Twins + singleton = losing count

The start of a new year always gets me thinking about resolutions and other nonsense.

This year, 2012, — the final year of our planet’s existence, as everyone well knows — I’m determined to make a good one. I was on autopilot last year. I’ve been on autopilot for some years now, actually. But there’s something awakening within me. I’m caring about my life and the meaning of it. I’m caring about the impact I make on the world, however small that impact may be. Lately, I feel like I’m being guided toward a new path.

Yup, I’m getting all transcendental on your asses.

For many years, I was really into yoga and meditation. I read about Buddha, meditated over crystals, wrote esoteric phrases in little black notebooks. I observed a lot. Things meant something to me. Colors were more vivid, people were more alive. I was more alive.

I may also have been taking a lot of acid or other hallucinogens at the time. But that’s really not the point.

THE POINT, my friends, is that I’ve lost myself somewhere along the way. I stopped feeling compassion, stopped feeling joy. I’ve been sucked into a cycle of self-imposed self-punishment. I’ve spent a long time believing I’m meant to suffer, to pay, to wither inside. I’m not allowed to feel good. I used to punish myself in physical ways; now, it’s emotional, mental — which can be, in ways, more powerful. To live in self-punishment in one’s own head, over and over, day in and day out.

This has translated into a great degree of emptiness, anger, agitation, frustration, sorrow, self-loathing. I don’t feel good-ness anymore. I only feel the pinpoints of rage and the longing of something, anything else to fulfill me.

Although I’ve known for a long time that I have “issues,” the revelation of me punishing myself (for whatever reason — it doesn’t matter) and the subsequent manifestation of that punishment into an overall shitty attitude is a new thought for me. It’s not that I’m a bad mom, a lousy wife, and a crappy friend; it’s that I am flogging myself inside, and I’m so angry and hurt and empty that I have nothing to give to anyone else.

Our feelings are reflected in our behaviors. When we feel good, we do good. When we feel bad, we do anger, rage, frustration, sadness.

So, what to do? I’m not sure. That’s what I’m starting to explore. What I do know is that I’m not talking about suppressing feelings or tricking myself into feeling something different. I’m not talking about not feeling bad things. But I do think there’s something underlying those emotions that, if I can learn to just observe rather than retain, I could clear up the grayness that has taken over me.

Sigh. I don’t think I’m even making sense at this point.

Just trust me when I say I’m going through some serious touched-by-an-angel shit over here and there’s going to be some positivity up in this mo fo, by golly!

Long, long post ahead. You’ve been warned.

I have a confession to make:

I don’t want to breastfeed anymore.

Okay, okay. Settle down. Put down the gun. Stop crying. Let me explain.

I had a truly magical and amazing breastfeeding experience with the twins. We weaned at 16.5 months because, for my own mental health, I needed to, not because I wanted to or was ready to. I loved nursing them. They were enthusiastic eaters (most of the time) and were easy and enjoyable to feed (most of the time).

But Amaia has been a problem feeder since day one. For the first few months, she had a constant and inexplicable loss of suction while nursing. It drove me batshit. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was, since my lactation counselor ruled out tongue-tie. She always choked on my milk, screamed and arched her back after eating, popped on and off the breast constantly, and cried all the time. We both seemed miserable.

The look on Amaia

After that rough patch was over, we had a few truly beautiful, blissful months where nursing was all I remembered it being with the twins. She nursed frequently and fairly well. I was more confident and we happily nursed anywhere and everywhere. And while it was pretty awesome, I suspected she wasn’t quite emptying my breasts. I had to move her back and forth after she would pull away to make sure she got all the hindmilk.

And then . . . Well, things started sucking again (so to speak, har har). She began with the screaming, arching, and crying after feeding again. She would start and stop feeding, or reject feeding altogether. She seemed to hate nursing. I was a total wreck.

It got worse. She would pop and and off so much during the let-down phase that it would take forever for my milk to start flowing. She started getting impatient and pushing away from my breast when the milk didn’t come, which would stress me out, which would make my let-down take even longer, which would make her cry and completely reject the feeding, which would make me cry.

And I started to completely dread nursing her.

Still, I persevered. I was NOT going to give up before a year was up. Babies are meant to breastfeed and my simple task was to provide her milk. I was thankful, though, that by this point, she was finally taking solids — a milestone which took her a good six weeks to master after the introduction of solid foods (so do the math — that means she was exclusively breastfed for 7.5 mostly miserable months. Good god.).

Although she was a difficult case, she didn’t have problems with weight gain. Until we saw the pediatrician at 10 months.

Amaia had fallen completely off her growth curve. I can’t remember what the difference was now, but it was drastic. She had gained a mere four ounces in as many months. The doctor slapped her with the label that no breastfeeding mother wants to hear:

Failure to Thrive.

Failure. To. Thrive. Me? Amaia? Us? Are you kidding?!? Failure to Thrive was for schedule feeders, Baby-Wisers, mothers who refused to breastfeed their babies because it wasn’t convenient. I had shoved a boob in this baby’s mouth at the slightest peep since she was born. If anything, my twins were scheduled! How the hell do you explain this???

I was devastated. Mortified. Shocked. Depressed. Furious. Defensive. And ultimately, I felt utterly defeated. After all I’d gone through to that point, after the intense focus on nursing her despite the ongoing issues . . . The feeling of failure was overwhelming. A mother can provide her baby with the most basic of needs: comfort, clothing, shelter, and food. And I had failed at the most essential of those.

My baby was FAILING TO THRIVE in my care.

I left the visit in tears that day and immediately called my lactation counselor. After a 10-minute interrogation, she strongly suspected that Amaia had reflux the whole time.

Reflux. Never in a million years would I have thought it because Amaia’s wasn’t a spitter-upper. She didn’t vomit and she slept well. But apparently, it was still possible to have reflux without vomiting.

I called the pediatrician and hashed it out with him. I had never discussed with him all of the problems we’d had with nursing and solid foods. I always just assumed that it was an individual quirk, an “infant thing” that Amaia would outgrow. As miserable as it was, I assumed it was all no big deal. I was an experienced mother and was taking the laid-back approach this time around.  I had nursed twins. I knew everything, dammit!

From then on, I had to completely change my approach to nursing and feeding Amaia. I nursed her sitting almost upright. Immediately, she stopped crying after feeding. She was noticeably more content with nursing  (as was I) and would even comfort nurse — something she had never done. I added back nursing sessions and made sure she emptied my breasts.

I had to start examining every last morsel of food she ate. No more Mum-Mums, Puffs, Cheerios, or plain baby foods. It was all about real coconut milk, avocados, egg yolks, full-fat cheese, cream cheese, butter, olive oil, whole-milk yogurt, protein. I had to start reading the labels on baby foods and would only buy things that were at least 80 calories per serving.

I became obsessed.

And it worked. Since mid-October, Amaia has gained a little over three pounds. Every last ounce was earned with my blood, sweat, and (many) tears. She’s back on a normal growth curve (20th percentile on the WHO charts).

Additionally, I took her to a GI specialist and had FOUR VIALS of bloodwork taken out of my tiny little baby. (The phlebotomist took one look at her and asked how much she weighed — she wasn’t sure she’d be able to even take that much blood from such a small baby. Sigh.) Her bloodwork came back totally normal, with great iron levels and nothing out of sorts. But the GI doctor has ordered a feeding evaluation, citing that she’s a poor feeder and might be having something more going on with swallowing or texture issues.

So this brings us to today. Amaia now drinks whole milk, and I estimate she gets about as much whole milk as she does breast milk — probably 8 total ounces of breast, 8 of cow’s milk. She only nurses three to four times a day now. But aside from the first nursing session of the day, it’s pretty miserable and pointless. She gets a good bit of milk in the morning, but every other time she nurses for anywhere from 10 seconds to MAYBE two minutes per breast. She can’t be getting more than an ounce total from both breasts on a longer session.

Plus, she has started this weird habit over the past few days of stretching her arms straight against my chest so that she’s pushing me away — which, in turn, pulls my boob out and strrrrrrrrretches my nipple taut.

It feels really, really awesome. Especially when her teeth scrape against my nipple. You’ll just have to trust me on that one.

All I can conclude is that she’s just not interested in nursing anymore — and frankly, neither am I.

On the one hand, I feel like a complete failure. I really, really wanted to nurse for a long time this time, at least as long as with the twins, but preferably longer. I know that I have breastfed longer than 80% of mothers in the U.S. That’s awesome, right? I have given Amaia a lifelong gift that most children don’t get.  Yadda yadda.

But that’s not the point. I don’t breastfeed to get an award or for bragging rights. There’s obviously a major emotional component to breastfeeding, but I do it because human babies are supposed to drink human breast milk. That’s not meant to offend anyone — it’s just a fact. Even the cow’s milk she drinks is not designed for her gut. And to not be successful at it, to not even want to do it anymore because of such a poor experience over the course of over a year, feels really shitty.

But some days I end up so miserable, I’m convinced that I won’t even nurse her the next morning.

At this point, I’m just going to continue to do what we’re doing while focusing on ways to keep her calorie count up while relying less and less on my milk.

And I’ll be thankful that we made it this far, even though I mourn the nursing relationship and experience that I so deeply wanted.

From the moment you were born, I fell in love with you.

And I’ve fallen in love with you over and over again every single day.

Happy first birthday, little Amaia. Ama loves you so much.

Between the twins’ birthday party last month, and the baby getting ready to turn one in just a couple of days (OMFG ONE WOT???), we are seriously broke in party mode around here.

With having the extra party now to do every year, I’m starting to learn a little about pulling off a kids’ birthday party. Now, I’m no expert. I have hosted a whopping four parties in three years. But I’m a quick study!

Now, chances are, all the stuff I’m about to share with you is blindingly obvious to everyone else. But, to me, it wasn’t. So I’m just passing along the information in case it helps someone else out.

The twins’ birthday party this year was at a local park. I was FREAKING OUT because I’m bi-polar not taking meds. I am NOT a kids’ party-planning person. I don’t do themes, I have no organizational skills, I don’t know how to decorate and I hate the outdoors. Last year, we had their party at an indoor kids’ gym where everything was done for me. The year before that was a gathering at our house (wherein I was cruelly introduced to the necessity of a theme for a child’s birthday party).

So, an outdoor party, planned entirely by me, to accommodate about 40 adults and children? Well, this was going to be interesting.

My experience so far has been that, out of your invite list, maybe 75% of people say they can attend, and only 40% of those people actually show up. So, I scaled back the food and party favors slightly.

Lesson #1: DO NOT SCALE BACK FOOD AND PARTY FAVORS SLIGHTLY.

Yes, I am shouting! At you! Because you know what happened? Everybody showed up. EVERYBODY. And some of their friends! Seriously, people? When did you actually start showing up when you say you’re going to?

We ran out of food and favors and I felt like a total dick. We seriously had like a slice of cheese and two grapes leftover. Thank god my kids don’t eat sandwiches, because we would have had negative cheese and no grapes leftover.

That brings me to:

Lesson #2: Choose your location wisely, especially if you’re lazy,

and

Lesson #3: Let location dictate theme — or lack thereof.

On the plus side, the park was built-in entertainment. The picnic tables were shaded, so I just sat there all comfortable and mom-like and I didn’t actually have to play with the children even once.

Plus, having the party at a park meant I was off the hook for theme-y decorations. I spent about $40 on tablecloths, two sizes of plates, cups, utensils, two balloon arrangements and a generic “Happy Birthday” banner (which I re-used at Amaia’s party) by buying the generic, birthday-themed supplies at BJ’s instead of the cute, expensive-as-hell theme decorations from the party supply store. In fact, I originally bought a full set of themed decorations for almost $130 at the party store, meaning I saved $90.

Speaking of budget,

Lesson #4: DIY doesn’t always mean savings.

I may have saved on decorations, but we actually spent a lot more money by doing it all ourselves. The kids’ gym party last year cost about $325 total, including our gifts to the kids, party favors, cupcakes, balloons, and food for the adults (the kids’ food was included in the gym rental).

The DIY park party cost closer to $500. You know, because we have $500 just laying around. Renting the stupid picnic tables alone cost $110 for four hours, and that didn’t include jack shit except the right to tell people to get the hell off our tables (WHICH I DID).

Now, for Amaia’s first birthday party, I invited some of the twins’ friends over for a cupcake-decorating party. As I Googled ideas for party favors and crafts, I came across the idea of giving every child an apron that they could decorate themselves and take home, along with extra cupcakes, as their favor.

I loved the idea. Not only was it a welcome relief from the bags of throw-away trinkets that you get at most parties, but it would actually end up being cheaper than the party favor bags.

I got a dozen colorful aprons on Amazon for a mere $9.50 shipped (with Amazon Prime; price of the apron will fluctuate a bit). I paid less than $5 for the cupcake supplies. Considering a party favor bag full of crap will run you in the range of $2-3 per bag, this was a big savings.

Then, I had another idea: What if I personalized every apron by stenciling each child’s name on it beforehand? Wouldn’t that be awesome?!??

Then: Am I out of my fucking mind? What business do I have with paint and stencils? I can barely dress myself, let alone create something that involves color coordination and, like, not writing like a five year old.

Lesson #5: You, too, can stencil.

Holy shit you guys, my stenciled aprons came out awesome. Check it out.

Okay, so you could totally see the pencil lines where I lined up the letters. And I smeared the paint on most of them. And a couple of them came out downright ugly and I felt really bad giving it the kid. BUT. I fucking stenciled, people. STENCILED.

The point is, it’s okay to step out of your comfort zone for your kids. Just don’t expect perfection and make no apologies for it.

For crafts, the older kids got to decorate their own cupcakes and totally fuck up all my stencil work draw on their aprons (I bought fabric markers for that — no way was I going to have a dozen three-year-old kids running around with fabric paint in the house).

I was a bit nervous about the kids getting to work with food and frosting and whatnot. But, thankfully, I was wrong!

Lesson #6: Decorating food can actually be a very do-able and not-too-messy craft for little kids who dirty everything else up.

For toppings, I put out bowls of gummy bears, colored marshmallows, rainbow sprinkles, crushed Oreos, plain M&M’s, and these seasonal gingerbread-man marshmallows. The kids had a BLAST. There really was minimal mess, and only one kid took a scoop of sprinkles and ate it directly. (Side note: I would suggest cutting the Oreos into recognizable pieces; no one used them and now I have a bag of crushed Oreos I refuse to throw out.)

The party turned out great and we had a ton of food left over, thanks to the aforementioned fact that I’m a quick study and I over-planned the food this time. Which reminds me,

Lesson #7: Pizza is cheaper than sandwiches

Shop around for the main course if you don’t make it yourself. For instance, around these parts, a deli party sandwich from the popular supermarket, Publix, will run you $19.99 per sandwich, which feeds 8. A comparable sandwich from the less-popular Sweetbay is just $11.99 (also feeds 8).

Now, a one-topping medium pizza from Domino’s, which can also be ordered ahead of time and delivered to your door? $5.55. Also feeds 8.

We basically paid almost half for the food. That’s a big deal, so to speak.

And finally, speaking of food,

Lesson #8: Make your own fruit and vegetable platters

Those fruit and vegetable platters at the supermarket are a major rip, right? And the food is half-old and the dip is nasty, anyway. I comparison shopped between the supermarket sales and the wholesale market, and made gigantic fruit and vegetable trays myself, with premium dipping sauce, for about the same price as the prepared trays — with leftovers.

I chose the fare wisely — only stuff that required minimal or no chopping. For fruit: strawberries (locally grown, even), grapes, and cantaloupe. Veggies: cherry tomatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, and skinny baby carrots.

Everyone had a great time. And you know what? There was no mess difference between two kids or 12. Our house still looked like a complete and total disaster.

Oh, and in case you were wondering . . . Amaia beat the hell out of her cupcake. She may look nothing like me, but she sure knows what to do with her dessert. Happy birthday, little baby.

Take  a look at this photo.

And this one, too.

Don’t see anything remarkable?

For most 11-month-old babies, there isn’t anything, in fact, remarkable about these photos. They show a baby reaching upward on hands and knees, and a baby standing, supported by a chair.

But for us, this is freaking amazing.

You see, since Amaia learned to sit up at about 7 months and scoot at 8 months, she has made zero progress in the motor skills department. Now, at over 11 months old, she can’t sit up on her own or get out of a seated position. She doesn’t get on hands and knees. She doesn’t take steps when you stand her up and move her body forward. She doesn’t pull up onto anything and has only in the past few weeks started putting her heels on the ground if you stand her up. She doesn’t hold onto things for balance (the shopping cart rail, for instance). It’s hard to describe, but there seems to be a disconnect between her upper and lower body, between her brain and her limbs.

There are a few other things that have us worried. She trembles violently when excited or startled. She beats and scissors her ankles together and twists her hands in wringing motions. She grimaces and clenches her right fist while extending the left.

We have grown increasingly worried over the past few months. Her crawl caused me to get very scared when I saw a video of a 9-month-old baby with cerebral palsy with the same crawl.

I’ve been bringing up my concerns to the pediatrician since Amaia was 6 months old. I remarked that things seemed to take her much longer to learn than they did for the twins. At her six-month appointment, I told him about the tremors. At the nine-month appointments (all four of them), I talked about the odd crawling pattern (using only the left big toe to push off and the right elbow to pull forward; right leg is stiff and left hand half-times along for the ride), the complete lack of motor skills development, the tremors, the scissoring. He has repeatedly stated that he doesn’t feel she’s delayed or shows any signs to be concerned about. She tracks with her eyes, transfers objects from hand to hand, has a good grip and balanced muscle tone. She verbalizes and has appropriate emotional responses. She’s alert and bright-eyed.

Still, something just hasn’t felt right. Look, I know all babies develop at their own pace. I know Amaia certainly isn’t the most worrisome case on the planet, and I’m sure some of you reading have stories to share. BUT. Amaia is MY baby and I’m worried. And it takes a lot to un-worry a worried mother.

So, because I tend to react with every weapon available, I made an appointment with a neurologist as well as with Early Steps for a developmental evaluation, both in early December. I vacillate between being terrified and convinced there’s something wrong with her, to feeling like she’s probably just a slow-poke and I need to calm down.

So, to see Amaia randomly pull up on that chair yesterday, and FINALLY get up onto hands and knees . . . at over 11 MONTHS old . . . Well, I just can’t tell you the relief I feel. It’s a step (**groan**) in the right direction.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving is my FAVORITE holiday of all. It has the right idea: food, friends, family, football, excessive drinking. It’s what Christmas was meant to be before Black Friday/Thursday/Wednesday/Last Tuesday happened.

I am endlessly thankful for the three most amazing, interesting, funny, intelligent, and adorable little babes I could have ever dreamed of. I’m thankful for my devoted, hilarious, sexy husband.

And this year, I’m thankful for a photo of my entire family actually looking at the camera and looking semi-normal.

Thanks to Maria Melee for capturing this once-in-a-lifetime moment on camera — especially because this is what our family photos tend to look like these days.

Or this….

Or this…..

Here I sit at 9:30pm. In just five minutes, it will be exactly three years since my first twin was born. Her sister followed 28 minutes later.

I am overcome with joy at these beautiful, wonderful little girls that I am privileged to call my daughters.

My girls. I hope you had a wonderful birthday. I can’t wait to celebrate many, many (many many many) more with you.

I love you THIS wide, and THIS tall, and THIS big around.

Love,

Ama

I smoked for 15 years. It’s crazy for me to even say it now, but for 15 years of my life, I was a smoker. And boy, was I good at it. I was dedicated to the practice, smoking frequently and with great pleasure. I loved smoking and everything about it — the taste, the smell, the habit, the instant friendships formed by simple virtue of being of a class of people who willingly set ablaze a paper tube of chopped up leaves and known carcinogens.

I quit in March of 2008 when I found out I was pregnant. I feel very grateful that I was forced to quit because I probably wouldn’t have otherwise. I’ve been smoke-free for over three-and-a-half years and don’t miss it at all.

When I quit, I vowed I would never be one of “those” ex-smokers who wrinkle their nose at the smell and chastise anyone who chooses to smoke.

At least, that’s what I told myself. In reality, I do wonder why people still smoke — not in a sanctimonious sort of way, but I so rarely see people smoking anymore that it really strikes me when I do see it.

That’s why I’m having a new and strange moral/parenting dilemma.

There’s a woman at the girls’ school who has twin boys, one of whom is in the girls’ class (she has her boys in separate classrooms). I never thought much of her. We were pretty much on a polite head nod and quick “hello” sort of basis.

Last week, the school did Dress-Up Day for Halloween. The teachers asked me to be the room mom for the day, so I stayed the whole time. This other mom also hung out in the class room for about an hour to take photos and watch the Halloween parade.

Anyhow, we got to talking, swapping twin pregnancy stories and such. (Actually, she did most of the talking, but anyway.) We found out we both have memberships to a local children’s garden-thing and she sort of halfway casually said we should all go together one day. Fun!

Then, on Tuesday, I happened to be behind her as we pulled out of the school parking lot after dropping the kids off. And what did I see in her rearview mirror?

Mommy lighting a cigarette!

She smokes! A mommy who smokes! Gasp!!

Thing is, I was also behind her on the way to drop off the kids one morning a couple of weeks ago and saw her smoking WITH THE KIDS IN THE CAR. But the thought seems so crazy to me that I figured I was just seeing things.

So what am I supposed to do with this? I feel like a total dick for even halfway criticizing Smoker Mom for smoking (with kids! in the car!!). And it makes me a complete jerk to kind of rather not hang out with someone who might potentially smoke in front of/around my kids, doesn’t it?

It’s just . . . shit, man. You don’t smoke around little kids. I’m sorry, but I don’t want my kids to be around smokers if I can help it. I grew up in a family of smokers and I know what it’s like. I took my first drag of a cigarette when I was SIX. I HATED that my mom and grandparents smoked. It disgusted me. Do you know what it’s like to be in the backseat of a smoker’s car? You’re constantly dodging hot ashes, flying sparks and clouds of toxic fumes.

What do you think? Am I an asshole for feeling this way? Does it make me a hypocrite? What would you do?

In just a few short weeks, my twins will be three years old. The birthday party invitations have been sent (okay, it was a Facebook invitation. Just being cheap and lazy trying to keep things green.), the venue has been reserved, the “birthday girl” shirts have been bought.

I’m admittedly having a very difficult time coming to terms with the idea of having three year olds. Amaia’s growth toward turning one isn’t helping. Every box of the girls’ old clothes I bring out makes me feel anxious and depressed. I’m trying desperately to remember how Elise and Althea were at Amaia’s age as I soak in every millisecond of Amaia’s infancy.

So much has changed in the past year with the twins. I haven’t done a blog post about their development in a long time. It’s about time, then, to catch up. Long post ahead.

Eating

This seems like a silly topic to talk about with preschoolers. They eat when they’re hungry and don’t when they aren’t . . . or when they feel rebellious or are tired or mad or busy or don’t like pasta/beef/garbanzos/honeydew/air/being alive. Sometimes, they eat like  horses. Sometimes, they eat three raisins, then jump up and down on the couch for six hours non-stop.

Come to think of it, I could benefit from this diet.

That said, Elise eats more and is a much more adventurous eater. Elise will try a bite of almost anything. Meanwhile, Althea will rarely try anything that she doesn’t recognize or that isn’t properly presented or explained to her. Elise tends to like more savory foods — pasta, casseroles, meats, starches –, while Althea tends toward more sweets, dairy and fruit. There is now a visible weight gap between the two.

Random food information: A pediatrician (not ours) recently informed me that you’re not supposed to feed hot dogs, popcorn, grapes, nuts and a variety of other common foods to children until they’re four years old due to the risk of choking. Um, woops. I get that you can’t give a nine-month-old a kielbasa covered in unshelled walnuts, but come on. FOUR???

Sleeping

As is to be expected for preschoolers, their bedtime routine takes approximately forever.

Between the periodic and inexplicable hatred of bath time; the kicking, shrieking and flailing to get into pajamas and a nighttime diaper; the minimum 18 books that we MUST read, despite the 9-second attention span; the drama-filled and violent separation of children into two bedrooms (more on that later); the subsequent two to three hours of checking on and replacing of one twin into her designated bed (I’m talking about you, Althea); the sips of water, storytelling, song-singing and final trips to the bathroom even though I just asked you if you needed to go pee-pee, that happen EVERY SINGLE EVENING, it takes anywhere from two to four hours for the twins to be bathed, dressed, put into bed and finally, actually fall asleep — not to mention fitting in the baby’s bedtime somewhere in there.

It’s as exhausting and frustrating as it is enjoyable. I love the reading, singing and telling stories part. The kicking and crying and alligator rolling, I could do without.

Beginning shortly after we converted to toddler beds back in May, we discovered that the girls could not fall asleep in the same room anymore. First, we separated them just for naps. We decided that Althea, the less defiant of the two, would sleep in our bed.

The first few weeks were really stressful. I constantly had to check on her and replace her in the bed, sometimes to the point that she wouldn’t nap at all. Then, I started putting her blankie in time-out if she got out of bed. It was a few more weeks of that before she really understood that she was expected to stay in bed for the duration of a nap.

(Why do kids need things explained 9,000 times? I don’t understand this.)

A few weeks later, we started separating them at night. They were often keeping each other up until 11:30pm, which led to cranky and over-tired kids the next day. Althea now falls asleep in our bed between 9-10pm and we transfer her to her room with Elise, usually around 10:30 or 11pm. Althea has always required slightly less sleep than Elise anyway, so this works well for us most of the time.

When they do nap, which is becoming rare these days, they still do decent three-hour stretch from 2-5pm. I’m finding that they’re super-sensitive to being overstimulated and thus not being able to sleep, much more so now than when they were younger (contrary to what I’ve read and believed). In fact, since starting preschool in September, their napping has become sporadic.

Bedtime is theoretically (and sometimes actually) from 8 or 9pm – 7 or 7:30am. Elise would happily sleep longer if Althea weren’t up first.

Milestones

Oh, I don’t even know where to start here. There’s just so much that has happened in the year from toddler-hood to preschooler-hood:

• They started going to preschool twice a week.
• They can ride tricycles.
• They had their first real haircuts this year. ::cry::
• The roll of fat in their upper thigh has disappeared. ::sob:: . . . ::sobcrywailwhinewillnotacceptdoesnotcompute::
• They can speak in complete sentences, sometimes even two or three complete sentences in a row, of five to seven words in both English and Spanish. They speak mostly French to my mother-in-law and will easily and intuitively switch languages depending on who they’re speaking with.
• Yes, I’m bragging. Suck it.
• They sing songs, recite lines and music from movies, and sense the time of day (e.g., a certain show starts after naptime).
• They can use the toilet on their own (but don’t wipe their own butts yet).
• Their imaginations are completely fantastical. They re-create characters and scenes from books and movies, play pretend with dolls and stuffed animals, and make up games to which only they seem to know the rules (and they both create and agree upon the rules without a single word).
• They enjoy school and have a good relationship with their teachers and other students.
• They can sing the ABCs and (sort of) count correctly to 20.

Personalities

This topic has become rich over the past year. Things we thought we knew about each twin has flip-flopped. I suppose that a big part of that is the general feeling of pressure to categorize each twin as “the such-and-such” one or the “this-and-that” one. In reality, even the most identical-appearing of twins are truly two separate people. Navigating this terrain with increasingly sentient little kids is new to me.

We used to think of Althea as The Bold One and Elise as The Sensitive One. But now, we’re seeing that it’s simply not that black and white. However, we are seeing that each seems to have generally taken after one parent or the other.

We agree that Elise tends to take after me. She’s bull-headed and wants to do things her way, not as she is told to do. She feels deeply and is very intuitive. She’s determined, a bit lazy, a bit detached, and has a great sense of self-pride. She’s a bit socially reserved (though that has changed some since starting school).

Althea takes more after Chris. She strives for social interaction and acceptance. She walks into a group of kids and either makes her own friends or attracts them to her. Negativity and punishment are met with extremely emotional responses. Fear of failure doesn’t keep her from trying anything. She’s a little clumsy and very creative.

As for talents and proclivities, Elise still tends to react to music, as we saw very early on. I don’t see it as something that will help me retire early a natural gift, but definitely something that is interesting to her.

Althea has shown tremendous interest in drawing and reading, without a doubt. She wants to read 24/7 and can draw her face off.

Overall, they’re doing awesome. I adore them with every iota of my being and couldn’t be a prouder mom.

Sigh. Someday, we'll get a normal picture with normal smiles. For now, this will have to do.

Throughout the years, I’ve documented my ups and downs with bipolar/depression here. (I always feel the need to temper the word “bipolar” with the word “depression” because the former generally invokes visions of a manic person staying awake for a week while they paint the corners of their closets and then cry for three days. [Or maybe that's crystal meth?] I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar II, a milder form of bipolar disorder that consists of euphoric highs cycled with very deep, dark lows.) Unfortunately, it’s a constant part of my life. I don’t deal with it well. It’s uncomfortable. And perhaps the worst part is that I can feel it coming on.

When I’m in my euphoria, life is AWESOME. I’m happy, bubbly, expressive, fun, maybe a little wild (okay, maybe pretty wild. I try to blur out most of my teens years and 20′s because some of the stuff I did makes me cringe.). I convince myself that everything is okay and that my depressive bouts must be a distant memory — that this time, things will be different.

It never is. It never, ever is.

Since having Amaia, I’ve been mostly stable. Even as recent as a few weeks ago, I felt pretty great. Life was fulfilling and I had a positive and generally even-tempered outlook on things. The regular exercise must be helping, I told myself. Having a break while the girls are in school is really doing wonders, I thought.

But I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling that the next depressive low was just around the corner. Like I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Of course, the shoe dropped. It’s dropping now. I’m not doing well. Again. It’s not as bad as it was when it hit after the twins, but it’s not good. Every day, every hour, feels harder than the last. I’m holding onto my sanity by ever-thinning threads. I feel like some days are getting too much for me to handle. I need more help than I can possibly bring myself to ask for — because of course, asking for help makes me a fucking HORRIBLE mother, which intensifies the feelings of worthlessness, failure, guilt, and anxiety.

Interestingly, I noticed that the downward turn coincides with the return of my period — just as it did last time when my period came back after the twins. The hormones probably have a big impact and it makes me wonder how things will look after I finish nursing.

And speaking of nursing, the onset of a depressive episode reminds me of how long this rollercoaster has been going on — the pregnant-nursing-weaning-woops-pregnant-again-nursing-again-need-to-wean-soon rollercoaster, that is. I had only weaned the twins because I needed to get back on my medication (Lamictal), only to immediately get pregnant with Amaia as soon as I weaned.

I do NOT want to stop breastfeeding because of this FUCKING disorder. BUT. I can’t go on like this. I’m not a good mom like this. I am NOT a good mom like this.

I know there’s more to me than what I feel now. I know that I can love and feel good again. I know because I’ve felt it.

So I will eventually wean Amaia because I love her that much. I love all my kids that much.

The baby is now 9.5 months old and I’m getting close to being able to do that. I just need to hang in there for a few more months.