We Don’t Sleep Around Here

Davey has not been sleeping lately.

Correction: Davey has been sleeping in two- to three-hour intervals, often interspersed with 2-hour awake periods, all night long. Thankfully, Micah is taking up the slack in the sleep department by going to sleep easily and sleeping soundly all night. So we only have one yo-yo baby to deal with. I’m not sure how I survived the newborn weeks when we did this all the time with both babies.

Small Great Things

28587957So in the moments when both twins are actually asleep and the house is mostly together, I often light a couple of candles and collapse on the sofa, only to realize I have no idea what to do with that precious nugget of time. Clean? Do the dishes? Read? Write a blog post? Knit? It’s rough, folks.

In my last post, I mentioned that I picked up Small Great Things and intended to start reading it soon. Since then, I have indeed finished the book. Because I don’t trust myself to formulate a coherent few paragraphs about it, I’ll boil it down.

Things I Liked

This book made me uncomfortable. It forced me to question my own attitude about race issues, and it left me thinking that I might not be as unbiased as I’ve always thought. I haven’t read many of Picoult’s books, but I am finding that she forces her readers to ask themselves some pretty probing questions. That’s a hallmark of a great read, as far as I’m concerned.

Of course, there’s a twist at the end. I remember reading once that a fiction writer should put her characters in the hardest possible situations, just to see how they react. Well, Picoult does this in a very unexpected way at the end of Ruth’s trial.

Things I didn’t like

The ending. The ending and the epilogue both seem a little too deus ex machina, happily-ever-after, Disney storybook perfect for my taste (sorry if that’s a spoiler). As much as I wanted to see Ruth, the protagonist, win her court case and come out on top, I didn’t expect it to be handed to her with a cherry on top.

Overall, I loved it, and I did end up reading it in just a few sit-down sessions after the babies were in bed for the night and before Davey’s nighttime wakefulness sessions began. Small Great Things definitely has a new home in my home library.

Dabbling in Minimalism

In other news, I’ve been throwing stuff away like crazy. Basically, tossing or donating as much *stuff* as possible–the things that fill up nooks and crannies with “I might need this someday” intentions. Baby clothes, unused cooking gadgets, clothes that don’t fit me anymore, half-burned candles, trinkets that I’ve held onto out of a sense of obligation to whomever gave them to me. It’s all going.

The progress is slow–sometimes painfully so–but I’m simplifying, because life is so much more enjoyable when you’re not tripping over accoutrements while trying to live it. Also, when you have fewer things, there’s less to clean.

I’m thinking I might add a few books on simplifying, minimizing, and decluttering to my reading list in the next few weeks, so if anyone has suggestions on excellent books of that sort, please let me know! I will streamline and minimalize many things, but my library isn’t one of them.

On the Books, October Edition

Choosing between reading, writing, knitting, and staring vegetatively into space has resulted in a lot of scrambling for minutes and not as much reading as I thought I’d get done this year. It’s almost the end of October (in case you overlooked that somehow), and I’ve read 12 books out of my goal of 35. I don’t think I’ve ever read so little in a year. But here’s what I have in terms of a bookish update.

26061560The Biggest Story offers a look at the Bible’s story from beginning to end. The sweeping overview from creation to the resurrection offers a look at the big picture of God’s plan for us. It’s the literary forest when children so often just get shown the trees. And the illustrations are absolutely mesmerizing! I could stare at them for hours.

The twins aren’t big enough to sit down and appreciate all the illustrations, but they did seem fascinated by all the colors, when they slowed down enough to take a look. I read them the entire book in about forty minutes while they were playing several days ago. It’s simple and straightforward enough that I suspect it would resonate with some preschool-aged kids.


I also started reading Kipps aloud while the kiddos played last week. We’re about 30 pages in, and it seems to provide excellent background noise for playing–they tend to entertain themselves more and use me as a jungle gym less when I’m reading aloud, so that’s a win.

H.G. Wells is surprisingly easy to read aloud. The dialogue and sentences just flow the way good writing should. And it’s refreshing to read some of Wells’ non-sci-fi works. I’ll probably take my time getting through it, but I’m already loving the characters. 28587957

Annnnd yesterday at Barnes & Noble, I couldn’t resist Jodi Picoult’s latest release, Small Great Things. I suspect that once I crack it open (probably this afternoon), I’ll finish it in just a couple of days, even if I have to sacrifice a night of sleep to do so.



9 Reasons I’m Not Taking a Nap Today

No Naps

  1. The prospect of having to wake up again is prohibitively depressing.
  2. Naps cause responsibility-free breaks to go by far to quickly.
  3. Naps aren’t really responsibility-free, because I need to do laundry and folding laundry is somewhat easier when twins aren’t systematically unfolding it at the same time.
  4. If I go to sleep, babies’ naps will be 50% shorter, and they’ll wake up 100% more grouchy.
  5. I would spend a quarter of my naptime thinking about what needs to be done after naptime is over.
  6. Deadlines. Clients that actually want things to be turned in by 6 a.m. And there’s no way I’m getting up at 3 a.m. tonight/tomorrow to make that happen.
  7. If I’m smart about it, I can get a load of laundry washed, a sinkful of dishes cleaned and put away, the living room vacuumed, the dogs fed, the mail checked, the counters wiped off, drink a pot of coffee, and still squeeze in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy while babies sleep.
  8. If I’m not smart about it, I can stare into space in the blessed silence for half an hour.
  9. I do what I want.

Twins Go To Colombia

Before the twins were born, I swore I wouldn’t let them stop me from getting out of my comfort zone and traveling. What I didn’t realize was that sometimes a trip to the grocery store would qualify for both counts. Nevertheless, when Mom asked if I wanted to take the boys and join her for a week in Medellin, Colombia, of all places, I decided to commit and then figure out the rest later.

That strategy–commit, then figure it out–sometimes works, and it sometimes backfires.

Say you’re at the grocery store, and on a whim you buy all 30 ounces of cream cheese for a cheesecake. No matter how you feel about it later, you’ve got to actually bake it. Because there’s no way you’re eating enough bagels to excuse that purchase. You bake the cake and act like it was totally planned.

When you buy airline tickets to Colombia, you go. Even if, as the days before the trip approach, you find yourself wondering what on earth you’ve signed yourself up for.

In this case, the strategy was a good one. I’m glad I went, I’m glad the babies had the experience–even though they’ll never remember it–and I’m glad I got out of my comfort zone enough to make it happen. With that said, there were many moments during the trip that I longed for a childproofed playroom, for a husband to dump the babies on long enough for me to take a nap, and for wonderful English-speaking baristas at familiar local coffee shops.

The following are some of those moments.

  1. When stuck on the metro wearing a screaming baby while sandwiched between 25,734 complete strangers.
  2. When on the metro alone with one twin, after Mom got off the metro at an unknown previous stop with his brother.
  3. When desperately trying to explain that I want a hazelnut latte, not a cafe americano con leche.
  4. When trying to remember the Spanish word for “upstairs,” drawing a blank, and feeling like an entire university Spanish minor course of study is failing me.
  5. When fumbling with Colombian pesos and trying to disguise the fact that I have no idea how much the jumble of coins in my hand is worth.
  6. When staring blankly at a menu of traditional Colombian food and realizing that none of it is remotely appetizing.
  7. When the standard, already-annoying twin questions (how old are they? are they twins? which one is older? are they walking yet? are they identical? are you through having kids now? you must have your hands full? is this one bigger? are their eyes more like yours or their dad’s?) are even worse when presented in rapid-fire Spanish but blending in is impossible with blue-eyed, fair-skinned babies.

My memories of Colombia will forever be misty mountains, lush flora, gently swinging cable cars, plywood “beds,” incredibly kind locals, and various iterations of the above seven situations. I would go back in a heartbeat–but I’d definitely arm myself with more mental preparedness and basically just prepare to function in survival mode for the duration of the trip, should that become necessary.

In other news, I’m still recuperating, because some vacations are relaxing and some vacations are exhausting and this was the latter.

The Big E, and Reading About Twins

Babywearing at the Big E If you want a fried martini, a Philly cheesesteak, maple cotton candy, apple crisp and fresh cranberry juice all in one place, the Eastern States Exposition is the answer. You’ll also find hot tub displays, vendors selling magical steam cleaners, kids showing off their 4-H projects, sheep being sheared, chicks hatching from eggs, and sideshows featuring miniature horses and rescued bears–$1 per person to take a peek.

When we went to the Big E last year, I was 30 weeks pregnant with the twins. I basically stopped to sit and rest 10 minutes for every 15 that I walked. This year, I had one baby strapped to my front and a backpack with baby supplies on the back, while Manny carried the other twin.

So yesterday, the most frustrating part of the adventure wasn’t walking. It was trying to eat funnel cake while wearing a squirmy, greedy toddler on my front. I’m just going to let you try to imagine that one.

We watched a Great Pumpkin Weigh-Off, wandered through the huge buildings representing each state’s representative offerings (always including a wide array of maple products), and caught Marcus Gras beads thrown from a parade float drawn by Clydesdale horses.

The entire experience felt a little absurd.

But cool autumn breezes, babies’ wonder as they ogled the turns of the Ferris wheel, and the mingling aromas (well, some of them) made it worth the expedition.

Reading has taken such a backburner over the last year for obvious reasons. But a group of twin mamas I know on Facebook decided to start a book club, and the first book was something I probably wouldn’t have chosen on my own.

Entwined is a memoir about fraternal friends, one of whom had Down syndrome, that were separated as young children when the parents sent the Down syndrome child to live in a state institution. That twin later went on to become a world-recognized fiber artist. The memoir is written by Judy, the sister that stayed at home, and follows both their story as it twists apart and then back together again later in life.

It was interesting to read about the incredibly unique connection the girls shared as twins. They communicated (rather well!) without needing words, which is handy, since Judy was completely nonverbal.

The story was both gripping and infuriating. Repeatedly I found myself thinking, How many horrible things can possibly happen to one person? The attitude toward children–especially special needs children–in the 50’s and 60’s was depressing at best, and these kids’ parents seemed particularly unable (unwillinrg?) to deal with the fact that they had procreated, and that one of their kids was unique.

But Joyce, the author of the book, was a bit infuriating, too. Sometimes she seemed rather oblivious (it took her 35 years to start thinking about taking her sister out of the institution) and dramatic (going to a “silence retreat” where a dozen women lived together for a week without saying a word). Still, the pieces of the picture she paints with words are so vivid that about two chapters in I felt like I was one of the kids playing in the front yard with them.

All in all, Entwined was definitely worth the read. Now I’m slowly reading Misspelled Paradise: A Year in a Reinvented Colombia, mostly because I’ll be in Colombia myself in a couple of weeks. So far, the account of a recent English grad going to teach at tiny a school on a little coastal island has many similarities to my own experience teaching in Saipan. It also makes me thankful I’m going to Colombia to be a tourist, not a teacher.

Remembering 9/11: A clarification 

Some very good, very honest friends have basically told me that this morning’s post came across all wrong. Upon a second (okay, more like an eighth) reading, I see it. I totally sound like a snobbish jerk trying to tell people how they should feel about a national tragedy. 

That was pretty much the opposite of what I intended. 

What I wanted was to call myself to task as much as (actually, more than) anyone else for failing to care as much as I should. 

I wanted to express frustration at the trend of using Facebook as a sort of check-box for emotions and memories. Random Facebook friend’s birthday? Write on their wall. Check. Terrorist attack overseas? Express outrage and state that you “stand with” said country. Check. September 11th? Post something patriotic. Check. And then stop thinking about it. 

I know that most, if not all, of today’s 9/11 posts are totally sincere. And I don’t mean to imply that we shouldn’t post about it. Or talk about it. Or remember. 

Memories make us who we are. They wrap around the fibers of our being and change the way we think and act and love. But it can be too easy to pack away the uncomfortable memories in exchange for acting like we think we should. Checking a box. 

If it takes Facebook to remind us, like that old friend’s birthday–if our remembering becomes another box to check and nothing else–if it doesn’t make us live each day like it could be our last and hold our family a little closer or do something (anything!) about it–then we aren’t remembering very well. 

And on more than one occasion, that has been me. 

We don’t remember.

We cling to the memory of 9/11 as though the act of remembering changes something. We look at kids today in shock that they haven’t experienced the earth-rattling sadness of that day like we did. We visit the 9/11 memorial and run our fingers over name after graven name of the people who died because they got out of bed they morning. We hold desperately to a memory–never forget!–as if our memory somehow gives that day meaning or causes it to make sense.

But that day will never make sense. And the kids who are learning about September 11th in history class will never “get it,” any more than I get the assassination of JFK, the attack of Pearl Harbor, or the burning of believers at the stake because they dared translate the Bible into English in the 1300’s.

Our memory might give us wisdom, perspective, and a sense of gravity about life and current world events. It might honor those who died (though that concept has never completely made sense to me). But the minute we put it into a box, turn it into just another social media *thing* that doesn’t touch our actual lives, another proper civic box to check, right alongside French flag profile pictures and memes denigrating our most despised presidential candidate, we’re not honoring that day at all. We’re not remembering.

And as long as we take just a few minutes to remember how sad that day was but don’t change anything about our experience of today, the memory means little. Maybe as much as cooking out on Memorial Day and prefacing the meal with a prayer of thanks for those who died so we’d have the freedom to eat ribs.

Soon 9/11 will become as inconsequential a piece of our history as Pearl Harbor is now to almost everyone in my generation.

As a nation with more memorials and museums than any other, we are incredibly bad at actually remembering much of anything.

If you want to remember, watch the videos of the towers falling. Look at the unsanitized photos the media didn’t publish. Live as though today could be your last–because it could. If you want to remember, do something, whether that means supporting those defending out nation now or volunteering at a soup kitchen because that’s one little thing you can actually do for people who are alive and need help today.

Whatever it means for you, do something. Otherwise you haven’t remembered much.