I alternate between stirring vegetables and washing dishes, stepping over the baby as he pulls every Ziploc bag out of a nearby drawer.  He’s content and happy and I know it’s probably not baby safe, but he’s not grasping onto my pant legs, so I smile and walk past him.

I stop and pick up my phone to check in on Facebook and Twitter smiling at the responses to the photo I posted of Cole in his Steelers jersey. Loving that I can stay connected this way. Especially when I don’t feel connected at all. 

The days slip past me.  Even with the best intentions for a ten minute phone call or time set aside to tap out an email, the times when someone’s not fussing or yelling or laughing or needing me Come! Build! Puzzles! are few and far between.  I remember the lazy Saturday mornings and the hour long phone calls, catching up on the days or the week that had passed.  Updates on our jobs, gossip about mutual friends, the inner most details of our relationships or laughs over bad dates. 

I miss that. But at least this way, through social media and phones with cameras, I get to see their kids grow up and know (sort of) what’s going on in their lives.  Facebook and text messaging will have to do for now.

—-

It’s 1:00 am and Chessa’s awake. She can’t (or won’t) tell me why or what she needs and I desperately want to sleep. Tomorrow, I travel across the state for a couple days of meetings and suits and words like “strategy” and “initiative”.  I try to bribe her with juice or an extra stuffed animal but end up cuddling with her in the guest room until I hear her breath start to slow down. I want to stay here, wrapped around my girl but fears of starting a habit set in and so I carry her back to her crib. She protests a little when I lay her down, but settles in with a Dora under one arm and pacis in both hands.   

Back in bed, I’m wide awake, wiggling my toes beneath the sheets and trying to find my comfort again. The clock keeps ticking and I do that thing where I try hard not to look at it, but I’m playing the “if I fall asleep RIGHT now, I will get three, no two and a half, no two hours and fifteen minutes of sleep” game. To pass the time, I roll over and reach for my phone.  And check Facebook. 

“But I CAN’T take a bath because I have to go downstairs!” she insisted with tears streaming down her face and a voice at a level that was dangerously close to waking up her I just got him to sleep little brother.

I handed her the doll she got for Christmas, the one made for the bathtub, and tried to use the plastic baby as collateral.

Angrily, she threw the baby on the floor and continued to cry and bargain.

“I have to come upstairs for a bath so I can’t take a bath because I. HAVE. TO. GO. DOWNSTAIRS.”

Weighing my options, I gave in. “You have ten minutes to go downstairs and play.  Only ten minutes.”

And just like that she stopped the tears, jumped up off her knees, raised her arm into a “V” and yelled, “TEN MINUTES?!  FOR ME?  I HAVE TEN MINUTES?” 

So that’s where we’re at. She’s using her ten minute delay of game to ask Craig for a snack. A wise move on her part since her snacks never last less than twenty minutes and I’m using her ten minutes to tap out a quick blog post. 

It was hard finding my words over the last few weeks.

Writing is such a part of my routine, mixed in with parenting and work and schedules and dinner and laundry and meal planning and grocery lists. And when I stopped all of the schedule and routine it was hard to find time to write. Or even know what to say.

So instead I spent the last two weeks mostly soaking up my family.  Watching Chessa run full speed into Christmas. Probably not knowing exactly what all the excitement was about, but knowing that there was for damn sure something to be excited about.  She spent Christmas Eve peeking out the windows and yelling for Santa and couldn’t understand where he was Christmas morning.  I guess we forgot to tell her that he dropped the presents off and then went to the next little girl’s house. I think she was expecting to see him eating cookies and drinking coffee, with his red sweater unbuttoned and his feet propped up on the coffee table. 

Cole loved the wrapping paper, the boxes, the extra attention and having his momma home all day long for 12 days.

Minus the attempt at potty training (more on that later), it was an ordinary Christmas vacation with sleepy mornings, lazy afternoons, lots of chocolate and cinnamon rolls, way to much Dora and parents who attempted to lose the batteries from a couple of annoying toys.  

And it was perfect.

When people ask me what it’s like to have two kids so close together and so young, I usually laugh and say that it’s wonderful.  Hard. But wonderful.  Then I tell them that someone is usually crying. I tell them I didn’t know children so young could fight so much.  I tell them that one of these days Cole is going to knock his big sister on her ass and I’m going to let him.  Boy child has a few free blows coming, just saying.   I tell them that there is a good chance I don’t have enough patience left to get us through the next three days, much less three years.

Then I feel bad. Knowing my children are happy and healthy and I’m so very lucky to have them.  So I quickly backtrack and tell them there are good moments, too, of course. Moments when Chessa willingly hands a toy over to her brother, or unprompted plants a kiss on his head. Moments when Cole still snuggles with me or falls asleep in my arm and I keep rocking him, long forgetting what I was in such a hurry to do once bedtime came.  Times that out of no where Chessa starts doing the Pledge of Allegiance and instructs us to put our hands on our hearts and I think I’m going to die from the cute.

But most often, I think that the “other” moments are going to send me right over the damn edge. 

Cole is going through some kind of never-ending stage of hating to get his diaper or clothes changed. He’s perfected a flip-over-and-turn-myself-so-hard-that-surely-my-neck-will-snap move. Getting him cleaned and rediapered could be an Olympic sport.  When I apply enough pressure to make him lay still he sobs like I’ve just told him he’ll never have a puppy. 

And Chessa on the other hand is…  Well, she’s two. She turns on the tears when she needs to and has started the classic move of throwing herself on the floor when she doesn’t get her way. 

And, because I’m now a pro to this maneuver, I typically step over her and go back to other fun things, like moving Cole from the electrical outlets for the 457^th time. At that point, she wipes her tears with the back of my hand and yells at me with the indignation of a teenager that has 12 years on her, “MOMMY, I’M SA-AD.”

We do this dance all day long. Cole gets frustrated over banging his head or falling down and he cries. I comfort him.  Chessa throws a fit. Craig tries to reason with her.

Then Craig moves in with some animal crackers for Cole, while I try to distract and redirect Chessa. 

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

The man-to-man defense is still working rather well except for at 6:00 every night, when the day has caught up to all of us and it’s not nearly close enough to bedtime and there’s whining and crying and yelling and probably some kicking and all I want to do is yell, “NOT IT!  YOU BE THE PATIENT PARENT. I’ll be the one hiding under the covers until the kids are asleep.”

I’m still in sweatpants and the t-shirt I slept in last night, trying to shake off the night of not so great sleep that followed the week of not so great sleep.  Cuddled in my arms is a sweet blond boy who just finished his morning bottle.  As I always do, I run my hand over his arm and his leg, feeling the soft flannel. 

The fireplace flickers as it throws off some heat to warm up the living room.  We don’t have anywhere to be and I’m so very grateful that it’s Saturday. 

On the chair, Chessa – still in her pajamas – is comfortable on Craig’s lap. His hair is still disheveled but he gave her donuts so the picture they create – him in shorts and a t-shirt, with sleep still in his eyes and her with wide eyes and powdered sugar framing her lips – both happy and loved, makes me grin. 

We’re watching Elf on a Shelf.  Yes, all four of us. Chessa is captivated, having started our own Elf on the Shelf tradition this year and the colors and the music have pulled my boy right in.

I know we need to start the day. Clothes need to be changed, proper breakfasts need to be eaten and I have a laundry list of projects to tackle (or rather, for Craig to tackle).  But then, on TV, the elf says something about the magic of Christmas living in your heart. 

So I smile at my husband, giving a knowing glance at our big girl.  I pull my boy closer to my heart and I decide the day can wait for just a few more minutes.

The sky outside my bathroom window looks too light for 10:30 at night. Maybe it’s a full moon, maybe it’s the snow or maybe it’s the blinding Christmas lights from our neighbor’s house. Whatever it is, it gives me a weird feeling. My body knows that it’s late and time to throw in the towel and call it a day, but the sky? The sky still looks like there is time. 

Time for things to change. Time for the outlook to brighten.

- – -

When I think about my athletic days in high school, I mostly think about the volleyball court.  I had a damn good serve and could save a ball from hitting the ground by sacrificing my body.  Good times.

But there were softball days too. And when I played softball, I always had coaches that stuck me in the outfield.  I hated the outfield.  I much preferred second base or short stop.  Right in the thick of all the action. 

Second base is also where I got nailed in the thigh with a line drive so hard that when I get cold and the veins in my leg appear, you can still see the outline of the ball.  Damn that hurt. 

It’s funny how you look back now and see that even though the glove has been traded for the laptop, you’re still the same person you were fifteen years ago.  The person who would much rather take the hits on second base than pick flowers in the outfield. 

- – -

Craig’s been spending a lot of time at home lately. Football season was a hot mess this year and we were all so very thankful to see it end.  Now he’s catching his breath and spending lots of quality time with our kids.  The kids are also taking full advantage of having Daddy around, what with the copious amounts of ice cream they’re getting. 

But now, their baths are done, kisses are pecked and their eyes are closed.  And I’m half a step away from tucking myself in, listening to him tell me the stories of their day.  I grin, knowing full well the chaos that he’s referring too when he looks at me and says, “You know, Chessa can have me at completely frustrated and frazzled. But when, at the end of the day, she’s bouncing off the bed and saying, ‘I love Daddy.’ and just like that, I melt.” 

I chuckle knowing that I melt too. And then I think, “we’re so screwed when she’s a teenager.”

Tonight there was:

Hamburger Helper and microwaved broccoli that I called dinner.

Phones within reach, in case of an important phone call, text or email.

Toys snatched from each other, negotiations made and tears.

Countless retrievals from the steps of a baby who is way to eager to be moving.

No less than two episodes of Dora and one of Sid the Science Kid.

Discussions about bank accounts, holiday plans, chips in the paint and building a storage unit.

Brother pushed and sister’s hair pulled. And more tears.    

But. Tonight there was:

Laughter from a giggling toddler who yells, “tickle me!” while she runs away.

Chubby hands wrapped around a bottle and soft eyes that are shadowed by long eyelashes.

Soft smiles over small children and easy touches on the nape of a neck when we passed each other in the kitchen.

Two extra lullabies for the baby I couldn’t bear to say goodnight to. 

Sneaking back into the big one’s room for the missed hugs and kisses after the little one went to bed.

Prayers said, blessings counted and tears that brimmed knowing that in the face of it all, that when it really comes down to it, we have each other and we have those two healthy, happy babies. And that whatever may come, we’re in it together. 

My lips are dry and sore. I bite them because I’m nervous and on edge and just a wee bit stressed out lately and that makes them dry and then I bite them because they are dry. 

“Quit biting your lip,” I can hear my father saying as he’d tap my chin to remind me.

I’ve been traveling lately. Not a lot by some people’s standards, but I’ve spent more nights away from my house in the last three months than I have in the last three years, so.. yeah. 

I should say I’m torn about it. And while I hate the time away from my kids, I can’t help but love that it looks like I’m finally going to be doing different stuff at work. Fun stuff. Cool stuff.  Stuff where I can learn from smart people, make connections and branch into different responsibilities. 

It’s a risk too. I know I can learn a lot, but I’ve also been told that you “don’t make the same mistake twice.”  So, here’s hoping that when I screw up (and I will) that I only do it once.  No pressure or anything. 

This week when I was away, Cole got sick. Oh, how I hate that.  Craig had to battle a sick baby, taking him to the doctor, calling me to tell me it was an ear infection and I was four hours away.  When I came home, the little one barely let me out of his sight.  And Chessa? Well, when I picked her up at daycare, she ignored me. But after I got her home, when I walked out of the room to grab a drink, she sobbed. 

So, yeah. I’m torn. But I’m hoping we adjust. I’m hoping we find a way to make this work. I’m hoping that the opportunity is worth the risk. 

I’m hoping that after all the stress, all the flips and flops, all the tense moments and held breath that our luck is finally, finally starting to change.  But I’m still biting my lip.

Sunday

He fights against me with everything that he has.  Angry arms are trying to flail, but I hold them firm against me; tiny feet are kicking against my hip. 

I hold him tight, readjust when he wiggles a space between us and keep walking and bouncing and shushing. 

He’s tired. It’s an hour and twenty minutes past bedtime. It’s five hours and twenty minutes since his last nap. Our first two “lay him down and walk out” attempts did not go well. 

Normally, I’m tough when it comes to letting him fuss. But tonight it was more than fussing.  And it’s been a long day. And I’m traveling this week. So, tonight, I’m going to hold him until he sleeps.

I keep walking, keep bouncing.  I alternate between singing him songs, talking about nonsense and shushing in his ear.  He alternates between babbling, trying to put his hands in my mouth and screaming. 

As he screams, I feel my heart race. I feel my grip get tighter as I hold him close to me.  I feel my jaw clench. 

I walk to the kitchen and grab his bottle, there’s still a little bit left.  Craig looks up and says, “do you want me to take him?”

“No.” I snap. 

“I WANT him to go to sleep,” I think to myself with my jaw still clenched. 

I offer him the bottle, slipping it into his mouth during a cry.  He finally takes it and starts to settle.  I drop us both into the rocking chair and feel the tension start to lift, but I keep holding him close.  He finishes it off and closes his eyes.  I shift his weight so we are chest to chest.

I lean down to him and press the bridge of my nose along the curve of his forehead and I breathe. 

I kiss his lips, his nose and his cheeks.  He breathes deeper and snores just a little. 

I’ve waited for this moment. It’s just been one of those days where I’ve waited for the moment they were both asleep all day long. 

And now that it’s here, I’m sitting here.  And I’m rocking.

Finally, I slowly and carefully stand and instinctivly sway side to side while I whisper my good nights, my “I love you”s and my “tomorrow will better”s.  I stand on tip toe to lay him down without jostling him, pulling one hand from underneath him, then the other. 

His eyes stay closed as he sighs, settling into his sleep and as I watch my breath escapes from behind closed lips, grateful for the child. And grateful for the sleep.

Behind the wheel, I tap the beat from the radio onto the leather of the steering wheel.  My mind is buzzing from this topic to that one, the thoughts rolling and swirling and with it my my emotions from anger to frustration to hurt to whatever that feeling is when someone you love is hurt and nothing you can do can fix it. 

I punch the radio dial. I’m done with that song. I need something else. 

I punch it again and again. Until finally a song I can turn up. One that fits my mood and the butterflies in my stomach. One I can lose myself in. 

Moments later, I drive up beside a tractor trailer that makes my soccer mom SUV look tiny.  I hold the breath in my mouth for a moment as I decide whether to merge behind or try to pass.

A memory transports me back to my childhood, watching my father back a similar and just as big truck into our driveway and park it in a space that took me four or five tries to get my mom’s Chevy Beretta into – and I’m reminded that truck drivers are far better drivers than me.  So I pass the truck with an acceleration of speed and a confidence that he won’t run me over. 

As I watch the speedometer creep up, I think back again.

I was 16 and was asked to take him to pick up his truck.  The dump truck was in a constant need of repairs and it seemed I was always being asked to pick him up or drop him off at the repair shop. Sometimes the ability to flex my new driving skills was fun, but this time I was put out, as the detour to take him home would make me late for the varsity baseball game. 

Driving down the two-lane highway, I punched the gas. A few miles over the speed limit and no terse warning from my father, I pushed it a little more. I passed a car or two.  In a hurry but also testing his limits.  Waiting to be told to slow down so I could retort with a reminder about how I was doing him a favor in the first place. 

Instead, the ride was silent until when we walked in the door he stretched out his hand and waggled his fingers.  “Keys.”

Crap.

Fifteen years later, in the driver’s seat of my SUV, I grin at the memory and think about how I totally deserved those two weeks of lost driving priveleges (and probably a swift kick in the ass) and I slow down.  Just a tad.

I lift the babies out of their cribs, trying to keep the hurry out of my voice and my eyes off the clock.  Cole is so anxious to be held that he bangs his head on the crib rails trying to pull himself up. “Just a second, buddy,” I say as I turn off the humidifier and stand Chessa on the floor.  Quickly his excitement turns to brokenhearted whimpers as I’m just not getting him fast enough. 

I place him on my left hip, he curls into my chest and pops his thumb in his mouth.  Just as quickly, he’s pushing away and trying to dive down to the floor and his big sister. 

I tuck him back in and lean down to scoop up my girl. 

“TWO KIDS!” she announces, giggling at being carried with her brother. 

  Thank goodness only two, I think sometimes.  I’m out of arms. 

As we head to the steps, she remembers her Dora dolls.  “NEED DORAS!” 

We go back to her room.  All three of us. 

The Dora dolls gathered, she decides she wants to walk down the steps alone.  I hold Cole, doing his best to free his twenty pound body from my arms, while standing in front of her on the steps. We argue over who is going to carry the Doras.  She cries and pouts when I take them away and tell her she needs her hands to hold onto the rail and remind her that she fell a few days ago. 

Downstairs, I make quick decisions about which kid to diaper and dress first.  The act of getting dressed infuriates my boy and while he cries and tries to flip himself off the couch, Chessa stands in the living room taking off her pajamas.  I catch Cole and place him back on a diaper, my hand on his chest holding him in place. 

He cries. 

Chessa frees her arms from her pink monkey jammies but can’t quite get it off her feet. 

She cries. 

Oh my heavens, you two. Cut me a break.

I pull the shirt over his head while talking Chessa through the foot extraction. 

One baby down.  One toddler to go.   

I place Cole on the floor with Elmo.  He beelines for Dora instead, almost reaching the big-headed doll before his sister snatches her away. 

“NOOOO COOOOOLLLE! DATS MINE!” 

Cole cries again.  Louder this time. 

I decide he needs to eat and start to make a bottle.  Chessa, in nothing but her diaper, pulls at my pants.  “WANT SOMFING MOMMY.”

I toss a Poptart at her and tell her to try to put her shirt on while I feed her brother. For a moment things are calm. 

Then?

Chessa needs me to draw a spider on the Magna Doodle.  “MOMMY’s NOT BUSY,” she protests when I tell her my hands are full.  She points to the free hand that’s tucked under Cole’s back.  “USE DAT HAND”. 

I draw spiders with my left hand, while holding a bottle with my right.

Finally, Cole is done eating. Chessa’s spider has been drawn.  And with the few minutes before I need to leave for work, I can move onto getting her changed and dressed. 

Maybe she’ll accept the clothes I picked, or maybe the purple sweatpants will send her into hysterics.  Maybe Cole will be happy to play, maybe he’ll be fussy and clingy and I’ll be trying to hold him on my lap while tying Chessa’s shoes. 

Triage.  It’s all traige.