First Fair

Cows are big!

I experienced that first hand last week when Nora and I took Bemma to the Clark County fair with their pal Macy and our good friend Kristy. We live in a semi-rural area and many of our drives are choreographed around farms that have a few roaming cows. The
four-legged grazers give Bemma something to marvel at as Barney's melodies fill the car and burrow deep into my subconscious (seriously, every time I run, do the dishes, eat, use the bathroom, wash the car, check the mail, etc., I have one of that purple monster's songs rattling through my head..."look both ways when you cross the street...").

My role is usually that of a spotter, identifying the cows and then providing direction as to which side of the car Bemma can direct their focus, although they have a great cow radar and have memorized each spot at which the cows should be located. As the spotter, and usually the driver, I haven't taken a lot of time to really appreciate the sheer mass of a cow until I was at the fair, standing within a few feet of one. Suddenly that grazing giant didn't seem serene and his black and white spots seemed like some kind of psychoanalytical puzzle designed to distract me long enough to gobble up Ben's right arm and slowly digest it in one of his four stomachs. I was wary of the cow, and I'm pretty sure he was wary of me, but Ben thought it was great.

And don't even get me started on the sheep. Those are some creepy animals whose noises sound nothing like the innocent, "Baa," Old MacDonald would lead us to believe. As we walked past their bleating cries and pitch black eyes that looked at nothing--and yet everything--I felt the maze of pens closing in on me, and when Emma said, "Bye, Bye", with her sad lower lip protruding, I gladly scooped her up and retreated.

To my relief, the bunnies were soft and harmless, and the chicks were so cute I wanted to put one in my shirt pocket to take home, but I refuse to accept that a full grown chicken is an animal to be trusted. Chickens are shiftier than a mobster at an FBI gala. The way they claw the ground and peck the air makes them look like they're about to burst, ready to cross over from sanity to insanity. It's like they just watched the colonel stroll by with a bucket of finger lickin' goodness and they were pretty sure that extra crispy wing looked a lot like their uncle Freddy who vanished without a word from the farm last week.

And on that note, I found it either very ironic or well-planned, and a little bit messed up, that the stall of beef cows opened onto a huge sign of a giant burger. Maybe it's the budding vegan in me, but really? I mean it's one thing to eat the cows, but do we have to make them look at a picture of it all day long? I'm just saying...

Even though I'm apparently suffering some kind of PTSD from the fair (seriously, my unsettled feelings about farm animals has tumbled out of me while writing this blog) Bemma seemed to love all the animals. When they saw the cows they reacted a lot like I would if I'd seen Ken Griffey Jr. or Michael Jordan when I was 12. I would've jumped up and down, shouted an exclamation, and peed my pants a little. That's pretty much what they did when they got to stand next to a cow.

As you might be able to infer, the farm animals were the biggest hit for Bemma, but they also got to ride on a Tea Cup and Emma and Macy rode on the carousel. Ben is still building up his courage for that one, but I think he's watched Emma ride it enough times with no ill consequences that maybe he'll be excited to ride the "horsey" the next time the opportunity presents itself.

Our stay was short (only a couple of hours), the rides were overpriced (they always are), and I'm pretty sure I will never be able to visit a real life animal farm, but going to the fair was a great day.

I'm realizing more and more that it's local events and features -- the fairs, the farmer's market (Vancouver and Camas), library events, movies and concerts in the parks, the parks themselves, and countless other things -- that are the bright patches on the quilts of Bemma's childhood. I'm so grateful that we live a community that values these things. In an economy where budgets are being scoured as carefully as job postings, these events provide some much needed relief and allows parents like me to give their kids a memorable summer.

I'm getting excited for the Puyallup fair, but I'll be sure to bring a decoy Ben and a decoy Emma in case the cows or sheep try and get too frisky. And the next time we drive by a cow I will pause Barney out of respect for the giant creature and his four stomachs.

Timeline Part Two: The NICU

NICU: Neonatal Intensive Care Unit

We were so relieved that Ben and Emma made it to 34 weeks gestation, and were born healthy, that their time in the NICU didn't feel as scary or overwhelming as I'd imagined. For one thing, they were very healthy compared with some of the babies they shared the unit with, which provided us with perspective on just how fortunate we were. For another thing, since Bemma weren't in dire physical condition -- outside of a little jaundice and CPAP for Emma they were mostly taking time to rest, eat, and repeat -- the three weeks they spent ripening became a magical slice of time when Nora healed and rested, we got to know our babies, we received newborn handling instructions from some of the best nurses in the country, and, most surprisingly, Nora and I got to spend a lot of hours together over lunch and coffee while the babies slept.

At first it felt weird to ever leave the babies bedside, but, after much prompting from the wise sages in scrubs, we finally believed that having some time together away from the hospital while the babies slept was not only allowed, it was possibly the best way to renew our spirits and charge our batteries for what we had coming the moment the NICU staff decided to give us the keys to newborn parenthood.

Our days developed a lovely pattern. We'd wake early, gather clothes for Bemma, and make the trek to the hospital in time for the 9am feeding. After vigorously scrubbing ourselves at the entrance, so as not to infect the vulnerable babies, we'd scurry to the corner of the unit our little ones were tucked into.

We'd always make sure the night nurse told the day nurse that we were going to be there so that we could participate in the entire ritual. First, we'd say happy good mornings to the little faces we'd never forget but were still getting to know. Next we'd unwrap them from their cocoon of swaddling blankets and change their tiny diapers, which made me feel like a giant with tree stumps for fingers. Finally we'd re-clothe and swaddle our bundles and offer them a bottle, measured by the milliliter. Under careful observation from the nurse, we'd place Bemma in the 'feeding position' with the left arm supporting the body and the left hand supporting the head. With the right hand we'd tilt the bottle to just the right angle so as to optimize food intake, but minimize gas bubbles. And then we'd hope, plead and pray for twins to eat, and erupt in hushed exultation if even a handful of milliliters had made the journey from bottle to belly.

After 30-45 minutes the nurse would call 'time' and we'd have to return our bundles to the bed and watch as the remainder of their bottle was shuttled through a tube that ran into their nose, through their pharynx, down their esophagus and into their stomach. We'd watch with awe as our little angels fluttered in and out of dozing and then gave in to their desperate need for sleep.

To recap the events up to that point, we arrived at the bedside by 9am. Changed diapers from 9-9:30ish and fed from 9:30-10:15ish. (That illustrates another thing about premature babies. Everything happens in slow motion). The next ritual would commence at high noon, so it was at this time that Nora would usually rest in a chair next to the babies and I'd go for a run. I'd race back in time for the noon changing and feeding, after which we'd usually go have lunch and be sure to return by 3pm to perform the ritual yet again. After the 3pm, there would be some afternoon napping with the babies, a little snack and, BAM, it'd be 6pm, time to do it again. At the 6pm, we'd have to hustle because they closed the NICU to visitors from 7-8pm. At that point, after a long day of drinking in our new babies and time spent together, Nora and I would return home, unpack our belongings, eat some food, lay out some clothes for Bemma for the next day and then get some rest, excited to do it all the next day.

I know the 6am, 12pm, 3pm, and 6pm feeding rituals may sound like the same activity over and over again, but they were anything but that. Each time we changed a diaper, held our babies, wrapped them in blankets, touched their toes, fed them, stared at them while they slept, or burped them, was in of itself a spectacular and exciting moment, like taking the first steps on the moon repeatedly throughout the course of a day. I never would've guessed that living in a newborn's world could be so exciting.

After three weeks, the babies got the nod from the docs, and the nurses handed us the keys to our babies. We accepted them with glee, hearts bursting to take the training wheels off of our parenthood. 24 hours and no sleep later we were ready to re-install those training wheels and move back into the cozy confines of the NICU. Our magical slice of time had officially been consumed by life with twin newborns.

Stay tuned for a chronicle of the newborn months...

Timeline

Since the first positive pregnancy test, my feelings regarding life with Bemma have fluctuated like a teenage girl picking her favorite 'Twilight' character. As I've mentioned in earlier posts, I always loved them, but my enthusiasm for all they required ebbed and flowed, tides pulled by the moons of sleepless nights, adorable smiles, exploding diapers, first words, endless words, and so on, and so forth.

I'm going to jot down a rough time line of my life with Bemma so far. Its not exact, and it's based on my alternating sleep-deprived and caffeine-injected memory, so the stories and the children involved may blur...kind of like their names. Bemma. :)

This blog is the first in a series of the 'Timeline' blogs, so if you like it, there's more to come. If you don't, well, I don't really know what to tell you.


Pregnancy

The entire pregnancy was an emotionally, and--for Nora-- physically grueling ordeal. It was a snail-paced gauntlet of nausea, stress, a shrinking cervix, and bed rest, mixed with moments of pure ecstasy when Emma would make her presence known by shoving her foot through Nora's abdomen and Ben would show up on the ultrasound as an accommodating roommate, folded in half and pushed to the very bottom of the womb as Emma enjoyed her bigger umbilical cord and penthouse view.

Mostly, the pregnancy was very hard on both Nora and I, but we pushed through because those little peas in the pod were growing and revealing their personalities, and we wanted to do everything possible to make sure they got a chance to express themselves. There were a lot of doctors, a lot of doughnuts and a lot of prayer. I must say that Nora handled it all beautifully, proving herself a selfless mother long before she'd even held Bemma in her arms. When I think back on that time I don't remember her complaining. I just remember her on the couch, face set and spirit determined that she would do anything, everything to make sure she got her chance to get to know her children.

Meanwhile, I felt helpless.


Birth

It seems that I'm horrible at anticipating how I will react to the biggest moments of my life. The days I graduated from high school and college, the day I proposed to Nora, and my wedding day all felt entirely different than I;d imagined they would. In many ways they exceeded my imagination and for the most part I reacted much different emotionally than I'd guessed.

For example, I always thought I'd be one of those guys that couldn't stop crying when he saw his future wife walking down the aisle, and that I'd blubber through the vows. But on my wedding day, as Nora floated gracefully down the aisle, I felt no urge to cry. I found myself flooded in peace and could do nothing but smile. I saw my lover, my friend, my life-partner making her way to join me and felt an overwhelming and simple reassurance, peace wrapped in joy...with a heaping side of excitement for the honeymoon to come...

Likewise, I thought I would rain buckets of joyful tears upon seeing my children, especially after the hard road of Nora's pregnancy. But on that beautiful April evening at 8:28 and 8:29, respectively, I found myself in the company of the same peace I'd met on my wedding night. As I held my son, and then my daughter, covered in the birth goo only a parent can find adorable, I didn't want to cry. I just wanted the world to stop spinning so I could drink in my children and be refreshed by their cooling presence after the desert of fear Nora and I had wandered. I wanted just a moment to get to know the serene little man that Benjamin was and marvel at Emma's bright red afro and fierce cry. As I took big gulps of their presence relief and thanksgiving washed away my fear and I realized that the tears I'd anticipated for so long were nowhere to be found. I felt the purest happiness I've ever known. I was still, at peace with the Universe, my family intact.

In the next blog I'll reminisce on our time in the NICU and the early weeks...oh, the early weeks...

Taylor Cleaning Inc.

Toddlers would make great sled dogs.

I figured that out this morning when Bemma and I were at the high school track testing out my Vibram Five Fingers, and exploring my project of transitioning to a barefoot running stride.

After my calves and feet persuaded me that it was time to give up my efforts for the day, I unhooked Ben and Emma from their stroller harnesses and set them free to roam the empty soccer/football field that was decorated with giant white numbers and lines from almost all colors of the rainbow. I figured they'd toddle from one giant number to the next, shuttering with excitement - like a palm tree in a hurricane - each time they spotted a familiar digit; I thought for sure Ben would follow the yellow line as if it were Dorothy's famed road, and he could even play the mayor of the Lollipop Guild; I had no doubt that Emma would be running shuttle sprints between the rainbow lines like a rookie in training camp.

I had not doubt...but once again, I was wrong. All Bemma wanted to do is push the stroller.

The stroller seemed to call to them, like a Ferrari on a race track, and in almost perfect unison they began mushing that stroller around the field with determination "Rudy" would envy. Heads down and legs churning, their frenetic energy was enough to turn a Prius into the previously mentioned Ferrari, and with subtle adjustments from Dad (they were after all blind, their sight completely impaired by the stroller) they covered the field in lines reminiscent of Picasso.

I jogged beside them, amazed that they greeted such a mundane task with enthusiasm, and it got me thinking. I should let Bemma do all my chores, errands, and menial tasks. All I'd have to do is convince them it's their privilege. I honestly can't believe I haven't realized this before.

Bemma already beg and plead to cook, unload the dishwasher, fold the laundry, sweep, mop, and shop for groceries, and I think I should start letting them. I could provide a little adjustment here and there to keep them on course, and before you know it our house would be a like a 1905 industrial factory.

Who knows? Before long I could have them churning through other people's laundry and dishes. I could start a mobile cleaning service and turn their energy for a profit, and before you get too caught up in things like morality and legality, don't worry. I'll make sure they are stocked in juice boxes, choo choos and Barney DVDs. After all, they are my children and I would never, ever, take advantage of them.

The sad irony of my little plan is that I'd still have to change their diapers, since they've yet to show any enthusiasm for the mundane task of evacuating their bowels and bladders into a toilet. But for now I'll have to settle for Taylor Cleaning Inc. Just don't tell the people who started those silly child labor laws. They obviously never experienced the raw power of a toddler in action.

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I inserted the marathon picture for a reference point of the stroller. The other pictures are just darn cute one of them is even a little dated...in case you couldn't tell.

Home Sweet Home

I can't wait to get home, which is a bit ironic because I've usually got one foot out the door as soon as Bemma rise from nap or night time. The quicker we escape our house the less time I spend held prisoner by their boredom as its screams, whines, and cries careen throughout the house. And their toys offer little comfort, scattered throughout the house like leper colonies, not to be touched and certainly not to be played with!

So I scoop them up and make my escape from the boredom, the screaming, the fighting and crying. I escape to a park, a coffee shop, a trail, anywhere the kiddos can be occupied and hopefully burn some energy.

The bottom line is I don't usually look forward to returning home with Ben and Emma (unless it's bed time), but after a couple of days in a non-baby proofed environment I'm almost giddy to return to our outlet plugs, locked cabinets, Houdini drawers and elevated electronics. Two days away has reminded me just how safe and simple home is.

We've been at Mop Mop's (My mom) all weekend and from the moment we arrived they found danger like a drug-sniffing dog at a Pablo Escobar fiesta, while tearing through the house like a class 5 twister even Jodie Foster would be proud of. Not only did they find the most dangerous paraphernalia in the house, but they left a trail of carnage, not unlike the famous bull in a china shop.

In any place other than home, nap times are never long enough, bed time is always a little late and the morning is -- you guessed it -- a little to early. I theorize that it's in large part because toddler humans are not like adult humans. Adult humans welcome a break from routine, but such a break seems to rock a toddler's world and transforms them into the drug-hound tornado-bull mentioned earlier.

I always think the excitement of Mop Mop's house and the presence of new faces will be enough to satisfy even Bemma's nanosecond attention span, but I'm always wrong...oh so wrong.

Home, sweet home, where my children return to their slightly predictable behaviors.

But I have to say that at the end of it the trips are worth it, not only because we all get precious time with Mop Mop, but because it allows our hearts to miss home, making our daily life a little sweeter once we return. At the very least, home is able to moderately contain their inner drug-hound tornado-bull...moderately being the key word.

Am I Naked?

I swear I must be naked.

I draw this conclusion based on the looks moms fire at me when I'm out with Bemma. And it's not the, "Ooh, I like what I see," stares that Brad Pitt might evoke, but rather the, "You're naked and it's awkward...oh so awkward," stares that Danny Devito inspired in that one 'Friends' episode.

It's like Moms don't know what to do with me and my duo. Take Sip 'n' Play, for example, a little shop that serves coffee and a nice enclosed area for the kids to play. In the evening or on a weekend there is a smattering of both moms and dads, but in the middle of a weekday--forget about it--the mamas rule the roost.

We went there this morning and I was the lone adult XY in a sea of XXs, which I have no inherent problem with. I accept the XXs with their play dates, Amazon Kindles, knitting, early development jargon and monstrous frappacinos. I respect that their precious little children wear starched matching attire, with hairs all in place and faces free of this morning's breakfast. But do you think that river of respect runs both ways? Not based on the Danny Devito looks.

Of course they're very polite and subtle about it all. They don't actually say out loud, "Why is that man here with that poor set of twins, and did he really do that pretty little girl's hair like that?"

Oh no, they give me the cordial smiles, whose chill could frost a beverage quite nicely, and leave me a perimeter wide enough to enclose an elephant. They practically press themselves against the wall while they scurry by, as if they were fleeing for their life along a cliff's edge. They seem desperate to honor my territory, afraid I might scalp their children if they bump Emma's sippy cup.

Okay, to be fair, I am sprinkling in a bit of hyperbole, but not the scoops and scoops you might think. Being a dad in a world full of moms is tricky. It's similar to being a snail shell on a river beach of smooth skipping stones. Both are beautiful and serve a wonderful purpose, but when you place them side by side the differences leap out at you, like the crazy Asian guy in 'The Hangover'.

Such is my lot in life. I suppose Barney would tell me, "You're not different, You're special? But what does he know. He's actually naked.


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By the way, the pictures are from my mom when they were at her house recently. Although it would be fun to release them at Sip 'n' Play garbed in such a manner...

Birth of a Memory?

Bemma made cookie bars today. Let me rephrase that. Ben and Emma poured apple sauce, oil, flower, baking powder, chocolate chips, peanut butter and brown sugar, into a bowl, stirred it and watched as Daddy spread it on a baking sheet. I dutifully baked the cookie bars and served them for snack, but oddly enough most of the cookie bars found their way into the garbage can.

I think Ben and Emma enjoyed our foray into the culinary arts, but I find myself contemplating more than just the cute pictures of the event or the dirty dishes that were spawned. I find myself wondering if they'll remember the first time they made cookie bars.

I'm pretty sure my earliest memories were from around the age of two, frozen frames preserved in the recesses of my mind like a woolly mammoth. I can't tell you the context of the memory, only flashes of sensations. An overwhelming smell, a stark contrast of light and dark, the feel of a toothbrush in my mouth, or the sensation of joy while watching 'Snow White'. Such is the confined world where my earliest memories dwell.

So, I wonder, what about Ben and Emma? What will be their snapshots, their frozen moments in time. I hope and pray it will be the feeling of apple sauce and brown sugar as they ooze through their fingers, or the look on Daddy's face as he chases and then embraces them while flooding them with kisses. May mercy prevail and moments such as those line the walls of their subconscious. My fear, of course, is that the sharp tone of my frustrated voice, or the furrow of my angry brow will be those earliest memories, but who really can know? All I can really do is take it moment by moment, doing my best to lay down the bricks of positive memories so that when the house of their memories is complete there may be spots of blemish, but they will be swallowed up by a lifetime of positive, uplifting and encouraging moments with Mom and Dad.

There is little more that I could think to wish for.