Night and Day

Some mornings with twins make you cry.

If they aren't already serenading me with their hungry cries, I wake the kids up at 7 am every morning. Part of staying at home with two little babies is keeping a rigid schedule so you don't go crazy. Also, so you can schedule feedings around the Ellen show. This morning I got bold - crazy even - and put both of the kids next to each other on the couch so I could feed them their bottles at the same time. With twins, doing things simultaneously comes with the territory; I feed one, I bounce the other in their bouncy chair with my foot. I cuddle one with one arm, rest my hand on the other's chest. I heat up bottles, and pound my head against a wall. I have never been a star multi-tasker, and now is not the time to be learning while I run on cerebral fumes, but every day as a new mom I find that a mother has no choice. She just does.

So this morning I was obviously feeling a little ahead of myself. A little more than one month into motherhood, with twins who are still learning the delicate intricacies of taking a bottle without spitting, choking, or slurping, and there I am, squatted on the floor, balancing two bottles in my hand, a computer on my lap, listening to Matt Lauer croon on about dieting in 2010. I burped Joshua. I burped Annabelle. I let them finish their bottles, all the while gazing at me in all of my mom glory, their vacant stares saying, "Wow, mom. You are amazing." And I truly was in that moment, my knotted hair cascading down my shoulders, covering up multiple spit up stains from...2 days ago? 3 days ago? When did I change my clothes last? No matter. I'm a mom. A super mom. A super smelly mom. I mean, a smelly super mom.

I whisked (not true. I don't "whisk" anything anymore. see: fumbled) both of my babies up the stairs, and let Annabelle wait in her crib while I changed, powdered, lotioned and buffed her brother to baby perfection while we all listened to The Beach Boys' greatest hits. By the time we got to Good Vibrations I was done with Joshua, so I put him in the crib and started getting his sister ready for the day. I was on top of the world! I was doing it - I was momming! My twins were going to look better than I was, and it wasn't even 8am! I danced Annabelle over to the crib, laid her next to her brother, and gazed at my freshly polished babies. Annabelle was a vision in pink, Josh was wearing his most adorable sweater from Baby Gap, and they looked so edible I wanted to gobble up their little hands and toes right there. And as I made my face closer, closer into their bobbing heads, Josh, possibly out of fear, projectile vomited all over.

All. Over.

I don't need to tell you what he covered with his spit up, because it was everything. Him. His sister. The crib sheets. My shirt. My computer screen. Your computer screen. It was everywhere, and now my so fresh and so clean, clean babies were back to square one. Actually, worse than that because now they both reeked of baby puke and I needed to change their sheets.

It was an awful feeling. An awful, deflating feeling. Just when you think you have one thing down with your newborn baby, something - usually spit up - happens and you are back to feeling like you will never know how to properly take care of this little, helpless human. You will always be one step behind, you will always be guessing what their cry could mean this time, always be washing load after load of their little socks and pants and onesies in a vain attempt to keep them clean for longer than...an episode of Ellen.

I really like that Ellen.

The rest of the day passed with little spit up and various states of diaper oddities. By the time we got to the final feeding before bedtime I was exhausted and ready to crawl into bed at 7pm. After both kids were fed I settled Joshua into his bouncy seat and cradled Annabelle in my arms. While Josh watched his Dad play video games and Annabelle snoozed on my chest I rested my head on the couch cushions. My family was fed, happy, clean, and quiet.

Some nights with twins make you smile.

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The theory of relativity

To the untrained eye this dining room table may look messy.

But to me it looks the cleanest it's been in a month.

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Are you shaved?

Joshua Paul Bender and Annabelle Elise Bender were born at 10:29 on 12/21/09.


As Jack and I left for the hospital that morning part of me wanted to go limp bodied on the floor and make Jack drag me out the door, through the foot of snow that had fallen over the weekend. I wasn't ready. I didn't want to go. Couldn't we just play Monopoly instead? I would even let Jack be the banker. And I would look the other way when he stole $100 bills (because he totally would). I simply was not ready for poop diapers or 2am feedings or whatever my stomach was going to look like after deflating from 9 months of stretching. But I was ready to collect 200 dollars. Getting my abdomen cut open c-section style isn't my ideal way to spend a Monday morning, although neither is sipping coffee in a vain attempt to stay awake during a Monday morning meeting at work. But rarely does a Monday morning meeting end in me producing human life, so I figured I'd try something new for a change. You know, switch it up a bit, keep everybody guessing.

First stop in the hospital was a pre-op room that looked like more of a storage closet where old operating equipment goes to die. I changed into a fashionable backlass gown (I think Drew Barrymore just wore one just like it to the SAG awards) and waited in a bed for the nurse to come in and hook me up to an IV. While we waited for her to come in Jack studied for a final while I chatted nervously to myself and tried to make jokes to take my mind off the fact that very soon someone was going to cut me open, as Jack would say, from here to here. The nurse breezed into the room and I immediately knew she was one of those people who never has a bad day. She was chatty and cheery and it was obvious that they always sent her into the pre-op ladies so they don't shuffle, still pregnant, out of the hospital, their butts hanging out of the back of their hospital gowns. While she talked me up about her kids and the cost of taxes in her county I started to feel better about the whole situation. Genuinely calmed. Ready for what was about to come next. And then she laid this one on me:

"Are you shaved?"

Huh?

Was I shaved? Well that answer was easy, no, I wasn't shaved. I didn't even have to ask her to qualify her question, as in, was I shaved where, because no, I wasn't shaved anywhere. Since I had entered my third trimester people were lucky I still showered. There were parts of me that I hadn't seen in months - I could have grown new parts down there and not have known it.

"It's just that, with young girls like you, most of you are already shaved down there, so I told the girls out there that I wouldn't have to shave you because you were probably already shaved. Down there."

I'm sorry, what? The girls out there? Shaved? Down there? You were talking about the state of my...affairs with other people? The scariest part was still to come; I had to break the news to this poor woman that not only was she going to have to shave me, but that she may have to call in some back-up for whatever was going on. Down there. Not a good start to the day.

The operating room was filled with people dressed in scrubs chirping back and forth about the Twilight saga (you know, because I was getting ready to give birth to vampires). Before I could let anyone put their hands inside of my abdomen I had to find out if they were on Team Edward or Team Whats-His-Name, but before I could get a straight answer out of anyone the anesthesiologist started explaining how I was to lean over this pillow so he could stick a needle THIS BIG in my back. I started to shiver as a nurse stood in front of me and took my hands in hers, telling me what a good job I was doing and had I read New Moon yet? As I started to explain to her that I was one of the few people in the world who hadn't read the Twilight series and didn't know all the names of the Jonas Brothers (Lucas, Joe, and Peter? Sully, Mark, and Philip?), my legs started to go numb.

There was no escape.

Jack was huddled up near my head when the doctor began to operate. Operate, is that the right word for what was going on in there? I'm not sure, but I do know that as people swirled around our heads and the doctor tugged around inside of me, my life was standing still, in transition from one world to the next. I breathed in and looked Jack in the eyes, hoping that he was ready to take this big step with me. He nodded at me, squeezed my hand, and said,


"There's a lot of blood down there."


Thanks, babe. Not exactly what I was looking for.


And then there they were.





Joshua was first. He let out a shrill cry so we would know that he was okay, but as the nurses cleaned him off he settled into life almost immediately, going quiet and waiting for everything to happen to him.



Annabelle was second. She let out a scream...and then kept on screaming. And crying. And screaming. She wasn't taking this lying down. She was going to let all of us know exactly how pissed she was that she was out here, instead of back in there where it was all cozy and warm.


You know how you see all of these photos of girls after they give birth, and you're all, "Oh my gosh, you look GREAT!" Because they do; I've seen my share of Facebook photos where my friends look perfectly coifed after giving birth, like they gave birth at the Frederic Fakkai Salon and he had just finished giving them a blow out as they gave that last push. And their skin glows and their hair looks great and their faces aren't the least bit poofy and GAWD they look perfect.

I did not look like that, ya'll.


I hope that makes someone feel better today.

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Baby Benders

[life.]

I've been struggling with my first post back. Because how do you write a blog post about becoming a mom for the first time? It's tough stuff (both the blog post and becoming a mom, although the blog doesn't wake me up in the middle of the night expecting to be fed and cuddled). Being a mom is the biggest challenge I have ever, or will ever, face (I gave up on that climb Mt. Everest thing years ago). Every day is different. Every cry is different. Nothing will ever be the same.

When I was pregnant, friends who were already parents would give me a knowing smile and claim that "you will never look at life the same the moment they place that baby in your arms." Of course know I now what they mean, because it is impossible to look at anything the same on 3 hours of sleep. In 2 days. What kind of a cruel world do we live in that gives new parents a tiny helpless human to take care of while running on such little sleep that I put flour in my coffee, thinking it is sugar? Cause it's not. It clumps. Oh, and I'm back on coffee. Judge me...now.

Some moments I just want them to grow up and be 9 already. I want Annabelle to come home and tell me about a boy she has a crush on. I want Joshua to play video games with his dad. I want to check their homework and make them lunches and pick them up from school. And sleep through the night, let's not forget that. But then I watch Annabelle suck on her pacifier as she drifts into a content baby sleep (for both of us). Or dance with Josh around the living room while I hold his (giant) head close to my nose and smell how sweet he is. And then I think that the rest of my life won't be long enough to spend with them and I want to freeze my family in this time forever.

Life around our house has changed. Dinners are interrupted by crying. Sleep is interrupted by crying. Movies are interrupted by crying. Pretty much everything is interrupted by crying. Showers are postponed, dishes don't get done, and our brains are turning into mush. I've actually shoved my face into a diaper with a fat load of poop in it so I could get a really good feel for the color and consistency. If a good BM didn't rule my life before, it most definitely does now. I've been peed on, caught poop in my bare hands, have spit up on most of my t-shirts, don't fit into any of my pre-pregnancy pants, and have seen more projectile substances than Linda Blair could ever produce.

But so far, it has all been worth it.

[twin secrets.]

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Sleep Deprived

Wow, so I have a blog? I have a computer? I have a name?

It is amazing what sleep deprivation can do to your brain. One morning around 2 a.m. I was talking to myself in the kitchen, wondering aloud if the cry I heard coming from upstairs was Benjamin or Annabelle. And then I realized that my son's name is Joshua, and I wasn't at all sure where the name Benjamin came from or why I thought that was his name. Since then I have had numerous breakdowns for various reasons including the state of my stomach and the most recent Channing Tatum movie (tell me you haven't seen those previews and sobbed on the couch in your pajamas).

I am giving myself the rest of this week to forget that I have to pay bills and keep in touch with the outside world. I promise more pictures next week and a return to all things blog, including posts about my mental state, my lack of sleep, and a detailed description of my daughter's last bowel movement.

Why don't you guys want to do this for 8 hours at a time? Why?

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