Twins + singleton = losing count

Althea has apparently taken after her mother in the coordination department.

A few nights ago, I was putting the baby to bed when I hear Chris shout nervously from the kitchen, “I need you out here! I’ve got blood!!”

Althea had tripped over Chris’ foot and smashed her FACE into the corner of a marble windowsill. She’d busted open her bottom lip and smashed her top lip and two front teeth. I had a fall when I was a child and ended up with the dreaded “brown tooth”; I was certain Althea would be similarly cursed, though she seems to have escaped that fate.

The following morning, she was spinning around in circles like a maniac when she tripped over the edge of the rug and smashed her forehead square on the corner of the coffee table.

The result:

I need to get these kids into ballet or something.

I used to be smart.

No, really. I think I used to be smart. That’s what my professors used to tell me, anyhow. And my grades. I used to get A’s and say thoughtful things and read complicated books. I graduated with honors and got into a Smart Person Honor Society (not even the kind that publishes that fake book that you pay to get into) and got a full ride to grad school and everything.

Now, as a full-time stay-at-home mom, I struggle to access even a fraction of that knowledge. My brain just doesn’t work the same. I’m reading a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel right now. Pulitzer Prize winning! The very alliteration of it makes you sit up straight. Every few pages, I engage in some critical thinking: “This passage appears to be about the male psyche’s struggle to disassociate – nay, circumcise itself from the specter of the father at the same time that it cannot possibly extricate itself from same.”

But then, I completely lose track of the words, my brain engulfed by a ceaseless soundtrack of preschool show theme songs (“There’s a party in my tummy! SO YUMMY, SO YUMMY!!!”).

When I left my job two years ago to stay at home with my kids, I vowed I wouldn’t lose my sense of curiosity and individuality. I would nurture my brain. I would remain true to myself. In my supercilious, pre-SAHM mind, I swore I would not, under any circumstances, become one of “those” moms.

Mm-hmm. You mean this mom? Because she, I have become.

I have a case of Mommy Brain in a most pointed sense. It’s not simply that I’ve become scatterbrained or chronically tardy; it’s that I feel I have lost my very sense of intelligence. There’s no way in hell I could keep up with my old college cronies because I genuinely do not even understand what they’re saying anymore. The depth of the problem hit a serious low when I Googled myself recently and discovered that my master’s thesis was no longer on page one of the results; now, it’s some idiotic comment I made on the Facebook page for Duke’s Mayonnaise.

YES. MAYONNAISE. (Note to self: Become more concerned with one’s digital identity.)

It bothers me. I feel stupid and unworthy and irrelevant and uninteresting.

I suppose, then, that it means I was never really smart to begin with. I just practiced a certain language a lot, got decent at it, and lost my fluency when I was no longer immersed and I stopped using it. It wasn’t innate intelligence – it was an impermanent skill, like tap dancing or getting really good at Tetris.

And that bothers me even more, feeling that, not only am I no longer smart – I’m now just a mom. My life is one long playdate, a series of diaper changes, a daily battle with juice stains and toddler tantrums and lactating breasts and OH MY GOD MY TWO-AND-A-HALF-YEAR-OLDS AREN’T POTTY TRAINED I’M A FAILURE AS A MOTHER. My career will forever be in the shitter. I’ll end up in some job interview five years from now and won’t get hired when I instinctively tell them to stop asking Mommy so many questions.

But then I think about it more and I get defensive. What’s so demeaning about being a stay-at-home mom? How is my work now less valuable than any paid position I’ve ever held? My value as a human, as a woman, as a mother at work, is not quantifiable. It is not defined by me bringing in a paycheck. I’m raising the next generation of contributing members of society. This is important work. Like, for reals.

Oooh, the valve-less sippy cups I ordered just got here!

Sorry, I got distracted.

So. Mommies? Daddies? How do you deal with these feelings? Am I alone here? Does anyone even know what the hell I’m talking about? Answer me or I’ll put you in a time out!

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.

Sometimes, we wonder if Amaia is actually our child. While she clearly resembles her sisters at times, she is so different in other aspects. She’s much lighter-skinned than any of the rest of us, her complexion tinged by pink, rather than olive, undertones. Her hair seems to be lighter and of a different texture.

What’s most striking, though, is her eyes. Elise and Althea’s eyes had turned brown by two months old. Amaia’s eyes, on the other hand, have transformed into this stunning greenish color.

Chris has green eyes, and there are a few relatives on my biological father’s side who have light eyes as well. Daddy’s girl, indeed.

Right after Amaia was born, Elise and Althea came to visit me in the hospital. Althea showed immediate curiosity and interest when we showed her the baby.

“See it? Touch it? Hold it?” she requested, peeking over the edge of the hospital bassinet.

Elise, on the other hand, took one look at the peacefully sleeping newborn and cried out, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” She then forced me out of the room and ran me up and down the hallways of the maternity unit as I gingerly waggled my empty uterus and bled all over myself.

Since then, both of the twins have had a range of vaguely negative emotions toward Amaia. Nothing violent or mean, thankfully, but somewhere in the neighborhood of general lack of interest to suspicion and mild jealousy.

Over the past few weeks, though, they’ve figured out that the baby’s not going anywhere. And now that Amaia is chuckling and smiling like crazy, I guess she’s not quite as threatening as before.

The other morning, I found Althea playing with Amaia in this silly play mat/box thing. Althea was politely asking Amaia to make some room for her to play.

It was all love and fun until Amaia started yanking on Althea’s hair.

I’m sensing a budding friendship.

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.

Amaia is totally, 100% NORMAL.

We took her to the neurosurgeon yesterday. Within four seconds, the doctor proclaimed that Amaia had the most normal-looking head she’d seen all day.

Phew.

She acknowledged all of the things we were concerned about: the two “horns,” the ridge in the forehead, the unusually small anterior fontanel. But she told us that even the combination of these things isn’t necessarily cause for concern.

With metopic craniosynostosis, we would have seen a pronounced point to her forehead and an egg shape when looking at her skull from above. The edges of her forehead would have ended closer to the middle instead at the edges of the eye orbits. The eye orbits would be sloped to a point toward the center instead of smooth and flat.

Something else I didn’t know: She said that even if the fontanel closes earlier than average, there are other ways for the brain to grow normally and it’s nothing to worry about.

She actually spent more time talking about the large bumps on both sides of Amaia’s head, which she felt were possibly calcified hematomas (huh?) and will smooth out as the calcifications are absorbed by the body (lost me on that one).

Amaia’s head measured in exactly the 50th percentile. Despite having a goofy-looking dome, she couldn’t be more average.

The relief is overwhelming. Thank you, thank you, thank you everyone for your kind words of encouragement and support. This is one instance in which I am more than happy to have been totally wrong.

Over the past month or so, Chris and I have noticed a ridge forming in the center of Amaia’s forehead. At first, we both thought it was a prominent vein (Chris and I both have one). But recently, we realized it’s her skull.

In addition, ever since her birth, I’ve noticed that she has unusually small fontanels, especially the front one. Unlike most babies, Amaia’s fontanel is so small, it doesn’t pulse with her heartbeat or when she feeds. Her head overall is very hard. There’s almost no positional flattening from sleeping on the same side every night. She also has two very pronounced ridges on both sides of her skull. We call them her “horns.” It makes her head look very square.

Of course, I consulted Dr. Google and panicked. Apparently, these traits can be a sign of metopic craniosynostosis. It’s the premature fusion of the skull sutures and in this case, it would be the suture in the middle of the forehead, running down to the bridge of the nose.

From what I’m reading, best case, it doesn’t affect brain growth and no intervention is necessary. Worst case, they have to perform major surgery to cut open the skull from ear to ear and pull it forward to allow the brain room to grow.

Last week, I took Amaia to her pediatrician. I was expecting a referral to a specialist, but also halfway praying for him to take one look and tell me I’m completely paranoid and there’s nothing wrong with her.

Unfortunately, it was the former. He noticed the pronounced ridge in the forehead and the two “horns” on the sides, and definitely agreed that her anterior fontanel is unusually small. He said he’s never worked with a child with craniosynostosis so he couldn’t tell us much. He gave us a referral to a neurosurgeon at a children’s hospital about an hour away.

To top it all off, at around the time we became curious about Amaia’s head, we started seeing these lawyer commercials for ladies who’d taken Zoloft and other popular SSRIs during pregnancy and subsequently given birth to a child with cranial deformities, among other things.

I was on Zoloft when we conceived Amaia, though I stopped taking it after finding out I was pregnant. Worrisome? I don’t know.

Every time I think of what could be wrong, my stomach drops to the floor. I’ve never had to deal with any health issues beyond croup or a bad cold with the twins.

I’m mad that this is happening. I’m mad about my own mental issues that require medication that I’ve never wanted to take in the first place. I’m depressed that I feel like I can’t look at Amaia without worrying. I’m devastated that a fucking FOUR-MONTH-OLD BABY has an appointment with a NEUROSURGEON to begin with. Those words don’t even belong in the same sentence.

Probably the most frustrating thing is that I really don’t even know if I have anything to worry about to begin with.

So that’s why I haven’t been updating my blog lately. I’ve been freaking the fuck out a wee bit preoccupied. I’ve been feeling like I need to write at the same time that I haven’t been sure what to write.

Until our appointment on Thursday with the neurosurgeon, I’m trying desperately to keep my own head about me. . . And love on Amaia and her perfectly hard little head.

All five of us in one photo looking at the camera at the same time? Yeah, pretty much a miracle.