Little Fakers!

I had a professor who once said that children don't learn how to tell a lie until they're like 3 or 4 years old. She said that they simply do not understand enough about language to be intentionally deceitful before then.

I beg to differ.

First, let me remind you that Emma and Ethan love each other so much. They learned to show affection very early. It's probably the sweetest thing you'll ever see. They fully embrace each other and give so many sweet heart kisses. But, here's the thing: the kissee doesn't always want to be kissed. The kisser has to chase the other down and that rejection can be so frustrating for them.  Ethan finally catches Emma and then he knocks her down just to give her his lovins. I'm not exactly sure how to handle this one.

Then the biting started. They lean in, just like a kiss, and then--OUCH!
"Emma! No biting! That hurts! Be nice," I say.
"Mmmmaaa!" She kisses him as an apology and then she looks at me to see if I am pleased.
"Ohhhh, that's nice. Thank you," I say. She smiles. They learn quickly.

Now and then, I look over and catch one of them with a wide open mouth, teeth exposed and ready to clamp: "Ethan!"
He quickly changes his mind and gives her a kiss: "Mmmmmaaa! Oooohhhh," he says as he waits for my approval.
"Ohhh, yes, that's much better," I say. I figure I need to reinforce this behavior even though it is not exactly genuine. Ok, let's face it. This is downright deceitful. Right before he hits her in the head with a toy, he pulls it back when he hears my voice and, "See, Mom? I was just kidding. Mmmmmaa!"
"Oooohh, that's so nice, baby."

It has become second nature to such a degree that a kiss could just as likely stand for a bite. When conflict arises over positioning or possession of a toy, someone may receive a subtly aggressive "kiss," one that seems to really mean, "Move over, and back off!" How could a kiss mean back off? It makes sense if you are a twin. It's twin code communication.

If Emma wants a bite of my ice cream, she may also coincidentally remember that she loves me so much. She gives me a very sweet kiss and then peers over into my bowl. If you ask me, this is very advanced manipulation, much more complicated than telling a simple white lie.

And they say preemies have developmental delays.

Duck, Duck, Goose

 Since the kids are so into imitating animal sounds, we thought they'd love to visit the ducks at the park. Rodney thought we should bring some bread so the kids could get the full park effect. I was a little worried that food and aggressive ducks could be a bad combination, but I kept quiet.

When we got there, Ethan made it pretty clear that I was not to touch him, that he would be wandering free--thank you very much. He and Emma made a bee-line as fast as they could straight for the pond. I almost had a heart attack. Swimming lessons are now high-priority. They must've thought they could just walk on water and simply go get those ducks.  The park was packed and the ducks weren't hungry at all. I guess they'd probably been eating bread crumbs all day. Probably just as well. Emma and Ethan make the funniest duck sounds from the back of their throats: "kah-kah," which is pretty much their same sound for pigs.

So park geese aren't very friendly. Surprise, surprise. I don't know much about goose temperament, but for these geese, I think it's probably from all the years of torture from the children of Muskogee. A couple of little boys were harassing one goose and her egg. She was very angry, rightly so. The boys were so proud of themselves for finding the egg and chasing the goose. I'm sure the egg will never hatch now that it's been violated by little Lewis and Clark here. It made me sad inside to see that. Poor momma goose. Emma and Ethan of course were oblivious to her loss and kept happily trying to march right up to her. I guess they expected her to act just like our dog, Daisy, when approached. Her wings were pulled back in full display and she looked like she would charge. We kept diverting them and holding them back. Emma and Ethan were absolutely livid.

This park day was not turning out like we had imagined. We would've taken them to the playground, but there were so many other kids there, so we just wandered around in the picnic area and, after they got over the whole pond restriction thing, it seemed to be fine with them. Emma was very interested in the strange tree roots we have at Honor Heights, the ones that come straight up from the ground like weird emerging mutants. They remind me of those cave formations I've seen on The Discovery Channel. Ethan loved the tiny flowers and clovers that grow in the grass: "Fla-fla."
"Yep, flowers! Good job, baby." So smart.

Rodney played peek-a-boo with them around the big tree trunks and they loved it. They screamed with big smiles on their faces and ran around in circles. Emma's signature move ever since she could walk is leaning slightly forward with her arms out behind her like a diving bird. It's pretty cute. She smiles with her chin out, eyes closed. Sweet little Em-Lynny-Lou.

After we thought they had run most of their energy out, we carried them on our shoulders back to the car. They were asleep before we were out of the park.

Feeding Disorder

I'm really proud of the way the babies eat, and the Baby Bullet really gave me direction in the food department. I feel like it's a road all its own.  In fact, it's a road so its own that...I think I'm lost.

I have followed the Baby Bullet Nutrition Guide very closely. Introduce a new food every 4 days to screen for allergies. Gradually increase the texture of purees. Fingerfoods. Ok, got it. Now I just make the recipes.

Since I'm not home to feed Ethan and Emma during the day, the person who is (mostly my mother) should not have to worry with preparing meals. I do that. I prepare the food, put some fresh in the fridge and freeze the rest. I use small Tupperware containers to store portions of things that won't fit in my ice cube trays, like turkey pot pie, shepherd's pie, veggie lasagna, scones, etc. Other things like mac and cheese, spaghetti, soup, diced veggies, rice, beans, whatever--go into the ice trays. I then put the food cubes in labeled freezer bags. This helps Mom and me unfreeze only the amount that we need. And it allows us to mix and match different things. I still make some vegetable purees so I can add them to certain foods they love, like spaghetti or mac-and-cheese. It's a good thing.

The babies eat at a certain time every day pretty much: 7:30 or 8:00am breakfast, lunch after their nap, 12:30 or 1:00. Snack at 3:00 or 4:00. Dinner at 6:00.

So what's the problem?

Rodney and I don't eat at 6:00, for one. He doesn't get home till later. So that means we will be eating after the babies eat (a second meal plan), which also means that we will be shoveling food in our faces while trying our best to tune out the relentless mantra: "Bi'e, bi'e, bi'e, bi'e, bi'e, bi'e..."
If you give them a "bi'e," you'll be lucky to get a bite of your own. They hover. They cry. They're like those seagulls on Finding Nemo. Sometimes I just want to scream, to be honest. CAN I EAT IN PEACE?   We usually eat at the coffee table. So they're also crawling all over me. I realize this behavior is my fault. So I try not to get too frustrated with them.

I am also noticing that most people I know are just letting their toddlers take care of their own business at feeding time. They eat their own granola bar--right out of the package. They don't need it broken into manageable pieces. They can spoon-feed themselves. They can eat a hamburger maybe even. WOW! Hahaha! Our babies still get gagged or choked when they are left to their own devices. So I have to cut their meal into bite sized pieces. I present bowls or plates for most everything I serve them, and plastic ware. They may dip the spoon in the cheesy rice and put it in their mouths, but then they set it down and use their hands. It's a mess.  I have to spoon feed their soup. They're 18 months old (adjusted age from original due date) so I know they're ok. They'll catch on. So will their mother. Surely.

I'm thinking the only way I will be able to get them on our eating schedule, a family meal plan, is to either start eating Baby Bullet recipes...or stop making them.

I can't stop making Baby Bullet recipes! I need an 800 number, a support group, something.

I have a feeding disorder.

Forces of Nature

We live in Oklahoma, so we're not strangers to the tornado sirens or the storm warnings that take over our favorite tv shows. I've never been that afraid of storms. Well...a few times a particularly violent storm has sent me to the bathtub with my pillow. I don't underestimate the power of storms, but I do think I suffer from that "it won't happen to me" mentality. Most of the time, I just have faith that my house and my God will protect me from the storms. How many times have I survived the tornados that come sweeping through the plains? How many times have I escaped harm or even a scratch? Why should this time be any different? I had become desensitized to the threat of storm danger.

Then I had twins. This affected my illusion of safety for two reasons: One, because the odds are against having twins. Anytime you're pregnant, people like to joke about how you might be having twins, but you don't worry because you know you won't. What are the odds? Hellin's Law states that before the advent of fertility methods, the natural occurrence of having twins is 1 in 90 live births. Not gonna happen, right?
     But then it did.  Beating the odds awakened a new fear of other, less wonderful unlikelihoods, like tornado devastation.

Two, it affects my fear because I now have two children who matter more than I do. Not that I didn't value my own life before, but I just didn't imagine having to face death or what that would mean. It's not something I thought about. As a mother, my job is to protect the babies, make sure that they keep living. I've never had a job this important before. I have to make sure that I keep living too so that I can fulfill my promise to God.

Last year on May 22, a tornado hit Joplin, MO and destroyed 20% of the city, killing 160 people. I can't imagine having my home, my city blown away. What must that feel like? I bet those people have a deeper understanding for the important things in life. I hope the ones who lost their families can find some kind of peace somehow. I hope the survivors love a little deeper now and squeeze their families a little tighter before they go to work in the mornings.

In the days that followed the Joplin horror, there were threats of another similar, "even worse" tornado coming to Muskogee. All day long, the news anchors were warning us, giving us survival tips, and putting the fear of God deep into our souls with images of what was left of Joplin and clips of the desperate cries and vacant eyes of its residents.

Our air conditioning went out that day. Rodney was at work. I was a little jittery. The babies were not yet walking, and I wondered how I was going to make sure they weren't blown away from me if we were hit. I had those snuggie harnesses that strap the baby to your body. Now, which baby will I strap? How horrible. I can't choose. I started packing a first aid and survival kit based on the tips from the news. I put formula and nursery water in the bathroom. Diapers, blankets, pillows. What will all of this matter if our house is blown apart? No preparation can save us. Still, I kept my shoes on. I dressed the babies well for protection. We were so hot. We were sweating and sweating. The babies were scoot-crawling all over the floor like wounded soldiers. My wild imagination is no friend of mine in times like these. But no storm came.

Last month, our neighbors had a storm shelter built onto their house. It's reinforced by steel and cement and holds nine people. When I saw that shelter, I felt hopeful that they would let us squeeze our babies in with them in time of need: "Here, take our babies!" Who would refuse two innocent and sweet children? Even if they were the 10th and 11th people, stack them on your heads, people, please! Maybe they might even let the rest of the Garlands in too....

Just the other day, the neighbor came over and gave us a key to the shelter in case we ever needed it. Thank God. I feel like I need to make some grand gesture of some kind to show them how grateful I am to have that peace of mind.

God bless our sweet neighbors.

Biting The Bullet

While I was pregnant, one of my friends asked me, "Are you planning to make your own baby food?"
 I thought that was a little odd, to be honest. I can't remember what I said, but I was thinking, "Ok, you must be one of those extreme health-nut environmentalists or something..." and I put it out of my mind.

Once the babies were here and after ten and a half months of pumping, I thought I was about to get a break. "This is exhausting! Won't it be nice when they switch to baby food?" Yeah, no. I didn't get a break.  But I did have my body back, and by that I mean full ownership, no longer leased out by the babies for the first time in almost 2 years which was nice. I missed being able to have a drink if I wanted one, or eat spicy food. Now, when they are done eating, I'm done feeding them. When they were milk-only babies, I'd feed them a bottle that I had stored, and then I had to pump more after just to keep my body in rhythm. It's nice to just feed them and be done with it. More expensive, but nice.

Transitions are hard for new moms. At least they are for me. I'm never sure of what to do. I get lost in my commitment to the routine. I feel change coming and I don't know how to handle it at first.

 When we saw the commercial for the Baby Bullet on tv, we wanted it. I felt inspired and energized by it. It looked so healthy and so easy. And it claimed to save a lot of money in processed, jarred baby food. So we ordered it. When it was delivered and I saw the box, anxiety started rushing in. There it is. Look how big that box is. I turned my back on it for several hours. Finally, I decided to confront the monster. OMG, look how many parts there are!  I read the instructions and then made a trip to the produce section of the grocery store.

"I'm pretty intimidated right now," I said as I started to make the first batch. It was avocado.

 I learned a few things about order of operations and storage the hard way, but it was a success. I made avocado puree. I fed it to Ethan and Emma that night and they made the funniest expressions. But they wanted more. It made me feel so good to see them bravely conquering a vegetable that many people do not acquire a taste for until adulthood. Hey, wait a minute. I think I've just made a psychological break-though. I think I am tasting vicariously through my babies. Yep. I am dreaming of a better palate. The babies tried almost every vegetable I have ever heard of and some that I hadn't. Fruits, grains, legumes, everything. It made me so proud.


The Baby Bullet didn't last very long. It couldn't handle all of the work I was demanding of it. I burned up the motor in about 5 or 6 months. Then I switched to my regular blender. It burned up as well after about a year. Now I am on another super-blender called Ninja. We'll see how long it lasts. At any rate, The Baby Bullet was the best thing that had happened to the babies since breast milk.

Rocking Horse Whiner

Ethan loves pushing things around, and one of his favorite things to push is the Radio Flyer rocking horse. It's light weight and slides easily around on the carpet. He makes laps around the furniture on his knees in the living room. He looks so proud and satisfied to be smooth-cruising with his prize horse. Unfortunately, it's not always easy. It's barely narrow enough to fit between all the furniture and some of the turns are pretty sharp. He concentrates very hard on steering. It's a very serious mission. If he gets stuck on something, he loses it. He cannot accept set-backs. He screeches and whines, cries and moans until he's free. Reverse doesn't seem to occur to him. I decided to stop helping him with it, so he could learn on his own and because it only seemed to lessen his patience the next time around. The horse wouldn't budge. Ethan was in complete despair. Finally, he got fed up, stomped around and angrily yanked at the front of the horse. He looked just like a man whose car broke down for the third time and he's late for supper. He'll fix this piece of junk! Just as soon as he gets going and the crying dies down, he gets hung up again down the way and the wailing continues. It is quite a sight, entertaining but disturbing.  It becomes more than I can bear. It doesn't seem healthy for such a small boy to have that much continuous frustration. I have to intervene, and he is mortified. He pulls away with all his might, yelling and struggling to get free and back to his fixation. How dare I interfere with a man and his work? How emasculating. This is the mother of all offenses and the storm is long and furious.

The horse has been confiscated until further notice.

Fairy Clothes Mothers

There is an underground hand-me-down network of mothers in my town. Who knew?

 I'm not really a big shopper. Don't get me wrong; I like to shop for clothes and I love shopping for the babies. My issue is that shopping is an all-day endeavor for me. Plus, I will need to arrange for a babysitter in advance. So my previous pastime that used to be so spontaneous and free is now a rare and organized process involving the alignment of the moon and stars. I have taken the babies shopping several times.
Trust me--it's better to window shop. Scope the scene for later.
The stroller will not fit in between all of the racks. I have taken the time to move each rack, but by the time I shop one store, I feel like I have been to 20. I feel like I'm rearranging the whole store and I might not even find anything I want. People stare with a look of pity; some even offer to help. Shopping is already over-whelming enough with the whole endless sea of racks with individually hung articles. I slide them across the bar one by one: squeak, squeak, squeak. But now I'm also moving each rack one foot to the left. The babies reach out and pull things down. My diaper bag knocks things off. Forget it. I'm going home.

When I was pregnant and teaching summer school, I was amazed when one couple (and former students) contacted me and wanted to give me boxes and boxes of clothes. Really? Wow! Thanks! Should I accept? How can I refuse? They could've easily given all of those clothes to someone in their family or someone they were closer to, but they went out of their way to give them to me, to my babies. We arranged a time and met at my car in the parking lot.

Throughout my pregnancy and after their birth, people have been giving me things that they no longer need. It seems like people come forward one by one, like angel visitors.

I'm finding myself with tons of clothes for which I have not spent a penny. I have to admit that I had one big garage sale after my first wave of blessings were outgrown. We used the money to buy the next stage of things the babies needed. But from then on, I have passed on this act of kindness to other new moms who might appreciate some hand-me-down magic. Yes, it is in fact an act of kindness, but isn't it at least a little true that these clothes pile up rather quickly and the kids grow out of them even more quickly? We mothers find ourselves with an overload of useless clothing...and that garage sale was a lot of work. It is a lot easier to look over your shoulder to another mother with children a little younger than yours and bless her with a shopless score.

Remember, babies, you must enjoy these clothes while they last! Wear these clothes before  the strike of your next size or they might just turn into pumpkins!


 Bippity boppity boo! You're welcome and thank you!

Frilly Little Girl Thing

Emma is a girl, yes. But she doesn't wear a lot of bows or dresses. I don't get her "all dressed up" very much. I've never painted her nails. I've never even put her hair in a ponytail. I feel a little guilty for this. People are always pointing it out to me or asking why I haven't, as if I have neglected to demonstrate her girl-ness. I'm not sure why I haven't made more of an effort to do those things. She's only one and a half. It's not too late, and I know that I will do some of those things. I always figured I would do all of them. I'd rather not say it's because I'm too lazy. I don't think I'm a tomboy, but neither am I the girliest girl in the room. I don't get my nails done. I don't wear dresses very much. I don't wear a lot of make-up. I don't get my hair done very often. I can get ready in 30 minutes.

I think having twins has made me a different mom than I would've been otherwise. I bet I would've done all of those things. I would've been shopping for girly clothes all the time, dressing her all up in those frilly little girl things. Wouldn't I have?

Having a boy and a girl at the same time changes things. I want to treat them the same. But I'm learning that it's not really possible. I have noticed a few double standards in my own actions and in my mind...like it's okay for Emma to wear Ethan's shirt or bib around the house, but not for Ethan to wear Emma's. I have never, nor will I ever, put Ethan in Emma's clothes. If all of Emma's clothes are dirty and she wears something of Ethan's, I do feel a little sad and if someone is coming over, I will find something else for her. It makes me stop and think about the gender roles, the inequality of the sexes, and the messages we send to our kids without even thinking. We do treat them a little differently even though we love them the same. I want to validate and respect their differences and I want them to be equal. I want to prepare them for society's expectations, but not succumb to society's pressure and stereotypes. How will I ever balance these concepts?

When she is able to verbalize her questions, will Emma ask, "Why do I have to wear this bow and Ethan doesn't?"
Will I answer, "Because you are a girl, honey...because you are a pretty girl."

Or will she ask, "Mom, why didn't you put a bow in my hair more? Why didn't you paint my nails or put me in frilly dresses?"

What will I say?

I think I will say, "Emma, I didn't because you are enough. You are more than enough. Your smile is the frilliest little girl thing you'll ever need. I love seeing you just the way you are. I love it when your hair is a mess. I love it when you have food all over your face and in your hair. I just want you to know that being you is all you ever have to be."

In Dog Years

For as long as I can remember, I have loved a dog. The first dog I ever loved hated my ever-loving guts.  There is a picture of me at about 3 years old holding her very awkwardly, with my arms under her front legs and her back legs dangling below. Poor Nutmeg. I am smiling proudly, and she is showing her teeth. That counts as a smile, right? I loved her so much even though she hated me. I followed her. I bribed her with treats. I pursued her every day. I found all of her hiding places. My family swore that my face would be mangled. I kissed her even though she snarled. I was only bitten on the finger a few times. She must've loved me a little.

She lived to be 20 years old. In dog years, that's 140! By a more modern calculation, it's 93. The formula for that is no longer 1 human year = 7 dog years. According to one source, it's now "10.5 dog years per human year for the first 2 years, then 4 dog years per human year for each year after." How very scientific.

In Nutmeg years, I learned to keep loving even when it seems hopeless.

I adored a pug named Winston. I got him when I was about 12. He was easy to love. He was affectionate and good. He was funny and so energetic. For the first three or four years of his life, it was hard to get a good look at him because he was so black and so fast.
One time a visitor asked, "Is it a dog?"
In Winston years, I learned to be silly as much as possible. I watched as he aged, older and slower and grayer. It still breaks my heart when I think of the day that I had to say goodbye. He was wearing his Thanksgiving sweater.

I was in college when I met Fabian. I was volunteering at a local non-profit, no-kill animal shelter. He was a very lethargic puppy in a pen full of craziness. I brought him home against my parents' wishes and discovered that he had some issues. He must have been a victim of abuse very early in his life. He was terrified of the fly swatter, the broom, loud sounds and any sudden movements. I took him everywhere, and slowly, he loosened up and started to trust me. My favorite memory of him is when I took him on the pontoon boat. When I jumped into the water to ski, he cried the whole time until I was safe in the boat again. In Fabian years, I learned to be patient and to tread lightly.

Rodney also rescued a dog that came wandering into Homeland, the grocery store where he worked. He just couldn't turn him out and worry about him being hit by a car. Buddy was very beautiful, hyper and needed lots of attention. People said he looked mean, but he was a big ol' sweetie. He made me feel secure when strangers approached or when we were out on long walks.

When the babies were born, I began to worry about the dogs and how they would adjust to the new hierarchy, to my new priorities. I feel guilty still because I know the dogs weren't getting the attention they needed. I probably forgot to feed them a time or two. I probably left them outside all day a time or two. It hurts. I'm sorry. Fabian and Buddy got old together. I wish I could've led them through their elderly years with nothing to fear, nothing to lose and nothing standing in the way. But I couldn't. I had to protect my children from the danger they presented. Buddy and Fabian would've wanted to leave this world as friends and as loving companions. And they did.

People always told me that I wouldn't love my dogs as much after I had kids. Not true. But it is true that I love my babies more. My heart grew by a hundred times when I became a mommy.

But it was in dog years that I learned how to love unconditionally. It was in dog years that I learned how to take care of someone who needed me.

The Year of Milk and Honey

2011 was full of firsts for the babies. Each small step for the babies has been monumental for the new parents. Our preemies who were once bumps on a log who couldn't reach out and grasp a toy or roll over, are now running around the house, playing in their room together and climbing up on the furniture. They are just starting to figure out how to talk on their pretend phones and they don't want their mom to help them with things as much lately. They imitate singing, animal sounds and so many words. Ethan amazes me with how well he remembers the sounds that go with the pages in his books: "ROAR!"
Emma is an awesome barker, buzzer and meower. I can tell that she has pretty much full understanding of the language based on her responses and facial expressions when we talk to her. It's amazing to watch all this happen. Ethan's latest milestone is plasticware. He doesn't want me to feed him these days. He wants me to put the food on his tray and he proudly digs around with his new tool. Emma's latest feat is saddling up on their Radio Flyer rocking horse and riding away with a huge smile. And a another small new thing for Emma, she always has to play with her hair while falling asleep now. She runs it through her fingers over and over and she plays with mine sometimes, too.

Neither of them are strangers to the time-out spot, but Ethan has so far proven to be the reigning king. The leading cause for Emma is biting and hitting with a toy. For Ethan, it's standing on the furniture or running behind the furniture where all of the outlets and electrical cords are. He does this over and over and over and thinks it is so funny. Emma is usually very upset to be punished or corrected. She wants mom and dad's approval.

On New Year's Eve Day, we took a family walk with the new trikes. There are poles with handles behind them so the parents can control the steering if they can't steer yet or if they get tired. They can almost pedal, but not quite. Later, we played outside and Rodney cooked on the grill. We spent all day together and tucked the babies in safely by 9. A few minutes before midnight, Ethan woke up crying. I think he must've heard a fire cracker or something. I went in to comfort him, and as I laid him back down and he was sound asleep, the fireworks started. I quickly tiptoed out to enjoy them with Rodney without stopping to get my coat. He pulled me in and we shared his coat while we hugged and watched the neighbors light up the sky.

 All of a sudden, a tube fell over and artillery shells were blasted into two neighbors' yards. Fire caught fast and ran all over several yards across the street from our house. A few neighbors ran to try to stamp out the flames, but it was spreading too quickly. I can still see the eerie sight in my mind of one man frantically stomping and waving his arms while becoming surrounded by flames.  I called 911 and other neighbors rushed to help with blankets and trash cans full of water. I'm sure none of the neighbors could sleep very well that night after all of the excitement. It was terrifying to see multiple fires so close and how quickly they became out of control. The fire came right up to the front door of one house. The neighbors could've lost everything...just like that. Luckily, all of the neighborhood heroes had the fires out before the firemen came. The call was cancelled and all went black and quiet.

The next morning, I drove down to see how much damage was done, and the burned grass did go right up to one house's front porch. But it looked much smaller than what my eyes had seen. I was just so relieved that no one was hurt and no one's house burned down at the strike of the new year. That couldn't be a good sign.

But maybe this is a good sign...God's call from a burning bush.

 "The angel of the Lord appeared to him in a blazing fire from the midst of a bush; and he looked, and behold, the bush was burning with fire, yet the bush was not consumed....When the LORD saw that he had gone over to look, God called to him from within the bush, 'Moses! Moses!'
   

And Moses said, 'Here I am.'” (Exodus 3:2)


Here I am, God, in 2012! May Your will be done, and may this be the year of milk and honey.

Amen.