Just A Glimpse...

It's one of those hot summer days that just begs for pool time. Unfortunately, neither girls are swimmers yet, and we haven't a local pool wherein to teach them. Consequently, Pool Time around here means dragging out the plastic one and filling it up.

It's funny to look at them in it right now, mentally comparing them to their younger selves. Today when they scoot down the slide, the resulting splash looks like it could empty out the entire pool. It almost does. Today their nearly 7 year old bodies take up the majority of the space; a far cry from looking like small fish in a big pond. When they were younger we would fill the pool up with an assortment of tub toys and play food from their kitchen set, but today I don't think there's really any room for that. They seem to be content playing Kick The Water Out Of The Pool, a staggeringly easy task for two so tall as they.

Looking at them in the bathing suits, I feel the reality of their growth like a slap in the face. Gone are the chubby thighs and pudgy bellies of toddler hood, replaced by long torsos and even longer legs of looming adolescence and womanhood. That word, "womanhood" when applied to my daughters feels like sandpaper across my tongue; abrasive, sudden, and not completely welcome. They're my babies. Even still,I know the end result of all this parenting is to have 2 beautiful women, mothers, and friends. Our gift to humanity.

It's just that it's going so fast. Too fast. Time is slipping by and I feel helpless to stop it, doing my best to hold up a hand and require a hug and a cuddle every now and again. Stopping them as they go along their merry way, growing up before my eyes, to remember it's okay to want to be with Mommy and to need me. I can still fix the boo boos, still soothe an injured heart. I can still be the one they turn to for a smile, encouragement, a hug.

Most of the time I insist on seeing them through the hazy gleam of the past; still little girls, still trying to outgrow each other in a neck and neck race that never ends. But in times like these, days when I can see them for what they are, I see how fuzzy the edges of the past truly are. They are traveling over the gap between Big Kid and Tween; getting ready to knock on the door of Teenager, and then Woman.

Time, it stops for no one. The only thing to do is to get acquainted with the present and to plant my feet firmly in the now. As for these two precious girls,  I have the honor of knowing where they've come from, the privilege of seeing who they're working on being now, and the excitement of watching them become the women they'll be.

I count my blessings as very many, indeed.

They Call Her Mom.

Thinking, "Mom".

Being a mother means learning to think in terms of "Others" rather than "Myself".

It means baking the chocolate cupcakes when I'd much rather have the vanilla ones
   (because 2 happy smiles make up for any frowns I may make. Come to  think of it,
    it's all good diet sense anyways, right?)

As a mother, my first thoughts are for them.
    are they safe?
     are they happy?
     do they feel loved?

Motherhood means wearing my heart on my sleeve
   (and wanting to put bubble wrap on it. And duct tape. And a big sign that says, "CAREFUL!  My heart is
     here. Don't bump it. Don't hurt it. Don't even look at it crossed eyed. Or I'll claw your eyes out."

In fact, motherhood has taught me that I probably do have it within myself to seriously hurt someone who harmed or even attempted to harm my children. Oh yeah. I think so.

Being a mom has opened my eyes to a world I used to know. It's brought back the magic of a lightening bug. The simple thrill of a pinwheel blowing in the wind. The wonder of a rainbow.

In being a mother, I'm remembering to be thankful (oh-so-thankful) for every blessing.

Each. And. Every. One.

Here Come The Brides...

Hopeless romantic or some kind of deranged fool; call me what you will, but I was one of the um-teen billion people watching the Royal nuptials this morning. I didn't get up to watch, mind you. I'm far too lazy for that. Instead I took the more common approach of DVRing the event so I could peruse it at my leisure.

 And fast forward through all the boring bits.

Having dropped the girls off at school and making a quick stop at Panera, I was ready to begin; seated in a comfy chair with the required "Royal Wedding Observation Refreshments" of scones and tea at hand. I hit play and off I went on a magical journey that had absolutely nothing to do with me at all.

The funny thing about weddings for me is that I experience them so differently now that I'm parent. Before having my own brood, weddings held all the romance and ooey-gooey-huggy-kissy stuff that dreams are made of. It was all about The Dress! The Music! The Ceremony! The Reception!

I would get caught up in all the little details of someone else's big day, and that would be enough to pull me back into the memories of my own wedding.

But once I became Mom, that all changed.

Now I view these blissful events as previews for the time when I'll be watching our girls stand at an alter and "pledge her troth" to (what we pray) will be two amazing men. Where I used to focus on the bride, my eye now wanders to her parents: how are they holding up? Is Mom crying?; finding myself wondering what I'll do when I'm in that place.

I know they won't be marrying a prince. We're praying for a priceless man, nonetheless.

And I wonder how I'll be able to let go.

I've never been sure how my parents did it. And I was so young! Days away from my 20th birthday; completely young and totally confident in the promise I was making that day. (Still confident in it, nearly 13 years later). But....man....how hard to let go.

But I'll have to do it. Twice.

The girls talk about marrying twins, which is something that I secretly would love.

 They talk about a double wedding. (How fun would that be?)

They talk about wearing my dress...or fighting over it I suppose, in the case of the double wedding.

They talk about wanting to marry their daddy. (Can't say I blame them on that since he's a pretty stellar guy, if I do say so myself.)

But they also talk about having a trampoline there.

And having only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and lots of Jello at the reception.

And still living with Dan and I after the knot has been tied.

So I know we still have awhile to go before I have to start planning anything.

Or letting go.

So for now, I'll push that little thought under the rug.

Out of sight, out of mind.

For now, they are all mine.

I'm Watching.

In the annuls of Adventures In Twin Parenting, perhaps the most difficult task we've been faced with thus far has been this: teaching them to ride a bike.

I know what you're thinking. You don't have to say it. (But since I know you're still thinking it, I'll say it for you. "You think that's hard? Just wait until they're driving, or dating, or going to school"..etc, etc.) Please note I said, "Thus Far". Consider if you will, that includes pregnancy, twinfancy, and all toddler hood endeavors. THIS takes the cake.

The problem we've always faced is that neither of the girls cares one bit for getting from point A to B on anything other than the 2 feet God gave 'em. They'd rather walk, run, skip, or trot, and have always put their noses up at any other mode of personal transportation. In infancy, they disliked their swing. In toddler hood, they outgrew all their ride-alongs long before they actually "rode along" to anything. In preschool years, they avoided the Cozy Coup, then put the cabash on the tricycles.

We keep running into the same problem: their disinterest in riding bikes has always meant that they outgrow whatever device we have for them before they ever learn to ride it. We are currently on bike number 3 for them. Bike 1 was a 12 inch, then we upgraded to a 16 inch, and are now at a 21 inch.

And herein is our particular quandary: what do you do when your daughters' legs are too long for a bike that is more age (and ability-level) appropriate for her, neccesitating a larger bike clearly meant for kids who already know how to ride a bike?

Training wheels aren't meant for this size bike. At all. So we're attempting to teach turning skills (tricky for kids who've never cared about steering wheels) and balance to two very disinterested little ladies.

We're methodically plodding away, despite their moans of disapproval. "Again? I have to get on it again?" In short? Yes. You do. Let's go.

We each take a child. The helmet-clad lass is than lassoed with a large beach towel around her chest, which effectively holds her up on the bike. She pedals while her assigned parent attempts to walk beside the bike, holding tight to the towel as they travel.

It's not small feat either, let me tell you. There is no balance here. None. That Caedance stays up is more thanks to my holding fast to that towel than to her own inner equilibrium. Right now, anyways. Every once in awhile, we'll hit a stretch of maybe 8 feet where she'll get it. But in a blink it's gone, and I'm left tug-tug-tugging away on the towel again; hand cramping, lower leg scraped up from being bumped by the pedal, and just mostly praying my hand doesn't spontaneously open and drop the towel all together. How much would she like riding the bike then, I ask you?

But as I said, we're plugging away at it. Last night we took a quick run around the block. As has become custom, I was Caedance's Bike Runner/Towel Holding Coach. She had a few good runs where she had gotten her balance and was progressing at more or less a normal rate. I was proud of her.

Head straight forward, she said, "Look mom! Look at me!"

I wanted to say something like, "Look at you? Hon, I'm holding you up. I'm right here. I see you because I'm actually here with you. Right now. No need to ask me to look."

But I didn't.

I realized that she didn't want her Bike Runner Coach to see what she was doing; she wanted her Mommy to watch. Mom. Look at me. See me. See what I'm doing.

And I saw. Eyes wide open, I saw my little girl who's struggling to succeed at this activity that she couldn't care less about. But she trying. Not because she wants to, but because she sees it's important to her dad and to me. She sees that and so she's giving it her all. Right here. As I run beside her.

"Mom, look at me! Watch me!"

"I see you, heart. You're perfect."

In everything they do: I see.

I see you, my precious daughters. Your accomplishments do not go unnoticed by me. Ever.

I see you. Always.
And I'm so proud.

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.

Thankful

My daughter prayed for me tonight.

Well, sort of.

We were playing a game of "Think of Something You're Thankful For". There are no rules of play for this little gem; just sit and think of things you're thankful for and then name them. We get the usual suspects of "Our House" and "Our Food" and "Our Pets" often enough, so tonight I imposed one simple guideline: Pick something different.

I was curious to see what they would come up with. On their own. Left to their own unusual devices.

Caedance impressed me by commenting that she's thankful for her twin. (A heartwarming thing for me to hear, making me proud of the very small part I played in that egg-splitting bit of wonder). She's also thankful for nail polish, wood floors, and herbs. (Herbs in general I would guess since I couldn't get her to pin down any specific herb that tickled her fancy). An interesting list, but she's a graciously unusal child.

Ashlyn, on the other hand, informed me that she was thankful for our family because we love "are-chother". (You're right if you guessed that to be kid-speak for 'each other'). I asked her if she wanted to send out a 'Thanks' to Jesus for the blessing of our family. She did. I sat back, in prayer mode, waiting for her to begin.

Dear Jesus,

Thank you for our family, and that we love 'are-chother' so much.

And thank you for Mommy 'cause she makes us dinner at night, and even

when it's not my favorite but I eat it anyways. 'Cause if I don't eat it, Jesus,

I don't get dessert and mommy's desserts always are good.

Amen

Well there it is then.

Precious.

Sweet.

Simple.

Honest.

I'll take that.

(Although, in my defense, I only make Good Dinners).

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.

Camping Out

My children have slept on the floor for 8 days straight. Eight days. On the floor. They think it's fun. I think it looks terribly uncomfortable. They think it's a "real special treat", while I get a stiff neck just looking at their sleeping bags on the floor.

Now, I'll somewhat begrudgingly admit that as I 'grow wiser' (that's my euphemism for my accumulating turns around the sun. Which in turn is another euphemism for the growing number of birthdays I'm collecting), my definition of "Fun" and "Special Treat" is changing a bit. I am now at the point where a thin pallet tossed on a carpeted floor just does nothing for me, except make me cringe at the prospect of waking with aching knees, elbows, and shoulders.

But I'm okay with that.

The girls seem to love it. Any "Non-School Night" will find them, camped out in various rooms of our house, both of them filled with a sense of glee at the idea of a new place to sleep. New noises. New light patterns thrown on the wall. They seem to enjoy the nightly shake-up.

Have Nightlight, Will Travel.

They've enjoyed a full week of these little camping excursions, since they've been on Spring Break. As a special treat, last night we let them set up camp in our bedroom. They were over the moon excited about it. Tucking them into their bags and reading the last nighttime story took on a whole new dimension for them since they were in Mom and Dad's room. On the floor. At the foot of the bed. Wow.

Remember when it was those simple things that filled your life with unabashed joy?

I have to confess it was nice listening to the soft sounds of their sleep: the gentle puffs of breath, the slight stirs under the covers, the tiny sounds of dreams passing through their closed eyes. It took me back to the days when their bassinets were in our bedroom, or when they'd sleep in our bed after having a bad dream. Good memories, all.

We were awoken this morning by two little faces peeking over the foot board of the bed, only two sets of eyes and two pert noses visible. Two little voices spoke to us from their slightly hidden vantage point. "I love you Mommy. I love you Daddy. I love you." Soft whispers to wake up to. Soft words with big, heart melting meaning in them.

They are growing up. Everyday I can see changes in them that take them further away from the babies they were (and sometimes still are in my mind's eye), and tracking them closer to the ladies they'll become. But there is always this: their hearts. The essence of these two precious little girls stays the same. Big hearts. Open arms. Beautiful words.

They are a daily reminder to me of Love is. And how full life can be when my arms are wrapped around them tight. They may be growing up, but I'm blessed to be here to see it happen.

Sleeping Beauties.

If given the choice, my daughters will sleep.

We're currently smack in the middle of our first true Spring Break, and every day this week, they've slept until around 10:00am. Every day. Ah, yes; I can smell the jealousy now.

Truth be told, if you had told me our twins would inherit what I consider to be the best trait Dan and I hold, I wouldn't have believed you. At all. In fact, I had pretty much figured "Adequate Sleep" was going to be filed under the "Life Before Children" section of my life.

I felt the first stirrings of the lives within me around the 14th week of pregnancy. Each week brought a new sense of wonder as those first subtle flutterings morphed into stronger kicks, then more forceful (and at times curiously malicious feeling) stabs.  As the months passed, and my waist went the way of the dodo bird (that is to say it was no more), those strange stabs grew ever more rambunctious and transitioned from being 'time-to-time' occurrences to constant flips, flops, and belly contorting acrobatic maneuvers. It felt like a troop of Riverdancers putting on a performance for an audience of my internal organs.

And of course, nighttime was the best time for the show.

However limited and curtailed, my daily lumberings seem to lull my on-board people during the daylight hours. They snoozed while I attempted to "nest" and went to multiple doctor appointments and weekly tests to confirm their collective health.  Then, just as I would turn and prop myself into some pitifully sad semblance of "Comfortable" at night, the house lights would go out and the shows would begin. Belly up. Belly down. Belly left. Belly right. "Enjoy the show, folks! We can do this all night!"

I looked with longing at my husband, who was sleeping soundly (and snoring loudly) beside me. Apparently he didn't get tickets for the show too.

The beauty of months of sleepless pregnant nights is that it makes for a rather easy transition into months of sleepless nights with preemie twinfants.

Every two hours. On the hour. They'd awake hungry, wet, and angry. The trifecta of primordial human emotions. Times two. Being preemies, both were struggling eaters in those first few months, and feeding each one the small amount of milk required took over 30 minutes per baby. And it was a two handed job; no simultaneous feeds at that point. Then I'd have to pump, which was a delightful past-time I took up when I endeavored to become the Human Milk Machine. 8 times a day I'd hook up to The Milker, feeling more bovine than homosapien at that point. So groggy and sleep deprived I found the repetitive rhythms of the pump to have a vocal quality to them. They spoke to me. I never answered back though; I found the conversation was often too snarky for my tastes. (And sometimes it was just plain rude. I mean, really.)

Even after getting through those sleep-deprived months with twinfants, there was still a sleepless road ahead. You probably didn't know this, but nighttime can be fun when you have a crib mate to entertain you; and even when you're in separate cribs, you can still flop from one to another all night long. Just for kicks and giggles. (And in case you weren't sure, the best times to pull these nocturnal shenanigans is between the hours of 1am and 7am).

Then it happened.

When the girls turned 3, they started to sleep. Just like that. "Good night, darlings" and off they'd go. All night. And in the morning, they'd sleep. Which means we got to sleep. Which means for the first time in nearly 4 years, I got to sleep. Really sleep. The kind of sleep where no one was kicking me in the kidneys, or screaming with fury at my audacity to let them get hungry (and they'd have thought I would have learned since the last time I had let that happen, which happened to be a whole hour and a half ago).

Which leads us to Spring Break. And to sleeping. And to the glory of being able to do that 7 blissful days in a row.

And you know what? I'm worth it. Absolutely.

Sleep on, my friends. Sleep. On.

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.

Without Compare...

Happy or sad.

Smart or dumb.

Pretty or ugly.

Good or bad.

Up or down.

I suppose these groupings are best categorized as being opposites. But on another level, they're also comparisons. Don't you think?  It can be so easy to look at something and quickly assess its worth or quality based on opposites like this. When faced with a choice between this or that, how many of us don't fall back on our ingrained classification system to make the choice? I know I do.

It's scary how easy it can be to do this with the girls. Frightening, really. I know any parent of more than one child can face the impulse to assign a quick comparison onto their children. It's so easy. So quick. And so socially acceptable.

Often I'm asked to compare my girls. People will come up to us in the store and begin asking me, "Which one is smarter? Whose the nicer one? Which one is the good one?" My heart breaks a little at each of these, not because of the words they are using, but because of the words not said: Dumb. Mean. Bad.

How can I possibly answer a question like that? About my children? My precious, amazing, indescribable children?

My response is always this: "They are both amazing kids. Full of personality. Full of talent. Full of beauty. Full of potential. We cannot wait to see what they use all their gifts for in life, and are blessed to have front row seats to the show." End of statement.

I consider my number one job as their mother to be their advocate; their main cheerleader. That's me. I don't have a "favorite", and I don't think one is "better" than the other.

 God made them each exactly perfect.

Caedance. Ashlyn. Each girl is a unique bundle of wonder. Each has her strengths, her weaknesses. Within each resides the potential to do great things in her life, with her life. I can only begin to imagine the successes they'll achieve. The greatness they'll strive for, and the fumbles along the way.

And I'll be right there, cheering each one on. Through the good or the bad, I'll be there. Hands held high, smile on my face, my eyes filled with the beauty of these two creatures who have entered my life and made it purposeful. My heart's song is one of thanks for my girls.

 Exactly as they are.

 No comparisons needed.

Shrinking The Fun

Hallelujah, the girls are finally at an age where we can proceed with a project and I don't feel like pulling my hair out. It's a blessed thing when they realize that every piece of the craft does not need to be thrown on the floor, smeared on their person or the table, or catapulted across the room.

Hooray for new phases!

In celebration of their new crafting trustworthiness, today we made Shrinky-Dinks.

Do you remember Shrinky-Dinks? I think the bulk of my childhood is wrapped around them, somehow. I simply cannot begin to explain how much I liked them.

Nor am I able to explain exactly why.

What is it about coloring, cutting, baking, and observing that could possibly be so exciting? It doesn't seem like very much, but somehow it endlessly amazed me.

I'd color; always careful to do my best. I'd cut; aware of each line and curve. I'd bake; face pressed against the little window on the oven, waiting for that miraculous moment when my creations would begin the magic dance of curling, bending, and shrinking.

It all happened so fast! You'd have to be right there to witness it. Blink and it would be over.

Smurfs. Rainbow Brite. He-Man. Transformers. Scooby Doo. All colored and shrunk out of obligation and whim.

I, being the youngest (and only girl), always got stuck with the ones no one wanted. The uncool He-Man dude. Thelma. Brainy Smurf. A Decepticon. But Rainbow Brite was all mine.  I took my time coloring each form and baking them one at a time, hoping to make the joy last.

Then of course came the dilemma of what to do with these now shrunken, slightly useless, not quite so much fun items. I remember they came with a few stands to put them in , so I recall shuffling them about on a table, creating some manner of play with them. And then.......well.....who knows. I came across Rainbow Brite not too long ago, shoved in some forgotten box I'd opened. My memories were stirred.

Thus our project today.

The girls dutifully colored their forms; now on paper that you have trace out yourself on the shrinking paper. (Gone are the days of branded Shrinky-Dinks, and aren't we the poorer for it?) I did the honor of cutting, partly due to the difficulty of cutting the paper, but mostly out of the selfish desire to relive my youth. Cookie sheet in the oven, we waited for the magic to start, faces pressed against the oven window. Well, face pressed against the window. The girls were not nearly as excited as I was about what was going to occur, and had skipped away, returning only in response to my squeals of girlish delight and calls of, "They're shrinking! They're shrinking!" (I'm not proud of my zealous response, nor am I ashamed. I also jump and clap at the mere sight of a Hot Air Balloon. Love me despite the faults.)

I may have gotten more out of today's craft than they did. That's okay. There is something indescribably perfect about sharing something cherished from my childhood with them. Even if all they ever do is roll their eyes and think I'm slightly mental, I'm sharing a piece of myself with them. Reaching out from across the span of time,  from my childhood to theirs. They may never latch onto any of it, but the connection is made and the circle made full when we do it together.

Indescribable.

The other day, Ashlyn was excited to tell me about a new word she'd learned.

"Mommy! Guess what? I know a new word!"

"Do you? And which word might that be, my love?"

"Indescribable"

"Oh my. That's quite a mouthful, isn't it? And a good word to know."
(I suspect I have "Aladdin" to thank for it too. They've been watching it lately and I know this vocabulary-stunner is used in the song, 'A Whole New World'.)

"Mommy, what does Indescribable mean?"

I hesitated before answering, envisioning the word and gathering its meaning; thinking of the plainest way to present it to my curious 6 year old. "Something is indescribable when there are just no other words for it. When other words are just not big enough. Not good enough for it.  If something is really really good, it's indescribable, but bad things can be too."

"Oh. I see."

A few minutes of quiet lapsed, during which I could almost hear the wheels of her brain turning.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, love?"

"Am I Indescribable in the good way?"

(Oh). "Yes. Yes you are, Ashlyn. You truly are."

In the best way.

Infertility & Little Old Me

March 18th has special meaning for me. Very special. 7 years ago on this date I found out I was pregnant. It's a day I personally celebrate with almost as much joy as my girls' actual birthday. (Not quite, but almost).I still have the tests, framed and on display, and I still remember that moment of reading that first positive test. Perhaps that seems odd, but the truth is, it's a miracle that it even happened.

I didn't plan on motherhood, really. My childhood play involved creating construction- paper text books (always MATH, my worst subject, of all things), and dressing Barbie up in her most work friendly fashion garb. Even my pretend kitchen dished out bagged lunches for all my invisible working-woman customers. It's not that I didn't like kids, it was more that I thought I'd be a great career woman instead. (NOT that one can't be both).

Flash forward a dozen years and something changed. At some point my husband and I went from thinking, "Whew!" every month to "Why aren't we preggers yet?" After 2 uneventful years of "Trying", we sucked it up and went to a doctor to figure it out.

Walking into a fertility specialist appointment for the first time can be a jarring event. I felt completely broken inside, so much a failure. It seemed like every female around me was at some stage of gestation; many of whom were muttering things like, "Gosh! We weren't even TRYING! Can you believe it?" or "Not again. Ugh. I hate this." And  then there was us: in some odd procreational limbo; unable to move forward or to understand why we were stuck.

Several appointments and too many "mildly uncomfortable-to-downright painful" tests later, we had our answer. Poly cystic Ovarian Syndrome. Ahhh, yes. There it is folks. My ovaries were filled with cysts and I was shooting out testerone at a downright manly rate. Try googling PCOS or PCOD and you'll find a nifty list of side effects that includes excess facial hair. I was in despair at the thought that I was going to morph into a bearded lady.

(I didn't).

While it was nice to have a name to put to the problem, it didn't bring much comfort. PCOS is notoriously tricky to treat; working well on certain meds and not even trying to abate on others. Given my own levels, my doctor put my odds of conceiving "without intervention" at about 5%. Minds geared for the battle ahead, we were ready to fight.

We were so hopeful as we began the regimen; it felt encouraging to be finally doing something. I took hormone pills that made me see fire and want to smack every person I saw in the face; I went to weekly ultrasounds to determine just how much (or how little) my stubborn ovaries were responding; and we "celebrated" the viable follicles with a nasty shot in my derriere to force ovulation. Sounds fun, right?

After 6 unsuccessful and draining months on that treatment, we were told we would have to move on to the next tier of treatment: the injectibles. I was game for it, but as anyone who's walked that path can tell you, it takes serious dedication and commitment. More appointments, precise schedules, and tons of follow ups that are worked at the clinic's schedule, not the patent's. We decided we would do it, but would hold off till the summer when I would be off work and have the ability to commit. We went along for the next few months in a holding pattern; however, both of us were silently relieved to have a break from the appointments, the pills (oh-thank-you-Lord-no-more-pills!), and phone calls from the doctor informing me that my levels were acceptable to "engage in physical relations with hopes of conception" (although that was always super romantic").

So you can see why I was amazed as I stared at the test indicating that somehow, beyond all reason, without any help, it had happened. I called my doctor that very morning and he was wary to believe it, reminding me of the low odds and telling me not to get to excited. Not get excited? No way in HELL that was happening. I was elated. They did a blood test and confirmed it. I was pregnant. I thought that my doctor would be too; he had put so much time into orchestrating the event for so long, even if the attempts hadn't worked. Instead he said, "I don't know how this happened. You shouldn't be pregnant."

Thanks, doc. God had other plans.

I was in bliss.

2 weeks later we found out that our single miracle had split into 2 miracles, further dumbfounding my still unbelieving doctor.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

I know so many people who are struggling with infertility now or who have in the past. My heart hurts for them each as they walk this journey. Compared to many of them, we've had it easy. We conceived. Against all odds. Somehow. (By God's amazing grace).

I'm not ashamed to say that we were infertile. That I have PCOS. It doesn't define me, but it's played a part in who I am. Since pregnancy, many of my symptoms have been well managed. And (thankfully), I still haven't become a bearded wonder and am hoping in earnest I never do.

Every moment with these two "inconceivables" is filled with joy for me. True heartfelt joy. Because I know the hurt of want, the pain of empty arms, and the true promise of hope.

And I am grateful.

On being "It"

The girls are on the stairwell waiting. Judging by the sounds of their shuffling feet, I'd wager they're starting to get pretty impatient right about now. Willing me to leave; perhaps attempting to use their twin ESP to mentally coax me away.

But I'm not going anywhere, thank you very much.

Approximately 15 minutes ago I decided to take a breather from being "Mom" and to have a seat on the couch. Trusty laptop in hand, I began the mundane and yet relaxing chore of checking email. It just so happens that my perch here in the living room allows for an uncanny ability to hear whatever is being said in the stairwell and hallway above me. Imagine my surprise when, typing away, I overheard the phrase, "No, we'll have to wait till 'It' leaves to do that."

It? What's that? Who's that? Looking around, I caught the fleeting glimpse of two curly heads ducking away. Oh. I see. Apparently I'M the 'It' in that sentence. I'm not sure when I became an 'It', actually. I was 'Mom' before lunch, still 'Mom' at rest time, and then again at snack. I guess I've been demoted.

More interestingly was the continued conversation that ensued between them, as they were blissfully unaware of my super ears (and the helpful acoustics) that allowed me to hear every single word.

"When she leaves, THEN we'll do it."

"See? She's still there. We can't do it now."

"Hey mom?" (Oh, I'm mom again, am I?) "Could you please go make dinner?"

No. I cannot. Thanks for asking.

"Look at her! She didn't go away yet. We STILL can't do it!!"

"Maybe we shouldn't do it?" (Atta Girl!) "We're not supposed to...but.....if she's not looking..." (Ugh. Foiled again.)

Their conversation volleyed back and forth for several minutes, stopping only to check to see if I was still there. Eventually they figured out that I wasn't leaving. And that revelation then lead to the next epiphany that whatever mischief they were plotting would have to be put on hold. And that maybe their time would be better spent doing something else instead.

They are now safely in the family room. Where I can watch them. Openly.

Carefully.

Motherhood: The Wild Wild Frontier

Motherhood is so many things, but "Dull" is certainly not on the list.
Some days (well, most days really) I marvel at how very little I can predict what my two will do. Feeding off one another, there is always something afoot around our house.

Whether it's Ashlyn tossing armloads of her favorite (large) stuffed animals into the filled bathtub so they can take a bubble bath with her, or Caedance tossing in all the cat toys she could round up just so Ashlyn's bathing stuffed cats could have toys to play with too; we never really can anticipate just what they're planning "next".

Today Caedance is hauling around 10 hardcover books. Her treasures. These are her "choices" today, which means she must have them wherever she goes. It may not seem like a burden, but let me tell you that when you are 10 minutes late and needing to get out the door, having to wait for a little girl who must put each book (each of 10!) in the correct order (did you KNOW there was a correct order? Because I did not) is a true lesson in Patience and Calm. So far today, other than being a bit delayed this morning, Caedance's Book Bonanza hasn't really hurt us too much. And she's doing a fine job keeping them in the order they "Must" be in at all times. Impressive.

Still channeling her heroine Ruby (of Max & Ruby fame), Ashlyn, on the other hand, is spending her day eating fruit and lettuce. Declaring herself more like the bunny Ruby than the little girl Ashlyn, she's eaten her way through a handful of blueberries, one banana, a small apple, and a bowlful of romaine. Because this is what rabbits do, I've been informed. They sit and eat "rawfage" (roughage).

At the moment they are watching some episodes of Max & Ruby, acting out various scenes and switching off and on between who will be Max and who will be Ruby. There is no prize role; both are equally esteemed for such experienced and acclaimed actresses. So I listen. And I learn. And what I hear fills my heart with some of that calm that I was lacking this morning while Caedance the Librarian catalogued her inventory. These two are truly best friends; truly accepting of each other just as they are; completely open and wearing their very selves on their sleeves.

And I don't want it any other way.
Ever.

Sniffles In Stereo

Today I'm thinking about medicine. I'm thankful for it, and marveling at how just a few days of it can erase 3 weeks of awful nastiness.

For 3 weeks I had taken on a role I do not like: Nose Wiper.

I'll do it. I'm a mom after all, and part of the job description is to pick up other roles as needed.

But I do not like it.I spent my days chasing around 2 six year olds who were oblivious to their constant snot-snorting and the omnipresent drip of it on their lips.

I will tell you this, they hate having their noses wiped. Hate it. This made my job harder. Much. Harder. So  like a hunter scoping out the prey, I would nonchalantly observe my children, tissue in hand, waiting for the right moment, (my moment), to swoop in and wipe a nose before there could be any protests.

Of course, there was another nose to wipe. (There always is). So I had to wait and plot out my scheme to get to the other nose, which was sitting on the face of a now-quite-wary Other Twin. Bribes come in handy sometimes, you know. Who doesn't want an M&M? And so what if first you have to let mom swipe at your face and maybe blow into a tissue. It's candy. Sacrifices can be made for candy-coated chocolate.

In the end we literally blew our way through 4 boxes of tissues. A record for our house, I think.

Within 3 days of starting the Magic White Stuff That Sort Of Tastes Like Bubblegum, the sniffles cleared up. Seven days out, they declare they are "All Better Now, Thanks Mom".

And my glory as a mother is seeing them better. Finally. And relinquishing my Nose Wiper job for now. And the fact that MY nose needed wiped after all this (with nary a tissue in sight) is okay too. It's what we do; Moms.

Badges Of Courage

Let me begin by saying this: I have stretch marks. I do. Lots and lots and lots of them. And nearly all of them are in a place that is noticeable and, thus, quite inconvenient. And they're permanent. With me for good. I could lose tons of weight, and they'd still be there, reminding me in their silent voice, "We're still here".

Now let me share something else: I like them. I do. Each and ever single one of them. In the annals of history, perhaps no one has ever embraced her stretchmarks quite as I do. I celebrate them in the way some celebrate a personal accomplishment, because you see, these lovely marks are my personal accomplishment.

My accomplishment was 3 fold, really.
Firstly, I achieved pregnancy; which was something my doctors weren't sure I could do. Poly Cystic Ovarian Disease has a funny way of being easy to spot yet tricky to work with. Medicines either "work", meaning you ovulate and thus have a chance of getting pregnant. Or they "don't work" and you scrap yet another cycle while gearing up for next month. Because "Next Month" this will all work. Because if you don't think this way, quickly moving on from one gut punch to brace yourself for a possible follow-up, you'll lose your nerve altogether.

Secondly, we survived pregnancy. I mean that literally. We survived it. Me and my little passengers. Gestation was never "typical" for me. Even before we discovered that we had a Thing 1 and Thing 2 in there, I was on the High Risk list due to blood pressure issues. Which only got worse. And worse. And worse. Blood pressure, gestational diabetes, toxemia. None of these make for a cozy cocoon really. But by God's grace, our precious cargo grew, and despite being born early, still thrived.

Thirdly, we made it through the gauntlet that is Twinfancy. The nights that blurred into days that blurred into nights and back to days again. Eyes burning. Mind so fogged over with fatigue you can barely put 2 coherent words together. At one low point, we were making a venture out for errands. Two tired parents and a pair of crying twinfants. Dan was navigating the narrow hallway that led to the garage, one baby carrier looped on his right arm, the other being held by his left hand. Making his way to the open door, unable to see the path before him. Bringing up the rear with the Baby Paraphernalia, I saw that he was headed right for a pair of shoes left in front of the door. I saw, in my mind, his tripping over the shoes and my babies sailing through the open doorway and into the garage. I had to stop him. Had to alert him in some way. But my brain wouldn't work. No words came. Nothing. Quick! Quick! I chided myself. Every second he inched closer to the danger of those shoes. Those stupid shoes! Who put them there? Don't think about that now! Warn him!! Tell him!!!
Then: "Dan! Fa-nah-nah-nah!" (Yes, read that again.) That's what my brain was able to send to my mouth.
It worked though. He stopped just short of the shoes, looking at me with curiosity.

Fast forward 6 years, yada-yada-yada, and here we are today.
Each stretch mark is a moment of triumph for me. A blessing. An answered prayer.
I wouldn't erase them for anything. And I am blessed to have a husband who feels exactly the same about them.
My Badges Of Courage which I wear with pride.

Menacing Birthday Strikes Again!

You may not notice it to read my words, but I am a whole year older now, having just had a birthday. Does that extra year add some wisdom to my words? Am I more relateable now with that little 2 tucked behind the 3? Maybe. Maybe not. Time will tell, I suppose. 

One of the first things that strikes me when my birthday rolls around each year is just how much that day has changed for me. I have no doubt it's the whole "Grown-Up" thing, but when you're a kid, the day revolves around you entirely. Properly. As it should. Somewhere along the way, that changes entirely. These days, my birthday continues to be locked in the orbit of Ashlyn & Caedance, revolving steadily around the great sun of their childhoods. And I can't say that I mind this, not totally. The "Adult" in me says that this is just being responsible and that I am a good parent. However, the "Not-So-Adult" in me stomps her foot, pouts, and wails, "WHAT ABOUT ME!!! IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!".  Alas.

This year I was on my own with the girls since Dan was unable to take the day off work. Not that I mind this, mind you. I don't. What I DO mind is when my little ones wake up on the far, far, FAR end of the very wrong side of bed. It's a rare magical duo who can be tucked into bed as Sugar & Spice, and then transform in the night to their alter egos, Snippet & Snarly before morning. Ta-DA!

Between their grumpy mumbles of general displeasure, I tried to keep my own spirits up (it was my birthday after all) while getting us all ready for the day. It seemed to be going well until Tooth brushing time, when one began "painting" the other with blue toothpaste. Paintee became Painter and swabbed the paste all over her sister in a Avatar-ian sort of way. Lovely. Amidst their wails of disapproval, I scrubbed them down and promptly kicked them out of the bathroom, telling them to go downstairs and get their shoes on.

As I continued to get ready, I heard the tell tale "thawump" of the heavy floor-vent in the living room being jostled back into position. I dashed down the stairs in time to see The Snarly-Sisters take off into the family room. Peering into the grate I saw two My Little Ponies, jammed and staring woefully up at me, silently lamenting their uncooperative role in this crime. I fished them out and resettled the grate. With purpose, I strode to find The Culprits, who were hiding in their family room lair. Each spent 6 minutes in time out. Each used that time making faces and growling back and forth on their separate couches. Each found a way to painstakingly pick at my frazzled and fraying nerves.

I decided that the cure for this bountiful Birthday Bliss (it WAS my birthday. Wasn't it?) was to get out of the house and hopefully free ourselves from the Grip of the Grumblies. Our destination was Lodi Outlet Mall. A good place that cleverly combines running outside and shopping. A magical world, really. As soon as we pulled in, Caedance began describing the soft pretzel she should be getting. I had already told her that we would not be getting soft pretzels today because we were going out to lunch instead. She moaned that it was the ONLY thing that was good and that it was her "Favorite and her Best". I informed her that we still weren't getting pretzels. And so started The Tantrum. 

It was, in the history of Dickinson Twin Tantrums, perhaps the biggest, most powerful Tantum on record. Starting off as mere sobs which, when ignored, grew into more menacing growls which, when still ignored, morphed into large screams and wails of upset. When she got out of the car, the Tantrum went from merely a vocal show into an entire performance, with flapping arms and stomping feet. Face twisting between a pout and fiery rage, she screamed and shouted about not getting a soft pretzel. I, taking a deep breath and remainig calm, informed her that she needed to collect herself or be put into Time Out. Her answer was a swat at me, accented with a growl.

"Time Out it is then", I said guiding her to the nearest walkway. I set her against the railing and walked a few feet away to stand. I could see her. She could see me. She was safe. I was watching. First she flailed about, whapping the air and kicking her anger out. Then she flopped down on the ground and kicked some more. When a lady passed by, she started to scream, "She's going to step on ME!!" After the lady passed by, she stood up and pounded at the air, stomping her foot. Next she got desperate and she began to call out to passerby to help her.

"My mommy is putting me in danger!" she screamed to a passing couple who looked at her with bemusement. "In DANGER! Help me! Help MEEE!" I stood on. Watching. Waiting. As people passed by the showstopping performance that was Caedance's tantrum, they cast glances at me that clearly said, "You poor thing! You are a good mom; nay! A GREAT mom. In the annals of history, your perseverance to uphold your decrees will be looked upon with admiration and sheer awe." Well, that's what I hope they meant, anyway. The looks could just as easily been interpreted as sneers, I guess.

After 6 very long, very loud minutes, I went over to her and spoke in a calm voice that belied my inner upset. (IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!!) Anger spent, she quieted down and, before my eyes, transformed into my Little Girl again. Humming the tune to "Ding-Dong the Witch Is Dead", we walked along and finished our day of shopping with some mild success. (Sale at Gymboree). My mother took the girls to her house for the afternoon and so the rest of the day was spent at peace.

Later that night, I sat in wonder, looking back at The Day That Had Been My Birthday. Where were the accolades? The well-wishes? The attention? Sigh. Memories of birthdays past flitted crossed my mind's keen eye. Double sigh. But even as I missed some of the traditions that marked the birthdays of my youth, I was able to appreciate the new traditions that were forming in these early years of Motherhood. It may not have been a banner birthday, but it was another notch on my experience belt. Another lesson learned. A test passed. (I didn't freak out when Cae through the fit!!!) As I drifted off into an exhausted sleep, I found myself smiling in spite of the day's stresses and imagined misfortunes. Content.

I woke up raring to go the next morning. Decided it was going to be a better day. (And decreed it my holdover birthday from the day before). Ahhhh. 32. Here I am.