- On Saturday, Isaac got norovirus.
- We did not know, at the time, that it was norovirus.
- We thought he just had a cold and had too much mucus in his system and it was just coming out all ends.
- So we took him to the ER because he couldn’t keep fluids down.
- He could have been there for two hours so that the Zofran would work and he’d be able to drink again.
- By hour five, Kyle called me to ask me to bring Isaac’s usual bottle so that he would drink the fluids.
- So my mom came to put Sam and Carrie to bed while I drove all the way to the hospital.
- Only for Kyle to call as I was about to turn into the parking lot and say that just kidding, Isaac just drank the whole bottle.
- Kyle and I were supposed to go on a date Sunday afternoon, but since Isaac had norovirus, that was out.
- Instead, my dad came over and ate cake, and that was fine.
- Monday was a holiday, and that was fine.
- On Tuesday, Kyle worked from home.
- Which he does every Tuesday.
- So when he finished work, he decided to take Sam to our local CVS to get a flu shot.
- Despite having lost three hours of work to a random power outage halfway through the day.
- (it was also pouring rain)
- They were also going to buy groceries.
- While they were gone, Isaac vomited profusely.
- It was impossible to clean.
- And Sam couldn’t even get his flu shot because the power outage had caused the clinic’s supply to go bad.
- On Wednesday, things mostly seemed normal, except I wasn’t hungry.
- But mostly things were okay.
- My mother visited for an hour in the afternoon, and I had dinner with the kids.
- After dinner, the kids started climbing on my lap.
- I started feeling seasick.
- Uh oh.
- After Kyle got home, I barely made it upstairs before I, too, fell victim to the norovirus.
- Cue six straight hours of running to the toilet every twenty minutes and not being sure which end was exploding.
- And after that, cue the next eighteen straight hours of brutal muscle aches and a low grade fever.
- Norovirus is a bitch.
- Cue six straight hours of running to the toilet every twenty minutes and not being sure which end was exploding.
- BUT THAT’S NOT ALL!
- Kyle and I share a toilet.
- Sharing a toilet is a good way to pass norovirus from person to person.
- About twelve hours after I first got sick, guess who also got sick?
- (it was neither Sam nor Carrie)
- So now we have two adults sick as can be, zero backup because we’re not inviting people into our plague shack, and three hyperactive children.
- Child Sam is on break from school and will not stop running and scream singing “DIGGY DIGGY HOLE” all the time.
- Child Isaac is HUNGRY but he’s also not 100% feeling better so he’s ANGRY because he doesn’t want any of his usual favorite foods and he’s very tired of Pedialyte.
- Child Carrie is playing with Child Sam all the time at 9000 MPH and scream singing either “INTO THE UNKNOWN” or “BABY SHARK” while running around the living room.
- My head.
- Everyone finally seems somewhat recovered today, Saturday.
- (this after completely losing both Thursday–when Isaac was supposed to have his ABA assessment–and Friday to illness)
- Kyle and I feel well enough to start cleaning up after our illness.
- We start a load of laundry.
- When Kyle goes to switch the laundry, he discovers that the water did not drain.
- He tries to fix the washing machine.
- He finds $5 in change!
- He does not fix the washing machine.
- We cancel tonight’s D&D session so one of us can go to the laundromat.
- At bedtime, we’re changing Isaac.
- He has hives.
- We have not started new foods.
- We have not used new detergents.
- He is not on new medicine.
- So we call the nurse line.
- Nurse line says that this can happen at the end of a virus and we should give him Benadryl.
- We don’t have Benadryl.
- Everything gets pushed back an hour or so while we hunt down Benadryl and give it to him.
- He has hives.
- Kyle just now got home with the laundry.
- It is 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday.
- I need a vacation.
It’s coming, sooner than I want it to, mostly because I feel wholly unprepared.
It, of course, is my life as a stay-at-home mom of two two-year-olds. March 14, the twins turn two, and even though it won’t technically be all that much different from the day before, things are already starting to take a turn for the chaotic.
The biggest preview of things to come happened about two weeks ago. As part of Isaac’s therapy, we’re taking him (or trying to take him) to a parent-and-child group through our local Early Intervention center. I’d tried it before, when the twins were really young, but it hadn’t worked out because being a singular mom hauling around two babies with the exact same needs is… well, it’s rough.
The twins were, I believe, barely past 5-6 months old at the time, not quite sitting up independently yet, and certainly not in a place yet where I could really settle them down and let them frolic. I mostly just sat on the floor, cross-legged, with the two of them lying in front of me, immobile and baffled by the suddenly crazy world around them. The other parents were chatting back and forth about how their kids were doing–this one had a GI appointment later this week, that one was finally taking a bottle without any struggle–but I could barely pay attention for more than a few seconds because the twins just. Didn’t want to be left alone on the floor.
I couldn’t do it alone, I realized. Whether it was because of my own sensory issues making classroom settings stressful for me (too. much. talking.) or because having two infants and one parent makes doing things impossible, I couldn’t do it alone. And anyway, we didn’t really need group back then. It was mostly a playgroup for parents to come and talk about their struggles and get support, and while I’ll be the last one to suggest I don’t need support, I prefer the one-on-one kind or else support in chat windows. Face-to-face support is… stressful.
But then Isaac got his diagnosis, and one of the recommendations from his doctors was some sort of playgroup. Right now, he’s just old enough for the parent-and-child group, like before, and because Carrie is also in Early Intervention (at least until she stops being a little turd during evaluations and shows people what she can really do), she gets to come along, too. It’s a two hour session, once a week, and because Kyle works, I’ve asked my mom to join me on group days (which is great because half of the other adults there are grandmas as well) because otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to do it. And she’s graciously agreed to join me, and it’s all fun, we expected.
Except. The first day of group, she got a stomach bug, and she got it right as I pulled up to the center.
So I tried it alone again.
What you first must understand about having twin two-year-olds is that unless a place is easily accessible by stroller, you’re going to have a helluva time getting in. I was recovering from bronchitis at the time (more on that in a second), and I had to haul these two children, neither of whom wanted to be carried, down a couple of flights of stairs to the classroom. I don’t blame the EI center for this, since they technically do have access around the back of the building, and they have an elevator as well (“elevator” in this instance meaning “manager’s lift from back when it was an industrial building”). I mostly blame my thought process of “well, we’ll just go in the front door because that’s less of a hike than walking around back.”
So twin two-year-olds down two flights of stairs, both of them wanting to get down but also not wanting to let go of me, and there’s no space on the stairs for any of us whatsoever. We finally got down to the classroom in time for the end of free play, and the twins had their first encounter with washing their hands in a weird place. By this age, Sam had been in daycare for about a year, so he was an old pro at washing his hands in strange places, but the twins have mostly just seen the inside of our downstairs bathroom and me coming after them with wipes. Carrie wanted nothing to do with the process and screamed and cried and refused to get her hands wet. Isaac, on the other hand, kept climbing up the step stool to play with the faucet again and again and again.
Now here, one might ask, “well, why didn’t you pull him away?” or “why didn’t the teacher pull him away?” and I might say, “because my hands were full with Carrie, who was melting down utterly; and because the teacher had half a dozen other children plus the classroom schedule to take care of, as this is a group that has a more one-on-one dynamic.”
Yes, Carrie was melting down, though Isaac recovered quickly from being prevented from making his dreams of flooding the room come true. He spotted a peg board like one we have at home and set to work making the tallest possible tower of pegs. Carrie, once she’d adopted a pouting acceptance of her fate, dutifully marched around the room to see what toys she could see, often coming over to sit on my lap and cry against my shoulder some more at the misery of it all.
They both finally shuffled over to the play kitchen, which pleased me–they love watching me cook, they love watching cooking videos, and now they were getting a chance to try it out for themselves. Isaac hummed and babbled to himself as he tossed plastic ingredients into a pot (carrot, fried egg, doughnut?), and Carrie became… oddly enamored of a plastic spatula and a plastic watermelon slice. For a few minutes, they were very happy.
I, too, was happy–happy enough to play with the Little People someone had scattered on the floor by my feet. I set up a summoning circle, and the Little People called forth the Little People Pope in his Little People Popemobile, and it was great.
And then, it was time to stop free play.
The other kids were, I think, seasoned pros about this, or at least more of seasoned pros than either Isaac or Carrie, whose days at home have all the structure absurdist literature, which is to say little to none. Their switches between activities at home are fluid, and I don’t make them put away their toys before settling them in their high chairs or bringing them up to bed because I am tired and I don’t want screaming. At group, however, once free play is over, the free play toys need to be put away. Isaac was fine with this (hilariously, my autistic kid had the least issue with change) because he loves cleaning up, and seeing that these New Toys also had a Place basically made his life.
Dear, sweet Carrie. Carrie, who has developed an almost obsession with me lately, where even if I just step outside the room to go to the toilet, it sends her into a meltdown. Carrie did not want to give up her spatula and watermelon.
I’m pretty sure I did it wrong. I asked nicely for the toys and, when she wouldn’t give them up, pried them from her vice like grip, which resulted in another tantrum. And I say tantrum, rather than meltdown, because there is a difference between the two. She wasn’t overtired or overstimulated, she just wanted to hold onto those two toys in particular and having to give them up made her Very Angry. It didn’t matter that it was circle time, and circle time meant songs. It only mattered that fuck you people, I want my spatula and my watermelon.
And all the while, Isaac was running around the rest of the room. He discovered the trash can, which the teacher promised would be put away the next time we came (but for that time, it was not put away, and Isaac liked how the lid flipped around).
I tried, I tried so hard to wrangle them both to the circle, but I could only hold onto one at a time. When they’re calm, I can do both. They rest their heads on my shoulders and conform to my body, and we’re happy. But Carrie was angry, and Isaac was excited, and their existence was chaos given form. Letting go of one to catch the other made it worse. Other children in the circle were less than happy to be there, but those other children had a parent apiece to keep them from running amok. Isaac and Carrie just had me.
(sidenote here: I’m not mad at my mom for not being there; she got sick, and that happens. I’m just recounting how crazy it was and how it’s helped me realize that oh man, am I in over my head)
Circle time was all about songs, with the kids who’d been there before maturely choosing a song they liked and adorably doing the hand motions. My kids, who had not been there before, either ran around the room like a crazy person (Isaac) or screamed and cried like I was tearing out their toenails one at a time (Carrie). Carrie did pay enough attention, however, to fall in love with the “fishy” song and how it ended with “bubbles… bubbles… bubbles… SPLASH!” I think it may have been the only thing she truly enjoyed about the experience.
After circle time, it was time for snacks, which prompted another ruckus from Carrie because hand washing. Isaac washed his hands once, went to the back of the line and washed his hands again, went to the back of the line and washed his hands again… while Carrie had to be forced to touch the water (she’s not like that at home at all… she’s kind of my little fish) and continued to sob hysterically when she couldn’t grab a bowl of peaches all by herself.
It felt like I was upending this poor teacher’s entire day by having these two unruly kids. Everyone has a first day in group, I know, and all kids have bad days, but they were out of my control entirely. If I had one calmed down or under control, the other was off in the corner summoning Baphomet from the ninth circle of hell or something.
But at least the snack was okay. The other parents sat nicely with their kids who’d been there before, all of them using utensils in some approximation of correctness. My twins have little experience with utensils, since finger foods are just easier when you’ve got two, but Carrie gave it the old college try and ate her peaches in about three seconds flat. Isaac had no interest in peaches and instead dumped the bowl over with glee. They both selected pretzels and goldfish as part of their snack, and they would have done well, except they were next given open cups of water to practice with.
Like. Okay. I know that I need to get them started on that. I know it’s something I should’ve been doing for a while. They’re almost two. Bottles should be ancient history.
But I remain tired and maybe I don’t want to deal with wet milky clothes every day all the time.
Carrie gave it a try again, and she got thoroughly soaked, though she got some water in her mouth. Isaac grabbed the cup by the lip, and while I know I should have repositioned his hand and let him try again, all I could think of was how I was about to have two drowned rat children and it was 19 degrees outside.
So I took the cup away.
Undeterred, Isaac took Carrie’s cup and sat there merrily squishing every goldfish and pretzel he could find into it until the teacher finally came and took snacktime away, replacing it with craft time: black construction paper and chalk.
Isaac ate the chalk, but it’s nontoxic, so whatever.
Carrie actually did a very good job, scribbling and stabbing and giggling all the while, which is probably why her next despair-a-thon started when it was time to give the chalk back in exchange for bubbles.
I like bubbles time. Everyone likes bubbles time. All of the children calmed down and started laughing and chasing the bubbles. Blowing bubbles is a soothing breathing technique, and I felt some of my stress dissipate. Carrie even managed to blow a bubble of her own and squealed with pure joy when I caught it on the wand for her.
And then it was time to move on. Free play, circle time, snack, craft, bubbles, and now gross motor play in the gym area two rooms down. The twins aren’t very good at being escorted places while holding hands because… well, a lot of reasons. With Sam, we had one child, so we took him out everywhere by himself, and we could hold his hands, and he got good at it. I took him out alone a lot. When Kat lived with us, she came with me. Taking Sam out was easy at most ages, and it still is; he’s a delight to have at any store, behaving himself quite well in exchange for a trip down the Lego aisle.
But the twins… I’ve been afraid. For good reason. I have two hands, exactly two, and any outing with two children requires more than two hands. You need at least one hand, probably two, for each child. You need hands for the stroller and hands for the diaper bag and hands for the inevitable “NO DON’T TOUCH THAT… oh, sorry, I’ll pay for it, sorry!” Being that I only have two hands, I don’t take the twins out by myself very much yet. I need to, I need to start doing it because how else will they learn? But…
But. That’s basically the moral of this whole story. Everything is twice as hard with twins, which is why I haven’t been doing any of it, which is why they came to the parent-child group as a hot mess.
Somehow, I wrangled them down the hall and let them free. It was… something. Isaac is bad at following commands and ignored everyone who told him that slides are for sliding, not climbing, but later found a rocking horse and pure joy. Carrie just… up and slapped everyone she met. Hauled off and just, SMACK! Right in the face. I thought I saw it once or twice, turning around from helping Isaac to stop climbing up the slide, buddy, what did I say? but I only really caught it once, as I was bringing Isaac back from something else. I turned around, Carrie was facing this other little boy, and she just smacked him right across the mouth, twice, before heading off to do her own thing.
“Carrie!” I admonished her, hurrying to find some way to scold her without dropping Isaac. The little boy seemed mostly unfazed, though he did lean against his mother sadly, and I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t bring myself to fess up and apologize.
And then the twins got stamps on their hands and the group was over. I wrangled them back up the stairs, and right when I thought we were going to be okay, Carrie broke away from me, running past the receptionist’s desk and into a meeting room filled with heavy and dangerous office supplies. I had Isaac on one hip, the diaper bag on the other, my purse slung around my neck, and zero energy. “Carrie!” I cried again, and the receptionist looked concerned while doing nothing.
I put Isaac down. He dissolved into sobs because I was clearly leaving him to be eaten by wolves. I put the diaper bag down. I put my purse down. I marched into the office after my little escape artist, who giggled merrily until I picked her up and then began screaming. I scooped up the diaper bag. I scooped up the purse. I scooped up the sobbing Isaac. I got us all out to the van, somehow, and got everyone buckled in, somehow, and I sat in my front seat and sobbed.
It was just so much.
Group is a challenge for me from the start, because group means interacting with strangers, which is not something I do well. It means an unfamiliar environment. It means too much noise. It means new situations and strange schedules, and it means that I’m already parenting on hard mode just by being there.
But add twins.
Two little adorable kids, one of whom can’t talk at all yet, the other of whom is an impish diva gremlin child. They’re freaked out because it’s a weird place. They’re freaked out because it’s a weird schedule. They’re freaked out because there’s so much noise and so many people and everything happens so much.
And congratulations to me, I think I just did parenting on hard mode tournament level.
I congratulate myself mostly because they came out in one piece, nobody got seriously hurt, and against every sense of self-preservation I have, we’re going back on Thursday (after missing last week because Isaac had a merciful 100 degree temperature, the exact cut off for “you can’t come to group today”). But man oh man do I feel like I’m shitting the bed on this parenting thing. I need to push them and teach them new things, but group made me realize just how behind I’ve been and just how ill-equipped we are for that sort of thing. Worse, it made me feel utterly incapable of doing… well, anything that involves them. How am I supposed to manage twin two-year-olds on a day-to-day basis if I can’t even keep them from wreaking total havoc in a group environment?
I remind myself that my mom will be there this time (hopefully), and that once Isaac’s ABA therapy starts, his therapist will be there. That it’s neither a race nor a competition. That they’re happy, healthy, and perfectly fine children, technically around where they’re supposed to be.
But I also can’t help but look at it as a test where I didn’t exactly fail, but I won’t be getting a lot of praise, either.
It also caused my bronchitis to relapse, and now I’ve got a nebulizer, so that’s fun.
I don’t know. I shouldn’t be in my feelings about this, I shouldn’t still be kicking myself about the whole situation, but I am. I feel like I’m failing them on some level that they’re nearly two and don’t have these basic things going on–the ability to transition from one activity to another without falling apart, the ability to drink out of a cup without a lid, the ability to not slap the living daylights out of other children who happen to exist. They’ve not had a lot of opportunities to practice those things, and I know that’s largely my fault, and it’s something I need to work on going forward, but I feel shitty that I haven’t… I don’t know, I guess been doing more to this point.
I don’t know. I don’t know. Two year old twins are a lot.
January is such a weird month. You blink and suddenly, it’s February. All the stress from the holiday season is gone, and you’re left with this month of allegedly not much happening, so the days just blur into each other and you reach the end like ????? when did I get here?
Or maybe that’s just me.
It’s been a weird couple of weeks from where I’m standing. This month was going to be fun! I had plans to get my hair done (that’s still happening tomorrow), plans for Mom Dates, and plans to just veg because I don’t need to do anything baking or planning wise until the middle of February.
But I plan and the universe laughs. Last Tuesday, I woke up feeling like my chest was in a vice and, after taking an afternoon nap to try and relieve some of that, heard crackles. Kyle bundled me into the car, and my annual bout of bronchitis got confirmed while my mom put the kids to bed.
I didn’t realize it was an annual thing, by the way, until I was looking at Facebook memories (literally my favorite Facebook thing because seeing what was going on in my life 10 years ago is fascinating, which is why I have a blog) and saw that the first two weeks of January basically always consist of me saying, “Turns out I’ve got [lung disease]” with some frowny face emoji. Last year was a particularly bad year, with pneumonia being the diagnosis du jour, but something always seems to settle in my lungs as soon as Christmas gets packed away.
I do blame Christmas, at least in part. It’s a stressful time of the year, so when the stress has stopped keeping all the sickness at bay, it descends like an angry swarm of bees into my lungs and I spend a good two weeks losing time and more time to resting and trying to keep from getting sicker. And I hilariously never succeed–no matter what was wrong to begin with, something else ends up following it.
Last year, it was bronchitis turned into pneumonia. This year, it’s my big toe.
I hate my feet, always have. When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend who decided he loved my feet after hearing me confess that I hate my feet during a youth group session where we were all confessing our insecurities for some reason. I think he was trying to make me feel better about my feet, but honestly, it just backfired and I not only hate looking at my feet now, but I hate it when anything ever touches my feet.
They’re short, hairy, stubby-toed feet, flat and wide because I’ve got three kids and pregnancy would turn even Cinderella’s feet into SCUBA flippers.
What does this have to do with bronchitis?
So right before I got my bronchitis diagnosis, back when January was looking good, I noticed that I had an ingrown toenail. No big deal, I figured, that happens–I started to deal with it and moved on with my life. The next day, though, I got hit with bronchitis like a ton of bricks, and instead of having the energy to make sure my toe wasn’t developing an infection or looking hellish, I had all the energy of a dying sloth. I spent basically a week straight of afternoons in bed, wheezy and miserable, and on the fourth day, I noticed that my toe was starting to throb.
Bending over was uncomfortable. I asked Kyle to take a look at my toe and he made a face like
Which I took to be a bad thing. He said that if it wasn’t looking better by the next day, I had to go to the doctor because as it stood, it had gone from usual “my feet” ugly to scary ugly.
The first Saturday after my diagnosis, therefore, I bundled up in the car and left Kyle with the kids to drive to an urgent care clinic and see what they had to say about my toe. The closest urgent care clinics all listed 2-3 hour waits (which is typical for weekends during flu season), but the one half an hour away, out past where my parents live, listed a 20 minute wait, and their wait times are usually exaggerated by about 15 minutes. Doing the math, I figured that sure, it was a half hour drive, but the wait would only be five minutes or so, which was far less than I was looking at for the clinics 10-15 minutes away.
…yeah, no, I got there and waited an hour and a half. They had fishing on TV, which was just… that’s a Saturday without cable thing. I grew up without cable, without internet until I was a teenager, so our Saturdays-in-winter entertainment mostly consisted of whatever we could find on analog channels that our antenna picked up (considerably more once we got an antenna booster that we had to adjust for certain channels that came from, say, New Hampshire or something). This commonly included Disney Dark Age films (the only time you’d catch Robin Hood or The Sword in the Stone, for example) but also sometimes included bowling and fishing. Bottom of the barrel stuff, you know?
And that’s what they had on the waiting room, as if it were a raw Saturday in January of 1993 and mom and dad were tired of The Rescuers.
An hour and a half of fishing on TV, and then they called me in. The appointment itself lasted less than three minutes: the nurse looked at my toe, said “that’s infected,” prescribed me an antibiotic and a consult with podiatry, and sent me on my way. It was like the least fun roller coaster ever.
I drove home (wincing the whole way because, as you know if you’ve ever had an ingrown toenail, it hurt like hell) and was very grumpy by the time I got back, because even though it wasn’t a waste of time, it felt like a waste of time, and I hate wasting time.
It’s hard enough being sick enough that you need to sleep a ton (which I was that entire week and have been a lot of this week, too) because you lose afternoons where you can and should be doing something but aren’t. The first week I was sick, I was supposed to make half a dozen phone calls to set up interviews for Isaac’s ABA therapy, to get myself a therapist, to make sure things were in order for all sorts of stuff in the next couple of months… and I did none of that because I was sleeping. That Saturday, I was actually feeling well enough to get caught up on some stuff… and instead I spent the day dealing with my damned toe.
So then I started the treatment plan of antibiotics four times a day for ten days (I’m closing in on done with those, thankfully) and soaking my foot in an epsom salt bath as frequently as I could. The latter has actually been quite pleasant; I think I’ve reached that age where dumb little pleasures like sticking my horrible feet into scalding salt water are the highlight of my day. The former… doesn’t seem to have been doing much, but it doesn’t matter because the podiatry appointment was the real adventure.
I hate feet, as we’ve established, and I’ve also got something of a hangup about podiatrists. I saw one when I was about ~10-12 years old because I was a toe walker and, as it turned out, the tendons in the back of my ankle are too short, which has led to no shortage (ha ha) of pain when I walk a lot or stand a lot or use my legs like a normal person. That, too, has led to no shortage (ha ha) of podiatrist trips, and of all the specialists I’ve seen in my life, podiatrists have been some of the most dismissive, usually remarking that my shoes are terrible and that they aren’t going to take my complaints seriously if I’m coming in with those shoes.
(context was usually summer, shoes were usually flip flops that I wouldn’t wear to walk more than to the car and to the waiting room, but okay?)
And the third ingredient of this anxiety cocktail was my love for those videos of people getting pimples popped or ingrown toenails removed. They’re bloody and disgusting, but I love watching them… until it’s my turn in the hot seat, at which point, it turns into something significantly more nerve-wracking.
I was a ball of nerves by the time I got to the podiatrist, but that ended up being for nothing. After a couple of very painful shots of anesthetic to my toe (not quite childbirth or gallstones painful, but definitely worse than a beesting), everything was over within about five minutes, and I awkwardly shuffled myself home with a no longer infected or ingrown toenail on my extremely numb toe.
And now I’m in the aftermath of two unexpectedly wasted weeks, one taken up entirely by bronchitis and the other a weird mixture of bronchitis and toe pain. I kind of wish I could take a mulligan on the last two weeks so that I could catch up on everything that didn’t happen while I was busy being sick or in pain, but welcome to adulthood, Abby, sometimes you lose huge stretches of time because you’re sick. Sigh.
Hopefully, I’ll start being more productive again now that my lungs are mostly clear. Until then…
There’s a weird thing that happens to me after Christmas, as I look at January on my calendars and realize that I have no plans whatsoever. I don’t need to figure out baking specifics and schedule supply runs for specific pay days. I don’t need to make sure the kids have specific outfits at specific times. I don’t need to do much at all in January, and even this year, when I’m looking at a whole bunch of specialist appointments for me and for Isaac (geneticist for Isaac, geneticist and endocrinologist for me), the first couple of months are so calm and nice.
I mean. That won’t last. And it’s mostly just January because the twins turn two in March and then there’s vacations and Easter and Sam’s birthday and basically from March until July 4, I’m going to be screaming like a velociraptor…
…BUT FOR NOW, everything is copacetic!
Christmas was honestly pretty nice and lowkey, despite everything I ended up putting into it (lots of baking, lots of stuff for the kids, lots of everything), and that tends to be the case year after year, and I won’t complain about it. I was utterly spoiled this year, with SO MANY KITCHEN THINGS, ranging from a food processor (I can make pie crust now!) to a gloriously sweary oven mitt…
…and then, of course, Kyle added a winter coat and a lovely necklace to the mix, so all-in-all, I feel quite loved and appreciated.
Kyle does as well, but that’s more in spite of me than because of me because GOSH but I hecked up his Christmas.
The initial plan was to get him a nice, new camcorder because he’s always been about video production and editing. He has a degree in it, even! And although we had a camcorder, it was old and didn’t seem to work well, so we never used it and mostly just depended on our phones to commemorate special occasions in 60-second snippets. And that’s fine, but I kept thinking about how nice it was when I was a kid to have longer videos of our family life and how much fun Kyle has when he’s editing videos.
So I ordered the best reviewed camcorder on Amazon, at least in our price range, and did so after talking to him about it, as I have a personal policy on not buying big gadgets for people until after I’ve cleared it with them. Kyle was excited about it, the camera came with all sorts of accessories, and once it arrived, he set to work putting it together and trying it out…
…and found out that it does not, apparently, work with his computer or mine.
We’re not really sure why. It didn’t manage to record ANY video, despite us taking plenty, and connecting it to both of our computers just got a lot of “?????” from all devices. On the plus side, we discovered that our old camera works really well and has a TON of pictures from Sammy’s first birthday stored on it, so we do have a camera in the end. On the minus side, I still have to go and return the damned thing because what the hell even.
And ALSO on the minus side, because I figured the camera would be such a hit (and it would have been if it hadn’t sucked), I kind of got lazy about Kyle’s other Christmas presents. I got him a couch slipcover, with the mindset of “now we can put off getting a new couch for longer without stressing about our couch being disgusting!” because finances or something? I don’t know. I genuinely don’t know what I was thinking, and anyway, it doesn’t matter because the damned thing doesn’t even fit on our couch. It’s big enough, oh yes, but it’s designed for a specific shape of couch and that shape is not our shape.
So I’m 0 for 2, but I didn’t fail entirely. I also got Kyle a beard kit that includes a sheet to keep beard hair from falling in the sink and some beard shaper tools and combs and such, and he liked that a lot. And he liked the things I got him from the twins.
Just. You know. Not from me. Womp womp.
The kids also had great Christmasses, and their gifts have been overall hits. Sam benefited from Minecraft only being $6.99 to put on his Kindle, so even though we’d stuck to our self-imposed limits of four presents from Santa and four from the family (from each of us: Kyle, me, Isaac, and Carrie), we added that to the list, and it’s basically made his life. And it’s been great because even though he’s in love with the game, he’s still been really good about sticking to his screen time limits without getting angry or complaining, so I’m pleased as punch there.
Isaac has been the hardest to shop for because his interests are a bit more complex than “Sam likes MInecraft” or “Carrie likes Elsa.” He likes figuring out the mechanics of various objects–how they work, how to turn them on or off, how to make them do what he wants–and he likes climbing on things. Eventually, once we’ve got off our asses and cleaned up the backyard some, he’ll have plenty of places to climb around, so we mostly focused on puzzles and mechanical toys, which have all been hits to varying degrees. He mostly just seems happy that he’s got a week with both me and Kyle home to play with him, because he’s too sweet for words.
And Carrie, sweet Carrie, has discovered (though not to her disadvantage!) that having narrow and specific interests makes Christmas very easy for people. She received a grand total of three different plush Elsas, all of which she adores (though only one of which is she allowed to bring to bed every night) along with a periwinkle blue “Elsa” cloak that she asks for by adorably saying, “coke! coke!” at us. She is also confused by Kyle having this week off, but is mostly happy about it… though also sometimes prone to tantrums about it if she realizes that, despite there being two parents home, neither is currently paying her All Of The Attention.
So overall: good times. I’m excited right now about having the Christmas-to-New-Year’s Fugue Week to eat all the candy we got for the holiday, return the camcorder and slipcover, and basically just exist without any conscious understanding of the passage of time; and then I’m excited about having January be a much slower month than the last ~3-4 have been in terms of Stuff To Do, because this year is going to be absolutely wild once it picks up steam.
But in the meantime, it’s time to breathe.
When I was pregnant with the twins, I had this nagging fear about Isaac, that I’d have a hard time bonding with him. I was excited to welcome Carrie into the world, not just because she was my child but because she was the girl I’d dreamed of having for a very long time. And it’s not to say that I wasn’t excited about Isaac–he was a surprise blessing, the second baby on the ultrasound where we expected to see nothing–but most of my excitement about him came about in an “and” sense.
It terrified me. I didn’t want any of my children to feel like an “and” and I still don’t. I didn’t want Isaac to be that middle child that faded into the background beside his big brother and little sister. I wanted him to know that he was powerfully, wildly loved, even if I couldn’t conjure up the emotions supporting that fact when I was the size of a small whale. And I was terrified, utterly terrified, that I’d never bond with him the way I bonded with Sam, the way I expected to bond with Carrie. I wasn’t jumping out of my skin with excitement about having another boy, and I was afraid that would translate to my bond with Isaac taking more time to arrive.
Spoiler alert: SUPER didn’t happen. The instant they brought him close to me in the operating room, I fell in love in a way I never have before. I love all of my children equally, of course, and I fell in love with each of them in different ways. With Isaac’s, it was like all the bonding that I hadn’t been feeling over the 34 weeks of my pregnancy hit me in one sucker punch of adoration. I cried when I heard his cry for the first time, and then when I actually saw him, I cried again because of how much I suddenly loved him.
I have a special bond with all three of my kids. Sam is my partner in crime. Carrie is my little princess. But Isaac is kind of my person, and he has been since the day he was born. When he was really little and the twins used to nap in the mornings while Sam watched TV and I dozed on the couch, Isaac would wake up fussily about 45 minutes in and not relax until he was resting against my chest. I know it’s not safe to sleep with your kid like that, but we did, me with my arm gently around him and him listening to my heartbeat.
Something about the way he viewed and interacted with the world clicked with me, the way it didn’t quite click with Sam or Carrie. Not to put too much stock into what’s a glorified Quizilla quiz, but Sam and Carrie are huge extroverts with a desperate need to be seen. Sam’s favorite words are, “Hey mom, look at this!” and Carrie has taken to putting both of her hands on my cheeks so that I can’t look away from her while she babbles in her little baby tongue (probably about Elsa or Darth Vader; she’s quite articulate). I love them. I love singing and dancing with Carrie. I love Sam’s neverending rambles about Minecraft.
Isaac is on my wavelength, though.
Isaac’s way of showing he loves you is first to give you things, and they don’t always make sense. A couple of days ago, he saw his speech therapist for the first time in well over a month (because vacations and holidays make schedules weird), and he was so excited to see her that he brought over a pair of pants (Carrie’s) and one of his blocks; when she put those down, he rushed away to find something new that she might like (his brother’s stuffed puppy and an old cracker).
He’ll look at you until he’s used to you, and then he’ll ignore you completely… for the most part. When he’s acknowledged and understood the people in a given space, he’ll mostly make his own noises–lots of loud “AAH!!” or just random babbling–while figuring out the mechanics of things or building his own stepladder to something he’s not supposed to reach (read: having a Christmas tree has been fun). You can call his name until you’re blue in the face, but unless interacting with you is his idea, he’ll ignore you completely (again: fun times with the Christmas tree). He’s so insanely clever with figuring things out; he can turn things on and off again with buttons that are completely hidden from him and supposed to be so. He experiments with how things move and work, and his absolute adoration of lightswitches is both adorable and aggravating in the same breath.
If he does want to play with you, you do not get a choice in the matter. If you ignore him when he comes over to you, he yells in your face until you pay attention. He climbs into your lap like the little mountain goat that he is. If he wants you to move your hands in a certain way, he adjusts your fingers, your wrists, deftly puts everything where it ought to be with gentle movements, and then moves himself into place to play whatever game you’re playing (today, it was “got yer nose!” and he pushed my thumb between my middle and forefinger then smashed his head against my hand several times to make sure I understood what he wanted).
But when he loves you, oh, when he loves you. He climbs up on you and hugs you, his right arm tight around your neck, his cheek resting against your right shoulder. And he stays there, content, holding onto you. He does this in the morning and he does this at night, and he does it if something upsets him. He’s moved away from giving kisses (except to his sister, because they both think it’s hilarious that someone small like them exists in the house), but when he’s tired, he snuggles, his head nestled against your left shoulder, his body relaxing against you, releasing all the tension it usually holds. He doesn’t say your name (except when you’re not around to hear it), but when he sees you, his entire face lights up like a sunrise. He doesn’t scream for joy like Carrie or start telling you Every Little Thing like Sam, but you catch sight of that smile and you’re in love.
Isaac, my sweet, lovey boy, has autism.
We’ve suspected for a long time, even longer than you’re supposed to suspect (they won’t do tests until your child is eighteen months old); something about him just pinged something in me. Today, we had an evaluation done to learn if our suspicions–and those of our EI specialists–were correct, and they were. He’s autistic, neurodiverse, his symptoms only setting him apart from a neurotypical child of his age a very little bit. The skills that would pull him out of even that diagnosis are inconsistent, at best, and so he is autistic, and so he qualifies for interventions.
I’ve been trying to parse my feelings on this since we left the doctor’s office around 2 this afternoon, because they’re hard to parse. On the way in, I was crying and hoping that if he had any neurodiversity, they’d see it so that he wouldn’t grow up thinking that he was bad at being a person but instead knowing that his brain just works in a different way. For a heartbeat in the office, I was terrified that they’d adopt a “watchful waiting” approach, which is the conservative way of doing things for a child so young like Isaac (who, although he’s technically 21 months old, actually falls into the category of being about 19 months old because yay, prematurity). But they didn’t. He is autistic.
The trouble I’ve had since is that (a) the next steps are daunting, to say the least (please, please, please let this be something our EI services coordinator can help us with), and (b) I hate the way therapy and services get discussed.
For (a) they gave me an enormous packet of information that I didn’t have a chance to read through until I got home because the evaluation was in the middle of Isaac’s naptime. Kyle got to it before I did, as I was sitting there and hugging my exhausted child, and he kept asking me what certain paragraphs and sentences meant and what we could do with them and if I’d have to be driving all over the Commonwealth to get Isaac to all these therapists, and I honestly had no idea how to answer him. There were so many recommendations and ideas, and it was all so overwhelming.
It’s Christmas the day after tomorrow, and I’m not going to try and dive into everything right now because even if I did try, nothing is open. I don’t know if anything will be open until after the first of the year, which is unhelpful, but at the same time, it kind of grants some breathing room before everything changes again.
I know a lot of it will probably be groups and small classrooms, which is something I’ve been wanting for Isaac (and Carrie) for a while, but is also something we couldn’t afford to do privately. With this recommendation, I hope they’ll get that chance for socialization that I can’t provide them; it did Sam so much good when he was their age, and I’d not be surprised if it sweeps away those last bits of prematurity clinging to them.
I know a lot of it will be ABA, which terrifies me on a lot of levels because I don’t know what it entails, and a lot of the autistic adults I’ve read stuff from and spoken with have given ABA harsh criticism. Our insurance won’t cover therapies like Floortime or RBI because they don’t have the bodies of research devoted to them that ABA does, and we just can’t afford to pay out of pocket. And it’s like… I’ll take the ABA, but only as long as Isaac’s therapists have the same goals I have, those being not to erase or cover up his autism but to help him find ways to communicate his wants and needs to a world built for neurotypicals. I don’t care if he’s flapping his hands or spinning or stimming in a way that makes people stare, as long as he’s not hurting anyone.
Which brings me to (b) because all of the therapy and services seem geared towards “curing” or “reversing” his autism, and I’m just like… that’s not? how it works? I don’t want to cure or reverse anything about him. He is my baby. He is a piece of my heart. I do want him to be able to communicate with us for his own sake, whether that means we all learn ASL or he has a tablet where he points to pictures or he actually expresses things verbally. I want him to be happy, and I want him to be able to take care of himself, however he can, once Kyle and I aren’t able to do so anymore.
Like the way they were talking about therapy just really turned me off… they were saying that because he’s so young, ABA could give us a complete reversal of symptoms and he wouldn’t be autistic anymore. And I just… don’t want him to be not autistic anymore. I don’t want to train that out of him like he’s a puppy with bad behavior. I want him to be able to talk to us, I want him to be able to focus his attention and take care of himself and cope with sensory overload (or underload, he seems to be something of a sensory seeker), but I don’t want him to stop lining up blocks and balls or taking apart toys to make them work differently or spinning or flapping his hands when he gets excited. That’s part of who he is. I don’t want that to go away.
GOD I hope the ABA people are open to me saying all of this. I’m not trying to get him therapy in order to remove autism from the equation. I’m getting him therapy to help my autistic son cope with a world that doesn’t understand how his brain works so that maybe, when he’s 36 years old assuming the world doesn’t burn to a crisp by then, he won’t have spent a lot of his life enumerating things that are wrong with him (weird, unprofessional, antisocial, too quirky, off), but will instead be able to say that he’s a delight who just happens to be autistic. That he’ll be able to plan for that when searching for work or meeting people or socializing so that he can live the absolute best life he can.
So that’s where I am, emotionally. He’s autistic, and I don’t feel at all sad about that. If anything, I feel a little happy, which a lot of people would probably find weird, but he really is my person. I get the way his brain works. I appreciate it. But I’m scared of therapy, and I’m angry about the language used, as if it’s trying to delete who he is because it doesn’t fit into a neurotypical mold. I don’t care if he flaps his hands or spins or lines things up in a row or is obsessed with trains. I just want him to be able to say, “I’m hungry” to people who aren’t me (I can 100% tell when he’s hungry without him using words) and then be able to step away if the world is too much for him. I want him to know who he is, and that he’s incredible, even if he doesn’t fit into a neurotypical mold.
And I’m afraid that, as we move forward with therapy, I’ll have to choose between helping him communicate and have a sense of self and having him forced into a mold that doesn’t fit him.
I feel like that should sum everything up in and of itself–WHEW. WHEW, that was a trip. WHEW, I can’t believe we did that. WHEW, did I mention the part where we drove for 21 hours straight because a snow storm was coming?
See, we decided this year to pack the kids up and drive down to Texas to spend Thanksgiving with Kyle’s family, largely because (a) flying five people round trip to Texas is very expensive, and (b) we hadn’t been to Texas since before the twins were born. That meant that the twins hadn’t yet met a LOT of Kyle’s family, and I’m not a fan of that. And when you factor in that Kyle and I haven’t really spent any major holidays with his family in a very long time, it sort of seemed like a no-brainer to us.
We knew going into it that the trip would be harrowing in a lot of ways, and it was–hell, the last day of the trip was that 21-hour drive straight from Birmingham, Alabama, to our home in Massachusetts to try and outrun the snow storm that was bearing down on us.
(we did outrun it; more on that later)
And here, two days home, I’m exhausted but writing this all down while it’s still fresh in my mind because we learned a lot, and I want that to exist somewhere for me to see or for someone else to see. Hence: what we’ve learned about traveling with three children under the age of 6.
#1. Rent a bigger car than you think you’ll need, and pick it up the day before you leave.
My father-in-law graciously offered to help us pay for the rental car, since our minivan, much though I love it, is something of a fossil. I don’t mind trusting it when we’re within a tank of gas from the house (read: up to Maine, down to New York, that sort of thing), but if we’re halfway across the country, I get concerned. The problems it could have at this age would lead to us being stranded VERY far from home, so a rental car seemed our best option.
I wanted to be nice and helpful, so I chose the least expensive rental option that could seat seven passengers, and therein lay my first mistake: I didn’t calculate for luggage. We ended up with a fantastic Kia Sorento (P.S. to Kia: your 2020 Sorento is a fantastic car, and I love it and wish it was my car always) that definitely fit all three kids… but we also had to squeeze in two pack n plays, a double stroller, an enormous suitcase, three small day bags, snacks for everyone, puke clean up supplies (more on that in a minute), and Christmas presents. Kyle managed to get everything in on the way down, but on the way back… well, thankfully, my mother-in-law had been planning to ship some of our Christmas gifts to us anyway.
It was a tight fit is what I’m saying.
(I know, they’re forward facing, but just for this trip)
I’d also scheduled the rental to begin on the day we planned to leave–that is, Friday, November 19–figuring that packing the car itself would be much easier and less time consuming than packing the bags.
I was wrong.
I think Kyle and I made record time packing the suitcases on Thursday night. We rolled everyone’s outfits like cake and stuffed suitcases without thinking twice. We had everything we planned to bring all set up by the front door well before we crashed for the night, and we even had time to spend just vegging that evening. The next day, however, even though I went to get the car pretty early, we still didn’t get everything into said car until almost 11:00, largely because we had so much stuff and so little space that Kyle had to play a game of Tetris to make sure it all fit.
(he was okay with it because, as he points out every time we do anything, he was the quartermaster for his Boy Scout troop, and he can make anything fit anywhere)
That late departure followed us for the rest of the day, because…
#2. If you will be driving through a major city, plan your entire day around being stuck in traffic.
…day one was also the drive through New York City. Had we left when I’d expected us to, around 9 a.m., we’d have reached NYC around lunch time and been long gone before rush hour. But we did not. The car needed packing and that took a year, and it was nearly–or even past, I’m not sure which–11:00 by the time we pulled out of our driveway.
And, factoring in one (1) stop for lunch and one (1) stop for a bathroom break just outside the city, we hit New York right as everyone was leaving work the Friday before Thanksgiving.
Weirdly enough, our GPS didn’t direct us around the city, even with knowledge of the snarl we’d gotten ourselves into. I don’t imagine the Tappan Zee Bridge, which is the route around New York City, was much better, and without traffic, that route adds another hour and a half to any given drive through New York. Regardless, we planned poorly and found ourselves scooting along at two-and-a-half miles an hour through Manhattan on the Friday before Thanksgiving.
On the plus side, everyone inside the car remained in mostly good spirits, because what can you do? In that level of traffic (which was obscene, I cannot emphasize this enough), you can’t get off onto side streets because that’ll just make everything worse. You can’t pull over onto the shoulder because the shoulder is taken up by cars already. You just have to put on some music or a podcast you like and hunker down for the long haul and pray that nobody in your car gets car sickness.
We are not so lucky.
#3. If your child has ever gotten car sick, they will get car sick on your trip.
Both of my boys have gotten car sick in the past, but with both of them, Kyle and I thought we’d gotten to the route of the problem and wouldn’t have to worry about puking for the entire trip. Isaac faced forward, which helps him see the horizon (not ideal, but I wanted to do what I could to help him), and we made sure to block sunlight from his face as we drove so he wouldn’t have to deal with the strobe effect.
An hour out from our house, it began, right before we stopped for lunch. We heard a cough, a sob, and then liquid, and sure enough, everything Isaac had eaten so far that day was now on his lap, reminding us that milk before a car trip is always a mistake. We pulled over for lunch, changed his clothes, figured he’d gotten it all out of his system, and carried on.
But it was about to get so much worse.
New York City rush hour traffic is rough on even the most iron of stomachs. The stop-and-go nature of the traffic makes your stomach’s contents lurch dangerously, even if you never get car sick. If you do get car sick, you are so deeply, wretchedly, horribly screwed.
Thus, about 10 minutes into our scoot through New York City, Isaac threw up. And did so another five times before we left the city.
I’m proud of us because we didn’t give him milk at lunch, but I’m annoyed because we didn’t plan for his pukeyness happening more than once that day. Usually, he gets the Treatment: Benadryl (which has the same active ingredient as Dramamine, the more you know), a bib of some sort to cover his clothes, and several rolls of paper towels at our disposal. For some reason, though, we didn’t expect him to keep throwing up after the first time, so when we buckled him back in after lunch, it was without any of those things.
We eventually pulled off into some really shitty service plaza just off the George Washington Bridge so that we could get Isaac cleaned up and so that Sam and I could stretch our legs a bit. We’d gotten to New York City at around 3, and by the time we stopped, it was past 6. AUGH!
It didn’t end there, though, oh no. On the drive back, Isaac started puking again, though we were prepared for him this time, with bibs and paper towels and such. We were not, however, prepared for what happened on our last day driving, when Sam’s stomach ache turned into projectile vomit all over the back of the rental car in the middle of the night in North Carolina. Sam hadn’t gotten car sick before that point since he got ear tubes put in when he was about the twins’ age. He had nothing in the back seat to catch the puke or prevent it from going, well, everywhere.
…I totally forgot to tell the car rental place about that. Oops.
But then again, I’m tired because…
#4. You will not get any sleep ever.
This can really be broken down into 4A. No sleep in hotels, and 4B. No sleep because driving; they both play into each other, though.
We brought the twins’ pack n plays with us, but while we were on the road, we may as well have just never used them. Both twins screamed and sobbed until we held them between us in our hotel bed, and though Kyle and I don’t usually bedshare (tl;dr – we are fat people, and though we are trying to lose weight, we have not yet lost enough to fit three children between us in a queen size bed), it was the fastest way to get them to sleep.
And that would’ve been fair! Except as anyone who’s ever bedshared knows, it’s a crapshoot as to whether or not the parents get any sleep throughout the night. The last night in the last hotel, the twins arranged themselves horizontally between us, giving Kyle and I each about 6” of bed space, so we spent our precious few hours in bed trying very hard not to fall off and make a loud noise that would wake up everyone (including Sam, who was very much about sleeping whenever we were in a hotel).
(look at all that space they left for us!)
Even when they weren’t making us into a human H, the twins found ways to make themselves comfortable at our expense. I woke up the second morning of the drive because Carrie was desperately trying to meld her head with mine or make my head softer or SOMETHING; basically, she was driving her head into my head. And my GOD did that ever hurt. Isaac, meanwhile, would wake up in the middle of the night and just be patting me all over and giggling to himself as the excess skin he gave me jiggled for his amusement. Very funny when I’m awake; kind of a nuisance when I’m asleep.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if the driving hadn’t been exhausting, but it was. Our New York day set us up for awful driving schedules; we didn’t get to our hotel that night until well past 2 a.m., and the following morning, we slept in and spent more hours than we should have washing Isaac’s clothes in the hotel’s laundry facilities. And because of that, we didn’t get to the next night’s hotel until well past 2 a.m., and even when we got an earlyish start on the third day, we still didn’t get to our final destination until past 10 at night.
I thought I’d planned our days so well, but I didn’t realize…
#5. The unexpected will happen.
I mean, that’s just life with kids, but it still hits you like a ton of bricks when it does happen.
On the way down, it was the NYC traffic kerfluffle that messed us up and had ripple effects for the rest of the drive. We had a marvelous visit in Texas that included an early Christmas, a late birthday date, and a delightful Thanksgiving feast; and all too soon, it was time to leave again.
Which… well, rewind for a minute. When we’d started talking about this trip, my in-laws had worried that we’d run into a blizzard during the drive, which made me sensibly chuckle.
Southern New England–and especially the regions we’d drive through on later days–doesn’t really see huge amounts of snow this early in the season. We may get flurries on Thanksgiving, but the last time I remember there being appreciable snow in late November/early December, I was nine. We can typically plan for December through January to be cold but dry or rainy at the most, and for most of the snow to dump on us in February and March. The idea, therefore, of a blizzard hampering our travel over Thanksgiving was a bit silly.
But then, of course, because we’d said aloud that we weren’t worried about snow, the forecasts started talking about a snowstorm. A big snowstorm. Upwards of a foot of snow, maybe more, and ice and mixing stuff, all along the 95 corridor, which is where we’d be driving.
When we left Texas, the day after Thanksgiving, Kyle and I had no idea what we wanted to do about this mess. Should we try and hunker down somewhere until the snow was gone? Should we stick to our plan and hope for the best? Should we leave super early on the final day of our drive and pray we’d beat the storm by enough of a margin that it wouldn’t be a big deal?
We didn’t make our decision until the very last second, when we’d stopped for supper at QuikTrip in Charlotte, North Carolina. We still had another six or so hours before we could turn in for the night, but we didn’t know if anything else would come up before we reached our hotel. We’d need to spend another half hour or so getting everyone settled in the hotel once we arrived, and then we’d have to get up and start driving by 3 a.m. if we wanted to beat the storm and the traffic.
So we bit the bullet and said, “You know what? Let’s just drive straight on through.”
I went back into the QuikTrip and stocked up on overnight snacks. We vaguely planned out our shifts but mostly just planned to switch drivers whenever we got too tired to keep our eyes open OR whenever we stopped for gas. I agreed to take the first shift and downed a grape Extra Strength Five Hour Energy, and we were off on what would end up being a 21-hour driving day.
And honestly? It was probably one of the easier days we had. The twins and Sam slept through most of it, and Kyle and I were able to switch out our shifts with relative ease. And I’m proud of myself–while Kyle snored obliviously beside me, I successfully navigated the highways and byways of both Washington, D.C., and New York City–albeit, in the small hours of the morning, so the streets were mostly empty.
Every time we looked at the road around us, we agreed that we’d made the right choice. We zipped through the Jersey Turnpike without so much as a drop of rain falling on the car; the Jersey Turnpike promised to be slick with ice the next day. As I drove through New York City, I came across an enormous truck that had failed to heed the warning signs blasting across the previous six miles of road that the bridge was too short; the truck had crumpled like a soda can, and the police were only just setting up flares around him. I can only imagine what that did to traffic afterwards.
By the time the first snow started falling, we’d been home for five hours. Kyle and I had both enjoyed naps in our own bed. We got a pizza from our favorite local place for dinner and stayed warm and safe throughout the worst of the storm. It was a great decision.
But I am still tired.
In the end, though, I have no regrets. I’ll absolutely do things differently next time–rent a minivan, pick it up the day before we leave, cover Isaac and Sam in tarps (Carrie, bless her, did so well in the car with her only complaint being a lack of cuddling), leave at midnight to avoid NYC traffic, and just plan for everything that could possibly go wrong to do so–but I don’t regret this trip or anything that happened on it. We had an amazing time! From Sam exclaiming in delight that he saw “trillions of lights” in New York City to Kyle and I giggling in a sleep-deprived giddiness as we pulled up to our house at the end, it was an amazing trip, and I can’t wait to do it all again.
I have a whole blog entry in my brain about the holidays, but I’m not going to write that now because there’s going to be too much to talk about as we go forward, like Thanksgiving and Sam’s Christmas program and the Christmas party at Kyle’s office and Isaac’s autism evaluation (more on that in a second), and I just want to take a deep breath before plunging into things, SO.
We had Sam’s first ever parent-teacher conference about two weeks ago, not because of anything bad but because the teachers at his school like to make sure everyone is on the same page when it comes to kids’ progress. Sam had a half day that day, and he got to hang out at home while Kyle and I made ourselves look moderately presentable and headed to the elementary school for the conference.
It was weird, from my perspective, to be going in for it because, of course, I’ve never been on this side of things. I’ve never been a teacher, either, but usually, I’d be the student stuck at home or someone roped into doing check-ins or what-have-you while parents milled about. And, really, the only parent-teacher conferences I remember at all happened when I was in high school; and even then, I only remember the reports about two of my classes (pre-calculus, which I was failing miserably–my dad said of my teacher that he looked like was stoned out of his brains, and in retrospect, that makes me a lot more forgiving of said teacher; and art, where my art teacher got really excited because of the way I’d stored some of my work).
But it was still weird because, I suppose, I didn’t have anything to worry about. Sam’s a smart kid, and it’s kindergarten. We haven’t gotten any notes or calls from his teacher about his behavior or progress, so I knew going in that he probably didn’t have any red flags flying that would make me want to wear a cone of parenting shame. Instead, Kyle and I ambled through the empty corridors of the school, admiring the artwork on display for our benefit (including Sam’s book of writing exercises). I felt very grown-up doing so.
(shown: Sam’s self portrait and Halloween story from his writing exercise book; the Halloween story explains in the corner that rather than describing Darth Vader to the teacher, he just made Darth Vader noises)
And then we met with Sam’s teacher, who is pretty awesome. I think teachers nowadays often tend towards awesomeness, especially in higher-funded schools (we live in a tiny town with a pretty high average income, which leads to at least decent funding for the schools), but I still like to sing the praises of awesome teachers because honestly, they could get praised from morning to night and it still wouldn’t be enough. They take on our kids every day, twenty of them at a time, and somehow manage to keep them from burning the building down AND ensure that they learn something. Teachers are superhumans.
And Sam’s teacher is a superhuman.
And thankfully, we were all on the same page about Sam. On the plus side, she gushed about his engineering mind, talking about how he’d built a billboard of the numbers 7, 8, and 9 out of Legos (Kyle and I were highly impressed but not surprised; this is the kid who saw a picture of a camera on the side of a Lego box and built it just from looking at the picture) and how he’s excellent at any sort of kinetic learning, which… again, no surprises here. If this kid is allowed to move and build and do things with his hands while he works, he’ll be at a college reading level by the time he’s seven, I’d bet anything.
On the flipside, he’s not an overachiever in all areas because nobody is. His teacher seemed concerned about three particular things, one of which made us giggle and another of which made us nod in agreement.
The uninteresting bit was that Sam is struggling with rhyming. That seems like a weird thing to struggle with, I thought, but once I worked with him on it a little bit, I started to see the issue. Sammy is, as it turns out, a sight reader now–he knows words by sight, not necessarily by phonics, and he knows that certain combinations of letters make certain sounds but not necessarily how to replicate those sounds. He rhymes pretty well when he’s not looking at words written on a page–he comes up with rhymes to really weird words that I wouldn’t even think of–but when words are written down, he has a hard time because he’s trying to see which words look alike without thinking about which words sound alike.
So he’s in an RTI (response to intervention? I think?) group, which is basically remedial rhyming, and son, that is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m here, your 36-year-old mother, having needed a year’s worth of remedial gym. Like who in the world needs remedial gym?
(actually, now that I’m thinking back on it, it was probably more than a year of remedial gym, since I remember doing it in second grade, too)
(shown: why I had to do remedial gym)
On the giggly side of things, Sam apparently makes sound effects whenever he does anything. I think we’ve managed to tune this out at home, but it’s to a point where he’ll make spaceship noises as he’s bringing a marker over to color something or be like, “Here comes the T! T-t-t-t-t-t-t…”which… yeah, when his teacher gave us that example, Kyle and I basically fell out of our seats laughing because oh my god. That is the most hilarious and adorable thing ever, ever. I am storing this up in my brain archive and on this blog so that it can become a story that we tell about him when he’s much older, as our parents tell stories about us (like the time I asked my dad to kill a piece of dust that looked like a spider or the time Kyle tearfully spewed the Where’s Waldo beefaroni he’d long begged for all over the house). It’s a treasure. I love it.
And on the “we knew that” side of things, Sam’s teacher let us know that he struggles with what she calls “flexible thinking,” which means that he’s very, very stubborn. And… yeah. He really, really is. This kid hates change, and has hated change since he was big enough to know that things were different from how they’d previously been. We always brace ourselves at the beginning and end of school years because change always prompts restless nights and stress in him, often ending in tears. We talk him through it, we give him social stories to help him cope, we help him with countdowns, but in the end, he always ends up struggling.
It’s one thing I don’t know how to help him with. I’m stubborn myself (cue Kyle looking over my shoulder as I write this saying, “YA THINK?”) and it’s not something I’ve either managed to stomp out in myself… nor really tried to stomp out, because when applied correctly, stubbornness is a really powerful thing. Digging your heels in, saying, “no, you move,” all that… it’s good stuff. But you need to find a balance and recognize that some change is good, that sometimes, different is positive.
BUT that’s also something that you can tell and model for kids until you’re blue in the face and they’ll still not get it because that’s what being stubborn is. This way of thinking and behaving is safe, so I’ll stick with it, because I don’t know what will happen if I don’t.
Yeah, I get it, son. And I’ll always be here to tell you that it’ll be okay if you try something new or do something different. It’s hard right now; you’ve had a wild past two years (which is nearly half your life so far) that’s been full of changes, and every one seems scarier than the last. And soon enough, you’ll have the life experience to realize that change isn’t always bad and that you’ll almost always be okay on the other end… and those times when you’re not okay, you’ve got people who love you supporting you and taking care of you.
But for now, your dad and your teachers and I will all be very, very patient with you as you learn flexible thinking.
And then on Isaac’s side of things, we’ve got an appointment for his autism evaluation!
This is a pretty exciting thing–waiting lists for autism evaluation can be upwards of a year and a half long, but because we worked with Early Intervention and they administered a series of tests beforehand to narrow down his issues, they were able to get in touch with the local medical group that does screenings, and that group contacted us almost immediately to set up an appointment. What’s more, the appointment is before the end of the year–December 23, to be exact.
I’m really relieved about it on so many levels, and at the same time terrified, more of what comes after diagnosis than of the diagnosis itself. I want him to get a diagnosis because that means that we can target his therapy so that he’ll be able to understand us and express himself, and hopefully also be able to cope with a very crazy, very noisy world around him. I’m not looking to tone down any symptoms he’s expressing–rocking, spinning, stimming in other ways–because I literally don’t care about that at all. It’s what you need to deal with life in the noisy 21st century. What I care about is making sure that he’s not getting frustrated because he doesn’t understand and can’t be understood. I’ve been there. It sucks.
But that’s what scares me about therapy. I’ve heard a lot of horror stories about various autism therapies, and don’t get me started on my absolute loathing for Autism Speaks. Isaac’s services coordinator didn’t help with that when she was leaving the other day after helping me make a new services plan for Carrie (who, the little imp, was demonstrating all of the skills she refused to demonstrate during her most recent evaluation, sigh). She mentioned that Isaac would be screeching a lot once he started autism therapy, and while I get that on a lot of levels (because it’s hard to go from “mommy just get me what I want, you know what I want, even if I’m not saying it” to “oh, I have to use words”), I’m still afraid.
I don’t want anything that’s going to try and “cure” him or try and suppress things about him. He is who he is, and he’s perfect. And I don’t want to suppress his symptoms or hide who he is, either. I just want him to be able to communicate.
Sigh. I know I’ll be able to talk about this with his therapists, but it still just nags at me. And I should probably find a therapist myself to help me work through everything about… well, everything.
After the holidays. I’ll look into getting a new therapist after the holidays. Right now, I’m just going to swan dive into the crazy and paddle like hell until I get to the other side. Until next time…
I love the holidays, though my definition of “the holidays” differs from most people’s in that I firmly believe “the holidays” begin with Halloween and end with New Year’s because those are the temporal boundaries of my other busy season (the primary busy season lasting from March through July). During what I’ll call a twelve week span (because let’s be real–October first is the very latest we all start celebrating Halloween), I’m constantly baking and getting the kids ready for things and wrapping presents and baking and traveling and baking and did I mention baking?
(for the record: I love all the baking I do, but it’s a lot between October 1 and January 1)
As of this writing, my holiday season has been in full swing for about a month, with the first holiday happening last week. Halloween was unseasonably warm this year, and that turned it into an adventure for everyone. I baked the cupcakes I’d signed up to bake for Sam’s class party…
…and they were apparently a big hit! And honestly, they were great fun to do, at least partly because Kyle helped with the decorating. We spent two evenings together in the kitchen baking and mixing and mixing and decorating, and per his report, the whole experience was highly satisfying (his favorite part was rolling the cupcakes in sprinkles after they’d been frosted, and I can’t blame him).
Our Halloween plans had otherwise been to attend the school’s trunk or treat (since our neighborhood is garbage for trick-or-treating–no sidewalks and halfway up a really steep hill that people like to drive down at about 300 MPH) and show off the kids’ costumes. For Isaac, we ended up getting an embarrassingly cheap dragon costume (and I say “embarrassingly” because it was horrible quality and way larger than the site suggested it would be, leading to a very difficult time when he eventually did wear it), and Carrie got a very floofy version of Rapunzel’s dress along with a gorgeous braid headband. Sam was, of course, Darth Vader.
But anyway, we wanted to go to the trunk or treat, but that first got rescheduled because of mosquitoes (Massachusetts was having a pretty bad EEE outbreak this year, but we had a hard frost a couple of days ago so TAKE THAT YOU BLOOD SUCKING MONSTROSITIES) and then it got cancelled because of rain. This left us without any sort of trick-or-treating for the kids (because our hill is dangerous in good weather, never mind when it’s pouring out) until my mom gamely agreed to come with me and take the kids to a local mall for trick-or-treating there.
This was something of a mistake.
Our local malls vary from “pretty nice, actually” to “why is this still open?” and this mall tends towards the latter category. Thirty years ago, it was a really nice place with fancy restaurants and a really posh feel to it, a classier version of the typical 80s mall. As is the case with most malls, however, time and changing trends in retail chipped away at its poshness and left it somewhat of a shell. It’s still got a singular anchor store (there’s a Sears, which gives me questions, and the other anchor spot is now taken by a doctor’s office) and the skeleton of a food court, along with a handful of mall fixtures (American Eagle, Victoria’s Secret, Journeys, etc.), but it’s definitely a shadow of its former self.
A disheartening number of storefronts were vacant when we got there on Halloween, and the fronts that were open ran out of candy pretty quickly–I don’t think anyone at the mall anticipated the entire county coming to trick-or-treat there rather than face the rain. Sam had a grand time because he’s five and got lots of candy (a full set of Dum Dums! I’ve never seen one of those before!), but the twins were wailing by about 10 minutes in, and my mom and I were both exhausted at the end of the adventure.
So. Here’s hoping that next Halloween has pleasant temperatures and no rain.
(but at least the kids looked cute! For all 5 minutes they all stayed in their costumes)
And now it’s today, which is my birthday.
Did I do anything to celebrate? Well, I wanted to, but the kids shared a wonderful cold with me, so I spent most of last night with a throat too sore to allow talking and most of today wishing I could be horizontal. Kyle, being the star that he is, stepped in and made the batch of brownies I’d planned to make for myself and, since he was working from home today anyway, let me get a nap in while the twins were napping, which will hopefully help me recover from this cold quicker and without any trips to urgent care because of breathing (because the last thing I either need or want is to get pneumonia again).
So things have been lowkey, but I need that. We’ve been juggling a lot of adventures lately with the twins especially, namely that Isaac has been fast tracked on the path towards an autism diagnosis and Carrie still qualifies for early intervention services.
Carrie first: she had her annual evaluation today to see if her development has caught up to where it should be, and the hilarious thing is that she’s basically where she ought to be when she’s not being observed. When she is being observed, as we discovered today, she’s pretty behind in a couple of areas, namely fine motor and receptive communication.
But she’s not actually behind.
Most of the areas where she scored “behind” were items on the test that she knows how to do and does often, but today, when asked to do them in front of the EI evaluation team, she gave an impish little smirk…
…and ran off giggling to hide behind the couch. Cue my little genius communicator getting much lower scores in fine motor skills and receptive communication than I know she’s capable of. On some level, this should bother me, but I’d rather she get services and not need them than need them and not get them. Worse comes to worse, they reevaluate in six months and she doesn’t get services anymore after that, or else she just gets a little supplemental help and EI helps with her preschool placement in 2021 (wow, that’s an actual year, that’s bizarre).
And then there’s Isaac.
A couple of months ago, I mentioned my concerns about him relating to autism… well, less concerns, more “I’m autistic myself, my entire family is autistic, I know what it looks like, and he looks like he’s going in that direction.” Our wonderful services coordinator got the ball rolling for diagnosis, but because he was only 17 months old at the time, we couldn’t do a lot because most diagnostics won’t say much until a kid is at least 18 months old (which I hate because if you’re living in a bright, loud world and can’t filter out sounds and sights, important to unimportant, and get so exhausted because of it and have a hard time having conversations or learning language because you’re so overwhelmed… like, wouldn’t you want to name that and learn coping skills ASAP?).
But we started anyway. We took the ASQ and the M-CHAT, both of which mostly look at autistic traits–that is, traits that are common in people with autism. Things like lack of eye contact, stimming, repetitive behavior, the typical “that child has autism” traits, you know. Those both kind of bugged me because they felt like they were reducing autism to a checklist of traits, which I haaaaaaaate.
BUT then came the RITA-T, which we did last week. The RITA-T actually looks more closely at behavior that makes sense when you understand how autistic brains function (i.e., it’s hard to split your focus because so much sensory input is competing for your attention, and you can’t automatically filter it like a neurotypical person would). The test focuses on something called “joint attention,” trying to split your attention between a toy you’re playing with alongside another person and the person sharing the toy with you. It also focuses on how you’re interpreting sensory input (e.g., how Isaac reacted to me pretending to cry, how he reacted when I called his name with a blank expression, etc.).
And, well. Isaac scored high enough to qualify for fast tracking towards diagnosis at our local hospital.
Fast tracking essentially means that instead of us having to play telephone games trying to get in touch with someone, the EI specialists send in the paperwork for us. Fast tracking means that instead of facing a 6-18 month wait for an appointment, we’re looking at a 6 week wait. And that’s a huge difference. Six months would put us at Isaac being two years old, skipping over a lot of development. And eighteen months would put us at Isaac being three years old and aging out of EI services altogether. That it’s been fast tracked means that if he gets a diagnosis (which seems very likely at this point), he’ll be able to receive the services and therapy he needs to help him cope with a very overstimulating world and hopefully start preschool already better prepared than he would otherwise be.
So. We’ll see what happens there. In the meantime, I’ve got 16 days until we do something absolutely insane and pack up the whole family in a rental car to drive down to Texas for Thanksgiving! Until next time and a wild trip report…
(oh also I have purple hair now)
DOCTORED UP CUPCAKES/CAKES
Slightly different strategy today: I’m going to teach you my cake witchcraft.
Of course, it’s not real witchcraft–not enough jars of dirt for that–but it’s basically how I manage to make really good cakes when I’ve got three kids and an absurd lack of time (like, really, Isaac–you couldn’t sleep for another 20 minutes at least? No? Had to do a 45 minute nap today? I’m not bringing you downstairs yet, you’ll just have to entertain yourself for a little bit), coupled with low enough self-esteem that the idea of making a cake the “correct” way scares the piss out of me!
What I do, therefore, is cheat: I use box mixes. And this apparently happens quite a lot in bakeries and similar places–it’s just quicker and easier to get the measurements right when they’re measured out for you beforehand. The trick is just to use slightly richer ingredients and compensate for the plastic flavoring, and the results end up being absolutely amazing.
- Your favorite box cake mix
- Whole milk or buttermilk
- 4-5 eggs or egg whites (see notes below)
- Butter (salted or unsalted, depending on your taste)
- Additional flavoring (see notes below)
The big thing with this recipe is that it’s not so much a recipe as a series of tips to make your box cake taste like you got it from a bakery instead of Betty Crocker. The ingredients above are substitutions for the ingredients you’d usually add to a box cake mix, so the resulting dessert will be much richer and more flavorful.
Your milk/buttermilk will replace the water in the recipe because, let’s be real here, how many from scratch cake recipes are like “also, add SO MUCH WATER”? None of them, that’s how many. Usually, you’ll want to stick with whole milk, but I’ve found that using buttermilk for red velvet produces really nice results. Whichever you choose, you’ll want to use as much milk or buttermilk as the box suggests for water.
Most cake recipes call for three eggs, but to make your cake or cupcakes extra rich and amazing, you’ll want to add 1-2 more. I always end up adding two more because baking is my one area to be extra, and I’ve yet to hear a complaint about this. You’ll also want to crack your eggs into a separate bowl to make sure you don’t have any bad eggs/can fish out any shells that get into the cracked egg.
Another note about eggs: if you’re baking a white or angel food cake (or, if you’re me, lemon cake), (a) you’re brave; and (b) you’ll want to beat the egg whites until they form stiff peaks and add ⅛ tsp cream of tartar per egg white to make sure they keep their fluffiness. You’ll add the egg whites at the very end of your mixing and fold them in gently–the end result will be a gorgeous white, fluffy, delicate cake.
You’ll replace your oil with melted butter, but you’ll also double the amount you add. Melt the butter long enough beforehand that it’s no longer hot when it’s time to add it to your batter; for most recipes, this will end up being about a cup (or two sticks) of melted butter. Using unsalted butter is great for controlling the overall salt content of the cake or cupcakes, but I also really like salt?
Finally, flavor enhancers are going to vary on what kind of cake you’re making. Vanilla extract is a good standby overall, if you’re not sure what you want to add to the cake mix, but you can really get creative with add-ins. Some ideas:
- While vanilla extract is a good standby, you can look into other extracts as well. I’ve always gotten a lot of love when I add orange extract to vanilla buttercream frosting. Almond extract is great, along with peppermint and rum.
- Replace half the milk with a fruit juice that complements the flavor (e.g., orange, lemon, lime, etc.). Or all, if you like; that said, don’t replace all of the milk with alcoholic liquids.
- Espresso powder does amazing things for any cake that tends towards chocolatey. You can get it in decaffeinated form, and it legitimately makes your cake taste other worldly.
Once you’ve baked your cake, you can continue to improve on it, even when using canned frosting like the lazy person I am. For example:
- Brush the cake with simple syrup (boil one cup of sugar in one cup of water until dissolved and allow to cool), which will keep it moist.
- Add some of those flavor enhancers to your frosting before you spread it and whip it for a few minutes to add some air.
- Use jam, jelly, or other fruit preserves in the center of the cake.
I’m thinking about cake and cupcakes because I’m diving into my second-busiest time of the year as a mom. The cupcakes are the first Big Busy Thing of the season: I volunteered to make 26 Halloween cupcakes for Sam’s kindergarten class because I love baking. This past Sunday, I braved insane crowds and hit up Wegmans and Michael’s for almost everything I need to make them spectacular (I say almost because the awesome bag of Halloween candy I got to top the cupcakes turned out to have a lot of NOT awesome candy in it, so I’m heading up to Target sometime in the next week to get another bag while the Wegmans bag is now relegated to the “we never get trick-or-treaters, but just in case” pile). I have to say, I’m pretty excited about them, and if I have enough energy after I make them, I’ll probably end up baking brownies after Halloween because my birthday is November 5 and I like brownies more than cake.
So it’s my birthday November 5, my mom’s birthday November 12 (WHAT KIND OF CAKE DO YOU WANT MOM??), then driving down to Texas for Thanksgiving (have I talked about that yet? I should talk about that), then Christmas and New Year’s, and then I can breathe for another two or so months before the busy stuff starts back up again.
I’m breathing right now. I’m focusing on things I do because I enjoy them– well, no, that’s not how I want to phrase that. I enjoy baking for myself, for my mom. I’m excited about this trip to Texas, and I’ve basically been prepping Christmas since May. So I do enjoy all of the busyness, but I guess the difference with the last couple of weeks is that it doesn’t feel as hustly and bustly. It’s more “this is a fun thing to do and we can do it or not” as opposed to “I genuinely enjoy doing this and it’s also important that I do it.”
Which is all to say, we’ve been to two (2) fairs in the last week.
The first was the Topsfield Fair, which bills itself as the oldest county fair in the country, which… maybe? I don’t know. All I know is that it’s the location of some of my earliest childhood memories. My parents took us there every year for years and years (I completely forget why we stopped going?). This year, they wanted to go back and wanted us to join them with the kids, so we all packed up and hoofed it across the state to the Topsfield Fair grounds, about an hour to an hour and a half away, depending on traffic (most of which was right outside the fair).
The drive itself was probably the only bad part of the day, because Isaac got carsick and Kyle didn’t have cash to pay to park, so we had to go find an ATM after pulling into the parking lot (which resulted in a lot of frantic texts from my mom, who watched us go through the whole routine: “where are you going?? That was you right?? Is everything okay??” and most of these because the fairgrounds don’t have very good 4G). Once we parked and got Isaac out of his pukey clothes (and Carrie into a sparkly skirt and tights and boots), everything started going well.
Sam had the best time of all of us, which is par for the course. I didn’t know if he’d enjoy it or not because he’s not generally into agriculture things, and as a general rule, the Topsfield Fair is about agriculture. They have giant pumpkin contests and livestock contests and a greased pole and a duck race and things like that, none of it the usual fare for my kid whose favorite things are Star Wars, Minecraft, Legos, and space, sometimes in that order.
But Sam had a blast. He and I went down one of the giant slides together…
(shown: me having regrets)
…before heading to check out the produce barn…
(this year’s winning pumpkin–and a gourd behind him lolol)
…and then hurrying to the poultry barn, which ended up being the day’s clear favorite. Sam got to hold a chick and fell in love. He decided he wanted a pet chicken, which Kyle and I told him “maybe when you’re older” (which translates to “like maybe when you have your own house” because I’m all for chickens but I do not want to be the one cleaning the coop, thanks). Unfazed, he proceeded to feed as many chickens as could figure out how to get the chicken feed out of the little cup he received (which ended up being about ⅗ of the ones he addressed with it).
And he pet a calf and he met some goats and he watched honeybees and he had slow churned Oreo ice cream and won at a midway darts and chased Kyle through a “haunted” fun house.
I’ll be honest: county fairs are not my speed at all. They’re a bit too much sensory overload, with the blinking lights and ringing bells and the barkers at top volume… but the overwhelmed exhaustion at the end of the day was totally worth it for how much fun Sam had.
Much more my speed was the second fair of the week, King Richard’s Faire, our local Renaissance Fair (faire? I can never decide?).
Kyle and I have been Renaissance Fair(e) people since we started dating; one of my earliest trips down to Texas was during Scarborough Renaissance Faire, about an hour from where Kyle grew up. We went together, loved it, and kept going back as long as we lived in Texas. When we moved up to Massachusetts, we switched to King Richard’s Faire, which is significantly less hot and significantly less gigantic… which makes it perfect for a family with twin toddlers and a five-year-old.
(I mean, aside from the giant tree roots that make strollers an adventure, but that’s neither here nor there)
We had a much more relaxed time at King Richard’s Faire, mostly wandering about, watching a few shows (like Jacques ze Whipper, which was delightful), and letting the kids run around in quieter areas while we people watched. The weather was gloriously autumnal, with highs only in the low 60s and not a cloud in the sky. We spent WAY too much money on food and tickets, but honestly, I’d do it again a hundred times over. It’s a great fair, and I genuinely felt sad that we had to leave when we did.
I think the reason I end up preferring King Richard’s Faire boils down to that it’s a quieter, more relaxed place. It’s kind of an escape from reality–for those hours we were there, we were in a fantasy pseudo-Renaissance realm that just had this really pleasant aura about it (not a literal New Agey aura, but more of the general feel of people around the fair). The air was full of the scent of wood fires and incense and roast meat, the trees dappled our arms and the ground with shade, pipes and drums played faintly from all corners, and it just felt really relaxing.
Less sensory overload. That’s what it boils down to; I enjoyed the Topsfield Fair, but I didn’t feel as exhausted when we got home from King Richard’s. I’d love to do both again next year, but this time going into the former with the expectation that it’s going to wear me out and also avoiding the giant slide like the plague.
But in the meantime, we’ve got to plan for our big trip next month, and I will write about that the next time I write here (along with Halloween probably? We’ll see). Until then…
You know, if you’d asked me six weeks ago what everyone in the house was going to be for Halloween, I’d have rattled things off so easily that I’d have seemed like a mythical Good Mom, someone who’s got all her shit together and actually does the stuff she pins on Pinterest.
(I do not have all my shit together, and Pinterest scares me)
And now I’m in a wild spot because while Sam has committed to being Darth Vader (“I’m going to do every other year, Mom! This year, Darth Vader; next year, Jack Skellington; the year after that, Darth Vader…”), I cannot decide what to do with the twins.
A few weeks ago, Sam decided that he wanted to be Peter Pan, and I thought, well, that makes things easier. He’s Peter Pan. Carrie is Tinkerbell. Isaac is Captain Hook. I’ll be Wendy, Kyle can be Mr. Smee, and life’s fantastic.
Except the next day (fortunately, before I bought anything), Sam informed me that he didn’t actually want to be Peter Pan. He was married to Darth Vader as a costume. Historically, he’s been unlikely to waver from a chance to dress up like Darth Vader, so I went ahead and ordered that, and it should arrive any day. I’m hoping it arrives while he’s at school so I can lay it out during the twins’ nap and he can try it on once he gets home.
(the infamous Darth Vader costume when he first got one, three years ago)
So he’s set. It’s the twins. Wayyyyy back months ago, when I naively thought that maybe I could convince my five-year-old to go along with my Halloween ideas, I thought that we could do a Toy Story thing. Sam would be Buzz Lightyear, Isaac would be Woody, and Carrie would be Jessie. It would be adorable, we’d get some great pictures, everyone would have a laugh. But nope, Sam wants to be Darth Vader, and I’m not about to tell my five-year-old that he can’t wear what he wants on Halloween, and the Toy Story thing doesn’t seem worth the expense (because Toy Story costumes are expensive, at least when you’re buying them for more than one person) if we’re not going to fully commit.
Some ideas I’ve had and discarded:
- Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia. It’s the obvious choice, but (a) finding a Luke Skywalker costume is very difficult when your costumee is younger than nine; (b) making a Luke Skywalker costume involves time that we don’t have; and (c) I kind of want to save that for when they’re old enough to understand the implications of what they’re wearing. So nope.
- Grapes, purple and green. On the one hand: cute, easy, and cheap. On the other hand: there’s no way the twins would do anything besides sob wearing a costume made entirely of balloons. So nope.
- Peter Pan and Tinkerbell. If you want the costumes to match somewhat (like, look like they’re of the same quality and you didn’t decide to save on one twin’s costume so that you can splurge on the other), you’re SOL. Tinkerbell costumes exist at every price point for kids Carrie’s size, but Peter Pan costumes seem to only exist for kids Sam’s size and older, which makes no sense to me, but I only ever did B2B construction marketing, so maybe I just don’t know the market.
- The tortoise and the hare. Cute, but what statement is it making about the child we dress as the hare?
(flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, you’re an asshole)
- Literally any famous male/female pairing in history. They are literally all romantic couples, and I cringe out of my skin whenever I find pictures of twins dressed as, like. Danny Zuko and Sandy or Fred and Wilma Flintstone or Mickey and Minnie Mouse. No offense intended, because finding boy-girl twin Halloween costumes is WAY harder than you’d think, but my twins are not Lannisters.
(if you’re not up to speed on Game of Thrones, first: you are luckier than I am; and second: these are the Lannisters, Jaime and Cersei, and they are twins and they have three children together. My twins are not Lannisters)
I keep coming back to Carrie being a princess of some sort, which narrows things down basically not at all. She loves princesses and all things sparkly and traditionally girly, and a princess costume would serve possibly quintuple duty at Renaissance Faires and Disney World and a couple of Halloweens. Theoretically, I like dressing her as Rapunzel, and I like dressing Isaac as Pascal the chameleon to match…
…BUT then it ends up getting to the heart of the issue, that being Isaac not having a lot of identifiable interests yet. Well, no, that’s not true. He has interests. He likes climbing and cleaning. He’s a voracious eater. He loves laughing and exploring and going into and out of things. He likes things being where they belong, whether it’s a shoe on a foot or toys in a toy box. He likes it when I sing “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic” to them at bedtime.
But how do you costume any of that?
With Carrie, when someone asks me to describe her, I have the easiest time ever. Picking her up is like picking up a baby made of cotton candy and bubble gum bubbles. She’s a princess with delicate aires and a constant song, a love for sparkles and prettiness and animal companions, a need to have things Her Way Or Else. She’s a gremlin, picking up dirty things off the floor to eat, hiding in dusty places, making weird collections of stuff. She’s a bottle of Diet Coke and Pop Rocks shaken up. You can’t help but adore her.
But Isaac. He almost defies description. He’s determined and needs things to be in their place at all times. He needs his routines to be followed and will get genuinely upset if the Thing that usually follows The Other Thing does not follow The Other Thing. If he wants something, he will get it, no matter how much you try to deter him. He’s fast, voracious, and beyond clever. And then when he smiles, you just absolutely melt, because his smile is incredible, the kind of smile that makes you feel loved to the core.
Which… I guess is a fine description, but honestly, which one is easier to costume: stereotypical bubblegum candy princess or a clever, determined, fast, voracious sweetheart?
I think he can be a dragon.
I know it doesn’t matter a TON one way or the other because they don’t even understand Halloween yet. When Sam was their age, I dressed him as an owl because I told myself, “oh yes, he likes owls!” which he didn’t super like owls, but whatever. He refused to wear most of the costume and cried about it a lot, and I got zero pictures of him in the full costume. It wasn’t until the following year, when he dressed up as Darth Vader, that he really started having fun with Halloween.
So I know it doesn’t matter, and they won’t care, but I still feel a bit like I’m letting Isaac down because finding a costume that matches who he is and what he likes feels impossible.
So maybe he’ll be a dragon.
In other decisions news, over the last week, I’ve been asked more times than I realized (at first) if Kyle and I were planning on having more kids.
Honestly, I have no idea, which is what I’ve said. Whenever people asked me during my pregnancy with the twins, I’d say “NO” and wax eloquent about hysterectomies, but twin pregnancies are awful, and when you’re in the middle of one, it’s hard to feel positively about growing any more humans. Kyle and I were talking today about one incident during the twins’ pregnancy, when Sam told me “Mommy, the poop is everywhere!” and he’d gotten poop all over his bedroom and I was so pregnant and so exhausted that I couldn’t deal with it and begged Kyle to come home from work to save me.
So I can say with confidence that, given a choice in the matter, I will never have more twins. Absolutely no, not ever, never.
And there’s plenty of reason to have an overall “NO” on the books. Three kids is a fine number. I have my girl. Our bedroom setup works very well with three kids. A fourth kid would be a wild ride, financially speaking. I don’t know how my body would handle it. I’m just starting to get my body back into normal person shape after spending upwards of seven years either trying to get pregnant or being pregnant (that’s an additional +60 lbs that came from those seven years, too, which is fun). I want to gain some sense of identity and self outside of making babies. I want to have days with all my kids at school and me writing (or playing video games or, like, cleaning I guess).
But on the flip side, there’s seven embryos on ice, and I went through hell to make them. No, I don’t want seven more kids, but I’d love one more girl someday, if we’re speaking from an emotional sense. I’d like to go through a pregnancy where (a) I know what I’m doing (like I didn’t with Sam); and (b) I’m not high risk solely because I’ve got more than one baby in me. I’d like to just do things normally and not be in a blind panic and then do the newborn days on Comparatively Easy Mode (because after you do twin newborns, any singleton anything is Comparatively Easy Mode). I’d like to have a matched set, two boys and two girls. I’d like to go into a delivery room knowing what I’m doing and how I’m doing it and with a playlist that I didn’t get to use with the twins.
Also I love babies.
So. I don’t know. And we’ve got time to make a decision. As long as we keep paying the $85/month storage fee, our embryos will be stored indefinitely. It’s the only way we CAN grow our family again, if we decide we want another child in the future. But I’m not thinking about it now (and I very much know Kyle isn’t), not more than off and on, as a back of the mind kind of thing. I’ve earned a respite from thinking about what my uterus is doing outside of my once-a-month adventures, from spending money on pregnancy tests and obsessively charting everything my body is doing. And I’m going to enjoy that respite.
Starting with the Halloween costumes.