Andy’s Typical Thursday Night Attire These Days

September 14, 2011

“Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children.” —Charles R. Swindoll

Lollipops for Father’s Day

July 13, 2011

Sophie helped me make muffins and wrap the two presents she chose for Andy—yogurt melts and lollipops. I talked and talked and talked to her about the meaning of Father’s Day and the very idea of presents (something the recipient would want, not something the giver would want) and still, after a very long and trying shopping trip, that’s what we ended up with. Upon giving him the gifts she quietly asked if maybe he would share … (He also got two video games, though, to make up for this.)

She did make a lovely card.

Sophie then insisted on a tea party with her real tea set. Again, I tried to persuade her to do activities Andy would rather do, but the meaning of the holiday was lost on her this year. Maybe next year. (And thanks, my love, for being so happy and willing and generally wonderful, regardless.)

“Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope.” —Bill Cosby

Daddy’s Rainy Day Fort

July 5, 2011

The boys loved this fort (Sophie’s bedroom fort was too fragile for them to play in). And, if you look closely, you can see someone else who loved it, too.

“Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional.” —Chili Davis

Playing Guitar

May 17, 2011

“Music expresses feeling and thought, without language; it was below and before speech, and it is above and beyond all words.” —Robert G. Ingersoll

On Guilt

September 16, 2010

The picture above is of a game, a lovely little game that Sophie loves to play called First Orchard (made by Haba). It was a day of no’s for her, an in-a-minute day, a I-just-have-to-feed/change/rock/take-care-of-Owen/James day. She set the game up, by herself, on our dining room window seat while I was feeding the boys. She set it up perfectly. Without my help. The correct fruits were on the correct trees, the stone path that led to the orchard was perfectly lined up, with the fruit-eating-raven (her favorite part) at the bottom. And she waited. And waited. She picked up the raven, danced it around the window seat and said, “Caw, caw, caw!” And then she waited some more. So patiently. She just sat there, cross-legged, waiting for me—for someone—to play with her. “Now?” she finally asked. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The boys were eating tremendously slowly. I hadn’t even burped them yet. Finally, rightfully, she got upset. All day she had heard no. All day.

Andy came home from work before I could finish with the boys. “Play with her,” I pleaded. And he did. Without even changing out of his work clothes first. “Thank you,” I mouthed.

I knew, going into this twins-with-toddler experience, I’d feel a lot of guilt. Kids aside, I’ve always had guilt issues. I’m really, really good at it. I think my therapist pointed it out 10 minutes in my first conversation with her (if I remember correctly I was going on and on about feeling guilty that I drove to the appointment instead of walking, given that her office was so close to my house).

Lately, though, some things have happened that I feel really guilty about. And so here I’d like to get these few things off my chest.

1. (The worst.) Sophie had just finished painting and needed/wanted to wash her hands. I needed to feed the boys, who were in panic-mode crying at this point. So I got her set up (on the stool, water on, towel and soap in reach). Then I started feeding the boys. Sophie washed. And washed. And washed. Sensing that she was more playing than cleaning at this point, I asked her to turn off the water. She ignored me (so I thought). I asked again. And again and again and again. Finally, I yelled. “Sophie Olivia Uhl, turn off the water NOW!” She started sobbing, uncontrollably sobbing. Frustrated, I stopped feeding both boys (meaning both boys were manically screaming now) and marched to the bathroom. And discovered this: She couldn’t reach the faucet handles to turn the water off. There she was, trying and trying and trying to do as I asked, and she simply couldn’t reach. I felt terrible. I scooped her up and apologized a million times over. And while I know she won’t remember this, I always will.

2. When Sophie was a newborn, I remember holding her, all the time. And not just when she needed/wanted to be held, but also when she was sleeping. I’d hold her for entire naps. I’d sit, on the couch, holding her, listening to music, reading, watching TV or dozing myself. Now I find it a treat to hold Owen or James. Too often it’s, ‘Oh, thank God you’re sleeping, into the swing you go.’ So lately I’ve tried to make a conscious effort to just hold them. But still, I do it far less than I did with Sophie. One, there are two of them. Two, when they do nap, Sophie wants/needs my attention. Three, eventually I need to wash the diapers. But still, I miss that. I want that. And they need that. Guilt.

3. Last week I ventured out to a small park past the cemetery by our house, with all three kids on my own. Sophie was thrilled with this venture. All morning she talked about it. She practically ran the entire way there. And once there, she was, easily, the happiest kid there. And I bet she said, oh, 50 times, “This is so much fun, Mommy. This is really, really fun.” Clearly, I need to be taking her to the park more often.

4. I used to be so strict about Sophie’s TV/computer time. I grew up with 30 minutes of TV/day. But lately, when I’m feeding the boys or pumping, and I’ve told Sophie to color, read books, play with her dolls, build a train, build a tower, do crafts, bounce a ball, dance, sing, play with her musical instruments, run around in circles, chase Tucker, put on my bracelets, play her First Orchard game, line up my nail polish, etc., etc., and her response is always no, no, no, I cave. I turn on PBS. I find Dora and Diego and Wubbzy and Wonder Pets and Yo Gabba Gabba and The Backyardigans and The Fresh Beat Band online. And she watches. And she sings. And she dances. And she’s quiet and not whining and not upset and happy and the boys are happy but ohmygoodness is it way too much TV. Guilt, guilt, guilt. This, Andy and I are both working on. The now-occasional tantrum over us simply saying no to her asking if she can watch the computer is too much to handle.

5. I’m big on thank-you notes. Andy’s theory is, if you thank them in person, a thank-you note isn’t necessary. But I disagree. Last night I opened up my Google doc list of thank-you notes to write and, while once again noting how incredibly lucky we’ve been to have had so many gifts given to us, to the boys and Sophie, was appalled at the number of thank-you notes I still had to write—some for gifts given to us when the boys were born (that’s almost four months ago now). I admit it. When I give a gift, and don’t receive a thank-you note, I wonder. Did they receive it? Did they not like it? Should we have spent more? Do they care? That’s terrible, I know, but I do. So last night Andy and I wrote out 10 more. And each one began with an apology. Well, mine did. Andy’s … his went something like this: “Apparently twins need a lot of crap. So thank you for the Babies R Us gift card. Go Bucks!” At this point, I didn’t care. I just wanted them sent. (Guilt.)

I could write forever on this topic. I know I need to release myself from much of this guilt but some is deserved. And some, I believe, is part of good parenting. Still, I will never forget the image of Sophie sitting cross-legged on the window seat, waiting. Or the feel of her hot, teary cheek against mine in our downstairs half bath. Or how I felt simply holding Owen, and James, and noting how little I have done that. I imagine guilt is something I’ll always battle. I just hope I can, someday, turn it into small skirmish instead.

“It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.” —Oscar Wilde

My Manifesto on Men, Newborns and Sleep

September 8, 2010

Owen and James will be four months old on the 19th and we’re still getting up in the middle of the night. But things have improved greatly from the first few months—a good night is a feeding around 1am or 2am, and another around 5am or 6am, with the boys going to bed sometime between 9pm and 10pm. And last night we let Owen sleep, even though James woke up around 2am. And sleep Owen did—from about 10pm to 5am. Ahhh.

But note the plural “we.” I don’t buy the “Well, my husband works all day so it’s my responsibility to do all the nighttime work” argument I hear over and over from stay-at-home and work-at-home moms. Thankfully, my husband doesn’t, either (although I’m sure there are many nights he wished I was the type of mom who did do all the nighttime feedings herself).

Here’s the thing: I work all day. He works all day. Come 2am, we’re on equal ground.

I believe sleep deprivation to be one of the hardest aspects of caring for a newborn. So I find it old-fashioned, inconsiderate and, well, wrong that overnight work should automatically fall to the woman, simply because she’s the mom. And that includes exclusively nursing moms.

Sophie was born via c-section because she was breech. So, for the first two weeks after her birth, when she cried, Andy had to get up in the middle of the night to change her diaper and bring her to me. Andy would fall back asleep while I nursed her and then I would gently wake him up so that he could put her back to bed when I was done. Once I had healed, we’d simply take turns. Yes, I had to be up for every feeding because I was exclusively nursing. But during the times he’d get up, change her diaper and bring her too me, I’d nurse almost half-asleep. It was far easier on me. And it wasn’t a big deal for Andy because he was able to sleep while I nursed. And finally, Sophie got middle-of-the-night bonding time with both of us.

The boys get 100 percent breast milk. But, for a variety of reasons of which I plan to write about soon, it’s mostly pumped milk. So they’re bottle fed, which I hate (again, for a variety of reasons) but also which I love, because it allows other people to share in the task. So when James cries (he’s smaller and always wakes up before Owen), I wake up Andy. He gets the bottles ready while I change James’ diaper and try to keep him quiet (so that he won’t wake up Sophie) until it’s time to eat. Then Andy wakes up Owen, changes his diaper and feeds him while I feed James. We put both boys back to bed. Andy goes to sleep, I pump, and then I go to sleep. Every time.

I was about to type “I’m lucky.” But then, I don’t think so. I think sharing this work is simply right and fair. Yes, Andy works all day. But so do I. It’s often joyous work, yes. I know Andy feels slightly jealous when Sophie’s running around the house, screaming with excitement about going to the Children’s Museum as he’s headed off to the office. But I also know for a fact he doesn’t want to trade places. And when I’m not diapering or feeding or finding Sophie who always hides in the same place (behind the curtain) or shaking a noisy toy above a baby’s head or reading children’s books or loading the van or unloading the van or rocking, rocking, rocking, I’m cleaning the kitchen or folding laundry or running the vacuum or sweeping the porch or sending a freelance-related e-mail. And OK, sure. I check Facebook. I watch news programs while doing all the above in the morning. I flip through a magazine while Sophie takes a bath. But I don’t get lunch breaks. Or coffee breaks. Bathroom breaks, yes, but they’re always accompanied by at least one child.

Soon James will surprise us with a 10pm to 5am stretch. And then, someday, they’ll hopefully sleep like Sophie—8pm to 8am (we can only hope!). Eventually, this will all be a memory. But a better one, I think, because we did it together. It’s been a shared experience. And I honestly think it’s made our marriage stronger—at a time in our lives when it could have easily become weaker. Plus, I have a handful of hilarious weird-things-Andy-does-while-half-asleep stories to now share with family and friends.

“Pain shared is pain lessened; joy shared is joy increased. Thus do we refute entropy.” —Spider Robinson