Category — She Works Hard for the Money

The girls are teething. Really, really teething.

With the bottom two teeth, Althea suffered badly while Elise hardly complained. As you might have guessed, Althea’s hardly bothered while Elise is a VERY miserable little baby. She purses her lips together in a way that makes it look like she has a mouthful of braces. She moans and moans and moans. She cries. She clings. She wants to nurse, then pushes me away. She wakes up several times a night.

It’s a freaking nightmare.

It’s been getting rough. This past week, I was home most all of the week, even taking care of three babies for a few days. I barely managed to shower, let alone get anything else done (well, except get busted cheating on my husband with a gnarly-looking handyman).

Cabin fever started to set in. Add to that the cries and whimpers and pain of teething, and you can just imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind. Shall I pluck my pubic hairs out, one by one, with splintered chop sticks? Or perhaps pierce my eyeballs with rusted corn-cob holders? Oh, I know! I’ll brush my teeth with some Ajax and floss with barbed wire!

One day, I was very very very close to LOSING MY SHIT. I generally stay pretty chipper and humorous with the girls, even when they’re both crying. But man, this was tugging on my last nerve.

So I went old school. I plopped the girls in the middle of the kitchen floor with some water-filled Tupperware and measuring spoons.

All day long, hugging and singing and playing and distracting, to no avail. But some measuring spoons and plastic containers? They were quiet and happy as pigs in shit for 40 minutes, until we had to tear them away for bath time. Go figure.

I’m so f’n busy. We’re so f’n busy. Most recently, I decided that, just before having family stay with us in August, it’d be a super fantastic idea to take on a serious painting/redecorating/summer cleaning (because I was way too lazy in the spring) project. It’s genuinely needed but horribly badly timed.

Do I care? No. Because I’ve got the wild hair up my ass and I’m going to get this shit done.

In order to get everything crossed off my to-do list, I needed help. Like, Man Help. Like, my husband would need to take out the power tools and break shit and have leftover parts that would keep me up at night, wondering if a pipe was going to burst or something would catch on fire due to his disdain for instruction manuals-type of help.

Problem is, the poor guy is working his ass off at his job. (Thank you thank you thank you.) He comes home and loves on me, coos at his daughters, takes his dinner dishes to the sink, then falls asleep on the couch watching soccer. Every. Single. Night.

So. My to-do list was getting desperate. And desperate times . . .

I called a handyman without telling my husband. Secret Handyman came over and gave me an estimate for all the work I wanted done. We made an appointment for him to come today to get started. I went to Lowe’s and bought all the tools. I transferred money from the remaining pennies in my savings account to pay for it myself.

All without telling my husband. Cue the gasps and groans of every married woman reading this.

Should I have been surprised, then, that Chris messaged me today to say he was coming home for lunch? As Secret Handyman banged my pipes and screwed holes in my drywall? (Sexual innuendos totally intended for comic effect. Har har.)

Of course! Of course Chris is coming home for lunch. Because why in the world would I get away with something like this?

Thing is, I’m also babysitting a friend’s daughter this week. And Secret Handyman had gone to Lowe’s to exchange a part. So when Chris got home for lunch, everyone else managed to show up at the house at the same time. It was a chaotic convergence of friend-crying babies-Chris-handyman, such that Chris was totally disoriented and had NO IDEA what was going on. And I had to introduce Chris to Secret Handyman.

Me: “Chris, this is Bill.”

Chris: “Oh, hi Bill.” — strange look at me.

Me: “Bill is here to fix stuff. And hang a light.”

Chris: “Oh. Okay.” — furrowed brow furrowed brow furrowed brow.

Me: “Well, I’m going to take all these kids on a walk! Bye!”

And I took the girls and the friend’s daughter on a walk. While I panicked my way around the block with three babies sweating half to death in the 95-degree oppressive heat and humidity, Chris texts me with exactly this:

“What the shit who the hell is that and wtf is going on????”

Thankfully, it all blew over. Secret Handyman did enough work around the house to get us motivated, I think, to pick up a few DIY projects. Or finish all this goddamned painting and decorating I’ve started. Or maybe clean out a closet.

I think I can get the laundry done, at least. Yes, I think I can do that.

Today, I saw Althea learn to sit up all by herself.

She was on all fours. Then she slowly tilted her body toward the back left so that she sat on her left butt cheek. Then she teetered into an upright position and found herself happily sitting up.

All by herself.

Things are a little rocky right now. Sometimes I question why I’m not working full time. I question if the financial difficulties and the stress and the constant cleaning and cooking and feeding and rapidly deteriorating sense of self is really worth it.

And then I see Althea learn to do something for the first time, the very first time she does it, on the very day she learns to do it.

And I think, when it’s worth it, it’s really, really worth it.

I’m having a tough time, guys.

I’m stressed, sad and tired. The latest events with our cats is wearing on me. Kramer developed a fever and I took him in to the vet. The way he has his jaw wired in place makes him drool and backwash everywhere, including into his food bowl. He drips and sprays slobbery cat food EVERYWHERE, including the walls, my hair and all over the floor. I spend a good portion of the day cleaning up fish stink and shielding myself from flying cat food.

I feed him meds through a tube in his neck. I’m pretty sure he’s blind in his right eye. The vets have all assured us we did the right thing, his quality of life will be great. They assure us. And the bills pile up. And the guilt, the guilt, the guilt of what I’ve done . . .

I picked up Vincent’s ashes. I sobbed like a child. Seeing his urn meant he was really dead. Really, really dead. Killed. We miss you, man.

(I felt a very strange and very unmistakable presence in the house today. Twice. Like someone walking by, behind me. Definitely a person. Kramer started meowing like Vincent. I wasn’t even drunk.)

We missed a mortgage payment and we’ll never make it up. We just won’t. We’ve never been late on a payment. I have perfect credit. Not so much anymore. Talking to the bank today didn’t help.

We still plan to buy a better camera and somehow, I only feel slightly guilty.

I’ve barely left the house in almost two weeks. I’m so tired that I don’t want to deal with anyone. I have a million things to do around the house and zero motivation or money to do them.

I’ve only exercised a couple of times in two weeks and I’m terrified to step on the scale. I just wanted to lose six lousy pounds by August and I can’t even do that.

I spent a good five hours in the kitchen today, cleaning and cooking and cooking and cleaning. Dishes. Making baby food. Cleaning cat food syringes. Cleaning stinky cat food bowls. Dishes. Cleaning up cat slobber. Spilling an entire can of Coke. Entertaining babies. Feeding. Cooking. Feeding.

Now that I’m staying home with the girls, I’ll never be able to go back to work. Being a SAHM is not legitimate. You don’t get a line for that on your resume. Just because it’s a 24/7 job, constantly on, never rest, only work work work. At this point, I couldn’t act smart enough to get a job anyway.

I wonder if my years-long battle with depression is finally creeping back after my pregnancy euphoria. Dammit. My old shrink doesn’t take our new insurance.

Not that I’ve checked.

I have bags under my eyes. The bags have bags. I feel like shit. I’m lonely. I’m a failure. I want to hide.

I need, need, need. I need help.

I have begun way too many sentences with “I” in this post. <–Stated with complete self-awareness.

Lesson of the evening: Don’t blog and bitch. Because man, that publish button is a bitch . . .

Week Three: I’m still trying to find my balance at the whole stay-at-home mom thing.

The first week at home, as I reported earlier, was really lonely and slow and weird and emotional.

Then, on Wednesday of week two, I discovered Mommy Group.

Mommy Group is hosted by the hospital where I delivered. The first group is for 0-6 month olds; the second is for 6 month to one-year olds. This means I’m slipping into the group and getting to know people just as I’m ready to “graduate” to the next group. Dammit.

Anyway, I showed up to Mommy Group early. I’m particular about punctuality. Always have been. I plan my entire day around arriving early or on time for appointments. This, apparently, is not good practice with moms (or doctors, or hair stylists, or walking buddies, or movies, or dinner dates, or phone calls) because nobody else ever bothers to be on time to anything. This royally annoys me.

Moving on.

I sat on the floor with the girls on a blanket and waited. After a while, other moms with their (singleton) babies started filtering in. We discussed our concerns, observations, struggles, anecdotes. Afterward, most of us went out to lunch. And the whole time, all I could think was braaaainnnnss peeeeople. After being cooped up in the house for a week and a half, I was high on the presence of other adults.

It was like a drug. I needed more.

Through the end of the week and all this week, I kept myself busy. Grocery shopping. Walking. Visiting with other moms. Most embarrassing? I actually went to see Kate from “Jon and Kate Plus 8″ sign her book. I don’t even like her. At all. And yet, here she is in all her spiky-haired glory, taking up space on my camera phone.

But after several days of errands, car rides, meet-ups and missed nap times, the babies couldn’t take anymore. Several epic, sleep-deprived baby meltdowns later, I canceled tomorrow’s mom coffee date. I realized that, shit, I’ve been running all over the place for my own good, not necessarily for my daughters’ entertainment.

My apologies in advance, and I know I’ll regret saying this, and obviously no offense if you currently or previous or plan to have spit-up in your hair for potentially days on end — but I’m scared of turning into a mom who has spit-up in her hair for days on end. Do you know what I mean? I just have this image of Roseanne Barr with corn-chip toenails and hammer toes and a bad perm that I’d really like to avoid.

(Okay, so I’ve actually gone to work with spit-up in my hair. Whatev.)

This is all so new to me and kinda sorta daunting. Being a mom. Being relied on by a crying child who will not be comforted unless I come in to hold her or nurse her.

Maybe . . . maybe . . . what I’m scared of is raising my own babies. I generally feel pretty good about trusting my gut when it comes to being with the girls and doing the right things for them. But that innate self-doubting mechanism kicks in and I wonder what the hell I’m doing trying to raise two babies at the same time. Seriously? Me? The girl who never wanted to get married or have kids?

But at the end of week three, I’m starting to feel okay. Don’t get me wrong — the finances are not a good thing. But emotionally, I feel like this is a new life, a new job, a new purpose. I’m recognizing things about the girls’ behaviors and personalities that I’d wouldn’t so easily see if I were away now. I suspect things will just get more challenging as we start on solid foods (ugh, in the next week or two) and the girls get mobile and vocal. But for now, I’m feeling better and more comfortable with being an at-home mama.

After one week of staying at home with the babies, I feel, in (mostly) no particular order . . .

Guilt. I think this has been my overarching emotion this week, creeping up unexpectedly throughout the day. The first couple of days were the worst. I cleaned, did laundry, made mental to-do lists, over-played with the girls, searched for jobs.

After just two days, I broke down to Chris about my feelings of guilt. I felt — no, feel – horrible about not bringing in money. It makes me feel useless and guilty, like I’m not contributing in any significant or tangible way to the house. And frankly, when it comes down to it, I’m not. Is it great that I get to stay home? Uh, YES. Is it helpful? In a practical sense, not really. Without income, there’s no house to come home to.

Fear. Maybe paralyzing terror is more like it. I just realized that there are only a couple more paychecks coming in during the next month, and then we’re kaput on my end. Scary.

Separately, there’s the very physical fear of being home alone and vulnerable. What would I do if someone busted down the door — and I was nursing? What would happen if I took the girls out on a walk and some maniac attacked us at the lonely end of the park? What if we went out to run errands and I got in a car accident?

Loneliness. Toward the end of the week, I really just started feeling lonely. The girls are wonderful and amazing and beautiful, but having that many one-sided conversations with two infants can start to weigh on a body. I can see how so many women just become insulated in their homes. You feel lonely, you start to get paranoid, so you stay inside with the doors locked and chained. Plus, the thought of getting presentable for the public and packing up two babies just seems overwhelming.

Disbelief. I can’t believe I’m actually a stay-at-home mom. It feels like maternity leave again, except a lot harder.

Also, and honestly, I can’t even believe I feel this way at all. All of these conflicting emotions. The almost-painful love and tenderness I feel toward my babies. I never liked kids, really. And now I feel this way? To the point of quitting my job? I just can’t believe it.

Gratitude. Toward my husband, who is eternally supportive and optimistic. Thank you. I remind myself constantly of the women who would love more than anything to be able to stay home with their babies.

Toward my mom, whose feedback has been nothing short of amazing.

Relief. I have these horrible flashbacks of the look on Elise’s face when I left them that one day at daycare — that look on that innocent, wide-eyed face. “Ama, where are you going?” I left her there in that too-small swing with those indifferent strangers. My eyes were blinded with tears. My heart broke — no, ripped, burned and withered. That look. Good god, I’ll never forget that look on her face. If only to never see that unknowing look again, I would live under a bridge if I had to.

Finally. Finally. I don’t have to worry about who is taking care of my babies and how.

I’ve been writing and rewriting and editing and deleting this post over and over in my mind. It’s kinda sorta big news, I guess, at the same time that it’s not really news. It happened several days ago but I just haven’t had the time or the words to say it.

So I figured I’d just go about it the way I go about most things in my life: with blinders on, eyes wide open, not sure about the future but ready to tackle the now. 

I quit my job.

Yes, in this economy. With twin infants. Severely upside down in a mortgage. I consciously quit my job.

Why? Because of these.

It came down to this: We simply couldn’t afford childcare for two infants that I felt safe and happy with. One infant? Totally could have done it. No problem. With money enough for Burger King, even with me only working part time.

Two infants? Not a chance.

I exhausted all avenues I could think of for in-home and out-of-home care. I did find a daycare I really liked that had a part-time program we could afford, but that schedule didn’t fly with my employer. So I had to quit. Partly my decision, partly forced.

It’s the less-than-adorable reality of having twins.

The decision feels so . . . severe. I keep wondering if I cut off my nose to spite my face type thing. (Though I have a perfectly lovely nose. The rest of the face? Debatable.) I keep telling myself, You could have settled. I could have settled for that hell-hole of a daycare I took them to, where they didn’t even ask the girls’ names, let alone what to do with them. I could have kept the nanny that smoked and talked about avoiding a DUI with a child in the car when she planned to go out partying. I could have put them in a place that cost more than I earned and gotten a second and third job to bring in $50 a week after the cost of childcare. Surely, I could have done something else. 

Right?

But here’s the deal. Not that anyone really does, but . . . I absolutely, 100%, without a regret in the world refuse to knowingly settle for less than the best childcare for my kids. These girls can’t speak. They can’t tell me if something is going wrong. They can’t defend themselves. They eat their hands for entertainment. I know the feeling of crying for help and being ignored, and there’s no way I’d ever ever ever put them somewhere less than wonderful out of convenience.

Sure, I made an extreme decision. It wasn’t an easy one. It may not have been the smartest one. But it was the right one. Chris totally supports me. (I hear the fear deep in your voice, babe. I promise I’ll work my hardest. Thank you.) 

So?

So. It’s the world of stay/work-at-home mom-dom for me. I hope to remember to shower regularly, wear shirts without spit-up on them and occasionally wear a bra. I might vacuum when the dog hair begins collecting into tumbleweeds. I will make my husband lunch. I will likely gain back all 7 measly pounds I’ve managed to lose in 8 weeks by stuffing my face with too much sugar-free candy (because hey, it’s sugar free). I will join a mommy group.

I will compete with other out-of-work writers and editors for low-paying jobs. I will cook up horribly misled money-making schemes to keep us afloat. I will worry about how to afford food and clothes and gas. I will hope and pray and hope and pray and hope and pray that my husband doesn’t lose his job.

I will play with my babies. I will see them learn to crawl. I will see them learn to walk. I will hear them say “mama” for the first time. They will outgrow their infant tub in the kitchen sink and I will bathe them in the big-girl bathtub in the bathroom. We will read books. We will watch television, which may or may not include children’s programming, but will definitely include over-acted telenovelas and afternoon talk shows.  

I will hopefully keep my sense of humor about it all, because hey, these two sure have.

Rainy morning. The lack of sunlight in the windows meant the girls slept in. Althea was up first, mumbling and sucking her fingers to get our attention. Elise slept soundly by her side. I decided to forgo efficiency and nurse them one at a time, spending a rare few moments with them one on one.

I know and have read of twin mamas who feel a quiet and occasional resentment at having two babies to care for. If we had “just one” to care for, we could casually feed her, gazing down at one set of eyes, taking our sweet time to enjoy just one little body snuggled against our skin. If we had just one baby, oh! the free time we’d have to change only one dirty diaper, soothe only one crying infant, wash only one set of clothes, bathe only one wiggly little baby. Our child would be playing and babbling and sitting up and walking on time because we’d have enough time to devote to helping her learn and grow as an individual. With just one baby, we wouldn’t feel the guilt of cooing at one while the other stares at us expectantly, waiting for mom to pay attention to them, too. 

We’d go out more often without help because it’d be logistically possible to wander around the park or go grocery shopping with just one baby. We’d have a free spot in the backseat because there would be just one car seat. If we’d carried just one baby during our pregnancies, maybe, just maybe, we’d have a shot at wearing a bikini again in this lifetime. 

Do I have to quit my job? The cost of childcare for two is beyond our means. 

Althea’s little body breathing against mine. I nursed her casually, speaking to her softly and telling her how special she is, just on her own. How much I love just her.

I passed off Althea to Daddy so I could spend easy, slow alone time with Elise too. I love you, just you. These moments are rare.

I know it’s possible to love two babies with the same unending devotion at the same time. But how do we twin moms make sure that each baby knows how valuable they are as just one person?

This morning’s appointment sucked kind of worse than I expected. I was not 100% wild about this new doctor in the practice. He called Elise a boy before looking at her chart. He initially was really peeved with my feelings about vaccines, but then was on board and cool with it. He/the nurse left us in the exam room for 20 minutes with two hungry infants while they dicked around getting our shots ready. When I told him I was breastfeeding, he asked if I was supplementing at all and if I thought I was producing enough milk for the both of them. If I hadn’t been so bleary-eyed tired from a shitty night of sleep with the girls, I would’ve told him to look at their weight gain and ask me that again, you bastard.

Since we’re spreading out our vax schedule, the girls got two shots today and go back in a month to get the other ones. The shots did not go over very well. Elise got hers first, a stab right in the thigh, and she screamed a sound I’d never heard before. Tears sprang to my eyes as I clutched Althea and told myself over and over again that everything was going to be okay. I nursed Elise after her shot and that calmed her down. Althea didn’t lose her shit as badly as Elise did, but she was still hollering something awful. Moment of triumph: Chris helped me tandem nurse without a nursing pillow or any other props.

On a positive note, Elise has hit double digits at 10 pounds 4 ounces. Althea’s closing the weight gap on her at 9 pounds 14 ounces. Props to the boobie juice.

Also, our girls are “advanced,” according to the pediatrician. Yeah bitches, take that. They can both roll over from belly to back, and the doctor felt that was ahead of the developmental curve, especially since twins tend to lag behind singletons.

On the work front, it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Five hours in the office goes flying by, especially when there are 1300 emails to sift through.

I got thrown into a project right away. The only problem with this was that I was totally exhausted from the aforementioned shitty night of sleep, so I could barely process the information being given to me. “The budget is $70K but this includes markup, and billing is working hourly not by project so we have to convert projects into hours, and you should talk to J to see how to do that, and after that you need to audit the website and the print publication, and then we need a content plan for blah blah blah….”

Uh. Huh? Budget? Hours? Numbers? Website? Hire writers? Content? Are you speaking English? Where am I? Waiter, can I have a cocktail? I need to go pump, excuse me.