Milk

I stared at the glass doors. It was cold. I shivered every time the refrigerator doors opened. I needed milk. But none of the cartons looked familiar. I always buy Sunnyside 1% milk at SaveMart. I wasn’t at SaveMart. Here didn’t have a half-gallon of 1% milk in a pink and white carton. There was nothing that came close. There was a strange brand here – blue and green. I didn’t know what to do. Why had I come here? SaveMart was just down the street. I could go there now. But I was here. But here doesn’t have the pink and white carton. The milk in these ones couldn’t be the same. Could it? Make a decision. Buy one. Leave. Stop standing here. I should call my mom. She would know what to do. She told me never to buy milk in plastic jugs. Light penetrates the plastic and kills the vitamins. But she never said anything about milk in blue and green cartons.

Little things that make my world go round

Last night, we celebrated my sister’s birthday. This was memorable for two reasons.

1:

I treated Riley to pea-size bites of vanilla ice cream and Matt drizzled root beer from his root beer float onto her tongue through a straw. So when I noticed a milky white glob on her pajamas I instinctively scoped it up and licked my finger. It was not ice cream. It was puke.

2:

Riley fell and hit her head (she has started taking her first steps). It’s usually Jonah’s rambunctious behavior I have to worry about. I ask my Mom if there is a grace period for head hits. She looks confused. I explain. Do they get so many times before there is actual brain damage? I’m partly joking, but partly searching for some assurance that my children are going to be ok.

I could call the doctor, but the conversation just sounds stupid in my head.

a look back

Every time I see my pediatrician, I have a list of things wrong with my kids. My mother-in-law tells me Riley has a hernia and my grandma-in-law seconds; my husband insists she is cross-eyed; and my mom demonstrates how she either breathes too heavily or is gasping for air. I’m told Jonah’s head is flat because we don’t give him enough tummy time; he has cradle cap; and cries inconsolably which means he’s colicky, suffering from acid reflux, or allergic to milk, a unanimous sentiment by all women.

My kids do cry a lot, however, I’m hesitant to call the doctor. I imagine the ridiculous conversation in my head.

“Dr. Mojibi’s office.”

“This is Karen Price, Mom of Jonah and Riley. I think I need to see the doctor.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My babies are crying.”

My sister’s kids are allegric to milk, and she says her doctor says it might be hereditary. So this time I’m going to have Dr. Mojibi test their stool for blood, which I’m told is a conclusive symptom of milk allergies. Hmmm, now which pocket in the diaper bag for the Ziploc bag of poo?

Of course, it’s not until the waiting room I realize I forgot to cap the baby bottles, and their change of clothes are soaked in formula. No clothes. And no food. Crap.

Things I do for Love (Part 2)

“Sit.”

“Quit.”

“Here.”

“No.”

Jonah and Riley are fighting over a tube of toothpaste.

I have realized the commands I give them are the same ones I give our dog. The commotion rouses him from his mid-morning slumber, long enough to realize he’s of no importance. He walks out of the room, probably wondering what happened to the long days of Frisbee at the park and the spontaneous bouts of affectionately scratching his underside.

I laugh. I remember how I would throw toilet paper and Kleenex on the bathroom floor to entertain him. He would tear it all to shreds. So I upgraded to socks. Textbook mistake. I now drop things on the floor to entertain Jonah and Riley while I get ready. Spatula. Basting brush. Measuring spoon. Blow dryer. Tube of toothpaste. I nonchalantly slide a tube of body lotion and diaper rash cream off the counter. Peace is temporarily restored.

I never wanted a dog, but I love my husband. So we drove to Squaw Valley and picked a pure bred Australian Shepherd out of a litter of pups. If I was getting a dog, it had to be the perfect dog. A good family dog. Matt wanted a smart one. We both wanted a female, but the pup with the best coloring (and the one that didn’t look like it was going to die) was a male. He shivered on my lap in the blankets we brought, and the man who ran the place said the pup was scared. I imagine leaving all he has ever known ­– his brothers and sisters, a swarm of flies, and the crap he was sitting in – was scary. On the way home, I remember Matt saying something about how dogs can get carsick too. Great.

We named him Oski. Well, Matt named him Oski after the Cal Bear mascot. He has one blue eye and one brown eye, common for this breed. Also common is to cut their tail off after birth. They are bred to be herders, and I imagine it gets in the way of herding. But I didn’t want a dog without a tail. However, no one told me his tail alone sheds enough hair to coat my sofa and clog the vacuum each week. I ask Matt if we can cut it off now. He says no.

The first week we had Oski some guy at Matt’s work opened the warehouse door on his leg. Oski limped for days. I was so distraught. I didn’t want a dog in the first place. So I definitely didn’t want a three-legged one. He recovered. He chewed up door molding, peed on the carpet, puked on me, barked a lot, and made me chase him around the living room sofa. I swear he was laughing at me. Seriously, I saw a smile. I Google Aussies:

Aussies can have a very high opinion of themselves and many have a more dominant, somewhat pushy personality; this trait, when combined with the breed's natural intelligence, may mean disaster. An Aussie with no sheep to herd, ducks to drive, or cattle to round up will get into trouble. The owner of an Aussie must be assertive enough to make sure this doesn't happen. If you hate being assertive, are very soft spoken, and want a dog that will naturally give in to you without any stress, then don't get an Aussie.

Crap.

Oski was bored, intelligent, and apparently, needed sheep. So we sent him away to boot camp for 45 days. It was a kennel in Coarsegold run by a guy named Mike, our very own Dog Whisperer. He said 45 days is long enough to change behavior but short enough so he won’t forget us. It was a very hot summer day when we returned to pick him up. Mike took us through an obstacle course on the grounds and demonstrated the new Oski. He was the same dog but obedient, attentive. Matt and I ran back and forth with him practicing, “Sit. Down. Stay.” And the best part, I pulled on his leash as if trying to get him up and he wouldn’t budge, until I said “Ok.” He heeled on command and walked at Mike’s side keeping the same pace.

Oski was hot and lapped up water from a nearby plastic pool as Mike continued the lesson. He instructed that the training come first. Every day, at least an hour a day, practice the commands, continue the discipline and be consistent. Then reward him with a walk. However, a walk is not exercise. Running alongside a bike or a vigorous game of Frisbee is exercise. He warns Oski will backslide if not challenged. There was a lot to remember.

Mike was concerned the truck was too hot for Oski and regretted scheduling our pick up on such a day. He wasn’t too concerned about Matt and I getting inside. We left with a sheet of paper listing various commands and Dos and Don’ts, three types of leashes, and Mike’s phone number.

I tried the bike thing. Once. I manage to fall off a bike all by myself. So I definitely did not need an excited sheepherder tied to the handlebars to help with that. I tried Frisbee and played fetch in the pool. One day Oski started digging in the yard. I call Mike. He tells me that’s a hard one and something else I can’t remember. But what I do remember is “Clean it up, but don’t let him see you cleaning it up.” I hang up.

Am I the only one who can see the absurdity in all of this? Clean it up, but don’t let him see I’m cleaning it up. Oh, and smack his hind leg with the end of his leash if he shows aggression toward another dog. Really. I’ve been drug halfway down the street before I have positioned the end of the leash appropriately to do such a thing, let alone hone my hand-eye coordination skills (which I have none) to hit his hind leg. Honestly, I just look ridiculous. Oh, and don’t forget to challenge him. Make him respect me. Be a leader. Be fair but firm. All the while deepening my voice to sound like a guy because, well, that supposedly works better.

Oh my God. There I was, the crazy neighbor with her dog running invisible obstacle courses in the front yard, trying to sound like Darth Vader.

“Did you put a chip in him,” asked my in-laws.

“No, I think you only do that if you want him back.” I smile.

After I gave birth, my mom not so subtly posts an article on my refrigerator about dogs attacking babies in swings. She asks me if I think Oski will eat Jonah and Riley. Which I have to admit wasn’t completely out of the question considering they were a little more than four pounds and could have been mistaken for a chew toy. I tell her that Oski just wants to sniff and lick them.

And that’s exactly what he has done, to which I respond with “No.” He is very protective of Jonah and Riley and a guardian of our home. It’s somehow beautiful when I hear Oski yelping because Riley is trying to disconnect his ear, but he patiently waits for her to finish and lays down for what might be a spontaneous bout of affectionately scratching his underside – and sometimes, Jonah and Riley do just that.

So for the most part, I don’t wish him away, well, until his breath smells like fish, he laps up water from the toilet bowl, poops on the lawn, barks obnoxiously when I’m feeding Jonah and Riley, chews up Jonah’s favorite ball, chews up the number one in our wooden number set, pukes, cuts his leg on broken pottery costing more than my entire lifetime of medical bills, I have to ask Matt to groom him, I have to ask Matt to buy him food, I have to buy him food.

Ok, I wish him away a lot. But life happens. Oski happened. And well, I love my husband. Oski has become part of – dare I say it – our family. But I refuse to put him in our family Christmas card, even if I do feel bad for getting his head caught in my car between the tire and fender.

Jonah and Riley are eating Kibbles and Bits. Ugh.

“No.” I carry them to another room.

Dr. Mojibi gave us a handout called: A guide for parents on teaching their children the concept of “no.” I definitely have the Displace and Distract down, but I can’t remember the first D. I grab it off the refrigerator. Demeanor. Yes, Demeanor: Face should be serious and, Moms, especially, should lower their voices so the infant will recognize this conversation is different and meaningful. Oh, God.

Things I do for Love

Our house should feel homey, Matt tells me. I tell him homey doesn’t go with our modern sofa, 1950’s Nelson knock-off coffee table (which looks more like a bench), and low profile credenzas. I’m a minimalist, mid-century modern girl at heart, who loves her husband. So I buy a homey kitchen towel to hang on the oven door every three months.

Kitchen towel: Sur La Table

Project 279

Mother's Day wrapping:

I love the kraft striped paper and boxes from Target. To create the ribbon, I cut circles out of bronze paper using a 3/4" hole punch. I then cut circles in the tops of the circles with a 1/8" hole punch to feed the twine through.

I ran out of time, so no beautiful tags to go with this wrapping. Just one more thing I've let go in the name of sanity since having twins.

Better Together

I remember asking, “Do you hear a heartbeat?”

Three months earlier I lay in the same room with the same technician. My first ultrasound revealed nothing, as if a baby was never there.

This time she said, “I hear two heartbeats.” I cried. I was a mother. Matt cried too – but for very different reasons. And he lovingly said, “We’re done.”

Last night Jonah cried for more than an hour after I put him to bed. I would open the door and he would be standing, gripping the crib rail, which is spattered with chipped paint from his bite marks. He was standing there, looking at the closed door, waiting for me. Hoping I would come in to hold him, save him, love him. I pick him up and hold him against my chest in the rocking chair. He rests his cheek on my bare shoulder, and we are skin to skin. The nightlight reveals his wet face from all the tears. I cradle him in my arms and keep rocking. And tell him I love him.

I have a soft spot for Jonah because we left him.

Jonah and Riley were born five weeks early. Jonah weighed 4 pounds, 12 ounces; Riley 4 pounds, 6 ounces. Despite a relatively decent term and weight for twins, they were taken to the ICU. They needed feeding tubes because they couldn’t suck on their own and instruments to regulate their temperature because they couldn’t do that on their own either.

Riley progressed faster than Jonah and she was ready to come home seven days later. I didn’t want her to come home, not without her brother. For months they lay touching, inseparable. Moving inside my womb, listening to my voice and heartbeat, listening to each other’s heartbeat. Sharing oxygen and blood and life. I asked if we could keep them together. We could not. So we left him.

This was the first time I knew what it meant to be a mother. I cried. Jonah, who knew nothing and no one in this world, was alone. Once inseparable from me, now abandoned in a strange place. I told Matt to go to the hospital and sit with him so he knows we are there. So he knows we are going to bring him home too – and we did.

The first hours of motherhood, almost one year ago:

“Her blood pressure is high.” I can hear the nurse on the phone outside my door.

Of course it’s high. I have 54 extra pounds on my chest cutting off oxygen, my hands and feet are swollen, and the pad on this makeshift bed keeps sliding down until my head is where my ass should be. I have to wait eight hours before my C-section because Mr. Anesthesiologist is concerned about me upchucking a piece of cheese and a crumb of toast I ate this morning.

I’m lying on my back looking into the bright white above, my arms outstretched, and Matt by my side holding my hand. Does he feel me shaking? There are two surgeons – my gynecologist, Dr. Griffin, and another man. There are five nurses and Mr. Anesthesiologist. Matt is dressed in scrubs. He’s wearing a surgical mask and cap. He looks handsome and completely ridiculous. I’m trying to move my legs. I can’t. I start to panic. The epidural has kicked in. But I’m trying desperately to move. Calm down. Breathe. Oh God, please let this all be ok.

It seems like forever before the nurses in the background begin to move. Riley was born at 5:27 p.m. Jonah two minutes later. My eyes tear up. Are they crying? Are they both crying? I can’t see anything. It’s a blur of calm voices, Dr. Griffin from the neck up, Matt holding one baby, and a glimpse of her face. Very quickly the room becomes quiet.

Mr. Anesthesiologist asks my husband what he does. Matt sells grass. Synthetic lawn to be exact. Apparently, putting my insides back together is going well because Mr. Anesthesiologist has time to Google SynLawn in the operating room. “What do you recommend?”

“We just got in this new stuff. SynBlue 22. Give me a call. I’ll personally put a quote together for you.”

Really.

I’m wheeled into Recovery, which looks more like a storage room. What do they look like? Are they ok? When can I see them? When can I feel my legs? Why does this machine keep beeping? My nurse is relieved by a lady who works as a filing clerk because the hospital is under staffed. Apparently, it was a popular night for deliveries. So, maybe this is a storage room.

“Why can’t my family come in to see me yet? I ask.

“Your blood pressure is high.”

Huh. Shocker.

I have to pass gas before I can eat. I have to walk before I can see my babies. I have to pee before I can leave. Those are the rules.

Matt brings me pictures. They both have dimpled chins like their Daddy. They are so tiny – knocked knees and scrawny arms. Matt says they are doing well. God is good. I try to say that every day.

In the morning Matt and I walk down to the ICU. There is a key pad, a security camera, and what looks like a thick, steel-plated vault door. A woman asks for the secret code. The secret code. There I was, hunched over from a 5-inch incision in my abdomen, dressed in pajamas, holding a plastic container of breast milk, and she wants a code to prove I’m Jonah and Riley’s mother. It gets better. Matt recites both codes (one for each baby) and she says one doesn’t match. What the hell.

Riley screamed when I put clothes on her, the nurse said. She inhales my milk from a bottle, but not before she plays with my nipple, licking it with her tongue, teasing me. She sucks her thumb with her long fingers outstretched over her entire face. She shuts her eyes and puckers her lips as if to plant a big, wet kiss on my cheek.

Jonah looks just like his Daddy – the dimpled chin, nose, round face, side burns and long fingers to grip a Rugby ball. And he loves to be held. He is wide-eyed and active in Matt’s arms. I show off my “football hold” as he rests on my arm just between my wrist and elbow. I bring him in closer and he latches on quickly.

I’m waiting in my room to be discharged. There’s another rule that says I can only leave by wheel chair pushed by a medical escort. A woman appears in the doorway. She swoops in with her mop and bucket and slathers the floor with soapy water. “Be careful,” she says. Be careful. It’s a whole floor of pregnant women, women hunched over in pain from C-sections, and little old grandmas carrying flowers in vases they bought downstairs in the gift shop. I almost die laughing. Seriously, I’m laughing so hard it hurts, which somewhat concerns me since I learned the incision is being held together by super glue, well, medical super glue. I leave the hospital in a wheel chair holding the bag I brought with me two days ago.

Our house is empty. I am a mother, but there is no one here to make it real. Not yet.

This Mother’s Day morning Jonah lay on my stomach and Riley curled up into a ball at my side with her cheek pressed against my chest. I imagine she can hear my heartbeat. And for a moment, we are all inseparable.

God is good.

Summer Days

We finally have grass in our backyard. I constructed a barricade of patio chairs, wagons, and drink tubs, so I could keep Jonah and Riley on it. I filled the tubs with water and dumbed their bath toys in them. In short bursts, I sprayed the garden hose up in the air and watched their shivers turn into laughter as the rain pitter-pattered on the plastic fort.

Jonah and Riley need to be touching. Sometimes, they need to sit on each other, as if there is one spot in the whole world they must both be in at that moment. It’s a love-hate relationship. It’s ok, until it’s not ok – until he touched her hair, or she took his ball, or I carried her, or I carried him – there’s always some injustice.

But this afternoon all was ok. They laughed at the rain, pointed at the birdies, and sat touching.

When Matt came home, it was time for pillow “pow pows” and “upside down.”

Tomorrow, the birdies will feast on minced meat, Oski will try and feast on the birdies, and it will be another summer day.

"Uh Oh" Jonah and Riley would say

a look back

“Raise your hands,” belts Jon Bon Jovi live in concert. I did and my left boob fell off. It was 2006 the only time it has happened. I have these silicone “stickies” I call them that are a Godsend. They stick right to my skin and clasp in front for the added perk of cleavage. The father apart I stick them, the more cleavage I get. I figure since He didn’t bless me with big boobs, it’s only fair He create these silicone cups. I can jump up and down, and they don’t fall off. But apparently, when you sweat a lot – say at a sold-out, jam-packed, heated Bon Jovi concert – the adhesive fails. I can only imagine what the guys standing behind me were thinking as I tried to remedy the situation. I tried to re-stick the boob while trying to look like I didn’t have my hand down my shirt, re-sticking a boob. There I was fumbling with a nude silicone jelly in front of Jon Bon Jovi (who I did get to touch when his leather-clad body was arms length from my seat). Luckily, the shirt I was wearing was belted under my boobs so the rogue stickie didn’t fall. My right side was good and my left – floppy. I borrowed my sister’s sweater. I was so hot.

Happy Anniversary

We celebrated three years of marriage today. Our two-year anniversary was a blur, just days after the birth of Jonah and Riley. Things are slower now, more routine. Each morning starts as Oski darts into the yard to chase the birds that have come to feast on the minced meat Jonah and Riley spit out the day before. I feed them outside in their highchairs and hose them off afterward. The highchairs; not the kids. The weather has changed and we finally installed screen doors on the French doors in our bedroom. The mornings are crisp and the nights are calming. Of course, that could be the pain killers after Rugby practice or inhaling too much household disinfectant.

Matt says I still get giddy right before sex like it’s our first time. I think it’s wonderful. I think it’s wonderful he still shares his ice cream by spoon-feeding me the best parts. I want to date my husband again. Life seems to happen and the days are filled with, well, babies. I miss the dinners, and the getting-to-know-you questions, and the awkward touches. I want him to lead me dancing and for him to teach me how to follow. I want to buy new underwear at Victoria Secret in yellow and blue because Cal is his favorite college football team. I want to let my projects go, quiet the insanity of perfection in my head, and sit with him on the couch.

I tried to play video games with him once. But I couldn’t figure out how to run and aim and shoot all at the same time before the guy across the rundown warehouse killed me with a Bowie knife, grenade or AK 47. I just spin in circles and run into the same wall. Hmmm, that sounds like something a counselor once said.

We still have the occasional movie night at home and there’s Rugby season. I love to take Jonah and Riley to the games. They watch the craziness from the sideline doing a lot of “uh ohs,” babbling and drooling. I wear a jersey Matt bought me that says “Fresno Rugby.” It’s a good thing it doesn’t say “Fresno Thundercocks.” Not sure I could wear that one. Sometimes, he carries Jonah out onto the field and into the team huddle. Jonah rests his head on Daddy’s chest as if exhausting from cheering. And I feel incredibly thankful God gives second chances.

I met Matt on a blind date. We doubled with his cousin and wife, who I was working with at the time. I remember the black beanie, the shaved head, the beginnings of a tattoo sleeve – I had just turned 30 and was not heading down that road again. He was six years younger, however, he was not living with his parents and he was employed. He asked if I liked dogs. I said no. I think it was our mutual love of ice cream and hatred of chick flicks that won him over. He asked for my number. It took him a week to call.

And, well, the rest is great material for more blogging.

Marriage is so many things:

A broken foot, a miscarriage, and a dog.

Accepting his mustache phase as some Rugby test of bravado, which pales in comparison to the way-too-small women’s pink ski suit from the Salvation Army he wore for a “Tight and Bright” contest.

Promising to buy at least seven new Christmas ornaments for the tree every year, while refraining from throwing any away.

Bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Fruity Pebbles for dinner and laundry that moves from bed to floor, floor to bed.

Asking to experience the MMA submission technique called the guillotine choke – and him obliging.

Babies.

Disappointment, forgiveness, peace, warmth, and love.

And after three years, I finally got around to finishing our wedding album.

I climbed a tree. I picked lemons. And Matt carried me piggyback. All before “I do.” And the best part, no one knew of our afternoon adventure as I walked down the aisle in the flawless, flirty and oh-so-fun, metallic taffeta Nicole Miller gown.

Matt cried. I thought – he must love me.

Jonah and Riley's Birthday (Part 2)

Minutes before the Birthday Extravaganza, Matt styled Jonah's hair with blue sticky goo called Bed Head and then took scissors to the pieces on top that were too long. His first haircut. My little boy is growing up so fast. And he is a boy boy. Rough and tough. He rams his head into my chest for fun as if he has inherited the Rugby gene. He loves to get anything squishy and slimy in his hands so he can squeeze his fingers together and make squishy, slimy sounds. And he tears up his knees and the tops of his toes crawling on our rough cement. So it was no surprise when he decided extinguishing his birthday candle with his finger was a good idea. He cried. And quickly recovered with a mouthful of hot fudge and sprinkles.

Riley wore pink pantaloon bloomers and a floral ruffly top. I fell in love with the hair clips from Uffdadesigns on Etsy and customized the lavender and grey colors for her petite poppy clip. She wore it all beautifully as she rode in her Radio Flyer wagon, ate hot fudge and sprinkles, and apparently, shared Nana's mint chip ice cream.