She and I

It was a battle that I had won and she had not. After our years of infertility and losses of babies, including one who would have been born with Turner's Syndrome, I have come to appreciate the battle that happens as a human tries to make it into this world with all of their systems working properly.

As I read a posting from a woman who wrote that she never once thought of planning her children's funerals, I realized how different our experiences in life were. It's all I thought about as we went through the twin pregnancy.  We didn't know what it was to bring a live baby home, and we weren't sure it would ever happen for us. We did not buy baby items until just before they were born, and at that, we did not open the items and saved the receipts. We refused offers for baby showers, and we only bought one crib, hoping, that at least one baby would come home. As it turned out, obviously, we brought home two full term, thriving babies.

My worries were only temporarily relieved.  Once they were home I watched them like a hawk as they developed. Were they making eye contact? Were they social? Did they like to be touched and held? Were their language skills flourishing? I had moved onto my next fear. I grew up with a younger sister with autism and epilepsy, and I wondered if I had passed the gene, whatever one it was, onto my little girls.

We just visited Iowa and stayed with my family. And when I left my girlhood home, my children buckled into their seats, my bags packed to return to my fully functioning life in Minnesota, I felt the same as I always do when I leave.

I feel like I'm leaving a man behind.

Kelli still lives at home. She will not live independently. Ever. I will become her guardian. I knew, even as a young girl in grade school, becoming her guardian was part of my life plan.

Kelli is just like any other person with autism in that she has one very specialized interest that consumes her. The dvd of "Wizard of Oz" plays daily in Kelli's world. She listens to Judy Garland sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" multiple times per day. Our sisterly phone conversations consist not of reminiscing of our latest get together in which we drank mojitos and ate gourmet chocolate as we float down a river in a kayak, as my mom and her sister discuss, but instead consist of Kelli commanding me to "sing Rainbow." I comply, sometimes with resentment or frustration, and sing "Rainbow."  Despite my inability to sing in key, or even get all the words right, the moment brings tears to her eyes. Guilt twinges at me. "Why do I get so angry about having to do something so simple when I know it makes her day?"

Finally realizing that I wouldn't be un-doing my birthday wish by sharing it with others, I admitted a few years ago the words I would utter in my mind as I drew in a breath to blow out my candles atop my cake, "I wish for Kelli to start talking by this time next year."  I made that wish around 23 times, and prayed nightly for Kelli to learn to talk, when I still believed in God.   Wanting Kelli "to learn to talk", was my childish way of pleading with the universe to make Kelli normal.

Kelli also has a few other idiosyncracies, such as a fascination with blood, injury, and calling 9-1-1. There are instances of her throwing herself on the floor in the mall, screaming for 9-1-1, security arriving, and myself or one of my parents trying to explain the situation to ignorant people.  Or Kelli's affinity for taking off in a dead run, head down, eyes on the floor directly beneath her. One time, she ran into a tree, planted in a mall of all places.  Mom and Dad had to drag out a stunned Kelli, while admonishing the childhood insensitivity my brother and I were displaying as we laughed hysterically.  Not funny, was the time she took off in her dead run, crushing the family dog under her foot. The four pound dog died.  Talk about complicated grieving.

Simple moments in my life, like working out at the gym, or even driving down the road leave me open to sneak attacks of guilt and conflictual thinking.  "I have my life and I should push myself beyond my max, every moment, because Kelli doesn't have these opportunities."  Enjoying a simple drive home from the gym on a summer night, music loud, sunroof open, I criticize myself for enjoying the moment too much, but then maybe, not enough.

 Kelli and her lost battle will forever touch my life and how I live it. I may have, in a sense left her behind, but I'll come back for her. Always. 

Thank You, I Think

There are times that leave me thinking, "thank you, I think."

Times like when Ella tells me, "You look pretty. Your hair stinks, but you are still pretty."

Times like when, more than a couple of you have taken the time to compliment my blogging with a phrase that includes something to the effect of "I pee'd my pants."

I have appreciated the comments and feedback, in all seriousness. It is much better than hearing, over dinner, Sophia's assessment of my overall look,

"Mom, you look old."

Almonds and M&M's

"Dave," I yell to him with an accusatory tone in my voice, "come look at this."  Dave is a reformed childhood climber, and I blame him for all of the following.   I found Ella just as she started to scale her "ladder."  

"Ella, what are you doing?"

"I needed a dress to wear."

I have climbers. These children do not sit still. They all started walking in either their ninth or tenth month. From that moment, the sky was the limit. Andi climbs furniture, and has been since she was 11 months old. Once on it, she jumps up and down. She did a belly flop off the couch this weekend, hopped back up, and with the exception of her nose turning red from it's collision with the floor, she was unphased. She went on with her business, which now includes kicking and throwing things.

Within a month of fastening child-proof locks on all the cupboards, my then, one-year-old twins mastered a team approach for getting the cupboard doors open.  And I couldn't just move stuff up higher, they'd put chairs up to the counters and climb up. I'd go upstairs to go to the bathroom and come back downstairs to find cupboard doors opened, cans and boxes spilling from their shelves, and wonder if an earthquake had happened. Then I'd see my one-year-old twins eating chips, quite comfortable using the counters for their picnic. Their team approach worked for breaking the baby gates down, too.

Andi can't rely on the team approach, so she scales the stove like a mountain-climber. Last week, when I couldn't find her on the main level, I hopped over the baby-gate and headed upstairs.  "Surely she didn't scale the babygate," I thought.  I found her in the upstairs bathroom. She had the doors closed, emptying the drawers. It was a like a tampon factory exploded in there.

All of this climbing didn't bother me too much, until I learned that not all children behave as if they are monkeys. A friend told me he didn't even have to use cupboard locks. Really? Mom tells me about co-workers who have babies "but they aren't climbers like yours," she says with a tone that says something is wrong with my children.

None of this is my fault. I preferred to spend my time as a toddler wedged between the furniture and the wall, sitting in cupboards, or even sitting in dishwashers.  This behavior is one that has stuck with me to this day.  On certain days, you can find me wedged into the back corner of my room, between the bed and the wall. This is a place my twins don't know exists. And there, I have a picnic of almonds and M&M's and listen to my children calling, "Mom! Mom? MO-OM?" Their voices get louder as they come into my room, and my heart quickens wondering if this is the time they will discover the last hiding spot I have in the house.

I'm not sure how all of their climbing will translate into their lives as adults...perhaps it will be something as simple, yet as important as self-reliance.  Or maybe it means they are going to be prone to jumping out of planes or walking tightropes.  One thing I know, is that if it doesn't kill them, it's going to kill me.

It's One or the Other

No sore throat. No fever. Just throwing up. And lots of it. The pediatrician tested Sophia for strep "just in case." Turns out, it wasn't the stomach flu. Sophia had strep throat. She was so far down hill, the pediatrician elected to give her a shot of penicillin, not wanting to run the risk of throwing up the antibiotic and delaying recovery any longer. By Saturday night "you should have her back."

Ella has been very independent and a trooper throughout all of this, letting Sophia rule the TV, and laying around inside as we tend to Sophia or chase Andi off furniture she is standing on.

I let Ella pick dinner, and she wanted homemade waffles. It seemed only fair that she get to have a choice about something. She asked me to top her waffles with raspberry jam and maple syrup.  I don't know why I didn't just do it, she deserved whatever she wanted after all she's put up with, but I gave her a choice.

"It's one or the other, Ella. Syrup or jam."

"The other," she answered me. And smiled.

Sophia's smile should be back tomorrow night, too.

The Storm

It was going to be a stormy night. I battened down the hatches, closed up the house, and snuggled into bed with David.  David Sedaris, that is.  The sound of rain splattering the windows woke me the next morning. This piece of information, I later realized, was a clue of what was to come.  Sophia typically wakes us with "I'm HUNGRY. I want juice. I wants eggs for breakfast. GET  UP."

By 7:45 she was in bed with me, and I was pleased with her sudden absence of whining and commented as such. Once I got up and headed downstairs, I flowed from task to task. Before I knew it, the dishwasher was unloaded, the bottle was made. How easy it was to start my day without stumbling over the little sprite who constantly tells me, "I want to help." I found her lounging on the couch, watching a show. I didn't know what had happened to make her suddenly so easy to live with, but I was enjoying it. She came in and asked me for a drink.

And then it hit me. 

She's sick. One and a half years ago she had the stomach flu so bad, she landed in the hospital for four days. And everytime she was about to throw up, she'd ask for a drink.

"I knew it. Everytime we go to the damn pediatrician, if I didn't get there with sick kids, I'll surely leave with sick kids. EVERY FRICKIN' TIME."  I didn't want to take them to their four year check up, I had told Dave. "Why?" He had wanted to know. I didn't explain.

Heading into the pediatrician, I beat the children over the head with "don't touch anything, don't touch your faces, fingers out of mouths and noses, there are sick kids and germs there."  I used my whole purse size bottle of hand sanitizer AFTER we had washed our hands in the exam room. Twice.

We had plans to travel to IA this upcoming weekend, and I didn't want some pediatrician visit getting us sick.

Dave came downstairs after I had my realization that Sophia was sick and I shared my prediction with him. Unphased, he continued getting ready for his day. Meanwhile, Sophia has run upstairs. The storm of nausea and vomiting has begun and will stick with her in fifteen minute cycles.

"Please," I guiltily ask him, "stay home. If you don't have something major today, I'm gonna need help."

Last time this stomach bug hit us, it hit hard. We were stuck in our house, everyone too sick to move, and no one to get us soup, ginger ale, crackers, or bread from the store. The stores couldn't deliver when I needed the products. I had to prepare this time.

I cleaned Sophia up then set to work recalling all the items that helped us survive the last round of the stomach bug.

In between vomit episodes, with Andi in one arm, Dave out shopping, I clear paths to the bathroom. Clean the kitchen to ready it for all the rinsing and sanitizing and scrubbing that I know will come.

Dave gets home with the artillery.  

GAME ON MOTHER FRICKIN' stomach bug. I'm ready this time.

Eaten Alive

Under no circumstances could anyone call me a "nature girl." I won't camp, or take a relaxed hike in the woods.  The protected preserve that joins up to my backyard leaks ticks, moles, voles, and birds that drop pieces of their prey's torn up body into my yard for my children and I to examine with disgusted fascination. Though I love the privacy of no neighbors, I really only enjoy the preserve from the safe containment of my master bedroom window.

So what possesses me to go picking strawberries, blueberries and raspberries is beyond me. I suppose it's desperation. I love to take on cooking projects because it allows me to see physical proof that I have acheived something that day.  Last week, we ran out of jam, the girls and I were bored, so we packed up and headed to the raspberry farm hoping to come home with enough berries for a batch of jam.

I will admit that I found picking strawberries relaxing, and the blueberry fields in IA gave me a sense of home. But when we went to pick raspberries for jam, the not-so-nature girl in me was brought out. And she wasn't quiet. She got stares from the content women, happily picking buckets of fruit the next aisle over.

"Hurry up. The faster you pick, the sooner we are out of here."

"I swear, can you pick any slower? Oh my god. Why are there so many mosquitos? This is terrible. I am going to die."  My mind raced with catastrophic thoughts of my children contracting West Nile Virus just so I could say I took them raspberry picking. 

The staff were very kind. They gave us bug spray, and though the neurotic woman in me was reluctant to spray DEET on my children, I lined them up and sprayed us all down, knowing, already, that we'd be showering as soon as we got home.  

Now those of you who know children, know that they are always watching us, learning how to react to situations. Pretty soon the twincesses were dramatically claiming they were going to die, that bugs were sucking their blood, and Andi, overcome with what I guess is disgust, laid on the thistle-y field and cried. Two buckets of berries in one hand, I'm dragging her like a child drags her doll through the house. "C'mon Andi! Up on your feet!" I command her like a sargent trying to get his troops out of a firing zone.  The twins have already fled down the aisle and are waiting in the building.

We did get enough raspberries for jam with none left to spare. And as we headed out to do some early fall shopping that afternoon, we grabbed the mail. My sister-in-law sent a note. I love her notes. She addresses me as "Mme" on the envelope and I feel like such a lady, as if I should be wearing lace gloves and living in France. Her note told about her times picking berries as a child, an "innocent" time which she enjoyed. "What a funny irony," I thought, as I drove to the air conditioned, bug-free, shopping outlet. 

Happy Birthday Grampa/Dad

Four years ago our doctor decided the twins would be born 1 1/2 weeks early via a C-section on my dad's birthday. It's funny how that worked out. My sister was born on my grampa's birthday, and it seems the girls and I carried on that tradition.

Ella has a real fondness for grampa. She won't talk on the phone to people, for the most part, but she will talk to grampa. She loves her grampa. She asks what he is up to, it he at work?

Is he sleeping?

Does he wear a pull-up to bed?

Grampas are good for things like:

Feeding the girls ice cream at the mall
Letting them ride all the kiddie rides at the mall
Letting them take pictures in photo booths
Letting Andi run - with scissors
Chasing Andi

Being tricked into getting off their chair, only to find Andi standing on it, ready to jump off
Underducks on swings
Catching butterflies

And while grampa is good for a lot of things, he is BEST at being a dear, sweet man who we are lucky to call ours. Happy Birthday and cheers to many more.