee, scramble the eggs, and will more than likely be wearing fleece and stretch pants.

To the grocery store checkout lady: Yes, I’m telling you that before my daughter ate the majority of one banana, the bunch weighed two and half pounds. Thank you for trusting me.

To anyone entering my home: There may be dust lions in the corners, lady bugs on the ceiling, and soap rings on the bathroom sink. I have learned to stop stressing, do what I can, and be patient with the rest. I hope you can too.

To the highway patrolman: Thank you for the warning.

To my Ellis: Thank you for climbing on my back when I do push ups, pinching me in the bum with the salad tongs, destroying every block tower I build with you, and telling me to CALM DOWN. You keep me laughing.

To the people behind us in church: I’m sorry we’re distracting. I’m sorry we’re almost always late, make a fair amount of noise, and rarely stop moving during the service. We love being a part of this community, and we are thankful for your graciousness.

To our parents: I know your time is precious, and the fact that you choose to share it with us so often inevitably means a sacrifice of something else. What you may not know is that your granddaughter thanks her Jesus for you at almost every meal, and we do the same whenever we think of you. PS. We owe you a million cherry pies.

To my classmates, professors, and writing group: A majority of my subject matter now seems to be about babies, mothering, and crap I probably should have known before starting this parenthood journey but am now stuck clumsily learning along the way. Thanks for understanding that sometimes writing has to come from where we’re at.

To my Gabby: You are precious, happy, and full of smiles. I’m sorry your sister is forever lying on your stomach if we nurse because you happen to be an extra inch longer and she fits better in the crook of the arm-chair.

To my Lucy: You are treasured, spirited, and always ready to snuggle. I’m sorry your sister’s squalling is usually what you have to wake up to. If it’s any consolation, it means you get to eat more because that’s the best way to calm you down.

To the UPS guy: I’m sorry I answered the door last week in a princess dress, plastic jewelry, and baseball cap. I hope you had a good laugh later.

To You: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that someone, or something, has made you and I want to apologize for everything in our lives that isn’t perfect. Isn’t straight. Isn’t plumb. Isn’t clean. Isn’t smart. Isn’t fair. Isn’t pretty. Isn’t on our terms of time.

Because even for all that, we are wanted.

For all our messiest messes, we are still full of worth.

For all our self-perceived shortcomings, we are still wonderful.

And for everything we HAVE to do make it through the day, there’s always more to who we ARE. No apologies needed.

More than being present

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I have a chalkboard in my kitchen. It’s one of those Pinteresty decorating ideas that I totally fell for, because I love words, and more importantly, I have a kindergartener’s obsession with chalk. IMG_20131016_221806_390

Earlier this summer, I wrote a verse from 1 Thessalonians on the board. In a way, I did it as a sort of challenge to myself. The verse read “Be joyful always. Pray continually. Give thanks in all circumstances.” It seemed like the formula for living present and aware. I figured the timing was about right, because I was already feeling all sorts of pregnant crazytown and it would be good to see a reminder about resetting my focus when things went haywire.

The idea of being present has become a little bit of a catchphrase. It’s all over those inspirational wall sayings on Facebook. It’s in the quarterly newsletter from my local healthcare provider. It was even a story in my REALSIMPLE magazine this month – “Ten ways to be present NOW.”

Don’t get me wrong. Being present is really important. But should it be the end stop? I guess I don’t want to show up to something just to be there. I want to be transformed in my awareness.

If I’m present in my happiness, I want to filter that happiness into some sort of creative act later. If I’m sad, I want to remember that other people get sad too so I don’t feel so alone. If I’m angry, I want to figure out how to curb it without damaging anyone or anything around me.

All the snowboarders and thrill seekers in the world might disagree with me, but I think there’s more to experience than just the actual experience. What if I experienced to relate, to encourage, to emote, to praise? What if I took those things back into the community I lived in, and put them to work?

When I whipped out the best cursive I could muster and scrawled down that bible verse, I told myself I was ready. I was going to do more than just be present when the babies came. I was going to be transformed by it.  I was going to search out the GOOD in the moment, trace it back to its Creator, and then give thanks for it.  

Now let me be honest. It’s all fine to lay out my good intentions, but it’d be another thing entirely if I let you think I’d learned how to be Mother Theresa overnight because of a dusty bible verse on a chalkboard.

Being “joyful always” is not my natural first choice emotion when I’m scrubbing yellow mustard poop out of the outfit one of the girls was supposed to wear. “Praying continually” doesn’t happen when I’m blind with exhaustion. And “giving thanks in all circumstances” was the last thing on my mind when the doctor called to tell me Lucia failed her newborn hearing test and we needed to get her re-screened right away.

But I’m trying. And in the middle of it all, sometimes, a tiny part of me changes.

***

Yesterday the girls turned three months old. And you know how sometimes, you look at mile markers and think, where did the time go?

I know exactly where it’s gone.

I feel every single one of these three months. Nothing has been a blur. (Well, okay. Maybe the diaper bill.) There have been moments of deep and crazy love, and moments of completely disheveled how-am-I-going-to-handle-this insanity.

I feel these months in my feet the way I did when I worked at a bridal shop that didn’t allow anyone to wear shoes in the store. I feel them in my newly re-muscled arms. In my ravenous appetite and never ending water bottle refills. I feel them in my conversations, which constantly tread water around the topic of babies. I feel them in quickly whispered prayers that I breathe over the girls when I lay them down to sleep.  I feel everything.

The past three months have been an exercise in dealing with all this feeling. But perhaps the hardest thing for me to acknowledge in the middle of all this change and miniscule amounts of transformation is this:

I feel a lot better when I have help. 

Whether I ask for or simply accept it, help makes everything less overwhelming. Help makes the present something I can enjoy, instead of something I rush through so that I can get everyone to bed.

Ellis has a new phrase lately. “I do it myseff, mama.” Pretty standard among toddlers, but the first time she said it, I had to try not to laugh out loud. Of course she couldn’t put her hair in a ponytail by herself, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try.

And fail.

And then holler, hot-faced and cranky, for help.

I laugh, because I’m the adult version of my daughter. I maybe have a teensy little problem with being independent, self-sufficient, and a measure too stubborn for my own good.

But maybe, just maybe, I’m learning to get over doing everything “myseff” so that I can teach my daughter to do the same. I’m learning that over-independence sometimes ruins any chance of being transformationally present. I’m learning to lean, to accept, to ask so that I really can practice what it means to be joyful always.

Pray continually.

Give thanks in all circumstances.

 

PS- three month pictures forthcoming.

 

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.

Spinach and Mushroom Fritatta

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So, remember when I had this great idea to post the foods I was making/craving while I was pregnant with the twins? Right. I think I got, oh, about three posts in. I promise I ate WAY more than that, but food blogging requires one to remember to take pictures, so I didn’t get very far. C’est la vie.

Anyway. This morning my mom is here helping out since the twins had the flu this weekend. Yes. First flu at two and a half months. Awesome. But this morning they are feeling a bit better, and Ellis actually slept in for once, which means one thing in my world.

Hot. Breakfast.

IMG_1758

Today’s fridge contents: Spinach, mushroom, onion, and cheese. Very frittata worthy.

So here’s what was on the menu: Spinach and Mushroom Frittata (gluten-free for those that are interested)

Fritattas are the lazy man’s omelet. Instead of having to worry about flipping, turning, rolling, or tearing, you just throw all your ingredients in an oven-safe skillet, start it on the stove top, and finish it in the oven. The whole process takes about twenty minutes, and it’s as versatile as the contents of your fridge. Eggs. Meat. Cheese. Veggies. Noodles. Whatever you want, really. Since I’m trying to limit the amount of ingredients I use in my cooking (less ingredients, less bowls, less cleanup), I kept this one basic.

Ready?

Spinach and Mushroom Frittata

Stage one: Veggies sauteed, cheese and egg mixture added. Waiting to set.

Stage one: Veggies sautéed, cheese and egg mixture added. Waiting to set.

4 eggs
1 cup milk
1/2 c. onion
1 tbsp. butter
1 c. mushrooms
2 c. spinach
1/3 c. havarti cheese
Salt and Pepper

Prep: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Chop your onions, cut your mushrooms, shred your cheese.

Method: In an oven-safe pan (remember, you’re going to transfer from stove top to oven in five minutes), saute the onions and mushrooms in the butter. When they are brown, add the spinach, and cook for no more than a minute. There’s no need to totally wilt the spinach – you want it to have some body. Salt and pepper the whole works. After the spinach is done, top with the shredded havarti. (Save a little bit to sprinkle on the top.)

Meanwhile, mix the milk and eggs together. Add salt and pepper to taste. Pour the mixture over the veggies. No need to stir. Let it cook on low temp for 3-5 minutes or so. When it’s mostly set, slide it into the oven.

Final product. One pan, one knife, one bowl. one cutting board. Easy cleanup - yes please.

Final product. One pan, one knife, one bowl. one cutting board. Easy cleanup – yes please.

Bake: 10-15 minutes or until set. Top should just be starting to brown. Top with a little extra cheese, cut into wedges, and serve.

Hot breakfast. Twenty minutes. Bam.

PS – this is usually acceptable lunch and dinner fare as well, as long as there’s a little meat and maybe a few more eggs involved.

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.