Year: 2009

Why, it’s Scuba Santa! At the Newport Aquarium! Because, really, no Christmas is complete without seeing a scuba-diving Santa.

After waiting in line for more than 30 minutes, Sophie was less than thrilled upon actually seeing Scuba Santa, complete with a snorkeling elf and sharks swimming about. She was especially less than thrilled when Santa kept trying to get the kids in the audience to clap and cheer louder and louder. Finally, seven minutes into it, she started crying, “Peoples! Too loud!” So we left and went to the quiet jellyfish exhibit, which she was thrilled with. Maybe next year, Scuba Santa.

“Oh look, yet another Christmas TV special! How touching to have the meaning of Christmas brought to us by cola, fast food, and beer. … Who’d have ever guessed that product consumption, popular entertainment and spirituality would mix so harmoniously?” —Bill Watterson

Somehow we have managed to screw up time-out.

We use time-out sparingly, for behavior we know Sophie knows is wrong—standing up on the antique wooden desk chair and rocking it back and forth (which will surely make it tip one day), opening the TV cabinet doors and pressing buttons, etc. In an ideal world, when Sophie engages in such behavior, we would tell her she has to sit in time-out. She would walk to her corner, upset, sit and want to get up. We’d tell her no, she has to stay. Then we’d ask why she’s in time-out and she’d say “chair no” or “cabinet no” and we’d know she understood. We’d ask her to say she’s sorry, she’d give us a kiss and hug, we’d wipe her tears and time-out would be over.

The problem? She loves time-out.

Whenever we say “no” she now smiles, looks up at us eagerly and says, “time-out?”

And now she’s begun rocking chairs and opening cabinets on purpose simply so she can go to time-out.

Here’s how time-out works in our non-ideal world:

Me: I hear the chair rocking and jump up to save her from a nasty fall. “Sophie, no!”

Sophie: “Time-out?” smiling (and sometimes laughing).

Me: “Yes, Sophie, what you did is bad,” in a scolding, responsible-mother-like tone. “Time-out.”

Sophie: “Time-out, time-out, time-out” in a sing-song voice.

She sits gladly—happily. I turn away, so as not to give her attention. She asks to get up. Good, I think. She’s going to want to get up and I’m going to say no and then she’ll be upset and realize this is a punishment.

Me: “No. You know you’re not allowed to rock the chair. You have to sit in time-out.”

Sophie: Nothing. She just sits, contentedly, or starts saying “time-out, time-out, time-out” in her sing-song voice again.

After more than enough time has passed for a not-even-2-year-old in time-out, I go back to her and squat, so we’re eye level with each other.

Me: “Sophie, do you know why you’re in time-out?”

Sophie: “Chair, nooooo.”

Me: “That’s right. Rocking the chair is very dangerous. You could fall and hurt yourself. Don’t do it again.”

Sophie: “OK.”

Me: “Please say you’re sorry.”

Sophie: “Sorry, Ma ma. Kiss?”

Me: “Yes, kiss. Thank you.”

Sophie: “Hug?”

Me: “Yes, hug. Thank you.”

A couple times, in the beginning, she would ask to get up and I would say no and she would get upset—even cry. And I don’t want her to cry but I also want her to understand there are limits and boundaries. I want her to be upset so she understands her actions have consequences. But the crying was short-lived. Recently we tried making her stand up in time-out and face the corner. She laughed and laughed, like it was the funniest game she’s ever played.

Perhaps longer time-outs are necessary—long enough for her to get really antsy but not be allowed up. Or, perhaps, we need to move the location (although there’s nothing exciting about the current location—a corner). Or maybe she’s smarter than we think. Maybe she knows that by turning time-out into a non-punishment, we lose an age-old parenting trick.

“In spite of the 7,000 books of expert advice, the right way to discipline a child is still a mystery to most fathers and mothers. Only your grandmother and Ghengis Khan know how to do it.” —Bill Cosby

Earlier this month Mom and Dad took me to Lebanon, Ohio’s annual horse-drawn carriage parade.

At first I sort of thought they were crazy for taking me—it was so, so cold and there were so many people and we had to park so far away and by the time we got the parade it had started and we couldn’t cross the street to stand with Nini and Pop Pop who had been saving us spots for a really long time.

But then a really nice woman gave us her spot on a bench so I was able to see!

There were so many horses—big ones and miniature ones and carriages pulled by six of them! And all the carriages were decorated, some with lights. I kept reminding Mom what horses say, in case she forgot. (It’s “neigh,” by the way.)

But then Santa came. (He’s so scary.) And people started cheering and clapping. (People are so scary.)

The parade ended and Nini and Pop Pop quickly crossed the street—with homemade hot chocolate!

Mom says nothing is better than her mom’s hot chocolate on a cold winter day but I have to wait until I’m a little older to have some.

By this time I was back to thinking Mom and Dad were crazy. It was cold! But fun. I’ll go again next year. Well, only if Santa doesn’t show. And maybe the other people could not come, too.

“Love is like swallowing hot chocolate before it has cooled off. It takes you by surprise at first, but keeps you warm for a long time.” —unknown

I find myself sitting, lately, a lot. If Sophie is content playing on her own, I sit and watch. If Andy comes into a room to talk to me, I sit and listen. Sometimes, while Sophie naps, I sit on the couch and think about all the things I should be doing—laundry, cleaning the kitchen for the fourth time that day, window washing, light-fixture cleaning, closet organizing, present wrapping, even Christmas card addressing, which is a job that requires sitting and yet I sit, without doing anything at all. I’m tired. All the time. So I sit and watch. Listen. Sometimes fret. But mostly, I just think.

Apparently, this is a good thing. I had a doctor’s appointment today and the babies are growing quite well. My official due date is June 26 but I won’t be allowed to go past June 12 (in which case Andy would share a birthday). We saw two heads, two torsos, four arms, four legs and two beating hearts. We saw swimming-like-yet-also-incredibly-human-like movement—all at 11 weeks, four days.

I was told there’s a 50 percent chance of bed rest with twins. I asked if there’s anything I can do now to prevent this. Rest, it turns out, prevents bed rest. I go to a group practice and the doctor I saw today was the oldest doctor in the group—she was grandmotherly and took her time, both listening and talking, and there was something about her eyes that made me trust her wisdom. Three times a day for an hour each time, she said, flat on my back, legs propped up on pillows.

At first I stifled a laugh. Did she not see the 20-month-old running around in circles in the small examining room? Does she have a maid and is therefore not used to daily housekeeping chores? Does she not cook or, perhaps, not eat? (She was quite small.) But then, I thought about it. In the morning, once Sophie and Mia and Tucker are fed, the coffee is made, Andy’s lunch is packed and I’ve eaten, I sit. Sophie plays or takes advantage of the fact that I turn PBS on in the morning for a half hour. I check e-mail and read and look out the window and gather myself for the coming day. So to follow my doctor’s orders, I would just have to change my position.

In the afternoon Sophie (usually) naps. I could rest then. And Andy comes home at 6pm. After dinner I could rest, too.

And thinking about it—as much as I hate to admit it to myself—I already rest a lot. I’m a worrier, especially when it comes to cleaning and organizing and preparing. I often worry myself into doing all those things, constantly. But maybe, subconsciously, I’ve been listening to my body a little more closely—as I should. Maybe my babies are, in their very early stages, telling me something—slow down. Or maybe I’ve just been too tired to physically peel myself off the couch.

It’s a strange mix of feelings upon realizing I already do rest—I feel guilty thinking of the time I’ve spent not doing but also very much at peace with the time I’ve spent doing, and by doing I mean growing two humans—humans with heads and bodies and legs and arms that already wave—inside of me. Perhaps I just need to rethink rest and take away the “not” in front of the “doing”—at least while pregnant.

And of course, if put on bed rest, I’ll roll my eyes at the thought of me thinking three hours a day a hardship. And, come June, I know I will give anything for three full hours of rest, and consider myself crazy for not treating it as the luxury—and yet also the important job—it is.

It’s hardly a hardship, only in the worry part of my brain, the part that makes lists and frets and sees dust where no one else sees it. I think about the few accomplishments I’ve had in my life and the amount of work they required. And while this one will require more work than I’ve ever put into anything come June, right now, the act of growing two people, two minds that will think things and say things and analyze things and love things and hate things and create things and destroy things, requires something so small and yet so complicated—rest.

“What is without periods of rest will not endure.” —Ovid

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Saturday we met Angel, Marty and Zoey at Kenwood Towne Centre to visit Santa. Mom gave my hair a quick brush before I sat on Santa’s lap.

Don’t they remember what happened last year?

Zoey, on the other hand, wasn’t scared at all!

Next year I won’t cry. Promise.

(For a theme, click here.)

“You better watch out
You better not cry
Better not pout
I’m telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to town.” —Haven Gillespie

Andy and I did something we won’t be able to do this summer and for many months following this summer. We decided, on a Thursday, to go see “Chicago” at the Aronoff Center Friday. Paw Paw was able to babysit. After we went to Nicholson’s Tavern & Pub for a beer (for Andy), a Sprite (for me) and pub crisps.

I believe date nights vital to a healthy marriage. I remember my parents taking them when they could when I was growing up—I’m sure they enjoyed the evening out as much as we enjoyed the novelty of a babysitter. But I also remember the difficulty of date night when Sophie was young—especially as a breastfeeding mom. In the beginning, I remember not wanting to go out. Honestly, I think I was too tired. And then, perhaps six months into it, I vividly remember a couple date nights that quickly became too painful as I was without baby and without pump.

Mothers of twins have told me to not expect to leave the house for any real length of time the first few months upon the babies’ arrival. And even after that, I imagine the logistics to be more difficult—that is, until they’re older.

So I hope for many more of these spur-of-the-moment (or planned) date nights in my near future. And I’m trying to embrace them, acknowledge them for what they are—hold them dear. Before I had Sophie, I took many things for granted. And while I’ll always choose more nights at home snuggled on the couch with my entire family, I’ll also never give up my love for a night out with a man I’ve known and loved longer than anyone else in my now-immediate family.

“A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.” —Mignon McLaughlin

To celebrate my mom’s recent retirement, the staff at Creekside Elementary threw her a dinner party at Brazenhead Irish Pub in Mason, OH.

And then our family held an open house for her Thanksgiving weekend.

Congrats, Mom!

“A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stop.” —Henry Adams

The day after Thanksgiving we went to Jimmy John’s for dinner. Sophie stared out the window for a (strangely) long time. Tom stared with her.

Then, we went to the Christmas Ranch in Morrow, OH. It was very cold. Sophie fell asleep in the car ride over and I can’t even imagine what her little brain was thinking when she awoke to all …

this.

She didn’t sit on Santa’s lap, but we met him.

Katy and Tom, enjoying hot cocoa.

sisters

Dad and Mom

Sophie, braving the cold and lights to walk on her own once she discovered there were rocks on the path—yes, the rocks proved more interesting than all the lights surrounding her.

“The outdoor Christmas lights, green and red and gold and blue and twinkling, remind me that most people are that way all year round—kind, generous, friendly and with an occasional moment of ecstasy. But Christmas is the only time they dare reveal themselves.” —Harlan Miller

Christina and Kyle

Katy and Tom

Andy, Sophie and me—Sophie only lasted a few more minutes. Apparently the laughter got to be too much so she spent much of dinner with me in the living room.

Dad and Mom

I believe my mom pulled these Lincoln Logs out for Sophie—but Tom and Andy spent much of the day building ridiculously tall and complex structures (which Sophie dutifully destroyed).

Catch!

Sophie saw Andy watching football (aka sleeping) and, after requesting her blanket, put her head next to his and said, “night night.”

It’s so rare now for all the kids and our parents to be together on the same day, in the same house. So for that, and the delicious food, I was and am thankful.

“There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American.” —O. Henry

We’ve had no showings since re-listing our house. I’m sensing my optimism dissolve as I find myself spending less time online, looking at houses, and more time walking around, taking stock of the space we already have—there’s not much of it.

Sophie arrived three weeks early. We were unprepared. Her cradle was delivered while she was being delivered. My bag wasn’t packed. I hadn’t finished ironing her onesies. (Yes, I was clueless. I thought ironing onesies was something people did.) My family threw me a lovely baby shower hours before my water broke—presents and gift cards and tissue paper littered my living room floor. Our kitchen wasn’t clean. My to-do list wasn’t complete. Our homecoming was sweet, but not what I had envisioned—not what I had wanted. I know my unbalanced hormones made it seem worse than what it was. But I also know me. And how much my environment affects me. And I wish it had been different.

So this time, I’m nesting early. And today, 10 weeks three days into my pregnancy, I’ve begun planning. I’ve decided I can’t expect to move. Instead, I think the safest thing to do is expect to be here. I have this dream that my to-do list will be complete. That when we leave for the hospital, no matter the date, the house will be spotless. Every shelf will look like a spread from Real Simple. I’ll wear my label maker out. A month’s worth of homemade casseroles will be in the freezer. Fresh flowers will be in every room. Cribs will be set up. Swings will be set out. How-to-raise-newborn-twins-and-a-toddler books will be on every end table. And Tucker will miraculously stop shedding.

I know. I must lower my expectations. A wee bit.

So I’m taking baby steps. And I believe the first step to a more organized home—especially a small home—is less stuff. However, that’s already proving difficult. We’ve been amazed with friends’ and friends of friends’ and friends of friends of friends’ generosity. Seven books on twin pregnancies and raising twins were lent to me and are on my bedside table. Two beautiful white cribs, with mattresses and bedding, are in our basement. I’ve been promised exersaucers and swings, and as I type this I’m wearing a girlfriend’s maternity shirt on loan. We’re already accumulating stuff. Necessary stuff, yes, but stuff nonetheless. And we still have Christmas coming up—with a toddler—who likes toys.

So, getting rid of stuff we don’t need or use or want or like is imperative, especially as we accumulate more. But then there’s Sophie’s stuff. Already, at 20 months, she’s collecting her own things. Aside from some U.S. Savings bonds and two nickels she got from Harold down the street on Halloween, she has no money. So she’s not buying stuff. But still, she finds stuff. Like the rocks, pictured above. Or the acorn tops and bottoms sitting on the end table next to me. Or the plastic key chain a store clerk gave to her in an attempt to calm one of her many store tantrums. Or the things she finds under our couch that I never even knew we had.

I don’t consider this house my house or Andy’s house or our house, in terms of the two of us. Rather it’s our family’s house, Sophie included. I know I can’t keep—and she can’t keep—every rock she finds or acorn she picks up or useless plastic item someone gives her. Just like I have to stop keeping every piece of paper she scribbles on. But still, she’s a person. Just a short one and young one and not a very eloquent one—yet. So part of me thinks, Who am I to get rid of this rock she, three days ago, treasured? It’s her rock. She found it. And, three days ago, she loved it.

So, I compromise. I cut up some of her paintings and make cards out of them when sending notes to people. I let her keep one rock, on her bookcase, and then we make an event of putting the other rocks back outside. Tucker often helps. He likes eating the acorns when no one’s watching.

And so, together, we continue to accumulate, get rid of, label and make room. I know, from past experience, that water can break at any time. Bed rest can happen. Babies can come early. They can come late. And in the meantime toys still need to and will be strewn across the floor. Dinner parties will result in a sink full of dirty dishes. Sometimes a TV will remain dusty for days. And Sophie will surely find more rocks. I can’t expect a perfect homecoming just like I can’t expect to be in a bigger house. But then again, I can’t believe I just typed that. Because, in the big scheme of things, what’s more perfect than bringing home a new baby—or two new babies? Not much. Well, except if you add the fresh flowers and frozen casseroles and checked-off to-do list and the dog who suddenly stops shedding and and and …

“When you aim for perfection, you discover it’s a moving target.” —George Fisher