Twins.

It's an interesting thing to see the relationship of my daughters change over time. They each came into the world with a Beloved Other right beside them; from that single moment they've shared a bond that I do not dare assess or too closely investigate.

It goes beyond my understanding to see them do the things they so innately do and feel. The times when they finish one another's sentences as if the word trains jump from one curly head to the other with seamless ease. Their ability to share a look that seems to encompass an entire conversation just between the two of them. The ability each has to sense distress or upset in the other, and rush to her twin, dropping everything and hurdling over any obstacle, to give comfort.

I do not understand this bond. Can't come even close to it because it seems to burn too brightly.

But I can watch it. Everyday. And be amazed.

They seem to be in a constant state of minor restructuring within it. It's as if even though they were born with this bond, it didn't come with an instruction manual and they still need to tweak the boundaries a bit. Get it just right. For them.

Occasionally I'll hear them conversing in a way that sounds as though they're just meeting each other for the first time, comparing likes and dislikes, adding up what they share and where they are different. In this stage of their lives, there are still more check marks in the Alike column, it would seem.

Perhaps sometimes it IS a bit like they're meeting anew. In a sense. They're changing as they grow, becoming someone slightly different. Maybe those subtle changes don't always come with a smooth transition in their bond. Maybe there are things that need to be evaluated, weighed, considered, and placed accordingly.

Or maybe they just like to stop from time to time and catch up with one another.

Who knows.

I may never truly be inside their bond; never have a complete understanding of how it works and what it feels like to be that connected to another human being, but it is glorious to watch it.

It is amazing to watch it, actually. A daily blessing.

It Takes All Kinds

It's a funny thing when you travel around with multiples; you tend to become a magnet for the well meaning, yet socially challenged members of society. You know her,she's the one who will go up to a complete stranger and ask if she breastfed as an opening line. Or will smilingly ask a lady she doesn't know just when she might be due.

Yes. Her. She's the one I run into quite often as I'm out and about, living my daily life. She takes on many forms, of course. That's why it's exceedingly hard to spot her ahead of time and steer myself away, thus avoiding 5 very awkward minutes of pseudo-conversation. I know she's out there somewhere, lurking perhaps just around the next aisle. Sometimes I just don't recognize her. She could be young or she may be older. She may be well-kept and unassuming, or perhaps look as tired and bedraggled as I tend to feel. You just never know.

Today she appeared out of nowhere in Target. She had on her Mother Of 30 Year Old Twins disguise.

"I never dressed my twins alike," she said as she blocked my path.
A statement made as a pointed fact. I've seen this one before and always find it perhaps the most boring of all opening lines.

I gave her my standard, "Oh". Picture it with a closed mouth smile and raised eyebrows. (It's great with the raised eyebrows, and a slightly tilted head). I've found this is usually just enough to show I have heard the spoken words, so as not too appear snotty; and yet just aloof enough so as to imply I'm moving on my way now.

"Never." My path was blocked. Okay, apparently this lady was feeling a bit needy today. I'll play.

"Isn't that interesting? (Not really.) These two really enjoy picking out their clothes and today they chose to dress alike. And I'm okay with that." (Please allow me to pass.)

"How much did they weigh?" Her eyes were squinted at me, as if my answer were going to truly count for something.

We're still doing this? Okay. "Umm", I stalled as I mentally pulled out the Facts I Don't Use Often But Need To Use From Time To Time file,  "Five-fifteen and six pounds."

"Seven-twelve and seven fifteen," was her reply. As she said it, she tipped her head back, actually raising her chin in a defiant act of pure one-up-man-ship in a competition I wasn't aware I was a part of. (And was apparently losing.)

This sort of interlude is, thankfully, rare for me. Usually She doesn't show up with war guns, but today She did. So I pulled on my 'Well bless your heart, you're half crazy, aren't you darlin'?' smile that tends to also imply a readiness to move away.

But she stood her ground, still blocking my path.

"How far did you go with them?" Squinty eyes again and looking down her nose at me. This lady was in it to win.

"34 weeks."

"Full. Term." She turned the compound word in two words. Both spoken with clarity. With an underlying growl of sheer will. Full. Term. I pictured a poker player laying down his winning hand with  a Read 'Em and Weep air.

"Imagine that?" I said as I delicately moved passed her, ready to end this insanity before she started asking my about bra sizes or something odd.

Out of her line of vision, I hastened the girls and wove around, trying to put some distance between us and this strange competitive gal.

She found us in a household aisle. And stared me down with that intense glare of hers.
"Where. Do. They. Go. To. School." Each word punctuated and precise.

I scanned around for some hidden camera crew or perhaps someone else who may be able to claim this lady and say that she didn't have her medication today, thus explaining this ridiculous situation. Honestly, I just came in here for pencils. Please let me leave.

"Actually, they're schooling at home." Somehow (though I couldn't tell you how) I figured this would get her. Take that!

It did.

She loudly "Hmmmpphhhed" me and marched away.

I was dismissed, it seems.

I sighed and looked down at the girls. They were looking at me with silent and stricken looks on their faces. Eyes wide. Equally perplexed at what had just occurred.

I found the pencils and scooted right on out of there, thankfully avoiding any more interaction with her.

They say it takes all kinds to make the world go round. I guess I'm lucky to be meeting so very many of them.

Dancing Queens

My little dancing queens had an opportunity to pay homage to their own musical idols yesterday. An ABBA tribute band was playing at Lock 3 and Dan's parents were kind enough to tote our little cherubs there to be infiltrated by the energetic disco beat.

When we told the girls that this would be their afternoon surprise, Ashlyn clasped her hands to her chest and gushed with joy, barely concealing the utter excitement attempting to split her in two. "Oh, they're my favorite! My very, very favorite!"

Why is ABBA their favorite? It's not exactly conventional 6 year old listening material. Eh, who's to say. It couldn't be because I have an affinity for all things ABBA myself, could it? Okay. It probably is. But let's face it, the beat is catchy. You put on Chiquita and you're going to smile. It will happen. Maybe not at first, but it by that last Sousa-like piano solo that leads the song out, you will be.

How I wish I could have seen them at that concert; they were singing, they were wiggling their hips. My Dancing Queens. Letting go and just loving the music and loving the fact that they were a part of it. Childhood at it's very very best.

If that's not a little bit magical, I don't know what is.

Free The Tatas.

One of the daily blessings that comes with young children in your house is the complete and utter unpredictability that is innate to their nature. And the sneakiness of it too. Just when I think I've got them pegged down, or when I find myself missing those oddly random comments that so characterized their earlier years, they surprise me yet again.

This morning we all woke up and padded downstairs, clad in our jammies. It's not that I'm not a morning person; it's more that I just really, really, really like to spend my morning sleeping. Is that so wrong, I ask you? Anyway, I was up and at 'em (whoever the mysterious 'em' might be), and ready to feed my kiddos.

Our "Go-To" breakfast of choice is Pop Tarts. They love them just so very much, so I keep a rainbow of flavors on hand at all times. Today we walked into the kitchen to find that one (or more) of our 3 cats had raided this cupboard, rooting through the boxes and eating her way through several pouches. (Now, I don't know who the culprit was, but if I find multi-colored sprinkled cat puke anywhere in this house, tails are gonna roll). There was a potpourri of sprinkles, crusts, and frosting bits all over the floor. This was not the way I wanted to start my morning, thank you very much. I spent awhile cleaning up the crumby mess the cats left for me, and then finally sat down for my own "Go To" breakfast: coffee. Hello, dear friend of mine.

It was starting to become less 'morning' and more 'afternoon' when I determined it was probably time to pull our act into gear and get ready for the day. I called the girls to come upstairs with me to get dressed, shepherding them up the stairs as I went.  Caedance stopped on the landing, looked at me with her head tilted sideways in a thoughtful gesture, and said,

"Mama, your tatas are free."

Remember, I was still in my pajamas at this point, and since I am not one to sleep all trussed up, yes, I suppose one might say they were..."free". And in my defense, I am not, as one might say, heavily endowed in this area either.

"Mama," she continued, "that is so much fun!"

Well what do you think of that.

"Gosh, thanks sweetie. That's just great of you to say. It's probably time for us to get dressed for the day now, huh?"

Move along kiddo, nothing more to see here.

"Oh, Mama. But free tatas are okay too."

Alrighty then.

From the mouths of babes, I guess. Right?



Paging Doctors Ashlyn & Caedance



One of my favorite questions to ask the girls is the rather banal one of:

"What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up".

They both want desperately to be nurses or doctors. This is just a-okay with us, I should enthusiastically point out.

But when we ask them why they've set their collective sights on that most austere profession, they proudly announce that more than anything in all the world what they really want to do is to give people shots.

Did you read that? To give people shots.

Not help them.

Not comfort them.

Not heal them.

Nope.

Just to give them shots. Lots of shots. All of the time.

Paging Doctor Ashlyn

We're naturally behind them as they plan out their future careers in the medical field, but I'm not too sure we'll rushing forward to be their patients. Apparently, they plan on being rather heavy handed with the syringes.

Paging Caedance, MD



A Tale Of 2 Authors

Officially, the girls have both now authored their own books.

This is quite remarkable for 2 very important reasons:

1. They normally cannot stomach writing or drawing

and

2. As their mother, I have decided that this, in fact, a remarkable event. End of story.

Here is how this stint into the wonderful world of children writing children's books came to pass. The girls were fighting over a dress up Minnie Doll they had just acquired. Well, they had actually each chosen a different Minnie Doll; Caedance had the dress up version whereas Ashlyn went for the plush talking Minnie. The moment they got home, Ms. Ashlyn began to experience the first pangs of Buyer's Remorse and decided that the only cure was to relieve Caedance of her choice and claim it as her own. What plush Minnie Doll? Dan and my dad decided that (since it was father's day, after all), it would be super-stellar if they could go on a driving spree to exchange the sad and neglected plush Minnie for a second dress up Minnie set. So off they set on their own epic adventure that can only be called "Super Wal-Mart On A Sunday". (Need I say more?)

Meanwhile, back on the home front, Ashlyn was congratulating herself on "her" fab job in "choosing" the dress up Minnie play set, and having a blast playing with it; sans the set's actual owner, Caedance. To keep tempers tamped to a low simmer, I used my stealthy Mom Powers to convince Caedance that she didn't really want to play with the doll at all. No. What she really wanted was to spend some quality time drawing pictures with me at the table. (What a super event that would be!)

Unconvinced, she joined me at the table, slightly snarling while I gathered the Art supplies. Dubiously, she looked at the sketch paper and crayons and asked the fateful question: "Mommy, will you draw me a Minnie Mouse?"

Now, here's the thing about asking me to draw anything. I am no Picasso. Heck, I'm not even Picasso's brother's friend's aunt's cousin's sister's housekeeper, (nor do I even know if such an entity ever existed). In fact, my pale contributions to the art world tend to lean more to the side of "Disappointment". However, this was an opportunity to show my non-drawing friend how the real purpose in anything is simply to try.

Crayon in hand, I drew the mouse. I handed it to her and to my astonishment, she picked up a crayon and drew one too. I drew another, and so did she. We then moved on to Daisy and Donald, each of us offering our renderings for consideration. When the paper was filled with our varied inspirations, she folded it in half and ran off to share her splendors with Ashlyn.

She was back at my side a few minutes later. "Mommy, this looks like a book", she said, noticing the half fold of her paper. "Only there's no words in it." A frown creased her brows.

"Hmmm. I do see your point, Cher. What do you think we should do about that?" (Like that broad "I'm Giving You The Authority To Make A Good Choice Here, Kiddo" question?)

"If I taped some pages in it, I could write a story about Minnie....."

Say no more!

 Shoot, I had just the thing. In my joy at hearing her utter the magic words every blogger dreams of hearing his or her offspring say ("I'll Write A Story"), I ran over to the paper stash and began rummaging around for a very specific piece of perfection. You see, just a matter of a week or so ago, a small stash of ready made, blank paged books came into my possession by way of a  certain mother-in-law who was cleaning out her classroom. (Thank you, Kathleen).

With the treasure finally in my grasp, I handed it over to Caedance, who smiled brightly up at me.

"Will this do, do you think Caedance?" I asked.

"Oh yes, Mommy. I think it will be just right." An ear to ear grin split her face.

She situated herself in her chair and began to work in earnest. Page by page, we continued with the formula that had started it all: I draw.You draw. My little sprite, who has never cared for creating, sat with determination as parts of her story were brought to life with each wrist motion. When she was happy with the pictures on every page, she painstakingly wrote out the story. Line by line. Careful to form each letter and sentence correctly.

She worked all afternoon and into the evening on it, stopping only when the last bit of writing was completed. She then rushed to my side to share it with me.

And so opened a new door for us.

We read and re-read Caedance's creation all evening long; even Ashlyn spent some time reading it and marvelling at the accomplishment of her sister, the Author. This morning both girls woke up with writing on their brains. Caedance wanted to write another "Minnie Tale" to fill in the remaining pages of her book, and Ashlyn was ready to try her hand at this whole publishing thing.

An afternoon and a few broken crayons later, we have 2 lovely books by my two lovely daughters. What makes me most proud is simply their will to try and the effort they put into the entire process. It was a wonder for me to sit beside each of them as they worked through what they wanted to say and how they wanted to show it on the page and in the wording.

They worked. I sat nearby and smiled. Occasionally I acted as Collaborator, helping with plot points (such as they were) and as Editor, helping them with the words they asked me straight out how to spell. And of course, I was also the president of their fan club, oohing and ahhing over the completed works.

I'm guessing their currently all written out now, having spent the better part of nearly 2 days being authors, but man I'm happy they did it. Really happy.





From Caedance's 2nd story.



From Ashlyn's story



 







Bike Riding Ruminations

"It's like riding a bike"...

How many times do you hear that expression? I can think of so many things that have that adage attached at the tail end.

Haven't knitted in awhile and you're afraid you've forgotten how? Why, it's like riding a bike! You'll remember in no time.

What's that you say? You've been wearing slip on shoes for so long that you think you've forgotten how to tie your sneaker laces? Pe-shaw! It's like riding a bike! Tie away, laddy, tie away.

But have you ever stopped to wonder what happens for the people who can't ride a bike? Hmmmm? Where's the hope for those poor souls, I ask you? Will they remember the old knit-purl combo, or will they just go scarf-less? Will they need to watch an instructional video reminding them about the little bunny jumping through the hole, or are they destined to shuffle around with forever untied shoes laces?

Needless to say, our own summer project, aptly named, "Get Those Girls Riding Their Bikes Because It's Just About Time, Don't You Think?", has not been going quite so well.

Rest assured, we've made some progresses; small, incremental steps that have taken us away from the horrifying side wipe outs that were so definitive of our first attempts with them. But such success have been few and far between.

And we've tried....everything. Oh, how we've tried.

First we took off their training wheels when we realized that they weren't so much helping the girls learn to balance as they were causing a constant safety hazard on their bikes, which are 20 inch bikes that just do not work well with training wheels. Off they went. And any hope we had that our offspring would miraculously summon their sense of inner balance crashed to the pavement right along with them.

Next we tried putting towels around their bellies and under their arms, holding them together at their backs as we ran along beside them. This step gave us the most progress, I must say, but after awhile, each girl was just sort of wobbling along, waiting for her "Towel Holding Parent" to yank her back up just before she fell over completely. We became a handy crutch, you might say. And have you any idea just how heavy it gets to hold your peddling child up by a towel as she speeds along the sidewalk while you clamor beside her, often times pushed awkwardly into the grass, desperately trying to keep your own footing, because you are fully aware that if you go down, she goes down. And whose fault would that be? Hmm? (My arms have gained a certain She-Ra-ish build to them though).

We are now at the stage we call: "Off You Go, My Child". The girls know it better as: "Pedal Or Fall". We take them out into a big field, get them situated on their bikes, give 'em a push, bid them farewell, and let them go. See ya, sweeties! (Pedal or fall now, you hear?) And it's true: she who pedals, stays aloft on that crazy two wheeled contraption; meanwhile, she who tries to coast along on gravity's good graces tends to fall.

Caedance is making great strides with this particular method, saving her great crashing skills for when she doesn't like the direction she's going in, or determines she's going to fast. When it doubt, fling yourself from your still moving bike, folks.

Ashlyn continues to stubbornly refuse this particular mode of transportation. I'm not sure she honestly sees the point in it. Why pedal anywhere, really, when you can run, or skip, or gallop? Pedaling is for suckers! She tends to spend her quality practice time demonstrating her own savvy techniques for ditching her bike. She's perfected the roll over fall, whereby she tosses herself off the bike while still holding onto it, thus encouraging it fall on her as she rolls. After The Event, she lays very still, muttering to herself, "Well, well, well, well." We continue to teach to her the value and virtue of utilizing her bike's brakes.

We continue to work towards our ultimate goal of having honest to goodness Bike Riding Kids, but most days it feels like an uphill battle with them. Along the way, we've heard interesting input from a variety of parenting resources, most of which serves only to make us truly suspect that our children may in fact be the last nearly 7 year old non-bikers on the face of this planet. Uh-huh. True-sies.

I've politely nodded at the parent who insisted her balancing genius knew how to ride the bike the moment he sat up on it. (Well, bully for you, lady. My kids don't.)

I've smiled at the mom who regaled us with the tale of the 3 nights it took her daughter to have 2 wheeled success. (So what if we're going on a year of training drudgery?)

And tonight I watched, incredulous, as a 4 year old neighbor sped by us on his two wheeled steed, stopping in front of us to off load himself from Old Blue and take his ipod buds out of his ears, giving us a chin nod as we went by. (Alrighty then).

Honestly, do my kids really have to ride a bike? Isn't it enough that they can both swing now? Can't we just call that this summer's grand accomplishment? What do you say?

Oh, I know. We'll keep trucking away at it. Don't worry. They'll get there. And if you happen upon our neighborhood one night and maybe see two little sprites with rabbit ears on their helmets making grand crashes in the grassy knolls and laughing with glee while they're parents look on with dejected, furrowed brows; well, you'll know that's us.

And remember, no matter how off balance and wobbly they may look today, they were probably much worse yesterday. And just think of where they might be tomorrow.

And Now For The Conclusion Of The Freckle Saga...

We've hopefully reached the conclusion of The Saga Of The Freckle. I say that because when you mix kids and stitches, you just never really know what you might get. Not really.

Ashlyn endured her surgery yesterday, and I have to say she did it like a pro. Not prone to nervousness, from the moment we arrived at Akron Children's Hospital, she was a bundle of anxious excitement. Every small activity was a big new adventure for her.

"I get to wear hospital pajamas? Really?!" (A big smile on her face)

"I get to breathe in an airplane pilot mask filled with raspberry chap stick?! Really??" (Hopping up and down).

"I'll take a nap on THAT bed? It looks so comfortable!" (Full-out, no-holds-barred jumping with glee).

Where could she sign up for this slice of heaven? She was ready to go.

As her mother, on the other hand, I had a tad more reluctance going into this whole magical experience.  Any of you who have had your children in surgery can appreciate this. No matter how "safe" anesthesia has become (and I recognize the amazing strides the field has taken), there is something inherently wrong about signing papers dealing with "In Case Of An Unforeseen Complication" and "Blood Donation" in conjunction with your flesh and blood.

But onward and upward, eh old chaps? I signed the papers and let the festivities begin.

She loved it all: the pajamas!, the masks!, the various tables she got to lie down on!; but most of all, so loved the idea that the freckle would be gone.

"I'll look just like Caedance now and will be able to play Trickery Games with her! No one will know who I am!" (As if we were always 100% before, right?)

When they walked her away from us and back to surgery, I surprised myself by not crying. Not one tear. That is unusual for this lady who still cries at commercials, even when they're not sad at all. (I've recently ventured over into the "Warm Fuzzies" brand of tear ups and the "Such An Accomplishment" state as well. I can't wait to see where I'll be in 10 years; probably crying at my frying pan because, "It's so beautiful".)

Our wait was, thankfully, a pretty short one. The surgery took just 35 minutes and she was back in recovery, awake and awaiting us. Her nurse said she popped awake almost as soon as she was wheeled back there and was raring to get going. We sat with her as they monitored her post op vitals, and found ourselves to be quite entertained by our still woozy daughter. She spent a good deal of the time alternating between sitting up and starting to get out of the bed, (which she was continuously "just noticing" had unusually high railings), and staring vacantly at the beeping screen of the monitor while mumbling, "That's it then, I've been hooked up to a computer, after all." Then in between these two extremes, she'd let out these odd, whimsical, little laughs, whereby she'd throw her back and grin from ear to ear. It was hard to know just exactly what to do with her, but we figured she was trying so we could sit there and be sociable, EVEN when it meant laughing along at her little outbursts.

We were on our way home with her just under an hour later.

But she didn't want to go home. Not right after surgery. That would be tacky, apparently. So instead we went to Kathleen's house, where our Patient Helper, Caedance, had been spending a special day herself. I thought for sure our dazing daughter would curl up and snooze for a bit when we got there; however, after a lunch of bananas, applesauce, and toast she was itching to move about. Still under the influence of the drugs she'd been given, she spent her time playing for a minute and then spending the next 5 or so upset about various things that never seemed to matter before. Like how upsetting it was to flush the toilet; no one should do that.

Finally she popped up and announced that she'd be resting in the guest room. We tucked her in, grateful that she was going to rest, and sat down to take a breather ourselves. Being the neurotic parent that I tend to be, I sent someone in to check on her every few minutes. And although she wasn't actually sleeping, she sure seemed to be resting and was fine, so we kept to our 5 minute checking schedule.

It was during one of those 5 minute intermissions that she decided she had healed quite enough, thank you very much, and no longer needed the outer bandage or the steri-strips covering her just hours old incision. Off they all went. When I went to check on her, she quickly burrowed under the covers, hiding herself from me: Red Flag One. I then noticed the reddish paper strips all over the white coverlet: Red Flag Number Two. Not quite putting the pieces of this puzzle together yet, the picture became crystal clear when I saw all the blood on the pillow, sheets, and blankets around her head: Red Flag Number Three.

Staying as calm as one can be in this situation, I gulped and took a look at her cheek; fearing the worst. Thankfully, the stitches were still in tact, so there was no gore to look at. Ashlyn was frantic, though, sensing she had maybe made a mistake in her "All Healed" thinking. I put a call in to her plastic surgeon and was urged very firmly to bring her back in just as quick as I possibly could get her in, if you don't mind very much, and thank you in advanced.

Leaving Caedance with Kathleen (thank goodness for this arrangement), we tore out of the driveway and hurled ourselves back in to the hospital, making it to the doctor's office just as they were closing for the day. They rechecked all the stitches and deemed them to be properly in place and secure, and put on more strips and several more "Just In Case" layers of bandages.

The entire time, Ashlyn wept.

Still under the effects of the morning narcotics, she was under the illusion that Caedance and Kathleen wouldn't like her with the bandages. Barring that, mom and dad wouldn't like her either. In fact, somehow these bandages turned her into the Hunchback Of Notre Dame and she'd be a social outcast at the tender age of 6.

Weep. Weep. Weep. Weep.

Tears rolling down her cheeks, there was no consoling her. So we thanked the doctor again and promised that we'd see him at our 3 week check and not a minute before. And we took our softly sobbing daughter out the door and back to her twin.

It was an eventful day. Surgery and a near crisis. Dan and I were both emotionally drained. Ashlyn, however, was still going strong, if still a bit on the weepy side.

Incidentally, Kathleen and Caedance happened to LOVE her bandages, and so do Dan and I. As of this writing, she has promised to never, ever, ever, ever touch her bandages again.

(But I slept very near her last night........just to make sure.)

And then there were 4

Somehow this year is drawing to a close.

Somehow, through the turmoil and chaos that has been "This First Year", the end of it is in sight.

Where it all went, those countless days in between the 'First Day' and these nearly last ones, I cannot say.

Days that were happy. Some that were sad. Days filled with  accomplishments. And days where the only "good" thing they could say about it was that I added another check mark to our calendar.

Slowly the days have all ebbed away to this point. Four more days.

Just four.

Just.

This is always the best part of the school year; when you are nearing the end.

You can look back and almost not see the negatives.

The day-to-day struggles seem diminished somehow, by the bright light that is "End Of School".

And to be honest, I'm a bit melancholy about the whole thing. You probably knew I would be. Hells bells, if I'm being honest, I probably knew it too. I'm semi-sad to see this first stage of their learning adventure draw to a close. No matter how stressful things got, I was always able to say, "This is the first part of their adventure. They're on their way!"

Sure, it wasn't the peachy-keen picture I'd hoped it would be for them. But it's theirs, nonetheless. And we've met some pretty spectacular people along the way.

But even as this "First" draws to a close, a new adventure awaits just over the horizon. First grade at home. They're excited to begin it. I'm anxious just to see how it goes, and excited to dust off my 'Teaching' hat once again.

Four more days.

Four.

And then. Oh my. The places we'll go.

Together.

Parenting 101: Though They Be Cute, They Be Wild

Picture this, if you will. It's been what feels like the 40th rainy day in a row. You're thinking about possibly building an ark, or at the very least renting a pontoon boat. Your children, desperate from lack of sunshine, have fallen into a mode of behavior that has only two sounds: 'Whine' and 'Oh dear Lord, How Could They Actually Have Gotten Even Whinier?' At any given time you know exactly where they are located based upon the primordial sounds of anger, disgust, and inactivity being emitted in their vicinity.

At some point you realize that your ears may explode if they are forced to transept one more derivative of "Wahhh", so you send them away. Upstairs. Somewhere else. Proximity to you is not a good thing at this moment; away is better. Safer.

They trot off, trailing the sluggish sounds of Whine behind them, and you plunk down on the couch: exhausted and ready to read and have a few minutes of peace. As you mindlessly flip pages of a book you're only barely paying attention to, you keep track of their activities through a series of audible thumps, squeals, and yelps that are floating down the stairs.

Content that they're not assembling any ammunition or making dung bombs, you turn your attention fully to the book. You tune them out.

(Can you spot your mistake in those last 2 sentences?)

Immersed in the world of make-believe your book has blessedly whisked you off to, you only presently realize that there is an odd sound filling the room. Pricking your ears up, you realize what the sound is and why it distresses you so much. It's silence.

Moving slowly, you put the book down and begin the trek upstairs, listening as you go; waiting for some indication that you were mearly hearing a lull in their conversation, and hoping that they're really behaving. Perhaps, you silently hope to yourself, they're just sitting quietly with their hands in their laps, waiting to apologize for the week's worth of frustration they've inflicted upon you.

(Because you can always keep that dream alive, my friend. Always.)

Entering their room you find that your hopeful dream was miles and miles away from the truth of what was happening. Sitting in the middle of the room are your two cherubs. For the first time in a week, they are playing with gusto, it's true. Unfortunately, they're playing with the mounds of newly headless (and some legless) Barbie dolls, and few headless My Little Ponies that they've apparently just created.

You see, there is a lesson to be learned here. There is. Sure, you were exhausted and worn out by days of whining and fighting. And certainly you were ready for a quiet moment to yourself. And the truth is, you did everything right by keeping an ear towards their non-visual play, listening for any sounds that might suggest naughtiness.

(But really, what sounds would be suggest the beheading of dolls?)

However, the harsh reality is, my friend, that you were suckered in. It's true. You made the error of taking those acceptable noises and assuming they were up to an equally acceptable past time. You were lulled into complacency by a false sense of clueless guise. I've seen it happen so many times before; you forgot the first mantra of parenting multiples: Though They Be Cute, They Be Wild.

No you can't really trust them. Even though they're past the age of sticking things in outlets and pulling dressers over on themselves, they still aren't fully trustworthy! Don't be so naive, man. So what that they're almost 7; let us not forget that there are 2 of them, and according to Mandy's Law, whenever 2 or more gather, mischief can and will be made.

So now you have to deal with those poor headless/legless creatures. All of them. One by one. You have no real way of knowing if you get the heads sorted out and reattached to the correct body, but you give it your best shot anyway.

In the end, you take away the much anticipated TV time, explaining to them that poor
Barbie & My Little Ponies can no longer watch either (since they've been decapitated), and isn't that quite sad indeed? And you explain in firm terms that under no circumstance will this ever happen again. But somewhere, deep in side, you know it will. Somehow. You'll let your guard down one day; you can't be everywhere at once, after all. You're good, but not that good.

And in the end, this much is ever true: Though They Be Cute, They Be Wild. Beware.

Take away MY Multiple's Discount? Not without a fight, I tell ya!

Dear Oshkosh Customer Service,


I am writing to you in regards to your Multiples Discount; or rather, your decided lack thereof. As you may guess, I am a mother of egg-splitting multiples myself. Twin girls. When they were born, besides being monumentally overwhelmed and extremely tired, we also happened to be quite strapped for cash. Buying 2 of everything all at once will do that to you, you know. As my girls outgrew their wardrobes (which felt like every 2nd Tuesday, to tell the truth), my first shopping destination was always to my local Oshkosh outlet store.


Yes indeed. That's where we went first. Every time.
When friends and family asked me why we chose Oshkosh over the tons of other children's clothing stores, I had one very easy answer. Are you ready for it?....

My answer was always thus: "Why, they offer a Multiples Discount. So I choose to go to them first, since they're offering me something too."


And that was it. Not the quality. Not the nearness of the store. Truly; the discount. You see, I know 10% off doesn't sound like much to you. In truth, it's not much. But it was something. It was your corporate hand reaching out to cash-strapped, bleary-eyed with exhaustion me, and saying, "Howdy, friend. Buy your little cherubs' clothes here. We'll even give you a discount because, gosh darn it, you deserve it. We can't give you more sleep, or rid you of the ever present smell of spoiled milk, but we can give you 10% off just for shopping right here. Now what do you think of that?"


I thought you were pretty great indeed. And so I shopped. I spent. That had to make you happy, right?
And then you decided to take that away. That small amount, paltry by most standards but important to we who shop for groups of children who outgrow clothing all at once; and you took it away.
Why? Can you please answer me that?
I went into my local store today, which happens to be the one at Lodi Outlets in Lodi Ohio. I looked around and bought a few items. But as I checked out, I felt sad. Talking to the cashier, I explained my sadness over the magical disappearance of one of my favorite Mom Of Multiples perks. She agreed.
It is sad.

(It is).
I represent a growing demographic. The demographic of parents to whom Mr. Stork dropped off more than one bundle. My preggo shirts said 'People On Board', not 'Baby On Board'. When one of my girls outgrows all her clothes at once, there is no hand me down pile to take from, or to save for later. No. There is only her identical twin sitting next to her, equally squashed into a pair of likewise too-small-pants. Two new wardrobes to shop for, from top to bottom. Again. And again. And again.

And to think, there used to be a store who cared enough about that slight inconvenience to offer a small discount. Small, yes, but like a friendly little nudge and a wink, it was appreciated nonetheless.
Since you've done away with that discount, you haven't seen my money in your till. Whatever profit margins you've gained or lost over the last few years has not been with my help. I've found other places to shop where the clothes are cheaper. Because I have to.


Now. I've taken the time think this through and write to you; sharing with you my feelings about something you probably did away with without a moment's thought. I'm guessing after reading this I'll either get one of those super-impersonal "Thank you for contacting customer service" form letters, or no response at all. (Wee! Lucky me.) But what I'd really like is an actual correspondence from a real person explaining why the parents of multiples, who have loyally shopped at your stores, are no longer deemed worthy of that discount. And I'd also like to know what it would take to get it back again.
Because we're worth it. We are.

We endure tedious pregnancies, nightmarish deliveries (I won't even GO there), struggle through a first year which only fellow parents (or grandparents) of multiples can truly understand, trudge through stores ,which are more than likely designed too small for our over-sized strollers, while politely answering an onslaught of embarassingly personal questions thrown at us by complete strangers, AND somehow manage to make it all look like we'd planned for it all along; a smile on our faces, and a kind word at the ready.
Yep. I'd say we've earned that 10%.

Wouldn't you?


Regards,

Amanda Dickinson

Here We Grow Again

It absolutely never fails; I try to be on the good side of things: to be prepared, ready, even ahead of the game. And it all goes south in a wild flush of misery and boo-ness. (No, that's not a word. Spell check confirmed it. But I don't care. I'm making a it a word.)

Spring has finally decided to unleash warm temps on our fair city, thus necessitating a trip up to the attic and the Summer Clothes Bins. Every year, they're up there waiting for me to go through them. Will it fit? Too short? Too tight? Going through those seasonal bins is always a bit of a crap shoot for us. I pack away as much as I possibly can at the end of each season, hoping, hoping, and hoping that maybe some of it will fit in 365 days. When the calendar & weather align, I pull out piece after piece of clothing, making 2 piles on the floor beside me. Pile One: Hooray It Fits. Pile Two: No-Go. Darn it.

Guess which pile is always bigger?

Indeed. Pile 2 is our seasonal winner.

Out of frustration and with a sincere desire to pack away some clothes that we could actually wear again, I went out at the end of last summer and shopped ahead. I scored big time on Capri pants and shorts, and a few tee shirts. I scrutinized over the sizes, being sure to choose the next size up from what they were currently wearing. When I brought it all home and tried things on them, I felt good about the prospects of a full wardrobe for the next summer. For this summer.

But alas.

Foiled again.

Everything is too tight.

Too short.

Too small.

They basically skipped an entire size. I simply cannot win.

And so I'll not be trying to buy ahead now. Nope. No more. Not until they stop growing like weeds. Not until one size will fit them for more than a few weeks. Then we'll see. I'll try being more prepared then.

And even then, I'll be wary. Because I know how these things usually work out.

In A Moment of Silence

We are in the middle of our 245th fight with allergies this year.

They were doing fine yesterday. Today they're stuffed up and staring vacantly ahead.

On the way home from school I asked them, "Are you feeling okay?" They just stared ahead, unblinking. "Yes, Mama", the answered in unison. Still staring. I had an eerie recollection of the twins from The Shinning. 'We want you to play with us'.

I have them resting on the couch now.
Well, one is resting. The other is snoring. Loudly.

It's quiet. (Except for the snoring, obviously).
That is not a usual sound in our house.

I'm not quite sure what to do with myself when I don't have to say the common phrases every five minutes:
"Stop that."
"Stop fighting."
"No pushing on that."
"No jumping from there."
"No throwing. Anything. Ever."
"Did you bite her? Don't bite her."
"Who didn't flush the toilet? If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down."

In the midst of this unusual din of silence, I find myself wondering what I ever did before they were here.
How did I occupy my time? I can't seem to recall, but I must have done something. I was always so busy. So tired. Exasperated about some definite lack of time. Rushing. Hurrying here and there. Forever 5 minutes behind.

How is that possible?

I didn't know what "Busy" or "Lack Of Time" meant back then.

And the truly marvelous thing is; even though I have no time to myself (save these rare moments of allergy-induced silence), I cannot imagine my life any other way.

I don't want to.

These two fill my life with the best sort of busy-ness there could ever be.

The soft hum of a family filling these walls.

A daily blessing, indeed.

Adventures In Twin-Schooling..

As many of you know, we'll be attempting to do an on-line academy with the girls next year. This isn't a slight against public schools, nor is it us suggesting we can do it better; this is a choice that we've thought long and hard about. It's something that we've talked to the girls about in length. If they weren't fully on board, we wouldn't go forward. We are in this with the full understanding that if it doesn't work out, returning to school is always, always an option.

But I'm truly excited about it nonetheless.

I love talking about it. And I love that everyone who I do talk to seems to have an opinion about it. I'm not so closed minded as to feel like "I'm right, you're wrong. Come back when you see that and agree." Not at all.

But I do have to wonder at some of the comments that I hear, just the same.

Opinions seem to come in many shades of agreement or disagreement, varying in ways both subtle and blatant. But there does tend to be one comment that I hear more than others. One that is probably the first in the line-up of "disagreement". Perhaps you've even thought it yourself. It is this:

"There is no way I could do that. My kids drive me crazy. The time they're at school is my time to recapture my sanity."

First off, (and this is important, so please read with an open heart), I understand that comment. Absolutely. Completely. I'm right there with you.

But I feel like this statement does one of two things for me: it either makes me out to be some type of super-mom who is impervious to the devious nature of my children; whose whining somehow does not bother me; or who's misbehavior is just a-okay with my inhumanly high tolerance level.
Or, it suggests that my girls are simply perfect in every way; little Mary Poppins wannabes who strive daily for perfection and achieve it without breaking a sweat.

I wish I could go with both. Heck, just one of those would be stellar. But it wouldn't be true, so I wanted to set that record straight. Here and now.

I love my daughters. Muchly. Being home with them has been a privilege that I never knew I wanted; my highest honor that I almost didn't see due to my strong desire to return to work. I am so grateful for this Other Plan. Completely and  utterly grateful.

That being said, there are days when I want to pull my hair out. We have scores upon scores of "Those Days", racking them up, one by one. It's like they see all the hot button issues before I can even conceive of them, and dig, dig, dig away, managing to grate on my very last nerve.
 We have the days when I have to put myself into time out because I need a break and they need a more calm, collected mom than they've got at that moment. There are days when I struggle with letting go and seeing their independence for what it is and encouraging them to run with it.

The balance is true; there is good and there is bad. But there is so much in between!  So much love and understanding. So much joy and happiness and shared memories.

I feel that these struggles can make us stronger as a family. My reaction (or in some cases, non-reaction) to what they can dish out makes me a better mom. Likewise, they are learning what it is to be a part of our family; what their role in it is. We're all on this journey together, learning from one another as we go.

Keeping them at home next year will not be without frustrations. It will present the usual highs and lows that come with any new situation, but the glorious part is that we'll be seeing it through together. As a family. And we'll be stronger for it.

And for the record, I will miss my "Me Time": going to the store and getting all my shopping done quickly, sitting and reading a book quietly, or heading off to a store just to ramble around with no real purpose. These have been precious luxuries for me during this past year; despite all the upheaval and struggles we've had with school, there was always those priceless hours I had just for me.

But I'm giving them up willingly, and with a full understanding of what we feel is a greater cause. I have no premonition of where this upcoming adventure will take us. No real sense of how it will all pan out in the end. But just knowing that it's something we're all in on makes it all the more sweet and exciting.

So there you have it. My full disclosure on the subject.
I'm not perfect.
And my girls have been known to have their taxing moments.
But together we make for one pretty stupendous team.

When They're Together

Something I like:
  Last night the girls skipped up to their bedtime routine, arm in arm.

"Mommy?" came the quiet voice of my 'oldest', (by 6 very crucial minutes), "Can I sleep with my twin tonight?"

In that moment, my heart did a double thump in its cage.

Something I remember:
When the girls were younger, they were all about co-sleeping, and we had every arrangement in their bedrooms that can be imagined. When they had cribs, they were forever flip-flopping over from one crib to another; much to their mutual delight and our complete and utter horror. So we took off the front rails and turned the cribs in towards each other, creating one ginormous crib. Every morning I'd awaken to find them laying nearly atop one another. Arms linked, legs entangled; peaceful.
When they moved up to the toddler beds, we put them side by side, against each other. Despite the narrow gap and the short rails between the beds, they'd manage to attach some appendage or another together in their sleep.

Something I don't like:
We now have bunk beds, making that innate closeness utterly impossible. They sleep separate. Starkly unattached. I know it's just the way of things, but when you have two individuals (and yes, they are individuals) who are connected by a bond that defies explanation, it seems almost stunting in a way.

Something I love:
Last night we tucked both the girls in on the bottom bunk. Caedance snuggled at the head of the bed, while Ashlyn cozied up at the foot. They giggled at the renewed closeness, wiggling around to get a feel for each one's territory, memorizing the boundaries that would be kept, (almost certainly) even in sleep.
This morning I crept in to see them a few minutes before I had to wake them. Their sleeping forms created a nearly perfect Yin & Yang symbol, their wispy legs curled within each other. Their breathing was simultaneous, reaching my ears in short, gentle puffs. Their closed eyes were each twitching in the final moments of a REM cycle. The vision made me wonder if they were together in their dreams too.
When I woke them up, they sat up and smiled at each other; each girl happy to look at the other girl's face.

And I smiled too. (You know I did.)

"Mommy?" asked the still groggy voice of Ashlyn, "Can I sleep with twin again tonight?"

Oh, yes. I think so, my love. I do most certainly think so.

Do you like having twins?

I was asked an interesting question today as I was out with the girls:

"Do you like having twins?"

Hmmm. Interesting question. But how to answer?

What really are my choices in answering this question that I get every once in awhile?

I mean, this is my family. This is what I have been blessed with. That it happens to include twins is not something I could control; however, I feel all the more luckier for it. And it's obviously all that I know. I have twins. End of story. What can I compare that to? I don't have some other family with a grouping of singletons stashed away somewhere. Some alternative reality by which I could compare Having Twins with Not Having Twins.

When I get this question, it's usually from people whom I suspect feel the need to talk to me about having twins. Maybe the question comes across wrong, but since I get it every once in awhile, I'm thinking it's meant the way it comes out. I've even wondered if I'm just taking it wrong, but I'm not quite sure in what context someone asking you if you like your kids (which is what it boils down to) is okay.

I don't know.

I file it under the "Wacky Questions People Ask When They're Not Sure What Else To Say" and leave it at that. It's right by, "Oh, they're twins. Did you have them both yourself?" and "Are they both boys, then?" ( this one asked after seeing my pink clothed daughters with bows in their hair). Little gems I like to recall from time to time, and that always make me smile.

But I digress....

"Do you like having twins?"
s
"Yep. Yep, I sure do. Quite a bit, actually. Thanks for asking."

Mama & The Angry Sprites.

Today I had the supreme privilege of shopping on my own, without my groupies. As I strolled quite leisurely through the aisles at my "reserved-for-when-the-girls-are-in-school" slow pace, I observed several other mothers who were toting their blessings around. Most of the kids were younger than mine are, and a few were not the "Happy Shoppers" that we've been overjoyed to see ours become.

The screams.
The angry, red faces.
The fury at being strapped into a cart; stuck.
It brought back so many memories.

Anytime you have to put "Kids" and "Shopping List" into one sentence, it can become an almost insurmountable effort. Trying to get through a list is taxing alone, when you're not playing referee to the fighting and or squabbling siblings that you must bring with you.

Mine had a knack of being perfect angels right up until we'd hit the "bought air" of a store. The doors would open and "whoosh", my sweet, happy mannered little
Dan-clones would turn into feral creatures, itching to unleash a reign of terror. It would happen so instantaneously that I'd almost look around to see if I could catch a glimpse of their formerly happy selves high tailing out to the parking lot.

And there I'd be, alone with Them. (Not the nice 'Them' that so lovingly and cooperatively went into the stroller and sang as I pushed them into the store; no, it was now the 'Other Them' who snarled and whined and hit).

With a smile, I'd press on. I had shopping to do. A list to tackle. Pushing the stroller in front of me and pulling the cart behind, I'd alternate between referring to my list (crossing off found items with whatever crayon happened to be in my pocket at the time), and acting as "Mad Cap Entertainer" to my stroller-bound captives.

They'd cry in the Produce section, but never fear! "Listen to the celery sing a song, my children!" And just like that, a performance worthy of many awards spilled forth. (You really should have been there.)

They'd fight in the Dairy department; the Girl In Back snagging a handful of the Girl In Front's hair and giving a hard yank. But never fear, dear children! "Watch Mommy do a happy cheese dance!" (Let's just say, Michael Flatley ain't got nothin' on me.)

By the time we reached the household supply areas, both kids were through with mommy's antics and no amount of my particular brand of product-based entertaining could sustain them. As I perused the paper towels and plastic bags, I'd usually be alternating between holding one crying baby to another, still pulling the cart behind me, and now using my hip to shove the stroller forward a few inches at a time. "Shush, shush, shush, my Heart," I'd cluck, "look at these pretty toilet brushes". After plopping that now-quieted offspring back into her seat holding a pristine Johnny Mop, I'd pick up the still-crying other one and attempt to interest her in the fascinating world of toothpaste and toothbrushes.

What seemed like a short list nevertheless managed to take up quite a bit of time and energy, leaving me ragged, on edge, and (quite frankly), in need of chocolate. Ready to be done with our outing, I'd always manage to pick the most ill-chosen check out line possible. You know the one, it 'seems' to be moving along 'just fine'. Then all the sudden, you find it has stopped and you are not moving forward at all. And you are faced with the choice of "Should I Stay" or "Should I Switch Lanes", only you're so worn out and bedraggled by the escapades of your children as you 'shopped' for the few things you needed and now your brain will explode if you have to make one more choice. And it no longer matters at that point because every other line is backed up and nearly as long. No matter how you look at it, you're stuck.

You know. THAT line.

When I did finally manage to break free from the grasp of retail hell, I'd have two much displeased and unhappy children; the extra long wait in the check out line having undone all my calming, and angering them anew. I'd set out for the doors at a near run, anticipating, nay....almost feeling...that moment of escape that awaited me just through those big, beautiful doors.

Whooooosh!

Two crying girls calmed down, instantly shushed by the outside world around them. Two happy girls, sitting in car seats and pleasantly babbling as we made our way home.

One very tired, very worn out mama, looking very much forward to the next big event in our day: Nap Time.

For everyone.

The Freckle: Part II

And now for the continuation of The Freckle...

As you may recall, the previously 'befreckled' Ashlyn opted to perform an act of self-surgery last week, partially removing the freckle on her cheek.  Due to the fact that said freckle had been undergoing some recent changes, our pediatrician agreed it should probably come the rest of the way off. Done by a professional this time. He referred us to a plastic surgeon.

There is something very "modern" about taking a 6 year old to a plastic surgeon. I know there's a lot of reasons kids go, but I naturally associate plastic surgeons with tummy tucks, nose jobs, and liposuction. "Hi there. I'm here to have my child's nose done. Maybe we can make it just a touch perkier then? Can we pull her brows back at all? She's starting to look a little tired..." Hey, you know someone somewhere is thinking it.

The girls were thrilled beyond belief to be there. They love all things medical and were anxious to see any doctoring paraphernalia that might be on exhibit. In the consultation room, they got very chatty with the doctor and his PA.

Ashlyn informed them that we were there to check out her freckle. "You can take if off now, Doctor, because I know that my freckle is not what makes me Ashlyn. I am Ashlyn in my head, not in my freckle. So, it's okay if you take it off." He smiled and said, "Well, thank you for that." She then continued on with, "I tried to take it off, but as you can see, I didn't do a really great job. I'll bet you can do better, anyway." He stared.

Caedance piped in with this gem: "So, are you a gynecologist, then?" This earned me a few surprised looks. The doctor then looked at her and asked how she knew about gynecologists. She shot him a look of incredulity before saying, "Sir, I am a lady. Ladies have a uterus and that means I'll have to go to a gynecologist." With this last, she scrutinized him with a squished up face, as if trying to determine what merit he could possibly have as a doctor when he clearly didn't know about gynecologists.

The appointment itself went well.

Much to their collective dismay, no scalpels, tweezers, or needles were taken out.

We have another appointment in a month to allow time for some of the redness on her cheek to die down a bit. We'll schedule a removal surgery after that.

Ashlyn is raring to go; ready for her shining moment as "Patient".

They've already begun to plot the adventures they'll have playing tricks on everyone when Ashlyn's freckle is gone.

"Mommy, no one will really know which one we are! We can play tricks."

"So true, my loves. So true." (Some might argue that's a right of passage for identical twins).

"Do you think we'll be able to fool you mommy?"

Hmmmmm.....let's see..(Ashlyn. Caedance. Ashlyn. Caedance. Ashlyn...? Caedance...?)

You know what? Probably.

Memories of Splits

I recently read the happy news of a friend who is expecting triplets. Triplets! Hooray! Reading his blog about how they found out they needed to upgrade to the triplet stroller brought misty memories for me in terms of my own Discovery Appointment. I think we've all had a moment of daydreaming of what the might be like, wondering how we'd find out, what the doctor would say, if it would be a surprise.....

Could it really be 7 years ago already? How is that possible when I feel like I just left that shocking appointment...

I didn't expect to be pregnant. At all. Due to Poly Cystic Ovarian Disease, my doctor had squashed any dreams of spontaneous conception for me. (Ever get a phone call from your doc telling you it was okay to "engage in sexual relations? It's just as sexy as you'd dream it could be). We had just gone through our first 6 months of unsuccessful treatment and were taking a much needed breather before starting the more intense Injectables phase of our pregnancy plan.

That's when I started to feel kinda funny.

But I couldn't be. Could I? I mean, I wasn't supposed to be. Was I?

March 18, 2004: I woke up and took that first pregancy test. Positve. I stared at it in disbelief. How is it that we had just dug ourselves $5,000 in debt when I had just achieved it without meds? For free?

My doctor was equally leary of my proclaimation of pregnancy and hauled me in for a blood test. Several nerve-wracking hours later they called to tell me "I was very pregnant" and "could I please come in immediately for an ultrasound". Very pregnant? What did that mean, exactly? I didn't know there were gradations of it, like hues of colors. It sounded odd.

First thing the the next morning found me in the office again, undergoing a very in depth (and uncomfortable) internal ultrasound. I was too nervous to look at the screen, but in all honesty that little grain of rice seemed non-human to me. It just sat there at 6 weeks. But my doctor was interested in something, hemming and hawing over what he wasn't seeing.

As I came to find out, my hormone levels were really high. Hence the "Really Pregnant" diagnosis. I have since learned this can mean one of 3 things: either I was a. further along than we thought, b. having multiples, or c. there was something wrong with the pregnancy.

Initial measurements correlated with my 6 week estimation, so we knew a. was ruled out. My doctor was now looking to answer b. Thing was, he could only find one sac. And only one baby inside that one sac. One baby. One sac. Couldn't be multiples. He kept mumbling this through the ultrasound: "There's only one sac here, and only one fetal pole", and I grew more and more annoyed at his apparent disregard to the fact that I was okay with that. One baby was fine with me. Heck, any baby was fine with me. Geesh doc, show some love. 

At the end of the scan, he retold me about the whole one sac/one baby thing (really annoyed by that point), and added that the heartbeat was much brighter than they expect to see at 6 weeks. "But that's probably a good thing". Wow, thanks for that encouragement. I left with a diagnosis sheet that had a single check mark on it: Fetal Abnormality.

I didn't realize it at the time, but my doctor was already writing this one off. This ultrasound was a test, and I had failed; I wasn't further along than expected and try as he might he couldn't find another sac or baby. Option C seemed to be the likely culprit. Something had gone wrong in the many divisions of cells.

He scheduled me for another ultrasound in 7 days. "Just to check". In the meantime (and since he already had a thought that we were facing problems), he suggested that I not tell anyone I was pregnant. He clearly did not know me. I told everyone who stood long enough to listen, and even a few people who didn't.

7 days later I marched back into the office, this time with Dan in tow. As with before, I found myself unable to look at the screen, afraid of what I'd see. Or what I wouldn't see. I was waiting for news, but there was silence. Both doctor and Dan were staring at the screen. The doctor, with a furrowed brown; Dan with an open mouth.

"What did I see before?" my doctor inquired.

"A.....baby?" was my meek response. Was this a trick question?

"Well, you're having twins."

Whoa.

 (Remember that extra bright heartbeat? It was baby B stacked against A.)

"Make that....(moving the scan around a bit)...identical twins."

Hot damn!

".....and....(there's more?)...It appears they may be conjoined."

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

The rest of the appointment was kinda a blur after that. Statistically, I wasn't having conjoined twins, my doctor assured us. But that scan. Looking at it, it sure was hard to tell for certain, and the fact that when one moved left, the other tugged that way too truly didn't set anyone's mind at ease. There were "things to consider", I was told by my now doom-and-gloom doctor.

This was not the way you would dream of being told about your multiples. I had only just found out about them, and now I faced losing them. I wasn't sure how to take it. Or what to think. To be happy? To be scared?

Both. Overwhelmingly, both.

Long story short (I think I've blogged about this before anyway), I was hooked up with a specialist who deals with obtuse pregnancies like this; we outliers who breed potentially connected kids. There were still more tense weeks ahead before our fears were put to rest, more scans of "not sure" before seeing a definite separate movement between them. But we did see it. Eventually. Turns out our kids decided to hold off on the whole egg-splitting thing until later in the "Splitting Phase".

Science Lesson!:
 If an egg is going to split, it will do so between days 8-12. If it splits on the early side, identical twins can have separate sacs and separate placentas, and appear to be fraternal on ultrasounds.
If they split on the later side, as ours did, they run the risk of being conjoined due to being too close together when the head/spinal cords/abdominal walls form. Ours weren't conjoined, but they are a really nifty side effect of being late splitters: Mirror Twins. They are symetrically opposite of each other.
 Coolio.

Of course, after the worry of "Were They Or Weren't They" was removed from the table, we were on to other twin issues that took up space in our Worry Jar. Lots of 'em. Keeping me planted firmly on the High Risk group.

It's hard to believe it all turned out, though. But it did. I have two (presently) sniffling, feverish  and truly delightful sprites dancing around me right now as proof. They're here. They're healthy.

 I give them props; they fought like hell to get here, running a gestational obstacle course worthy of any athlete.

It's all worth it. Every bit of it. And seeing their smiles everyday, I have to think they agree.



When the girls were born, the first thing my husband did was look for some difference between them. Some identifying mark that would help us tell one from the other.

Anything.

He didn't have to look long before finding one. Ashlyn, our precious Baby B, had a small freckle on her right cheek. Tiny. Discreet. But there.

We were told later that it's somewhat unusual for a baby to have a freckle of that type straight out of the womb. We smiled. It was God's little cheat sheet for us.

And how we used it! The thing about babies, is that they look alike, no matter if their identical or not. Put 2 or more balding, red, squalling things side by side, and you'll be confused as to which is which. And as they grew, the confusion only got worse. Now we had two baldies on the move, scooting here, toddling there.

I've lost count of how many times I've uttered the phrase: "Thank Goodness For That Freckle".

And I think Ashlyn liked it. It has become her symbol, of sorts; part of her identity. She's always been fine with it. Never seemed to bother it or be upset about it. And she understood that we looked at cheeks when talking to both of them, sorting out who had the freckle and who didn't before assigning a name. If that bothered her, she never let on.

So you can imagine my surprise when I wake her up yesterday to find that she's effectively picked the freckle off. First off, I cannot imagine how uncomfortable that process had to have been; and second, I'm not sure why she did it.

But she did.

And I can't say the results are very good. Nails being what they are, it's not quite as nicely done as a doctor would do, you see.

So I took her the doctor to check out the sore on her face. Is it okay? Will it get infected? A thorough check of it and a prescription for anti-fungal cream. 3x a day. Don't forget. (I won't). We also were given an appointment for a bona fide plastic surgeon to have it done the right way; to undo any damage she did.

And what about that freckle? Ashlyn has already expressed a sadness that it will be coming off. She probably should have thought of that before digging it off with her fingernails. Hind sight, right?

She despaired that she wouldn't be Ashlyn anymore.
I explained that her freckle is not what makes her Ashlyn. She'll still be Ash.

She despaired that it would hurt.
I told her it won't.

She delighted that they won't use anything sharp to cut it off. Just round things.
I'm letting her go with that one.

We'll see how this turns out.

How life is without That Freckle.