Help. They’re Mobile. (Seriously, I Need Help.)

April 7, 2011

Although the boys aren’t crawling up on their hands and knees yet, they can inchworm around the house—fast. And now they’re pulling themselves up to standing. They use the ottoman, couch, dining room chairs, stairs, toys, my legs—anything they can for help.

We’re sleeping now. Typically we’re only up once a night, for one child. Owen’s favorite wake-up time is around midnight; James, 2:30am; Sophie, varies. (Trust me, this is much, much, much better than last summer, which I can’t provide the details of, because now it’s all a blur.) I only have to pump milk for the boys five to six times a day—sometimes I can get away with four. (Much nicer than every three hours.) We have a nap routine. A bedtime routine. Enough of a schedule that we can write it out if someone else watches our children for a few hours.

For a few weeks (a month, I dare say), I felt (somewhat) in control.

Lately, though, I feel like I’ve lost it.

When Sophie was crawling, I simply followed her. Through patience, time and repetition, I taught her to leave the dog bowls alone, to not touch breakable decorative items, to lower herself when standing instead of simply, inexplicably, letting go.

I can’t do this with the boys. There’s too much going on. While I’m moving Owen who is seconds away from tipping over and cracking his head on the hardwood floor, James is plunging both arms into Tucker’s water bowl, soaking himself and the floor (and laughing). While I’m cleaning up the bathroom floor after Sophie tried to dump the contents of her little potty into the big potty (and missed), Owen is pulling a basket of toys out of the cubbies, narrowly missing his head. And while I’m wiping the wet cat food off of James’s hands (and wondering if any made it into his mouth), Sophie is clicking the end of my laptop charger and cell phone charger together, creating sparks. (Note: Andy doesn’t believe this. I’ve tried to replicate it, but could not. But I swear I saw sparks.)

I’m exhausted. Never have I had a job so physically demanding. I’m constantly jumping up, picking up, putting down, moving, shifting, catching, pulling, rolling.

I know. It’s a phase. It’ll pass.

But seriously. I need some help. Every night I take note of the bumps and bruises (both on my children and my parenting self-esteem).

So, parents. Of multiples, specifically, but anyone, really. Advice? Tips? Tricks? What do you do about dog bowls? Do you gate absolutely everything? Do you invest in one of those large, gated, play yards (which both boys could be placed in, say, when I take Tucker out)? Do you hover when your almost-one-year-olds pull themselves up (sort of impossible, with three) or do you let them learn on their own, let falls happen (note we have hardwood floors with area rugs)?

Outside is a problem in and of itself. Sophie hated grass. Turns out, that was awesome. You could put her on a quilt outside and she stayed on the quilt, even when she could walk. Owen, though, has no fear. He inchworms his way off the quilt so fast, dragging his stomach through grass, dirt, mulch—you name it. James, on the other hand, inchworms his way to the edge of the quilt and then eats whatever is on the other side (grass, leaves, dirt, you name it). All the while Sophie wants me to chalk with her or push her in her car or catch her at the bottom of the slide one more time.

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Here’s the thing: I can pack away anything within reach that’s pretty. I can gate like crazy. I can set up the play yard in the living room and throw in a couple toys. I can take our jumpers outside and insist the boys play in them, and only them. But then, how do they explore? How do they learn about the world around them?

I don’t think it’s right to go crazy with baby proofing, to gate everything, to never let them move, try, fall, stand up, sit down. But I also have to keep them safe. After all, it’s sort of my No. 1 responsibility. Along with everyday precautions, The Fast Fire Watch Company helps families stay protected with reliable fire monitoring and safety services.

So please share. Ideas. Products. Phone numbers of nannies willing to be paid in toddler artwork instead of cash.

I thank you. My kids thank you. And so does Andy, who, I’m pretty sure, has witnessed a mini meltdown every night this week.

“Now the thing about having a baby—and I can’t be the first person to have noticed this—is that thereafter you have it.” —Jean Kerr

Tutus & Galoshes

March 25, 2011

Warm(er) weather, bottles outside, sidewalk chalk, tutus and galoshes, a smile and a smile and a smile. (Thinking of all this on this cold, spring morning.)

“In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours.” —Mark Twain

A Mother’s Instinct

March 23, 2011

I worry about James. I always have. At 27-1/2 weeks I was worried about him, even though I was told, at the time, that his rate of growth was fine. But in the end, it wasn’t. At birth, Owen was double the size of James. If my water hadn’t broken on its own, six weeks early, I know at my next scheduled ultrasound I would have been sent to the hospital for a c-section because of how small James really was. James was in the NICU longer. One of his ribs protrudes so oddly that, for a couple scary days we were worried it was some sort of mass (an x-ray and ultrasound confirmed it’s just bone). He suffers from eczema, which at times, can be severe. As such, he often can be found in this position:

I like to think he’s simply doing downward dog but I know he falls into this position often to more easily scratch his head. He does it so much that he’s losing hair on the top of his head—akin to when he only slept on his back and lost hair back there because of that. We have a prescription cream, and it helps, but we’ve yet to rid him of the rash entirely.

That’s not all. None of my children have had ear infections—except James. And now he has a recurring one. At his 9-month appointment we were told he’s in the 1 percentile for weight but that it’s OK—his charted growth curve is upward moving. And yet, at this week’s appointment when the pediatrician confirmed James’s ear infection had returned (and I felt like a terrible mother for dismissing so many signs all last week), new stuff came up. Like the fact that in addition to the eczema, James will sometimes get hives. And that his diapers aren’t what they should be. And that he is still so small.

And so today, after Owen’s PT appointment, I had to take James down the hospital hall for blood work. I will never, ever again complain about having blood drawn. (OK, maybe a little if they have to dig to find a vein, but never like I used to). I’ve decided watching your 10-month-old have blood drawn is 10,000 times worse. The needle is smaller, yes, but the blood takes so long to fill the vials (and using most of my strength to hold down my screaming baby didn’t make the time go any faster).

The pediatrician wants to test him for allergies. And thyroid issues. And many other things, things that have to do with nutrient absorption and other big words I probably should be looking up instead of writing this post.

In the scheme of things, none of this is a big deal. He’s happy (most of the time). And healthy (for the most part). And nothing that I’ve written so far scares me—truly, it doesn’t. What does, though, is mother’s instinct.

People, women, in particular, talk about it all the time: Trust your mother’s instinct. Trust your gut. Listen to that voice inside of you that nags and nags and nags, despite logic and evidence and people telling you to stop worrying, particularly people who have had years of medical training.

I worry about Sophie.

I worry about Owen.

I worry about many, many things (ranging from why recycling pick-up never showed up this week to my career outside of mothering to the tragedies in Japan).

But I can always, with some deep, inward thought, let my worries go or, at least, lessen a bit—except with James.

So then I worry that I’m worrying so much about my mother’s instinct that I’m simply making it seem like it’s something huge I should be trusting when, in reality, it’s just superficially inflated, because of all the worrying going on in my head. Or something like that.

I imagine, I hope, his blood work comes back perfectly normal. And that with more humid weather his skin improves. As he grows, I suspect his rib won’t protrude so noticeably. And maybe, ironically, he’ll actually end up bigger than his brother.

And yet, I can’t shake it. I’ve tried as part of me fears there’s going to be an asterisk next to my name on James’s chart and I’ll be labeled an excessive worrier by his doctors. But then another part of me thinks back to when I had not yet met him yet, but held him, inside of me, and I knew—I knew—something wasn’t quite right. And it wasn’t. I’m not an ultrasound technician. I’m not an ob/gyn. Only a mother. With an uneasy gut.

I hope it’s wrong.

“Instinct is the nose of the mind.” —Madame De Girardin

Our Little Scuba Diver

March 8, 2011

Owen (and James, to a much lesser degree) suffer from torticollis. Their left ears tilt toward their left shoulders and they always look to the right. As a result, Owen’s head is misshapen. His right cheek and forehead are more pronounced (and, as such, more kissable, I say).

Owen started physical therapy early September. We took him to a chain therapy center recommended by our pediatrician. The therapists there were incredibly kind and if Owen was a teenager, I truly believe he would have received adequate—if not excellent—treatment. But he was an infant. Looking back, I should have known the place wasn’t an ideal fit. Everyone who worked there doted on him. I asked, at one appointment, if they saw many babies. They said no (hence the doting). They claimed he was doing much better and only needed to be seen monthly.

Two weeks later Owen finally had his appointment with a plastic surgeon at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital (the wait for an appointment was quite long). This is recommended for all babies struggling with plagiocephaly, which means abnormal head shape. While the National Institute of Health’s Back to Sleep Public Education Campaign has greatly reduced the occurrence of SIDS, it’s greatly increased the occurrence of plagiocephaly. Newborns are spending too much time on their backs. The solution? Back to sleep, yes, but much more tummy time and much less time in car seats, bouncers and swings.

Part of our appointment at the hospital involved an educational seminar. We were told about the important of tummy time, proper positioning (exercises) and ridding our house of our beloved My Little Lamb swing. I admit, I left that seminar angry. I felt like I was being blamed—that Owen’s misshapen head was my fault. I felt like a terrible mother.

I don’t know why Owen has torticollis. I do know it’s more common in twins. I also know that while I tried to do tummy time with him as much as possible, I could have done more. And with a toddler and twins, we used our swing—a lot. I’m no longer angry at the nurse who gave the educational seminar. And, most days, I’m no longer angry with myself. It is what it is.

Back to Cincinnati Children’s. After the seminar, Owen’s head was measured and he was seen by a plastic surgeon. Turns out, his plagiocephaly was only borderline for needing a molding helmet. In addition, we were told, helmet therapy is best suited for babies with flat spots on their heads. Owen doesn’t have a flat spot. Rather, because of the torticollis, one side of his face is simply more forward than the other. Weekly physical therapy was recommended instead.

We pulled Owen out of the chain therapy and into Cincinnati Children’s therapy—the only opening was in Mason (a good half hour away). I took it. And am so happy I did.

Here’s Sadie working with James.

Sophie loves going to therapy with the boys and she now knows the drill: shoes off, hands sanitized, one toy from the toy cabinet (usually kitchen supplies for the play kitchen) and a sticker at the end for good behavior.

And here’s Sally working with Owen (the exercises often are tough for him).

Sally is our main therapist and we love her. She’s smart. She works Owen hard but also provides many hugs, kisses and let’s-take-a-breather-so-you-can-stop-crying moments. She’s so incredibly patient with Sophie (who loves to “help”). And me (I’m always late). And Owen (even when he’s teething and his muscles are tight and he therefore cries the entire time). Sadie is a student, working with Sally. She spends a lot of time with James, who is seen every other week. You would never guess her to be a student. Her insights and exercise explanations seem to come from someone much older. We’re grateful to both of them.

For awhile, Owen was in therapy twice a week. (Allow me a woe-is-me moment: Hour-long appointments a half hour away require much planning and patience plus there’s a $20 co-pay per child per visit.) But now Owen’s down to once a week. He had a follow-up appointment with the plastic surgeon and a molding helmet was officially ruled out. But, in addition to the PT and regimen of exercises at home, he’s required to wear a Benik vest, more accurately called a Benik Contralateral Torticollis Bracing System.

front view

back view

side view—it’s this strap which keeps his head midline

It’s not his favorite thing. It greatly restricts his movement and he’s had to relearn basic things he’s been doing incorrectly, like rolling. He’s most upset when left on the floor, alone (which I try to do for as long as I can, so he can relearn those things, but usually I can stand the screaming for only about 10 minutes). We strive for about four hours of wear time daily.

A Bumbo and blocks help.

His big sister helps.

And working on a puzzle with all his siblings helps, too.

This bracing system, along with positioning, exercises and physical therapy, seem to be helping. I know, someday, this will all seem like a minor blip in our lifetime together. But right now, it seems so very much more than that. But I’m thankful, for many things. I’m thankful that, medically, this is all we’re dealing with right now. As someone who wore back braces in high school because of scoliosis, I’m thankful Owen’s wearing this bracing system now and not as a teenager. I’m thankful for Sally and Sadie and all the wonderful people who work in the physical therapy department at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital in Mason. I’m thankful for my mom who will often watch Sophie (or come to the appointment and help out there). I’m thankful that the therapists are so willing and equipped to handle siblings when help is not available. I’m thankful for Wendy’s drive-thru (the appointments are at 11am—Sophie and I munch on lunch during the long drive home).

Finally, I’m thankful for this blog as a means to educate. Maybe, maybe, I could have given Owen all the tummy time in the world and never once put him in a swing or bouncer and, maybe, he’d still have torticollis. But (and it pains me to think this) maybe not. So if you have a baby, and he’s awake, put him on his tummy. Even if he fights it. And reserve the car seat for the car. I know it’s a pain but when in a restaurant, take your baby out. Hold her. Limit bouncer use. And swing use. (It’s so hard, I know. We, literally, put ours in the attic so we wouldn’t be tempted to use it.) Limit high chair use and stroller use, too. It’s funny, all these things we have that parents 100 years ago didn’t—as usual, more is not always better.

I think James will be released from PT soon. And Owen should have to wear his vest for only six months, if all goes well. I actually think it’s kind of cute. I call him my little scuba diver. Sophie often cries if he’s in it and crying. But many days, when I put him in it, she suddenly shows up wearing a hat, too.

“When you realize how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky.” —Buddha

Jumping Can Be Hard Work

February 22, 2011

James, taken January 25

“Life is a long process of getting tired.” —Samuel Butler

Young Love

February 9, 2011

Owen: “So Hannah, do you come here often?”

James: “Seriously, Owen, do you have to hit on every woman that comes into this house? You really should be spending your time enhancing your intellect with books, like I do.”

Hannah: “James, I didn’t see you over there! You sound very smart.”

Owen: “Ignore him! Pay attention to me. I love your purple bib with spit-up on it. I have one just like it.”

“Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.” —William Shakespeare

Eating Sweet Potatoes—A Pictorial Essay

January 26, 2011

“I think, therefore I Yam.” —Ratbert

My Little Men

January 26, 2011

Owen

James

“A man finds room in the few square inches of his face for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his history, and his wants.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thing 1, Thing 2 & Aunt Janeil

January 26, 2011

“An ounce of blood is worth more than a pound of friendship.” —Spanish Proverb

Introducing Solid Food

January 21, 2011

Owen

James

Owen

December 28, at 7 months and 9 days, we finally introduced the boys to rice cereal. Sophie was, perhaps, most excited about this and insisted that she get to help feed them. (She continues to insist daily, which makes for some very messy meal times.)

It’s funny. With Sophie I was shocked at how little information the pediatrician gave me regarding solid food. So I read. And researched. And talked to other mothers. I noted when I introduced each food and how long I stuck with that particular one. I paid attention to color, calories, consistency, and whether it was a fruit or vegetable. I made some (not much) and mostly bought organic. I wiped her mouth after every other bite so as not to stain her bibs.

Ha.

My poor boys are lucky if I remember to give them solid food these days.

There is no rhyme or reason as to what I give them. I stuck with rice cereal for about a week and then it was whatever was in the pantry or was easy to mash. So far they’ve had sweet potatoes and pears and bananas and apples and squash. I’m not doing vegetables first or all orange foods first—I’m not even sticking to one food for several days before introducing the next. I rarely take pictures. And I wipe their faces at the very end with a shared washcloth (I’m determined to cut down on laundry as it’s becoming quite ridiculous).

I’m still pumping milk for both of them and on good days, most days, really, they solely get breast milk (although, unfortunately, always out of bottles). Adding solid food to their diet has been fun (they’re growing! they’re getting older! they look so cute smacking their little lips on the tips of Sophie’s old pink and purple spoons!) but I forgot how terribly time consuming it is. It’s not replacing a bottle feeding as I follow up each solid-food meal with a bottle. Instead, it basically adds a solid hour of work to my day (and more once I add another solid meal in).

So I multitask. Sophie sits on my lap and while I spoon feed James, she dips Owen’s spoon into the food of the day and gets it ready for me. I then give Owen a bite while she takes care of James. And back and forth, back and forth. Or she serenades them with song while they eat. We listen to music on my iPod. Sometimes I manage to sip coffee between dips. And while I try to converse with them, as I believe eating is a highly social event and mealtime conversation an art to love, sometimes I flip through a magazine.

It wasn’t so long ago I was in the NICU, feeding James another woman’s milk, from a very small bottle (that was almost as long as him). While feeding him I had to cup his impossibly small body in the palm of my hand and feel him to make sure he continued to breath. The process terrified me. I had to track his breaths by counting them, track time by noting when I started and when I stopped, and keep incredibly careful track of the amount of milk he consumed. He was so small and light and fragile-seeming yet all I wanted him to do was eat and eat and eat so he could come home (and eat he did).

Today he gulped down an entire jar of squash and talked throughout his dinner. There was a lot of “m” sounds coming from his mouth. At first I laughed, thinking he was saying “mmm,” as in “yum.” But then it also sounded an awful lot like “mama.”

“Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.” —Voltaire