connotation & denotation

Wrapping Up the Holidays

2011-12-29T16:59:00.030-06:00

That was our Christmas card. Some people may have even received one in the mail. I keep finding nibbled remnants of hand-written address labels around the house, tucked into into the crevices of the heating registers, toy tractors, and laundry baskets. The handiwork of a little white-haired boy with whom I live.

I hope your holidays are going well, if they're still going. Hope they filled you with gratitude and warmth and happiness.

I had posted a pic of some kind of zoo creature sleeping in a trashcan. It looks like the ugly tail end of an oppossom. Lisa told me it was hideous and that I was sick for liking the picture.

These things are probably true.

I mean, the holiday started out with me making Christmas tree garland out of Edward Gorey post cards like this. I thought maybe that was a sign that something might be off.

I guess it's just an appreciation for a certain kind of grim and absurdity. My sense of humor has something to do with an annoying existential rut that I wriggle in and out of on a daily basis. So this image of the ugly butt inside the Brute can? It just makes sense to me. I can look at this and see many connections to the holidays. Mostly just the ugliness I often feel inside. But also stress. Anxiety. Depression. Isolation. A desire to hibernate.

Anti-social creature at Lincoln Park Zoo, spring 2011

I joke about it, but winters have started to scare me as they approach. How stuck I feel when the deep, dark, cold sets in. I know I will try to make the most of it by playing in the snow, making hot cocoa or tea, playing music, doing art projects, watching movies, building forts. But I'm know how prone I am to getting stuck. This year I will try to get out of my head more often. Be grateful. Be wide-eyed and amazed. Be aware of how lucky I am to be healthy and that I have so much time with my kids. Be hopeful that no matter how dark and cold it seems, there is always light and warmth somewhere. Find it.

"Charlie Brown, you're the only person I know who can take a wonderful season like Christmas and turn it into a problem."

Tea for Two

2011-10-20T21:32:00.001-05:00

Here are some photos of a lovely afternoon at home with mugs of warm tea, milk and honey. Note: this was not today. Today was cold & rainy and we said goodbye to our little dog, Weezer. I don't have the energy for words. These are sweet, though. And I suppose I just feel like posting something.

Happy Birthday to Lucy, who, by the way, wants cake NOW!

2011-08-11T23:29:00.035-05:00

Hello, amazing two-year-old girl.

A few weeks ago, you heard a word that really resonated with you: "now." You snatched it up immediately and have tied it to the tail of every statement ever since. You love your new word. It works for you.

You want Mommy now.

You want to draw now.

You want to blow bubbles now.

You want to go outside now.

You want to put boots on now.

You want berries now.

You want to read that book now.

You are very smart and direct. You put it all out there on the table, in case someone might ambiguously interpret your requests as just general desires to be experienced, you know, whenever. That is not the case! What do you want? Yogurt. When do you want it? Now!

Okay, but just so you know, sometimes we can't have everything we want "now." Wait, where are you going? Lucy!

I want to go to the playground NOW!

Actually, we don't engage in "reasoning" with two-year-olds. But we are working on adding a certain nice word that starts with "p" to all of your "now" statements. You've already got "thank you" down. It's a very sweet habit and I hope you'll keep it up. You used to say, "Thank you, Mama" all the time. Now you say, "Thank you, Bess." Smarty pants!

You love drawing, painting, doing puzzles, playing with tiny doll house people (you call them "guys"), building with blocks, building train tracks, and reading books. You love music, especially drums and piano. You love to dance and to imitate people. You love to learn. You're learning colors (currently, you say everything is red). You love pastels and crayons, but your favorite things to draw with are the bright, fruit-scented markers that don't wash off. They're definitely fun. Sometimes I allow you to tattoo yourself with washable markers. But today you wanted to tattoo your brother and me and wouldn't take "no" for an answer. After giving you a warning, I had to draw the line and take away the markers.

Sometimes your brother likes to draw with you. Sometimes he bites the crayons and dumps the whole container on the floor. You say, "No no, E-bow!" You boss him around a bit. You also like to groom him. You brush and shampoo his hair and to put lotion on his back. Before "E-bow"you used to call him "the baby."

You're a very creative kid! We didn't teach you how to hold a crayon. You watched and then did it yourself! With the correct fingers and a whole lot of intent, you started drawing elaborate pictures at about 18 months old. We have a few of them hanging up. They're like crazy little squiggly Picassos. I love them!

You are starting to look like such a big girl!

You also like accessories. You have quite an eclectic collection. Necklaces, a headlamp, bracelets, helmets, goggles, hats, scarves, sunglasses and headbands. It doesn't surprise me that you like dress-ups. I assumed one or both of you might like sparkly princess things, because we tend to be opposites of our parents. Mommy liked The Hulk, Star Wars, and Transformers when she was little. I liked Cabbage Patch Kids and Barbies, but later, when it came to make-up and jewelry, I wasn't interested at all. When I was in high school, Nanny used to try to get me to go to "Glamour Shots" at the mall, where she worked at the time. She wanted me to have my face made-up, my hair curled, and my photo taken with a feathered boa or a bedazzled denim jacket. I rejected and ridiculed the whole concept. Then, at band camp (no joke), I chopped off my hair with some craft scissors. This was my Senior yearbook picture.

Okay, so that's Ringo Starr. But we had the same unibrow and mop top/bowl cut. Looking back, it's pretty embarrassing. Senior pictures are supposed to be a teenager's moment to capture him or herself at that quintessential young-adult age. But I guess it's my natural inclination to rebel against institutionalized expectations. But you don't have to!

Lucy! You can be whomever you want to be! If you like frilly dresses and sparkly shoes, you can have them. But you don't have to like pink or wear skirts just because you're a girl. Nor do you have to be a tomboy. You don't even have to play soccer (although I can hear your Mommy's voice right now saying, "yes she does."). I don't have to tell you any of this. You've got a strong will and have been feisty since the day you were born. You will be true to yourself no matter what we say.

I wonder how you'll react when you find out about Disney Princesses. Maybe you'll say, "The only one I really like is Mulan. She's the strongest female heroine. The rest of them are kind of pathetic. And don't get me started on the tokenization of Jasmine! " But maybe not. Like a lot of little girls, you might gravitate toward Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. We won't forbid you from watching those movies or reading those books, but you might have to put up with my feminist public service announcements in the middle.

Nanny gave you a few of her necklaces and a tiny antique bracelet. You love them. You also love boots. Any kind of boots. Snow boots, rain boots, black patent-leather boots. You love running, jumping, dancing, climbing, and kicking around in boots.

Oh Lucy. I remember you being so tiny and fragile in the NICU. You were wide-eyed and squawking mouth and skinny, kicking legs. Now you're a big girl! You're strong and sturdy and smart and fierce and funny! You blow us away every day with the things you say and do!

Trying to get Effram to hold your hand.

Trying to eat Effram's ice cream after you finished yours.

Lucy, you amaze me. You crack me up. You delight me. You terrify me. You are adored by so many people. Mommy and I love you so much and feel absolutely privileged to be your Moms! We are very proud of you and can't wait to get to know you more and more each day. Happy birthday to a spectacular little girl. Oh, and tomorrow, at your birthday party, you can have cake NOW!

Love, Mama

Happy 2nd Birthday, E.Bear!

2011-08-11T11:06:00.001-05:00

Dear Effram,

Today, you are two years old. You are napping right now with your favorite blankies. You are going to be up soon (you don't sleep as much as your sister) so I have to write this quickly. Like me, you are a very light sleeper. There's no going back to sleep once your busy little brain wakes up! Here are some photos of you today and throughout the year:

People always say, "Oh, what a cute little towhead you have there!" referring to your white-blond hair. "Tow" is a textile fiber like flax. It's soft and white. It's an old reference but people still use it. We hear it every day.

It's nice that you have hair now though. You used to be bald except for the back of your head, like Joe Biden, our current Vice President.

You love your sister. Sometimes when you want to be alone she clobbers you. That annoys you. Most of the time you have fun and play very well together.

This is your most common expression, I think.

Some stats about you at 2: Your first love was a plastic bowling ball. For the past year, you have been obsessed with any kind of ball. You have a great arm on you and your big bear paws give you a good grip. You went onto racquetballs (but our dogs ruined those) and tennis balls (those too) and then whiffle balls. You still love balls, but your interests have broadened to the world of transportation.

Trains! You love your trains.

Also cars and buses. There are plenty of those in Chicago. You like to say hello and bye-bye to them. Helicopters too! When those noisy things fly by, you're absolutely mesmerized. Your favorite helicopter is Harold; he's a character from Thomas the Tank Engine (bit of a snob, that guy).

Trains and rocks together! Even better.

You are incredibly object-focused. You're content playing alone for hours. This bridge has been keeping you busy for a few months.

You rode the El (red line to Belmont) for the first time this summer. You went to the Pride parade with Lucy, Grammy, Kyle, and me. You hated being on the train; it was overstimulating and I think you were feeling claustrophobic. I explained that a lot of people feel that way going to and from work every day, but you didn't care.

You love watching the subway trains go by and recently you have gotten into Thomas on TV. You become emotionally involved in every episode. The first time you saw Thomas crash into the station agent's dining room, you cried. When Thomas derailed off the bridge, you were devastated. You are very empathetic.

Here are some other interesting phases you've gone through this year:

Stashing objects (such as crayons) into the floor registers
Tearing the books off the bookshelves and then climbing the shelves
Reorganizing furniture by pushing tables into different rooms
Dumping out the dog food and stashing it into your trucks and wagons
Climbing and dancing on tables
Peeling the keys off my laptop

But sometimes you are mellow. A quiet observer.

Not everyone can make you laugh, but if someone gets it right, you really crack up!

You love stealing Mommy's beverages. (Don't judge. There was only a drop left).

You are gentle with people and love to give kisses.
You love to kiss the dogs. You kiss everything. Even rocks!

You're also a wild beast.

I guess it fits that you were almost actually named Bear, like Bear Grylls.

You like to examine things.

Usually, it goes like this: Examine...

Throw!

You know how to make Lucy laugh.

She adores you and calls you "Ebow" (E-Bear).

You also love containers. You were quite happy with all of the golf balls in Nanny's big green yard.

You have always been at home in water.

Here you are dumping water on Aunt Carrie's head and cracking yourself up.

Exploring the pool at Nanny's country club

You love watching swimming and diving competitions on TV. I imagine you'll be good at both some day. You are very coordinated. You love being in water, maneuvering your body, and jumping.

Jumping. Off of everything!

It's been such a good year for you, EBear! You've grown into yourself. It's hard to explain to people who don't know you. You had a tough first year. It was hard for you to play and enjoy the world because you were not comfortable in your body. You had problems digesting food and had terrible stomach pains. I'm so glad that's behind you now. You're a much happier kid. You've grown into a lovely, sweet, sensitive little boy! Mommy and I think you are extraordinary! We are very proud of you and love you very much!

Today, enjoying your birthday cupcake at Flourish bakery

Love, Mama

A "Happy Father's Day, Mommy!" Q & A Session

2011-06-19T22:21:00.001-05:00

"Look, Mother. Look, Mother,look.

See Father. See Father and Dick."

Q: "Your kids have two moms? What do they call you?"
A: Lisa is Mommy. I'm Mama. For now. Who knows what they will choose to call us.

Q: "Who's their father? Will they ever get to meet him?"
Short Answer: Lisa.
Long Answer: You mean their sperm donor? Probably not. He was anonymous. When they're 18, if they want to, they can contact the Cryobank and find out if their donor is willing to meet them. But since he chose to be anonymous, the answer might be no. If so, is this going to be disappointing? Probably. Is it going to ruin their lives? No.

Q: "But they are growing up without a male role model! Who's going to teach your son to be a man?"
A: We are. All of us. The goal is to teach both of them to be good human beings. It's true that it takes a male to create a child, but I don't believe a male is necessary to parent one.

Q: "Do you think when they grow up that they'll wish they'd had a dad?"
A: Maybe. Doubt it.
Long answer: They are going to grow up with two parents who love them very much. I think they'll eventually be grateful for that. They also have two very different moms. Their Mommy, Lisa, is a plumber. She can fix a leaky faucet. Shower. Sink. Toilet. Garbage disposer. Boiler. Air conditioner. Dishwasher. Refrigerator. She can put up light fixtures, ceiling fans, shelving. She can change locks and hang pictures, put up drywall, pour concrete, and build fences. To win my heart when we were "just friends", she built shelving that lined the ceiling of my studio apartment, then built a loft in the top of my walk-in closet, creating the "tree house" I had always wanted. Then she built a desk underneath it with the leftover wood. She has been working with her hands since she was a little kid, when she built a pully system to fly across her back yard and created a hot tub out of a baby pool. She will have no problem assembling Effram & Lucy's swing set or putting training wheels on their bikes.

She will also coach their sports teams. She was the first girl on the boys' soccer team and always scored the most goals. She played Varsity soccer as a freshman in high school. She's always been better at sports than a lot of boys ever were.

But she is also nurturing and not afraid to show emotion. She was a babysitter for a large family as a teenager and learned how to care for newborns, toddlers and small children all at once. She is the one who bathes Effram and Lucy every night and sings to them as she rinses their hair so they don't cry about the water in their eyes. She is the one who cleans their ears with Q-tips and makes them laugh at their reflections in the mirror. She combs their hair neatly so that it dries nicely and clips their nails so they don't scratch themselves or us. I don't remind her; I don't even ask her. In fact, I don't even know if these things would get done without her! They find her absolutely hilarious, and she makes them laugh themselves silly. I watch the three of them playing together and think to myself, "This is what she has always wanted-- to be a parent. And she is so good at it." She has the sweetest goodnight conversations with them, reminding them of all of the fun she had with them during the day, how much she loves them and their favorite stuffed animals too. If, for whatever reason, I don't get to say goodnight to my babies, I have no worries. I know that they are clean and well fed and that they felt safe and secure and loved when they fell asleep.

For these and many other reasons, I know that while they may one day wonder about the guy who donated his sperm to create them, they will never regret having grown up with two very loving moms who will have guided and supported them, shared ourselves and our own unique talents with them, and celebrated them for who they are. They will also know in their hearts that Lisa was both a "mom" and a "dad" to them, and that she is complicated and great. And that much of life doesn't fit into categories. They will know that they don't have to be one thing or the other. That they are just free to be.

Your Baby Can Read? Wow! You are AWESOME!

2011-06-04T14:14:00.002-05:00

Lucy is so gifted that she prefers reading upside down

I love television, so I'm certainly not against my children watching a few shows (Sesame Street and something we call "Nina Night Night" on Sprout). Because of this, I have seen a thousand times a commercial for this program called "Your Baby Can Read." I'll admit that I am often swayed by advertising, but this infomercial has the same effect on me as the trailer for the TLC show, "Toddlers and Tiaras": It pisses me off. Royally.

Here's some background on "Your Baby Can Read". http://www.yourbabycanread.com/
http://trevorcairney.blogspot.com/2008/07/your-baby-can-learn-to-read.html

Wow! Your baby can READ! Cool! You must have smart genes! You are undoubtedly an intelligent person and a GREAT parent!

Can your baby actually read? No. Your Baby Can Memorize! Good job, though. Memorizing is a noteworthy skill. The memorization versus actual reading issue is not what angers me as much as the pompousness of the program. It's the Baby-As-Mommy-and/or-Daddy's-Little-Trophy thing that disturbs me.

Besides, kids read at their own paces. Baby/toddlerhood is full of beginning reading opportunities that are fun for kids, without flashcard drills and mandatory videos. I'm sure some of the materials for YBCR are interesting to kids, and if my kids chose to look at those flashcards or watch one of those videos, of course I would go along with it. But in order for Your Baby [to] Read, you have to make those things a part of every day activities, giving your baby or toddler a homework schedule and mandatory tv or computer time, however many minutes a day. That's ridiculous. We do read books every day, but my kids initiate this reading time and it's fun. Being rebellious by nature, I can't imagine my kids willingly sitting still for mommy-led, mommy-enforced "reading" time for a certain amount of minutes every day. Isn't learning supposed to be child-directed and child-centered at this age? And all about play? The biggest objection I have to this program is that it is not really about the kids at all. The only reason parents would force their kids into daily "reading" according to this program is for bragging rights. Parents buy this because they want to be able to say to their friends and their kids' teachers, "Little Isabel started reading at 12 months." But no, Isabel did not. Isabel memorized some words because you sat her in front of those words every day. And you did that to make yourself look like a stellar parent of a gifted child. And that, to me, is almost as bad as putting your kid in a pageant dress and painting her orange.

Anyway, kids don't learn to become engaged readers from flashcards and videos. It's more subtle, less glam. They bring books to us that they want us to read with them. They gradually start pointing to print in their environment and start to say letters and words, sing songs, and play with language. My favorite part is when they get a little older and they inventing their own letters and words. It's really cool to see what they come up with. And the "pretend" reading is fun too-- when they make up their own words to a book, yet their little fingers are following the print like they've seen you do. The point is that our kids are learning without even knowing they are learning and they are having fun with it. We are not drilling them and teaching them in the process that learning is something they should do in order to make their parents talk in high-pitched voices and clap their hands. We teach them that learning is fun and that we respect them as learners and value their genuine interests.

Are we afraid our children will turn out to be ordinary like us?

Cousins "reading" in the bath tub at Grammy's house

Are the parents of the "Toddlers in Tiaras" living out their own fantasies of being slim and glamorous through their frighteningly over-polished kids? I think so. Sorry, little Mykenzi does not look adorable in her eight-hundred-bucks-on-ebay tacky couture gown. She actually looks like a miniature Joan Crawford doll. I won't even get into the sexualization of little girls-- which is enough to send me over the edge. I guess two-year-old girls in bikinis with fake teeth, spray tans, and chinchillas tacked onto their heads are considered beautiful to some people out there. And who am I to judge?

I judge because training kids to be "Best In Show" is disingenuous to me. But I could be wrong. I know some of the pageant kids really want to do it. And what if my son or daughter wants to be in pageants? I will deal with that if it happens. I guess it's the difference between forcing our kids to do something and guiding them in a sport or activity that they enjoy and want to do. And all of those babies who can "read" are strapped in high chairs or car seats at the time, and, if given the option to do something else, I'm not sure they'd rather stay strapped into those chairs reading flashcards. I'm sure it's complicated-- it's not bad that we want to teach our kids to learn and be smart and to follow-through and not be quitters, but we don't want to be too pushy and end up teaching them to hate books, to hate ballet, to hate the clarinet, to hate t-ball, and to hate us.

While some parents burst with pride as their babies read flash cards, and others clap their hands as their daughters shake their hips to Shania Twain songs on stage, I'm perfectly proud of my filthy, illiterate toddlers as they scream jibberish and dump buckets of sand on each other's heads. It's just another ordinary, happy day.

Mama's Tragic Flaw

2011-02-11T11:10:00.002-06:00

That was Ephram Brown, the wry and sensitive teenage protagonist from "Everwood," which sadly went off the air in 2005.

Needless to say, it was because of this character that I fell in love with the name "Ephraim" (original Biblical spelling) and I thought even then that this name might also fit my future son.

Here is Effram James when he was just a few days old. He had a scab on his nose from his jaundice sunglasses. His cry sounded like that of a little goat.

I love the actual Effram much more than a fictional character on a cheesy network drama starring Treat Williams. And I'm not goofy enough to compare my kid to a tv character.

But I do compare him to myself. That in itself is a parent's tragic flaw.

Lucy may look more like me, and she is feisty. But actually, Lucy is a very happy child in general. Thank God, because happiness is not so much in my genes, which is why we picked for a sperm donor a laid back California dude with no history of depression in his family.

Effram, however, is extremely sensitive. Having twins gives one the unique experience of seeing two creatures growing side by side in such different ways. If you're lucky, one baby usually follows the typical "norm" developmentally, such as rolling over, crawling, walking, talking, chewing and swallowing food, etc. When the other doesn't, it's hard not to notice. For example, we hoped Lucy would stop spitting out her food after nearly digesting it, and for the most part she has. We hoped Effram would start walking eventually, and he did, 3 months after his sister. (He had such a fast, kickass crawl-- it was obvious why he didn't want to let it go). So now we're hoping Effram will eventually stop crying all the time.

He cries when he falls, when he bumps his head, or when somebody leaves the house. Those are all common things that make babies sad. He cries when he wakes up and when he has to go to sleep. Again, pretty common. He also cries when he has the slightest pain, physical or existential. He feeds his cookie to the dog and then cries that it is gone. He breaks his sandwich into parts and then cries that it's not whole anymore.

If we smell something foul coming from the nursery, it's a safe bet that Effram will start to cry. When examined, it's an even safer bet that the culprit is still asleep. That's right-- Effram cries when Lucy poops.

He cries when he wants something or when he doesn't want anything or when he doesn't know what he wants.

Today I don't know. I think he's crying for Mubarak to resign.

He has made progress. He's crying less at night, and sleeping through the night about 3-4 times a week. Basically this means I lied in that last blog post. I just loved those smiling, happy pictures of E.Bear. I was feeling sensitive after a family member said, "I've never actually seen him happy before." I wanted to make sure people knew that my baby isn't like, depressed.

But some days and nights, the neighbors probably wonder. Why does that kid cry so much? What are they doing to him?

I shouldn't have watched that episode of "Bipolar Kids" on Discovery Health. Seeing those kids and their parents suffer with this "invisible illness" just about destroyed me.

I've been depressed since I was a fetus. As a kid I was always angry or irritable, having tantrums, and then retreating to my bedroom where I'd rock back and forth for hours. My behavior was similar to that of children on the Autism Spectrum. Everything had some sort of unpleasant sensory and/or emotional undertone to it. I was (am) extremely sensitive to certain sounds. I hated family meals because I couldn't stand the sound of utensils touching plates or bowls or the noises people made while chewing. I've always been hard to live with because I cannot stand people brushing or flossing their teeth, cutting their nails, eating cereal or ice cream, typing, or snoring. Chewing gum, or, God-forbid "popping" one's gum is an infraction that has led to fights with friends and public tantrums. The sound is so offensive to my ears that it turns me into an instant crazy person. To this day! (I almost put my fist into a display case at Target last night because of this).

But it's not about me.

Sure, depression is genetic, but we also pass down our issues onto our kids. I don't want to do that to either of them. They are toddlers and being toddlers is hard enough.

So he rolls around on the floor banging his head and screaming for no apparent reason, refusing to be held or played with or fed, and does so while his sister is smiling and bringing him a cracker to cheer him up. Lucy has typical toddler tantrums all the time, and we deal with them without speculation or suspicion.

It's my job to love him and keep him out of trouble (such as electrical outlets). It's also my job to step aside and let him be. It seems we have to protect our kids from our own bullshit too.

At the end of the day, thank God I have a partner who balances me out.

"Honey," she says. "He probably just has to poop."

Tiny Tots with their Eyes All Aglow...

2010-12-08T19:26:00.004-06:00

...Will find it hard to sleep tonight."

Sleep issues in this house have nothing to do with Santa. The kids have no idea what Santa is. They have no idea why there is a tree in our living room, either, but they seem to like it. No-- their eyes are all aglow because they are toddlers and they are excited to be alive. They are fast. They are starting to communicate with actual utterances that sound more and more like words. They are starting to scare me.

Remember Lucy? Formerly known as "Good Time Baby" for her easy-going nature?

Try prying a remote control or cell phone out of her hands and she will release an unrelenting shriek of glass-shattering proportion.

This baby is learning to assert her independence. Pretty common for toddlers, but she's always been feisty. She bit me the other day when I insisted she sit in her high chair for longer than two seconds. Biting, I thought, was something we'd deal with at two. But I guess I have a precocious biter.

Then there's Effram. Otherwise known as "The Fussy One." Again, not anymore!

This kid has overcome his gastrointestinal issues and got through a seemingly ugly surgery surprisingly well. He's been smiling, laughing, and talking. He's still not walking on his feet, but he does walk upright on his knees, which is a sight to see. He still loves crackers though. Plain old graham or Barbara's Bunny crackers are his favorite things on earth. And his favorite activity? Throwing things. The bigger the bang, the better. One week he located every water glass within reach and threw them hard on the ground, shattering them. I thought I had hid every glass, but he is very good at finding things. Besides glass, his favorite things to throw are metal buckets full of toys. He hasn't figured out that throwing things at people hurts them. This is what we are working on. You can throw a ball to me, but you cannot throw that bucket full of heavy wooden blocks at my head. Why not? The word of the week is "hurts." As in, "It hurts when you throw that at me." and "Biting hurts, darling."

There is no going backward. They are growing fast and they are dangerous.

Together they love to destroy the house, starting with the bookshelves.

What a difference a year makes!

They do not sit still as these pictures suggest.

Effram is still interested in cuddling with Mama sometimes. That's nice, because I'm not entirely ready to let them grow up and leave the house just yet.

It is interesting to watch children form attachments with things. Lucy has become Quite attached to Mr. Bear. She now gets him out of her crib during play time and drags him around the house. I've seen a lot of kids interact with beloved objects, but I've never witnessed the development of the attachment and it is very sweet.

Endless fun with household objects.

Look how cute I am as I throw this block at your eye.

Lucy: "Who the hell is this guy?"

Effram: "I don't know but I better get a cracker for this."

Milk and remotes. Happiness can be bought.

We have tons of pictures but I have very few words. It's two degrees outside. How did this happen? I swear it was just Halloween a little while ago. Now it's a winter wonderland, except that wonderland has already frozen solid and it's practically Russia outside. Lisa's working a lot because things break in the wintertime and people's bathrooms are falling apart left and right. I've been trying to keep up with these babies and keep us all fed and healthy and am reading a lot of classic Judy Blume books and taking baths. The Judy Blume thing must be research. I think I've got stories in my head but I am not ready to write. However, I am convinced of one thing:

It's going to be a good winter.

I mean it, damn it. I have hope!

We've got a lot to be grateful for.

Tigger Tigger Burning Bright

2010-10-07T16:38:00.041-05:00

Thanks Rob for taking our photographs!

Write thank you cards? No thank you. Put away laundry? Load dishwasher? Later, later. It's a beautiful day in Chicago. A great day for a wagon ride.

Also a great day for an nonconsentual costume party!

Thank you, Kelly, for Daniel & Ethan's old Pooh & friends get-ups. We have no ideas for Halloween this year, and these--though a little roomy--just might do. I'm working on not caring so much about making everything cool and homemade and indierock. Like, their birthday party. Wasn't perfect. The kids decorated cupcakes made from a box. A few years ago when I was making my niece and nephew's birthday cakes from scratch, I would never have believed that my own kids would get Betty Crocker bullshit cupcakes for their birthday party. But perfection--if it were attainable--would be boring. And I do what I can do with my ADD brain. Which meant that I took months making decorations and barely remembered the cake. Reminds me of our wedding, when I took months ordering vintage tool boxes for centerpieces in which we were supposed to put the flowers. And then I forgot the flowers! We got them at the last minute. At Lowe's. And all they had were mums. You have to laugh at these things, I mean, if you're me.

I love projects, especially ones that involve kids. But when it comes down to it, it's sometimes more important to get everyone fed, bathed, and put to bed, and then to sit on the couch with a glass of wine and not think.

Anyway, last year's costumes will be hard to top. Here's a refresher:

Effram as Sir Elton John

Lucy as Sinead O'Connor

This year, I thought of Mr. and Mrs. Roper. Effram could wear a cardigan with elbow patches or a bathrobe and black slippers and Lucy could wear a floral 70s mu-mu with beads and an awesome wig. But A) Lisa said, "Yeah, Bess-- it's just not that funny," and B) there is no way Lucy would tolerate any of that. I'm lucky to be able to put a diaper on that baby.

We're still thinking. Or I should probably say I'm still thinking, because Lisa-- I'm pretty sure she couldn't care less. She was a nun every year as a kid and saw Halloween as a burden. I have been making my own costumes and taking them very seriously since I was a small, uptight child. I seem to remember my Cheerios box costume, which didn't fare well as I had to participate in a marching band parade, playing a saxophone. I wish I had a picture so that I could make fun of myself publicly.

I won't do that to my kids. I'm quite prepared for them to be anti-creative halloween costumes. I mean, shouldn't we expect our kids to reject everything we're into and to be everything that we're not? This is one of those things the Religious Right doesn't realize. Straight people make queer kids. Queer people make straight kids. Hopefully mine won't be Republicans or Star Trek fanatics, but I'm going to prepare myself for that. I mean, Lisa loves soccer and played her whole life. I just think she should prepare herself for the kids to not be into it. I'll be very excited for either of them if they're interested in sports. It doesn't seem like Effram would ever reject a ball at this point, but they're only 1. You never know. I don't expect to teach either of them to sew or to watch Project Runway with me. And I don't expect Lucy to want to play the saxophone or be in plays or for Effram to want to go to Juilliard (like the fictional character he was named after), though I'd totally support him if he did. If the world works as I suspect it does, I'm thinking one of them will be into science, and the other will be a politician. They'll tolerate us when they get older, but they may not appreciate our quirky talents. Nature and nurture are very funny concepts. I'm no sociologist, but I'll ask Uncle Robert. I'm pretty sure I'm right.

Another digression! I better finish this before the babies wake up and I go running toward what sounds like someone rattling the bar off his or her crib, and save this to a draft and then never post it, which is what I usually do, in case you wonder where all the posts have been for the past two months. I think there are one or two people who wonder that, anyway.

Me: "Who's up for a party? I'll provide the crackers!"

Lucy: "Book!"

Effram: "Cracker!"

"Wait. You want me to wear what?"

Me: "Oh, just a little costume."

Lucy: "What do you take me for? A chump?"

Lucy: "Effram, after we eat these crackers, we're going to cry, okay?"

Effram: "Lucy, did you know you're wearing an orange cat suit."

Lucy: "Ebear, did you know you're a jackass? But that's okay. Your ears are so soft."

Lucy: "What should we do now?"

Effram: "I don't know, but I look awesome."

"Check out my tail with the sweet bow!"

Lucy: "Guess I'll read."

Effram: "Hey Weezer, how do I look?"

"See you donkeys later."

Toddling into Autumn

2010-10-03T21:51:00.007-05:00

Fall is my favorite season. I can't wait for the crunchy leaves and the oranges and reds and yellows. Also, instead of referring to myself as "unemployed" I'm starting to look at it as "otherwise engaged" in various activities that I will have little time for in the future. Like this blog, for instance. Or sewing things. I'm also going to teach myself to cook. It's a good year to be learning and growing and a bad year to be getting a job. So I'm lucky to be able to stay home with these awesome little people.
Just look at them! Ripping the ten dollar sodas from the cart at the airport! We went to see Aunt Abby during her layover (proves my point-- you can't do that if you have a job!).
I'm taking any writing or quilting work I can get, (plug! send me your holiday orders now!). Meanwhile Lisa's been working overtime and side jobs like crazy. In a few hours she comes home with what it takes me two weeks of editing and/or sewing to earn, but I'm grateful. We're getting by and are also soaking up as much family time as possible. New things are happening every day. Such as:

Lucy is walking! That's right, NICU. Walking.

Yesterday was their due-date birthday, October 2, which is the date the doctors use to measure their actual development, though their birthday was in August. It's going to become forgettable as the years pass, but it's still important now. We'll worry about that whole birth date/school year difference in a few years. Have I mentioned Lucy's walking? She's walking! Look! Well, as usual, you have to wait till she's done reading a book. She looooves books.

Here we are today, coming home from the market. The weather reminds me of last year at this time, when they were only newborns, sleeping all day as the leaves fell from the trees. This peaceful nap was the only time they slept today. I can't wait to spend fall afternoons at the playgrounds with my toddling toddlers!

Here's a status update followed by some pictures in no particular order. It's basically our September, in between last-minute quilting projects and Lisa's plumbing side-jobs.

Lucy

First word: "book" (sounds like "gook")

also says "dog" and "cracker" and "ma ma"

Favorite toys: books (any Eric Carle and Where Is Baby's Belly Button? are faves) Also musical instruments such as maracas, tambourine, drums

Likes: reading, stacking and unstacking books, practicing walking, dancing to anything (including cell phone ring tones), following animals, practicing talking, eating snacks, drinking from cups, taking baths

Dislikes: clothes, hats, or barrettes

Favorite food: yogurt, crackers, green beans

Effram:

First word: "cracker"

Favorite objects: balls, bowling pins, things that make a "bang", bowls

Likes: throwing and catching, hiding & stashing objects, drinking bottles of warm milk, investigating, observing, taking baths

Dislikes: Car seats, baby gates, closed doors

Favorite foods: yogurt, berries, bananas, crackers, toast

One Year Later, Looking Back

2010-08-05T20:15:00.000-05:00

People asked me all the time if I craved pickles. "My strongest craving is asphalt," I'd confess. Not for shock value, but because it was true: I was a pregnant stalker of freshly paved roads and driveways. I used to imagine the texture of a warm piece of pavement crackling in my hand like a black Rice Krispie Treat. I never found out whether it was a vitamin deficiency or hormones or what, but smells and textures of certain harsh chemicals were extremely pleasing during my third trimester. I had a weakness for cleaning supplies. I would call Abby for a reminder. "Tell me not to drink the bleach," I'd say. Unphased, she'd comply: "Don't drink the bleach, Bess." And, of course, I wouldn't. I would just fantasize about it for a while. My favorite activity the week before giving birth was cleaning the kitchen sink. "What would happen if I ate just a few bites of Comet?" I'd ask. I already knew the answer, so I just cleaned the sink and begged Lisa to go to Home Depot with me again and again, promising not to lick the floor.

This was me-exactly one year ago today. I was making a birthday cake for my upstairs neighbor wearing my Grandma's old apron.

A year later these memories strike me as very strange and foreign. I'm such a different person now. Sometimes I still think-- "Oh my God, I'm somebody's PARENT." For the most part, I've gotten used to it. I'm a very lucky parent of two hilarious, lovable little somebodies!

What a year it has been.

Being the mother of preemies, I was sure I would not miss the newborn days. We had two extra months of newborn-mode, after all. I thought they'd never grow into normal-looking babies. But now they're 17 pounds, wild and crazy and on their way to toddlerhood.

Here are some never-before-seen photos. We were picky about which photos we put online at first because we didn't want people to freak out over how small they were.

Effram looks like a miniature old man. I called him Benjamin Button.

Lucy fits inside Uncle Rod's hands.

People were kind and told us they were precious and sweet and adorable. They were precious--yes, but also frighteningly tiny. After a while, we were so used to their little bodies that people's reactions started to jar us a little.

One year later as I was packing up the breast pump and the baby swing and everything we could possibly get rid of, I found myself having this weird pang of nostalgia. All of these strange feelings came flooding back. I actually found myself missing the NICU. MISSING THE NICU? Now, that felt really odd. Who misses the most traumatic experience of her life? It's psychology 101, I guess. The social worker and nurses said I might miss the NICU after leaving it late last September, but I thought they were crazy.

Last August was a such a mixed bag of blessings. I had been worried about the hormonal changes that occur after birth and was terrified of ending up with postpartum depression. I was so relieved that I didn't experience this, but then again I think the Universe was kind, knowing that having postpartum depression AND babies in the NICU who were the size of squirrels might have sent me over the edge. Still, no one tells you that even vaginal births involve a strange recovery period. I went back to my hospital room feeling like I had been physically and emotionally gutted.

There I was in the NICU every day that first week, wearing ice packs in my underwear and industrial sizedmaxi pads. I'd leave the hospital for a break and felt blinded by the brightness and noises of downtown Chicago. Every day I saw husbands pulling up their SUVs and helping their postpartum wives into the back seat with their healthy nine pound babies. Everyone else was just going about their days, rushing here or there. I felt so fragile and vulnerable to the outside world. Everything was too harsh. The NICU was uncomfortable and awful in its own ways but it only felt right to be there, quietly acknowledging the other NICU moms. We were all in our own worlds of pain and healing and worrying. Most of us in some combination of hospital gown and jeans, carrying bags of pumping equipment. Experiencing such visceral feelings and wearing the same anxiety on our faces over the constant flip-flopping of our babies' conditions. We would ask each other how our little ones were doing, but were careful not to make too much conversation. I know I couldn't handle anyone else's situation. My own was hard enough.

Our primary nurse took the time to put Lucy in a swing. She loved it!

We had a total lack of control over what happened and so we just held our tiny creatures, or sat beside them, hoping our presence made a difference. But also because we didn't know what to do with ourselves. We couldn't be anywhere else. We got used to the report-card smell of the NICU mixed with the scent of antibiotic-infused baby pee and were accustomed to the lights and blips and beeps of the equipment. Our babies kicked and pulled off their leeds, sending the monitors into hysterics, and every time we'd think they were dying. The nurses would then react with no emotion and go on debating whether Potbelly's new salads were as good as Panera's. "It's not picking up the signal, that's all," they'd say flatly, and go adjust the baby's sticker. I had to remind myself that those nurses see a lot of trauma every day at work and are not stonehearted bitches, they're just used to it.

It's really been a remarkable year. These kids have no idea how much love is out there for them. While we have had some hard times, I am ultimately humbled by the generosity and kindness we've experienced this year. We have a lot of support for our family, and there is still so much love and energy pouring in for these babies all the time. That is a wonderful feeling for a couple of proud moms.

So. Despite those unexpected feelings of nostalgia, we are SO grateful to have two healthy NICU "graduates." When I find myself taking their health for granted and worrying that they are almost a year old and can't manage finger foods, I quickly remind myself that they recovered from a scary intestinal disease and are doing wonderfully considering that. They have the rest of their lives to eat Cheerios.

Happy First Birthday Effram and Lucy!

I'm proud to be your Mama and am so lucky to get to know your amazing personalities more and more every day.

Summer Self-pity Festival, Final Days

2010-06-23T10:44:00.004-05:00

Summer spends its first day in Chicago being passive-aggressive. It scoffs and pouts. It's been threatening to storm but can't commit to that either. Go away, longest day of the year. Give me a thunderstorm or leave.

Today I want to drive somewhere. Alone. No one riding shotgun and no Graco seats in the back. No dogs slobbering down the windows. No diapers, no poop bags.

That’s not going to happen. I slam down the phone. The dog barks, wakes the fussy baby. Damn it.

Lisa's been working overtime. Last week she saw an array of famous people like Richie Cunningham and Ellen Degeneres (on separate days) at the museum. I was too tired to care. She just called to say she has to stay till 9 tonight. We need the money, but I've been working OT too-- dishing out the bananas and the oatmeal and the baby-Zantac and the teething gel and the kisses on the bumped heads. Oh, and today Effram is barfing and has a fever. Whine, whine, whine. I know it's my choice to stay home with them. And really, I love it. I love that I get to know these babies. I know their happy, sad, mad, sick or tired sounds. I know every tiny scratch and red mark on their precious little bodies. Lucy is crawling too now; she's funny. She sort of scoot-crawls. EBear is still army crawling but it works for him. He's fast on his belly with his legs swimming on the floor. Our little water frog. Sometimes I just shake my head at them, like, "You guys are just so beautiful and cool." But lately, it’s mostly me anticipating their moves, putting up gates, and following them saying, "Wait! No! Don’t put your fingers in that door jamb! Ugh!" I'm so grateful that they're healthy and developing as they should be. But I'm also exhausted and going through some weird emotional stuff.

I think I need to do something I'm good at. I keep forgetting what that is. Sure, it takes a special talent to maneuver a clean diaper onto the bottom of a mobile infant. Make that two. Still, my self esteem is clogged. I want to do something I enjoy. I want to write, read, and work on art projects. I want to teach myself to paint. And run. And swim.

Instead, I’ve been having a self-pity festival. I swear, it's fun. I've been doing it for years without knowing it and am still going strong. Want to join me?

Here are the requirements. Do you:

Tell a good sob story?
Become easily offended?
Let a complete stranger who gives you a dirty look ruin your whole day?
Act like a victim?
Act like a martyr?
Try to fix other people’s problems and get too involved?
Judge yourself constantly and project it onto others?
Blame your parents/childhood for all your shortcomings?

If so, you’re invited!

We can talk about how hard it is to be us. We can discover the hilarious irony that we have no self-esteem and simultaneously feel superior to everybody.

Sound good?

My friend Jimmy once asked me, "Why were you so mad all the time?" regarding when we were kids. Apparently, I was very mean to my fellow fifth-graders. I remember my science teacher had nicknamed me "Crabface" but I never really thought that was a negative thing. I sort of reclaimed it.

me, in fifth grade

I used to think that everyone’s family history included alcoholism, addiction, anxiety, depression, perpetual money problems, poor health, divorce, and/or suicide. At sleepovers, I probably boasted to my friends that my great grandfather hung himself, or that I never met my real grandfather because he left my grandma for booze when my dad was just a kid. I thought these stories had a sort of dramatic flair to them. “Did you know that my dad got so drunk that he wrecked eleven cars in eleven years!” I’d say, just like I heard my mother say over and over. “And then my mom beat him up with the heel of a boot and he finally stopped!” Ha ha! I picture the little Mary Bess as the only one laughing and imagine the awkward silence that followed.

Clearly, I'm the one with her arms crossed and the sarcastic half-smirk.

Eventually, I learned that these were not the kinds of things a person should brag about. In college, I gravitated toward the people whose lives involved the most chaos. If you were angry, emotionally unstable, bitter, or had a rotten past, you were definitely more interesting. I could find a way to get into a relationship with you. I can't believe I ever graduated with all the drama I created.

Through therapy and Al-anon, I’ve learned that I have picked up certain cognitive habits and behaviors and coping mechanisms that I once thought were perfectly normal, but aren’t, and don't serve me in a positive way. It all scares the hell out of me when I look at the sweet, happy faces of my babies, because I really want them to be well-adjusted and emotionally healthy. I don't want them to grow up seeing me so angry all the time, or to worry about the next time I'm going to get angry. So I’m beginning to work on my hang-ups, and I’m hoping to dismantle the long-running self-pity festival going on in my head. Ryan Adams says he’s “fallen out of love with pain”. I think I finally have, too. I’m not so drawn to chaos anymore. I’m sure I haven’t gotten completely over it though. Especially when it’s attractive and comes in costume.

I used to think that being “difficult” was cute. It’s not. Neither is being hyper-critical. It’s tiresome to be judgmental all the time. Even about stupid things, like tanning beds or Republicanism. Cancer and Sarah Palin should be fought, but negativity for the sake of negativity is wasted energy. I want to take care of myself and contribute positively to this world somehow. I want to do the things I love to do and am good at doing, have healthy relationships with normal boundaries, and raise my kids to be grateful and kind. That’s enough.

So far I’ve defined myself by the struggles I’ve been through. To change that means I’ll have to do something other than struggle. That's harder than it sounds! But I no longer think that a child has to grow up like a phoenix rising from adversity or atrocity in order to become a good person. Challenges make us stronger, but not if we keep clinging to the things that challenged us in the first place, or seek and find those same challenges in other forms or locations.

Summer of 97, somewhere along the Oregon coast.

I have a tattoo that I got when I was 18. It’s supposed to resemble a hieroglyphic, but it looks more like a robot or an alien with a key hole in his chest. My teenage self related to this drawing. I suppose I felt locked inside of myself and thought it was a powerful idea. My first girlfriend named the tattoo "Key Man." She took these pictures (the second one is cropped to enhance the tattoo).

In my 20s, I criticized everything. I made fun of myself for thinking that the concept behind my tattoo was deep.

In my 30s, I’ve been looking everywhere to find a key. I think it’s more like a code—a new way of doing and responding to things. I’ve been trying to break the old code. “Key Man” is still very much a part of me, but I’m not using that locked up cave man as a metaphor to define me anymore.

Lucy pulled herself up and felt the grass under her toes yesterday for the first time. She was delighted with herself. My hope is that I can unlearn some old habits that weigh me down so I can do the things I’m scared of—teaching, writing, creating, parenting—with that same uninhibited delight.

A Letter to Lucy

2010-05-29T12:32:00.019-05:00

This photo was taken today, but I wrote the letter yesterday.

Dear Lucy,

Thursday morning and you're napping in your crib wearing oatmeal in your hair and a bird’s egg blue dress. You are lovely.

In this picture, you're just a few days old. Mommy and I are kissing your tiny head.

I wondered who you'd become, my gray-eyed kitten. My little squawker. My baby bird.

I still wonder, but I worry less. You're not a kitten anymore, you're a cat! So smart and strong, determined and independent. You communicate so well. You're also sweet and So Damn Funny!

Lucy, everyone who meets you falls in love with you immediately. You have this smile that just brings out the sunshine in people. People talk to you so sweetly and you make them laugh-- the pharmacist, the drunk homeless guy, sometimes even angsty teenagers! You smile with your entire face--those dimples, your sweet little pink cheeks, and those ocean-rock-gray eyes. You're a sparkler, Lucy. My little clown. You are light.

I'm so glad we named you Lucy.

As a little girl, I had so many dolls and I still remember all of their names. Names were very important to me. I always hoped I'd have a daughter, and I thought about what you'd be like. So when the doctor told me that there was a boy and a girl inside me, I was amazed that I had no name for you. Here are some pictures

of me as a little girl.

How could I not know your name? I listened to women who were not pregnant tell me that they knew what they were going to name their little girls, when they had them. They chose Ava, Ella, Emma, Emily, Sophie, Olivia... I heard over and over the pretty girl names. I saw them swirling in cursive writing in my head at night. These were the most popular names the year you were born. I went through the alphabet and tried to land on the letters I liked best. A, E, G, L, M, R, W... I couldn't find you in the letters.

I was tired of people asking and giving suggestions. I thought of telling them I was trying to decide between Rosencrantz and Gildenstern. "Which one do you think sounds more feminine?" I'd ask.

Some women say they've known all their lives what they wanted to name their children. I don't see how that could be possible. No one favorite name was consistent enough to withstand the many eclectic phases I have gone through since I was a little girl. Let's start from the beginning:

Jenny was my first favorite name. She was also my first best friend. Little did I know that every girl on every block in the 70s and 80s had a best friend named Jenny too (all of whom would become "Jen" in high school). Here's a picture of Jenny and me with her little brother. We were playing dress-up.

Jenny and I fought a lot. (I was a scrappy, bossy little girl).

When I was six, I went through a stage of appreciation for all names that sounded tough and ended in -i instead of -y, such as Randi, Brandi, Staci and Traci.

At ten, I might have given you a name with a double -ll, like Molly or Jill.

As a teenager, I claimed to be a "nonconformist." I kept cutting my hair shorter and shorter until there was nothing left! I'd probably have named your brother Thurston, after Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth. You might have been Sinead O'Connor Tschaen.

In college I probably wrote a really bad story or poem in which I named you Ramona (Rae for short). I still like that name quite a bit, because of Ramona Quimby, a character in a series of books I cherished as a girl and can't wait to read with you.

Ramona Quimby

Unfortunately, Maggie Gyllenhall named her daughter Ramona, and for some reason that meant that I could not. In fact, Hollywood was to blame for snatching up a lot of my favorite girl names. Brooke Shields stole Rowan and Greer for her daughters. Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck took Violet. They can have Seraphina, but I loved Violet. (Mommy thought it was too "flowery" anyway).

I wanted a special and unique name for you, like Maeve. Maeve was a girl I used to babysit when she was five. Now she's a teenager! But Maeve is one of a kind, and I wanted you to have your own name.

This is a photo of Maeve Rose in Kindergarten, when I lived with her.

I thought, "If not Maeve, how about Mavis?" I thought it was close to Maeve, but with a special spunk to it.

"Absolutely not!" said Mommy. She hated it. I pouted over Mavis for quite a while.

So then you were Carson. I had been reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.

Carson McCullers

Carson reminded me of a wiry, whip-smart girl, and I liked it. But then Mommy sent me a link to a Pottery Barn Kids furniture item called "The Carson Desk." And I did not want to name you a Pottery Barn name. Carson McCullers' name was really Lula Carson Smith, anyway. We closed the book on Carson.

Next, you were Murray!

Murray? Like a short Jewish guy with male pattern baldness?

Like the dog's name, Murray? Or the auto part store, Murray's?

Yes! What can I say? I loved the name.

To me, it was pretty and spunky and cute. I saw you being a cute little tough girl running around the school yard with that name. "Honey, Murray's kicking again!" I'd holler from the bathtub. But people seemed to think that I'd ruin your life if I named you Murray. And I had to give it some thought since we were already potentially ruining your brother's life naming him Effram. So I let it go but secretly decided that I'd call you Murray anyway, regardless of what we named you.

Nanny made a case for Lily. Lily Bean, in fact. She saw it on a commercial and had been obsessed with it ever since. But I already knew a few little girls with variations of Lily-names. One of my favorite students was named Liliana. She went by "Lil". She too is one of a kind.

This is Lil dressed as Babar.

So you wouldn't be Lil, or Lily either. Mommy liked Josephine ("Joey") because it was your great grandmother's name on the Tschaen side. But I didn't like that name. Joey reminded me of the character played by Katie Holmes on a show called "Dawson's Creek" and Josephine reminded me of my late grandmother's friend who used to try to make me eat circus peanuts. You just weren't Josephine. Mommy said you couldn't be Clementine either. We were really stuck!

This is a photo of me talking to you in my belly. I called you "Legs" for a while.

While I was pregnant, I had thought a lot of my grandma, Dorothy. She would have loved you! In fact, when you were born, I thought you looked a lot like her. I wanted to use her middle name, Mae. I like all those Southern-sounding names. I wanted to name you Willa! Willa Mae! "Not going to happen," said Mommy.

Dorothy Mae, my grandma

I was named after my great-grandmother, Bessie Morgan. Apparently, Bessie had a brother named Morgan M. Morgan, and the M. stood for Morgan! Mommy and I love that story, and we liked the name Morgan. Mommy actually has a cousin named Morgan too, on the Tschaen side. So we were going to name you Morgan. "Morgan, stop punching your brother!" we'd tell you. That lasted a few weeks--the longest running decision we had made.

Here's a picture of you when you were "Morgan."

But then I took another bath and changed my mind for the last time. I saw Morgan embroidered on a pillow in a Pottery Barn Baby catalogue, and I decided that it wasn't feisty enough.

But LUCY was!

I was re-reading Jamaica Kincaid's Lucy. I had just pulled it off the shelf to read in the bath tub and read it again and just knew.

Mommy agreed. We finally had a name for you!

"Are you sure she's not Edie? Or Finley? Or Tatum?" I asked.

Nope. We knew.

We also knew that Lucy was not necessarily a unique name. It was #70 on one of those popularity lists for 2009. So imagine our surprise when you were born so early and we gave you your name, and then met the parents of 3 other Lucy girls in the NICU!

"Oh no!" I thought. "There are going to be 3 Lucies in her kindergarten class!"

That's okay. Even if there are other Lucies in your school, you will always be unique. The nurses said so when you were only a few days old! The x-ray nurse left, shaking her head about you. You had really put up a fight. She said, "Your Lucy--she be spicy!" And it's true!

You do be spicy!

But you're also sweet.

You are not Carson. Or Finley. Or Ramona. Or Josephine. Or Edie. You’re not Mavis. Okay, you’re not even Murray. You are Lucy and you’re my girl. I adore you.

Love, Mama

A Letter to Effram on Arizona, The Sneetches, and being a white boy:

2010-05-06T09:38:00.007-05:00

Dear Effram,

Two teeth down, two more poking through and the Baby Tylenol I've been giving you has just been recalled. (Recalled means that the people who made the medicine made some mistakes). You're fussy today, but you're proud of your sharp little teeth, and I'm proud of you. You're an incredible little boy and your moms love you so much it makes us cry sometimes. You have such gentle eyes, a killer smile, and some seriously powerful paws on you. You're able to pull yourself onto your knees and lunge forward. You're gonna crawl any day now! We can't get enough of you. We're going to love you forever.

You don't know this yet, but your blue eyes and pale face give you a lot of privilege. Being privileged is like having a star on your belly. Having a star means the other Sneetches with stars won't be mean to you. It means you look like them, so you are safe. It means no one will look down on you for speaking your language. You can walk around without anyone being scared of you or thinking you are going to steal anything. Being privileged is not the same as being lucky, because having white skin is not better than having brown skin. You're just treated better by other white people. It's confusing for a little kid, I'm sure.

You are different too, because you have two moms instead of a mom and a dad. And that might be hard for you sometimes because people can be mean to people who are different. People behave a lot like the Sneetches did in the book.

You'll hear the words "illegal" and "immigrant" often when you're older. Illegal means not allowed, and immigrant is a person who came from somewhere else. The white men who came to our country and killed the American Indians were immigrants.The white men who set up the government were immigrants too because they all came by ship from Europe. But then they made the rules, and ever since, our country has had a history of being unfair to other immigrants who came after. It's all about differences, and who is different, like the Sneetches who showed up without stars on their bellies.

History is what happened a long time ago. You will study history in school, but some teachers might not tell you the truth about white people's history of hurting people who are different. White people did a lot of bad things to American Indian, African American, Chinese, Japanese, and Filipino people, and even to other European immigrants. History is full of stories of people picking on people who are different. History is also full of stories about people not sharing.

Today, our country puts fences up to keep Mexican people out. This is both picking on people who are different and not sharing. They call people "illegal" who come from Mexico and other Latin American countries who do not have the right papers. Our government makes people do a lot of things to get a star on their bellies, because they don't really want to share their country. Some people have trouble doing those things, or it is nearly impossible for them to do the things they'd have to do to be "legal". Because of this, your Tio Javi is "illegal."

Arizona is a part of our country that's close to Mexico. The government of Arizona is acting like the Sneetches with stars on their bellies. Now they won't even let teachers teach English if they have voices that sound a little bit different. Did you know that Tio Javi was a teacher in Mexico? They won't let him be a teacher here, so he has to work with concrete and he hurts his back a lot. They keep making more laws that hurt people like Tio Javi. It's not fair.

They also have laws in our country that won't let two moms or two dads get married. Only a mom and a dad can get married. They take your star away if you are gay.

Saying that all Sneetches should have stars is like saying that all people should be treated with respect. I hope that you will grow up to be gentle and kind to all people. I hope that you will try to help to make the world more fair, and that you will share what you have. I love you so much, Ebear. You're a great baby.

Love, Mama

PS: Your great great great grandparents were immigrants from Italy, Germany, France, England, Wales, and Ireland.

Living It Up in the Hotel Skokie

2010-02-23T09:05:00.002-06:00

Lucy and Effram get ready for the beach (or a suburban hotel pool)

"I think she likes it."

"She's totally into it."

Auntie Mary hanging out with the cousins

Gus contemplates whether he's ready to be a role model.

Lucy doesn't think it's fair...

that infants can't have Cheetos.

[Insert snappy opening line here.]

Basically, those photos and captions sum up our mini-vacation. Okay, so it wasn't even that. Okay, so basically we crashed the cousins' hotel party (we were invited to do so). Winter, stage 2 has set in, with its never-ending filthy snow and negative wind chill and general crankiness so the idea of a pool and hot tub and pizza in a hotel room sounded like heaven to us. So what if this heaven happened to be located in Skokie, IL.

[Smooth transition sentence]

Lisa and I even made a point of trying something new: being sickeningly nice to each other, which we started at 5 pm. It lasted until we got into a fight around 7 and didn't speak to each other on the way home. We don't have a good track record for getting along on vacations, anyway (see: honeymoon).

Water mesmerizes these babies, though. We sat by the whirlpool and put our feet in while holding the babies in our laps and they were ready to fall asleep. The sound of the jets should be familiar to them from their days in utero, during which I lived in our Jacuzzi bathtub for four months. (This is not an exaggeration. I have a stack of soggy, ink-smeared Sudoku books to prove it).

[Another smooth transition]

I have no flow right now. It's Tuesday in February and generally I hate Tuesdays and February. Like everyone else in this city, I have no idea why I live in this miserable place. Ice-induced traffic accident reports on the news in the background. Effram is crying his gutteral tired, fussy cry. Lucy pooped through her pajamas. I need to get out of the house but it's all white and cold out there. It's a weird, weird weird time of life, staying home with babies. On many levels I'm blessed, I know. But it's also a strange, crazy-making recipe. Lisa almost got a diaper in the face this morning. Anyway, have a nice day, everyone. Oh, and West Coast friends, I kind of hate you right now. Way to be a predictable Midwesterner, Bess.

[Insert conclusion sentence here].

Take Your Entire Family to Work Day

2010-02-17T08:17:00.000-06:00

Behind the scenes at the Museum of Science & Industry

Our furnace was being replaced on this freezing cold day in early February, so we decided to pack up and spend the day with Lisa at the museum.

Checking out the plumbing shop

Lisa explains the toilet exhibit to her babies

Lisa and her boy chilling in the shop

A little tour

Auntie Sarah's office in the Education Department

This work seems exhausting!

Lucy's tuckered out

It's Time for Winter Baby Stats! Part 2

2010-02-17T07:56:00.002-06:00

Effram "The Catnapper" Tschaen

I will smile at you. And you will love it.

The mall is weird. But I like all of the old ladies who talk to me.

Nicknames: EBear, Bear

Age: 6 months (4 adjusted)

Weight: 12lbs 7oz (4lbs2oz at birth)

Length: 24.2in (15.7 inches at birth)

Hobbies: hanging out with my moms, giggling, being watchful, massages, bathtime, going for walks

Loves: head rubs, silky blanket

Dislikes: overstimulation
Skills: Holding up his heavy head, rolling, breakdancing, grabbing, flipping, babbling, focusing

Challenges: sleeping, colic (we think it's overtiredness &/or reflux. It's going away, we hope)

~~~~~

E.Bear with cousin Gus (who is almost 2)

Tenenbaum day (This was in January)

It's Time for Winter Baby Stats! Part 1

2010-02-16T15:16:00.007-06:00

Lucy "I will eat your face" Tschaen

Get in my mouth, thing.

You can't get away. I will eat you.

Little socks with velcro straps. Sometimes they stay on.

You want a knuckle samwich?

Other Nicknames: Gizmo, Lulu, Pookie

Age: 6 months (4 months adjusted)

Current weight: 12 lbs (3 lbs 15 oz at birth)

Current Length: 24.5 inches (17.2 inches at birth)

Hobbies: Kicking, playing with own toes, gagging herself with her hands, smiling, going on play dates without her brother, trying to eat her brother.
Loves: music, Mr. Bear (a blankie with a bear head that is usually covered in barf)

Dislikes: Socks
Skills: Sleeping, being adorable, being a crib-ninja, hand-eye coordination, strong legs!

Challenges: Reflux. Still.
Special abilities: Can laugh and cry in the same second.

Random Notes on Lucy:

1) Going through a Simon Cowell hair phase

2) Wakes up smiling
3) Funny, funny kid.

Valentines

2010-02-14T08:28:00.005-06:00

Super Bowl Ridiculousness

2010-02-07T19:20:00.000-06:00

A Household Divided

Since I don't really care about football but I'm married to a sort of cocky jock, I thought I'd use my energy to torture our babies instead. Football crowns! There. I did it. Now I'm having fun. And besides, this year is a bit more interesting because New Orleans is in the Super Bowl. And who wouldn't want the Saints to win? If you don't, you're a Bad Person. My husband Lisa for example.

Kidding! So she likes Payton Manning. Or whatever.

Anyway, here are pictures of our babies ~~pretending to be football fans. Pretending they know what a football is.~~ wearing paper hats.

Enjoy!

Long lost Halloween photos!

2010-02-01T08:19:00.001-06:00

How could I have forgotten to post these photos?

They were such tiny little creatures back then, and I did this to them.

Effram as Elton John

Lucy as Sinead O'Connor

...for a long winter's nap

2009-12-03T17:10:00.009-06:00

Greetings, December. How familiar are your bareboned trees and colorless skies. That extra hour of sleep was hardly worth this blanket of perpetual darkness, by the way. Oh, but with you comes Christmas (and I love Christmas, which may/may not be a surprising bit of trivia) so I'll save the seasonally depressive tone for January. I'm not religious, but I grew up influenced by Catholicism and no concern for the lack of connection between Jesus and Santa Claus. I have memories of our church's annual light display and nativity scene (for which one of my classmates' Cabbage Patch Kid was used one year as Baby Jesus). I remember Midnight mass on Christmas Eve, when my dad played guitar in the church folk group and I was always too embarrassed to sing, but I still love the songs. I was always so excited to return home from mass to open our presents and find our stockings full of candy and chapstick. On Christmas Day my siblings and I would examine our new stuff while my mom cooked some kind of animal and our relatives descended upon our house in pairs, ready to overeat and play cards.

So I'm nostalgic when it comes to all of the sights, sounds, and smells of Christmas. And, while I know that the so-called "warmth" of the holidays is a manufactured concept, I guess I don't really care about that. I love all of it--the twinkling of the lights and the powdery fake snow and the silly reindeer sweaters and Snoopy in a Santa Cap and annoying music and gaudy red bows everywhere. Whatever it is that makes me love this time of year and has me giddy about going to pick out a Christmas tree with our new babies (who will likely be asleep at the time and will have zero recollection of the event), I am grateful for it. I am way too critical for my own good and I generally ruin every happy thing in my life with too much amateur political and/or personal overanalysis. A little Christmas spirit makes me a nicer, happier person for a minute. And so. "Ring the bells that still can ring..."

Incredible! As I sit here writing, it has suddenly begun to snow for the first time this year. The babies are snug in their swings, grunting occasionally, and I have actually managed to write a full sentence without getting up to comfort somebody (It's hard being me. Waa, Waa). I hope to update this blog with pictures of nauseating baby Christmasness in weeks to come.

Healthwise, here's the latest: Our doctor (Dr. Blade, a lovely, kind person and a doctor) has stated that Effram and Lucy are developing normally, growing well, and are right where they should be according to their adjusted age (2 months old, how old they would be according to their due date). Our insurance approved one shot each of Synagis, an outrageously expensive antibody created to prevent RSV (Respiratory Syncytial Virus), a virus affecting the lungs that is extremely common among children under 2, and yet dangerous for premature infants. RSV season lasts from November until March, so they should be getting a dose of Synagis every month until March, but United Healthcare skimped on the coverage. So, basically, if you want to come over, come during December while they have this additional boost of immunity. After that, we're going to settle in for a long winter's nap.

We are so proud of the little stinkers! Here are the current baby stats:

Effram

Our pronunciation: EHF-rəm

Full Name: Effram James Tschaen (surname pronounced as Shann)

Name Origin: EPHRAIM, from the Hebrew name אֶפְרָיִם ('Efrayim) which means "fruitful". In the Old Testament, Ephraim was one of Joseph's sons, however, we chose it because I loved Ephram Brown, a character from the TV drama "Everwood" (2002-2006) on the WB, which I made Lisa watch with me when we were Just Friends.

Wrestling name: Effram "The Grunter" Tschaen

Nicknames: EBear, Detective Munch (Munch for short)

Age: 4 months (2 months=adjusted age, based on due date, which is most developmentally accurate)

Eye color: Dark blue (and they seem to be staying that way)

Hair/Fuzz color: Blonde

Weight at birth: 4lbs. 2oz.

Current weight: 9lbs 7oz.

Current Height: 21 inches

Strengths: Finger sucking, head butting, sly smiling, yelling (his original baby goat cry has been replaced by yelling), phenomenal eye contact, and rejecting tummy time by rolling over onto his back.

Challenges: Gas

Hobbies: Boob time, bathtime, observation, sucking hands or pacifier, enjoys having his head rubbed and cuddling

Dislikes: Carseats

Special attributes: male pattern baldness w/ blonde fuzz, two webbed toes on right foot.

LUCY

Full Name: Lucy Morgan Tschaen (Morgan comes from my maternal great-grandmother's Welsh family.

Fact: Lucy's first name is not Lucille.

Name Origin: LUCY: From Latin, means "light". Feminine form of Lucius; vernacular form of Lucia. I read something about Saint Lucia having her eyes gouged out and consequently being named the Patroness of the blind. Lucy is also the bossy little girl in Charles Schulz's "Peanuts" comic strip, which I love.

We chose it because it is feisty, and Lucy was a feisty fetus. I also love the Over the Rhine song "Lucy" and Jamaica Kincaid's novel, Lucy

Wrestling name: Lucy "The Earpiercer" Tschaen

Nicknames: None have stuck so far

Age: 4 months (2 months adjusted)

Eye Color: Blue Gray (may be turning green or brown)

Hair Color: Brown

Weight at Birth: 3lbs 15 oz

Current Weight: 9lbs 1.5oz.

Current Height: 21 1/4 inches

Strengths: Waking the neighbors with glass-shattering shriek, smiling with dimples, cooing, pouting, scratching self & others, kicking, crawling on her back, sleeping, burping like a truck driver, puking on others.

Challenges: Reflux, keeping both socks on

Hobbies: Swinging, bouncing, rocking, being carried, eating(breastmilk, but really enjoys chugging down warm bottles), sleeping, making faces, observing, having conversations

Dislikes: the bark of a certain chihuahua-dachshund

Special Attributes: Dimples. Widow's peak. Strawberry birthmark on right forearm.

Intro to autumn: a brief photo shoot and update

2009-10-08T20:05:00.000-05:00

Yes! (I love this!) And in addition to the pictures, you definitely need another vague update in second person!

It is now October. Your babies were due a few days ago, and you are relieved that they are officially zero and no longer in the negatives. You are getting used to them being around all the time. You are used to their cries and have started to identify the meanings behind the various kinds of screams.You have not spilled coffee on them yet, but you have gotten toothpaste on their heads. They are amazing. They are hilarious. They make eye contact. They scratch you with their sharp little claws. They smile a lot, but that may be because they have a lot of gas. They may have forgotten the painful pokes of NICU life, and they sound less like goats and more like babies every day.

You are consciously transitioning into the habit of shamelessly splattering the world with pictures of your kids. Here are the newest examples. Velour Fall Fashion coordinates courtesy of Kim Gore Perin.

You promised yourself that once the babies were born, you'd maintain some semblance of an identity outside of being a mom. This means you have to get out of the house sometimes, have to have conversations that don't involve babies, and have to attempt to keep up with your appearance, which means doing something about the Carol Brady 70s shag replica hairdo that you've been rocking regretfully for weeks. You wonder: How does it happen that one forgets so fast what she used to do and care about before she had babies? You have so many more ideas for projects and much more motivation to write, but there's no way to avoid becoming the cliche new parent. You may feel inspired but you have zero time or energy to do anything with it. The best you have to offer is a digital display of photos of your children, hoping they don't have too much barf on their clothing and that your breast is not exposed in the corner of any of the pictures. After all, these are the days you prayed to take for granted when the kids were in the hospital. After all that time you spent worrying that they'd never come home, here they are!

They're home and they're healthy, getting louder and fatter (6 1/2 and 7 lbs!) and more beautiful every day.

"Lucy Wants a Hamburger" or: How to be a NICU parent

2009-09-06T17:21:00.885-05:00

Silence alarm at 3:45 a.m. Connect plastic bottles to suction cups to air tubes to pump. Secure cups in place with one hand; check phone. No messages. Wonder if your partner called the nurse. Decide not to call until you find out (Last night you simultaneously called the same nurse from two different rooms in the same apartment). Feel a twinge of carpal tunnel pain--the result of this repeated one-handed pumping position. Make mental note to Google "hands-free pumping device". Crank pump to highest setting. Try to breathe and relax; stress doesn't help milk production.

How strange it is that your babies are tucked away in dark rooms in the middle of downtown Chicago and you are here, doing this. How odd that everything has changed over the course of few weeks. You had been so used to the anticipation of their arrival, to thoughts of their birth as a series of hypotheticals, what-ifs, and decisions you might have to make. Like that one night just weeks ago when you stayed up late washing and folding sleepers and socks, hesitant to put them away in their dresser because you weren't convinced that the two kicking around in your body would even exist as real babies who needed clothes. That strikes you as interesting now. As if you knew it wouldn't be that easy.

But they are real babies. You've seen them. You've marveled at their delicate features, held their bodies skin to skin. You've nuzzled their necks and inhaled that mix of antibiotics and pee and sweetness. You've kissed their soft, fuzzy heads. You've recorded their cries and grunts in your memory. And now your whole body aches for them. You've gotten used to this familiar grief that sits in the center of your chest, knowing you will never, ever be the same person again. But sometimes you still wonder, "What have I done?" and, for a second, you begin to contemplate how you would ever recover if you lost one, or both...

Wipe that thought from your mind.

Remind yourself that you can't control any of it. Force yourself to be strong and allow yourself to hope, to believe that they are going to be fine. Imagine the nurses taking good care of them, keeping an eye on the fluorescent numbers as they rise and fall, minding the chorus of beeps. The babies are outside of you now; there's no turning back. You can worry all you want-- it won't change anything. Your whole life will be full of this worry. At any given moment--now, next week, or fifteen years from now--something could happen. You are predisposed to heartbreak every single day. Are you prepared for that? No. Not at all. But here you are.

Call the nurse. Hope she'll say something like, "No news is good news." You've noticed cliches sprinkled into every conversation lately. Leave a message with the front desk. Try not to spill breastmilk all over the mattress again. Label containers. Store in fridge. Dogs are staring at you. They have to go to the bathroom at some point. Pull on jeans. Find a clean shirt. Go outside with dogs. Say hi to neighbor. Tell her babies are doing okay. Say, "Thanks for asking." You don't really know if the babies are doing okay, you just say so, because anything else takes too much energy, and besides, what is she going to do with information about air in Lucy's intestinal wall? Pick up dog poop. Return dogs to house. Feed them. Tell them you're sorry; you'll pay attention to them later. Transfer milk from fridge to cooler. Notice crusty casserole that somebody brought last week. Ignore that, as well as the dishes in the sink. Wash and pack up pumping equipment. Brush teeth. Stare into mirror. See dark circles under your eyes. Think, "Should I stop eating dairy? What if it was me that made the babies sick?" Forget breakfast.

Drive down Lake Shore Drive. Pass colorful dots of people along the beach. Consider that everyone else still has a life. Pull into Huron St. jazz-themed garage, relieved to catch a spot right away between Neil Diamond and Tony Bennett. Pick up a bagel in the cafeteria. Realize it's been four hours since you pumped. Feel guilty. Hurry to private lactation lounge. Pump milk. Wonder when you will ever get to bring the babies home. Feel helpless. Doubt your ability to care for them without a nurse and monitors. Enter babies' room. Wash hands.

Peek into Lucy's isolette. See on her chalkboard that she is now 4 lbs 1 oz. Talk sweetly to her while she sleeps. Feel at ease because you are finally here, where you belong. Put ear buds through opening in her crib. Turn I-pod to Lucy's playlist. Turn it up and set it on the top of her bed. Watch her react to the music, opening one eye, turning her head, stretching her long legs. Watch her go back to sleep. Wonder if the music is calming to her, if she notices or remembers it from the womb.

Greet Effram. He is awake, staring. Kiss his head. Notice the board says he has gained a few ounces and is now 5 lbs almost 3 oz. Sniff his neck. Spend the morning feeding and "Kangaroo" cuddling with your sweet, gentle, gassy boy. Decide to lay off the pizza. Time to pump again.

Go with Doctor to view x-rays of Lucy's abdomen. Cry. Accept once again that NEC is a serious and dangerous disease. Acknowledge that the previous x-rays were abnormal and--though they are now clear--the presence of the abnormality combined with the bloody stool are reason enough to treat her for NEC. Understand that this means that she cannot eat for seven to ten days and must be on antibiotics and IV fluids/nutrition through a central line in her arm. Sign the consent form for the PCBC (central i.v. line). Hope it doesn't get infected. Try to be comforted by the thought that--although Lucy has to endure more pokes, more machines, more drugs, and no food--she won't remember this at all. Still, you hope that the treatment works and that she'll be over it soon.

Return to find Lucy opening her kitten eyes. Put your hand firmly on her head, which you know she likes (because she would tell you otherwise). Whisper several hellos in your happiest voice. Pick her up slowly with one hand supporting her neck, the other under her bottom. Carefully balance the attached bouquet of wires, cords, tubes, and iv equipment. Rock her gently, beginning your usual repertoire of songs. Start to relax, thinking, "Maybe this week won't be so bad." She seems so content during Elton John's "Tiny Dancer". Repeat chorus several times before the inevitable occurs.

She smells you.

Of course she does. Your udders are leaking! She turns her head and gnaws at your chest with those tiny gums. She only gets a piece of your t-shirt and it pisses her off. She opens wide her baby bird mouth and shrieks. Her skin turns bright red, the color of her fury. She just wants to eat (you).

"Lucy wants a hamburger," was the message from the night nurse. You wish you could give her one. But her poor little gut needs to rest and heal, so she can't even have breastmilk. Move her head away from your chest. Try again to rock and sing to her. As her rage sets off the heart monitor, you place her back inside the isolette. Watch as the nurse swaddles and soothes her, placing the pacifier in her mouth and adjusting her cords. Know she must be tired from the tantrum. Watch as she falls asleep and her heart rate goes back to normal. Taste tears. Say, "Sleep well, tiny dancer." Go back home. Pump. Repeat.

Kicking Ass in the NICU

2009-09-04T09:34:00.014-05:00

A plumber and an English teacher may not know much about medicine, but we're both pretty good at seeing patterns. When our kids are both fine on diets of solely breastmilk and yet keep getting sick shortly after a fortifier is added to the breastmilk, I think we have a right to be suspicious. I won't fill this blog with too many details of bloody stools and x-ray results (even though, as English teachers, we always tell our students to "show, rather than tell"). I'll just say that this seems to be how it goes with babies in the NICU: yesterday we thought they were close to coming home, and this morning I woke up to a call from the nurse practitioner saying that Lucy had to be pulled off her feeds again and put back on an IV. Effram has already had ten days of IV nutrition and belly rest after being diagnosed with NEC, so we understand why they would be cautious. Once. But we have already been through a NEC scare with Lucy, and her first bloody diaper seemed to correlate more with a severe diaper rash or possible allergy to the fortifier. After a few days of antibiotics, xrays, and not eating for a day, they found that she was not sick. But yesterday, when I saw the "fortified" sticker on the bottle of breastmilk again, I was immediately wary. I know that preemies need the extra calories and nutrients in the fortifier, I just wish the doctors picked up on the fact that these babies seem to be showing signs of allergic reaction to this kind of fortifier, and, from what I've read, there are other options out there that may not make our kids shit blood and get sick. But here we are again. Another round of serial x-rays (so gently referred to as "baby-grams" as if they are love notes with candy and teddy bears that are brought to the babies), another day of not being able to feed my kid. Perhaps it is just a coincidence. No, we're not doctors. We're just parents who pay more attention to our babies than the doctors have the luxury of doing in this bustling, full-to-capacity 84-bed NICU. Wow. Listen to me go. I guess I am just truly sick of the emotional roller-coaster that is this situation. And, of course, though they're stronger every day, I'm still scared to death of losing these little people. I've never loved anything so fiercely in my life. It's a terrifying joy.

But if you're skimming this, please read at least this: for the most part, Lucy and Effram are both doing well. Effram is almost 5 lbs and Lucy is 4 lbs plus some. They're both gaining and thriving. The care in the NICU is extraordinary, despite my negative tone at the beginning of this posting. I am just starting to get pissed off by the doctors a little. I should also mention that the primary nurses assigned to Effram and Lucy's care are wonderful. Resume skimming. If interested, read: Our primary day nurse, Tracy, has gone out of her way--even rifling through the trash to find the previous night's culprit (that bloody diaper I said I would not mention). Tracy has been the nurse who has put Effram and Lucy together in one crib throughout the day to keep each other company. She dresses them. She swaddles them and puts them in comfortable positions. She prioritizes breastfeeding and bonding between mothers and babies. She is also encouraging, understanding, and easygoing and would never use unnecessary medical language such as "emesis", when "barf" or any synonym of the word would do just fine. So they are in good care. I'm very grateful for this, because it's impossible to be there all the time, and Lisa has to work. I should get a part-time job just to pay for the parking fees at the hospital!
We have developed what feels like a well-balanced routine. While I spend the day sniffing and kissing the babies' heads, attempting to nurse, and snuggling with them, Lisa, while at work, makes mental lists of questions to ask the doctors, and makes sure she keeps them on their toes. Today we made plans on the phone to go to the hospital together this afternoon. Before hanging up, she said, "Ok. I'll pick you up at noon and we're going to go down there and I'm going to kick everybody's ass. Ok?" I love her for that.

Life in the NICU: The first days

2009-08-27T08:43:00.016-05:00

Effram, all bundled up and looking bigger than 4 lbs, 2 oz.

Lucy (3 lbs, 15 oz) on the bili-light blanket (for jaundice).

Aunties! Sarah and Mary admire Lucy.

Nany Carole sings to her first granddaughter, Lucy.

Lisa and Grammy Kathy admire Effram.

Mary likes Lucy.

Grammy does too.

I love this picture of Uncle Rod and Effram.

Kyle with Lucy (looking feisty).

The twins with all the bells and whistles on their birthday.

Another nice one of Uncle Rod and Kyle

Aunt Mary Ellen meets Lucy.

Lisa's in love with her boy.

Abby admires Lucy's ability to suck that pacifier at 32 weeks old.
Bonding time.

The last of the gratuitous belly shots

2009-08-20T10:15:00.002-05:00

Random women kept swearing, "You'll miss being pregnant," and I always reacted the same way: with an irritated eye roll and an expired, exhausted attempt to explain (which would be futile) why I would not--ever--miss being pregnant. But these women were persistent, even after being subjected to my vivid account of why I can never eat Chipotle again after having to use a Neti Pot to clear the black bean vomit from my nasal passages. They must have concluded that-- because they feel so nostalgic about their experiences as human incubators-- it must be this way for everyone.

Sure, bonding with the babies in utero was special. During the countless baths I took (my only source of physical comfort throughout the pregnancy was water), I'd always talk to the babies and feel them move. The movements started out feeling like little fish swimming around. The bigger they got, and the more pronounced their limbs became, I began to visibly see their movements on the surface of my stomach and could feel their knees and heels kicking my organs and ribs. I was always awestruck by this movement, though it became less sweet and more unbearable as the weeks went on. Here's me making a cake a few days before my water broke. I am wearing my grandmother's apron and a back support brace--very attractive! These are the last shots of that hard, vein-swirled belly.

Another thing that annoyed me was people telling me I was "too small to be having twins". These pictures prove that I was, in fact, pretty damn big. Not everyone gains a hundred pounds during pregnancy. It is not that I did not eat. I did eat-- I just didn't have a monstrous appetite, and I had been sick for a number of months. My doctor was never worried, but people's comments often made me insecure that the babies were not growing properly or that I was doing something wrong. In fact, they were growing; they were exactly the sizes they should have been, and they were doing great. When they were born early, this insecurity about being "too small," perhaps not swollen enough, uncomfortable-looking enough, or just not fat enough, became part of the foundation for my guilt over the preterm labor. Every pregnant woman I saw looked so healthy and happy. Why couldn't I be happy? Why couldn't I have kept those babies inside longer? I knew that the fact that I had been so uncomfortable and sick throughout the pregnancy was not the reason they came out early, and that it wasn't my fault, but I still couldn't help feeling sick when I'd see a pregnant woman-- and there are quite a few pregnant women coming in and out of Prentice Women's Hospital on a daily basis.

I'm starting to get over it, but it's still hard because the babies are born and I don't have anything to show for it, except for the hospital bracelets. It's like they belong to the hospital. I may not miss being pregnant, but I miss having my babies with me. I may look just like the person I was before, in the same clothes I used to wear, but everything--everything has changed.

A Long-Awaited Yet Premature Birth Experience (sung to the tune of Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days")

2009-08-11T11:52:00.007-05:00

My water broke on a Monday afternoon, six weeks ahead of schedule. Luckily, Lisa was home from work early (because she felt sick) and my friend Abby (Antioch 2000), who is (conveniently) a midwife, was staying at my house at the time. If Abby weren't there, Lisa and I would surely have sprung into full-blown panic attacks. But Abby, with her calm voice and demeanor, crouched beside me and said, "You're going to be fine. This is what is going to happen..." And then listed a few events and procedures that seemed completely sensible and bearable to me at the time. 1) We were going to get ready and go to the hospital. 2)The hospital would try to keep the babies inside as long as possible, even though baby A's water had broken. But 3) due to the risk of infection, I would be put on antibiotics. And then 4) I would be given steroids to help the babies' lungs in case they would be born in the next few days. If they could wait that long. I decided that I could do this.

Lisa was assigned the task of gathering my things. First, she could only find my sunglasses. I took them and put them on. It seemed like the thing to do. The three of us got into Abby's car, where we found Pony, who stayed beside me for the duration of the birth. We listened to Abby's soft rock power ballad playlist during the drive down Lake Shore Drive and I alternated between feelings of calm, excitement, and sheer terror.
Me: What did I do wrong?
Abby and Lisa: Nothing. You did nothing wrong. It is not your fault. You can't make your water break.
Me: Are the babies going to die?
Abby and Lisa: They are fine and they are going to be fine.

I knew that I needed to stay calm. I quickly rattled off a few affirmative statements that I needed to repeat to myself over and over throughout the labor and birth. "It will do no good to think of all the bad things that could happen. All you can do is be calm and try to do the best you can to enjoy this experience." So that is what we did. Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days" came into my head as we walked down Superior into the hospital. Somehow the cadence of the chorus and the gritty, mildly depressing verses seemed to fit the situation.

I had a friend was a big baseball player/back in high school/He could throw that speedball by you/Make you look like a fool boy/Saw him the other night at this roadside bar/I was walking in, he was walking out...

We went from Triage to the Labor and Delivery waiting room, where I sat on my sopping wet bath towel on the floor for quite a while. I suggested that someone might as well check her email or Facebook page on the fancy computers that the hospital so kindly provides for the guests. We contemplated why a hospital would spend so much money on flat screen tvs and computers and not have a better arrangement for women in labor or who were gushing amniotic fluid. They wouldn't even give me something to sit on. Ultimately, I decided it was their carpeting, not mine, and had a seat.

Finally we were brought into a fancy room with the amazing view and fancy tv. I looked at the baby warmer and felt amazed that I was not going to leave here without having a couple of babies. The nurses came in and were all very nice. Lisa and I approved of their senses of humor and Abby seemed to approve of their medical explanations. I asked about the doctor on duty and Abby said something about "some idiot medical resident" coming in, and--of course--at that moment, this resident was standing right there. Oops. This just happened to be the fourth-year-resident who ended up delivering me. There were no hard feelings. I was calm and comfortable (no contractions to speak of) and so, after the resident checked me and the nurses did everything Abby had previously mentioned, we sat in the room and looked at the tv.

It was five o'clock. Family Feud was on.
"You did this on purpose," Lisa said. She hates Family Feud, and throughout the pregnancy, I had developed an obsession with it. I made her watch two back to back episodes with me when she came home from work every day. There is something about the obnoxiousness of the show--totally inane questions and answers, catch phrases, and the predictable and ridiculous mannerisms of the host and the contestants. I also appreciate the good sportsmanship demonstrated by the families as they nod and clap for each other and say "Good Answer!" even though they are secretly pissed at each other for ruining the game.

Here is a photo of Abby and me watching the $20,000.00 bonus round. Lisa's there too. She just doesn't want anyone to know that she gets really involved in the game.

Night came. Abby had left to meet a friend. Lisa was tired and sick and fell asleep. Contractions came on and got worse pretty fast, but what I hated most was the pressure. Effram's head was so low and the pressure on my lower organs (I'll leave out the details) was terrible. The pain of the contractions was nothing compared to that. It became clear that my labor was progressing, though it still wasn't clear how fast it would happen. We were hoping to keep the babies in for at least 24 hours because of the lung maturity issue.

At midnight I got an epidural. The doctor and nurses encouraged me to sleep. I never slept. My mind was racing and I was singing verses of "Glory Days" in my head and trying not to focus on the fetal monitors.

She says when she feels like crying she starts laughing thinking about Glory Days/ Yeah they'll pass you by/ Glory Days...

I kept texting people. It was the equivalent of drunk-dialing. I hate texting, usually, but I was out of options as to what I could do while in pain in my bed. I didn't want to wake Lisa because she hadn't been feeling well and needed to sleep. Of course, I would resent her for this the next day.

The doctor on duty this particular night (Dr. Chen) was terrific. I ended up liking her even better than our OB (Dr. Moses), and I told him so the next time I saw him. (Moses appreciates this kind of information, which is why we like him so much). Anyway, I was nervous about the fact that Dr. Chen was leaving in the morning and I did not know the doctor who was taking over. I was feeling pretty surly about this.

At 8 a.m. I was dilated 8 cm. I was so tired and irritable and pissed that my positive energy had been sucked up by a sleepless night. Effram was dropping so low and I knew he was coming fast. I decided to take it out on Lisa. I tried to call her name to wake her up but she didn't hear me, which I interpreted as her "ignoring me". I threw Pony at her and yelled her full name: "Lisa Tschaen!" (In my defense, she wouldn't respond to just her first.) She sprung up. "I'm 8 centimeters." I said. "Get UP!"

Glory days well they'll pass you by/ Glory days/ in the wink of a young girl's eye/Glory days, glory days...

I realized that I needed an attitude replacement if we were going to have a good experience. I tried to muster up some good humor. Until Lisa had the nerve to reach for my ice chips.

"Get your own!" I barked.

She was appalled, but so was I. She had a good night of sleep while I was in pain all night and now she had the nerve to eat my ice chips? She could eat whatever she wanted. I could only eat ice chips. I think she suggested that I "take it easy". It took me a while to calm down after that.

The doctor came in. I explained to him that all the nurses kept telling us how great he was, but that didn't do it for me. I told him that I was feeling irrational after no sleep and that I was wary of him because he was the only one out of all of the doctors on the team that I had not met, and of course he was going to be the one to deliver me. But then I also told him about my plan to fix my attitude before the birth. He was a pretty good guy. Lisa vocalized that he "probably knew what he was doing." The fourth-year resident, Megan, was also present during the delivery, as were a slew of other random men and women who showed up just for the action. I wanted to know who everyone was. "Who are you?" I asked some college-looking kid who showed up in blue gear. "I'm Matt," he said. "Hi, Matt," I said. That made it a little better for me. I guess Matt was Dr. Foley's student. I was glad that I had already worked through being embarrassed about a crowd of strangers observing me in this rather uncomfortable position. I didn't care at that point. I was determined to get these babies out.

Dun dun na na, dun dun na na... Glory Days... In the wink of a young girl's eye Glory Days...

Without being annoyed with any of the hospital staff, (I only asked that nobody chew gum or overzealously yell "push! push! push! push!") I pushed Effram out at 9:52 a.m. Lisa was great and was really a source of comfort and humor during the birth. At one point the stirrups fell off the bed and Lisa informed the doctor that they were two left feet. "Do you have a right foot stirrup? Do I have to fix everything around here?" The doctor laughed. Apparently, she did. I didn't find out until later that she was pretty freaked out during Effram's birth. She thought what she saw coming out was just his bare brain, and that he was missing part of his skull. Really, it was just his squishy head. It's not like the head just shows up in full, looking like an actual head. But the more he materialized (and the fact that no one was reacting in horror), she calmed down and waited. Eventually he was all the way out, with a skull and everything. Then Megan-the-4th-year-resident began her attempt to pull Lucy out by her feet, which was going to be difficult because the baby was doing some kind of a split. She's got some long legs on her, this baby. Megan was very good at maneuvering and I was grateful for her skills. The doctor also helped by pushing down on Lucy from the top of my belly. At 9:54, Lucy was yanked out and safely guided to land on my belly. Lisa snapped some pictures and they swept them both away to the NICU. We found out that Effram was 4 lbs 2 oz and Lucy was just behind him at 3 lbs 15 oz. I was happy to hear that they were not smaller, but I knew this meant they'd be in the NICU for a while.

Glory days well they'll pass you by/ Glory days/ in the wink of a young girl's eye/Glory days, glory days...

We made it home shortly before five o'clock in the afternoon two days after having the babies and leaving them at the hospital. We wept our whole way out of there, and, though the NICU nurses were all sympathetic, we knew we were dealing with some bittersweet times ahead. I swear that I did not do it on purpose, but Family Feud was on when we got home, and it was exactly what I needed to get me through that first hour of being in our home with an empty belly, knowing that our babies were alive and well, but a half hour away and in somebody else's care.

More on life in the NICU later. And, as requested, pictures of the babies. For now, we're just enduring this weird time of adjusting to life as parents who just get to "visit" our babies. We are thankful for friends and family, but honestly, we are mostly grateful for television, which is a wonderful, wonderful distraction.

Donor Look-a-likes!

2009-07-27T13:39:00.000-05:00

"Have you ever wondered if your donor looks like someone famous?" asks the sperm bank website. Now I can find out! All I have to do is type in my donor's number and the cryobank staff has generously matched our mystery man's adult visage to that of some actor or gameshow host.
At first I think, "Great. So the damage is already done: I've got two babies gestating inside me and I'm about to find out that they might look like Jay Leno." But then, curiosity gets the best of me.

I type the number in, and these are the results I get.

1. Jude Law

Law-Less.org

2. Lance Bass

starpulse.com

and, last but not least:

3. Wayne Gretsky

Okay. So the first one I can live with. I guess Jude Law is pretty decent-looking. But Lance Bass from 'N Sync? I like their music, but come on. This would have been a dealbreaker if I had known this earlier. And then, on top of the other two, they give me Wayne Gretsky.

Our friend Julie concluded that our donor must have been simply:

1-Very hot

2-Extremely gay

and

3-Somewhat athletic

This is a good way to look at it. But I guess this means that last week's Jeopardy champion was not, in fact, our donor. I was sure of it.

How It Began: Junior in a tank

2009-07-21T17:30:00.003-05:00

I was recently asked about our conception story. Here is how it began.

The Reason

Lisa and I have always wanted kids. We have been taking care of other people's kids (teaching, babysitting, nannying) for so long that we decided it was time to have our own before we stop liking children all together. Plus, we are both healthy and are fortunate enough to have excellent health insurance through Lisa's job at the museum. Suze Orman would not approve, but reproduction works in favor of youth, not money, so we decided ultimately to prioritize the making of the birds before building the (financial) nest.

We are well aware that babies are quite expensive. We certainly know how much it costs to make them. I used to joke around that our pregnancy was an accident that just happened one night after too many gin and tonics, but it's really not that amusing. Aside from the joke not being humorous anyway, it really isn't funny how much it costs to buy sperm, to store it, and to have it shipped every month. For six vials, it was over $3000.00. Shipping was around $17o each time. Storage is $400 a year. We know that the costs rise from here.

The Means

We purchased our sperm from California Cryobank. Their website has a "donor of the month" club page, which displays baby photos of various donors, and short "about me" paragraphs. To get started, we sat together and read many of these, because they were interesting and free. Usually, you have to pay to see the baby pictures of the donors that you would like to learn more about. You have to pay for almost every little bit of info about the donors: audio interviews, Kiersey temperament profiles, facial features profiles (these are VERY specific--from dimples to nostril flare), donor family history reports, handwriting analyses, and so on. Basically, their grocery lists are for sale. They just won't give you a name or a current photo.

We clicked on the free baby picture for this one particular "donor of the month," which we were both drawn to. We were lucky that this particular donor had submitted a picture in which he was about six or seven years old. This was definitely more revealing than some of the photos of infants covered in spaghetti in their high chairs. We loved the picture of this boy, and he matched our criteria; we wanted a donor with an ethnic background similar to Lisa's who was also athletic and witty, but who also demonstrated something interesting about himself that we both appreciated. This donor's short profile read:

"If you could bottle and sell a positive outlook and happy disposition, #[____] would be a millionaire. An outstanding 6’2” athlete with an artistic heart, his dry sense of humor and easy going nature exude a strong sense of self and a calm confidence. What more could you want in a donor than ocean blue eyes and a self proclaimed “amazing eye for ripe fruit.” He could make a great politician someday – except his sense of humor is too good."

But it wasn't his ability to pick a nice cantaloupe that got us. We liked everything in his longer interview and his essay. We felt that his easy-going, positive, and laid-back humor worked together to create a good match for me (I'm slightly shorter and maybe a little neurotic). His family health history was clean and he met all of our standards. We were pleased with our decision. The only issue that we did not agree on (and this is a large one) was whether or not to choose an anonymous or an open donor (who is open to being contacted by the children when they reach 18 years old). The donor we chose was anonymous. I'll go into this in another entry because this is already getting too long.

[This picture shows my nervous excitement about picking up the tank at the Fed Ex facility.]

The Method

I suppose we could have done it at home, but we didn't want to. It wasn't a romantic thing. We were okay with it being medicalized because to us, at this point, it was just science at work. We just wanted it to work fast. I respect people who are more natural about conception, but since it doesn't happen naturally for us anyway, we just felt that a naturalistic approach was not the way we wanted to go. Lisa's view on the matter was that it is obvious that her sperm count is low, and if she couldn't do it, she wanted a qualified professional to knock me up. I could respect that.

We purchased six vials of our selected donor sperm and had one shipped every month during ovulation. I will spare you the details of the ovulation test kits and the frustrating mystery of timing and scheduling the shipment to meet the 24-48 hour window of opportunity. Hoping that we had judged the timing correctly, Lisa and I would go to the doctor at 7 a.m. before work. (I actually had a job at one point). Our doctor was gruff and candid and great. We just went in with our tank when it was time and she would roll up her sleeves and get to it. She would inject the sperm into my uterus (IUI--intrauterine insemination), hand me a People magazine or US Weekly and tell me to keep my legs up for fifteen minutes. Lisa would rub my shoulders as we'd discuss the tabloids. How's that for romantic?

The Results

We got pregnant on the fourth try in the beginning of January. Peeing on sticks, the anxiety, the expensive shipment, picking up the damn tank, the guess work, the hope and disappointment-- that morning it was all worth it. I had tricked myself by putting off the pregnancy test as long as I could (days after my period was already due) and decided to leave a test on the bathroom sink and take it at four or five a.m. when I wasn't awake enough to get anxious. I was so groggy and delirious that I didn't believe it. I think I continued to urinate on more sticks throughout the day to make sure. We were thrilled, but I was a little in shock for a while. Lisa doesn't admit that she cried, but she did.

In retrospect, maybe I should have taken pictures of all the cheesy moments, the stupid sticks in the sink, and, for that matter, all of the nausea medications and the stock pilage of enemas and other unsavories that came to consume the next few months. The last seven months have not been rich in photo ops. But, this is just our conception story and I'm sure we will remember the excitement--not the sickness and the misery--in the end.

What to Think About When You Are Not Thinking About Getting a Job: an internal dialogue (in second person)

2009-07-21T16:29:00.001-05:00

“Oh the days are long, till the baby comes.”
-Sinead O’Connor

When in pain, take a warm bath. Not too hot, the books say, or you’ll cook the fetus. Fetuses, in your case. When depressed, take a walk. When you’re hungry, eat. You’re eating for three now. Eat leafy greens and foods high in folic acid. Eat iron, but not so much that your colon is obstructed. You need to gain more weight for those babies! Don’t eat too much sugar or you’ll get gestational diabetes. You’re too small to be having twins. Are you sure there are two in there? You’re tiny. Are you eating enough? You’re huge. When are you due?
When irritable, take a bath. When tired, take a nap. When you can’t sleep, take a pill. But don’t take that pill—that’s a class D drug. Take this pill, it’s a class C. Don’t read the pregnancy books, they’ll just make you anxious. How many times do I have to tell you? Stop watching those shows on TLC! Don’t worry—everything is just fine. Sign up for the breastfeeding class. Sign up for the twins class. Sign up for the CPR class. Make an appointment for your next ultrasound. See you in four weeks.
Are they boys or girls or don't you know yet? Are you going to circumsize the boy?
Wow, you’ve really had a lot of ultrasounds. Are you sure they’re safe? Do twins run in your family? Did you take fertility drugs? Is your husband excited?
Follow this link. Read this blog. Buy this stroller. Buy these car seats. Buy the sleepers with zippers, not snaps. Buy tee shirts for the babies to wear before their cord blisters fall off. Don't forget burp cloths and mattress protectors. Do not think about the fact that you can’t even afford to take your dogs to the vet. Buy the three hundred dollar electric heavy duty breast pump. What do you need bottles for? You’re breastfeeding, right?
Think about planting herbs outside in the yard. Throw away the dead basil. Throw away the dead rosemary. Repot the lavender. Try to bring it back to life.
Don’t imagine your baby’s umbilical cord wrapped around his or her neck. Don’t imagine the second baby changing position after the first is born. Don’t imagine the doctor telling you that you will need a c-section. Don’t imagine him going in with forceps up to his elbows. Don’t think about tiny sterile scissors slicing a perfect crimson line through your perineum. Think about tearing naturally--it will heal better. Or, think about nice, healthy stretching. The vagina is a muscle, you know. Don’t think about preeclampsia. Or placental abruption. Or Pitocin. If you are having palpitations, lie down on your left side. If you can’t breathe, sit up with your shoulders back—it allows your lungs to expand. Try mindful breathing exercises.
Congratulate yourself on earning a Masters Degree. You deserve a break. Don’t think about getting a job right now. English teachers are all unemployed anyway. Maybe you can sub. The job market is awful. So and so has been looking for a job since 2007.
What do you do all day if you don’t work? Do you want to have a beer? Oh wait, you can’t.
Take antianxiety pills. Take baths. Take the dogs for a walk. Try not to eat too much Dove Unconditional Chocolate ice cream. Try not to get pissed off. Try not to piss other people off. Paint the nursery with chemical free paint. Paint the rest of the house with heavy duty toxic primer. Try not to think about how nice it would be to have a glass of Pinot Noir. Sew curtains for the babies’ room. Sew curtains for the kitchen. Sew a quilt for Morgan. Sew a quilt for Effram. Wonder if your friend was right, and Effram will really get the shit beat out of him if you name him Effram.
Watch Lisa go to work. Say "Have a good day, honey." Thank God that she has a good job. Worry about money anyway.
Think about going to the pool or the lake. Think about swimming. Get excited about the upcoming road trip. Remember to buy a swimsuit the size of a tent. Remember to pack all of your pills so you can sleep and don’t get too anxious.
Think about writing. Think about the crappy novel you started ten years ago. Think about starting a blog, but you hate blogs. Think about scrapbooking, but you hate that scrapbook is used as a verb. Log onto Facebook and get frustrated by people who write updates about eating a ham sandwich or going to the bathroom or being SO tired. Contemplate quitting Facebook in favor of old-fashioned correspondence. Get excited about envelopes and stamps. Log off.
Try to take a nap. Stay awake thinking about projects. Think about making a whole wall of shadowboxes. Think about having to sit in traffic just to bump carts with suburban couples at Ikea to buy these shadowboxes. Decide to get to that project later. Think about a hotdog with mustard. Ikea has 99 cent hot dogs. And vanilla ice cream cones, but you’d rather have a hot dog right now. Drink some water. Let the hot dog craving pass.
Listen to music. Decide on soothing piano solos or Beethoven or something. Think about getting the right kind of headphones so the babies can listen. Rub baby B’s foot as it kicks your rib. Wake baby A up by poking him. Worry for a minute that he may have died. Feel him punch your cervix and smile. Think about what their personalities will be like. Think about how they will smell. Think about their soft baby hair and skin and their little bodies. Think about their wide open mouths wailing in unison at 3 a.m. Think about something else.