May I invade your house? How's now for you?

This winter we officially have become Stir Crazy. Or do we have Cabin Fever? Or is it called Winter Madness? What is the name for the mental state of a family trapped by 9 inches of snow in a small house with twin toddlers bent on destruction? What’s that called? Oh, yes! I have it – it’s called Let me get the phone and call someone and invade their house for a while or I’ll go nuts! All the same thing. Jody Wright, President of Motherwear asked me in her monthly email, “Do you feel the walls closing in on you? It is time to Take a Break, to plan some special time for yourself.” What? Leave the terrors unsupervised for ten seconds? My house will be knocked flat.

Twin A has a new nickname- Genghis Khan. I call Twin B Attila; purely out of affection, you understand. Over the weekend Genghis went to the ER, because he got some leaf mold/grass clippings in his eye from the garage, rubbed it really hard and scratched his cornea. I saw the red, bleedy eye and insisted we rush him to the hospital. We got him all fixed up, were given optical anti-biotic drops and reassurances that he would heal. Then, while we were waiting in the examining room to be discharged, he pulled a drawer off its runners, whacked himself in the head and gashed his scalp open. Once the wound stopped bleeding, he was painted with that Derma-Bond skin glue, which has held up quite well, in spite of him picking on it for the past few days. I don’t want to wash it out, because I don’t want him to scar. Then, the next day, he broke a lamp, smashing the bulb in a million tiny pieces all over the dining room, which happens to be room they play in 99% of the time. And would you believe it? My housekeeper neglected to tell me both vacuum cleaners are broken, so the DH had to do emergency repairs on one of them so I could clean up the glass. Try *that* with two curious toddlers in your arms!

(You may be thinking – oh-ho! A housekeeper! She’s leading the easy life. However, things are not what they appear, as the excellent book The Mommy Myth explains better than I can. The long and short of the book is that the mainstream media has forced us parents into a corner of having to make it all look so easy; spotless homes, flawless meals, well behaved (read: silent) children, fabulous figures and wrinkle free faces. However, the efforts of trying to live up to this ideal, an ideal we are beaten with over and over by popular television, tabloid newspapers and magazines, are exhausting and frustrating, because it is practically impossible to achieve. My miniscule attempt at that perfection is having someone come over once a week and scrape a layer of grime and stickiness off my floors and walls. Be that as it may, I still do a lot of cleaning and tidying and the laundry and shopping on my own. I have to! What else can I do when the floor is littered with socks, spoons and sandwich scraps after a meal? Or when the cats track snow and mud across my bed? And who else is going to reassemble the bathroom after twin toddler tubby time? I’m just faking it, like everyone else.)

Baby Genghis also climbs on anything and everything. I don't mind the climbing part, he’s pretty agile, but what he does once he’s up there! When he’s up on the toilet tank he yanks on the wall mirror; when on the kitchen table he likes to fling things from the height; while on the counter tops he turns on the range and reorganizes the cooking utensils, when on the mini bar, he messes with the light switches and the thermostat and, my favorite, when he gets on the TV stand, he fiddles with the stereo. As a result, come into the room and think, “Wow, it’s freakin’ hot in here,” and notice the thermostat is set to 80 degrees. And the stereo? Boy, does it make you jump when the volume is cracked to the max and you click on the radio! The bathroom has been totally cleared of breakables, but we are still debating if we should remove the wall mirror. It’s rather useful to have a mirror in the bathroom, and he uses it as a handhold so he doesn’t fall, so we are leaving it for now. But most other surfaces have been edited. My house, their jungle gym, same thing. The other night I spent a good half hour putting things away; lamps, framed photographs, china ornaments, scented candles, and other tchotchkes. These were things that had been out on the coffee table, then were moved to the top of a cabinet, then to a bookshelf and now must be stored in a box in the cellar in order to save them from the curious paws of Genghis and Attila. Pretty soon the place is going to look like a 16th century monastery after Good King Harry had his way. Attila is not quite as nimble as his brother, but as he watches everything and learns amazingly fast, I have full confidence he too will be adjusting thermostats and smashing light bulbs quite soon.

I am sure most toddlers are destructive little critters in general, and I also know that they are going to climb on anything and everything in their explorations of life. I keep trying to get it into my mother’s skull, that my babies are masters of destructive power and that she needs to do some minimal baby proofing if we are ever to visit. I have suggested she put one of those baby corrals around her larger potted trees, and the bird-cages she has in her house, some of which are on wrought iron stands. When I say bird-cages, in the plural, I really should just type aviary. She has five zebra finches, two lovebirds, a parakeet and a canary. She also has, in addition to the potted trees, avocado plants and shrubs in 50-gallon pots, and orchids and cacti dotted about the house. Some are on stands, some are on low tables and some are on the floor. For the past five months, every time we have been over since the boys started walking, Attila has knocked over the same potted fern and smeared dirt about the place. You would think she’d learn to make some temporary concessions for the sake of her grandsons, who she says she loves…but no. I asked her to put up a baby gate or two, and she said, with this moue of distaste at such a decorating suggestion, “I am not going to have plastic barricades littering my house.” Just so y’all know, my parents’ house isn’t some depressing mansion/mausoleum, or some H and G magazine photo ready Martha Stewart-y 4,000 square ft cottage. It’s pretty humungous and they have some good pieces of furniture and a few rather nice pictures, but they had the same ragged curtains with actual holes in them for eleven years before getting new ones, and there is an enormous water stain on the living room ceiling, that I swear has been there since Reagan was President. My father hadn’t noticed it until I pointed it out, because when he lounges on the settee, his back is to that part of the room. So frankly, no one would notice a few baby gates amongst the stacks of magazines, piles of sofa cushions, shopping bags full of paper, cardboard boxes, piles of clothing, clumps of dog hair, cat toys, millions of books and the general clutter of two people who LOVE to shop and hate to put anything away. Case in point: mother gave father a mini homer-like device for Christmas. You know, the mini beeper dots attach to car keys and eyeglasses and are linked to a base with buttons you press to find your lost object. Well, he oohed and ahhed over this thing, and carefully put it underneath the coffee table until he could attach the beep dots. That was in 2003.

Okay, rant over. The point of this post is this: my darling boys are becoming more creatively destructive by the day, and I need to get them out and about to burn off some energy. Now that the snow has fallen and the wind chill brings the temperature down to the single digits, cabin fever sets in rather quickly for both mother and babies. Our brisk walks don’t sound too nice on two-degree days, even all bundled up. Nor do trips to the museum, because, try as I might, I have not mastered the art of running full speed in two directions at once as they split up and head for the sculpture exhibition. Our best bets have been the life saving playgroups and the groovy guys and gals I have through them. No one is as understanding of a floor covered in macaroni and cheese as another mother of a young child. I addition I have a rather dear neighbor, with two boys of her own, who is always welcoming when I invade with my brood. She usually offers me a spiked hot cocoa when I come by, or she'll just get to the point and ask if I’d like a margarita. At eleven am? Why not? That's another antidote to Cabin Fever, for sure. I usually refuse, I am still nursing, but not always...

I am looking forward to spring even more this year than last. Last winter I was literally stuck in one place with the let’s-nurse-for-twelve-hours-straight-shall-we boys, but now that I have a taste of freedom, my mouth waters for more! Ah, Spring! and romps in the park with my sweet twins. But at this point I’d settle for 35-degree weather, no wind and a little sun so we can go sledding. Unless anyone has a great idea for amusing twin toddlers on a winter's day? I am so very open to suggestions.

Breastfeeding 102 - The class continues…..

Disclaimer: I can’t address my thoughts on nursing from any other viewpoint but my own, so please forgive any sweeping statements that seem high and mighty, but that you, from your own experiences, might disagree with.


The class continues…..

With a few breastfeeding myths, debunked by yours truly.

Myth One: Breastfed babies are skinnier than formula fed babies. Or, depending on the source, formula fed babies are skinnier than breast fed babies.

People, I have my own controlled experiment at home, as do all other mothers of twins. I am breastfeeding both babies, and I had to exclusively breastfed Twin B, because he was showing signs of allergies. Twin A got some formula at night when I, selfish selfish selfish mother! tried to, guilt guilt guilt! get some sleep. Guess who weighs more? You got it - Twin B. I believe the plumpness of the baby depends on genes, how much the baby eats and how often he feeds, not on whether the baby was nursed or bottle-fed.


Myth Two: Breastfeeding gets the baby so attached to you that he cannot go to sleep/ take a nap without a boob nearby. Of the same theme is the myth: Breastfeeding gets the baby so attached to you that the poor child is unable to be held by, or be comforted by, anyone else but his mother.

Again, I must refer to my own experiment in the mad scientist lab of my life, and point out: It depends on the baby! Twin B, my exclusively breast milk fed boy, was nursed to sleep by me, every night of his life, until he was about six months old. Then, thanks to my boys’ passion for solid foods, and the fact that Twin A usually falls asleep a little later than Twin B, I would nurse Twin B a little, then hand him over to the DH to be rocked to sleep. We still do this; get Twin B to sleep first, then Twin A, who generally parties for up to an hour later than his brother. However, it is interesting to note that Twin A wakes up twice or more in the night, shrieking for his mother and for nursing. Twin B, my exclusively breastfed baby, the one who should, in theory, need to be with me every second of the day and night, generally sleeps until 1:00 am, nurses for two seconds and falls asleep. He can also have a sip of milk from a cup, and fall asleep again, if I am otherwise occupied. With Twin B I have found that sometimes the breastfeeding distracts him from sleeping, and he is actually more wakeful. So, it’s exactly the opposite from what the breastfeeding-will-spoil-those-babies people have predicted.

My theory is that babies need to nurse and need to suck. If the need is not satisfied by breastfeeding and sucking for comfort whenever and wherever the baby feels the urge to suckle, the baby will be even more needy as a result of the denial. This is how I explain a four year old with a pacifier. This hypothetical baby was weaned too soon, and therefore latched onto a rubber nipple as breast substitute. I know a woman who weaned her two daughters at eight months and at ten months. She told me they would then toddle around the house sucking on bottles of juice constantly, so she knows they still had some sucking needs to satisfy. But, she said she weaned them because the breast milk was "just not enough food" for them and they needed more nourishment. Well, duh. My boys eat a lot and they nurse a lot. The eating is to fill a hunger in the tummy and the nursing is to fill the hunger in their baby hearts.

I think my twin who had to have formula still remembers, somewhere in his baby mind, the nights when he called for me and I wasn’t there. That’s why he gets a little desperate at night when he calls out “Mama nana mama!” He is afraid I may not come to him, even though I sleep right next to him, every night. Poor baby.

Myth Three: If you nurse during pregnancy, you will take milk away from the new baby. Partnered with this myth is the – You can’t have enough milk for two at once!

Let me tell you, the only reason I used formula was so I could rest, not because I had an insufficient milk supply. I know a lovely lady who nursed her two year old son while she was pregnant, had a healthy ten pound boy and proceeded to nurse both babies until the son was three and the daughter is still nursing. So, doing the math, yes, she was breastfeeding a month old baby and a three year old at the same time for a brief spell. Everyone is hale and hearty, and the baby was not deprived one bit.

As far as I am concerned, I had, and still have, plenty of milk for both twins, and more. Does anyone have a hungry nursling? I'm happy to feed them if you need me to! My boobs get a little too full for comfort sometimes, like when my boys get all involved in a demolition job and forget to nurse. Or when they had their nasty, painful mouth sores, (see this post) and they couldn't nurse properly for days. I had to pump milk and give it to them in a cup; their mouths were too sore to suck properly. At one point I had ten ounces in the fridge, and was ready to pump more. It’s a matter of supply and demand, my friends. The babies are plenty demanding, so a nursing mother supplies what they need.

Of course, I am fully aware of situations where nursing is not possible, and formula is a literal life saver, but I can’t address those situations in detail because I am too unfamiliar with the details. I do know of a woman, actually several women, who have tried to nurse, and were not able to for medical reasons. One of the ladies I know is my aunt, who became very ill at the end of her pregnancy, actually lost weight before she gave birth and did not have sufficient body fat to nurse. She was broken hearted about it, and still mourns the loss of a nursing relationship with her daughter.

Nowhere in this post do I intend on insulting those who are not able to breastfeed – I am able, and I am willing and I hope to encourage those who want to give it a go.

So for you all – be careful! There are many more myths circulating in our common culture, all designed to get new mothers, for whom nursing is a real option, to use formula instead. From the very beginning, even in the hospital, I heard comments like, “Stop shoving that boob in his face! He won’t be able to get to sleep any other way!” and “You gave him a bottle? What you have given up already?” (It was pumped milk, and thanks for the encouragement.) and “Oh, I couldn’t nurse my twins. I just didn’t have enough milk.” And “Be sure to give Twin B some formula to plump him up after he’s nursed. He needs to gain weight.” None of these comments were deterrents to me; I tend to be rather tenacious when I believe in something. But what if I were an ignorant woman? What if I did not read a lot? What if I had not seen mothers nursing, and did not have friends who nurse, and a sister who nursed for years? What if I had not had the sense to go on-line if no-one knew an answer? What then? I might have listened, and let the one who pushed formula as a way to turn a “skinny” baby into “fat and healthy” baby. I might have “topped him off” after a nursing session, and by doing so, might have a) diminished my milk supply, b) given him worse allergies than he has now or c) caused him to sleep more deeply. The sleeping sounds good, but at the time of this suggestion he was only ten days old and he had a real need to feed every three hours. As it was, I had to wake him up to nurse by patting his cheeks and blowing on his hair. If he’d been full of corn syrup solids, vegetable oils and lactose, he might not have been so eager to wake and breastfeed and grow big and strong.

And my twins are certainly big and strong, and I give breastfeeding the credit.

Breastfeeding 101

Recently, one of my friends suggested I write about breast-feeding, because I am, apparently, so experienced from nursing my twins. She has a lot of friends with children and most of them have nursed their babies. She is very interested in the culture and practicalities of nursing, and is very supportive of my tendency to whip a boob or two at any given time. (Which I do even without a baby nearby. KIDDING!)

I can’t address the subject of nursing from any other viewpoint but my own, so please forgive any sweeping statements that seem high and mighty, and with which you, from your own circumstances, disagree. Also, at this time of my life I do have a rather rosy view of the nursing experience. When I was in week 6 and had infected nipples and the pain of nursing through the infection was enough to make me cry, I had a slightly different view. However much it hurt, I was not really tempted to give up because I believe so strongly in the benefits – to their health and to mine, both mental and physical. Disclaimer out of the way, here are some of the questions I hear on a regular basis. Some are sensible and thought provoking and some are just plain old provoking.

Does it hurt? No. (They aren’t chewing, they are sucking. They bit a little when the teeth first came in, but no longer.)
Do you nurse both at the same time? Yes. (Saves time, and besides, they get jealous.)
Do they eat anything else? Yes. (A lot of other things, like steak, smoked salmon, pasta, crackers, fruit, toast, vegetables, sushi, pound cake, muffins, Swedish meatballs and cheese. So far.)
Do they also drink from bottles? Yes. (They like cow milk just fine.)
Have your boobs become larger? Yes. (By about a cup size.)
Doesn’t nursing make your boobs droop? Yes. (Do I care? Not really, because age and gravity will do exactly they same thing to all women, even without nursing, so don’t try to “save” them. So I have softer boobs than I did two years ago, big deal. I am putting them to excellent use.)
How long are you going to keep breast-feeding?

That is the biggest question, for me as well. I am not sure when we will stop nursing. If it were up to my twins, they would say, “Never!” My babies are nursing junkies. When they know they are about to be nursed, they get all excited and happy; it’s delightful to see. When asked how long, I usually say, “When they have had enough.” I mean it in two ways, one – when they have satisfied whatever urge prompted them to nurse at that moment and two – when the three of us have decided that we have had enough.

There are so many reasons a baby nurses; he is thirsty, he is hungry, he is tired, he wants comfort, he is in an unfamiliar place and needs a familiar taste/smell/feel/sensation to reassure him all is well in the world. Sometimes the babies have a real need to fall asleep and are unable to. At those time nursing is so valuable, a nursing baby is usually a sleepy baby. My babies like to nurse right after a meal, at least they used to; in the past few weeks they have given that up. It’s part of weaning, I know, and I belong to the ‘don’t offer, but don’t refuse’ school of weaning. If they pull at me and ask to nurse, I won’t push them away, but I no longer offer to breast-feed them after every meal.

Yes, they do ask to nurse. Sometimes they swarm me to nurse, squeaking and gibbering, “Nana! Mama! Nana! Nana!” until I sit down and nurse them, or until I pick somebody up and snuggle him close. "Na na" seems to be their word for nursing. Sometimes it can be a bit much; experienced nursing twin mothers refer to those times as a “feeding frenzy”. That’s when both babies pull on your clothes and shriek and carry on and do their best to yank off your bra to get what they want. One time that happened to me, at a playgroup.

My babies and I attend an International playgroup that meets once a week, near my house. The venue has this huge room, about 50 feet by 250 feet, with three smaller rooms attached. The first time my boys saw this place they spent about two seconds doing the “Oh, my! Where are we? We are so shy” thing, before they took off running down the length of the room, and kept that up for about half an hour. I was as delighted as they – both babies crashed in the car on the way home and slept for about an hour. I justify my going to an “International” group by my being American only by inclination, I was born in Canada and became a citizen in 1996, and by the fact that my boys, being American, are indeed from another nation from the viewpoint of the German, South African, Japanese, Korean and Israeli members of the group. I don’t think there are other nursing mothers there – most of the babies are older than mine, except one, and I believe he has stopped nursing already.

Anyway, it was story time, and we all sat down on these bits of carpeting to hear a story. As soon as I sat, one baby rushed over, plonked himself in my lap and beat on my chest until I arranged my clothes and him to feed. The sight of his brother getting nursed/ getting attention/ being held sent the other baby into a paroxysm of envy. He ran over, squeezed into my lap and snaked his hands under my clothes, yelling “Nananana! Mamamamama!” until I arranged him so I could nurse them both comfortable. However, rather than settling down for a little feed and to listen to the story, they caught sight of each other, and decided the other baby was enjoying a more delicious breast. “I want that one!” I could almost hear what they were thinking. They scrambled around on my lap until they had switched sides and only then would they relax and feed a little. The breasts were flashed abit in the melee, but nobody seemed to stare. I certainly was not embarrassed – hey, they are babies and literally don’t know any better. However, I did hear later, from a friend who was an eyewitness, that one person thought it was a bit much. Not in a bad way, she just remarked that breastfeeding twins seemed so primal. And it is – our most basic impulses are at play when we nurse. A baby's need to suckle is a primal need, so is a mother's need to nurture her babies, and I understand that.

Therefore, when someone asks me the “How long are you going to keep breast-feeding?” question, I cannot really give an answer. It all depends on how long the babies need to satisfy their basic, mammalian and human need for the warmth, comfort and love they get from nursing.

Okay, so I’m not a blonde.

But it’s not from a lack of trying! What’s trying is your hairdresser refusing to color your hair as you request because she doesn’t think it’ll look good. She also said, “It will be too much maintenance for you with the babies and all. And I don’t think you should go blonde, it’ll pull a lot of red.” Then, in the desultory conversation we had as she painted on highlights, she commented in response to my remark, “I might grow it out a bit and have a China doll bob again,” “Oh, I don’t like a heavy bang with your face. It won’t look good. It’s just my opinion.”

Bully for you and your opinion. And what on earth does pull a lot of red mean exactly? And, if blonde shades are high maintenance, doesn’t that mean more frequent trips to the salon and more money in her pocket? Color costs $90 at this place, a cut is $40. I did tip $20 the last three times I saw her to seal myself as a “good” client in her mind, but no dice, apparently. AND if I want to go a certain color because I feel like it, who is this snippet of a hairdresser to talk me out of it?

As it was, she also said we would not enough time to lighten my hair, then apply the three or four shades I had in mind to get the streaky, chunky look I wanted. Not enough time? When I booked her for a cut and color a month ago, I booked an hour and a half at her request. So, suddenly there’s not enough time, fine. I suggested to do the color that day, and I would get a cut another day, but she did not seem to like that and said again that we would not have enough time. Hello? After arguing for ten minutes, and her being ten minutes behind schedule, time certainly was running short. Does it really take more than an hour and a half to color hair? On the box of Clairol Expert Color I picked up at Stop and Pop today, it advises 25 minutes for base color and 20 minutes for highlights. It should only take 2 minutes for a professional to wash my hair between application of color, right?

Contrary to recent evidence (see previous post discussing my ill chosen venting audience) I am not a fool. The hairdresser overbooked that day and did not want to admit it. I arrived at this conclusion based on the following facts. She was blow-drying someone when I arrived and did not get to me until 12:10; my appointment was scheduled for 12 to 1:30. Also, a customer arrived at 12:30 for a cut while my color was processing. I’m cool with that, but what’s up with the next party arriving at 1:00? Besides all this, there is another reason for her distress at my request for a multi-color, light over dark look. Based on the lame-o highlights I ended up with, she is just not a good colorist.

A quick update

For all those concerned about the mystery virus...

Their regular pediatrician saw them last week and said, "That looks like adult cold sores, because they are on the tips of their tongues and on the outsides of their lips, not Coxsackie’s virus, which is over the whole mouth." So, I put an infinitesimal bit of Abreva, an adult cold sore treatment, on Baby B, and he is almost completely cured already. He has only been ill for a week. Poor Baby A was hit harder, suffered more and is now on day 11 and just started eating normally yesterday. But he still has teeny tiny red spots inside his lips. I think they are just scars, because they don’t seem to hurt him in any way.

The good news is I feel pretty hunky dory; I have had my mother’s helper from 11 to 5:30 every day this week, and have had two nights of real sleep, two nights in a row. I must go back to having a helper for my usual three hours a day three days a week starting Monday again, but boy oh boy, did I need her extra pair of hands over the past little while.

Also, I am really looking forward to having two whole hours on my own tomorrow- I have an appointment with the hairdresser. Just for fun, I think I might go blonde. I know my dear sister is thinking, “Oh brother! She’s too pale for blond hair!” Granted, last time I bleached at home I was a teenager and wound up looking like a Nazi concubine, but now that I know how to do make-up, I may be able to pull it off. If it’s totally cool I may post a picture. If it stinks, my hair is only half an inch long! Why worry? It’ll grow out in four days.

Watch out! you might get what you're after

Cool babies
Strange but not a stranger
I’m an ordinary guy
Burning down the house
To quote Talking Heads...

I had this uncomfortable conversation with this woman I know from my twin mother club last night. I called her on Thursday to let her know I was not going to come to the club meetings anymore and had to resign my position as hospitality coordinator. The basic fact is: I don’t want to be part of a club where I don’t really click with any of the members. So, I told this lady I was resigning because I didn’t feel like I was really a part of the group and besides, no one wants to come to my house for a play date, or to go out to dinner with me, and none of the other twin mothers ever want to play any of my reindeer games. I am afraid I was rather tired at the time and rambled on a bit. Then, when I told her I was not getting any support from the club, which is what it is supposed to be there for, during this challenging time in my life as a mother of twins, and that I had, at times, felt like exploding, she took it to mean I was depressed and called my husband at work to see if he knew how I felt. Hmm…. I guess I vented with the wrong person, eh?

So, I called her the next day and asked her why she called my husband at work. She said it was because she was concerned that I was not getting any support. Well, I am not, from the club, but I am from my sister, my playgroup friends, my on-line buddies and my DH, of course. So I had to reassure her I was okay, that I was past the rough “oh gee the twins are only 3 months old and I can’t get out of the house on my own” stuff. It’s still a major challenge to Get Things Done, but my mother’s helper makes a big difference. She is so valuable, especially now; she has been great helping out with the demands of sick twins. In the end, I spent about over an hour on the phone, repeating I am okay and yes, I am getting enough sleep, but when I had spoken with her that one time, yes, I was very tired and rather glum. On Thursday one baby was full throttle sick and the other was just starting to show symptoms of the same, so it was all getting to me.

I suppose I should feel glad that there are people out there who care enough to call my mother in law (!!!!) to get my husband’s number at work and then care enough to call him and talk to him to make sure I am being sufficiently supported at home and all that. However, after thirty something years of being ignored by my parents, I couldn’t help but feel her protective, caring supportiveness was a little strange. I mean, usually when I talk to another woman about how my children are making me crazy I either get “Me too, I understand, let’s do something about it/let’s do something fun to get out and away from the kids/let’s both whine and complain” (from my sister and from mama friends) or an “I know, I know, it is so hard, I’m so glad I am over the baby thing, and now let’s talk about me” from my own mother. Telling someone “I am going crazy ” and then having that set off a series of phone calls and a fluttering of concern was pretty odd.


I have learned a valuable lesson or two from this. One – be careful to whom you vent. Some people are not used to my particular type of dramatic patter, don’t get my jokes and take me seriously. Number two, I guess I really don’t want to be totally coddled and petted after all. This is the first time I have seen what “support” can be, and eeeeggghhhh. It’s too much, too smothering and just too stickily invasive. If you want to help, just listen to me whine, say, “Poor thing,” and then we can all go out for a cup of joe, okay? Admittedly, I sometimes think I’d like a few sessions of therapy, if for nothing else but a captive audience, but after growing up with parents who think people don’t really need talking therapy, but would be better off with a “good kick in the pants” (to quote my dad), I must admit I view psycho-therapy with a bit of skepticism. If I go in thinking it’s not the thing for me, how could it possibly help, right? No, I’ll just stick with what works for me; jogging five times a week (if I can), plenty of coffee and a healthy dose of complaining, but only in select company.

Happy Freakin' New Year

Baby B has a high fever, 101.6, nasty, red mouth sores and he doesn't want to nurse, drink, eat or sleep. I think it's the same virus.

Rats.

Baby A now feels better, but you can't touch his mouth, or he'll cry. But at least he is drinking from a cup. We all had smoothies for dinner last night, DH and me too.

Yo, George.