A two dwarf morning

Today began as a two dwarf morning – Grumpy and Sleepy. But my twinges, Screechy and Kicky, were up and ready to go at 5:45, so I was too. Their Daddy gave them their breakfast, so I was able to get another 45 minutes shuteye - not sleep mind you, just eyes staring at the backs of my eyelids for a while. For who could sleep with the early AM scream festival going on downstairs? It’s not that they don’t like to eat their breakfast, it’s just they prefer Mama in the morning (in the evening, ain’t we got fun?)

So, I got up and put on the clothes that were hanging over the chair next to the bed – jogging pants, nursing bra, red socks with reindeer on them, no shirt (why bother with a shirt? I am nursing two), the usual page right out of Vogue, and ran around putting in a load of laundry, and picking up before the DH went to work. (Lucky beast! He gets to go to an office and stare at the walls and wonder what we are up to all day and be mad about missing them growing up – actually I am the lucky beast. Or sometimes I’m just a beast.)

I tried to take them for their early morning walk, but my little one became incensed by the whole experience – how DARE you put me in a stroller!!! You promised you would be an Attachment Parent! I want to be carried in a sling, preferably a sling made from fabric woven by indigenous South American peoples and I want it NOW!! – I had to carry him most of the way. I would have aborted the mission and just gone home, but the other one was clearly enjoying himself, cooing and flapping his hands around, and them he fell asleep. If I have learned anything from this whole Mother of Twins experience (apart from – note to self - DO NOT GET PREGNANT AGAIN – EVER) I have learned – do not wake up a sleeping baby.

I sat in the garage on a plastic lawn chair and nursed the crying one while the other one slept, feeling crabby and resentful.. It’s not fair to a little baby I know, it’s not his fault I’m hot and tired and hungry. He is just feeling hot and tired and hungry, and he has the right to tell me so.

So, I nursed grouchy baby boots until his brother woke up and them we moved on to the next order of business – the elevensies. (British English for an eleven o’clock snack.) Needless to mention, the little one, because he was already feeling tetchy, and had become contented nursing in the garage, became enraged that I DARE put him in a high chair to feed. Therefore, we had scream session, Part Two, until I started shoveling food into his gaping mouth (peaches, banana, rice cereal and breast milk, all pureed together and strained by yours truly - for a better dining experience for my little munchkins. After all, nothing says “I Care” like homemade baby food. Well, according to my copy of Dr. Spock’s Common Sense Baby Care, the 1953 edition, the implication is that nothing says “I Care” like a clothes-line full of clean diapers. The next generation’s mothering ideal will probably be nothing says “I Care” like a macrobiotic diet for the entire family, or only organic hemp clothing for the wee one...God, I hope not for my grandbabies’ sakes. I’d never be able to visit.)

Grouchy baby boots was very hungry, so the elevensies settled him down and his brother was happy to feed as well. Then the food ran out and I took ‘em upstairs to nurse.

Oh, boy, did the hollering start afresh – “Wahh! I was eating over here! I want more fruit smush! Mean Mama! Mean Mama!” At this point, it was about 1-ish, we were all getting really tired, so I sat down to nurse them and – Sweet Lord Almighty - they went right to sleep. And not only did they fall asleep at 1:00 and 1:15, they fell asleep so hard they let me slide them off my lap onto the bed. But wait, there’s more! As an extra bonus, they were far apart enough for me to lie down between them and – gasp! Miracles do happen! – I got to take a 30-minute nap too.

I am still a little shaky and unnerved by the experience.

I woke up when one of the scrumptious munchkins whiffled (if you’re a mama you’ll know what I mean) and I was able to keep him asleep by nursing him a little, then when he was out again and his brother made a little wakey-uppy snuffle I was able to nurse him back to sleep – all in all we napped for 2 hours and a bit all together, with the cat snoring at the foot of the bed. We must have looked like a bunch of Jimmy Jones’ converts after the Kool-Aid was passed around.

Now I am able to take some time and blog in peace. Because they slept well during the day, they’ll sleep better tonight (why does that work? Why doesn’t a disco nap keep a baby up, like it does me? Why don’t people share that secret instead of giving you the baloney good-night tricks like – stuff them full of processed dehydrated reconstituted iron fortified rice cereal – they sleep good for you of you do! All lies...)

Today was so typical, me exhausted by 8 AM, but the end of the day was so nice! We had a good dinner together and they went to sleep gently and sweetly, like they were somebody else’s babies.

That said – by a good dinner, and gently and sweetly I mean - one baby was sitting with my sister in law and the other was on the floor with my DH while I gobbled down some Annie’s Mac ‘n Cheese then I ran upstairs to brush my teeth while the DH shoveled in his dinner and the SIL watched them both, then I nursed the first baby while my SIL changed the other and the DH helped (we are at the rolling-over-fighting-you-no-I-won’t-lie-down-to-have-my-diaper-changed phase with the older twin). When the first one was asleep, I took the diaper-fighter baby to bed and nursed him to sleep, but the first baby woke up – oops, I guess I didn’t keep him plugged in long enough - and started hollering. (My SIL always says – “I’ll let you go” as a preface to goodbye. Tonight when she trotted out the phrase I said – “You don’t mean you’re letting me go – you really mean, you’re getting the hell out of Dodge, don’t you?”) My DH walked the half-asleep, crying baby up and down the street for about 10 minutes while I settled the second one, then, when he brought the first baby back to me, the one I was nursing was totally asleep so we could settle them both for the night and I sneaked away to the computer at about 9:00. It’s about 9:30 now and so far I have gone back to nurse one baby once. That’s what I mean by a good, peaceful evening.

Why? What do you mean by peaceful?

Two Dwarf Day – Part Two

Well, I shouldn’t have actually committed the bragging about a good night to words. For, as I was typing away, baby A woke up again and after I went back to nurse each baby twice, I gave up on the blog and went to bed myself at 10ish. Then they proceeded to wake up four times each – or maybe five – it’s a blur all night long. At least I didn’t need an alarm to get up at 4:45 to go for a 5 AM run with my SIL. I was already awake.

Know if you’re reading this that my wife puts her heart and more into these little men every single day. I wish I could stay home and help her do this unbelievable task of raising two infants – but life is not so easy. I must leave her and the babies every day (the three most precious people in my life) and work. I always say I wish I could give her more...and I still do.

Have I mentioned my mother is a therapist?

I have a unique family (don't we all) headed by a unique mother. She is charming, witty, intelligent, an excellent cook, an enviable horticulturalist, a decent tennis player and she has the ability to be SOOOO annoying you could scream. This lovely mother of mine, who is in her 60's (she admits to 50s and can pass for 'em too) is a therapist by profession. One visit home she pissed me off by going on and on about her back "going into spasm" because she picked up my 18-pounder twin, for 10 minutes last Tuesday. Gee, Mummy, I'd love to have an occasional spasm instead of a constant dull ache varied with sharp stabbing pains and blended with a touch of stiffness from constantly holding, carrying, sleeping with, nursing and bending over both twins, total weight 36 pounds, every single day, 24 hours every single day, 8 day a week.

I have these bizarre conversations with my mother, when I try and tell her how tired and frustrated and lonely I can be at home all day, and how there are times when I find it very difficult to do anything like laundry or housekeeping, or grocery shopping, or eating and bathing. She changes the subject as soon as she can, or just says hmm, and oh, poor dear, and well, find somebody to help you and I'll help pay for it. That's not really the issue at hand. I appreciate my mother's financial help, I really do, but I can't seem to get organized enough to look for someone, and I am still basically mistrustful of most people. I don't think anyone can take care of my little scrumptious squash blossoms like I can. It's all I can do to let my sister-in-law (and next door neighbor) and mother-in-law (a very nurturing type) watch them for a few hours in the evening. ( I generally call twice while I am away to check on them. I know, neurotic new mother...) But that's beside the point. I'll figure that out. From my own mother I really just want to feel she understands what I am going through, the positive as well as the negative. She could try to listen to me and try and give me a little sympathy and understanding and affection and well, I admit it, I need some attention. I know she hears me, but does she listen? I can't tell.

Have I mentioned my mother is a therapist?

She had three children; we are now 36, 35 and 33. She was alone during our infancy and childhood; my parents emigrated from England when my sister was 8 months old and I was 2 months in utero. She was new in town, (new in country), with no mother, no mother-in-law, no sister-in-law, no old friends and no job, therefore, no colleagues to come by and lend a hand; she did it all alone. Perhaps she feels that since she was alone and helpless and friendless that I can damn well tough it out the same way.

Have I mentioned she is a therapist?

I have told her my emotional needs and wants, and how sometimes I feel lonely and frustrated and isolated. But, she really doesn't seem to comprehend that my telling her I sometimes feel lonely and frustrated and isolated really means I sometimes feel lonely and frustrated and isolated. No one can accuse me of hidden messages or coyness here...

A few weeks ago she came by with about 20 baby plants for my garden. I appreciate her generosity, and I love having nice plants in my garden, but do I really need more little helpless living things to raise? Get this: she crashes into the house, all bounce and go, calling - "Hellooo! Good morning!" at 9:00 am. I had been up since 5ish and had fed the babies, nursed the babies, played with the babies, got my husband his breakfast, drank a cup of coffee, packed his lunch and been on my own with the screamers for about two hours. I said, when she burst upon the scene - "I am little tired today, I didn't really sleep last night, Arthur screams if I put him down for a second, Marek is getting another tooth and I just need you to amuse them for 20 minutes, so I can have a pee, eat a slice of bread (toast takes too long) and collect my scattered wits." Have I mentioned she’s a therapist? She replies - "Okay, but don't be too long, I want to get these plants in the ground before it gets too hot." FIVE minutes later, when I had just settled one baby with her and gone to the bathroom to pee with the other baby, she stood up, and said - "Well, I want to get these plants in the ground before it gets too hot." I kind of lost it. I grabbed the baby from her, took them both outside, put them on the grass under a tree on a blanket, gave them some plastic blocks to amuse them, ran back into the house threw on my clothes (I was still in my nightie) and got a shovel from the garage to dig a damn hole to plant the damn plants before it got too damn hot. At least I had gone to the bathroom! I took deep breath, burst into tears and started digging, all the while I am crying and yelling - "I am so tired I just wanted to sit for a few minutes and talk to a grown-up without the babies screaming and maybe eat something!! Can't you see I am not in the mood for this! Don't you see I am overwhelmed and need some help and some peace and sanity!? Don't you care about my mental well being? For a therapist and a mother you can be so blind!!"

She stands there, hands on hips, gives me a LOOK and says - "Well, we need to get these plants in the ground before it gets too hot (!!!), but if you are going to shout, I'm leaving." Implication - the hell with the plants, they can just cook in the sun, and the hell with you too, you ungrateful beast.

Have I mentioned she is a therapist?

Well, I managed to get a grip, convinced her to stay and sat with the babies and rocked them to calm all of us a bit. She put the plants in the ground (because it was getting hot, you see) and then took off. Later that day my dear husband called and said -Your mother called me today at work, actually, she left three messages. She said you are having a bad day, do you want me to come home?" I said no, the storm had passed and I had eaten half a gallon of coffee ice cream by that point, so I was feeling okay. My DH sent kisses over the phone and promised to be home a little early.

If my mother was so concerned that she called my husband at work three times, why didn't she comfort me when I was freaking out and boo-hooing all over the shop? If she was concerned enough to let my DH know I was having a rough day and was cranky and tired, why didn't she stay to make sure I has a decent lunch? A mama should know that a little food and a little nap can work wonders on the crankiest child (even if that child is 35 years old) (I tell myself coffee ice cream really is a pretty good lunch, it has calcium and vitamin D and the CAFFEINE and sugar replace the nap part of the equation, but who am I kidding...) If she is concerned enough to offer to pay for a nanny to take some pressure off me, why isn't she concerned enough to give me a hug, just to make me feel better?

Have I mentioned she is a therapist?

This is an ongoing rant... to be continued.

Favorite idiotic comments....so far

My favorite asinine comments and questions from all and sundry...so far

The question I seem to hear the most, and the one that bothers me the most, apart from the inevitable are-they-twins, is – “Do they sleep good for you?” This question gets me on several levels. Number one: I am a stickler for good grammar (or at least decent grammar, if you are being amusing). Number two: that is a rather personal question! What makes a total stranger feel free to ask about such an intimate situation like what happens in my bed at home? And three: they don’t sleep for my sake, they sleep for themselves. If they slept “for me” they would go out like the proverbial light bulbs at 7:00 PM and not wake up until 6:30 or so when I am ready to get up myself.
I keep saying I am going to print up a tee shirt to wear when I venture out in public with my brood. It’ll read:

Yes, they are twins, and
No, they don’t sleep

One of my husband’s buddies, a 27-year-old single guy, was looking at some snapshots from the hospital. He had come to visit during my two week post partum bed rest hell, to see the babies and ostensibly to cheer me up. I had had preeclampsia and was pretty ill for some time after the birth. I had also delivered by cesarean, so I had that whole major surgery thing to recover from as well. So this feller is looking at some pictures, and says to me – “Gee you look pretty out of it in this one.” I took the picture to see what he was referring to. It was a shot of me on the table as I was being stitched back together. My husband is in the foreground with our 5 minute old babies in his arms and we are both a little weepy.
“You look pretty out of it in this one”
“Gee I wonder why? I had just had my body cavity opened to the world, two babies removed, and two big juicy placentas pulled out too, I am full of pitocin, beta blockers, anesthetic and pain killers, I was in labor for about 16 hours, my blood pressure is 140 over 110, basically I am a heart attack waiting to happen and at the moment of this photo three strangers are putting the first of 20 stitches into me. I wonder why I look so dazed?”


One day, when the babies were about 6 months old, I was shopping in J C Penny in the mall. Over the course of a few hours I was asked 17 times (yes, I kept track) “Are they twins?” They aren’t identical, but they look like brothers, and that day I had dressed them in matching outfits. They are the same size, within a few ounces of each other in weight and my husband and I have coordinating carriers. Are they twins…. Whatta YOU think? Why else would someone take two infants of the same proportions out shopping? So, at this 17th repetition of this unoriginal question I said sweetly – “No, they aren’t. I swiped one from the hospital to keep the other one company. You know, children are like cats. They do better in pairs.” The poor woman looked so horrified and said – “That’s a terrible thing to say!” and ran away. My husband gave me a little lecture on being nicer to unknowing strangers. Well, I am sorry I tried to take a big, bloody, bite-sized chunk out of her, but she annoyed me.

Another occasion, well worth documenting, involved one of my husbands many aunts. This lady is extremely nice, but clueless about babies, having never had any children of her own. She came to see the new twins when they were about 3 months old. She had all kinds of questions and comments about everything. Such as their sleeping habits – oh, be sure to get them out of your bed soon! And feeding them - you can give them solids any day now! They’ll sleep better for you, you know. And so on. And then she asked if they were identical or not. No, they are fraternal. Now this was after spending over an hour closely examining both babies. At this point one baby was still completely bald and the other had a full head of hair. Also, their eye color had seemed to settle in early; my baldy baby has bright blue eyes and hairy has dark grey green eyes.

“Are they identical?”
“No, they are fraternal.”
“Well that’s good, or you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.”
“I’m their mother, and I am home with them every hour of every day. I am sure I’ll always be able to tell them apart.”

That comment got me another little lecture.

My sister, who I mention frequently because she is my closest family member and a mama of two herself, would get me if I didn’t mention the asinine comment I made when her first child was born 4 years ago. She was nursing her little one, who, at 7 pounds was somewhat on the little side, and I was watching her technique, having never seen a nursing mama and baby before up close and personal, as it were. I said – “Gosh, your boob is bigger than her head!” I was surprised at how voluptuous my sister had become, she was always a C cup anyway, and I was startled at her new size F (!!!) breasts. My poor sister still remembers this comment and sometimes repeats it when we are sharing stupid-things-people-have-said-to-me stories. Sister of mine! I am so sorry I hurt your feelings! Now that I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end, please feel free to give me an open handed smack next time we meet. I can take it like a mama.

Wait...she said there are TWO of them... OH MY GOD...

The ultrasound. We all look forward to that first peek at our baby so impatiently. I am sure most women remember their first ultrasound, but I remember my second better.

I had my first scan at 12 weeks because I had some bleeding, over the course of a few days. I went in for the Oh-no-it’s-a-miscarriage trans-vaginal scan, and the technician said – “You must have had a vanishing twin. You did miscarry a baby, but I see a heartbeat, so there is a viable fetus in there. Don’t worry, you are still pregnant.” I felt very sad that I had lost a baby, but relieved there was still a healthy one growing away in utero. I also felt somewhat relieved that I was not going to have twins. That sounded like SO much work to me...duh-oh!

Then I had my routine 18 week-what-flavor-baby-are-we-having ultrasound. I asked right away –“ Is it a boy or a girl?” The technician said – “Well, there are two of them in there, and this one looks like a boy.” I asked – “Well, is the other one a girl?” I really had an idea of having a daughter, a little princess to spoil. “No, they are both boys! See the penis?” Yes, I could see both of them. Two little penises. I guess I really wasn’t meant to have a daughter, for not only was I not having a girl, but I was so not having a girl I was having two boys. (Actually, now that they have arrived, I can’t imagine having a girl. My boys are pretty tough already, and I hear from other mamas how girls are so much harder. Just ask my sister; her little 4 year old daughter is just too intelligent for her own good sometimes.)


Then it sank in. She said TWO OF THEM. Two of them...I started to cry – I was in total shock. At first I was pregnant – all the tests said so. Then I was bleeding – oh no, a miscarriage – I’m not pregnant. Then the 12-week scan – No, you are pregnant, but you did have a vanishing twin. Then the routine 18 week scan – well, you have twins; this time we really mean it, you are so pregnant, you are pregnant twice. Then what was it really at week 12? A vanishing triplet? If I had had have triplets, and had carried them to term, I certainly would not be at my computer right now. I would either be in a padded room, or 6 feet under.

“Well, there are two of them.” she said and I started to cry. Interesting reaction. Did I know I would be doing a lot of crying in the near future and needed the practice? Did I know, somehow, it would all be so damn hard?

BUT in the midst of all the chaos I get such brilliant moments of aren’t they cute! and aren’t they sweet! and real, genuine, twin-infant-only moments. The other day I had put them in their bouncer seats while I ran upstairs to get..what was it? another pair of arms, a new skin, a chunk of sleep...I forget. But, I ran upstairs to grab something I needed and while I was in the bedroom I heard this chuckling, cackling sound. I picked up the video camera (yes, the brain DOES still work on occasion!) and crept back down to the kitchen to investigate. There they were, my little terrors, just laughing. They could see each other, and perhaps they weren’t sure what each other really were, or who each other could be, or something like that. Anyway, the sight of one baby made other baby laugh and the sound of the giggles made the other baby laugh right back. I have watched this video many times already, and when the boys are with me, and they hear the sound of their own laughter, it makes them sit up and take notice. I hope they start listening to me soon too.

Oh! Twins! Mine are 16 months apart - I know how you feel! NO, YOU DON'T

At the supermarket, the mall, in church, wherever I go, I get to hear - "I had 2 in diapers 16 months apart, I know how you feel!" That is nothing like two in diapers of the same age. I get to hear -"It's hard now, but they will be great company for each other soon." Oh yeah? How soon? How soon can I leave them play on the floor for 20 minutes without having them scream to be picked up?

Two infants in diapers, two infants learning how to crawl, two infants learning how to eat and sit up and sleep on their own and needing their Mommy 24 hours a day. Don't tell me you know what it's like. No, you don't. Or, and this is the worst! I can imagine what you are going through. No, you can't. Until you have faced your own Hell at home in the eyes of your twins, who you love and cherish and resent and want to run away from all at the same time, you can not even start to imagine what it could be like.

One starts the other crying. One wakes the other up. One will stick his fingers in the other's eyes, nose and mouth. The other day, one twin used the other as a jungle gym, and scratched him on the gum, over one of his fresh new tooth buds, THEN he bit him on the nose so hard he had teeth marks for an hour afterwards. I had turned my back on them, (oh, error of my ways!!) and looked around just in time to see this chaos and hear the scream from the victim twin. I picked up my little victim, and blood came pouring out of his mouth. So, I carried him into the kitchen and gave him a big ice-cube to suck on. Of course, the biter twin started crying. He couldn't understand why I had A: taken his "toy" away and B: why I wasn't in the room with him. Sorry, sweetie. You just have to cry for a minute while I staunch the bleeding.

I tell little stories like these to my friends and family and generally I get a laugh. But I don't want a laugh. I didn't think a baby's mouth full of blood was exactly amusing. And when you are exhausted and haven't eaten (except for a cup of cold coffee and handful of Cheerios you picked up from the floor) all day, it is SO not amusing. So, I laugh too, and try not to cry.

My friends and family ask - "How are you?" I generally lie and say- "I'm fine!" But why do I lie like that? Why can't I admit the difficulties I face as a Mother of twins? What do I have to prove? I wonder if people really would be sympathetic or of they would recoil in disgust at a mother stating the fact she finds it difficult to just cope. Would I get the understanding ear and shoulder to cry on if I told the story of how an all day twin crying jag can reduce me to a shaking wreck, unsure of my sanity? One friend of my sister in law asked - "How is it going?" I said - "It's Hell." She laughed. Did she think I was joking? What planet did her baby came from that she can't fathom being at home all day could be hard? She only has one baby, for a start.


I have a letter from La Leche League on my fridge, with a list of suggestions for helping addressed to Friends, Relatives and Spouses of Mothers of Twins. I have had it there for months, and over the weekend made a copy to give to my mother and sister. My sister said - "Oh, I saw that! You have had that on your fridge for a while." And my mother said - "I already read that." Really? The main thrust of the list of suggestions is that the first year for a Mothers of Twins is INCONCEIVABLY difficult and that the mom needs understanding and sympathy and sleep more than anything else. If they both read it, where is the sympathy? Why don't they try to watch the babies while I get a nap when I see them? My mother is a somewhat unsympathetic type, she isn't good at the poor you, let me hug you while you cry mothering style. I really don't respond well to her brand of "tough love." My sister is really busy with her PhD and her own two kids, aged 4 years and 18 months, I think she forgets how mentally unstable I can be when exhausted. Either that, or she is so used to running on empty she has forgotten what it was like during her first year.

This entry has become quite a whine fest, but I have been rather low lately. At least I have a dinner on Wednesday to look forward to. I'm looking forward to being away from the babies constant neediness. I love them, of course I do, that is my constand assurance to myself, BUT...

I'm so wiped out I might skip the dinner and take a nap in the car in the parking lot. But the way my luck has been lately, I would get mugged.

Dinner Party Invitation prompts a Rebuttal??!

I decided to invite a few neighborhood mothers to a dinner, to be held on a monthly basis, so we could get out of the house and dress up and enjoy adult chit chat - and eat a meal using utensils instead of our bare hands. I called the dinner "Hell or High Water". Here's a sample invite, edited to protect the innocent:

Greetings Mommy!

You are invited to my second

Hell or High Water Dinner party

Where: a restaurant

When: Wednesday, June 23, 2004 at 6:30 PM to 8:30, so we can be home in time to tuck up our bundles of joy.

Why: Why not?

This is the start of a monthly thing; we as mothers, of tots, toddlers, tweens, teens and twins need a break! AND we also need a night out at least once a month just for fun, right?! The name, Hell or High Water means that, no matter what, we will give our-selves a night out, for a meal (that we didn't have to plan, buy, organize and then cook) and be committed to it.

Each month we can pick a new restaurant for the next Hell or High Water, and keep it fresh and fun. Last month we went to A Restaurant, and apart from my spilling a glass of water all over the place (including on my own lap!), the waitress thinking we were jerks and someone being 45 minutes late, it went very well. This month promises to be just as exciting! Maybe I'll spill a cup of coffee instead..

RSVP!

Love,

me

Well, one of the ladies who attended the last dinner told me, during our morning jog today, that Somebody's Husband and written a REBUTTAL to the invitation for the next H and HW, which I had mailed out. I was a little confused... a REBUTTAL to an invitation to a dinner? "Oh, it's a joke!" she said. Well, the Someone came by and actually handed me this rebuttal, which is in memo form, clearly imitating my invite. Here it is in all its grammatically incorrect and awkwardly phrased glory:



To: Victims of Hell or High Water Dinner Party

From: The husband's name

Gentlemen:


Recently it has come to my attention that certain individuals in our lives have decided that they will be conducting monthly dinner meetings to discuss motherhood, come Hell or High Water. At this point I feel it is necessary to provide some insight into our lovely bride's minds. We too are supper making, clothes washing, diaper changing, child rearing and window washing people. We have feelings. Maybe it is high time that we fathers get together on a weekly basis to discuss our trials and tribulations of fatherhood. Eventually, if we are allowed to vent our true feeling maybe we can become part of the respectable community known as parents. I think that these informal get-togethers will help us relieve the every day stresses of being the head of the household. If these therapy sessions go well, maybe we will be able to better communicate with our better halves that we are valuable participants in the family and should be at least be kept around for odd jobs and the occasional foot rub.

Yours truly,

The under-appreciated and easily forgotten father


I read it and was absolutely furious. Putting yourself out there on a blog, for example, invites comment and rebuttal. But an invitation to dinner??! Who debates an invitation? If you're not into going out with me, just say no.

My H and HW dinner is not a dinner meeting to discuss motherhood. There's no agenda. It's just a dinner; an excuse for a lonely person to get dressed up and go out socializing and eat something. I have an entire wardrobe of pretty things languinshing in my closet, going out of style, and I want to wear 'em ( how long do you think silk cargo pants will be cool?). I have an entire mind full of amusing stories going stale( did I tell you about the time I was on a commuter train that caught on fire? Oh, it was so funny...) . I am a mother and I am glad to be. However, a few hours away from my babies and the sometimes boring cycle of day to day life is refreshing, and makes me a better mother. I shouldn't be surprised a man can't understand that a stay-home mother of twins may need to get out of house without a baby or two attached once a month. Oh, sorry! I go out twice a month,; I have the Mother of Twins Club meetings every second Tuesday....

What killed me about that rebuttal in the form of a mocking memo - henceforth to be referred to as "The Memo" - was the suggestion of a weekly guy get together. Oh! What a novel idea! A bunch of husbands go out after work, leaving the wives and children at home, and have a few drinks and relax and talk about MAN things, such as being the head of the household. Didn't our fathers and grandfathers and their fathers do just that for generations? Weren’t there men's clubs to provide just that escape? Didn’t a little something called the Womens' Liberation Movement attempt to change all that and help foster a sense of responsibility in a father?

There are a lot of responsible, caring, thoughtful daddies out there. I see them all around me, and I'm married to the best of them. He understands me and knows that I actually have a real need to go out on my own, as a person, not only as a mother, once in a while. He does not see himself as a Victim of abandonment as The Memo states. But then again, unlike The Memo's author, my husband doesn't wash windows.