Love, And a Little Peace

 

I couldn't help but scatter him with hearts.

I'm sharing this love after I just got some love myself- a 15 minute chair massage at the grocery store. I almost walked out, thinking of all the papers and laundry and cooking that were waiting at home. But I waited my turn and now my shoulders are a little less attached to my ears.

Sometimes I AM really smart.
Sometimes I can receive the love.

Happy love thursday. Now go give yourself a little .

clean it out and it fills again

 

this is where i am right now

and the house is quiet
for a moment

why i love oakland #1

 

saturday morning coffee run
shiny harley parked on the sidewalk
heat reflecting off the pavement
two women having having breakfast curbside: crew cuts, black leather, tattoos, black boots.

stella and i exit past their table: in skirts, matching baseball caps, pink!, flip flops. the woman with the most tattoos smiles and waves at stella. we pass the motorcycle.

"is that a motorcycle?"
"yes, it belongs to the women in the restaurant"
"which women?"
"remember the one who waved on our way out?"
"the one with the helmet on the table?"
"yes, the one with the drawings on her arms?"
"drawings? i don't know... the one who was holding her fork to her mouth and eating?"

Ready or Not, Here it Comes!

Rex didn't even look back as he ran when I has started to walk. And that's how it is here now. They're moving forward whether I'm ready or not. On the way home from school Stella was saying something in her seat.
"What?"
"Nothing, Mama"
"I couldn't hear you, Sweetie. What were you saying?"
"I wasn't talking to you, Mama. I was talking to myself."
"Oh, you were?" you're not four yet, do you do that already?
"Yeah! You thought I was talking to you?!" and then she laughs at me

Mother's Day was wonderful. Not because of the most beautiful earrings in the world that Stella picked out all by herself- guided to the right store by Augusto. Not because Stella and I shared a pedicure chair for the first time. Not because of the sweet goodbye of Otto's last bedtime nursing. Mother's Day was wonderful because it wasn't all that important to me. I wasn't waiting for some big acknowledgment from my husband, some huge chunk of time to myself. I receive the gifts of motherhood daily.

Andrea at Superhero Designs asked "What are you willing to receive?"

Since my immediate reaction: Massage!, I have been mulling.

I am willing to receive gifts I have previously refused or made me feel guilty:

help to my car from the grocer
comments on how great i look after two kids
day care in excess of my working hours
one extra hour of morning sleep

I am willing to receive love.

I am willing to receive parenting feedback from others.

I am willing to receive the good health that comes from exercise, vegetables, and sleep.

I liked this hard question. Now I'll pass it on. What are you willing to receive?

I'm a Mother

 

pregnant with stella
 





stella 1 day old
 









4 days before otto is born



 






hours after otto's birth







i still can't believe it
happy mother's day

Taking out the Garbage

Ours is a multilingual household. English. Portuguese. Bark. Babble. Silent Treatment. Thank goodness we have a translator.

Otto squawks and demands, "Bawbaw." Stella says, "Otto wants milk."

At the back door, Rex lays down with a humpf. Stella says, "Rex wants to go out."

Augusto says to the family, "Vamos pelo parque?" Stella says, Mama, let's go to the park!"

I speak in Portuguese daily, so she should know I understand it. Perhaps it's so bad she figures I need help? But no. Augusto says, "I'll pick up Stella today. I think we'll go to the park and then get some ice cream." Stella says, "Mama, after school Papai is taking me to the park. And then we're getting ice cream!"

Em... that was all in English. She's translating one parent to the other. Clearly she's tuned into our latest high tension-low conversation phase. We aren't understanding each other often enough. Last week, after Augusto laid off several employees, he was edgy. I was maxed out on giving him room. He said something that now I can't remember. He offended me. I started to bitch, "I can't believe you said that. It was so." I stopped, not wanting to bicker in front of the kids. "Rude." I looked at Stella and she was staring at me, eyebrows up. Like, yeah, I said it, that word came out of my mouth, and I just completed your sentence, ha ha. After I recovered from the shock of her repetition/understanding- it didn't matter- I felt the horror of seeing the real impressions we make. Then I had a little inner peace. She saw it too. Isn't that one of the benefits of family, ganging up on each other?

But usually it's the routine words that get lost. The following conversation has been started by either parent.

"I took out the garbage."
"What?"
"I took out the garbage."

Dinner, bath, bed routine.

"Did you take out the garbage?!"

It's misunderstanding, sleep deprivation, ignoring, and simple absentmindedness. Do we really have time for a conversation about garbage? Aren't we happier, more suited, making plans for a fall trip, selecting a date night? But those conversations don't happen either.

"We should think about using our frequent flier miles in October."
"Where do you want to go?"

Dinner, bath, bed routine.

"Did you take out the garbage?"

Wake Up, Idiot, She's 3

There is a shift. It's not Spring, but a developmental leap. Stella is less obnoxious. This is a major breakthrough. We're enjoying each other more often. After months of butting heads on everything from the shape and quantity of cereal in her bowl to who shuts the door/ gets the mail/ goes first up the stairs/ uses the potty, we are just having fun. I am happy in a way I can't quite explain. I really worried we were doomed to a strained mother-daughter life, like I have known at times, and my mother too. And friends and colleagues and strangers. Of course, we probably are still doomed. Who, really, can escape the great fates?

For now, though, I'll bask in her soft hair on my shoulder, her gigantic smiles when I make a joke or spin her around. She says Please and Thank You. She understands that when she makes a choice between a juice box and a fruit strip, she actually can't have the other when she's done. And she's ok with it.

I will admit I'm less obnoxious too. I am playing more and screaming less. The screaming and nattering never got us out the door faster, it just raised my tension and made her sink her heels in deeper. Our play is longer and on her terms. Whack palm to forehead- I know, doesn't everyone know how to play with a preschooler? I obviously didn't. Her fantasy camping/ hotel/ swimming life is vast and repetitive. She wants me to understand it all. And all. And all.

Augusto was away for 8 days. It was in this time that I woke up. Email and reading and shitting alone just weren't options, so instead of bitching about it all week long, I did what I could. I enjoyed my kids. And as I gave myself this little gift, I learned how much fun they are. So I don't really know if she changed, or I did, I just know I feel better.

*****

There are all kinds of "teachable moments." We can't guess at someone's desires and expect to always be right. Stella and Otto are real chums. Yesterday he was pushing her around the kitchen. He is very strong for his 20 pounds. It bothers me when he pushes other kids.

I intervened, "Be gentle, Otto!"

And Stella surprised me. "No Mama, I LIKE when he pushes me!'

What do I know?

 

A Day for Gaia

We are waiting for rain. Stella has been waiting for rain for a year. The days it comes she dons her full regalia in joy. Sometimes she is sure it will rain, she suits up for it regardless of outcome. In California, we don't have rain for several months in a row. It has taken me years to adjust to the subtle- and not so subtle (rain v. no rain, duh)- seasonal changes. There are still days when I completely lose my bearing. Is is Fall? Spring? I begin looking for Jack O' Lanterns or Easter Eggs as a clue.

Today the sky is thick and the dust at the dog park has a little less loft. I want the rain to fall today. Earth Day. The idea of a day to raise awareness and protest environmental destruction was born right around when I was- the Fall of 1969. I like to imagine early 1970. Parents looking ahead into their grand children's lives, young students with a new agenda, confused politicians. All looking out for the Gaia, looking out for us. And here we are. 37 years later. Today's Earth Day is more about community clean up, fun festivals, and recycling lessons than protest. Pollution, pesticides, extinction- these problems have not gone away, but Earth Day is no longer known for demonstration and protest. The original organizers have action items, so go get busy.

the trainer's trainer

 

The original image is on flickr.

Such a Deal!

I have a personal trainer.

Surprisingly, I'm not afraid to admit it. I've always associated having a personal trainer with being perfectionist and foolishly rich. My disdain probably originates from some secret desire to have money to sprinkle here and there- and have the body that only comes from excellent genes or a particular type of perfectionism. I never wanted a trainer like I never wanted an exercise buddy. I don't want someone to see me puffing up a hill or watch them pressing more pounds.

But here I am, ready to cancel my (unused) gym membership.

It all started because Rex wouldn't chill out. As in, "Cut it OUT, REX! Stop (insert: licking, following, nosing, barking, chewing kids toys)!" So I took him to the dog park. He LOVES the dog park. The butt sniffing, the rough play, chase. At the dog park, I sit there watching him burn off all that puppy energy. And I think, here's one more creature to take care of. What about me? MY time? And of course work is more stressful, my PMS started lasting 14 instead of 7 days a month, and those new pants I bought only serve to accentuate my muffin top and make me very gassy.

So Rex and I went running together. And we did it again. And again. And he began to recognize my running shoes and baseball cap and now jumps for joy when he sees me putting them on. And today he encouraged me. He actually turned around and said, "Oh, come on!" when I slowed to a walk. It was a subtle, but certain nod of the head, jig of the front paws. Totally non-judgmental. "Hey could you pick up the pace a little? I know you can do it, and I'd really like to go a little faster. Please"

I intend no offense in comparing Rex to a personal trainer- I can't help but compare him to Otto every day. But there is no doubt in the connection. He is expecting me. He wants more out of me than I think I can give. He is faster and stronger and will always be. But Rex makes it even better: he's free and it's a mutual benefit. Two more reasons to lase up those shoes.

I Hold Them in My Heart

Why can't it be "April Fool's!" now that my patient's baby died at 6 months and my dad euthanized his cat, and I got an asinine crank call telling me I had so many days to live?

Yesterday. Can't I wish it one big joke? Ha ha, just kidding?

The mom came in for her routine prenatal. Mentioned no movement. Watched her daughter draw happy pictures of the baby. I searched for the heart. The quick beat I love to share with the big siblings. Is that a horse in there?! A train? I searched again. I prayed. I tried to make my face neutral, my eyes soft. I took her into the room with the ultrasound. And the little one only floated with his mama's breaths. Not still, but swaying in the fluid. I couldn't get the words out before my heart cried. My tears fell. I think your baby died. You need to go to the hospital for a better ultrasound. But I knew. She knew.

In 10 years, this was the first fetal demise. Nasty jargon for a loss inexplicable. The term you don't share with the family. Fetal. Oh, no... a baby, a loved member of the family. Demise. Should that soften the blow? Make it so that the midwife doesn't cry when she collapses in the chart room, her colleagues with no choice to hear it out? I was unprepared for the moment, caught in the disbelief. Consulting with the perinatologist like I would for fibroids or diabetes, while the majority of my soul paced the room, asking why?

And when I came home to tell it all again to Augusto, it was too familiar. The same sequence of sadness when we lost our first son. That empty, empty sound on the doppler. The panicked face of the resident. Then the words that became only the sound of nothing in the room, of everything lost in our hearts.

I told the family of my loss. Felt strangely grateful for some small connection to their crumbling souls. I am so sorry. What else is there, really, to say?

finger gore and a lovely girl

  Losing a fingernail is like losing a tooth. First it's disgusting, then you just want it over with. I'm losing my left pinky nail because of a nasty cuticle infection. It's been hurting for nearly 10 weeks. For two nights it was so painful, at 3am I nearly went to the Emergency. This, after two medication-free home births. A throbbing finger puts me on the verge of an embarrassing trip to the hospital.

"What are you here for?"
"My finger."
"What is wrong with it?"
And then I show them the centimeter of red and everyone in the triage laughs.

I decided to stop trying to treat myself with saltwater soaks and got a culture. It is MRSA, a resistant community acquired bacteria. I'm on my third course of antibiotics. I've only take antibiotics three times in my memorable life. This fourth event (three different meds over 30 days) is the longest. And nothing really worked until the base of my nail popped free. The color is fading, and the pain is easing.

Instead of a picture of my sick finger, I give you rocks and my lovely girl for

love thursday. I thought you'd like this one just a little more. I love smooth rocks and her heart hoodie.

Mom Squad

Surfing, instead of running (although I am fully geared in a jog bra), I found this Mom Squad Makeover Contest. Entered videos are available for inspiration. The more I watch, the better I feel. It IS hard work being a mom. It IS normal to have a jelly belly, sallow skin, and a grumpy outlook. I love these real moms. Some sad, some begging, even. I want to reach out and hug every one, say "I know how you feel, I have dog hair everywhere, too."

I don't need a makeover, I just need to exercise, sleep, eat vegetables instead of cookies, and take a shower every day. I rushed everyone out the door (late, as usual). So I'm signing off and putting on my running shoes. The dog has been waiting long enough. I'm just going to think "makeover, makeover" while I run.

What inspires you to feel better?

Creative Urges

afternoon sun, originally uploaded by kimthemidwife.

I've been feeling like a haggard woman. Saggy skin, downturned cheeks, shadowed eyes. Caffeine alone isn't perking me anymore. Cleaning out dark corners of the house isn't either. I keep abandoning the exercise plan.

So I'm holing up on the computer and blissing out on my family photos. I'm cranking up the creative volume in my life from everything to kid crafts to mama time. I found a great photo site, Shutter Sisters, and am entering their "eyes closed" challenge. I remember from long ago photography classes that you have to be really careful about sharp lighting contrasts. But the light highlights my daughter's sweet face-- without any idea about what a haggard woman is. That's bliss.

Busted!

There are events every parent dreads- yet expects- will happen. Like the kid who asks why that man is so fat- in front of that man. Or repeats something unsavory you said about the neighbor. Today I exited the shower to find the kids playing tug-o-war with my vibrating dildo. Moments before, when it became suspiciously quiet, I peeked around the curtain and saw Otto waving a naughty feather duster. Hastily rinsing only half of the conditioner, I told the kids to stay out of mommy's drawer and rehearsed all the answers to all the questions I would hear. The experts recommend preparing for such challenging times. Scripting your answers just in case. Like when the 4 year old walks in and sees naked Mommy on top of naked Daddy and asks, "What are you doing?"

I am very interested in raising sexually healthy future adults. I want to my children to have confidence and pride in their bodies. I want them to learn to love in their own ways. I read a great book on the subject before I was even pregnant. Every day at work, I hear and give advice on the intimate details of a wide variety of sexual issues. I love asking my 70 year old patients if they are sexually active. Stella knows what her vulva is and that touching it is a private affair. And yet, I was wholly unprepared to see the Blue Ripple in Stella's hands and the speed controller in Otto's.

"What's this, Mama?"

Pause.

"Give it to me."

"What is it?!"

"It's a tool. Give it to me."

"What kind of a tool?

"It's a tool that Mama hasn't used in a long time. Let's put it back in the drawer now."

I walked out of the bathroom and saw the contents of one bedside drawer strewn on the floor. Things I honestly forgot were there, but instantly knew I should have put under lock and key long ago. Edible Undies. Liquid Latex. A colorful volume on intimate massage. The naughty feather duster.

"Is this a pompom?"

"Yes, it is!"

"Can I play with it?"

"Right now you can."

I replaced the toys with a mix of emotions. Here I was in one of those Moments I had waited for, albeit earlier and different, of course. I felt sure I would be the mother who could talk with her kids about sex. I would give them the information they needed to make safe and healthy choices. I would make sure they felt comfortable asking tough questions. Yet here I was putting away sex toys I received at my bachelorette party, mostly unopened and waiting six years in that drawer for what? Time? Inspiration? Boredom? Six years. And who finally plays with them? My children. And how did I answer the questions? It's a tool? Yes, it's a pompom? You can play with it. Geez.

So we haven't used the toys in years. Texans waited how long to be able to buy butt plugs without breaking a law? It's not that I think sex toys make sex better, or that sex without toys is boring. I'm bothered by the waste. The waste of drawer space. The fact that they sit there when someone else would love to play with them (and I don't mean my children). That they were well intentioned gifts gone stale. And know I know for sure the time to use them has passed. If we can't get some action in the 10 minutes before I pass out, then forget it. It's comical to think there's time for role playing or cleaning the "tools." But can I give them away on Freecycle? Sell them on Craigslist? Drop them off at the Salvation Army? If you, gentle reader, want a tub of paint-on latex clothing or a bright orange soft rubber whip, let me know. My girlfriends were generous.

But the other emotion is joy. Everyone always says that kids call us on our own shit. Help us to see ourselves. Help us laugh at ourselves. You can't hide a bad day from a teen or fake listening to a toddler. And you can leave it to a one year old who will open any drawer and his question asking sister to remind you that you don't need a drawer full of sexy toys to feel sexy. You don't need edible undies to feel consumed. But you do need some clever answers pretty darn quick if you don't want the whole preschool to hear about it in your 3 year old's version of events.

So I'm back to the drawing board. What will we say that time we forget to lock the door? Will it ever be wrong to dress or shower in front of the kids? And what if we differ on these answers, how will we be ourselves? How will our words and body language affect their sexual development? The drawer was a warning, a practice session for the foibles ahead.

Coffee can't fix everything.

Tonight I saw a woman doing something I have done more than a few times before. She was waiting outside the bathroom door at Barnes and Noble, determining if intervention would be needed, curious and scared to see who emerged. A kind gesture toward a child or other recipient of someone's wrath. The sad part is that this woman was waiting for me.

The evening had gone well up until about 10 minutes prior to the bathroom. Augusto is out of town, so I took the kids shopping. We picked out a twin futon for Stella to delighted mattress diving and lollipop games. We went to the noodle place at her request (load back in the car, drive, wrangle the van into a spot...). We waited for a table. We got silly and impressed the patrons with two charming kids scarfing down tofu and broccoli. I cleaned Otto's mess. I let Stella eat a lollipop. We paid and left the restaurant.

And then Stella asked to go to the bookstore. I knew this meant play with the train table and then ask for a book. It was already 7:40. I wanted to go home. Otto was tired. I was tired. I sensed a tantrum in the air. She had already hit the pavement before we went to the noodle place. I just couldn't handle another melt down. So I said yes. My first mistake. She wanted another Dora book. Dora is ok in theory, but she is a TV series, not a book character. We have never seen her show, but the books suck. Thin TV-based plot, stupid lines. "Say no swiping, Swiper!" Say, what?! She loves Dora books, but they're killing me. The she wanted Strawberry Shortcake. I could only imagine how much I would like it. I don't want to squelch her desires, but how does she even know about this crap? She doesn't watch TV! I want to read real stories with her. Or poetry. Or at least cool rhyme. So I directed her to some Caldecott winners. And some Dr. Seuss. We were on to tantrum three and she still had a jumbo Blow Pop in her mouth. And it was 8:30 or some similar ridiculous time. And I had to pee and change Otto's diaper before we left.

After threating to take away the lolli, leave her in the store, and not get her any more books, she hastily picked an actual book (as opposed to every crappy book with batteries). Somehow I managed to storm her off to the bathroom. Of course, on the way in she wanted to drink from the fountain (to high for her to do it on her own). My arm was killing with Otto. My bladder was dying. I said no. The stall time was equally perfect. Otto touched every disgusting surface and Stella whined about wanting to finish her lolli, not go home, etc. We made it to the sink. Otto first, Stella second. While I was washing Stella's hands, Otto sneaked off and put his hand into an unflushed toilet. I was already obviously peeved at my kids and not even trying anymore to conceal my anger, frustration, and general sense of impending doom. But the dirty toilet sealed the deal. I slammed down her new book and told her to stop making trouble as she cried for her book while I washed Otto's hands about 23 million times.

That's when I exited to the eavesdropping woman. I don't know what she thought. Maybe she heard the slamming book and, "SHIT!" and though I had hit my kid. Perhaps she just felt bad for Stella who more than once said (tears streaming), "Sorry, Mama."

Walking to the car, Stella asked, "Are you mad at Otto?" No, I was mad at myself.

Just a Day in the Park

Coffee changes me from a bitchy grumpy monster to a cheery gal who wants to fix the sewing machine and make those recycled cashmere hats. Or clean out that old filing cabinet. Or just play with my baby that isn't really a baby anymore.

Otto and I went to the park today. When I popped him out of the stroller, he actually beamed from ear to ear and charged the playground. He dove with glee into the sand, squealed with delight down the slide, and made friends with everyone there. And no wonder, when Stella was this age, we went to the park almost every day. This is the first time I have gone with Otto alone. If I dwell on that one, I'll get too sad. The point is that we went. The sun was warm enough for a t-shirt and Rex kept quiet enough under his tree. It was just what we needed.

Thrown Back In

A little vomit never fails to clear writer’s block. Or writer’s absence, really. Blogging is low in the order of my life- down below pedicures and exercise and massage- none of which I have accomplished recently. That is not to say I don’t love to write and find it helpful/ relaxing/ whatever. But it just gets buried. And we traveled four out of the last eight weeks. After all that time, I lost my momentum. Several phrases have popped into my head over the past two months. Opening sentences, full of charm. But they always come while driving, or holding a screaming child, or in the room with a patient. So I can’t write them down, and like everything else I don’t nail to my skull, they’re gone. Poof.

But the vomit stuck without a hammer. I wrote about puke at least once before. So here we are at the vomit’s silver lining- the inspiration to blog. The vomit was minor, actually. Just once and not too much. But the timing was stellar. Otto had a vaccination on Tuesday and fussed most of the wee hours of Wednesday. Augusto was holding him while I made breakfast and said, “Can you hold him a sec?” No sooner had Augusto walked out of the kitchen when Otto retched all over my clean from the hamper fuzzy sweater. Right then I announced that I would be going to work and Augusto would be home with the puker as he had NEVER been thrown up on by anyone in our household, and I had been lucky one too many times. Off I went, working mama who knows how to put her foot down.

These days, work at work is easier than work at home. The clinic’s problems are within my control. People don’t whine too much, and I can shut the door at the end of the day. At home, we have certainly rounded the one-year mark. Otto’s birthday was last month. We are night weaning. I remember the clearing when Stella turned one. And I feel it now, but we have this giant baby of a dog who hasn’t rounded whatever mark he should. He is improving with less ankle biting and fewer destroyed toys (nice wooden ones which have survived and been handed down through three families). I think I feel a change coming. Soon.

***

We went to Baltimore for Thanksgiving and Brazil for Christmas. We also went to my 20th high school reunion in Philadelphia. I recognized many people, but I couldn’t remember how I knew them. I didn’t know if we had been friends, or lab mates, or just been trashed together at a party. It was weird, to say the least. And I connected with others I held dear long ago. It was good. The pictures of our 1980’s hair were worth the trip.

It was a joy to see family. Otto is a sensation everywhere we go. His charms and easygoing way pull in strangers and family alike. Even Stella copies him and is becoming more outgoing. The best gift from Brazil is Stella’s Portuguese. She started speaking when my in-laws were here, but now she digs it. She invents new lyrics in Portuguese. It’s cool.

***

Tonight is the first Friday of February. Otto and Rex are napping, Stella is at school. Augusto is at work. I’m going to get started on our monthly soup and enjoy the quiet while it lasts.

This Bathroom is Small

“This airplane is going to take off, and fly, and then we’ll see Papai!”

When you stop in Chicago, there are seven hours of flying time between Baltimore and Oakland. Seasoned adult travelers start to whine after the third hour of a lit seat belt sign. But it wasn’t so bad making the return without Augusto. Both kids slept for the first leg, we jumped in the galley during the stop, and we got creative for the final 5-hour haul. Videos, books, stacking snack boxes, passenger peek-a-boo. I briefly handed Otto over to Joe, an empathetic grandmother from the Sierra foothills who was willing to let him pull on her necklaces and jump on her lap.

The first time I flew with Stella, we were on our own. In a teary segment of the flight, an Asian woman reached out her arms, offering to walk 8-week-old Stella for a spell. I was a new mother facing a non-English speaking stranger at 30 thousand feet. I rejected her offer and managed alone. Months later I realized my missed opportunity. In Kenya, where I studied for a semester, people with seats on buses- white strangers included- are expected to hold a package or a child for standing passengers. This transfer happens without comment. The more responsibility I acquire- children, pets, increased work hours- the more I understand why it takes a village to raise a child. In our urban far-from-family world this means letting strangers open doors, carry groceries, or distract a toddler having a tantrum. It means accepting offers from neighbors who want to baby sit, and exchanging childcare with other families. And I also think it includes letting a complete stranger hold your baby when your arms are full.

So our flight was helped by Joe, the flight attendants who didn’t scold us when we just had to get up (despite the illuminated seat belt sign), the peek-a-boo passengers in seats 10 E and F, and by comic relief, of course.

“This bathroom is small.”

This understatement from Stella when the three of us entered the head. We all could stand in the triangular space between the toilet, counter and door, but we completely filled it. There was no pull down changing table, so I changed Otto’s poopy diaper with my butt on Stella’s head, sandwiched the kids between my knees when I sat to pee (and Otto toilet-papered the floor), and put Otto on my hip while Stella stood on the toilet to wash her hands.

“My pants are still down, Mama.”

It was hard to keep it all straight. But I must admit I felt a thrill when we exited, triumphant and surprising, like clowns from a car.

What was I thinking?!

We now have two creatures in the house who want to chew, rip, and mess up everything from balls, to plants, to toilet paper. Just as I tear a throw pillow from Rex’s mouth, I turn to see Otto grabbing the phone. I pluck Otto from the phone corner, put him down, and find Rex chewing a hole in the rug. I give Rex a toy, then Otto pounces on the dog and I’m separating them again. Is this what it is like to have twins? And this ritual doesn’t even include Stella. Add her to the mix, and it involves a lot of whining and stomping for something she can’t have, such as chocolate at 8pm or messy painting as we’re about to leave the house. It’s background music for the dance.

Rex needs to be trained. He nibbles on pant legs and wrist bones when he wants to play. Any kid toy is his to eat, apparently. And he jumps, of course. Otto needs to be trained too, but it’s a longer process for which I have more patience. And Stella? She’s training me how to take ten deep breaths when we’re late for work, how to stop and see the spider webs. How to think it’s funny when Rex steals Otto’s food from the high chair.

I had a patient yesterday who was pregnant with baby number 4. Her other children are 5, 3, and under 1. She is happy, but her primary-caregiver husband is scared. So scared he barely spoke and just teared up a lot. I made my other patients wait 45 minutes while they tried to talk about the future, their options, and how they’ll afford 4 kids under 6. I know how stressed I can get with two kids on a bad night. And how adding Rex increases the stress on those bad nights. And to think of adding a baby 8 or 9 months from now? Forget it. I’d be terrified. Thank goodness for good birth control. I think that dad is probably getting his vasectomy as I type. His fear clings to me. I just hope she can carry them all.