Plus ca change, plus la meme chose, but people will surprise you.

When the boys were two months old I heard how it would be easier when they were three months old; they’d nurse less. When they were five months old I heard how six months brings an ease of demands – they would be eating “solids”. (That is to say – pureed mush, nothing solid about it, except the resulting diapers from too much banana…) When they were eleven months old, I heard how much easier it gets when they turn one; that would bring more independence and less reliance on Mama for every breath. While listening and smiling and nodding, as is my wont, I could not imagine some arbitrary landmark on a time line would make any difference; three months, six moths, one year - I was still their world and on call 24/7 and they will always be my full time job. Now, at one year and counting I can easily say – It never gets easier, it just gets different.

At the three-month mark, I was grossly fat, swollen, confused, lonely and exhausted. My, did I hope the magic three-month age would mean they would be less needy! Did they stop nursing so much? It was hard to tell, if one baby eased up, the other was just as rapacious.

At the six-month mark I was still really fat, confused, lonely and exhausted – but at least I was trying to get out jogging a few times a week. The babies were indeed eating their so-called solids, and yes, there was a lessening of the nursing. However, I now had between 3 and 16 jars of baby food to either make or buy a day. Them twins is mighty expensive to feed! (I know it’s going to be even worse when they are 16 and guzzling a gallon of milk a day between them…oh, the grocery bills I have to look forward too…). By eight months or so I knocked off the homemade baby food thing. There is nothing more frustrating, insulting, or upsetting and annoying, than having your cooking rejected with a scream and a yell. “Yuck! Help! Get it away!” the baby hollers, waving his hands to keep the nastiness from touching his lips. Home made dinners every night, how they have suffered, poor fellows.

At the eight-month mark, at the end of the homemade baby food, (it was an attempt to keep costs down and nutrition high) the insulting rejection of my hard work was too much for even me to bear. I can take a lot, but don’t throw what I cook on the floor and scream in my face. There was one black, bleak day when exactly that happened. Baby A, the one who doesn’t eat as much anyway, was being ten kinds of fussy and shrieking with every reluctant bite. I had finally had enough, and I, to my eternal shame, poured the pureed banana and pear combination over his head. Well, he was pretty surprised and actually laughed as he licked mush some off his cheek. At least he ate a little, I thought, as I put them into the bath a bit early. That stopped my cooking special food, and now I don’t try to get them to eat more than they want. If three spoonfuls satisfy, okay, that’s all they eat at that meal. I can always feed ‘em again later.

At the one-year mark, just a few weeks ago, they did start walking, right on schedule. Baby B took his first independent steps the Monday after their birthday, and Baby A took his on the Wednesday, or so. Lately they have both been staggering around the kitchen like a couple of drunken sailors at the end of their shore leave, looking for the right ship. Are they less needy? That would be a big fat NOPE. They are more clingy, if anything.

It seems that when a baby is learning how to crawl, or walk, or eat with a spoon, or drive a car, or is getting ready to go to college, or something big, he will become more clingy as a part of his quest for independence. The baby needs to know you are there, a safe harbor where the drunken sailor can return, as he takes those steps away from you and out on his own. They also wake up more, in the wee hours, to practice their new skills. One night, after we had spent the weekend at my sister’s house, Baby A was so pleased to be home he woke up at 2:30 am. He insisted my DH take him downstairs to visit his toys. He patted the floor gym, he shook his jingle bells, he petted his stuffed lizard and, for some reason, he checked under the carpets. Why the carpets, I couldn’t say… But then he was happy to plug back into Mama, nurse a little, and fall asleep until his normal internal 6:00 wake-up call. Baby B is really good at the walking and, as a result, he is really good at the clingy thing too. It’s totally exhausting, even more so than when he was three-months old, because he is so heavy now. I actually had a spontaneous back spasm the other day. I felt like my mother…

Anyway, here I am, still flabby, still wiped out, still lonely, and still trying to Get Something Done. I keep a book and magazines in the car to do my reading when they nap after a ride, I do my writing at the midnight hour, when all the men are asleep (cats included), and I am still trying to figure out what I am going to do when I grow up. About the fat rolls and the flabby skin; I have heard, “Give it a year” “That weight took nine months to put on and takes at least nine months to get off.” Well, we are working on month thirteen - I have no more excuses to be 155 lbs. plus. Since I’m only 5’3”, it doesn’t look too pretty. And the bangs are growing out, so my head is currently bristling with hairpins and stiff with gel to keep it all contained, hence, the hair thing isn’t too pretty either.

Gloom and doom, I know. AND I get gloom and doom from those who tell me – ‘Oh, once they are walking you’ll wish they weren’t!” Why, in Heaven’s name? Why would I want to carry a couple of four year olds? Besides, when they crawl, they get ten kinds of dirty, because such a large surface area is dragging on the ground. Not to mention the trousers wearing into holes at the knees. I’ve patched them, but the patches are wearing through too! If they were walking I’d be happier to go to outside, to the museum, to the park, to Ikea, wherever. As it is, I have to pick the color garment that will match the dirt they are bound to collect. I put them in denim if we are going to be on playground wood chips or grass, denim doesn’t show dirt and grass stains; they wear dark brown or navy blue if we are going to a store, those colors mask store floor dirt; and they sport dark red if we are going to the museum. There is a deep red and jewel toned carpet in their favorite gallery that left marks on their pale blue trousers last time we paid a visit. I plan on taking them to the museum tomorrow – it is going to rain all day. Weather to match my gloom and doom.

Addendum: Well, I did take them to the museum today, and we had a nice time! I have a new double stroller, so they could both ride, and Baby B took a few steps in one of the galleries, in front of an admiring audience - I was so proud. We also had a remarkable experience, the kind that renews one’s faith in fellow human beings.

We were in the ladies room at the museum, which has a small lounge with a sofa, and the boys had just eaten a jar of smushed fruit and some Annie’s cheddar crackers, and I went to use the restroom. While I was doing my thing in the handicapped stall – it’s larger and therefore it’s easier to fit in the stroller, two babies, the humungous diaper bag and my fat ass – Baby B escaped under the stall, went into the one next door and started splashing around in the potty. Ick!!! My baby’s hands were in a public toilet! Yuck!! Not to mention, he soaked both sleeves of his long sleeved one piece up to the shoulder. So there I was, on the floor of the lounge, trying to change Baby B into the dry emergency Onesie, while Baby A kicked up a fuss – don’t ignore me! Besides, he was sticky from his snack and needed a diaper change. I was getting a little frazzled (in case you’re wondering, no, I had not eaten since breakfast at 8:00 and it was 12:30, and yes, I had packed a snack for myself, but at that point had not yet had a chance to stuff the cereal bar into my jaws) when out of the blue came a ministering angel. “Do you need a hand?” asked this total stranger. “I have a friend with nine month old twins, I think you need help.”

She washed Baby A’s sticky face, changed his diaper and put him back into the stroller while I took care of Baby B, who was hollering the whole time, furious that I had taken him away from his fun with toilet water game. Then the nice lady said “Bye” and off she went, having made a real difference in my day. I wonder if she knew how great it was just to have an extra pair of arms for five minutes. I said thank you, but I didn’t get her name.

I had the opportunity to eat my snack on the drive home. I feel fine now.