My husband tapped my shoulder. I removed my earplugs (to combat his snoring and sleep talk, not screaming babies) and asked if someone was crying. He answered yes and asked the time. I squinted and reached for my cell phone. 4:40 a.m. Not bad considering the boys went to bed around 6:30 p.m. but not good because it's too early yet too late. Parents across America say, "Nothing good happens after midnight." Well, they were right.
Some nights are good, some nights have a few feedings, what I call growth spurts because I need a reason. It was his turn to go first - my husband and I switch nights - and to my disappointment both babies were awake. So, there was a backup at the changing table.
My baby had a poop-free so I changed him and got a bottle ready as he screamed like he was starving. Obviously I didn't get the memo concerning the end of the world.
I start feeding him on his couch (we have two couches in the living room, one with a cover and one without. I feed this baby on the one with a cover because he's a spitter. Sometimes he spits up a little, sometimes it's Niagara Falls). I don't remember much because it's 4:40 a.m. I feed him, he fusses but eats. Then he's tired but excited to see me. I try to get him to sleep but this doesn't work so I put him in "the island."
I learned you can read baby information online, especially about sleep, eating and being happy because isn't that what it's all about? However, you need to only know this: get to know your baby.
My oldest (by one minute) is a good baby (look, I'm already comparing them!). When he's tired, you can put him down and he will nap. Upon waking, he typically entertains himself. When he fusses, it's not because he's lonely or some other confusing reason, it's because he needs a new diaper, is hungry or has gas.
As for my youngest, all bets are off. We use the wimpy cry-it-out method on "the island" - which is a pack-n-play housed in the adjoining room to the play-room-but-actually-our-living-room. This is where he naps because it typically takes a couple rounds with wimpy cry-it-out (3 minutes, 5 minutes, 7 minutes, 10 minutes). He doesn't want to miss a thing.
So, around 5:15 a.m. I banished him to "the island" and waited a couple minutes before he passed out. Then my husband and I took them upstairs to their bedroom and I attempted to go back to sleep.
Let's do some crappy math because mommy ain't no scholar - it's around 5:30-5:45 a.m. The boys ate around 5 a.m. So, I'm possibly looking at two hours of sleep before feed time. That sounds fabulous, right?
I get in bed and think sleepy thoughts. I think how I'm wasting time, I should be sleeping. I listen for screams, chirps, anything. They're silent. They could cry any minute but I should take advantage of this cry-free time. It's not long before I wake from a dream (no, I don't dream about desserts, exotic sex-capades ... usually I'm pregnant with triplets or I forgot to go to class all semester). I wake up and it's 7:18 a.m. Not bad. So why am I still tired?
I hear a noise. Is it a cry or baby babble? Will he wake his brother? Before I make up my mind, I hear a cry. I throw on yoga pants and a sweatshirt, grab a baby and head downstairs. We "hang out" for a while, as much as you can hang with a four-month-old, while I make breakfast. I find time to make it but never to eat it until it's been sitting out for 30 minutes or longer. Cold eggs, soggy cereal, barf.
By the time I finish cooking, my other baby is awake and they're both hungry. Let the fun begin ... feed one, feed the other. It goes as well as can be expected except for the Zantac. My babies have acid reflux, especially Sir Spits A Lot, so they do 1 ml of Zantac three times a day via a syringe. Whoever makes it, why does it taste like creme de menthe? Nobody buys it at the liquor store so why would a baby want it? They hate it, especially my first born who, after his first drop, tightens his lips and looks at me as if to say, "Why Mommy, why are you hurting me?"
After the circus ends with both babies sitting in bouncy chairs to digest - they're supposed to sit up for 30 minutes after eating - I scurry to the kitchen for more coffee. Upon my return the "good" baby is zonked out so I carry him to his crib. He sleeps for an hour-and-a-half but the other child isn't as easy to put down.
Off to "the island" we go for fuss, fuss, fuss. Finally he gives up - this used to not be as sad, but now they cry real tears ... I must stay strong! He sleeps for a half an hour and is awoken by poopie! I change his diaper and try to make him nap. After a period of the saddest tears known to man, he sleeps for another half an hour.
Just in time for his brother to wake up pissed. He eats a little but decides to fuss for all he's worth. Both boys are teething so there's not much sense to the chaos ... as if there ever was.
He settles, I think, and his brother awakens. I attempt to feed him as the "other baby" moans, groans and writhes in agony while the saddest song comes on the radio. It's a song that makes me cry but also feel like a loser because it's from the "Twilight" soundtrack. So, I'm crying over the lyrics and also the fact I'm an almost 30-year-old Twihard.
I turn the radio off.
I think my one son is done eating so I wipe my tears and put him in his chair right before he unleashes a massive spit-up, a flood big enough for Noah.
Great. I wipe it up and tend to his still-fussy brother who is teething ... I think. I grab a pacifier and whisk away the baby who usually doesn't get sent to "the island" but will go because, frankly, whatever. After annoyance he falls asleep.
So, it's me and Sir Spits A Lot who doesn't want to sit in his chair but if I lay him down on their play blanket (which is an old blanket) will spit up all over and then, later on, I will step in it. Decisions, decisions. I notice he's fussy, which probably means he's tired but Bad Mommy put his brother in his napping spot - "the island" - so what to do? Risk taking him to his crib? Maybe I should start making him nap there because that's added trips on the stairs which my fat ass needs. I know the saying - it took nine months to put it on so it should take nine months to take it off. Screw that, especially since my model thin sister told me it took her two years to take off her baby weight. Whatever. I can't wear a sign that says "I Was Pregnant Recently So My Weight Is OK" so now I'm an overweight almost 30 year old woman. Sounds awful because it is!
I'm over this but it's only 12:11 p.m. Too early to drink, too late to run.
I'm also on my period, which I haven't (obviously) had for months. I forgot how much this sucks especially since tampons have been uncomfortable since my C-Section so I am using maxipads like in seventh grade. Which reminds me I cried because of a "Twilight" song. I'm an almost 30-year-old Twihard wearing maxipads. Are you sure it's too early to drink?
My husband text messages me from work to ask if "Everything is OK?" I ask him to define OK. Sometimes I'm jealous my husband gets to leave jail ... I mean home ... to communicate with adults while wearing nice clothing and eating in peace. Then I remember work isn't fun, although he once remarked if he was a stay-at-home mom of twins like me he would "lose his mind," this conclusion coming after being with the boys alone for three hours.
I decided to take my son, who usually is sent to "the island" but can't be because the space is occupado, upstairs to his crib. I turn on the monitor and watch him wiggle. Where's Samuel L. Jackson when you need him? Go the F- to sleep!
He'll be silent for about 30 seconds and I'll think, "Oh yes, finally he ... " and then he'll make a noise. My other son, the one on "the island" (confused yet?), is making noises, not happy, chirping noises, more like noises his father makes when he sleeps.
I've had an episode of "Criminal Minds" paused for two-and-a-half hours and I'm hungry. Oh yeah, it's 12:24 p.m. While all is quiet on the western front I heat chicken I grilled yesterday (yes, women can grill!)
My sister calls me. I don't answer. She texts me about how I should call when they're napping (they're supposed to nap at the same time?). I'm sure she means well but mothers of singletons don't understand what twin moms go through just as I don't understand what triplet moms goes through and so on. Hit the ignore button and move on my friends.
Anyway, I creep past "the island" and eye a sleeping-with-eyes-cracked-open child and toast bread for a sandwich. My other son in his crib chirps. Did I put him down for a nap too early? Is he not tired? If I get him will I ruin the sleep training and this-is-where-you-nap nonsense I've worked on for weeks?
I check the monitor. He's looking into the camera, as if to telepathically say I'm a horrible person and he's lonely.Wait, what is that noise? The neighbor boy across the street is playing "music." Instead of the loser wearing maxipads and listening to "Twilight" I'm that mean old retiree widow who spies on her neighbors between vinyl blinds. The bass is sporadically shaking my house. He doesn't understand he's not living on the mean streets of Compton but in a rural Maryland neighborhood. Don't kids learn anything in public schools? He doesn't know where he lives!
Before I can delve into a panicked rundown of the state of public schools in the area, my cribbed son chirps. I check the monitor. He looks like Randy from "A Christmas Story" when he falls in the snow.
I ascend up the stairs on my new workout regime to shove a pacifier in his mouth because I'm Bad Mommy. I descend the steps and sniff sniff, what's that smell? Oh yes, I was making a sandwich. Nothing like cold chicken on stale bread. I check the monitor and fist pump. I think he's asleep! I mark it down on the chart because, as most twin moms know, you must keep a daily chart covering sleep, naps, food, diapers and the comments section. I've gone through a few but found one I like - all found by searching online.
OK, time to make a sandwich, as well as continue doing laundry and dishes. Is there an Evil Laundry Elf who secretly puts more and more clothing in the basket? If so, let me know where he lives because I'd like to have a word with him.
I walk into the kitchen and notice a coffee cup with creamer inside and toast sitting in the toaster because that's how far I'd gotten. I creep around like a burglar while trying not to wake the baby in "the island."
I eat a carrot and get heartburn. God punishing me for eating healthy. I push play on "Criminal Minds." Remember? I tried to watch an episode three hours ago. I watch on mute with subtitles so no one is awakened. I also watch the UPS man drive past, hoping for a mystery package to brighten my day. Maybe my husband is sending me a just-because gift ... maybe not.
Before I finish my lunch or the episode the baby on "the island" wakes. Here comes the reason I sleep train and feed every three hours -- the giggles, smiles, happy-go-lucky baby time because when they are rested, they are happy ... for about an hour or so at a time (or less) because they nap about every two hours during the day.
After getting lovies (snuggling, kissing, hugging, tickling and playing) I attempt to finish my sandwich and my show because he needs to eat in 18 minutes and his brother will likely be awake soon.
My baby gets the hiccups. I shove gobble my lunch and make a bottle. Well, I make two bottles because if I don't make his brother a bottle, he will wake up within five minutes wanting food, but if I make a bottle he will sleep longer. It's more likely since I have terrible luck he will wake early but at least a bottle is ready.
So, my baby is fussing. Hopefully he's hungry. No sooner than I stick the bottle in his mouth do I hear a cry. I check the monitor. Luckily he finds his hand interesting, which buys me enough time to feed his brother. I press play on "Criminal Minds" and notice it features Wil Wheaton, who plays a panty-obsessed serial killer. Wesley Crusher, Gordie Lachance, panty raider. Is it awkward for his parents, playing a man with mommy-daddy issues? It would be lovely for the boys to act but what if they're in a commercial for lube or something crude. Then again Brian Cranston was in an '80s Preparation H commercial and went on to be Walter White so ... my thoughts are interrupted by the slurp slurp slurp of the bottom of a bottle. Baby A finished eating. Time to burp, put him his chair (which he hates) and get his brother.
Baby B is happy, which makes me wonder if he could nap in his crib instead of "the island." Before this thought has time to expand he head butts my shoulder and cries. Not typical crying. He's always snorted, ever since he was teeny tiny, so he snorts and cries, which is sad and cute. Poor snuffleupagus. His brother looks, laughs, farts and lets out some baby talk while trying to get out of the bouncy chair. He hasn't pooped today so he works on that, his daily task. He typically does this while I eat breakfast. There's nothing like a red-faced, grunty baby while you're trying to eat.
Time to feed Baby B and possibly watch another "Criminal Minds" because too much of this show can put you in a dark place. Didn't I just feed him? Let's hope he doesn't spew like the last time, Senor Spitter. Speaking of spit, I notice his shirt is a wreck so I get a new one. I stand up and they both look at me. It freaks me out because I'm in charge. Luckily Baby B squashes that thought by letting out a bloodcurdling scream, which causes Baby A cries, as if trying to say, "Hey, remember me? This chair still sucks."
I change his shirt, take a sip of cold coffee and march on. Both babies fuss so I sing different renditions of "ABC" - dramatic, goth, slowed down, diva. It works until I must find a pacifier for Baby A because he yawned and is fussy. After searching for minutes I find I was sitting on one, which makes me wonder if my butt is so big I can't notice when I'm sitting on a huge piece of plastic. Perhaps I am a princess a la "The Princess And The Pea." I shove another pacifier in another baby's mouth as Baby B spits up all over his new, clean shirt, his pants, the floor and me. I curse, he laughs, and I put him in his bouncy chair before cleaning up the mess.
I notice I missed this episode of "Criminal Minds," so I hit pause. Then I notice Baby A is asleep, so I take him out of his chair and put him on "the island." He smiles which makes me wonder if I am attempting to make him nap too early but then I remember he fell asleep in his chair so I leave him just in time for his brother to break out in fuss.
I think he's hungry but while feeding him I notice he scratched his face with his long talons I hate to clip. I creep in the room housing "the island" so I can get Neosporin. My lack of sleuth is irrelevant because Baby A is awake which, again, makes me wonder if he needs this nap. Baby B cries reminding me he's scratched, possibly hungry and lonely.
I take off my sweatshirt because it's suddenly hot. I dab on Neosporin and attempt to feed him. Surely he's hungry since he spit up most of what he ate today but he could be teething which affects his appetite. Is he teething? Who knows.
It's 2 p.m. and you shouldn't drink caffeine past 2 because it affects your sleep so I chug stale, cold coffee. I take Baby B out of his bouncy chair to try to feed him because who cares if he spits up on my yoga pants and Walmart camisole that was once sexy, in a former life when my once lactating breasts (I breastfed for four weeks) didn't hang down like well, like, I don't know because my brain hurts.
I try the "ABC" song and he wants nothing to do with it so like any Bad Mommy I sing the first song that comes to mind - "John the Fisherman" by Primus. He laughs, I laugh and remember he's my baby and I love him so we share a moment - giggling, cooing, baby talking back and forth and having fun.
Wow, it's pretty easy with one baby. Well, not easy but definitely not like having two. I think of the mothers of singletons who tell me to "sleep when they sleep," to "pop them in the car" and get out of the house if need be, and other one-baby nonsense. Screw you.
I tiptoe in to make sure Baby A is sleeping and not ... well ... dead. He's fine. Baby B fusses and wants attention. I try to get him to finish eating and it's going well until I realize I have to pee, bad.
Then I'm back at it, feeding with one hand and checking email with another. A newsletter from Walgreens on how to combat Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) ... I'll show you something sad, my ass in a pair of elastic-waist jeans.
I wonder if I'm hungry, thirsty or exhausted. Then I remember over the weekend I ate chicken nachos, two burgers, onion rings, sour cream and onion chips, a fish taco, fudge, chocolate and beer, beer, beer ... not in that order and not in one day (thankfully) ... and decide I'm thirsty for some, in the words of Bobby Boucher, "high quality H20."
I put the empty bottles in the sink, glance at the dishwasher filled with clean dishes yearning to be put away, get some aqua and lay on the floor for some q.t. with Baby B.
I watch as the mail lady's automobile rumbles down the road and remember I have no way to get the mail because I have two babies and it's 20 degrees outside. I go back to q.t with Baby B until he starts fussing and I notice he's almost been awake for two hours which means he's tired, as hard as that is to believe.
First attempt at nap time. Up the stairs we go. I start to wonder how all of this could happen in less than 24 hours and think of Jack Bauer and "24." Maybe I should start yelling, asking my children "Where's the bomb?!"
Baby B is crying. I look at the clock and plan on giving him three minutes before going to settle him. After two minutes he stops crying so I check the monitor ... just in time for Baby A to start crying from "the island." Baby A stops crying and Baby B starts but it's weak, like he's giving in to the inevitable. He stops and is quiet for two minutes and then bam, he wails like he's been slapped in the face. Then he stops. Then Baby A stops.
Then there's silence. I heave my butt off the floor because, for some reason, I always end up sitting on the floor, and check on Baby A because it's 3:23 p.m. and he will need to eat again soon. I can hear Cousin Eddie asking, "Are you serious Clark?" Yes, Eddie, I'm serious.
I notice my second episode of "Criminal Minds" is paused and rewind it to the part I remember seeing about three hours ago. This better be a good one because it's taken me a while to watch.
Baby A went back to sleep but Baby B is awake. I get up and notice my calves hurt from dead lifting 16-pound babies all the ding dong day.
I glance in the mirror and grimace. No shower, no toothbrush, no makeup, big problem. Hopefully babies don't judge. Baby B and I dive in for q.t. I should make a bottle for Baby A who will likely wake up soon but I don't. Alls fun and games until your baby spews a mountain of half digested formula in front of your face. Gross. Luckily he's a happy spitter.
I turn on tunes and we have a baby dance party. Is it Raffi or "Wheels on the Bus?" No, it's New Order because I'm Bad Mommy. I make bottles and notice we are running out of clean bottles (I have seven useable nipples and more bottles than that because since we use rice cereal/oatmeal to combat reflux and need large size nipples {which makes my husband giggle} so the food can come out). I empty the dishwasher, finally, which startles Baby A and might be good because he's been napping a lot. I know sleep begets sleep but I want him to sleep at night and worry if he sleeps too much during the day he won't sleep at night.
Baby B is fussy so I make bottles and load the dishwasher. Sometimes I look at the clean dishes and sigh because they're just going to get dirty again. There's always a load of dishes and a load of laundry to do -- maybe Hell will be an endless load of laundry and dishes. Oh wait, that's my life and everyone knows Hell is an endless line at the DMV where they call your number but inform you that you've been in the wrong line.
Baby A is crying. Time to rejoin society from "the island." I decree you no longer banished. I position my babies far enough away so they can see each other but not slap each other in the face and make bottles in the kitchen.
Baby B is screaming even though he's not due to eat for another hour which means he's possibly hungry because he shouldn't be tired or he's being a pain because Bad Mommy has been going at this since 7:18 a.m. and is losing patience. I turn up the music so maybe he'll stop crying (or to drown out his cries). I contemplate hiding out in the bathroom until my husband comes home but remember he won't be home for another two hours, so it's on to more Zantac, oatmeal and bottles.
Zantac time is darkly funny because I know it's coming but they don't. Bad Mommy. Baby B won't stop crying, like sucking in the air from the room to wail crying, so I decide it's feeding time for both boys. I turn up the tunes and dive in. As Baby A looks ahead as if to say, "What's his deal," Baby B screams. I write freakout in capital letters on his chart as if he cares.
Baby B doesn't want milk or oatmeal. Baby A does so what to do? This is when my mantra comes in: I am one person, I am doing my best. I break down and cry anyway because this is the worst part of the day for them to meltdown. I am at my weakest.
Baby B had colic but I thought he'd gotten over the worst of it a month or so ago ... guess not. Nothing stops his red-faced screams and the tears. He doesn't want to be held, to eat, to be in a chair or on the floor so I put him in "the island" and let him sit there for a few minutes because I can't do anything for him. My body heaves with sobs while I determine I'm the worst mother ever, how my sons will be harmed by me not being able to care for them. For weeks I have held it together, trying to be Mommy Dearest and it finally hits me. I'm not a good mother, I'm not good enough.
This is what it was like months ago because handling two mostly happy twin babies is hard enough, but handling two who are constantly fussy ... well it's damn near impossible. Tie in an extreme hormone drop and it's bad news bears but I've come a long way ... and so have they.
I text my husband to hurry home. After a while Baby B stops freaking out so I feed him while Baby A starts up. Then I finish with him and feed Baby B. Now both are freaking out because it's the witching hour.
My husband returns home and, of course, the boys are mostly fine. They sit in their chairs, I lay on the floor and turn on "The Omen." How ironic it's on TV right now and just started ... what a coincidence.
Tick tock it's about time for baths. Every night at 6 p.m. we bathe them separately, feed them and put them to bed. I take Baby A because he's pooped (the smell gives him away) and my husband is not a fan of poopie. Too bad Baby B also poops. Splish splash we take a bath, give them more Zantac and Tylenol, top them off with milk and wait until they fall asleep. We head upstairs with the boys, turn on the sound machine and humidifier and put them down.
Another day in the books. I don't know whether to be happy or discouraged because tomorrow is another day. I make dinner, eat and nurse my sorrows in a vodka tonic. Is my glass half full or half empty?
I retire upstairs to wash my face, brush my teeth and decide to peek in on the boys. Through the humidifier fog I spy two angels, one asleep on his belly with his booty in the air and one asleep on his back with arms spread wide. I remember how much I love these two creatures I helped create and that today is just one day. I had a bad day and so did my sons. Why should I expect them to be well behaved everyday when no human is? Not everyday is bad and even within today there were wonderful moments. There were giggles, smiles, laughs, coos and lots of love. I can do this, not only because I have to do this but because I want to for me and my babies.
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