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March 9, 2014 · 9:23 PM

Sweet and Sour

Weekends away are supposed to be rejuvenating and fun, not make you want to get your tubes tied.

Over Valentine’s Day weekend we had our first family getaway to Whidbey Island for my 30th birthday. We rented a house on the beach, Mike took two days off of work, and we hopped aboard a ferry for the short trip across the sound to the island.

Packing took hours. It’s not the baby clothes that slow you down, it’s the, “oh, we’ll need another pack and play so they each have somewhere to sleep. Oh and did you grab their bouncers? Otherwise they’ll have nowhere to sit. How many diapers do you think we’ll need for four days? Do you think their baby food will stay frozen for the 90 minute drive? Did you get the stroller?”

I finished all of that, feeling like an Olympian, and pronounced, “We’re ready to go!” And then immediately realized I hadn’t actually packed myself. Cue another 30 minute delay of departure.

When we arrived we soaked in the fresh feeling of being somewhere new and unfamiliar. The view of the water and mountains was gorgeous from every window and we felt our lungs expand from the vast amount of visual space. I’m big on visual space. I get a little suffocated when my eyes have nothing to gaze upon but the four walls around me. Beach houses are the perfect remedy.

We strapped the babies onto our chests for a walk on the beach. It was perfect — sunny, brisk, and nobody else in sight. The babies cuddled against us and we beamed at each other, proud that our trip was proving to be family-of-four fun.

We had brought along several bags of food, knowing that going out to dinner wouldn’t be an option with two six-month-olds. But I told Mike I was getting a little panicky at our lack of adequate post-dinner sweets, plus we didn’t even have popcorn, which in our family is an aberration.

In true Mike fashion, he agreed to buy a handful of snacks and instead returned with three bottles of wine, chips and salsa, popcorn, half a dozen types of candy, ice cream, potato chips and beer. I almost had a stroke, but then reminded myself that this is a significant portion of our fun these days; the theory being, we can’t leave the house at night, so let’s pig out and watch movies like fatties.

At this point, we were still buoyantly optimistic about our getaway. We knew traveling with children could be a double-edged sword, we just didn’t realize quite how sharp. For the remainder of this post, I’m going to slice and dice.

Sweet

The first night was the night of my 30th birthday, so we had a fabulous home-style happy hour on the deck while the kids napped. Mike gave me a few presents, and then he made dinner. The kids went to bed without issue and slept well all night.

Sour

Nothing! It was an early win.

Sweet

The next day we explored Langley, an adorable seaside town with lots of shops, cafes and art studios. We walked the babies around happily in their strollers and then decided to have lunch at a popular pizzeria.

Sour

Just as the waitress approached while we were waiting for a table, the babies were like, “Oh you wanted to have lunch? Perfect timing, because we want to get out of here.” We sighed and left, knowing we were no match for babies who want to nap but can’t fall asleep.

Hunger caused our good-naturedness to hit a snag. We got in the car to head home for lunch but realized we were too hungry to make a meal from scratch. Mike stopped at the corner market while I ran inside for a frozen pizza, which, after smelling gourmet pizza moments ago, was torture. By the time I was back in the car the babies had fallen asleep, so we decided to return to the restaurant to salvage our afternoon.

Sweet

We got a table with a gorgeous view and quickly ordered a pizza and two beers.

“How long do you think we have?” I asked Mike.

“Twenty minutes? How do we get the food out here faster without looking like jerks?” he said.

“She just saw us leave earlier because of them, so let’s hope she can figure it out,” I replied.

The babies woke up not long after the pizza arrived, but I already had their bottles ready so we each fed one while feeding ourselves. It was a stroke of genius to choose pizza because it can be eaten with one hand.

We took another great walk on the beach when we got back to the house and put the kids down to sleep without issue. They woke up once or twice overnight but it wasn’t earth-shattering.

Sweet

On Saturday we drove to Coupeville, the other charming town on Whidbey, and explored shops and drank coffee and wore the babies on our chests. We had a great time, and our positive pizza experience gave us the confidence to try for lunch a second time.

This time we chose what appeared to be the most popular bakery/restaurant in town, Knead and Feed, which had a dining room the size of our living room at home. We sat at a two-person table, which was bold considering we were each wearing an extra person. The people were so disarmingly welcoming we actually began to relax, rather than spend the entire hour stressing over everyone’s disapproving stares. Several people came by to interact with the babies and we were so happy it was a little ridiculous. We ordered big meals, Mike even going so far as to order mussels, which later proved to be as impossible as it sounds while holding a baby.

Sour

As we were finishing our meals, the babies were tapping their watches and motioning toward the door. We scrambled to stuff the last few bites in our mouths while cooing at them and sing-songing our way through waiting for the bill. We stood up to put our coats back on, as well as our baby carriers, and the entire room turned to watch. Putting a baby in a Baby Bjorn is difficult enough with two people. Putting a baby in one with only a baby-holding person to help is like juggling bowling balls with one hand. We wrestled everything into position and then burst out laughing when we couldn’t get one strap buttoned into another. Everyone was staring, we were sweating from the effort, and we tumbled out the door of that pressure cooker.

Sweet

Sarah and Casey met us back at the house to spend half a day with us, and we were thrilled to have great company as well as extra hands to hold babies. We ventured out to a winery nearby for some wine tasting, and then had dinner together back at the house after the babies went to sleep.

So, So Sour

Except that they didn’t, not really. Arden cried for half an hour before falling asleep, and then woke up around 10:30PM, never to return to real sleep ever, ever again. The Bullers left around 9PM, so thankfully they were spared the screaming. We’re not sure what changed between the other nights and this night, but we assume it was just her weariness at not being in her own bed, because she’s never cried that much in her entire life.

We took turns walking her around, pacing the room and silently begging her to go to sleep. We soothed, we sang, we kissed, we participated in a parenting ritual as old as parenting itself. Henry slept through it, miraculously, so at least a quarter of us was getting some rest. We kept moaning to each other, incredulous that we dared to think this would be relaxing.

She would quiet temporarily, and then the second we’d put her in her crib she’d scream like her life depended on it. A few rounds of that game of battleship and she sunk us, so we brought her into our bed. She fell asleep after awhile and we collapsed on our pillows in relief.

I started to relax and then noticed something. There were two skylights directly above our bed. On our first two nights these were appealing — we had great lighting during the day and could see the moon as clear as day during the night. As I looked up on this night, however, I saw the moon approaching the skylight directly over Arden’s little body. I whisper-yelled to Mike, “The moon! The light is going to wake her up! What do we do!?” I put my hand between her face and the light. His bleary eyes looked back at me like, really? Now we’re battling space to get our kid to sleep?

The spotlight shot down on us like a cannon, illuminating the entire bed. She startled awake and the long charade began again, this time with Henry chiming in. He wasn’t crying from restlessness so much as a general complaint to management. I couldn’t blame him; these living conditions were entirely unacceptable.

Mike carried Henry around the room, and I counted up the hours left until morning, which only brought me right to the brink of losing my mind. So this, I thought, is why people refuse to have more than two. It’s making perfect sense to me now.

Just then Mike walked back into the room with Henry still crying and announced, “We’re not having any more kids!”

“I’m way ahead of you,” was all I could mutter in reply.

We nestled the two crying babies between us in the bed and cuddled them as best one can cuddle a screaming infant. We looked at each other and sighed as they finally fell asleep.

The Sweetest

The next morning, if you can call a morning “next” when you have all but ushered it in, we groaned as the light filled the room and the babies started their day. I fed each of them and we said a holier-than-thou “We forgive you” as they stared at us with their eyes full of love. And that’s what always gets us — no matter what happens overnight, no matter how enraged and beleaguered we feel, those cherub cheeks and happy squawks pierce through the misery and we’re hopelessly in love again.

“So,” I said to Mike as we looked at the water with our happy babies, “we’re back on track for four kids, right?”

6 Comments

Filed under One WORD (Current Events)

Tagged as adventure, babies, Family, Mike Reph, twins

February 10, 2014 · 8:10 PM

Gimme a Break

We’ve come up with a little survival strategy around here, and it dovetails nicely with the relentless structure and organization I impose on us. When we’ve had a rough night (babies up more than once), when we haven’t had an extra pair of hands to help in many days, when things generally feel awry, enter: Mercy Days.

Mercy Days are days when I tell the conductor in my head that he has the day off, and instead of fighting it, he shrugs and walks off stage. They are the days when I let myself off the proverbial hook, when I release the three of us from any need to accomplish greatness. In short, Mercy Days are days of, as Anne Lamott would say, “radical self care.”

For instance, normally I would never have the television on during my time alone with the babies. I may watch ten minutes while they face away from the screen as I’m feeding them, but apart from that, it’s off. On a Mercy Day, I am allowed to shamelessly stream You’ve Got Mail and Something’s Gotta Give, should I choose. The babies still can’t watch it, but it’s a mental break in the background for me to escape to as I hold a toy for them or watch them play on their blanket.

I do not need to get dressed on Mercy Days. There are clothes on my body, but they may be pajama pants or particularly unattractive leggings. If UPS comes to the door, that door will simply not be answered while the UPS man is standing there.

These days also involve treats. On regular days I eat meals made at home or leftovers, but on Mercy Days I pack the kids in the car and we get to drive through the only acceptable drive-thru and my guiltiest pleasure: Taco Time.

Please allow me to make an aside about Taco Time. Firstly, Taco Time sits in sharp distinction from Taco Bell. Taco Bell is cat food. Taco Time is America’s Mexican gift to itself. I do not order complicated items — it’s a beef taco (or two…I am still producing food for two other people, after all) an order of Mexi fries and I’m on my way. Those Mexi fries (tator tots given a more glamorous name) should be considered a drug, considering the opiate-like effect they have on me. Also! Not to be forgotten: the ice. Taco Time is the only place in the world I know of besides Evergreen Hospital to serve pellet ice. Pellet ice is just what it sounds like; little cylinders of textured ice that pops apart at the merest attempt to chew it. It is bliss for those who love to chew ice, as I do. I always order an ice water, just to get that cold, crunchy bite of heaven.

So you can see, Mercy Days and Taco Time go hand in hand.

Sometimes it’s the wrong time of day to visit a Taco Time, in which case, obviously, we drive through Starbucks. Starbucks in the middle of the day represents everything decadent about stay-at-home-motherhood that I always envisioned. I used to picture stay-at-home-moms having oodles of time to do whatever they wanted and Starbucks in the middle of the week was always a clear part of that picture. Now I laugh out loud at my misconception, but on Mercy Days, the stay-at-home Starbucks is essential.

Speaking of food, there’s no need to make dinner. Frozen pizza or calling the mister to pick something up on the way home is perfectly acceptable. Having a glass of wine at the ready the moment my man walks in the door also goes without saying.

You’re probably wondering how often this slap-dash day occurs. I’d estimate once a month. We’re not falling apart at the seams over here, we just need elastic waistbands once in awhile.

These days, rare as they may be, prevent the total breakdown that would surely await any mother who is very aware that her job doesn’t allow for a day off. My little alarm clocks don’t include snooze buttons. I can’t call in sick if I don’t feel like changing a diaper or pumping six times a day. So, I create respite when I need it.

The essence of Mercy Days is grace. My life is spent earnestly; I give everything I can to my babies. I read them every book we own, I teach them as much as their little brains can take in, I lead them through physical drills to improve their motor skills, I take them on daily walks, I talk and sing and dance and do whatever it takes to be the steward of them that I know I am called to be. But thankfully, mercifully, God created grace to fill the spaces when I cannot do all that I should. He created rest, and breaks, and tiny bouts of junk food to allow me to regain my sustenance to move forward with energy and gratitude.

Oh, and showering? Laughable.

4 Comments

Filed under The WORD (Faith)

Tagged as babies, twins

January 26, 2014 · 10:05 PM

The Twins are Six Months Old!

Happy six months to Henry and Arden!

Moms always say things like “I can’t believe they’re six months old already!” but really, I can believe it. I’ve been with them every day and night of the last six months and I’ve immersed myself completely. I don’t feel like I have whiplash because I wouldn’t allow myself to be caught off-guard, at least not this early in the game. I told myself over and over that it would go quickly, and I think that reminder helped slow it down.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve buried my face in their little necks, breathing them in and saying I love you. I often lay them both in front of me and tell them they’re my dreams come true, they’re the songs in my heart. I look at them, look away, and by the time I look back they’re even cuter than I remembered. Babies are opiates, I tell you.

Mike and I notice every day how much more they’re able to connect with us, to really see us and interact. Their laughter is carbonated joy and there’s nothing too embarrassing to do to earn it.

In the last month we’ve been getting a taste of what it will be like to actually do things with them as participants. Over three weekends we took them to the Seattle Aquarium, the Pacific Science Center, and Pike Place Market. We always wear them facing outward so they’re able to see the sights and be entertained by it all. Some of the entertainment for us is the constant stream of commentary we get from people as they pass us by. They always speak as though we can’t hear them, making comments just as they pass or pointing from three feet away. It never bothers us; it’s actually really fun to parade our little spectacles around.

A huge part of me is in a rapid-breath panic at the thought of being in the second half of their first year, and it’s family activities like this that keep me excited instead of in mourning. I find that the more we do together, the more we have to look forward to, and the less there is for me to cry about leaving behind.

I read a great essay recently about parents’ tendencies to over-savor some moments of their children’s lives. We can grasp at the present so fiercely that the moment isn’t authentic at all. This struck a nerve with me because I’m always exclaiming, “This is the only time they’ll be 22 weeks and 3 days old ever in their entire lives! They’ll never again fit into this onesie! They can roll over — I miss when they were just blobs! What if Arden never blows bubbles like this again? What if Henry stops laughing when I reveal that it’s me behind the blanket?” Life isn’t meant to be lived as though it’s already passed by; at times I catch myself projecting into the future imagining myself reminiscing about a moment as it’s happening. That’s a little frightening, and it’s a slippery slope. Soon I could be collecting their nail clippings, and we can’t have that.

With this in mind, I’m thrilled that they are exactly as they are today: scrumptious thighs, a blush of fine hair, blue eyes for days and devastating smiles.

*gorgeous photos courtesy of Lindsay Schuette.

Also, what my mom calls “her joy”: walking into their nursery after their naps, each of them cooing and babbling, faces lit up like Christmas at the sight of us coming to get them. It really is one of the happiest moments of my day (or my mom’s when she’s with me) and it’s something I will carry with me the rest of my life.

To every day ahead, my loves.