Sophie, all dolled up for her preschool holiday party.
“When in doubt, wear red.” —Bill Blass
All
A Lesson Among Trains
Last month we went with Angel, Zoey and Mya to Cincinnati Museum Center‘s Holiday Trains Exhibit. Owen kept saying “choo choo” and “wow.” The exhibit included a small train children could ride, sans adults. While waiting in line I kept debating if I should let Owen and James ride it with Zoey and Sophie. I thought of the worst thing that could happen—they totally freak out, the “conductor” has to stop the train and I have to climb through the exhibit to get them. And I decided I wouldn’t let them. But then I thought some more. I thought about how much Sophie did at their age. Because of the boys’ gestational age, they don’t do as much as Sophie did when she was their age. They’re not as ready but yet I worry that I sometimes hold the boys back, because of my own fears—of logistics, for example.
And so, I let them. I loaded everyone into the train.
Owen flipped out. Thankfully, he did this before the train left. So I pulled him out, but let James stay. James did wonderfully. He sat on the seat with Zoey and Sophie the entire time. Sophie said once he tried to stand up and that she and Zoey told him he wasn’t allowed—that he had to sit down—and so he did. I was so proud.
And yet, I felt so guilty. I know Owen and James are two separate people. And I know Owen gets much more anxious and upset with strangers and strange situations compared to James. But yet, I felt sad. Sad that James got the experience and Owen didn’t. Happy that James was so happy and then, it occurred to me. Owen was, too. He loved watching the train go past, waving to Sophie, Zoey and James. He was happier off the train. James was happier on it. Sure, equality is important. I wouldn’t give Sophie and James an apple and not give one to Owen—if he wanted it. But I also wouldn’t force him to eat an apple, just because Sophie and James wanted it.
It seems so simple, but it was a good twin-mom lesson for me to learn. Most lessons are that I way, I think—seemingly simple, once learned.
“Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood.” —Helen Keller
Sleeping Brothers
“All men whilst they are awake are in one common world: but each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his own.” —Plutarch
One Year
Watching “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” last year.
Watching “The Grinch” this year.
“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.” —Rabindranath Tagore
Oh, Christmas Tree
This year we bundled up the kids and drove a few miles south to Hilltop Pines in Camp Springs, KY to cut our Christmas tree. Much like Neltner’s Farm & Greenhouses (a neighbor to Hilltop), this tree farm was super low-key—no Santas, no hot cocoa, no barn full of merchandise—just a saw, some dogs roaming about, lots of hills and lovely, $25 trees.
It was a beautiful farm.
But note the name: Hilltop. I suppose we should have assumed there would be hills to climb. Maybe we did but we didn’t really think about it, the logistics of it with three children, a sharp saw and a Christmas tree. In fact, when we started our trek up the hill, we still didn’t know how we were going to make it back down. We just started walking.
Up we went.
On the way, we posed for pictures. Sophie is annoyed in this picture because we were carrying the boys, and not her. She struggled up the hill and complained about tired legs. But the hill was so steep that if we put the boys down to walk—which they very much wanted to do—they simply fell backwards. Which, truth be told, was quite funny to witness, especially with all their winter gear on. But I feel guilty for typing that. I think, as their mother, I wasn’t supposed to laugh as much as I did when we tried to put them down and they both toppled backwards, down the hill a bit.
Along the way we stopped at a barn and watched a farmer feed some cows.
The boys loved this.
Another break for a posed picture. Sophie is much happier here, because we’re at the top of the hill. And yet this is when she decides she has to pee. We have yet to pick out a tree. It’s freezing. The bathroom is a Porta Potty all.the.way.back.down.
“Can you hold it?” I ask.
Sophie gives me a panicked look.
“OK,” I say.
I knew it would be impossible for one of us to handle both boys and the saw on the steep hill. So I agreed to take Sophie and James back down while Owen and Andy looked for a tree. Down, down, down we went, all the while me pleading with Sophie to hold it.
Have you ever tried to fit three people in a Porta Potty? Even when two of them are half-sized, it’s amazingly difficult. So difficult that I actually took everyone in and then brought everyone out, wondering if there was someone who could hold James for me before deciding that was crazy irresponsible. So back in all three of us went.
Sophie really had to pee at this point and for some reason that meant taking off her mittens, scarf, hat and winter coat. Before I could stop her I was holding all these items and James—and I still had to lift her on the seat. So I put James down. He immediately walked over to the urinal and started rubbing his hands all over it, while I just kept yelling “Don’t touch anything!” over and over. He, of course, just looked at me and smiled while inspecting this thing he has never seen that was attached to the wall.
Finally we emerged. I sanitized everyone’s hands, put all of Sophie’s winter gear back on and back up the hill we trekked.
Andy had (thankfully) found a tree.
The children approved.
We cut it down.
I carried both boys while Andy carried the saw and dragged tree on the steep part. And then, when the ground evened out, we all walked, much to the boys’ delight.
Sophie was thrilled with her candy canes.
The boys were thrilled with their muddy jeans.
Once home we realized how short our tree was—and yet perfect for the only place we had for it, a small corner in our dining room.
The kids helped test the lights. (And yes, that’s a hole in the back of Owen’s hair. We thought we’d start taking the boys to the local barber shop that Andy goes to, saving the nice salon visits with Nicholena for Sophie and me. The hole wasn’t the barber’s fault. It was the screaming, flailing child’s fault. The barber, who has been cutting hair in Fort Thomas for years and years and years, felt awful. But seriously, I don’t understand how the rest of Owen’s haircut turned out so normal looking, the way he was thrashing about. In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t lose an ear.)
We decorated. The boys undecorated.
Sophie put the star on top.
Despite everything, it was a beautiful tree. (But aren’t they all?)
“Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree. In the eyes of children, they are all 30 feet tall.” —Larry Wilde
Happy Birthday, Kyle
We celebrated Kyle’s birthday when he was in town for Thanksgiving (someday, hopefully before February, I will be caught up with this blog—I have yet to bombard you with Christmas pictures). We watched the OSU vs. Michigan game, and had lunch and (vegan) chocolate cake and pudding. The cake sort of crumbled but was really good. The boys loved it. I mean, they love dessert. But they devoured this. Which was awesome because one of the main ingredients in the pudding, for example, was avocado. I must get the recipe.
The day was nice. It involved lots of good food, candles in crumbled cake in a bowl, presents, hugs, turns playing hairstylist, a color icing experiment with Nini, football and family.
Happy birthday, Kyle.
“A brother is a friend given by Nature.” —Jean Baptiste Legouve
Rashmi + Sophie
While the adults ate muffins and fruit, and sipped mimosas, the children re-friended each other, remembered each other, played with each other. I love far-away places because I love travel. I just wish those I loved didn’t live so far away.
“Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cute. They are life-sized.” —Margaret Atwood
Happier
The boys didn’t nap today, which doesn’t make any sense because they didn’t sleep well last night. The weather, however, was thankfully, unusually warm so right about the time we were all ready to kill each other we put on our shoes and coats and walked to the small park down the street.
We were having a lovely time at the park … until I looked at Sophie climbing up a ladder and noticed that the back of her pants were soaking wet. She didn’t even tell me she had had an accident.
So I told her we had to go home. I reminded her that she was almost 4. “No, we cannot come back to the park after we change your pants,” I said. “I’m not very happy with you right now,” I added.
Halfway home she ran over to some grass and picked a dandelion (in January). She spotted another. “No,” I said. “We’re not stopping every 10 seconds to pick dandelions and pinecones. You’re soaking wet. We have to go home.” I reminded her that I wasn’t happy.
We walked for a little while as she clung to her little dandelion.
“Mama?” she said.
“Yes?” I said.
“Do you know who I picked this dandelion for?” she said.
“Who?” I said.
“You,” she said.
I thanked her. We kept walking.
A few moments later she said, “Does that make you just a little bit happier?”
It is so difficult to be mad at her sometimes.
“It gives one a sudden start in going down a barren, stony street, to see upon a narrow strip of grass, just within the iron fence, the radiant dandelion, shining in the grass, like a spark dropped from the sun.” —Henry Ward Beecher
No One Is Sleeping
About 10 days ago our children stopped sleeping. I remember Sophie going through phases, phases in which I spent, literally, hours draped over her crib, rubbing her back, internally pleading with her to sleep. Eventually we let her cry, periodically checking on her, and while it worked it wasn’t easy.
James spent several nights in a row up. Wide-awake up. If I put him in his crib, he screamed. And “cry it out” doesn’t work with twins who share a room. Because if you let one cry it out, the other, invariably, wakes up. And then you have a bigger problem on your hands.
I eventually took him to the pediatrician, fearing it would be another one of those “yep, looks like he’s had this ear infection for awhile” diagnosis that I still feel guilty about. But he’s fine. I mean, all three of my children currently have colds (tis the season) but he’s fine.
Last night, after many rushes to children who were crying, and then lots of holding, shushing, Tylenol-ing, diaper changing and loving, we ended up like this: James slept next to me, propped up on pillows (because of his cold), on Andy’s side of the bed. Sophie (who woke up several times because of the boys’ screaming) ended up sleeping at the end of my bed (and waking up several times in the night to complain that my feet were in her way).
Owen spent part of the middle of the night downstairs with Andy and ended up sleeping in his own crib but only after crying for a good 30 minutes.
Andy slept in Sophie’s bed, surrounded by her stuffed animals, wrapped up in her quilt.
Tonight Sophie took an hour to go to sleep.
James spent two hours in my bed, propped up on pillows with the humidifier at full blast. But he kept flipping himself over in his sleep, once off the bed (I caught him). As much as I was worried about the croup returning, and as much as I loved looking over and watching him sleep, I didn’t trust myself enough to catch him while I was sleeping. So back in his crib he went (thankfully he only cried for a few minutes before going to sleep).
And now it’s 11:15pm. Owen woke up about 45 minutes ago, screaming. I held him, calmed him, put him down and tried to rub his back while he cried, but he was thrashing so much it was pointless. So I left the room. Thankfully, he quieted down quickly, before James woke up.
Now, everyone is asleep. But I know it won’t last. And I hate that feeling, that knowing that in just a few short hours I’m going to be up, pleading, wondering what to do, wishing this phase was over. It’s different when you’re nursing in the middle of the night—it’s routine, the breast or bottle instantly calms tears. This, this middle-of-the-night crying, unpredictability, being awake, exhausts me.
Ugh, crying. I must end here.
“Without enough sleep, we all become tall 2-year-olds.” —JoJo Jensen
Thanksgiving Holiday Visitors
The day after Thanksgiving we invited Katy, Tom, Colleen, Kyle and my parents over for dinner. How I wish we all lived closer and could do this routinely, monthly, even. But instead I will be grateful for evenings like these, even though rare.
“When you look at your life, the greatest happinesses are family happinesses.” —Joyce Brothers