Month: November 2010

Ten days ago my beautiful boys turned six months old. Didn’t Sophie only recently turn six months old? I want my children to grow up—it’s my job to make sure they do. But still, I wish I could drag my heels, slow it all down, treat my time with them the same way Sophie treats the time between bath and bed—forever lengthening it with clever little stall tactics. Because no matter how hard I sigh and wish she would just more quickly get in bed so I can more quickly get downstairs and have a moment to myself, I know I’ll someday tire of those moments by myself and give anything to chase around a manically laughing toddler who refuses to put her pjs on—while her brothers smile and laugh at and with her.

Yes. Owen and James smile now. And laugh now. And act and react—oh, how they’ve grown. I want to let them know how much they’ve grown. Otherwise, I fear I’ll forget. And I know, because life doesn’t allow you to remember your baby moments, they’ll never remember. So here goes.

Dear Owen,

I had faith in you from the beginning. You were small, yes, but bigger than your brother. I pushed and pushed and pushed, for almost an hour, and you came out! All on your own. Still, you were small, compared to most babies, and therefore you were whisked away from me—before I could hold you or touch you or even see you. But I didn’t worry about you. I knew—I knew—you would be OK.

And you were. You never gave us a scare in the NICU. You simply needed to grow. You ate with gusto, just like you do now. Your pediatrician told your dad and I that he wanted to see you plump—and that you are. You’re already on the growth charts. You have big, healthy arms and legs, and round cheeks and a thick torso that hides your ribs. And your hair, so present in the beginning, is present once again—I expect a thick, full head of hair come spring.

You’re strong. Surprisingly strong, if you think about your gestational age. You’ve long loved tummy time and you hold your head up high and proud. You stand, with our help, but still, you stand, your legs holding you with hardly any wobble. You thrust your hips and contort your torso and roll and use your feet to push yourself up and back and forward and away so well that I dare not leave you on the couch or window seat or bed without supervision for fear you’ll push yourself off.

You’re impatient. But I am, too, and I know this trait is my doing (for which I’m sorry). If you wake up hungry, you wake up screaming. If you suddenly decide you’re hungry, you yell. Not a soft whimper or a reasonable I’m-a-little-hungry cry but an all-out, jolt-everyone-in-the-house awake declaration of the fact that your stomach is empty and you wish it to be full. Sometimes, you become so upset we can barely calm you down to eat. But often, it’s simply a matter of inserting a nipple into your mouth. You’re instantly quiet. Instantly calm. And you suck my milk and give me a slight, small, you-have-to-be-watching-closely-to-catch-it smile. And I always just shake my head at you. And your actions. And reactions. And impatience.

You rattle rattles now and grab toys. And hair. And place mats and cloth napkins and earrings and necklaces and anything within your reach. Your eyes get so wide when you’re surprised and you’re constantly aware of your surroundings. You look for me, when with someone else, and I love that. When terribly upset I pick you up and hold you, your left cheek against my right, your tiny, strong, little arm wrapped around my right shoulder, and you calm, you calm, you calm. And I calm, too. Thank you for that, my little Oboe. Thank you.

Your torticollis worries me. And your dad. We worry about the position of your ears and the shape of your head and that you’re always looking to the right. We’ve had you in physical therapy for months now, and still, it’s not better. Look to the left, my love. There’s a lot of life worth looking at over on that side, too. Help us help you reshape your beautiful, beautiful head.

Finally, you laugh now. Every day. Mostly as a result of your sister. One night we spent a good half hour at the dinner table, Sophie fake coughing and you laughing your brilliant, contagious, perfect laugh every single time in response. Sophie’s favorite thing to say to you now is “busy bee!” and you laugh, every time, in response. You’re ticklish and easy to please. I hope this is a sign of years of laughter. You deserve that. Everyone does, but because you’re my son, I believe you, especially, do.

Happy six-month birthday, my love. Here’s to 200 more. I’m so happy, and grateful, to have you, know you, have given birth to you. Thank you.

Love,
Mama

Dear James,

I worry about you all the time. I worried about you before you were even born. You were small—too small. So small that after your brother came out they simply reached in and took you, rescuing you from a cord around your neck, whisking you off before I could see you, touch you, hold you, promise you that it was going to be OK.

The first time I changed your diaper I was afraid I was going to break you. You were so small. Skin over bones. You reminded me of Benjamin Button. Your color concerned me (more gray than pink). Your numbers concerned me. We had to be so careful with you. When feeding you, we had to make sure you stopped to pause and take a breath. While most moms of newborns are concerned about matching onesies with socks, I was concerned with whether or not I could feel your impossibly tiny lungs inflate and deflate while you drank another woman’s milk.

But they did. Deflate. And inflate. Although you scared us a few times you always, in the last second, breathed. And you breathed and breathed and breathed, and you ate and you ate and you ate. And you fought, my dear James, you fought. You surprised everyone—the nurses, the doctors, us—with your vigor and strength. You ate and ate and ate and gained weight more quickly than anyone thought possible and you were home, with us, sooner than we ever believed possible. You were so small when we took you home that technically, you weren’t big enough for your car seat. But the doctors had that much faith in you—it was almost as if you knew your family was home, and you weren’t. And so you did all that you could to be here, with us. Thank you for that, my dear Jam Jam. Thank you.

You’ve since gained much weight and while you’re no longer scrawny, you’re also not plump. You’re perfect. You have the sweetest face. And your skin is no longer gray. And your hair’s coming in, so soft it’s what I imagine the downy feathers of a baby bird to feel like—I love to nuzzle my whole face into the soft down of your head. You scared us two weeks ago, with a hard lump in your chest. But after two trips to Children’s Hospital, an x-ray and an ultrasound, we believe it to be your rib cage protruding more than one would expect—every time I think about it I think about the Grinch (even though you’re not at all Grinch-like) and the cartoon-image of his heart growing too big near the end. That part, I know you’re very much like—a very small body with a heart that’s much too big.

You rolled, tummy to back, so quickly. But we shouldn’t have been surprised. For weeks you hated tummy time and it’s just like you to do whatever it takes to get out of a situation you don’t like. And so now, whenever you no longer wish to be on your tummy, you simply roll to your back. When over, you lock eyes with me and smile your huge, open-mouth smile. I’m in trouble when you’re older. You’ve already got me wrapped around your little finger. Rarely do I put you back.

You often get fussy in the evenings. Sometimes I try everything—walking, rocking, swaying, singing—and nothing works. I wish you would let me know what’s wrong. I wish I knew how to help. You love a side-to-side rock, normally. You love Sophie, the Giraffe, and you love thick lotion applied to your skin. You love “You Are My Sunshine”. You love to hold onto my finger.

Sometimes you go somewhere inside yourself. Your eyes lose focus and I wait. James, I think. James, come back to me. And you do. You always do. And when you do you offer up your big, open-mouthed smile. Often, it’s my favorite part of the day.

You’re patient. So patient. You let us know when you’re hungry. Or when your diaper’s wet. Or when you want held. And while sometimes you cry despite yourself, you cry and you cannot stop, often, you simply wait. You fidget, here and there, but you quietly, calmly wait.

I worry about you. I worry about the lump in your chest. And how small you were. How small you are. The fact that one night, your body temperature dropped, to 96.4—and you always run warm. I called the doctor on call. I slept on the couch that night and set my alarm. Every hour I woke up and retook your temperature to make sure your blood was still running warm. I worry about your dry skin and the strange grunting noise you make over and over and over and the fact that I don’t have a crystal ball for you—I don’t know if everything’s going to be alright. But I shouldn’t worry. You are James Orion Uhl. A warrior. You’ve come so far. I remember when I was afraid to touch you and just today we danced and danced and danced around the living room. You clutched at my shirt, looked me in the eye and smiled. That big, open-mouthed smile. And laughed. It was a state of happiness I hope you find yourself in daily. For all your years to come.

Happy six-month birthday, my love. Here’s to 200 more. I’m so happy, and grateful, to have you, know you, have given birth to you. Thank you.

Love,
Mama

“Growth itself contains the germ of happiness.” —Pearl S. Buck

I get so tired of searching for matching socks.

“My socks DO match. They’re the same thickness.” —Steven Wright

• hot coffee in my peace mug

• hands that smell like oranges

• freshly washed babies smothered in thick lotion

• a daughter with out-of-control morning hair wearing pink and chocolate brown polka dot leggings, a poofy pink skirt and a soft, cream-colored onesie

• a chilly, wet November day (and some much-needed rain)

• forgoing our usual Today Show and Sesame Street for some Vivaldi, Haydn, Mozart and Boccherini on the radio

• a backyard blanketed in bright green-yellow leaves, too wet (and beautiful, at the moment) to rake

• the not-caring attitude I have regarding my day-old, mascara-smudged eyes thanks to no doctor’s appointments (or any appointments) scheduled for today (the first time this week!)

• ignoring the small mountains of laundry about the house for some puzzle-playing, stick-hitting, “run-and-get-me-Mom” mother-daughter time

“I used to love night best but the older I get the more treasures and hope and joy I find in mornings.” —Terri Guillemets

At four months, James weighed 10 pounds, 10 ounces, and Owen weighed 12 pounds, 12 ounces.

The boys had several doctor’s appointments this week. Monday, James weighed 12 pounds, 12 ounces, and today Owen weighed 14 pounds, 14 ounces. I think that’s so funny. And a far cry from 2 pounds, 13 ounces, and 4 pounds 15 ounces. (They’ll be six months old Friday.)

“I recently had my annual physical examination, which I get once every seven years, and when the nurse weighed me, I was shocked to discover how much stronger the Earth’s gravitational pull has become since 1990.” —Dave Barry

While Grandma was still in town we did our annual trip to Neltner’s Farm & Greenhouses for pumpkins. My parents came, too. Turns out juggling a toddler and two newborns, even with three grandparents along for help, is difficult—hence the lack of photos.

We took two little pirates and a dragon to the Fort Thomas Jack-o-Lantern Walk, one of my favorite Fort Thomas activities. The wind was bitingly cold, though, so we had to keep the boys in their car seats. As such, the stroller in which their car seats fit wasn’t appropriate for the wooded path in which all the jack-o-lanterns were situated and lit. So I took Sophie through while Andy met us near the end. We also skipped the Polaroid picture this year—maybe next year (if they still have film left!).

Friday night Sophie helped Andy carve a Dora pumpkin (she also ate several Halloween-sized Kit Kats). I held the boys. They watched. We bought three pumpkins at the pumpkin farm, and had all the intention in the world of carving all three, but one thing I’ve learned about having a toddler and newborn twins is this: nothing works out as planned. If I remember it was closing in on 11pm when we finished the Dora pumpkin. Sophie was in bed but the boys were still up and the thought of carving two more pumpkins that evening exhausted me. I suppose it was silly to experience guilt over this, but I did.

Saturday my parents came over with treats (no tricks!) for the kids. My mom made adorable candy corn bags. The boys each got a toy and Sophie got crayons and glitter stickers for her craft projects.

I had to wake up Sophie from a nap to make the city’s early trick-or-treat time this year (4pm to 6pm). She’s not the most agreeable person when woken up from a nap, and early on, she wouldn’t agree to wear her dragon hat. So Andy wore it.

We buckled our little pirates into our new stroller, …

took a family picture, …

Andy carried Sophie and …

off we went.

My parents graciously stayed behind to pass out candy for us—this way we both were able to take Sophie trick-or-treating. (And about the empty pots … they were filled with beautiful mums at one time, but I never watered them. I don’t know why I thought I’d have time to water porch plants this season.)

Check out those wings!

After going to several houses around our new house, we walked up to Grant street to trick-or-treat at our old neighbors’ houses and visit the Beets. Along the way, I made a deal with Sophie. She could have one piece of her Halloween candy if she wore her dragon hat. She thought about this for a good minute. And then said, “deal.” We shook on it (we shake on “deals” all the time now—it’s helped me deal with her two-ness quite well). Here Zoey, an adorable peacock, is trying to figure out what, exactly, Sophie is wearing.

Check out Marty’s amazing Lego Man costume. He made it (and one for Angel, too).

family picture

“Pixie, kobold, elf, and sprite,
All are on their rounds tonight;
In the wan moon’s silver ray,
Thrives their helter-skelter play.” —Joel Benton

Sophie …

teaching James how to draw.

“In teaching you cannot see the fruit of a day’s work. It is invisible and remains so, maybe for 20 years.” —Jacques Barzun

A couple weekends ago, thanks to the help of Jill, Marty and, especially, Andy, I did something I’ve always wanted to do—I left Fort Thomas at 7am (by myself) and drove to Winston-Salem, NC, to surprise my sister with a weekend visit.

It was so strange, to stop for breaks and simply walk out of the car, without negotiating, unbuckling, unstrapping, pulling out, carrying, adjusting, talking to, singing to, running after, laughing with anyone. I missed it. And enjoyed it.

When I got to Katy’s school, she was working at her desk, waiting for her husband, Tom, to finish up football practice (he’s the junior high coach). I stood at the door to her classroom for a minute or two, just watching. I had never seen it before. Never seen her in that environment. I was a bossy kid. When we played school as children, I was always the teacher. She was always the student. (Now I couldn’t imagine teaching 30+ kids.)

Finally, I yelled, Surprise! She cried. I cried. As should happen in the best surprises.

Here’s her classroom.

The next day, after a glorious eight hours of sleep, I helped Katy and Tom register at Babies R Us. Then we met Katy’s very good friend Kim, her husband Don and their adorable son Max, at the Lexington Barbecue Festival.

Katy, Tom, and Brees (Baby Rees to be!)

The next day we met their good friend Steve for lunch at Mellow Mushroom in the American Tobacco Historic District.

Then we visited my good friends Matt and Christi, and finally got to meet their new son, the adorable Quinn.

It was such a fun visit. And went by so fast. I miss her so, so much. Especially on weekends—specifically Sunday afternoons. I just feel like that is when we’d spend time with each other, shopping, watching a movie, getting ice cream. But for three short days I got that, complete with staying up way past our bedtimes, in pjs, on the living room couch, slap-happy from laughing so much.

“You keep your past by having sisters. As you get older, they’re the only ones who don’t get bored if you talk about your memories.” —Deborah Moggach

Andy’s parents recently spent a week with us. Grandma spent much of her time in situations like this—entertaining all of her grandchildren (and granddog). They brought us our fantastic new/used stroller (more on that later), helped watch all three kids so I could surprise my sister with a visit (more on that later) and painted Sophie’s room (pictures to come!).

Grandma helped with a trip to Toddler Time at the local library, cooked, and helped feed and diaper babies. Grandpa spent hours on Sophie’s room, patching the walls, painting the bead board white, the walls a soft pink and oh-so-pretty pink and green stripes on the wall behind Sophie’s bed.

Often, when Sophie hears or sees a plane, she asks if it’s Grandma or Grandpa, coming to visit again. We’re thankful she gets to see them so often.

“Nobody can do for little children what grandparents do. Grandparents sort of sprinkle stardust over the lives of little children.” —Alex Haley

Sophie recently learned that she and her friend, Sam, are going to have something special in common—Sam will soon share his house with twin brothers, just like Sophie! So he came over to get the real story of what it’s like to be an older sibling to TWO babies … and to play puzzles.

“It is not economical to go to bed early to save the candles if the result is twins.” —Chinese Proverb