Advice For Twin Moms, Nearly Six Years In

Yesterday, at a kids' birthday party, I was standing by the bouncy house watching my boy/girl twins, now five-and-three-quarters,  bounce themselves into a gleeful state, when a pregnant woman approached me.  Her own kid, a three-year-old girl, was bouncing along with mine, and she'd ascertained mine were twins.  "Any advice?" she asked, explaining, "I'm about to have twin boys."

I was instantly transported back to those early days of twin momhood, when I felt as if I'd been instantly propelled into a giant bouncy house the moment the c-section began.

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The Great Binky Withdrawal, Part Two

We're not out of the woods yet.

Thanksgiving Night, the binkies went bye-bye. Six nights of hell followed. She had four nights of bedtime fits, putting her fingers in her mouth and weeping for the departed binky. He turned hyper and got insanely wound up before the official "get into bed" time came,then when put into bed couldn't settle, tossing and turning for an hour and a half-plus. By the time sleep came for both that first night, it was after eleven. Though "bedtime" is officially 8:30, it'd crept to nine p.m. anyway. But after eleven? This meant no "me" time for mommy or daddy, no "us" time for mommy or daddy together. No down time, no catch-up on life time, and you can just write off romance entirely.

Naptime was no picnic either -- aside from a brief catnap in the car, they didn't nap at all on the weekend, destroying our precious afternoon respites. Yet once back at school, where they'd napped sans binkies for months, they slept. What do the teachers know that we don't?

When Day Seven dawned, it was time to appeal to a higher authority for help.

That authority, whom I'll call Dr. V. to preserve her anonymity, is a licensed family therapist who also happens to be a mother of twins. This makes Dr. V. a heady combo, a perfect mix of empathy for other parents of multiples, and PhD smarts. Her first reaction to our situation was a big sigh, and then: "It's tough. It's four nights of hell."

We told her it had already been six.

Dr. V. told us to be empathetic. We should tell our kids how hard it had been for us to give up binkies when we were kids. She pointed out we hadn't restricted the binky use as much as we should have before we took them away; sure, we didn't let them take the binkies out of the house, but hadn't consistently restricted them to the bed. But without judgment, she said there was nothing to be done about that now. Looking ahead, she had ideas, potential solutions, approaches: sticker charts for the bedtime routine, rewards given in the morning for staying in bed, the removal of privileges for not complying. She suggested leaving sippy cups in their room as a sucking substitute. She advocated getting them a replacement comfort object -- which we'd tried with limited success -- and the idea that the kids can "choose or lose," a concept of the kids taking responsibility for their problem instead of making it all ours. We were to tell them they had a choice, stay in bed or lose a privilege (naming it), and to be as emotionless about explaining it as a waitress explaining menu choices. Whenever the kids got out of bed, we were to avoid reacting at all, save to wordlessly escort them back -- twenty times, if necessary. She said to keep our emotions out of it so there'd be no payoff, in the form of parental attention. She told us to make a "doctor" the heavy: "The doctor says the new rule in this house is that you have to stay in bed." And she told us to find lots of occasions to praise them for good behavior throughout the day, as long as we specifically mentioned the thing they were doing that was good. ("Good job" would be too generic, but "you are sharing really well together" would work.)

We ended the conversation feeling armed and ready, and mutually agreed to hit the "reset" button on our emotions. We'd both turned into angry, grumpy, bear-like creatures, suffering from lack of sleep (Thing 1 had been up and in our room in the middle of the night every night, and our cat, not to be outmatched in the quest for attention, decided to throw up or poop outside the litter box for several nights as well). But we realized now, tired as we were, that our expectations had been out of line: binky withdrawal was no easy thing, and would not be conquered in a few nights.

That evening, the sticker chart, which had been retired awhile back, made its return engagement, with new explanations and rules. They still got stickers as the immediate reward for taking a bath, using the potty, getting in PJs, brushing teeth. But once they'd earned three stickers in the STAY IN BED column -- proudly put in the chart each morning after doing so -- they'd get a reward. (We picked making gingerbread cookies on the weekend as the first reward). They got to each go to bed with something they wanted: for him, a toy airplane, for her, a pink stuffed dog AND her sleeping bag on the bed.

Though one of us stayed in the room for a while, listening to Thing 2 talk herself to sleep (a new comfort mechanism) and Thing 1 do endless take-offs and landings, eventually, by ten, both were out.

The next couple of nights had some setbacks, but no tantrums, no hyper giggle fits, and when there were nocturnal wanderings, the kids went back down after being quickly escorted back to bed.

Weekend naps are still proving problematic, but at least they took one today after being separated into two different rooms.

It's far from perfect. The war isn't won yet. But we know, and they do, that there will be no retreat. The binkies are gone.

Bleary-eyed, we continue ...

Who Says We're Older Moms? Where I Live ... Not So Much

Yesterday I attended the Halloween picnic of my local parents-of-multiples club.

There were tons of new moms, and moms with two, three, four and almost five-year-old twins. Lots of us were over 35 when we gave birth.

I live on the west side of Los Angeles, a relatively affluent area, where multiples -- naturally occurring and "assisted" (in the parlance of the infertility world) -- are plentiful. Older moms are more likely to have twins than young moms, and then there are moms with fertility issues who are fortunate enough to be able to shoulder the expense of assisted reproduction. Our club has plenty of both.

My kids attend a private preschool, where nearly all the moms are at least over thirty, and many are my contemporaries.

And when I go to kid-friendly restaurants, local parks and museums, I often see moms who are clearly my peers.

I know this is far from the norm in many parts of the country. But I'm comforted to see I'm far from alone around here: I have plenty of moms with whom I can trade notes, compare war stories, and commiserate.

When I hang out with moms who were born AFTER 1973, I find that some of them can be more overwhelmed more easily; they seem equally exhausted, though they don't have age as an excuse; and they look to me for advice even if their kids are the same age as mine. It matters not that I've only been doing motherhood as long as they have. I'm older, therefore they figure I oughtta know what I'm doing. Either that, or being a mom of twins makes me a more seasoned veteran in their eyes.

In truth I'm plenty befuddled by motherhood at times, even though I deign to blog about it. Though I've obtained a wealth of information about it in a short but intense period of time, I'm still making rookie mistakes at each new phase.

But I do feel something I think many younger moms don't. I feel the days are simultaneously long -- when I'm tending to my kids' incessant needs and requests -- and ruthlessly short when I'm savoring the rare quiet moment snuggling with them before bed. I feel pressed for time and wanting to stretch out the good stuff -- the golden afternoons when the sun glints in their hair and a few strands fall just so over their foreheads, when they're in dad's arms, turned upside down and giggling with abandonment, when they're having earnest conversations in the bath about what kind of cake they want at their upcoming fourth birthday -- or just now, when their dad called me into their bedroom to show me what Thing 1 had done. He'd gotten up from bed and taken out every pull-up in the closet and arranged them in two arcs fanning out, sorted by the ones that feature Lightning McQueen and the ones that feature Lightning's pal Mater (characters in CARS). Sure I want the boy to go to sleep already, but his late-night mischief is cute and he knows it: he smiled through his binky as I came in to inspect his project.

I have a sense of the temporary, the ephemeral, the way it's all slipping by so fast -- and feel a lot less fresh and immortal than my younger mom pals.

Here on the west side of L.A., there are a lot of us dragging our feet trying to slow down the gears of the "circle game," as Joni Mitchell called it. We're late blooming moms, and that means we feel that carousel going round a little faster than others. Sure, I was impatient for Thing 1 and Thing 2 to be toilet-trained, and I long for the day they'll give up the binkies already. But yet ... not so fast, please. I like the ride and I'm far from ready to get off.

Two Kids? Divide And Conquer

Awhile back I attended one of many invaluable support meetings at my local mothers-of-twins club (the West Los Angeles Parents of Multiples) and the guest speaker, a mother of twins who is also a therapist, had a mantra she kept repeating: separate, separate, separate. She didn't mean parents of multiples ought to get divorced. She meant that we ought to spend as much time one-on-one with each sibling as we can. When she was raising her twin boys, she said, she took one out with her at a time whenever possible, even if it was just to go to the grocery store, and left the other with daddy/nanny/babysitter/any available relative. She alternated which twin she'd take out, so both got plenty of mommy time. "Family time," she said -- meaning the whole family spending time as a unit -- "is over-rated."

Granted, this runs counter to a lot of conventional wisdom and studies that show families who eat dinner together are more stable. But as anyone who survived long family car rides with a sibling can attest, there's good reason to avoid enforced family togetherness, especially at close quarters. Backseat wars are no fun; who among us with a sibling doesn't remember the classic parental threat,"Don't MAKE me pull this car over!"

Late Blooming Mom that I am, I was initially opposed to the therapist/twin mom's advice, if only because it's taken me so long to have a family, and I had this idea I had to savor every precious moment of family life.

But I was in denial of a key reality: that every moment of family life ISN'T precious.

Why, just this morning, there was the moment when I cleaned up in the bathroom because my otherwise-potty-trained son missed the toilet.

Last night, I listened to my daughter scream her opposition to getting ready for bed for twenty-five ear-splitting moments.

And several times I've cleaned peanut butter out of places it should never be allowed to go.

Actually I figured out the therapist/twin mom was right on the money the very first time I ventured out solo on a Saturday with just one child. Suddenly a walk in the park was, well, just that: a walk in the park. When you're used to dealing with multiple kids and their multiple needs, tending to just one without having to have eyes in the back of your head and more hands than an octopus is a relief.

Yesterday I had one kid all morning. Today, I had the other kid all morning. I swear I can feel my blood pressure lowering as I write this.

It's not always easy to convince Thing 1 and Thing 2 that mommy and daddy are going to take them out on separate adventures. As twins, they're very close; they share a room, they attend the same preschool class, and they're always concerned about what their sibling is doing. Plus sometimes they're in a mommy phase or a daddy phase, and the odd parent out is stuck trying to convince a reluctant kid to come along.

But it's always worth the convincing.

Don't get me wrong: there are plenty of experiences I want us all to share together; read my entry just below this one. I wouldn't have changed our Chinatown adventure for anything.
But giving fully focused time and attention to one kid at a time pays off: they're better behaved when they're out on the excursion, and better behaved when they get home.

So go ahead, divide and conquer, at least every once in a while. You'll be glad you did.

One Kid Is A Hobby

Let the flack begin.

I say it anyway.

Parents who have an only child are just playin' at it.

Last week when I was lunching with another Late Blooming Mom who has two kids under the age of five, we started talking about how two kids are way, way, way harder to manage than one. We compared notes about how when we're out and about with just one of our children, we feel like we're on vacation. We figure it's because a kid who gets one-on-one parental attention doesn't feel the need to act out to compete with his or her sibling for that same attention. We also know that it's much easier for us to be patient, understanding, and more easy-going with just one kid in tow.

Those trips to the restroom are a walk in the park compared to the usual chaos that ensues with two. Keeping one kid entertained at a restaurant is easy peasy. Keeping track of one kid running around a large, crowded playground couldn't be simpler. My friend was actually able to shop for a new dress to attend a wedding, even though she had her two-and-a-half year-old with her (she found her daughter some beads to play with and all was peace and harmony).

Another friend, when she just had one kid, used to marvel at how I managed to be so organized (always bringing food to snack on, water to drink, plenty of diapers, wipes, and extra clothes). In truth, I was in survival mode. I would've packed enough for an Everest expedition if it could avoid a potential meltdown. My friend was then contemplating having a second kid, and mentioned to me what her mother had told her in Korean-accented English: "One child like no child."

Before I get lots of hate email, I admit that's a huge exaggeration: any mom or dad who's had to stay up into the wee hours and calm a fussy, colicky baby on very little sleep, or wear down a strong-willed toddler having a kicking, screaming fit, knows just how challenging parenthood can be, even with one child.

But there are some crucial differences once the ratio of kids to adults changes: for one thing, it's way way harder for a parent to get a break. Watching over two kids close in age -- or in Late Blooming Mom's case, watching twins -- for more than two or three hours without anyone else to help can wear a parent down much faster. Trying to get two or more in bed reasonably close to whatever you've designated as official "bedtime" -- after baths and tooth-brushing and PJs and bedtime stories and yet another drink of water -- is akin to herding cats.

Moms and dads of more than one simply have to trade off for brief periods, so they each get a break and some totally kid-free time, or at the very least, they must divide and conquer. In our house, we try to do that at least once a week: mommy takes a kid somewhere on an "adventure," and daddy does the same. If we didn't, we'd be grumpy, irritable, obnoxious, short-fused, and generally impossible to live with. Basically, we'd turn into toddlers. And we've already got enough of those around here.

So yes, I think one kid -- at least compared to two -- is just a hobby.

Then again, I remember when friends of mine who already had a toddler then had twins. They informed us their strategy became what's known in basketball as the zone defense, since man-on-man was no longer possible. I wonder if they think I'm the one -- even with multiples -- who's merely got a kid hobby.

I think of my grandmother, who grew up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and then Brooklyn, in a small apartment, one of eight kids. They shared beds and slept in shifts. Though my grandmother was Jewish, she sometimes attended Catholic mass with her Irish friends: anything to get out of the house.

All I can say to those of you who've already got two, and are contemplating having more, is this: are you so sure you're ready to be outnumbered?

Hard Happiness

In the book THE ART OF PARENTING TWINS, co-author Patricia Malmstrom refers to twins as "hard happiness." As a mom of twins, I concur: having twins to raise is a great blessing and simultaneously a great challenge. But I think being a late blooming mom is hard happiness too, for very different reasons.

It took me a long, hard, three-year-plus road from saying to my husband, "Let's try to have a baby," to actually giving birth. Having a successful pregnancy was a challenge for me because of my "advanced maternal age." Not that many of my eggs were still good. And after the devastating lows of suffering several miscarriages, giving birth to a healthy baby -- let alone two -- was an incredible high. The joy we experienced after so many years of struggle, longing, emotional and physical wear and tear, was immeasurable.

I think it's the same for a lot of late blooming moms. Many of us have had a long, hard road to get to become moms, so we appreciate the very fact of our kids' existence in a different way than moms who had a smooth ride from easy conception to an uncomplicated birth.

The happiness is hard because it was hard to achieve.

But it's also hard because having kids later in life means, for some of us, that all the grandparents aren't around to share in the happiness. Both my parents were long gone before I even got married, let alone brought my kids into the world. I'm very happy to have my in-laws, who are super grandparents, willing to travel great distances to see us several times a year. But I do wish my parents could know my kids, and vice versa. I get very wistful sometimes about this, knowing the only way my kids will know my parents is through me -- telling them stories, showing them pictures, and exhibiting the traits, attitudes and values that were passed on to me.

The happiness of later in life parenthood is also hard because let's face it, we older moms and dads don't have the same energy level as our younger counterparts. I swear I'd be enjoying motherhood oh so much more if I weren't so exhausted all the time. And I know I wasn't this tired ten years ago.

Having lived a bit longer before having kids than is the norm, I also have a more acute sense of the fragility of life and the tenuousness of every day existence. When I hold my son's little hand as he falls asleep next to me, or when I look in the rear view mirror and catch my daughter's face in the midst of a gigglefest, I am aware of how I'm savoring the moment. I know too well that moments are fleeting.

Confession: I worry about not being around long enough to see my own kids married and having kids. Truth is, I worry about not being around to see them through high school. I'm healthy and fit (when I'm not battling the colds the kids bring home), but knowing my own mom only made it to 58 nags in the back of my mind. I want to do everything possible to be sure I'm here longer -- much longer.

My infertility ended happily, in twin fertility -- but it was a happiness hard-earned. My later-in-life momhood is largely happy too, but comes with all the exhaustions of middle age combined with the typical parental frustrations of handling that fearsome creature known as the toddler -- in my case, times two. So I'm no stranger to hard happiness. My guess is, a lot of you aren't either.

The Payback Kid

Whenever I gave my own mom an especially hard time, she used to say to me, "You should have three just like you."

Though sometimes it feels like I do -- with demanding twin three-year-olds and a neurotically needy, if adorable, cat -- the reality is that only one of them lives up to the moniker, "The Payback Kid."

One of them at a time, that is.

Within two weeks of being born, my daughter clearly held the title. That's because she came down with a mysterious virus, developed a high fever, and had to be hospitalized for ten days, undergoing two spinal taps, giving us all a terrific scare that she had meningitis (she didn't, and I'm still awaiting an apology from anyone responsible for the mix-up at the hospital's lab). I was forced to shuttle back and forth between Thing 2 at the hospital's neo-natal intensive care unit (AKA the NICU) and home, where Thing 1, like his sister, was in need of feeding and cuddling.

But a funny thing happened during Thing 2's hospital stay. Thing 1, who seemed to begin life as my mellow, Zen baby, turned into a needy Thing indeed, refusing to calm down without near constant holding, swaddling, and swinging. Thing 2 returned home healthy but more independent, content to snuggle into her swaddle blanket and settle down without much fuss. Thing 1 continued his demanding ways for months on end. It looked as if Thing 1 was going to lay claim to the title after all.

Smash cut to about two and a half years later: Thing 2 learns to say no, refuse to go to bed, stamp her feet in vehement protests. Thing 1 picks up a few of these tricks from her. They both throw tantrums when they don't get what they want, whether it's ice cream, another ten minutes of Baby Einstein, or the ability to wander off into a busy street unattended. But while Thing 1 can be easily distracted, or at least we can wait him out (he recovers from blowing his top quickly), Thing 2's temper proves longer lasting. Her fits are tougher to squelch, her desire for limit-testing seemingly insatiable. The title has been swapped again.

Six months later, Thing 2 seems determined to retain her crown.

Bedtime is her battleground. But then, I recall, it was mine too. One of my most vivid childhood memories is being put out into the hallway of our New York City apartment -- not an internal hallway, I mean the one where people got on and off the elevators -- with my pink blanket and furry bunny. Apparently, mom had had enough of my refusal to go to sleep. I'd been banished.

Today you might call child welfare if you saw an unattended kid curled up with a blanket and a bunny in the hallway of a New York apartment building, but in those days, when we knew all our neighbors and nobody got by the doorman without being buzzed in, I was safe.

I was also undoubtedly a pain in the neck.

Sadly, my mom isn't around to see me struggle with getting Thing 2 to bed. One of the hazards of being a late blooming mom is that all the grandparents don't necessarily come with the package(s) that took so long to arrive. Mom never got to see Thing 1 and Thing 2.

Despite the temptation to do what mom did to me, I've never put Thing 2 outside the condo with her striped blanket and cherished toy ducks. That's one childhood memory I don't want her to have. But I've lost my temper, I've yelled, I've stormed out of her room -- I've basically lost it in front of her. I've run the gamut of stuff a good mom is not supposed to do in this situation, and vowed to do better.

Whenever I've had enough sleep to get some perspective on it, I laugh.

That's because somewhere, I know my mom is laughing ... at me and my payback kid.

Stop The Preschool Insanity!

It was around this time last year that I exhaled a sigh of relief so great it was probably heard by every toddler mom in the greater West Los Angeles area. Thing 1 and Thing 2 had been admitted to a preschool for the following fall.

It wasn't just any preschool, but one that came with qualities I'd found elusive in most. It took kids for up to a full day, up to five days a week, during the hours that a working parent might logically be expected to be on the job. It was accredited, not just by the state, but by the NAEYC, a respected national organization whose stamp of approval is considered the gold standard by such sources as Parents Magazine. It was developmental -- meaning the learning was supposed to be play-based, rather than accomplished by putting kids way too young for academics through sit-down desk learning. It was safe, clean, and staffed by caring people, many of whom had or were pursuing degrees in early childhood education.

The cost: a little more than what my college tuition was twenty years ago.

Why don't you take a moment to pause and revel in the sticker shock. I know I did.

Insane tuition is but one of the screwed up things about preschool. Another is that women here in Los Angeles have been known to show up on preschool tours when they're pregnant.

Getting your kids into a preschool you'll feel good about -- by which I mean a place they will be safe, happy, stimulated, and able to get socialized before kindergarten, rather than a full-of-itself preschool that boasts its "graduates" will one day go on to Ivy League schools -- doesn't sound like it should be crazy-making.

But it is. I pride myself on being a rational, down-to-earth, Late Blooming Mom who has the maturity and good sense to know that getting my kids into preschool isn't about getting my kids into "the right" college. But I still wound up researching dozens of schools, taking tours of twelve, applying to eight. I know it sounds excessive. But as a twin mom, I knew I was playing a cruel numbers game: I needed two slots at the same place. I often found myself wondering, though, if by applying to so many, I was part of the very problem that was pissing me off.

Here in L.A., as in many parts of the country, there are far more parents trying to find slots for their toddlers in preschool than there seem to be slots for them. (For more on how our society shamelessly fails to support working moms with good, affordable childcare, check out Judith Warner's "Perfect Madness;" you'll find a link below right among the scrolling featured books on this blog). Now I know preschool isn't considered absolutely necessary. When I was a toddler, I went to something quaint called "nursery school" a few mornings a week until I started kindergarten. It wasn't much more than a safe place mom could drop me off to play so she could get a break. But I'm a working mom, and I need a much longer break than my mom did -- an eight-hour work-day, plus. And there's plenty of research (which I won't repeat here) that proves kids who attend preschool are better prepared socially as well as educationally for kindergarten. So for these and other obvious reasons, I think it's a good thing, and for my kids, a necessity.

Maybe that's why, a year after being put through the ringer of the preschool admission process, I'm still steamed about the lack of good options, the competition for those that are good, and the do-it-yourself, wildly time consuming process of finding one that'll suit.

Word of mouth is key, but not always reliable: just because a friend of a friend's kid goes somewhere someone likes, doesn't make it right for yours. The web is vital but also inaccurate and outdated. I found myself reluctantly buying a book with the unfortunate title COPING WITH PRESCHOOL PANIC, because there was no easily accessible, comprehensive directory of preschools in my area. (The book's a decent starting point for those who live in Los Angeles, but not at all comprehensive; my kids wound up at a school that wasn't listed in it).

Even when you narrow down the list of the schools you want to check out in person, you find the tour schedules are staggered, and so are the dates by which they'll tell you if your kid is admitted, so good luck trying to save a place at one school when you haven't heard from the others. Directors of some preschools laughed at me when I called inquiring about admission more than a year and a half before I'd want my kids to attend; they were already full and so were their waiting lists. Other directors laughed because I was calling so early. To combat Westside L.A. wackiness, they'd instituted a no-tours-until-a-year-before-you-want-your-kid-to-start policy (bless them for that). Then there were schools where the directors insisted my kids would have to be potty-trained before they started, even though most parenting books say kids have to do that on their own schedules, and forcing the issue creates medical and psychological problems. Those schools were the first I took off my list.

I can't tell you how many late nights I spent on the web, how many hours of work I had to make up because I was out during the work day visiting prospective schools, how many phone calls I made or emails I sent to school directors and other moms. But I can tell you this: it was a good thing I bothered to apply to eight schools. In the end, my kids were admitted to two.

There seems to be no rhyme or reason why they were rejected from the others: only one of the schools actually required us to bring the kids in for a face-to-face meeting. On the tours, some school directors mentioned the importance of fund-raising and how much families might be expected to donate over and above tuition, and I often got the feeling, when I mentioned that I had twins, that some of those directors wrote me off right then. After all, admitting my kids meant one less family in the pool of prospective donors. All these places collected application fees ranging from twenty-five to seventy-five dollars, and one school even required us to attend and pay for a four-week toddler program at their center before we could even apply. In the end, when the kids didn't get in to most places (including the one where we attended the toddler program), the reason we were officially given was always the same: they just didn't have enough space.

My kids didn't wind up attending that first preschool to which they were admitted, mostly because another one proved cozier, friendlier, and offered more of a community. But another reason was that this latter school didn't have a cumbersome admission process. The school invited us to take a tour about ten months before we wanted our kids to start, and then asked for a hefty deposit to reserve each spot. If we wanted our kids to go there and were willing to commit soon after taking the tour, they were in -- no waiting lists, no nerve-wracking wait for a call or an envelope to arrive in the mail. The school didn't mess around, which took a lot of the crazy-making out of the process.

Five months after starting, my kids are clearly thriving in preschool (aside from the colds they can't seem to avoid bringing home -- see my January 1/08 post, Welcome To Cold-Of-The-Month Club) . Every day, when I pack them up to go, and again when I pick them up at day's end, I breathe another sigh of relief. It all worked out. But making it happen pretty much sucked. It shouldn't have.

I don't know who is more to blame for preschool insanity: anxious parents, obnoxious, stuck up school directors, or the lack of political will to make good, affordable preschool universally available. But I know if we fix that last problem, the others will go away.

Here's hoping.