Eight

With every birthday Leo has, I think, Now he's a big kid. But this time I think I mean it. Eight is a big kid.

We asked Leo what he wanted to do on his birthday (yesterday) and he replied: "Stay home." It's Leo's favorite place to be, among his people and his things. We pull up to the driveway every night and he says "I love my house."

Leo, you have grown up so much in the last year. You read and write paragraphs. You welcome haircuts and doctor visits (gone are the days of your hyperventilating fear of both). You've performed at a poetry slam and been part of a wax museum. And you're about to embark on a very exciting new school year, not to mention, third grade! How did that happen?

If I have any complaints about or challenges with you, it's that you know what you want to do and don't like to be told to stop doing it (hmm...sounds like...most eight year old boys?). Case in point: sometimes you love too much.

Especially these two. You simply cannot get enough of them.

It's comical to think there was a time that I actually worried about you and the babies, that you'd be jealous of them or that I wouldn't be able to give you enough because I'd be busy with them. I haven't fully reconciled that second part. I still think there have been times in the last year that you needed me and I wasn't there because of the simple fact that I am now spectacularly outnumbered. But it is what it is and I think it's safe to say that the advantages to our little crew far outweigh the negatives.

OK yes, you were feeding Lucy scrambled eggs here as if she was a begging dog.

You have the biggest heart of anyone I know and you are almost ridiculously easy to please.

I spent a good three weeks stressing about a birthday cake for you this year (your request was a "Buzz cake.") Well...this was the result (and goodness gracious I did NOT make that if you were wondering--also don't bother sending it off to Cakewrecks, I already have.)

I think it's safe to say you'd have been just as happy if I'd presented you with blue cupcakes replete with one of your Buzz "guys" on top. You're all about the frosting, anyway. Hey, you know what's good.

Waiting for "Pizza from the Man."

Yesterday afternoon you and I stole a minute where it was just us: we sat and watched the summer Olympics, just as I did the summer you were born--2004. As you stretched your tall, sturdy, lanky, eight year body over me, I marveled at how it was just a few summers ago that I held you, a little, floppy, terrifying (to me) baby. There were a lot of tears shed the day you were born Leo, and in the days after. Now? My tears in relation to you come from pride (I've yet to make it through an IEP meeting without tearing up, even when it's good news and if a teacher starts complimenting you? Forget it: I'm a puddle) and oh yes, laughter. You make me laugh like no one else I know. There is something about your birthday that always "gets" me in a way that the others' don't, maybe because your entrance into the world was so fraught, and it makes me realize just how far you (and I) have come.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, a thousand times or more: I wish I'd known then, what I know now, what a fabulous little boy you'd grow into, a boy who is fascinated by planets and the solar system. A boy who loves reading and drawing and constructing complicated Lego/train table structures, who loves his family more than anything (well, right now Buzz Lightyear is a close second, I think).

When you came downstairs yesterday morning, Erin and I greeted you with choruses of "Happy Birthday Leo!" and you jumped into our arms. "You're my hero," you said to Erin, and then to me. And we both received one of your trademark hugs (they are requested all over town, at the pharmacy, the dentist, the grocery store, much to my chagrin).

No Leo, you're mine. Happy, happy birthday, my dear, sweet, first boy.

Catching-Up

Leo and Ellie are officially addicted to Kidz Bop (Oy--don't ask--think teeny bopper music covers that are SO annoying that they are catchy and you find yourself humming them at all hours of the day and night). One of the songs on repeat contains the lyrics "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" (from the original, by Kelly Clarkson) and, well, sometimes I think if our little circus act had an anthem, that would be it.

I have one word for you. Coxsackie. See Harry's string of drool and grimace in the above photo? Yeah. We barreled through last weekend with as many distractions as possible, with outside play and a walk in the forest but for the most part, the babies were miserable from coxsackie. And you know what they say--when the babies aren't happy? Nobody's happy! (Actually, Leo and Ellie seemed blissfully unaware of all the whining and high fevers and night wakings and general misery--wish I could have been.)

Poor Harry woke up Saturday night absolutely hysterical, thrashing and arching and clearly in pain. Then, he and his eyelashes (see above) passed out.

But. What a difference a few days makes. Within a few days the babies were back to their old selves, cheerful and clear skinned (coxsackie brings an ugly, angry-looking rash).

Lucy's new favorite thing is to snack on a whole strawberry. She sees me getting them out of the fridge and goes nuts. She likes to hold it herself and be completely in control (hmm...wonder where she gets that?).

It came from the cabinet...

Ta Da!

I'm still not used to Harry walking. It's so funny to see this little guy and his miniature Frankenstein-like self staggering all over the house.

A rare moment of not walking.

And this little girl seems close too. She's doing the thing that Harry did, where she stands independently, puts her little arms out to balance (and grins a mile wide as if to say "Look at me! Look at me!") and then promptly plops down. Take your time Lucy. No, really. Take your time.

Breaking News

Me: Oh, Hi Harry. What did you do today?

Harry: (If he could, you know, talk):

Oh, nothing. Just LEARNED HOW TO WALK!!!

Five

My big girl is five today.

Ellie, this post would not be a birthday post without the requisite I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday, waking before dawn and speeding through the Lincoln Tunnel toward the hospital in New York City.

A quick ultrasound right before your birth told us you'd be "around seven pounds." Ha. You were nine pounds, eleven ounces of squishy, substantial, pink newborn goodness. When my doctor pulled you out she proclaimed "You just gave birth to a toddler!"

Meeting your extremely proud and excited (though here, a tad nervous) big brother Leo.

And now:

This year you learned to swim and you are a confirmed fish (as long as you have your goggles).

On the cusp of kindergarten, you are learning to read. "Zoo," "Lucy," and "Harry" are a few of your sight words. Your handwriting is coming along and you are very interested in how words are formed. At night we lie in your bed after reading Mrs. Piggle Wiggle and you ask me "Mommy, what does 'i-r-c-e' spell? What does 's-r-k-t' spell?" Your eyes are round with anticipation and when I say the "words" you collapse into giggles.

You still love pink but have branched out to purple and red. You have a serious sweet tooth and love to pile gummy bears and M&Ms on your ice cream (Why not? You only live once.) You also have amazing willpower and patience (when you want to). Almost every day you save something "special" from your lunch box for the ride home from school. Be it fruit snacks or dehydrated strawberries or the rare piece of chocolate I throw in there as a treat "just because." "Why do you save things?" I asked you once. "Because then I have something to look forward to for later," you replied. Good answer.

You just discovered chewing gum. You love drawing and painting. You are still incredibly social but you are becoming more independent, able to play alone or with Leo, with Ponies or Legos for longer and longer stretches. You love to make beds for all your dollies and babies and stuffed animals. You love to take walks. Not that we spend many days at home anymore but when we do you say "Mommy, are we going anywhere today?"

You are the best big sister two babies could ask for. You amaze and impress me daily with your generosity and patience when it comes to these twin troublemakers. I don't think I've once seen you show jealousy or exasperation (I'm still working on the latter, when it comes to those two). You anticipate their needs better than I do sometimes and are quick to make sweet suggestions: "Mommy I think Lucy wants her bottle." The other morning I was rushing to finish getting dressed and Harry was screaming in his crib and you bolted out of the room. I assumed it was because the crying was too much, but no, you just left to go get him some toys--you returned immediately with an armful of stuffed animals which you deposited swiftly into his crib: a monkey and your beloved pink baby beluga, of course.

You know exactly what you like and don't like and I respect you tremendously for this.

And you can never get too many snuggles.

Happy birthday, Ellie. I can't wait to see what five brings for you!

More is More

I couldn't resist posting more from this "series" that Erin shot over the weekend. These pictures are just SO these kids, if that makes sense. I love how in each one, everyone is doing something different. And the irony is not lost on me that once we had everyone fed, clean and safely ensconced in their little beds on Sunday night, what did I do? Lay in my own little bed and browsed through these pictures, of the small children I was so relieved to have put to bed. Isn't life funny?

We went to a party of an old classmate of Leo's this weekend. These friends throw the same backyard party every year and we all look forward to it. Last year, at six weeks old, it was one of the babies' first social outings. This time, we hadn't seen some of the partygoers in a whole year and everyone was impressed by how big the babies were, how much they'd changed. Of course we heard the usual: "Four kids, how do you do it?" and I gave my stock (true) answer, a shrug and a smile and a "We just do it!"

"But the payoff is going to be so big when the babies get a little older," one of my friends said. "Think of how fun it's going to be."

I've said this to myself (and others) and have written about it here, many times. She's so right (not that it's not fun now--it is, truly.). But I can't be reminded of this enough. This little crew is something else now but in a few years? It's going to be so, so different. It's so easy when you have four little people that are so dependent on you, to forget that these four little people are just that--people. And they are not always going to be little. They are people you will spend your whole life getting to know.

I love how the babies are looking at Leo here, especially Harry. Harry just adores Leo, is fascinated and amused by his big brother's every move.

I was reading a blog the other day where a mom was talking about how she was struggling to keep up with the demands of three kids, two preschoolers (not twins) and an infant. She said that when things get really bleak and when she feels overcome by the neediness and the relentlessness of everyone, she thinks to the future--of a Thanksgiving dinner that her three adult children (and their families, presumably) will come to. That really struck me. Imagine it--four kids--well, four adults, coming to our house for Thanksgiving dinner. As an only child of divorced parents, big, boisterous Thanksgiving dinners with siblings were something for the movies, certainly not something I ever imagined for myself.

I don't want to wish away the babies' babyhood just because it can be hard. Welcome to parenting, right? Welcome to life. Not to mention, these babies are it. These are the last diapers I'll wash, the last little heads to grow heavy on my shoulder as they drift off to sleep, the last soft little buttery backs and arms and shockingly plump little thighs I will wash in the kitchen sink.

Look at how Leo is trying to hold Lucy's tiny hand. He loves these babies in a way I didn't think was possible.

It can be so hard to enjoy the moment. Hard for me, anyway. I think it's one of the most difficult things about parenting, about life really, but it's especially true for me in parenting because on the one hand everyone is telling you to "Enjoy This" (Carpe Diem) because It Won't Be Like This For Long, but at the same time, you're exhausted and there's been non-stop whining and snack fetching and goddammit I still have to make lunches for Monday morning and unload the dishwasher for the ninety-seventh time.

Leo, will you bring pumpkin pie? Ellie, how about cranberry sauce?

And I can't wait to see what Harry's and Lucy's favorite dishes will be. I can see Harry being a mashed potato kind of guy.

But I'm in no hurry.

Yes.

I read some parenting advice the other day, I can't recall where.

It said, "If your kids are crabby, put them in water."

As you can see, it totally works.

Spread Thin

Photograph by Rick Regan (and Instagrammed by me).

My mind has been a jumble lately (nothing new there). I'm stretched thin, as usual.

The babies have been a little sick. Summer colds with a little teething thrown in, I'm pretty sure. Knock on wood it's nothing more serious than that but it's definitely hard to have two whiney babies. I'd venture to say that's one of the hardest things about having twins--when they are both sick (which, let's face it, is usually the case, if one is sick the other is pretty much guaranteed to catch it).

I think back on Ellie's whiniest period (Leo, bless him, was never a whiney baby) and it pretty much started at the age the babies are now: thirteen months.

I have a very clear memory of when Ellie was this age, of coming home from work, frazzled from the daycare pickup (and to think I only had to go to one daycare in those easy, breezy two kids days-- ha!), trying to cook dinner one-handed, while balancing a clingy, miserable Ellie on one hip.

I've said this many times before but it bears repeating (for me, anyway). A mother's instinct is to soothe her baby, to give her what she wants and needs but it is SO HARD to do this--I would venture to say impossible, much of the time, with twins. I mean, I KNOW I'm doing the best I can and these babies have it good and they are showered with love and attention much of the time but when it's 6:45 p.m. and Lucy hasn't napped and is pulling at my legs and Harry is pushing up onto Lucy and scrambling to climb my other leg and I pick one up (whomever is crying loudest) and the other one looks at me wearily as if to say "Really? Really? No! Pick Meeee!" It's just...challenging. I know. Newsflash.

It's like you're constantly being reminded of what you're not doing and that you are failing someone. I've likened it to feeling like someone is picking at a scab on my body. Just picking, picking, picking. Sometimes I just feel like I can never, ever do enough. I know that I'm way to hard on myself, always have been. But it's just how I feel so much of the time.

And I haven't even touched on how I feel like I let Leo and Ellie down sometimes, how I lose my patience with them over ridiculous, silly things, when they are demanding something (More milk! At dinner! How could they?) at the same time there are two babies crying in the background. Yes, yes, yes I am doing the best I can. It's just so hard to keep up with everything and everyone. Invariably it feels like someone is not getting what they need, at least at that moment.

Of course, there are wonderful moments, wonderful times. They happen every single day, amidst the messiness and the noise and crying and the whining.

Yesterday, July Fourth, we spent much of the day outside.

Lucy loved her front row seat to Ellie's water show.

We (Erin) rearranged the living room furniture on Sunday and ye old broken Lazyboy finally got the boot. (Don't ask me why Leo is making this face--I think he's trying to be a tough Superhero.)

Leo and Ellie pretty much live for the ice cream truck (seen here enjoying ice pops from said truck).

This too shall pass (the whiney, sick babies) and yes, parenting is such a series of seasons. There is the season for non-stop nursing and not sleeping and there is the season for (I can only imagine) worrying about your teenager, out on a Friday night with the car (and a few things in between). "It won't be like this for long," I remind myself often, and I am both heartened and humbled by that notion.

A year ago at this time I was sleeping in one hour increments, (talk about stretched thin--oy) and pretty much breastfeeding non-stop while also trying to keep two older kids happy, healthy and occupied. The Summer of 2011...that was...interesting.

So yes, it gets better. It has gotten better. And my goodness those babies are stinking cute. They've both finally mastered one of my favorite baby games (albeit sporadically and unpredictably): "How big is Lucy? How big is Harry?" you ask them, and then they throw their buttery smooth, chubby little arms up in the air and smile at you like you are the most wonderful, fascinating, most favored person in the whole wide world. And that just never gets old.