Now THIS is funny

A rating system for husbands and wives, from the 1930s. I haven't actually tallied my score, but I think I do pretty well--although I do not remember to wash the top of the milk jug off before opening it (do I even want to know?), I never go to bed with curlers on, nor are my stocking seams ever crooked.

Taking Pictures

We went in for an ultrasound today. All these ultrasounds are quite strange for me; we had none with D1 and only one early on to date D2. (And I still didn't believe the doctor's date. But apparently they were right.) With twins they like to do them every few weeks to make sure everyone's growing reasonably well.

The ultrasound technician at this office is less personable than the one at the old office. This is good. The other technician was always pointing out every body part to me as she measured it, in an expectant way, as if I was to coo over it. "There's the femur." "There's the kidneys." Now, I'm as daffy over newborns as any hormonally-crazed female, but I just can't work myself up into a tizzy over ultrasound images of femurs. Even faces aren't too charming on ultrasound, looking as oddly sliced-through as they do. About the only thing that's cute on an ultrasound is fingers and toes.

Twin measurement ultrasounds take forever. Well, half an hour, which is forever when you have thirty-five extra pounds sitting on your spine and have to lie back. They should invent an ultrasound table where you can lie on your stomach with a hole cut out for your belly and they run it from underneath.

Everyone is growing well, and Baby A is definitely a girl, and she has her head down. Baby B does not, but the doctor thinks he's in a good place to move around when Baby A gets out of the way. They each weigh about five pounds. That's getting to be a lot of baby. Of course, I was ten pounds when I was born, but that was two weeks past my due date.

Me and My Little Commando

DOB was putting D2 down for his nap this afternoon. D2 rooted around on the bed, looking for exactly the right spot to sack out.

"Is that where you want to lay down?" DOB asked when he had settled for a moment.

"No," D2 said, "This is where I want to lie down."

Greetings from Afar

Congratulations to Toolboy and his bride-to-be (whose online name has yet to be determined--Toolgirl?), who are getting married today. We are, alas, missing it, what with it being on the other side of the country and being a little too big to fly and all.

Owing to a last-minute discovery of a mixup in their church reservations, they are having an outdoor wedding. The weather is, if anything, a little too warm and sunny. The mother of the bride was commenting to Her Majesty on how strange it was to have it work out thus--after all, who schedules an outdoor wedding in May in Seattle?

Their Majesties did, of course, three years ago. The weather was beautiful.

And two years before that, DOB and I were married outdoors in September. We had no backup plan and we needed none. It poured rain the next day, but rain on a honeymoon is no problem.

Clearly our family is favored by the Puget Sound weather sprites. Perhaps one of us should try for an outdoor January wedding and see what happens.

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up

I had two cowboys to feed all day yesterday. Pinto beans for lunch worked great, but could I honestly tell them that cowboys eat tuna fish sandwiches for dinner?

Hey, if they can work with cows that look suspiciously like octopuses, bears and rabbits, I can declare tuna fish to be cowboy food.

Today we have one cowboy and one fireman.

Six Unspectacular Quirks

I've been tagged by Rebecca at The Space Between My Peers to come up with six unspectacular quirks, as follows:

* Link the person who tagged you
* Mention the rules in your blog
* Tell about six unspectacular quirks of yours
* Tag a new set of six following bloggers by linking them

Six unspectacular quirks? What if all my quirks are spectacular?

1. Actually, I'm having a hard time coming up with six because a quirk implies consistency and I am not very consistent.

2. I have a deep, unconquerable fear of manhole covers and sidewalk grates. I do not want to walk over them. I do not want my children walking over them. The latter is getting harder and harder to avoid. Somewhere out there is a booby-trapped grate just waiting for me to walk over it, or else one that holds a large, hairy monster with a hand waiting to grab me.

3. I tend to resent the existence of the real world. Any brain type or personality test that measures intuition/abstract thought versus sensory/concrete thought puts me way off the charts on the intuition side. So I live in my own little world, but I'm happy here. As long as the interesting people who show up don't keep expecting me to deal with all these dreadful real world things. (I do understand why D2 gets so frustrated when his biscuits crumble, and so happy with two hours alone lining up cars.)

4. I love to walk in the rain and wind. It's a little more challenging now that I have to take puddle-jumpers along, who always manage to splash well above the level of their boots. (And even that wouldn't be so challenging if they could change their clothes unassisted.)

5. I think the internet is destroying what little sense of connection I had in my brain, as I flip between nine open windows, unwilling even to wait for a link to open. But it's close to the kitchen, and there's a chair there. Although I'm supposed to be bouncing on the exercise ball.

6. My real objection to home birth has little to do with concerns about possible complications, and everything to do with not wanting to be in a place where I'm responsible for anything. I do not want to be in labor and know there are undone dishes in the other room, or wondering who is going to do all the laundry. Which is an absurd reason, but there it is. A part of me looks forward to being in labor because I finally have permission to ignore everything and everyone if I want to.

And now, six spectacular people to tag to tell about their unspectacular quirks.

Carrie
Sara
Wendy (or whatever Zoomlian wants to reply)
Melissa (if she can get it done before going into labor!)
Devona
Rose

Private Life of Grammar Commando

The Grammar Commando passed a semi on the freeway yesterday. On the back of the brightly painted and embellished tractor was the lettering:

"Don't you think my tractors' sexy?"

"Not with a misplaced apostrophe, it's not!" Grammar Commando thought.

(The phrase, intending to abbreviate "tractor is," requires an apostrophe where the missing letter is, not tacked at random on to the end.)

What does Grammar Commando find attractive? Good grammar, of course. It was one of the first things she noted about DOB--his fine grasp of English grammar, even in the free-wheeling world of instant messaging. Although he confesses that he had trouble with "it's" and "its" until GC cleared it up. But he cared. That was the main thing.

So What Does THIS Mean?

I went into the ducklings' room and found D1 sitting on a stool, staring at the bookshelf.

"I'm watching TV," she said.

The Way Things Are

I'm really doing pretty well for the shape I'm in. Here I am at 31 weeks, still on my feet (if not for very long!), no sign of pre-term labor, no swelling, blood pressure low, babies kicking like crazy. The doctor thought at least one was head down and both seem to be in a more vertical posture, so they're moving in the right direction. We'll get a better idea at the ultrasound in two weeks.

But I feel lazy. Oh so lazy. Even when I'm not actually tired (which is seldom) I have no desire to get up and do anything. Quite novel for me, since I'm usually itching with restlessness. Thank you very much to everyone for the book suggestions--I have a slew of them on hold, and when I pick those up I'll reserve a slew more. Some of you guessed a little too well and suggested authors I've read many times (most notably Austen and Sayers), but that only confirms your excellent taste!

As far as help, we are already getting a fair amount of help. DOB's sister has been staying with us at least three nights a week all year (she goes to school nearby and works at his office). She catches us up on the dishes and does other things. The rest of his family, and especially Aunt Bettie, come over at various times and help out. Grandma and Grandpa take D1 and D2 Monday evenings through Wednesday morning so I can rest and go to doctor's appointments on Tuesday. Other friends stop by and help, too.

I feel like an Oscar winner thanking the supporting people. But really, we couldn't do this alone.

Wondergirl is coming out in June to stay into August, and DOB's sister, not having school, will be around more much of that time as well. It will make a huge difference to have someone around all the time during the first few months. Being able to breastfeed the babies without any supplements is very important to us, since DOB's family has such a history of allergies, and I've heard that may require nothing but sitting still and having people hand me food and water for the first month or so. After that, we'll see what we still need. No doubt things will stay crazy for quite awhile.

I'm actually a little disappointed that I don't get comments about how huge my belly is. Maybe it's just that I don't get out much. Or maybe it's my long torso; I really don't think I have nearly the discomfort most twin mothers do at this stage. The babies can't even reach my rib cage to kick it. Although this build will plague her all her life in buying jeans, if D1 inherits the twin tendency she will someday thank me for passing it on.

A Word from Grammar Commando

Definitely.

Definitely.

Two i's. Related to "finite." I realize that "definitely" suffers from the murky vowel sounds so common in English, but if you remember "finite," it shouldn't be hard to spell.

For some reason, people feel compelled to spell it "definately." That would be bad enough, but then they find themselves in another path and the letters swap and it comes out as "defiantly." And that, my friends, means something very different.

"Sounds great! I will definitely be there." (With bells on!)

vs.

"Sounds great! I will defiantly be there." (With my bazooka!)

Baby Menu Plans

I finally have trimmed down my four-week menu rotation into two weeks of only the absolutely easiest, least messy, most favored, and cheapest menus. You will notice that salads predominate. I do not like eating or preparing hot food in hot weather. Plus, salads can be fixed at any point in the day when I feel up to it or when some Helpful Visitor is here, instead of needing to be fixed right after breakfast (like crockpot meals) or right before supper (like skillet meals), both of which times seem to be when everyone needs attention and a diaper change. Also salads can be easily adapted on the fly to whatever vegetables were cheap and available this week.

Week 1
Monday: Chicken and White Bean Taco Salad
Tuesday: Macaroni Salad
Wednesday: Potato or Sweet Potato Salad and Sausage
Thursday: Chicken Fajita stuff on Rice (This needs a more exciting name!)
Friday: Tuna Sandwiches
Saturday: Lunch, Pinto Beans with chips or cornbread
Supper, Steak or Roast
Sunday: Lunch, Chef Salad
Supper, Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese

Week 2
Monday: Sausage and Rice Salad
Tuesday: Broccoli and Cheese Potatoes
Wednesday: Taco Salad
Thursday: Lentil-Rice Salad
Friday: Tuna or Salmon Pasta Salad
Saturday: Lunch, Pinto Beans and Chips or Cornbread
Supper, Taco Chicken (or Chicken and Rice)
Sunday: Lunch, Chicken Pasta Salad (or Fried Rice)
Supper, Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese

Weekday lunches are either leftovers or sandwiches (peanut butter or toasted cheese)
Notice that Sunday lunches are made with the leftovers from Saturday's supper, usually on the spot while doing the Saturday dishes, so that there's little work to do when we get home from church.

Breakfasts go on the same rotation every week:

Monday: Oatmeal, Scrambled Eggs, Fruit
Tuesday: Biscuits, Scrambled Eggs, Fruit
Wednesday: Leftover Biscuits, Scrambled Eggs, Fruit
Thursday: Toast, Scrambled Eggs, Fruit
Friday: Oven Pancake, Fruit
Saturday: Waffles, Scrambled Eggs, Fruit
Sunday: Cold Cereal (or pre-made muffins), Scrambled Eggs, Fruit

We eat a lot of scrambled eggs (I'm doing three a day for myself right now). It's cheap protein, and it involves the least work on my part. I like doing French toast, but the last time I tried that I had Braxton-Hicks contractions all morning, so I'm backing off on French toast until at least after the babies come.

DOB's lunch is packed from leftovers on the previous evening. His breakfasts consist of hard cooked eggs (I cook several days' worth at a time), leftover biscuits or waffles with jam (fixed up the night before) and fruit if it's handy. He is kind enough to do it himself these days and let me sleep in a couple of extra hours.

Now I'm working on writing up recipes (of sorts) for each menu. It's very hard to pin me down on how much of what to put in; I just kind of guess and adapt according to how many people are eating.

Book Recommendations, Please

I should have about six more weeks to go in which I'm keeping my feet up a bit more and still have my hands free.

This clearly calls for books. Unfortunately, my brain is in a state of pregnant mush--or maybe it's just the lack of physical activity. DOB says he's felt the same way after surgery. Either way, it's not time to start Thomas Aquinas. And having read non-stop through most of the first trimester, I'm running low on my own recommendations for easy reads (or re-reads).

So I'm asking for recommendations. And then I'll frustrate you by giving an impossibly long list of qualifications. And then somebody (but I'll never admit who!) will frustrate me by recommending books that obviously violate something on the list. But here goes.

1. Light, both physically and emotionally. It's hard to hold a weighty tome while lying on one's side, and reclining is out of the question. Emotionally, this is just not the time for gut-wrenching tales of woe and misery. Especially not if small children or their mothers might be harmed or threatened in any way, shape or form. Virtue had better be triumphant and not suffer too badly along the way.

2. Well-written. My brain is just as annoyed by poor writing when tired as it is when not tired. Maybe more so. Naturally people have different definitions of good writing, so let me point out that I savor well-turned phrases and insightful characterizations and am not impressed by writing propelled along merely by plot developments.

3. Reasonably clean. I'm not going to be seriously harmed by occasional strong language or references to the things married people do with their doors closed, but too much just gets irritating and I don't want to be irritated right now.

4. I don't much care for romances or westerns, or any purely genre fiction for that matter, but I'll consider something if it's really, really well done. I do rather like mysteries but have a hard time following the clues these days. I do not like a lot of suspense.

5. Some authors that would fit this list in my mind (but of whom I've already read so much that I'm looking for something new): P. G. Wodehouse, Connie Willis, Lloyd Alexander, Jasper Fforde (though he's borderline on the "reasonably clean"), Agatha Christie.

6. Easy to get a copy of. It has to be something I can reserve and get in at the library within the next couple of weeks. Anything really new or very obscure is probably out.

7. Non-fiction is OK as long as it doesn't involve any need to act (so housekeeping books are way out) nor require too complex of thought. Or otherwise violate the list above (history books, say, are usually too emotionally intense, unless they're super boring).

There it is, in all my pickiness. Any ideas?

Story Time

Today's reading at the Charlotte Mason blog was on the importance of restricting children's reading to good literature:

For the children? They must grow up upon the best. There must never be a period in their lives when they are allowed to read or listen to twaddle or reading-made-easy. There is never a time when they are unequal to worthy thoughts, well put; inspiring tales, well told. Let Blake’s ‘Songs of Innocence’ represent their standard in poetry; De Foe and Stevenson, in prose; and we shall train a race of readers who will demand literature––that is, the fit and beautiful expression of inspiring ideas and pictures of life. Perhaps a printed form to the effect that gifts of books to the children will not be welcome in such and such a family, would greatly assist in this endeavour.

Now I've never been quite that strict. I haven't even read them Blake or Defoe yet. But that printed form about gifts of books . . . now that is tempting. I wonder where you submit it.

A few weeks ago a kind lady at church gave the ducklings a wrapped present. When they opened it, they found it contained a book, which, of course, we were at that point honor bound to read to them. Unfortunately, the text of the book consisted of a toddler mouse obnoxiously defying his mother at every opportunity all day long (with no consequences), culminating in running away and hiding for hours in the evening (an idea which fortunately has not yet occurred to the ducklings).

Needless to say, it was not exactly great literature either.

It might have done as a cautionary tale against overly-permissive parenting, but we couldn't figure out what the point would be in reading such a book to a small child. (The lady at church, when I thanked her the next week, unknowingly confirmed my suspicions that she had looked no farther than the "cute little mousie" on the cover.)

At this point, I improvised, which I can keep getting away with until one of them learns to read. Instead of young Tip starting the day by insisting on a different shirt than his mother had set out, my new and improved Tip proudly announced to his mother that he had already gotten dressed all by himself. Throughout the book I either re-interpreted Tip's behavior or made sure it did not go unchallenged. The final incident of running away became a game of hide-and-seek.

My retelling was not great literature either, but at least the ducklings were inspired to put on their own clothes and help fix supper and play hide-and-seek like Tip the Mouse instead of the original behaviors. Small children not yet being highly discerning in the literary line, they were obsessed with it for about a week anyway.

It has quietly gone to Goodwill. I hope they don't notice. We're back to Make Way for Ducklings and Peter Rabbit.

Birthing Positions

It was almost a relief when the first doctor said she didn't even want me to try to give birth normally to twins. D1's birth was long and exhausting; D2's birth was short and terrifying. The thought of having a set day, of turning it all over to the doctor, of being relieved of the burden of exercising and rehearsing for a natural delivery, sounded like a blessing in my state of anemic mid-pregnancy exhaustion.

The longer the thought of it brooded in the back of my mind, though, the longer it nagged at me that these were not good reasons. At least not for me. Sure, there are small risks associated with attempting a vaginal birth after a c-section, and those are slightly increased with twins; but then, there are risks (including potentially fatal ones) associated with having a c-section, and they increase each time. The only risk that a scheduled c-section seemed certain to avoid was the risk of having another unscheduled c-section--but scheduling surgery in order to avoid surgery doesn't make a lot of sense.

Truthfully, I simply wanted to dodge responsibility. I was tired; I am tired. Giving birth is a lot of work. I didn't want to fight the doctor or find a new one; I didn't want to deal with the uncertainties of when and how and whether everything would work out. I wanted to just know. And not have to worry about it.

Of course I should have known better. I knew full well that recovering from a c-section is more painful and exhausting than giving birth--only instead of being over when the baby is born, it goes on and on while you should be enjoying the baby. I knew that in life there are no guarantees, no such thing as freedom from risk. But when a doctor is sitting there telling you she'll handle all the risks, it's hard to say no.

Maybe it was the iron pills, but I finally realized that I couldn't just sit back. This is my body and these are my babies and I have to do the best job I can to take care of them: barring a clear indication of genuine complications (not just risk factors), that means trusting my body and theirs to work as God designed them. That means embracing the work it will take to prepare them and me.

At the same time I have to let go of wanting to control the outcome. Nothing could free me from the uncertainty of birth. For all our search for security and guarantees, the doorway to life always comes through the valley of the shadow of death. I was reminded of something a mother of many children told me once, that with every new pregnancy we must pray the prayer of Mary: "Behold, the handmaiden of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word." Letting go, giving up control, becoming open: that's what the process of birth is. And it is only the beginning.

So I am doing what I can: we switched to a doctor who actively supports natural birth, we're hiring a doula who's attended twin and VBAC births, I'm doing those exercises. I still don't expect a fairy-tale natural birthing story. I'm still quite concerned that the babies will never move out of their sideways position into one in which a normal birth is even possible. And I still don't like waiting and wondering when and how. But I'm happy to be trying, and I'm trusting that God knows when and how these babies should be born.

Confession

Meredith's Thrift Store Nemesis made me laugh and reminded me of a Park Nemesis of my own . . . and one of my more humiliating sins. Some sins beset us for so long we become quite accustomed to them, and if not proud of them, at least not surprised at them. But then sometimes we do something that shocks even us. Surely I'm not that kind of a person.

I do not recommend this method of dealing with one's enemies, real or imaginary.

This occurred when D1 and D2 were both under two and we lived at a brand-spanking new apartment complex on the edge of a very upscale neighborhood. There was a park across the street which we visited pretty much every day in our yard-sale wagon.

I tend to care just enough about outward appearances to remember them when it is too late to do anything about them. At that time I was suffering a great deal of Clothing Angst, perhaps because there had been no money in the budget for mommy clothes, even more likely because I could not step out my door for a breath of fresh air without being in public view. (I do not like living in apartments. I love my backyard, with all its mud and bugs.)

As far as my children's attire, I have similar trouble. The theory of cute, coordinating, unstained outfit is appealing, but it always clashes in practice with my fondness for having them feed themselves unassisted and play in the mud. And their hair, like mine, tends to be impervious to the effects of a comb.

Anyway, there I was with the ducklings at the park, and up drove a very pricey SUV. A petite young woman, every hair in place, got out her proportionally petite and well-coiffed toddler. They both wore perfectly-fitted outfits that not only matched on them, but coordinated with each other, in the stain-revealing shades of white and green. With no stains showing, of course, or even signs that these clothes had ever been worn before.

It had rained recently. Having visited the park regularly, I knew perfectly well that there was a puddle at the top of the slide, just out of view of the average adult, that remained long after the rest of the climbing toy was dry. Nonetheless, I stood back and watched without comment as the toddler climbed to the top, plonked her spotless clothes into the puddle, and slid back down soaking wet.

I did feel guilty about it, or at least bad enough to relent and offer the mother the towel I always kept handy in the wagon for the purpose of drying up that particular puddle. I'm afraid I felt more bad about discovering myself capable of such pettiness than at the envy and greed revealed.

And now I don't know whether I've improved any on that score or not, or that it's just that we've moved closer to a park with a much lower dress code.

Three More Days

No, I'm not planning to go into labor this weekend. (At least I sure hope not. I've felt rather weird all day, but I think it's just . . . feeling weird.) If all goes well, I should have eight more weeks of whining about hip pain and trying to find clothes that fit.

But I just tallied up how many days I actually have to prepare for the babies' arrival. I don't have the energy or brain functionality to do any moving boxes, organizing or planning on days when the ducklings are here. Either dinner or diapers would have to go. Nor do I have much energy left on days when I have a doctor's appointment.

So, there are only left the days every other week when the ducklings are visiting Grandma and I don't have a doctor's appointment. Between now and when I automatically go to weekly visits, that leaves three days.

Three days just doesn't seem like enough time to get ready for anything, let alone handling two newborns. Still on the list to do:

• Find all the baby-type gear and clothes in the attic and have it accessible (having anything accessible in our attic is a miracle).
  
• Pack a hospital bag.
• Acquire places for the babies to sleep and ride in the car.
• Write down everything I do around the house and a simplified rotating menu plan so that our very kind and generous helpers are not asking me questions all the time. (Something I find far more fatiguing than doing the work myself.)
  
• Set up things with a doula, talk to La Leche League about feeding two at a time, exercise and prepare for the birth (and convince these babies to get their heads down).
• And, of course, take it easy, drink lots of water, eat lots of protein, and not stress so as not to be going into labor anytime soon.
  

I wish I had eight weeks for preparation and three days for feeling pregnant.

D1 Plans the Family

D1 has been talking for sometime about our need to acquire nine children, whereupon we will have to drive a bus.

But this weekend she got an even better idea.

"Hey! When we have MORE than nine children, like sixteen, there will be too many for a bus, and we will have to get a TRAIN!"

I think if she wants sixteen, she's going to have to wait until she can help out. Sixteen grandchildren would be fine by me.

Flight Plan

D1&2: Get in your seat! We are flying to Taiwan. We are on the runroad.

QOC: OK. (Raising arms to fly) ffffffft.

D1: No, you are in the back.

QOC: Who is flying the plane?

D2: I am flying the plane. Fffffffffffffft. OK. Here we are in Taiwan.

D1: No, we aren't. It's a long way to Taiwan.

D2: OK. FFffffffffttttt. Here we are in Taiwan.

D1: No, we aren't. It's a long way to Taiwan.

D2: No it's not, it's next to our house.

D1: No it's not, it's far away.

D2: OK. Fffffffffftttttt. Here we are in Taiwan.

D1: No we aren't, it's still a long way to Taiwan.

D2: We are staying home. I can't drive that far.

Five Years Ago Yesterday

DOB and I agreed to merge our libraries.

(P.S. WOW, this is a sappy picture. I'm embarrassed to have allowed myself to be seen in public with such an expression on my face.)

Springtime on the Rocks

If you knock and no one answers, come around back. You'll find me there dozing on my special spot of lawn with humps in just the right place, and the ducklings trying to get as muddy as possible.

Those aren't natural rocks, unfortunately. They're chunks of a long-abandoned walkway. But they're still fun to climb on.

Concerning Clothing

The clothing situation was getting desperate, so I betook myself to the thrift store. I am not willing to pay full price for clothes to be worn for two months of lying about the house. But it was getting to the point of buying more clothes or wrapping myself in a sheet for most of the week, and we're short on sheets, too.

Unfortunately, there is a dearth of second-hand maternity clothes above size medium. (And since the tent-like maternity clothes of yesteryear have gone out of style, if your stomach grows beyond medium-sized you are forced into larger sizes whether or not the rest of you has grown apace.)

Why is this? Surely women larger than size medium get pregnant and, eventually, get done being pregnant. What do they do with their clothes? Even at the mothers of twins sales there were only three t-shirts in size large, and two of those were pink. (I think I need counseling on my aversion to pink, it's going beyond a fashion statement to a personal vendetta.)

I did manage to find a couple of pairs of jeans that will still fit, and one cute shirt. Unfortunately, one of the pairs of jeans had--shudder--zippers at the bottoms of the legs. I thought that style had been safely buried in the 80s, but either it is coming back or someone really waited a long time to clean out her closet. Considerations of the style aside, though, what kind of sense is there in making zip-leg jeans for women who can't reach their shoelaces? That pair is destined to become cut-offs.

Everybody likes to moan about the miseries of summer pregnancies, but I have finished all my pregnancies in the warmer months and much prefer it that way. (I'm miserable in hot weather even when I'm not pregnant, so that doesn't make any difference.) I've never needed a maternity coat. I can wear sandals or go barefoot every day. (Barefoot and pregnant is not about male oppression, it's about blood flow. And swelling.) And it's so much easier to keep a newborn healthy and comfy and away from people with evil germs in the summer than in the winter--plus, fewer clothes means less laundry.

Duckling-isms

One area we focus on with D2 is learning to ask for help in a pleasant voice instead of FREAKING OUT I AM GOING TO DIE NOW BECAUSE MY BISCUIT IS CRUMBLING!!!! Sometimes DOB in particular encourages this by asking, "Where is your smile?" For some reason, D2 responds by pointing to his ear. Once he's pulled it out of there and gotten it back on his mouth, we're good to go.

*************************

I love the way they reverse compound words. For months our bathroom contained a "tub-bath." D2 was looking around for his "Goose Mother" book. D1 is also very PC. When she gets out the red hats, she wants to play "Fire Persons." They also have a few compound words of their own devising, like "yestertime."

*************************

Our laundry and food storage is all in the basement. During the course of the day, I usually need to dash down there for a few minutes at a time to switch laundry, pull food out of the freezer to thaw, etc. No matter how brief my run, a crisis is bound to occur at this point. Yesterday I was scooping out rice when I heard D1 screaming from the top of the stairs, "Mama! Mama!"

Notwithstanding the blood-all-over-the-floor tone, I paused to ask, "What is it?"

"I just wrote my whole name!" she said.

Well, that is an exciting milestone, but why must it happen while I am in the basement? And why can't we reserve that tone for actual blood on the floor?

When I got upstairs she had added the rest of the family members' names to her page, although with Mama and Papa she had the same trouble as the little girl spelling banana--it's hard to know when to stop.

Pancakes

Today we went to the license bureau to get our new license plates. On the way out, I caught a whiff of the pancake house a couple storefronts down.

Naturally, even though I had just eaten three poached eggs on toast for breakfast, this set me off into pancake craving. Pancakes are not something we usually have, because we lack a griddle and it just seems like too much trouble. But this time I could not deny; I went home and mixed up a double batch of blender pancakes and a pan of brown sugar syrup.

I ate half of it. All by myself. Two hours after breakfast.

It wasn't that hard (the cooking--or the eating, for that matter). I wondered why I didn't fix this for breakfast more often. Then I remembered: oh yeah, I just ate half the pancakes. All by myself. There are at least three other people who need breakfast, too. But the blender won't hold more batter.

We seem to be outgrowing all standard kitchen equipment. I should know what bigger families do, but I can't seem to get my head around what we should do. It seems to me all the big families I know have taller kitchen helpers, which makes multiple batches or multiple dishes more doable. (That, and I don't know any little kids who eat as much as the ducklings.) I'm not sure what to do until my assistants top four feet. Buy an industrial-sized blender?

The good news is, I'm not that hungry for lunch, so there should be enough to go around. And we've got some nice leftover pancakes for snacks.

Frugal Friday: Sale Preparation

Last Friday night we went to the closest Mothers of Twins club sales. If you have or expect to have babies, live near a good-sized city, and have never checked these out--do. (Search for "mothers of multiples" as well.) There are about a dozen in different regions of our city, and most of them hold two sales a year, a portion of which is open to the public.

I've been going to these sales since before D1 was born, but this was the first year I qualified to go as a member (or pre-member--they didn't want to charge until the babies had arrived safely), so we went the night before and picked up a twin jogging stroller for about a third of the retail price. We also got a beautiful child's wooden rocking chair for $5, a few small toy items, and much of what I needed to round out the duckling's summer wardrobes.

I find the prices are usually comparable to yard sales, with the one downside being that it's hard to dicker when there are thirty sellers to track down across a junior high cafeteria. (I wouldn't bother, unless it was a large item I felt was really overpriced.) The big advantage is the selection, which is about as big as a large children's resale shop. I can rely on these sales to get everything I'm going to need for the new season at one stop, which saves me a huge amount of time and energy. (Like everywhere else, though, second-hand pickings get slimmer as the kids get older.)

Before I go, I look through the hand-me-downs and any old clothes I think will fit (when do kids stop growing into a new size every season?) and write out exactly what I think I still need in colors and sizes. This year I got even smarter and wrote down the duckling's actual measurements before I went, so I could measure the t-shirts and dresses and be sure they were long enough. I also traced their feet, so I could compare the cutouts to shoe soles and be sure they could accommodate D2's wide feet and leave enough room to grow. Much less stressful and I didn't bring home any mistakes.

More Frugal Friday here.

Nicknames

There are people out there--quite a few it seems--who have an aversion to naming children with the expectation of also giving them a nickname.

"Why give a child a name that you don't expect to call him?"

To which I can only reply, "Who said I can only call my child one name?"

Surely if cats, as T. S. Eliot observed, need three names, children need at least as many:

• A full, dignified name that sounds good after "Senator" or "Doctor." Should also serve well when needed for discipline. (Something I've discovered: if you commonly call the child by a nickname derived from his middle name, it will be hard to do this.)
• A short, handy nickname for everyday use throughout childhood, one that will not be hideously embarrassing when used by childhood acquaintances in later life. (Multiple options in this category are a bonus.)
• A totally random, cutesy, utterly hideously embarrassing nickname that has no connection to anything, to be whispered to small infants and dropped before the infant grows old enough to object.

Of course, with a blogging mother, the child also needs a suitable online nickname, though we have taken the easy route out with that.

Maybe my fondness for nicknamable names stems from having an utterly nickname-proof name. In which case, no doubt my children will want nickname-proof names for their children. I did have an embarrassing infantile nickname, which I will not reveal.

Preview Picture

Last summer we were visiting some friends with twins.

"Hey," DOB and Wondergirl said, "Let's get a picture of what QOC looks like with twins."

"Let's not," I said, "I think I'd rather not know." Somehow I had an uneasy vibe about even touching that stroller. But they prevailed.

This is, alas, not a preview of what our backyard will be looking like any time soon.

I just hope I can actually fit back into those clothes.

Everything You Didn't Want to Know

People ask me what it's like being pregnant with twins. It's like being pregnant with one, only three months farther along. So right now I feel about two weeks overdue: everything hurts, I can't find a comfortable position, I get contractions if I stay on my feet for ten minutes, all my cute maternity clothes are too small and only the tents are left. And I still have two and a half months to go. And I don't even have any complications!

All I have to do to reconcile myself to the discomfort of my current position is to go read a few stories of babies born at 28 weeks. It's wonderful what they can do these days in the NICU, but I want my babies with me, thank you very much. So they are welcome to stay in another ten weeks, even if they must tango on my bladder.

The consoling factor on hugeness is that the ducklings still refer to me as "little Mama." I suppose they think this is the logical reciprocal since I call them my little people. Sort of an all-purpose term of endearment. No doubt if we had an elephant it would be their little elephant.

The other difference with twins is that not only am I paranoid about whether I've felt the baby move lately, I'm paranoid about whether I've felt both of them move. Which is hard to know since I'm not quite sure which one is where. Sometimes they kick each other instead of me, which feels odd.

We have acquired the minivan (a Honda Odyssey, the choice of rapidly-growing families everywhere). We have acquired the double jogging stroller, and discovered we have nowhere to store it except in the living room. Making room for the babies is going to require divesting ourselves of some furniture. No matter what everyone says, I refuse to stock up on swings and bouncy seats. I don't like them, I don't trust them, and I don't want one more thing to trip over.

Still on the list to acquire are a co-sleeper (whereby I hope I can keep both babies within arm's length at night) and the monster twin nursing pillow. Still on the list to do is rearrange our bedroom to make space for these things. Also I must decide if I want to stick with the doctors' practice I have or switch to one with a better track record in handling twin VBACs naturally.

Then there's the whole eating and sleeping thing, which takes up pretty much all of my available time. I miss my brain most of all, though. I left the salt and soda out of the biscuits for supper. Not pretty.

Reality Strikes

I was going to write a post rhapsodizing about spring (a compulsion frequently recurring in April).

Then I got my first mosquito bite of the year.

I am very excited, nonetheless, to announce that I think the perennials I transplanted into the front beds last summer have survived and will take their turn after the daffodils, which have been glorious this year. And D1 and I met an avid gardener who lives down the street.

Make that Mother Duck

What type of Mother Hen Are You?
by Montessorimom.com: Educational Resource

If letting the kids get their yard-sale clothes muddy is what it takes to be groovy, then groovy I am. My mother might have been a little horrified at the image, but she probably would have gotten the same result.

Resignation

Today I got my requested packet from the California State Bar on resigning my membership. Mostly it consisted of dire warnings about how difficult it is to regain membership (almost as difficult as getting it in the first place, but not quite) and how their inactive bar dues ($115 a year) are really quite, quite reasonable all things considered, since you enjoy all the benefits of being a member except being allowed to practice law. (I'm not sure what those other benefits were, except getting the very dull bar journal and having a little card to carry around.)

I still plan to resign. I never was all that interested in practicing law (as opposed to theorizing about law, which fortunately doesn't require a license). California is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. And $115 a year to keep a token membership seems too high. I'll keep my Washington license, which ought to cover me if I ever get an unforeseeable urge to turn back into a lawyer.

It feels kind of weird to toss out something I worked so hard for, though. Now that pretty license is just a wall decoration.

Incompatibility

I bet not even E-harmony thinks to ask about this one. I've never heard of it coming up in premarital counseling.

Nonetheless, it's an important question.

How do you eat your grapefruit?

See, I eat grapefruit the proper way, which is to cut it in half, put it in a bowl, sprinkle with salt (OK, so nobody else does this. But it really does taste better.), scoop out the innards one bite at a time, and then squeeze the juice drop by drop into your spoon. A luxurious breakfast experience.

DOB eats grapefruit like an orange: peel, section, eat.

We both refuse to budge.

The trouble is, grapefruit is a two-serving fruit. Thus, instead of sharing a single grapefruit per breakfast, we wind up always having these odd (and bulky) containers with two differently-shaped halves of grapefruit in the fridge. These tend to dry out and not be so tasty the second time around.

The obvious solution would be to each train a duckling to our preference in grapefruit consumption, but so far they have little interest in grapefruit, and ask for a banana or orange instead.

Another area of compatibility I forgot to check was blood type. If only DOB had RH negative blood, I wouldn't have to get Rhogam shots with every pregnancy. I can't convince him to change that, either.

I think we shall survive nonetheless.

Whoot! Whoot!

I passed my 3-hour glucose test, so I can continue eating sugar with reckless abandon. Actually I haven't even liked anything sweet this entire pregnancy, except fruits; I keep trying to eat dessert and finding it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Still, it's better not to have to mess with more stuff to do.

Also, we love the taste of fajitas but they are very messy to serve and eat, and it's almost impossible to find tortillas that don't contain soy. Today I cooked a big pot of rice, dumped the fajita filling on top of that, and everyone was happy and nobody made a mess. Everyone was really after the guacamole, though.

And it was a gloriously sunny day and we spent two and a half hours outside, me basking and reading and the ducklings getting nice and muddy and trying their bikes out again. Nothing will persuade them to use the pedals, though. The hassle of even a trip to the back yard is beginning to distress me, though--how will I manage it when I have to add two babies into the mix, and someone needs to go potty? Aiee!

Power to the (Pregnant) People

This post by Amy had some comments that I could relate to:

When I was single and living on my own, I was a fairly ambitious person. I used to want to live in D.C. and work in government or public policy. One of the young women in this book reminded me of that old Amy.

It just so happened that, on the day I was reading about her life, my life was SOOO stay-at-home-momish. It was one of those days where I felt like I had been doing laundry non-stop for three days. What happened to that young woman I used to be, so full of life and energy?

I know that feeling, all too well. I used to be good at things. I used to have grand ideas. I used to be ready to change the world! I used to have unique and valuable skills. Nowadays, I can't even get the dishes washed. (I can hardly even reach the faucet.)

However, I was also re-reading A History of the American People while waiting to be poked all morning. (Fortunately no one else was in the waiting room for long, so I turned the TV off.) It struck me again, with more force this time, that the key to successful new grand ventures is not the bright and energetic visionaries who get them started. Nor is it how many young, strong men (or, in these more egalitarian times, independent, energetic women) you have around to carry out your plans.

No, what a new colony or novel idea needs to make it a success is a bunch of pregnant mamas waddling around, trying to get supper on the table. That's where permanent colonies come from; that's where lasting social change sets in. Somewhere in the middle of all those diaper changes, a new world is born.

In the book A Lantern in her Hand, an elderly pioneer woman attends the "old settlers" picnic.

And then it was time for the speech of the day. The young county attorney made it, from the airy heights of the band stand, at his side a glass of water on Abbie Deal's marble-topped table.

It was a good speech. It flapped its wings and soared over the oaks and elms, and eventually came home to roost with: "You . . . you were the intrepid people! You, my friends, were the sturdy ones. Your days have been magnificent poems of labor. Your years have been as heroic stories as the sagas. Your lives have been dauntless, courageous, sweeping epics."

"'Sweeping' is the word, Sarah!" Abbie said when the applause had faded away into the grove. "I wish I had a dollar for every broom I've worn out."

Sarah Lutz's little black eyes twinkled.

"How about it, Abbie, do you feel like a poem?"

"No, Sarah, I was always too busy filling up the youngsters and getting the patches on the overalls to notice that I was part of an epic."

You can tell this book was written by a woman

QOC, reading "big sibling" book to ducklings: "Papa said, 'You can teach things to the new baby, like how to burp with its mouth closed.'"

DOB's mother, overhearing: (hysterical laughter)

QOC: Hmmm. I don't think your Papa would say anything like that.

DOB, hearing about it later: "Is it possible to burp with your mouth closed?"

Easter Pictures

This is how we spent most of the day:



But we still did get some egg-and-carrot hunting in. (Note the outfits, Carrie!)



This last one is not from Easter. This is what happens when you neglect to take your afternoon nap. You will fall asleep at the dinner table. And then your parents will mock you.

Why is this so difficult?

I have a lot of files of book lists. Books I have read to the ducklings, which I might want to read again, to them or to a younger batch. Books I might want to read to the ducklings someday, but which they are still too young for. Books I want to read. Books I have read and now want to buy. Books I don't want to read (to save myself the bother of checking them out again).

Unfortunately, I have had no system of naming these files. So they're all named things like "Book List" "Reading List" "Books to Read Again." I usually have to open two or three files before I stumble upon the list I'm actually looking for.

It finally occurred to me today to at least name my personal reading list, the one I am most often looking for, "MY PERSONAL reading list." Now I hope that I can at least find it again on the first try.

Easter

• The ducklings found the bag of plastic eggs this morning and were all excitement. "Now we will hide them and you can find them," they announced. I thought not. That sounds too much like the games we play every other day of the year. ("Where did you leave your shoes?") The whole point of the Easter egg hunt is to reverse the situation for once.
• We don't get contagious-sick very often. In fact, this is the first time this winter. But we do seem to make our few sicknesses coincide with major holidays. We are setting to be the inverse of those people who only go to church on Christmas and Easter; we go every Sunday except those.
• At least staying home from church I didn't have to risk hearing "He Lives," a song for which I have an (according to others) irrational antipathy. But DOB reported they didn't sing it anyway, so I could have safely gone. Instead I sat on the couch with a box of tissues and wiped every nose that came by.
  

Convenience

So I failed my standard prenatal one-hour glucose test. (I failed! Sob! I never fail tests. Except driving ones.) It's my understanding that this is pretty common with twins and usually further testing reveals no problem; the body is just under an even bigger strain than usual.

The lady from the doctor's office said I need to get back in to the lab and do the three-hour test "at my earliest convenience."

Hmm. When will it be convenient for me to fast twelve hours, drive to the lab, drink a nasty orange drink, and sit around for three hours getting periodically stabbed in between watching interminable episodes of CourtTV?

Never, that's when.

Perhaps that's not quite what she meant.

How to Feel Better About Pregnancy Symptoms

Step 1: Be pregnant, huge, and cranky. Whine about (well, if you've ever been or married to one, you know what about).

Step 2: Get the flu. Spend a week struggling to breathe and swallow on top of all of the above.

Step 3: Get better. Suddenly it doesn't seem so bad.

The Trouble With Two

D2 is pretty mellow as two-year-olds go. If he has a meltdown, it's almost always simply a sign that he needs ten minutes alone in his room with Puppy and a book, and he's happy again.

But that doesn't mean he's not busy trying to figure out how to Assert Independence through contradiction. He just usually does it with a twinkle in his eye: "No, I don't want to be clean. I want to be dirty!" "It's not red, it's orange!" DOB especially gives him lots of opportunities to exercise this property by saying things wrong as much as possible.

D1 recently received a book on manners and has been quite intrigued. Last night she sat up to the table and announced, "I am not putting my elbows on the table."

I approved mildly, but when you are very short and eating at a very big table, putting your elbows on the table is hardly possible and certainly less of a concern than the rule about not bouncing around in your chair so that you fall out mid-meal.

But D2 was immediately alerted. Stretching his tiny arm as far as it would go, he announced, "I am putting my elbows on the table."

If you really want to mess with his mind, just keep agreeing with him. One day he told us that he was going to give his picture to Papa to take to work.

"That would be fine," we said.

"Actually I'm not going to give my picture to Papa," he said.

"OK," we said, "It's your picture."

His eyes begin to whirl. "Actually I am . . . no I amn't . . . "

How can a two-year-old define himself if no one will disagree with him?

Multiples of Four

A belated reply to Mama Squirrel

4 Jobs I’ve Had in My Life
Intern
Office manager
Research analyst
High school teacher

4 Shows I DVR (TIVO)
Don't own any of the above, but shows we get from the library:

Jeeves and Wooster
Brother Cadfael
Poirot
Hmm . . . that's all I can think of right now. We're kind of running low on ideas.

4 Places I’ve Been

Oxford, England. (Punting and all!)
Boston, Massachusetts. (Not in the fall, though.)
San Juan Island, Washington. (Where I would want to live, if it weren't for the ferry fees and water supply issues)
Mammoth Cave, Kentucky (But I haven't actually been inside yet. Next time we'll time it better.)

4 Favorite Foods

I don't really have a good answer to this question right now. Anything that goes down easily and stays down. And that tastes like I cooked it back when I still could cook but I haven't actually had to cook.

I'm declaring this blog an open-tag zone until the brain fog lifts (however many years that takes) so feel free to grab this if you haven't done it.

JAMBOG 2008, Phase 2

The very late and boring edition:

Scenario #2: You're at a kids' soccer game and stay late to help pack everything up. After you've seen absolutely everyone off, you get in your vehicle and turn the key. Nothing happens. How do you get home?

(This scenario has been neglected, so I felt obliged to choose it. I'm that way about abstract and inanimate objects. Not about puppies.)

Step 1: Using disciplinary magic, we send the children scouring the car for stray money and also search our wallets. Fortunately it is garage sale season, so we actually do have a little cash. Total: $137.89.

Step 2: Setting the twin table we were hoping to sell (because by the time any of our kids are playing soccer the twins will definitely have outgrown restrained feeding devices) in the middle of the road, we wait for a victim.

Step 3: A brand-new minivan swerves to miss the table and stops right in front of us. With cash in hand and our mind-molding magical techniques in service, we step up to offer them a trade.

Step 4: "Sure, it's only $137.89, but with this article on how to double your money, it's really worth far more. You only have to double it nine times for it to be $70,559.68--far more than the value of your vehicle." Somehow they accept, and we drive off.

Step 5: We realize that we live one block from the soccer field and wonder why we went to all that trouble. But hey, we got a new minivan out of it!

Inappropriate Prenatal Advice

Wrong Culture:
For snacks, try a cheese and vegemite sandwich. (Oy.)
Do your exercises every time you have a cup of tea. (So, twice a month, then?)

Wrong Era:
Take a list of people to call with you to the hospital. (What modern parent doesn't already have everybody from their parents to their first college roommate's old number still programmed in their phone?)

Wrong Planet:
Increase your calorie intake by adding more courses to your meals. Start with soup, then salad, bread, main dish, and dessert. All freshly made from organic ingredients, of course. (Sure, when maternity insurance coverage includes a personal chef and dishwasher. Until then, we'll have to survive on one-pot casseroles.)

I Feel Cheated

Having read The Long Winter many times, I have always wanted to experience a blizzard (from safe inside a sturdy, warm, well-stocked house). So today the news reports say we're having a blizzard.

This is no blizzard. Where is the black sky, the sudden impact, howling winds, electrical sparks, and snow so thick you can't walk to the barn? Where are the sub, sub, sub-zero temperatures? I can see houses all the way down the street and I've seen worse winds on a balmy spring day. The snow is getting rather thick, I'll admit, but on the whole I'm completely disappointed.

I want my money back.

Phone call

"Hello, policeman? There's a bad guy in my room and he's eating my food. And his name is (five different names, most previously unknown to mankind) and he's asleep right now. So can you please come and get him and put him in jail? Thank you, policeman. I love you."

Changes

Funny how a little bit of information changes everything. Suddenly I seem so much bigger, more tired, thirstier. Suddenly I have twice as much to do and half the time and energy to do it in.

"Expect to be slowing down by the 25th week," I read. Slow down? I haven't sped up yet! Reading all these how-to-prepare-for-twins books when you didn't find out until the fifth month is sort of like reading wedding preparation timelines when DOB and I were engaged. Most of them started sometime before we had met. However, our wedding came off just fine and I presume somehow we'll be ready when the babies arrive. At least we found out before they were born.

It seems that with a twin pregnancy you sort of skip the second trimester, moving straight from being nauseated and tired to huge and tired. (On some days, all of the above.) It also seems that eating to appetite is not enough (which is why I haven't gained much weight) when your nausea blends into squashed stomach. I'm trying to force myself to eat more, but it is Not Fun. (Ideas for healthy, cheap, easy, high-calorie, low-bulk food are welcome, although I can't promise they'll sound good.)

On the plus side, I have a reason for all this now. I am not a wimp. I'm running two pregnancies concurrently! Some other year I will cook gourmet meals, grow an organic garden, do elaborate projects with the ducklings, write a great novel, and clean the attic. This year I'm just going to try to keep everyone alive and reasonably healthy.

One thing we are working hard on is encouraging the older ducklings to be more independent. DOB discovered that bribing D2 with a Skittle (one Skittle) was enough to motivate him to figure out how to change his own clothes. It was a little disturbing to discover that he'd changed into his pajamas and taken off his wet (pinned, cloth) diaper without bothering to put on a dry one. But it is still a great milestone! (Yes, he's probably ready to potty-train, too. I just don't think I can deal with it.)

Time to lie down again. I don't see how they can ever put me on bedrest, at least. I'm not doing anything as it is.

The Ducklings' Costuming Guide

With just a few simple household items, you too can transform yourself into any role we might desire. Here are some favorites:

Mary and Joseph: Drape a blanket over your head. The style of the blanket does not matter; yellow duck print is just fine. However, if you are playing Joseph (being D2) you must insist on the blanket going down to your feet, whereupon it will trip you up, fall off, and you will have to ask for it to be put on again.

Uncle: Wear a watch. It's best if you have swiped this watch from an actual uncle.

Missionary: Wear a baseball cap backwards. (No, I have no idea why this works.)

Since some people don't fully appreciate role-playing, it's easier if you skip acting things out and just run around announcing loudly who you are.

Please, everyone

Do not ball your eyes out. It sounds like an exceedingly painful self-operation done with dull kitchen implements.

If you must, bawl your eyes out.

Thank you,

~Grammar Commando (Whose alter ego has been lurking on too many maternal message boards, where careful grammar is NOT the order of the day.)

JAMBOG 2008, Phase 1

It's time for the Jones' Annual Midwinter Blues Online Game! (Go visit them for the full rules.)

This is the Twin Shopping Edition:

A Book
Rather a two-book set, of course. On how to discipline by magic. (I would have more confidence if Mrs. Weasley wrote them.) We'll have to use magic, as we don't have energy for anything more concerted.


Mode of Transportation
The choices are, of course, between minivans and . . . other minivans. Fortunately this is DOB's shopping department.


Something Yellow
Double strollers, yes. But a special twin feeding table? I think two second-hand high chairs ought to do the trick for one-tenth the price.


Money
Double money would help. Five years seems a little too long, though. Maybe five months?

Earring Freedom Day

Getting my ears pierced was one of those things I never got around to doing. I think my mother may have been against it, but I never was interested enough to ask her why. Too girly-girl for me, anyway.

But then I got married, and a few girl things didn't seem so bad. And then DOB got me earrings for Christmas. (That would be Christmas 2006.) My natural inertia still slowed things down, but last August I finally got myself to the mall and submitted to the procedure.

The saleslady seemed quite surprised at having a 28-year-old woman presenting herself for her first piercings--her last client had been a three-month-old. She went through her spiel reassuring me about the pain. I've birthed two kids, I assured her. A little poke in the earlobe does not scare me.

Somehow I didn't realize until I was midway through that not only was pain involved--there was hassle. Specifically, keeping the earrings in at all times and washing the holes out three times a day for six weeks. It felt like a jail sentence, but having put my hand to the plow I resolved not to turn back. Even when I found out I would have to wear earrings at all times for six months.

There was also the trouble, once the six-week sentence was over and I was on probation, of getting the earrings out of the ear. This is a trickier business than you would think when you've never done it before. I finally gave up and asked a friend to take them out for me. Of course, since I had to put them right back in that didn't accomplish much, but at least I knew it was possible.

As of today the probation is over and I can actually take the earrings out and leave them out. I'm free! I'm free!

I don't regret getting it done, but you can be very, very sure I will never sport any more piercings. Anywhere. Nor will I be taking my small daughters in for ear piercings. Surely diapers and feedings are enough trouble without adding ear-washing.

The Ducklings Respond

Maybe they do have some stereotypical gender differences after all:

DOB: And so we found out that there are TWO babies in Mama's tummy. And we will have to get a new car to fit all of us.
D1: Then one of the babies can be mine!
D2: We're getting a new car!

I don't think I like this:

D1 has been paying close attention to some books I've been reading lately on neonatal development. Or at least to the pictures. So this morning I went in to tell them breakfast was ready and found they had emptied out the block bin and filled it with blankets. That was not surprising; it's what they always do with their toy bins. Toys are merely awkward fillers for those cool bins. But I was put off by the explanation.

D1: I had a baby in my tummy and D2 had a baby in his tummy and the babies came out too soon and so we had to put them in the bin and cover them up with blankets.

Do I really want my preschoolers to be running a NICU?

And All That

Were you expecting this? Sort of. The extreme morning sickness did make it seem like something was weird. But I really haven't had a lot of appetite or grown that much yet. (Maybe I'm just subconsciously comparing myself to my last pregnancy, when I was eating for three and one of them was almost a year old.) DOB had a vivid dream last weekend in which I called him and told him we were having twins. On the whole, though, twins are like the Spanish Inquisition.

Anyway, despite my so far non-hugeness, the babies are both a good, healthy size (a pound each at 21 weeks). No doubt hugeness is shortly to ensue.

Do twins run in your family? Not as fast as insanity does.

How did you tell DOB? He can tell that for himself on his own blog. (Where he promises to rant about traffic on a regular basis. Really. He does.)

Were you taking fertility drugs? HAHAHAHAHAHA. We're also starting a company marketing blond hair dye in Sweden.

Are you excited? Indeed yes. I think DOB is looking at it as a strong return on investment. Me, I like to do things that cause other people to shake their heads. Four kids four and under ought to do it.

How are you going to survive? OK, maybe you all aren't asking that question, but I am asking that question. Suddenly all the things that were very simple with one baby are immensely more complicated, from car arrangements (you just can't fit four car seats in a sedan) to sleeping arrangements (where can we put two bassinets in our bedroom?). Then again, this assumes that we will actually be sleeping or going anywhere.

The number one key to surviving with twins, or so I read, is to be ORGANIZED. If moving twice in the same year with two children under two was not enough to get me organized, I doubt twins are going to do it. Organization and my brain are like oil and vinegar: with a lot of effort you can make a tasty complement to life, but let them alone for any length of time and they will separate again. Fortunately the other keys are keeping a sense of humor, accepting help, and lowering expectations. Those I'm better at.

And one other note: Baby B is definitely a boy, but they're only about 80% sure Baby A is a girl. So we shall have to wait to be sure. One of each would be my preference, since I have more experience with boy/girl pairs and since that would make the clothes situation simple, at least. However two little boys would be fine, too.

Duckling Predictions

Every time over the past few months we have asked D1 what she thinks the little baby will be, she has said, "I think it will be a little girl."

Every time we have asked D2, he has said, "I think it will be a little boy."

Today I went to the doctor. It looks like they are both right.

Someone pinch me. Or just send money.

Important question for blog readers: D3 and D4? Or D3a and D3b?

The Ducklings' First Bulk Mailing

This is how one prepares for world conquest. We haven't done much political activity since D1 fit in one of those carseats with the handle, so this was fun to do. And the ducklings were quite intrigued and stuck with it for more than an hour. Next week (weather permitting) they'll be walking down to the city building with me to claim their "I Voted" stickers.

It's Not Working

Here's an article on the value of free, imaginative play. All very well. The ducklings are, of course, experts at free, imaginative play. They can come up with their own games that last for hours involving whatever props come to hand. (Right now they are probably destroying my bed, but they're occupied.) So, it's good for creativity, developing initiative, self-regulation, blah, blah, blah.

Except what intrigued me was to read how they measured the results of imaginative play. One way to measure how self-regulation had developed was to evaluate how well the children picked up after themselves. Apparently children who are good at complex, imaginative play are more willing to clean up their toys.

I wonder at just what age this effect strikes. It certainly hasn't happened here yet.

What's Wrong With the World

Or at least with the weather around here . . .

I've been feeling guilty that I have yet to take the ducklings out to play in the snow this winter. (Not that I am without excuse.) DOB did once--before the foot injury--but other than that they've been stuck inside until the mud reappears.

But the problem is, about 75% of the time when we have snow around here, it's immediately followed by sleet. I thought I would take the ducklings out this morning, but when I opened the door to check on conditions, I noticed the several inches of snow were topped by an inch or so of lumpy ice. Not good for much except a game of fall-down-and-bonk-your-head.

Where I grew up, it didn't snow very often, but when it did it was soft and fluffy and it stayed snow until it melted. None of this ice nonsense. You actually could play in it.

Guess we'll pull out that book of rainy-day activities instead.

It's Been Awhile

In fact, there's a big hole in our files where pictures from the last few months should be. Some things are better not documented. But I finally took some pictures today.

D2 is holding his new best friend, Puppy. (Puppy has been on the blog before during an identity crisis.) DOB decided to permanently bequeath Puppy to D2, and great has been his happiness since then. But Puppy has, alas, gotten a bit dingier. D2 is also wearing that 3T shirt (with fire engines!) I found in the attic yesterday. It's time to move him up. Fortunately he has enough 3T shirts to last out the winter.

D1 is holding her doll. The dress I made this morning (you would not be impressed if you could inspect the stitching) in an effort to give her something D1 could put on by herself. In this picture you probably can't see how well it coordinates with the ink scribbled on her chin.

Snow Day

It's snowing today. Big, fluffy, piling-up kind of snow. School-closure kind of snow. Snowman and snowball kind of snow.

Unfortunately, the ducklings are not here. They are still at Grandma's house (where they go every week for two nights and a day to give us a chance to rest) and will not return until the roads are clearer.

It's very quiet. And lonely. I should do some noble (but non-strenuous!) project while they are gone.

Like filing. Wondergirl has introduced me to the idea of Freedom Filing, which supposedly makes it effortless to keep files up-to-date and purged. I don't think effortless and filing are concepts that can co-exist in the world, but it does look easier to maintain than our current system. Which I almost had updated. Or almost ready to update. Or something. Bother.

Maybe I should go do the dishes instead. Yes. Surely dishes are more urgent.

Nothing like filing to make any other job seem more fun.

8:50 Update: Well, that didn't take very long. Surely I should do exercises before anything else, though.

9:20 Update: Time for a rest now. Mustn't overexert.

9:55 Update: These thank-you notes have been overdue for a long time . . .

10:10 Update: Have you ever seen JigZone?

10:18 Update: Where did the #$*&% file tabs go? Should I get out this 3T fire engine shirt for D2? Why can I never get this attic organized?

10:20 Update: Oh. Here they are. In plain sight.

10:50 Update: Pretty folders! Now to put something in them. Definitely need a jazzier music selection for this part.

12:25 Update: Wow, that was almost easy. Roads are clear and kids are on their way; I still have to come up with lunch and it would be SO fun to get these receipts done, too. Check out my own snazzy invention for keeping the files easily at hand while sorting through the pile:

Grammar Commando Rides Again (with friend)

Peek is a silly-sounding word. So are peak and pique. The fact that they sound equally silly does not make them interchangeable.

Peeking is something you do around corners to see if the children are ransacking the medicine cabinet or merely rereading Curious George for new ideas.

A peak is a mountain. (Picture that A as a capital. peAk.) It can symbolically mean the high point of anything.

To pique (a word no one on the internet seems to know) is to arouse, annoy, or intrigue.

So if you succeed in interesting your children in 13th-century illuminated manuscripts, you have piqued their curiosity. Don't say you've peaked it unless you mean to imply that you've taken them to the highest point of interest and they are bored with the subject now. And don't ever say you've peeked it at all, although if they get very interested and start creating their own illuminated manuscripts you might peek at their activities.

Thank you. I am done with my fit of pique.

And now, a note from a distant acquaintance, the fashion police:

What possesses people to wear pajama pants in public?

Pajama pants are useful and appropriate in many situations. They are great to wear while making pancakes on a lazy Saturday morning, when curling up with a cup of tea and a long movie, or while blogging. It is fine to wear them to dash out and pick up the paper or take out the dog. They are always appropriate in case of fire. Some people even wear them to bed.

But if you're going to the playground or school or Barnes and Noble, put those fuzzy ducky pants back in the drawer and get some actual clothes on!

It's not about decency (no garment could be less revealing or enticing than the standard pair of pajama pants). It's about not looking like a slob. Besides, it's cold outside. Put on something warm. Your mother should have told you this, but she is probably still in her pajama pants.

Parenting Help

We experienced (ha, ha!) parents don't need such help, but you new parents out there might appreciate these handy tips on how to interact with your baby.

And in the interest of honest confession, I have done that diaper-checking mistake. More than once. Ewww.

The Closest Book Meme

From Uncle Steve.

1. Pick up the nearest book ( of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people & post a comment here once you post it to your blog, so I can come see.

Here goes:

"Then the glory of the Lord appeared in the tent of meeting to all the sons of Israel. The Lord said to Moses, 'How long will this people spurn Me? And how long will they not believe in Me, despite all the signs which I have performed in their midst?'"

We don't keep a lot of books close to the computer. But, since the computer desk is opposite the dinner table, we do keep a Bible there in hopes that occasionally we will remember to have family Bible reading during dinner. (We have discovered this is the easy way to keep the kids quiet during the reading, and at this stage of life, we're all about easy.) It was buried by a stack of tax forms and the box for Mille Bornes, so that's probably not a good sign.

I'm feeling too fuzzy to come up with names, so if you haven't done this recently, consider yourself tagged.

A Morbid Taste for Poison

DOB was a little concerned when he brought home the library stack last week and discovered a book about poison among them. (By the way, online catalogs and reserve systems at the library have to be one of the Greatest Inventions Ever.) I tried to reassure him that my interest was purely academic.

If you also have an academic interest in poison, say because you read a lot of classic mysteries, you probably would also enjoy The Elements of Murder, by John Emsley. I don't think it would be that helpful if you had a more . . . practical . . . interest in poison, and as the name implies it only deals with poisonous elements (e.g. lead, mercury, arsenic) as opposed to organic poisons.

But there's still lots of fascinating stuff in there, old murder trials, centuries-old mysteries, shocking past practices. (Did you know the ancient Romans actually used a lead compound as a sweetener? Makes white sugar look like a health food.)

And you never know, it might come in handy. One difficult poison case was diagnosed by a nurse who commented to the baffled doctors that the patient's symptoms were very like those in an Agatha Christie novel she was reading. So, more power to the academically morbid!

Hmmmm

Ducklings, carrying blankets: Can you put these on us so we can be boasts?
QOC, arranging blankets over heads: Do you mean ghosts?
Ducklings, under blankets: Ha, ha! Now we are roasts!

Luxuries

I've seen it a place or two that the years of lowest marital satisfaction are while raising small children. Aha! I thought. Here is the secret of the unparalleled levels of Duchy bliss. We've never had it any better. Except for a few jet-lagged weeks after the wedding, producing and raising small children is all we've known. And since we lived several thousand miles apart before the wedding, any day on which we end in the same room counts as good. Just think, it might even get better someday.

The first part of the week was the pinched-nerve-in-the-back fiasco that left me whining all day and whimpering all night. Pre-labor was less painful. And quieter. But a trip to the chiropractor and some hot baths seem to have fixed it. Underneath it all I had the feeling that morning sickness had finally begun to drift away, but I was in too much pain to tell, and DOB was back to taking his turn hobbling back and forth doing all the carrying.

So the last part of this week has given me the chance to enjoy a lot of new luxuries. Cooking and eating an entire meal and liking it. Taking the kids outside. Walking a couple of blocks without collapsing. I'm still not able to do all the necessities (our dishes and clean laundry wait for kindly passersby) but at this stage a few luxuries are more important than some necessities. A little bit of new decor. An extra story and game with the kids. Stuff that makes us stop and think, Hey, we're alive! It's good!

Incredibly Boring Post No One Will Read

That's a pretty literal translation of what would be the logical title of this post, something along the lines of "The Mommy Wars Revisited: Women's Work in a Historical and Economic Context." That would make a good dissertation or something, if I wanted to write something that long. But I don't. That's why I blog.

It strikes me that the ammunition on both sides of the Mommy Wars tends to ignore most of history and the world at large. Zooming out a bit gives some thoughts for some more to be said on both sides.

So let's start with the Other Side (from me, that is)--the working mom. Mothers laboring to support their families was not something invented by Second Wave Feminism, as is sometimes insinuated. Actually most people capable of walking have, throughout human history, faced a basic choice of Work or Starve.

It is very traditional for Mom to be out working in the fields while Grandma, too old for field work, watches the kids. If Grandma isn't handy, the kids will probably be helping out themselves. It is also very traditional in many cultures for women to do practically all the hard physical labor. (Though this itself may suggest that the much-maligned distinctions between men's work and women's work may be less a legacy of male repression and more a secret and successful plot by our foremothers to get the men out of the forum/lodge/village square/pub and have them Do Something Useful. In which case it should not be lightly discarded.)

The difference in modern times is that work has, for the most part, been severed from the home and community. Before rapid forms of transportation, pretty much everyone (men and women) except for sailors worked in or very close to their homes. This meant children even of working mothers were unlikely to spend most of their waking hours in idleness supervised by strangers; they were integrated into their parents' world at the first opportunity.

The other difference is that the modern standard of living has risen drastically, making it much more open to debate whether a mother's work is necessary for survival. Few of us are living at subsistence agriculture levels, but then few of us could get away with it without CPS investigating. A job requires a car and houses have to have electricity and plumbing and so forth and so on. But just how much of these things is needed is open to debate, leaving lots of room for guilt-tripping and hand-wringing on either side.

Another thing that is not a feminist innovation is mothers preferring to hand over much of the child-rearing duties to others. Those model homemakers, the middle-class Victorians in their elegant tea gowns, were not raising their own children. They had nursemaids and nannies and governesses. (And in an era before the invention of waterproof diaper covers, one can sympathize.) Throughout history, most people rich enough to hire or buy someone else to change the diapers and wipe the runny noses have done so. Small children are hard, unglamorous work. It's much more fun to show up in the nursery for a couple of hours and tell stories.

Now for some things to be said on the side of the stay-at-home mother. Many of the charges laid against her seem to boil down to her role being unproductive (or underproductive). Even the psychological charges that her work is boring and unrewarding reflect this.

A book on the Middle Ages pointed out that the lady of the manor and the peasant woman both filled their days with activities as challenging and productive as those of their husbands: the lady running a nearly self-sufficient micro-economy occasionally enlivened by defending against a siege; the peasant woman doing essentially the same work as her husband. However, the wife of the emerging merchant class had little to do with her life except spend the money her husband made. How dull.

The life of a consumer only is, ultimately, a boring and unfulfilling life. People were made to be productive. The caricature of a stay-at-home mom is that she is only a consumer, a leach on her husband's productivity. In reality, few of us are rich enough for this to be so. Clean clothes in the drawers and hot meals on the table are, in fact, goods, even if they don't get calculated in the GDP. So, of course, is child care. Their status as goods is not so obvious as when mother spun the thread and milked the cow herself, but the modern mother is in fact providing a luxury level of goods compared to her industrious eighteenth-century predecessor, with multiple changes of clothing and meals that actually vary.

Whether the mother is being as productive as she could be is a rather personal question. Nobody criticizes a man who decides to give up the corporate fast-track to hand-carve trivets, if he values such a life over the more productive (in dollars) corporate job. Surely it is just as legitimate for a woman to decide she would rather produce the goods of her home life herself rather than outsourcing them, that she places a value on time with her children over potential economic advantages, or simply that she and her family prefer a slower-paced life. We are born to be producers, but not to be slaves to the economy.

And of course there are women (whom I applaud from a respectful distance) who also produce things for the GDP--and family cash flow--while at home. This is valuable, not because women should never set foot outside their doors, but because the real problem is the fragmentation of modern life. Children are not just separated from their mothers, they are separated from the adult world entirely. We work with one set of people and live with and among others and often enjoy our leisure with a third set, few of whom have more than the most casual contacts with each other.

This fragmentation, in turn, makes being at home with children isolating to a degree that would be unheard-of in past eras. A lot of the work is really gross, too, and not every mother naturally has her greatest gifts in standard domestic realms. That doesn't mean raising her own children is not essential work, but it can be nice to do something else once in a while. The challenge is finding ways for the mother to remain connected to the world and to work she personally enjoys without simultaneously disconnecting the children from her life.

It is a reconnection of life--of family life with leisure life and work life (not the annexation of all of life by work), of children with the adult world, of mothers of small children with the community--that ought to be the goal. Finding ways to reconnect life will require thoughtful choices on everybody's part, not just on mothers.

Clearly written for students

The sensations described are correct, but around here 3:15 is the end of naptime, and free time is so over.

My equivalent times would be 1:15 and 8:50 (or just long enough after naptime and bedtime to be sure everything has settled down.)

Miscellaneous

It turns out to be a fracture, as well as general smushedness. Quite exciting to get from walking down the hallway. Anyway, now DOB has a new doctor and a cast and a brace and can hobble around brief distances without crutches, which is handy for carrying things.

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A song from D2 (after seeing a newborn at church)

There's a blue baby at church.
There's not a pink baby at church.
There's a blue baby at church.
(repeat indefinitely)

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Really yummy easy curry sauce: 1 cup of yogurt, 1 t. dijon mustard, 1 t. curry powder, 1 t. salt. Serve as a dip or on vegetables or on fried rice.

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There's a long post brewing. I hope I get it out soon, because it's starting to keep me awake at night. Some famous author (I forget who, but definitely male) said that he wrote to experience the same sort of relief that a cow felt when milked. I know that feeling much better than he did, and there is a similarity. Too many words crammed in my head!!!

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I'm reading a fascinating book on the use (not just creation) of technology, but some previous reader apparently spilled soup every few pages. Ewwww. I can't quite be as outraged as I would like, though, because . . . I spilled a little soup on it myself.