Turning Two

I'm in denial. I have been for quite some time, actually. As of Monday, my babies are two. A little over two years ago I was a whale. I was so swollen I could barely fit flip flops on my feet. I turned heads everywhere I went. I slept in a chair, surrounded by 20+ pillows. I ate a watermelon a day (seriously. I lived on watermelon). And then at 6:22 and 6:28 PM on August 10, my life changed forever.

Suddenly it wasn't about me anymore. I didn't matter how swollen or uncomfortable I was, or how often I had to pee. I was consumed with love for two little tiny humans, and I spent every waking moment (which was about 23 1/2 hours per day for the first 5 weeks) worried about whether they had enough to eat, were warm enough, and had a clean diaper.

And now I still worry about them constantly. Just about different things. I worry about them breaking every bone in their tiny bodies when they fly kamikaze off of the couch and onto the floor. I worry about them being nice to other kids and others being nice to them. I worry about them getting cavities and eating a balanced diet. And every day I love them in a whole new way. Every day they make me laugh and burst with pride and want to pull my hair out (usually all within a matter of 4 minutes).

The last few months have been full of changes for my little people. Milestones. Transition to toddler beds. Potty training at 20 and 23 months. Moving from clothing sizes that end in "months" to ones that end in "T". Talking up a storm and communicating their emotions so well. They've handled the transitions like champs. Yet another sign that they are growing up. And as exciting as it is to see them grow and change and learn, it's also heart wrenching because I just want them to stay little forever.

Potty Training Tales: What They Don't Tell You

If I've talked about potty training too much lately it's because I've basically been consumed by it for the last 4 months. But now, I am proud to say that I only have 1 child in diapers. Woot woot! Prior to starting the toilet training process, I was terrified. I'd heard horror stories of walls, clothes, floors and hands covered in pee and other unpleasant bodily excretions. Like I said, absolutely frightening.

So I approached the potty training process with caution and solely out of desperation to stop the poop-flinging fiascos that I spoke of in my last post.

But as I started potty training, I was surprised by my experience. I expected disaster: screaming, crying and lots of cleaning. And there was some of that. But what I noticed most was excitement. Pride and satisfaction. Nobody told me how FUN potty training could be! That's right, I just used the words "fun" and "potty training" in the same sentence. Seeing those big smiles and proud faces when they were successful.. now that is rewarding. Singing happy songs and clapping and handing out treats. Hearing their cute tiny voices call out "potty!" when they're in their beds because they know it will get them out. All in all I'd say our experience with potty training was really positive!

And yet there is another thing they don't tell you about potty training. At first it's harder. You get all excited thinking you don't have to change diapers anymore, which IS really exciting. But then you realize that leaving the house is nearly impossible. You have to time it so that you leave immediately after they "go" and even then you pack extra undies and pants just in case. You carry a folding potty with you everywhere you go just in case. And then there are the times that they forget to tell you they need to go and they have an accident. So you make a habit of putting them on the potty every hour to try to minimize those accidents. And then you realize that you are sitting reading books to kids on the potty for what feels like half of every day, whereas a diaper change only takes 37 seconds.

But that hard phase doesn't last too long. A few months maybe. And then life is good. Much cleaner. And it costs WAY less! And immediately after you high-five yourself for successfully teaching your child to use the potty, you find yourself in tears over the fact that they are growing up much too quickly.

Double Diaper Trouble

If I've been a little absent lately, it's because I've been cleaning up poop. Not even kidding. I should warn you that this post will include a lot of talk about poop and other unpleasant bodily functions. Not mine, thankfully, but disgusting none the less.

I don't know what kind of a special affinity my children have for pooping on me, but they've had it since they were newborn. All three of them. And I'm not just talking blowouts or diaper explosions, I mean like pooping all over my leg in the middle of a diaper change, or pooping on me when I pick them up to put them in the tub. I've been pooped on more times than I can count. But little exclusively-breastfed-baby-poop isn't so bad. It cleans up pretty easily and doesn't smell awful. But the bigger they get, the worse it gets.

The twins were about 15 months old when they (and by they, I mean Caroline) learned how to take off their diapers. That's the way it works around here. One figures out how to do it and does it over and over again until the other learns how. So when they say "double trouble" for twins, they really should say quadruple trouble. Because not only are there two children with their own ideas of how to get into trouble, but they are each learning from and copying the other's trouble-making skills. Learning to un-diaper themselves was one of those nasty, awful, no good trouble-making skills. And they both mastered it very early on. I think it's payback for laughing about one of my besties' babies learning to un-diaper before her mom was ready to go through potty training. I had no idea.

When they started un-diapering, I was pretty big pregnant with Juliet. I wanted to potty train, but I knew it was a bit early and frankly I just didn't have the energy to do it. So I opted for duct tape instead. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. I got to where I would go around the entire circumference of the diaper around their waist two times with a strip of duct tape. But even then they would somehow weasel themselves out of it.

They got into a really awful habit of taking their diapers off in the middle of the night. So then they would wake up sopping wet. And on some very unfortunate mornings, I would walk in to the awful stench of tiny human poop spread all over their sheets. And their hair. And their crib slats. And under their fingernails. And sometimes (I shudder even to think it) even smeared around their mouths. Gag. Cut to me rinsing out pajamas and sheets in the toilet, wiping my babies down with wet wipes and spraying them off (from a distance) in the shower. I seriously think I deserve a medal for the amount of poop I've had to clean up in my less than two year stint as a mother.

After Juliet arrived, I decided it was time to potty train. I committed myself to three entire days and nights diaper-free. Day 1 was awful. I think we maybe had one success. The entire day. Potty training two little bums at the same time is a lot harder than I expected. It seemed like each time one was sitting on the potty, the other had an accident. And trying to put two little bums on the potty every 20 minutes while also breastfeeding a newborn and trying to maintain peace and cleanliness in our home is no small task.

Day 2 was better. After I caught her mid-pee and stuck her on the potty to finish, Caroline seemed to get the hang of it. Charlie would pee on the potty but had a hard time going #2. By day 3 Caroline had it down and rarely had accidents after that. Charlie, not so much. He went back into diapers on day 4. That was about 2 months ago when the twins were 20 months old. Caroline still does really well for the most part. I still take extra undies and pants with us everywhere we go, and I still wash her sheets nearly every morning because she wets the bed, but I consider here successfully potty trained.

Charlie still rips his diaper off nearly every night. I've given up on duct tape because it's a pain in the rear and it doesn't work half the time anyway. So every morning when I go into their room I cross my fingers that it's only a wet diaper I have to deal with. The finger crossing works exactly 67% of the time. The other 33% of the time I'm not so lucky. And each time, the award that I think I deserve gets bigger and bigger.

I'm almost out of size 4 diapers. When I run out, I have sworn that I will never put another diaper on that boy. I figure I'm cleaning up his poop anyway, so I may as well be doing it in the name of potty training. Heaven help me!

And with that, I hereby promise I will never talk about poop this much ever again. The end.

Stepping Up

Lately I've been feeling like I'm in survival mode (again. See my previous experience here). Though I guess when you have three kids under two, the only mode is survival mode. We're lucky if any of us are dressed before 10 AM. I finally gave the baby a bath today after a week and a half of baby grime started to smell. I have however nearly completed a 1000 piece puzzle and watched far too many episodes of MASH. Survival at it's finest.

So here I was going along thinking life was hard. And then I was looking through my journal and I came across a talk I had written for church 10+ years ago about my paternal grandparents. They were absolutely incredible people. And if I thought my life was hard - wow. My grandmother was absolutely stunning. Just gorgeous. I'm sure she had scores of boys chasing after her, but she fell for my grandpa, who was pretty good-looking himself. They married young, and at age 16 my grandmother was diagnosed with severe rheumatoid arthritis. I can't imagine getting that diagnoses at all, let alone at such a young age. Despite her crippled hands, she faithfully raised six children (5 of whom were boys, and after my brief experience raising a boy, I have some major respect for her). When my grandpa was 52, he broke his neck in a tragic accident and was paralyzed from the waist down. I hadn't been born yet, and so I never knew my grandpa without his wheelchair. Even so, he was the strongest man I have ever known. I vividly remember his hands. As worn and crippled as my grandmother's were, his were large and strong. When my grandma struggled to open cans or brush her hair, grandpa's hands were there to fill in the gaps.

Grandpa loved to garden. They planted their rows of fruits and vegetables far apart so that grandpa's wheelchair could fit in between. I remember going out with him and he'd let me pick fresh strawberries and eat them right there. That was heaven to little four-year-old me. Even as a very little girl, I was awed and amazed by my grandparents. There was never anything they couldn't do together. Grandpa was particularly fond of a story told by Elder Boyd K. Packer, titled "Equally Yoked Together." It's a story of two small, skinny looking oxen defeating a pair of much larger and much stronger oxen in a pulling contest. While the large, strong animals lacked coordination, the smaller team had great teamwork and pulled together at the same time. My grandparents' legacy has become being equally yoked and pulling together. When I think of their lives and trials, it is clear that it would have been much simpler for them to just survive. To forget going to church or gardening or hosting big family get-togethers. But they didn't just survive. Despite their incredible challenges, they thrived. And they were able to do it because they were equally yoked.

Recently I attended a graduation where the speaker re-told a familiar story of a mule who falls into the well. The farmer, instead of trying to lift the mule out, decides to bury him inside of the well. The mule becomes determined to conquer his challenge by telling himself that with every shovel full of dirt that falls, he will shake it off and step up. Eventually, by moving the dirt underneath himself instead of letting it remain on top of him, he finds his way to freedom. What could have buried and killed him ended up liberating him instead, all because of his attitude and determination to keep going.

The story of the mule and my memories of my grandparents have made me determined to do more than just survive. Sure, life is hard. Sure I have three very young children that require a lot (ok, ALL) of my time and attention. But that doesn't mean I have to let the rest of my life fall to shambles. Life is what we make of it. It will never be perfect or easy or trial-free. I don't want to spend every single day waiting for it to end. Life is good and we have so much to LIVE for! Not just to survive for.

So my goal is no more survival mode. Living life to it's fullest every day. Laughing instead of crying, and finding joy in the journey.

It's About Time

It's been a rough month. Juliet is a perfect little angel, thank goodness. She NEVER cries, she sleeps 10-12 hours at night, and she naps most of the day. Sometimes I forget I have a third child because she's so quiet. Caroline is funny and spunky and a little crazy, but she is a people pleaser and she loves helping me with the baby, throwing away diapers, cleaning up toys etc. But she is also newly potty trained. Potty training her was a piece of cake, actually, but now that she is potty trained we have to plan our day around when she needs to use the restroom. But still, Caroline's pretty easy to handle. Charlie, on the other hand, is hitting a rough stage. He was doing so well with potty training, and then he got really sick and now he wants nothing to do with the toilet. Actually that's a lie, he's fascinated with flushing the toilet and climbing on top of it. Just not sitting on it. So he's back in diapers, which is fine. He's not even 2 yet. I'm afraid, though, that he's entering the "terrible two's" much sooner than I had anticipated. He's mastering the art of tantrum throwing with incredible skill. He's not sleeping quite as well as he used to, so it seems like he's always tired, and he only ever wants ME. On rare occasions he's clingy to Forrest, but he almost exclusively only wants Mommy. It's completely exhausting.

And then you put Charlie and Caroline together.. and sometimes I consider it quite a miracle that we are all still alive. My daily dialogue goes something like this:

Get down!

Be soft with the baby.

Don't play in the toilet.

Please get off the dresser.

Don't climb over the back of the couch.

Could you put all of the spoons back in the drawer?

Don't throw food.

Charlie let go of her hair!

Caroline don't bite!

Where are your glasses?

Do you need to go potty?

Get down!

Don't climb on the counter.

Where did you get those scissors?

What is all over your face?

Why is the floor all wet?

No, we can't go outside, it's raining.

Hopefully daddy will be home soon.

Please stay in your crib.

Don't push buttons.

Get down!

Just imagine all of that being repeated 1,000 times per day. Meanwhile the twins' dialogue:

Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. 

Nummy?

Milk!

Treat?

Snack?

Outside!

Oh no.

Ooh a puppy!

Bird! Tweet tweet.

Toot toot!

Slow feet... Quick feet!

Toastie!

A B C...

Mommy? Mom. Mom. Mommy!

Daddy work.

A baby! Hi JuJu.

I love you.

Apple! Nana! Snack!

Dressed? Tubby?

Brush teeth.

Ouchie! Hair!

Ouchie! Bite!

(Mischievous giggling as they move chairs to the counter and climb up before I can catch them)

No no no.

Roar! Woof! Meow! Moo! Monkey!

They are hilarious. But I think they could quite easily keep 5 adults hopping. I absolutely cannot keep them off the kitchen counter. I've occasionally had to resort to drastic measures to keep them safe. These include putting all of the kitchen chairs out on the back patio, putting Charlie and Caroline on top of the kitchen table and moving all of the chairs away so they can't get down, tipping all of the chairs upside down in the living room (but that doesn't really work, they can still tip them back over and move them), and finally just clearing every unsafe or breakable item off of the counter top and giving up on trying to stop them from getting up there.

I had a bit of a paradigm shift the other day. I was spending the late afternoon as I usually am, trying to make dinner and pick up the house before Forrest gets home. The kids were up to their usual climbing and terrorizing activities. Once I eliminated all climbing opportunities, the crying and tantrum throwing began. Mostly from Charlie, but Caroline was also joining in. I was just about to my breaking point (my ears were ringing from all the screaming and hollering), when I decided to sit down and read them a book. And then there was instant peace. Sitting there on the floor in our disastrous living room, one child on each side of my lap and reading "Chicka Chicka Boom Boom" for the 7,659th time, I felt a sudden spirit enter our home where the contention had gone. 

Dinner didn't get made that night. I think Forrest ended up making us a batch of pancakes instead. The house wasn't spotless, or even sort of tidy. But I was happy and my children were happy. And most importantly, I was finally making them feel like they were more important than dinner and a clean house. And they are. No comparison.

Later that night I was listening to a few General Conference talks from sisters who mentioned how they wished they had spent more time playing with their children and less time worrying about the endless to-do lists.

Not that dinner and a clean house aren't important. They are important to me, and I know they are important to Forrest. And hopefully, most days I will be able to make dinner, have a clean house, and have happy children. But not all days. And on those harder days, I hope I always choose my children and settle for eating a bowl of cereal for dinner. 

You know those cheesy yet insightful Mormon-ad commercials where the dad is super busy and his son keeps asking him to play catch, and then finally the dad stops his work and plays with his son, and the commercial wraps up by saing "Family - isn't it about TIME?" Like I said, a little cheesy. But so so true. 

Here's to recommitting myself to being a better mom. To being more concerned about my family and the time we spend together than about keeping my home in perfect order. To giving my children more of my time. And to being happier because of it.

Orientation and Mobility

My little Charlie is amazing. He plays and runs and acts just like a normal little boy. Because he is just a normal little boy. Most of the time I actually forget that he has Albinism. It catches me off-guard when we go out and people stare at him, or comment on his hair. To me, he is just Charlie. My sweet little rhinoceros.

Sometimes, though, it becomes painfully apparent that he has a vision impairment. Especially when he is in an unfamiliar environment. The biggest problem with his vision is his lack of depth perception. The first time he came to our new home, for example, he would get on his hands and knees when transitioning from the carpet to the tile, because he couldn't tell if there was a drop or not. All he could see was that there was a change. Another problem is when we are outside. He loves being outside and he runs and plays right alongside Caroline. He has, however, fallen off of the curb a few times. He has difficulty seeing the differentiation between the raised sidewalk and the lower part of the cement.

Last week we were playing outdoors and as Caroline and I walked on ahead, I turned and watched him on the sidewalk. He slowly approached the curb, got down on his hands and knees, and crawled down onto the cement beneath. Then he faced the change from the cement to the pavement. My heart burst into pieces as I watched him put his hands back down on the cement and hesitantly felt around with his foot of the pavement. He finally got to the point where he was confident that he could step there, and then he stood up and walked to join his sister and me.

A few days later we were outside building a snowman. I set both the kids out in the snow and then I joined them. Caroline soon started moving around and helping me pack the snow. But Charlie didn't budge. He just stood there quietly, both feet deep in the snow, and watched. After about 10 minutes he started to cry, so I picked him up and walked around a little bit, wondering why he wasn't joining us in building the snowman. And then I realized that he couldn't tell where the ground was. So I set him back down and I held both of his hands and I walked alongside him as he took his first few unsure steps. He was very hesitant at first, but soon he started enjoying himself and I was eventually able to hold only one of his hands while he walked circles in the snow.

It hurts to think that he has to do that. I tear up just thinking of the challenges he faces now and will continue to face throughout his life. But I am equally amazed by him. That he does it. That he doesn't just stay inside because it's easier. That he doesn't just stay where he knows he is safe. He is a fighter and a champion and I couldn't be more proud. I know he will do great things, regardless of his condition.

Next month Charlie is going to be meeting with a new specialist. Her official title is "Orientation and Mobility Specialist," but people refer to her as the "white cane lady." She is going to teach Charlie how to use a white cane when he is outside, so he can feel when the ground changes from up to down. I have mixed emotions about him using a white cane. For the most part, I am anxious for him to learn anything that will help him maneuver and that will help prevent falls. Partly, though, I am hesitant for him to have something that will make him even more different. We will see, when he gets older, whether he chooses to use the cane or not; but for now I am trying to focus on all of the good that can come from it.

Wish us luck!

To Be Like Her

A few years ago I was sitting at a table with some friends, listening to their sometimes funny and other times terrifying stories of things their "crazy" moms had done. Most of them had less than perfect relationships with their mothers. As I sat their listening, I began to smile thinking of my own mom. When asked what she was like, all I could say was that she is perfect. Amazing. Hilarious. Supportive. Heaven-sent.

If I can be half the mother that my mom is, I will count my life a huge success. I learn so much about how to raise my children from her. So often I find myself frustrated with not knowing how to teach one of my children something, and then I watch my mom and she answers my frustrations with perfect teaching and discipline. She is beautiful, elegant and graceful. Intelligent, loving and kind. And, like I said before, she is absolutely hilarious. I mean I have found myself rolling on the ground in fits of laughter from the things she says and does more times than I can remember.

One of my favorite memories of my mom is from when I was an early teen. My parents always made an effort to gather our family together in the evenings for family prayer. We had a routine that the person who had prayed the night before would get to pick a number, and whoever guessed closest to that number would say the prayer that night. My dad, who without fail picked the number 17 every single time, was notorious for saying exceptionally long prayers. So long that our knees would ache from kneeling by the time he finished. On this particular night, my mom had been the one who got to pick the number since she had prayed the previous night. She started with a "pick a number between 1 and 50." We all stated our chosen numbers out loud, and my dad predictably stated that his number was 17. Apparently my mom had momentarily forgotten his tendency, and she reluctantly admitted that he was closest to her chosen number, so he would get to pray that night. We all groaned and gave my dad a hard time, begging for a short prayer so we could all go to bed. Of course that only made it worse. The prayer went on, and on, and on. After what felt like a solid 15 minutes, my mom couldn't take it anymore. She suddenly interrupted my dad in the middle of his prayer with a muttered "I should have lied." We were all so taken off guard, including my dad, that we burst into laughter that lasted a long, long time. In fact, I don't think the prayer was ever finished.

My mom taught me how to be silly. How to laugh at myself. She taught me how to clean. She taught me how to work. She taught me to love the Lord. How to serve. How to be good and how to do good. When I think of goodness and righteousness, I think of my mom. And I also think of how blessed I am to have been raised by her.

I love that we have Mother's Day to honor all of the amazing women in our lives. I love my mom and I want her to know that. Somehow, though, I find that I am never able to adequately express my love and gratitude for her. Flowers, gifts, and cards are never enough to do the job. Maybe that's why Mother's Day comes around every year, though. As a reminder. So incredible women every where, including my mom, will never forget the powerful influence for good that they've had on all of those around them.

I feel so blessed to have an amazing mother, a wonderful mother-in-law, two incredible grandmothers (both of whom are watching over me from above), all of my awesome sisters and sister-in-law, and so many other sweet friends as women and mothers who have taught me so much. I learn from you all each and every day. Sometimes when I feel down, discouraged and overwhelmed, I look to your examples and it gives me strength to keep on keepin' on. So please know that you are loved and appreciated beyond measure. Especially you, mom. I love you.

This Mother's Day I'm also overwhelmed with gratitude that I am so blessed with my 3 beautiful angels. Let's be honest, sometimes I want to rip my hair out and throw a little tantrum myself. Having 3 kids under 2 is no joke. But 3 years ago when we were on the middle of our battle with infertility, I could never have imagined how full of love, laughter and craziness my life would be. Being a mother is the hardest fun I've ever had. And for that I am grateful.

And so once again, to women everywhere, Happy Mother's Day.