We eat clementines like candy during the winter months. Although Sophie doesn’t technically eat them. She prefers to suck all the juice out, leaving the skins all over her plate (and the dining room table, and coffee table and cup holder in the van). The bowl was a Christmas present from my parents—it’s made by Heath Ceramics. I’m in love.
“Life without love is like a tree without blossoms or fruit.” —Kahlil Gibran
My friend Shruti told me about this book back in December and I just got around to buying it. It’s beautiful and so clever in its simplicity—and my kids love it. (Although Sophie, always the suspicious one, kept asking what would happen if we didn’t follow the directions and just turned the page.) It reminds me, a little, of The Monster At the End of this Book.
You can buy it here (or anywhere but I say here because it’s a favorite).
“A house without books is like a room without windows.” —Heinrich Mann
I’m typing this while sitting on the floor in James and Owen’s bedroom. Every minute or so I look up and look them in the eyes—they’re looking at me, waiting. Waiting for me to spend too long looking at my computer. Waiting for me to get up and help Sophie with something. Waiting for their chance to get out of bed.
I promised them a trip to the library but only if naptime goes well. I’m worried about this, because Sophie deserves a trip to the library regardless of how Owen and James nap. But after yesterday, I had to try something new. Because yesterday, I was ready to quit my job as parent, at least during naptime. (Can you hire someone to do naps for you?). To help unwind during those stressful moments, Indacloud thca flower could be a simple way to relax and recharge before the next round of parenting. Cannabis products from D8 Super Store may also help calm your mind and enjoy your downtime. Those who are stressed may also consider enjoying cigarettes from native smokes. Visit sites like https://fandom.my-passion.com/category/books/fantasy/ if you also enjoy reading original stories online.
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I used to let Owen and James have whatever they wanted in bed during naptime (rookie move). Now they get one small toy (like a train engine), their stuffed bear and one book.
Yesterday they each lost all of those things, one by one, in about 10 minutes.
And still, they jumped up and down in bed. They got out of bed. While I was “super nanny-ing” one right back into bed the other would get out, run around the room, grab another toy, laugh.
They had turned it into a game.
Short of taking away their sheets and blankets, I wasn’t sure what to do next—until James swiped a toy from the bedroom floor, while I was putting Owen back in bed.
“Next time one of you gets out of bed, I’m taking every single toy out of your room.”
They both got out of bed.
I’m not always great about following through. This time, I did. They watched me, mouths open, as I picked up every single toy in their room and placed everything in the hall—including their tracks on their train table.
I won.
Or so I thought.
With all the tracks off the train table, they decided it was the perfect stage to dance on. Cue the jumping out of bed, running to the train table, climbing up on it and dancing. While I was putting one back in bed, the other one got out.
There was no “next time” this time.
We were going on a good 40 minutes at this point and I was beyond frustrated.
I told them it was naptime. I told them they were not listening. I explained (for the upteenth time) the naptime rules. And then I picked up—picked up—the train table and carried it out the door. Adrenaline kicked in, I suppose. The train table is heavy. But I was a mom determined to get my 2-1/2-year-old twin boys to nap.
They were clearly upset. For a moment, I felt successful.
And then I realized I was a fool.
I had no place to put the train table. I couldn’t leave it propped up against a wall, for fear it would fall on someone. And although I carried it out their bedroom door, I certainly couldn’t carry it down the stairs by myself.
My only other option was to carry it back in.
So I sighed.
And did.
The boys cheered.
And started jumping up and down on their beds again.
My eyes welled up.
Why can’t I do this? I thought. It shouldn’t be this hard.
The train table game began again.
I took the two boards that cover the train table off, and carried them out to the hall.
And then I gave up. I went outside their room and closed the door.
They can just run, I thought. There was nothing in their room to play with at this point except for their beds and their imaginations.
Well, and the door.
They opened the door. Then they slammed the door. They ran, giggled, repeated.
We don’t have a lock on their door. So I held it shut. I stood in the hall pulling the doorknob from one side while they tried to pull it from the other. My eyes welled up again as I had no idea what to do (and this, certainly, was not something that would be recommended in a parenting book).
I knew from the few books I have read that immediate consequences are best. But I was out of immediate consequences. I had taken everything away. Time-outs weren’t working either (I had tried, multiple times, throughout the hour.) Like their beds, they kept running out of them, laughing, as if it were a game, while I was putting the other one back in.
Out of immediate consequences I took away TV, for the rest of the day.
They didn’t care.
I took away dessert after dinner.
They didn’t care.
I tried a traditional time-out, again.
They didn’t care.
So I grabbed them both, sat down with my legs crossed and put them on my lap. I hugged them to me, their arms pinned down.
“This is your new time-out,” I said. It was the only way I could put them in a timeout together and remain in control of the situation.
They squirmed and couldn’t move. I held on. They got upset. I held on. They squirmed some more and kicked their legs. “No kicking,” I said. I held on. They put up a fight. I held on. I held on and on and on, all the time wondering if this was right, if this was appropriate, if this was OK.
In about two minutes, their bodies relaxed. They calmed down. They asked to go to bed.
I released them from my bear hug.
The effect wasn’t immediate. I had to do bear-hug timeouts several more times before they realized they couldn’t get out of bed without getting a timeout in this new fashion.
But then:
I’ve since learned that this bear-hug technique is a real thing and that, for some children, it’s one of the only things that will calm them. Owen and James weren’t out-of-control screaming. They weren’t even throwing tantrums. But they weren’t listening. They were laughing at me, which I find more difficult to deal with than tantrums. And none of the consequences they received for their actions made a difference—except the bear-hug timeout.
Today James quickly lost his toy, book and bear. Owen lost his toy and bear, and then threw his book out of the bed before I had a chance to take it from him (sigh). They’ve both had a couple bear-hug timeouts and they’re still awake, although James is lying down and his eyes are heavy-lidded.
But at least I have another tool. Another technique. It’s not magic, it’s not perfect, but it helps.
An online search revealed little in terms of books on disciplining twin toddlers. If you have one to recommend, or techniques to recommend, I’m all ears.
“I will not play at tug o’ war
I’d rather play at hug o’ war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs.” —Shel Silverstein
Every Tuesday at 5pm I load up all three kids into the minivan and drive to the Campbell County YMCA for Sophie’s ballet class. She’s been doing this for a year now. She loves it, as was apparent when she had to take a three-week break after her surgery.
It’s a really nice class. It’s free, with our family membership. I can drop the boys off at Child Watch (which they now get excited for, compared to screaming about it every time we drive pass the Y building). I sit on a bench and talk with other parents while watching Sophie be reminded to stand in first position (also called pizza feet), and attempt a plié, port de bras and sauté. Her teacher is the perfect combination of strict and not-so-strict.
There are no recitals, because the class isn’t with a dance studio—rather it’s simply a Y offering. But we have many years for recitals, concerts, games and plays. I’m OK with this once-a-week activity. I’m OK with the simplicity of it. Lately we’ve been sticking around for youth hip-hop, immediately following. I bring the boys up—they love it. James has some moves.
Once home, after dinner, Sophie runs up to her room and turns on her radio—WGUC 90.9, Cincinnati’s classical music station, is her current favorite. The child listens to it day and night, swirling around her room until she’s dizzy. She calls it her “royal ball music.” And at least three times a week she passes around a carefully handwritten invitation to the RULBO (royal ball). Then, after dinner, all five of us spin around her tiny bedroom to Vivaldi and Bach.
These are some of my favorite evenings.
“Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.” —Kurt Vonnegut
5 lbs., 15 oz., 18.75 inches—born December 15 to two of my longtime friends. I couldn’t be happier for you, Greg, Jenna and Hannah! Welcome, Brendon!
“Babies are such a nice way to start people.” —Don Herrold
We celebrated Christmas with my mom’s side of the family after Christmas, due to sickness and weather. With family living in California, Kansas, Colorado and Pennsylvania, it’s hard to get everyone together so it was a small celebration, but fun nonetheless. And Ben, my cousin who teaches in Bethel, Alaska, was in town (he’s the last picture, can you tell?). It was so great to see him.
“Christmas is a time when you get homesick—even when you’re home.” —Carol Nelson
All the kids love Tucker but James really loves Tucker. Tucker must know this because I’m pretty sure no one else in this family could get away with sitting on him, for a good 15 minutes, while coloring.
“I think dogs are the most amazing creatures; they give unconditional love. For me they are the role model for being alive.” —Gilda Radner
Dinner was late tonight. Andy was at Target with the kids, I was at Trader Joe’s (thankful to be solo on my trip, given the whining I heard in the background when I talked with him on the phone). While at Trader Joe’s, I picked up sushi for dinner on a whim. I don’t know what I was thinking. Sushi was not well-received by our children. Owen hadn’t napped. Sophie was giddy/out-of-sorts because we had ripped all the carpet out of her room (we tend to make rash decisions like this on Sunday afternoons, only to question our sanity around dinnertime). James was getting too much enjoyment out of making an already unhappy Owen more unhappy.
Andy said he needed to take five minutes. His trip to Target with the kids resulted in buying two packs of birthday candles for my birthday on Tuesday simply because the kids couldn’t agree. Apparently both Owen and James wanted to sit in the child seat in the cart (common), so he put them both in the cart’s basket until they could decide, on their own, who would get to sit in the actual seat first. Screaming ensued. People stared. He tried to turn it into a game—answer the question first, you get the seat. This didn’t work. And the entire time Sophie completely ignored the situation, picking out “beautiful things” for my birthday (I am both eager and anxious to unwrap what she found).
So Andy took his break. I had three crazy children losing it at the dinner table over sushi. “Cover your eyes!” I said. “I have a surprise.”
This always works. Even when I don’t know what the surprise is.
I scanned the pantry, desperate. I found food coloring. I turned their milk bright yellow. Andy, done with his five minutes, came downstairs and added some chocolate chips to their bright yellow milk.
They loved it.
For about a minute.
Then they wanted the chocolate chips, at the bottom of their glasses. We said they had to drink their milk. They started plunging their hands in their milk, reaching for the chips, mouths now stained yellow, screaming about the sushi.
When do dinners get easier?
Sitting down as a family is important to me. Occasionally we have winter picnics in the family room, or I do, when Andy’s out for the evening, with a movie on as a treat. But mostly, we’re sitting at our dinner table. And there are tears. Poking. Complaints about the meal. “Did I eat enough for dessert?” over and over and over and exhaustingly over.
We have our moments. Moments when someone does something funny and all five of us laugh, even Andy and me, true belly laughs—not intended to just humor the kids, but real. I love those moments.
Sometimes there’s real conversation. Sophie tells us a story about something that happened at preschool. Owen tells about the trains at the museum at Christmastime (again). James sings us his coconut song (when asked).
And we’re making (small) strides. We’re teaching them to say “May I please be excused” when they’re done. Sophie’s very good at it. James forgets, then, when reminded, runs back to his seat, climbs up and screams “Excused? May excused?” Owen remembers when he sees Sophie do it first.
But the rest of the meal …
What should be the most enjoyable part of the day is often the most challenging.
Am I alone?
I just want happy. By 6pm, I need happy. I need a nightly feast.
“Be not angry or sour at table; whatever may happen put on the cheerful mien, for good humor makes one dish a feast.” —from Gentle Manners, a Shaker book on manners
a snowy, early morning view from our deck
Madeleine, Sophie and Charlie
Angel and Mya
Zoey, Madeleine and Mya working hard to get back up the hill
Andy and Owen
Andy took the boys home, and Sophie and I went down the side of the big hill a couple times—she loved it.
James spent most of the time holding a cold piece of buttered toast begging someone to take him home.
friends
the trouble with sledding
Jack
Owen
Angel and Mya
Angel and Zoey
down, down, down
Madeleine
Sophie and Madeleine
Mya
Sarah and Jack
I like that there’s a local sledding hill. I like that we can wake up and meet our friends there, Sophie’s friends there. I like how, when it snowed again earlier this week, Owen, while looking out the window said, “It makes me happy, Mommy.”
Snow makes me happy too, little man.
“The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?” —J.B. Priestley
I’m still not over this cold/flu and I need to be up at 4:45am for my flight to San Francisco tomorrow. Hopefully my day of rest (thank you Andy) and prescription meds will work their magic overnight.
In the meantime, while I was sleeping, Sophie found my childhood Hocus Pocus kit and, with the help of Andy, learned how to work some magic of her own.
Tonight she performed a card trick with me.
She gave me a pile of cards and said “pick a card, write the number and shape on the card on this piece of paper, and hide it.”
So I did.
Then she put the cards in three groups, and I had to tell her which group my card was in.
Then she mixed them all up.
And pulled out my card.
I don’t know if my brain is fuzzy because of the cold or the medicine but I, honestly, have no idea how she did it.
“That’s the thing with magic. You’ve got to know it’s still here, all around us, or it just stays invisible for you.” —Charles de Lint
