Category — Attempts at Parenting

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.

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.

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?

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.

Leave it to us to accidentally potty train our kids.

A few weeks ago after taking the girls swimming, Chris discovered that if we left them pants-less, they would quite happily go to the potty all by themselves. We figured it was a fluke until it happened several times in a row. I decided that perhaps we could sorta kinda halfheartedly try to maybe potty train them on weekends when Chris was around to help.

But then, Althea started asking to go potty. She would actually stop herself from peeing in her diaper and go running to the bathroom. And then Elise didn’t want to poop in her pants. And then they started wearing panties at home. And then I took them on some errands wearing panties (them, not me. I just went ahead and accidentally tinkled in my drawers when I coughed, as usual.).

For a playdate the other day, I put them both in Pull-Ups. Since I hadn’t taken them out for more than 30 minutes without diapers, I fully expected them to just do their business in the Pull-Ups as they would in a diaper. But during lunch at McDonald’s, Althea started squirming in her chair.

“Pee-pee, little bit. Use bathroom. Pee-pee. Use bathroom.” **translated from original toddler Spanish using Rosetta Stone**

“Uh. You have to use the bathroom?” I asked incredulously.

“Bitch, did you not just hear me? I’m pissing myself and would like to use the restroom. Christ.” **she didn’t really say that**

Crap. I hadn’t planned on this shit actually working.

Luckily, our friend had a foldable potty seat — which Althea used to pee twice and Elise used to pee AND poop. Yes, my two-and-a-half year old daughter crapped in a McDonald’s public restroom. Not even I would do that, and I have absolutely no germ phobia.

So does this qualify as being on the road to the twins being potty trained? I don’t understand how this happened, especially considering that, in response to our horribly failed attempt at potty training just a few months ago, Elise left for me this as a gift of thanks:

Yes, that is human excrement on the carpet. (Actually, I’ve been dying for a good excuse to share that with you guys. You’re welcome.)

So now what do I do? I have no idea how I’m going to pull this off in public on a daily basis, what with there being two potty-training toddlers and having the baby and all. And we still have a long way to go, of course. At home, the twins still come running bare-bottomed and dripping urine  out of the bathroom screaming “I DID IT!!! I DID IT!!!”

But there’s no way we’re going back now. Do you have any idea how much we’re saving on diapers???

At Grateful Dead concerts, there used to be this place called the Hurl Hut. It was a tent where people who had taken too many drugs would go to get medical attention. Folks who had dropped one-too-many hits of acid, OD’d on PCP, or who just plain got too high and didn’t feel well would cry, spit, shit and puke on medical personnel.

My house has been a lot like a Hurl Hut for the past seven days, only with a lot less tokin’ and trippin’ and a whole lot more puking and shitting.

Last Tuesday morning at 3 a.m., Althea woke up crying hysterically. She had upchucked the contents of her stomach all over her bed and the floor. (Unfortunately for our white carpet, the contents of her stomach included a bunch of tomatoes and pizza with red sauce.)

We’d had a similarly random puking incident in the middle of the night with her before. She had thrown up in her sleep and screamed for help. I was picking through half-digested chicken nuggets and bile and trying to remember when I’d fed her white beans when I realized what had happened: She’d eaten dirty, dried beans out of a toy bucket at a playgroup. Yuck. So this time, I figured she had again eaten some undigestible bit of something-or-other and would be fine by morning.

And she was fine. For a while. Until she had a bit of orange juice for breakfast.

I was home alone with all the kids and excused myself to go to the bathroom. The door was open, of course, as there is no such thing as visiting the restroom alone when you have toddlers. Althea wandered in and proclaimed that her stomach was full.

Hm. That seemed odd. “Your belly is full? But you haven’t eaten yet.”

“Full. Stomach.”

“Okay, well hold on, let me . . .”

And, as I sat there trying to finish going to the bathroom, Althea hurled foamy, orange juice-y, toxic-smelling vomit all over my bare feet.

There are moments when, as a parent, you realize you are truly in it. Taking a dump while a toddler pukes on your feet is definitely one of them.

For the next five days, she laid on the couch in a state of semi-delusional consciousness, her mania exacerbated by mild dehydration and a complete lack of nutrition. She puked on the couch. She shit on the couch. She puked and shit on me. She was evacuating out of both ends at an alarming rate.

During this time, I felt truly grateful for television. We explored the depths of streaming Netflix and discovered a fantastic stop-motion series called “Shaun the Sheep.” All 13 streaming episodes of it, over and over and over again, in the maniacally repetitive manner that only two-and-a-half year old kids can tolerate.

Just as Althea started to get better, Elise began running a fever. And on Monday, her stomach succumbed to whatever evil had invaded her sister’s intestines. Yesterday alone, she puked on me three times. The washing machine has been churning non-stop.

Now, Althea’s favorite game is “Vomit.” The game is simple: Make your toys vomit into various plastic containers. Fun for the whole family, really.

For Mother’s Day, most mothers do something cute and fun with their kids and families.

I, on the other hand, requested to be left the hell alone.

Does that make me a bad mom? I don’t think it does. I’m freaking exhausted, people.

My darling husband let me lock myself in our bedroom yesterday, interrupted only to nurse the baby. Know what I did? I watched episode after episode of “Kitchen Nightmares” until my eyes burned. That’s it. I didn’t respond to emails. I didn’t look at Facebook. I didn’t cook, clean, bathe, or put on makeup. Honestly, I didn’t even think. It was the most mindless, purposeless, vacuous day I think I’ve ever had.

It was AWESOME.

I also got some wrinkle cream, a couple of beautiful cards, and a gift card. To top it all off, I hit my pre-Amaia weight this morning.

Not a bad Mother’s Day. Fuckin’ A.

How was your Mother’s Day? Hope it was a happy one.

We have officially — and reluctantly — made the transition to Big Girl Beds.

It’s been a long time coming, really. Both Elise and Althea climbed out of their cribs a couple of months back. Althea only did it once. When she saw how much trouble it caused, she lost interest.

Elise, on the other hand, was a different animal. It started with the occasional escape. We’d find her wandering around their bedroom in the morning, sometimes diaperless, passing Althea miscellaneous bedroom contraband — books, plastic dolls, shoes from the closet. And, since Althea could now enjoy the contents of the room without ever leaving the crib, she had no reason to escape again.

But Elise was just getting started.

The occasional outing turned into a daily escape. Elise wouldn’t nap and would often keep Althea awake. I turned Elise’s crib around so that the short side was against the wall. This held her captive for a couple of weeks.

How stupid I was, though, to underestimate this child’s cunning.

After a blissful return to regular naps and contained toddlers, Elise figured out how to hitch her leg over the edge of the crib once again. The antics quickly escalated. It got to where I would lay the girls down for their nap, close the door, count to 10, open the door and Elise would already be out of the crib.

Upon my entry, Elise would scamper to the corner and cover her eyes in terror.

After all, if she can’t see me, I can’t see her.

In my Big Angry Mommy Voice, I would huff, “ELISE. What are you doing? I have told you a thousand times to stay in your crib. It’s nap time!”

“Yes,” she would reply sweetly. And in her crib she would lay.

Until I closed the door and counted to 10. Over and over and over again.

(This all took place in Spanish, so it was way more dramatic and telenovela-like than it reads here.)

Then, one day, Elise climbed out of her crib during nap time and hurt herself. At the siren-like sound of her wailing, Chris and I rushed into their bedroom to find Elise pretzeled painfully between the crib and the wall.

That was it. We made the yet another major parental decision with absolutely no forethought or planning: We decided to convert the cribs to toddler beds right then and there. Chris grabbed his screwdriver and got to work.

“Jesus Christ, I’m going to break my goddamned back doing this,” cursed Chris.

“Jesus Christ,” repeated Althea. “Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.”

***

For the next week and a half, I proceeded to LOSE MY FUCKING MIND. The girls would NOT nap. They decided, after two-and-a-half years, that the changing table was a ladder. The drawers of clothes and shoes were party confetti. The door knob suddenly had a purpose and they were willing and able to use it. And escape. And wander around the damned house whenever they pleased.

We cleared every single thing out of their room. I got child-proof closet door hooks and an extra-tall gate to barricade them in their room. To make up for lost naps, Chris and I moved their bed time up from 8:30 to 7 p.m.

Fighting against the purple circles under their eyes and heavy pink eyelids, the girls would pass out within seconds. The following day, they would be whining, tantruming, defiant, miserable, exhausted heaps of tortured toddlerhood.

The whole experience took a major toll on my Mommy fortitude. I very quickly went from Generally Okay Mommy to Ready To Sell The Kids On eBay Mommy.

Turns out, eBay doesn’t work that way.

***

What finally worked was separating the girls for their naps. I put Althea in our bed and leave Elise alone in their bedroom. I’ve been doing this for a week and a half, and they’ve both gotten used to the new sleeping arrangements. Elise generally falls asleep pretty quickly, while Althea likes to have a few books to zone out with before she crashes a little while later.

Bedtime generally isn’t a problem, though we do occasionally find Elise sleeping on the ground.

This has been a learning experience, to put it gently — and I’m referring to us as parents, not the kids. And it’s making me feel like a mom to little girls instead of twin babies.

After this weekend, I have three words for you:

Fuck potty training.

Fuck potty training and the horse it rode in on.

Fuck M&Ms. Fuck cookies. Fuck juice. Fuck potty training books, guides and advice. Fuck panties and training pants and pee-pee and poo-poo.

Fuck it all.

Nothing could have prepared Chris and me for what we experienced with our first attempts at potty training Althea and Elise.

We started out with the methods outlined in the book “Toilet Training in Less Than a Day.” (Oh yeah, fuck those guys, too.) We had the girls teach their little dollies how to “pee-pee” on the potty. They learned how to take the water-filled pot to the toilet, dump its contents, flush the toilet and take the pot back to the potty. Things were looking promising.

Interesting to note from the outset was that Althea, contrary to what I expected, was far more cooperative and interested than Elise was.

We put the girls in little character panties (Nemo! Toy Story! Snow White!) and started giving them whatever they wanted to drink. Every few minutes, we’d start in:

“Are your panties dry? Touch your panties. Are they dry? Good! Ama has dry panties. Daddy does too. Big girls have dry panties. Big girls do pee-pee in the potty, not their panties. Are your panties still dry? Check! Check if your panties are dry. Oh good, they’re dry! Have an M&M because you have dry –”

And that’s where things started to fall apart. Eight minutes into training, and things were already proving to be way more difficult than what the book led us to believe.

See, we really don’t give the girls junk food. Not that I’m adamantly against it, but I don’t want to start bad habits early on. Besides, it’s hard enough to get them to eat any food with any semblance of nutritional value as it is. I certainly don’t need to introduce them to Nabisco’s extended family.

So, at their first taste of the candy-coated chocolate treats at 9:08 on a Saturday morning, you’d better believe we ran into some issues. For Elise and Althea, nothing existed beyond the bite-sized cookies and little chocolates we were using to encourage their potty training. Chris and I stuck to our guns and emphasized that the treats were only for dry panties, but for some strange reason, our two-year-old twins wouldn’t stop asking for them . . .

Still, over the shrill cries of “CHOCOLAAAAAATE?!???? COOOOOKIIIEEEEEE??!????”, Chris and I persevered. We continued to ask about the state of panty dryness. We put them on the pot every 15 minutes. We doled out cookies, candies and juice when the panties were dry. We read new books on the toilet. We talked over and over about “Ama and Daddy go pee-pee and poo-poo on the potty. Grandpa and Grandma go pee-pee on the potty. Do you go pee-pee on the potty? You can learn how just like your friends do. Pee-pee goes in the potty. Does pee-pee go in the panties? No! Pee-pee goes in the potty! Very good! Look, your panties are dry! Only girls with dry panties get chocolate. Have an M&M!”

Within two-and-a-half hours, Elise and Althea had completely tuned us out.

Chris and I called a meeting to re-evaluate.

“I think they’re on to us,” I whispered.

“Definitely. Screw the treats. Not working. Let’s back off a little bit on the panty questions and turn on a movie,” he suggested.

So we put them in front of something Pixar-y and animated while they sat on their pots. Zoned out, Althea peed on the potty.

Mayhem erupted.

‘WOOOHOOO ALTHEA!!! YOU PEE-PEED ON YOUR POTTY!!! YOU’RE SUCH A GOOD GIRL!!! PEE-PEE GOES IN THE POTTY!!! YOU DID PEE-PEE IN THE POTTY LIKE AMA AND DADDY!!! YAAAAAYYYYYY!” we screamed as we jumped up and down with glee.

Oh, you bet she was happy. We were happy, she was happy, everyone was happy. She even took it over to the toilet, dumped the pee into the commode, and carried the plastic pot back to her own potty. Not too long afterward, Elise actually pooped in her potty, carried the pot to the toilet, dumped it, and replaced it on her potty.

YESSSSSS!!!

But these triumphs were overshadowed by the rest of the horror. The horror of potty training. The girls tantrumed, defied, ignored, and peed through it all.

I consulted the book. According to its authors, when faced with these sorts of situations, we were supposed to remain positive and “teach them to obey.”

That’s a quote.

And the first part of our day wasn’t even over. Naptime was a serious problem. Elise and Althea still pee a lot during naps and bedtime, but the book insisted that we not go back to diapers at this point. So we tried. And we proceeded to go through all six crib sheets and six more pairs of training pants as the girls peed through every cotton barrier we placed in their way.

After we realized we had run out of training pants, we once again re-evaluated. We needed to get them in diapers for sleeping or none of us would ever get any rest. After the kids finally fell asleep, Chris and I decided that this approach was definitely not for us or the girls. It was too intense, too militaristic, too overwhelming for everyone.  So we decided to completely back off on the panty-status question and just plop them nonchalantly on the pot every 30 minutes.

This approach lasted the rest of the day yesterday and through this afternoon. But all it did was make me consider becoming an alcoholic. Elise and Althea peed and peed and peed through every pair of panties we put on them. They tantrumed through every cleanup and panty change.

It actually got kind of creepy at one point when I got Elise to her room for yet another pair of clean underwear, and she stared me in the face and laughed maniacally over and over again. Determined not to waver, I pushed my way through the full 10 minutes it took to get her to stand up and help pull on her panties. This bizarre behavior repeated itself several times in the course of just a few hours.

Chris and I clung to each other for dear life. Our sweet, mild-mannered, beautiful little children had turned on us. “Who are these . . . these barbarians?!???” we beseeched an apparently unloving god.

The constant peeing turned from accidental to blatant. We would put them on the pot for 5 or 10 minutes. Nothing. They’d stand up and help pull up their pants, walk away, and pee on the carpet. We’d change their wet panties and they would pee in the new ones within 30 seconds. They finally stopped telling us they’d peed themselves and just kept playing through it, then deny they’d peed when we asked if they were wet. At one point, we caught Althea putting toys into the plastic piss pot while peeing her pants!

Within three hours this morning, they had peed through 12 pairs of panties. I broke down sobbing in a dark closet.

The book did not say anything about this part.

After what all of us have gone through the past two days, Chris and I have decided to hold off on potty training for a few months, or until the girls’ entrance into kindergarten four years from now forces us to do it.

Some of my friends who have up-and-coming potty training kids asked me to share any success tips. Obviously I don’t have any. I do, however, have a few lessons learned:

• Unless you’re in a situation where you’re forced to train the child, don’t potty train until everyone is seriously ready, parents included. As I mentioned in my last post, I was not — am not — ready to potty train the kids.
• Find a potty training approach that fits your parenting style, not just whatever seems fastest or most convenient. “Toilet Training in Less Than a Day” obviously works for some parents, some households, some kids. But it’s not for us. Trust me — I’m a special kind of lazy. I’m the type of person that will put in a ton of hard work now if it means I can relax later, so this approach seemed like a good fit. But Chris and I are pretty laid back folks overall. We have our own brand of parenting, like everyone else. We took away some very good concepts and guidelines from this book. But the intensity of the approach felt unnatural for us and our children.
• It is impossible to be totally upbeat and positive about toilet training 100% of the time. It’s impossible even 90% of the time. Everything I read made me feel that, as long as I stayed positive and encouraging and followed the rules, the method would work. Yeah . . . No.
• I honestly don’t know what to suggest for parents like me who have twins to train and a needy infant to care for. I think that, unless the girls come to me and request to use the potty, I’m just shelving the whole project until Amaia is more self-sufficient, or at least able to be watched by someone else for a few days. Even with intensive training over a weekend, I definitely know I can’t do it on my own once Chris goes back to work on a Monday. Picture this: By 10 a.m. on the first day, I found myself breastfeeding on the kitchen floor while the twins sat crying on their respective pots as a hungry infant screamed at a lost nipple while I tried to read and turn the pages of “The Little Mermaid” with my toes — all while remaining upbeat, encouraging and positive. (If you’re exhausted by reading that sentence, just imagine what I was feeling.)
• No matter how you choose to potty train your child, buy several bottles of your favorite alcohol before you get started.
• Also, OxiClean — for the carpet and clothes.

For the past three or four months, Elise and Althea have been showing more and more signs of readiness for potty training. They both know when they’ve peed, they often announce when they poop and dislike the feeling of it.

Most recently, Elise has taken to completely undressing herself during naps and bedtime and peeing in her bed. When we get the girls in the morning, there’s Elise, naked as a jaybird and proud as a peach of her accomplishment.

Me, exasperated: “ELISE. Why did you do that again??!?”

Elise, jubilantly pointing: “Pee-pee! Hoo-ha! Culo (butt)! Naked!! YAYYYY YIPPEEEEE!!”

It’s extremely difficult to be angry at this.

I didn’t want to take the potty-training plunge, so to speak, when I was still pregnant because — uh, because I was pregnant. And massive and not very mobile. I haven’t wanted to do it since Amaia was born because it just seems incredibly inconvenient when she’s so little, nursing frequently and erratically, and not on a completely reliable schedule.

For instance, what do I do if we’re at a park and I’m nursing the baby when one of the twins announces she has to go potty? Jump up and take the child to the bathroom — and run the risk of losing a nipple in the process? Yeah, I don’t think so.

BUT. I can’t deny the girls the next big step in their development just because it’s not super convenient for me right now.  Chris and I are also tired of constantly washing sheets. Plus, the girls are pushing size 6 diapers, and that’s just embarrassing.

So, I’ve got a plan. (Famous last words for a parent, I know.) A friend of mine with five kids, including a set of twins, recommended “Toilet Training in Less than a Day.” We’re taking this weekend to give it a go. I’ve got training pants, big-girl panties (Yo Gabba Gabba and miscellaneous Disney characters), and lots of delicious juices and candies. I’ve got the potties, which I’m somewhat wary of since the girls have been using them as push toys and cowboy hats — and boy, would that be messy if they decided a doo-doo-filled pot would make an excellent sombrero.

I’m also worried about Althea. Elise seems more interested in how her thingamajigs work than Althea does. Althea can also be more resistant to following directions in general, especially when she senses it’s something we really want her to do.

So readers, bring it on. What are your potty-training tips? What worked and what didn’t work for you?