DotMoms

Relate to this!

By Teddi

One thing I've noticed since I became a SAHM: some people just can't deal. Lately I've realized that some friendships I thought were pretty tight have dwindled to nothing. Calls are not returned, e-mails not responded to, nothing.

I realized there would be a rash of, "How-can-she-afford-that?" jealousy when we decided I would stay home. I did it myself all the time. No amount of penciling out the cost of childcare for two toddlers in our hideously expensive town vs. my part-time income and highlighting the resulting pathetic dollar figure convinced these individuals that I wasn't somehow getting away with something. Do they think I sit around eating bonbons, watching daytime television all day?

Nothing could be further from the truth. I spend my days literally running everywhere. I have no time, except for naps, when I collapse into a weary heap. Okay, full disclosure, I watch "Oprah" pretty much every day, but I'm having tickle parties, administering snacks, cleaning and prepping dinner while it's on.

I've taken on more household chores than ever before, but the truth is, I like it. I'm having a much more rewarding time here than I ever did at work. Sometimes I miss sitting in front of a computer and feeling productive, but not enough to go back. Someday, I will, but it will be the right time for all of us. The fact that people find this threatening mystifies me.

I'm really bummed that some people have just dropped my ass. It's like I went from being a trusted confidante to being someone they couldn't relate to at all, just because I'm not earning a paycheck at a job I hated.

I get people being insecure. I've gone through my own share of wishing I had what other people do. I let it consume me for a long time, then got knocked around a lot, almost lost everything and finally came out the other side with a completely different set of priorities. But understanding isn't enough. It hurts when a relationship ends, but it hurts even more when you can't figure out why.

So, do I try to confront the people who have written me off one last time, or is it better to just chalk it up to insecurity -- theirs and mine -- and move on with the life I enjoy?

Word play

By Teddi

It's happened, something clicked inside and my daughter Lily is learning bunches of words, what they mean and stringing them into sentences as fast as she can. After months of wondering if she would ever talk, there's no turning back now.

Last week, my husband and I were having lunch at a kid-friendly restaurant and Lily yelled, "HEY, Mama!" at the retreating back of our waitress, like a biker summoning his girlfriend in a sleazy bar. It was so loud the other diners turned and laughed.

At Gymboree class, she stands in front of the teacher, who is attempting to address her students, loudly mimicking every sound, punctuating each "sentence" with huge windmill arm gestures and expressions like hugely-widened eyes, and yells of "HI" and "UM." The other parents look at me with suprise. "Wow, she's a real talker," is something I've heard a lot lately.

In the mornings, I slowly awake to her chattering alone in her crib. All I can hear is a low stream of garbled syllables. Through my fog, I make out "Elmo, bobble, mama, baby!" followed by a stream of giggles.

Sometimes I feel bad for her brother. Jimmy her twin, is still dwelling in the land of "uh-oh" and "ball." He's pretty far away from sentences at this point. I worry that Lily might be completely overshadowing him. She was sick not long ago and a bit quieter than usual; I noticed Jimmy chattered incessantly that day, in his garbled baby talk.

I was telling my friend over coffee the other day how much Lily talks. My friend has known our family a long time. I'm the quiet one, my husband is the talker. She knows that sometimes I relish when he goes out for the evening so I have some time to myself, a little peace and quiet.

Just think, she offered helpfully, now they'll always have someone to talk to!

Sounds good to me. Even though I'm not a talker, I really enjoy listening.

Lost in transition

By Teddi

I recently took a break from motherhood to attend to some much-neglected friendships. Needing a little kick start to my new status as stay-at-home-mom, a dose of sunshine, and a use for my excess frequent flier miles, I was pretty excited to get away for a couple of days.

It started out great. The flight was fine and, once airborne, I realized I could relax and occupy myself with thoughts other than who would be an acceptable future spouse for my husband and mother of my children in the event of a fiery crash. I was surprised that the list was so short, and that there were a lot of not-even-over-my-dead-body candidates.

The flight was without incident, the promised sunshine shone, the sky was blue, and at some point so were the cocktails. Excellent Mexican food was forthcoming. It was great to catch up with my friends, though truthfully we didn't have too much ground to cover since I saw them a couple weeks ago at my house.

BUT, here's the thing: as much as I want to be a woman who is liberated, and has a life outside the home and is able to converse with people other than my immediate family, someone able to maintain friendships with people who are making different life choices than mine, at some point I just felt irritated.

It pains me to admit it, but I found myself getting annoyed that my friends didn't seem very supportive of my recent life choice, a huge change for me, and horror or horrors, weren't more interested in my kids and every little thing they were doing, down to the most minute, excruciating detail.

The scary thing is, I've seen women doing the same thing I am (i.e., ditching the job for the kids) end up becoming slaves to their young children, and most nauseatingly, to their husbands. It's not pretty, and I always firmly believed it results in spoiled kids, spoiled husbands, and women without identities.

Maybe I just need too much validation, but I just felt like I was doing a lot of accommodating and affirming with my friends, without getting much in return. But for some reason, not doing so makes me feel guilty. I have this weird need to be a cheerleader for other people because I desperately need someone to tell me I'm doing the right thing.

So, my question: How does a devoted SAHM assert her identity without feeling like she's lost her sense of self?

Short-time employee, long-time mom

By Teddi

I've gone and done it. After months of agonizing, soul-searching and sleepless nights, I finally decided to put my illustrious career on hold and devote myself to full-time motherhood.

What a crock. The truth is, I've wanted to get out of this dead-end job for over five years. It took me about 10 minutes to figure out there was no growth potential, no creativity and an overwhelming mountain of red tape to cut through to get even the smallest project done. Oh, and no money to complete said projects in the first place.

Why did I stay? For some really good, really boring reasons: decent pay, a stable job in an extremely unstable employment region, great (union-negotiated!) benefits and a work culture that is understanding of one's personal life and goals.

Once the twins came, reasons to come back to the office seemed few and far between, but the need to make my own money and hiring a great caregiver helped ease the transition. My employer's approval to work Mondays from home and have Fridays off didn't hurt either.

The sad reality is that when you add up the money spent on quality childcare for two, minus my part-time salary, the end result isn't enough to cover parking and a latte, let alone contribute to the drastically rising tide of household expenses. Not to mention having large parts of my childrens' development ("He took his first step! She said her first word!") relayed through a third party. Staying home seemed to make more and more sense, emotionally and financially.

Telling my boss was easy. Of course, everyone understood. They even expressed surprise that I lasted this long. The hard part was not dancing around and singing, "The Hills Are Alive, With the Sound Of Me Quitting."

I don't think I harbor illusions about stay-at-home motherhood, but I have a feeling spending the day singing "The Wheels on the Bus" will be more fulfilling than writing a "safety campaign" to keep people from getting killed by the bus. With two at a time, I feel like there's never enough of me to go around. Now I'll actually be here to find out.

Only for a year, though. I'm already filling out pre-school applications. What, do you think I'm crazy or something?

Baby got back

By Teddi

This is going to sound really weird. In some states, it might even get me arrested. But I just love my son's butt.

He really does possess a serious booty: large, round and firm. It's been described by more than a few people as "juicy." I find myself reaching out and grabbing it several times a day, just to feel the heft of it in my hand, like a nice, ripe grapefruit.

I guess I should be grateful it's not the other way around, somehow I doubt his twin sister would be happy with a large posterior. As it stands now, she has absolutely no butt, not even enough to hang her pants on. My husband describes it as "a quarter cup of bottom" and that seems just about right.

Maybe it's because I have to spend a lot of time looking at it that I like Jimmy's butt so much. My absolute favorite is when I check on him before bed to make sure he has covers. He's usually lying there on his stomach, snoring peacefully, legs tucked up under his body, his can waaaayyyy up in the air. It makes my heart hurt every time. I just love that boy so much.

Meanwhile, my little guy is heading into toddlerhood with a vengeance. Pretty soon he won't tolerate mom's butt touching, just changing his diapers these days is like wrestling an enthusiastic alligator, and he certainly will not enjoy me referring to his bottom as "cute."

I'm really going to miss that.

What "parts" of your children do you love and/or miss?

Time out, times two

By Teddi

We had our first time out this weekend. By "we," I mean my son Jimmy (the recipient), my husband and I (the administrators), our daughter Lily (the victim and not-so-innocent bystander).

My son is getting in touch with his inner bully. Lately, he finds it hilarious to hit, sit on or otherwise try to impale his much smaller twin sister. At 14 months, he's the size of an average two-year-old and packs quite a wallop.

It started in Costco, with him turning and hitting her in the face as we maneuvered through the crowded store. With limited ways to stop or even curtail the madness, I just let it go. A big mistake. That evening, after repeated exhortations, he crawled like lightning across the room, head butted her so hard she fell over, then proceeded to lay on and bite her. Adding insult to injury, he bit her on the butt. This took place in full view of us, his horrified parents.

As my husband carried him upstairs to his crib, Jimmy cackled maniacally, practically foaming at the mouth with excitement. We decided to give him 10 minutes to calm down. For the first four, he giggled. The next few minutes were spent grunting questioningly, as if to say, "Hey, wait a minute, where'd everybody go?" For the final minutes, he realized the jig was up. He whined, cried a bit, and was much calmer when he came downstairs. Did he actually "get it"? I have no idea.

For someone who grew up without siblings, I find the whole hitting-kicking-biting thing very alarming. It's not that I didn't know it was coming, I'm just not used to the level of violence. Friends with two kids -- and anyone who has ever had a sibling -- tell me to brace myself, things will probably get a whole lot worse.

I just refuse to accept that. In my mind, they have a special twin bond. They will be best friends, look out for each other, love each other forever, and traipse hand-in-hand down the long, winding road of life. I'd like to hold onto these naïve illusions for a while. They comfort me.

Now, if I can just rein in the butt biting.

Milestones

By Teddi

A co-worker from a different department asked about my twins yesterday. I proudly showed him my most recent pictures. Lately I've noticed that I measure esteem for my colleagues -- and just about everyone else -- by how much they ooh and ahh over my endless parade of photos, stories and other assorted toddler ephemera.

"How old are they?"

"Thirteen months," I replied in my "can-you-believe-it?" tone.

"And they're not walking yet? Wow, well, don't worry too much, I've heard twins are slow sometimes compared to normal kids."

I gritted my teeth as he walked away. I hate how comments like that make me feel. Oddly defensive, frustrated, even a little ashamed. We've been told countless times by people who actually do know what they're talking about (our pediatrician, baby experts, every baby book published in the last 20 years) that all babies develop at a different pace and ours are moving along just fine. In fact, they're thriving little campers.

Still…

I wasn't too concerned when the babies in my singleton mom's group began standing up, cruising and taking a few tiny steps in walkers. On our latest visit, I noticed my kids were the last ones not yet walking. But my idiot colleague is right, singletons really are a little faster on the development train. Not a big deal.

Then last week I went to my twins group. Again, we're in last place in the walking race. Jimmy and Lily crawl around like their butts are on fire, get up on their knees and bounce, stand up on any available surface, sometimes without support, but they just don't get the whole walking thing. It's like they just aren't interested. My vague sense of embarrassment was enhanced by the fact that my kids are the oldest in the group by a few weeks.

So what am I so worried about? That my kids will be unable to walk? Visions of me fashioning some kind of double homemade sling to ferry my 40-pound kids from room to room flash through my mind. But that's not really it.

Life can be seen as a competition and since I've had kids I'm amazed at how I feel myself getting caught up in reaching the milestones instead of enjoying the journey. In theory, I know better, and I hate that I let inconsequential things like this bother me, but I do.

When people ask about the walking, I usually laugh it off and say, "Well, I'm not really rushing it, as soon as they're both walking, my life will really get intense." Lately I'm realizing it's me who needs to turn down the intensity a notch and enjoy the ride.

Do you worry about milestones?

Loving Courtney

By Teddi

I can't help it. I love Courtney Cox-Arquette.

I know, she's not really my "Friend," we don’t hang out at the coffee shop and do yoga and redecorate our houses together. I don't usually buy into the whole "They are celebrities, therefore let’s worship them" thing, but I just have to hand it to her.

After many miscarriages, Ms. Cox-Arquette was very honest about her pregnancy being the result of fertility treatments.

This takes balls, people.

When strangers come up to my double stroller and ask which side of the family twins run in, I take a deep breath and explain that, well, actually, we did In Vitro Fertilization, and even if twins ran in my family, it wouldn't really matter. From there, I can usually expect a bewildered look, a warm understanding smile, or some embarrassed, uncomfortable fidgeting, depending on the person and situation. But I pretty much always try to come clean.

Is it easy? No. Is it fun? No. So why do it?

One: I am incredibly fortunate that not one, but TWO little miracle humans found me, and I need to acknowledge the people who worked their asses off to help me get pregnant, and who helped my husband and I get through treatment cycles that didn't work.

Two: I bet almost every single one of the people trying and failing to conceive out there right now feels at least slightly embarrassed, ashamed or inadequate, so much so that some of them don't want to tell even their closest friends and family what they are going through. I know. I was one of them. Courtney probably was, too. I don't know how it makes her feel, but even if I'm giving out too much information or answering a question that's really nobody's damn business, it makes me feel good to release a small fraction of this stigma into the universe.

That's why I have to hand it to Courtney. Celebrities are so full of it 99 percent of the time. Not only has she talked honestly about the treatments, she told journalists how lucky she is to have been able to afford it, which is so true.

Anyone who has ever gone through fertility treatments and has managed to come out the other side with a healthy pregnancy knows enough to be very grateful, but when was the last time you heard it from a celebrity?

Birthday Numero Uno

By Teddi

Most parents celebrate surviving their babies' first year. I'm celebrating surviving my babies' first birthday party.

I'm certain that I will look back on the moment I decided it would be "fun" to host a birthday luau to celebrate my twins turning one as temporary insanity.

I vaguely remember something about sharing precious moments in the warm embrace of family and friends. Nice idea. The reality? More like: try to keep estranged parents from being in the same room, attempt to keep overly sensitive stepmother from perceived slights, keep friends from identifying co-worker with drinking problem, try -- and fail -- to keep family dog from eating the birthday cake, ply people with food and drink while attending to two very demanding guests of honor.

And where was the husband, you might ask? My partner in crime was, of course, manning the grill and keg. Jobs which clearly require intense scrutiny and meticulous attention to detail. But hey, at least he cooks. I do draw the line somewhere.

As I was e-mailing out the invitations (God bless e-mail, Evite, and all of cyberspace) the guest list magically sprouted from 12 to 35. As the days progressed I felt guilty that we weren't "sharing the love" with more people, so I'd invite a co-worker here, an old high school buddy there, the neighbors. As the date neared I considered posting a sign in the front yard: Party Here Saturday, Bring Everyone You Know.

It wasn't until the arrangements were in full swing that I read that one-year-olds can get very freaked out by birthday parties, not to mention loud parties full of slightly tipsy adults in Hawaiian shirts wielding cameras. Better to keep it low-key.

"Too late now!" my husband cheerfully contributed, busily deciding which pilsner would fill the tiki mugs.

It's post-party, now. I'm emotionally, physically, and financially drained. But despite all the work it was (dare I say it?) fun. Watching my babies eat their first piece of birthday cake (surprise, they like sugar!) and try to open their presents were moments that I will never forget. Priceless, just like the dumb commercials that get me all choked up.

So, next year, another birthday, another milestone. Will I heed my own advice, keep it low key, and never do this again? Of course not. I've already decided on a Mexican theme. Arriba!

Fashionista

By Teddi

I have something that strikes fear in the hearts of working moms everywhere: the hip nanny.

Every morning at 8:07 (her actual start time is 8, but I digress) she shows up at our door reeking style from tip to toe. The hat and scarf artfully coordinate with the shoes -- so many shoes -- and bags. Everything monogrammed, beribboned, bowed. Not matching but somehow completely coordinated. The hair gelled, sculpted and primped within an inch of its life. The lip-gloss tattooed on. And if you get bored with that level of visual interest, there are actual tattoos for your viewing pleasure.

Seeing as she doesn't drive and barely leaves the house, I have to conclude that this is all for the benefit of myself, my 11-month-old twins, and I suppose, my husband, who would be hard-pressed to find "fashion" in the dictionary.

Actual conversation between husband and nanny:

What are those?
What, these? They're arm warmers.
Arm warmers? Why? Are your arms cold?
No, I just like them.
Oh...

Lucky for her, besides being our nanny, she also works in a clothing store. There's no way she could afford such finery on what I pay her. The irony of her salary coming almost directly out of any fashion budget I might have is not lost on me.

I wasn't known for being a style maven before pregnancy, but I'd like to think I looked decent once in a while. Admittedly, I'm more from the J. Crew, Banana Republic just-blend-in school of fashion, but I try to keep up. I read In Style, sometimes even Vogue.

But faced with a permanently altered waistline, feet that have changed size so many times I've lost track, an overall lack of time, funds and energy for shopping, accessorizing, grooming or maintenance of same, spending every morning on the catwalk has resulted in a very unflattering blend of feelings in me. Topping the list: old, fat and tired.

My strategy has been to rise above the fray, and tell myself that while she might have low-slung trousers with matching peekaboo thongs for every day of the blessed week, I've got a house, car, bills to pay and two college educations to provide. It would be frivolous and wasteful for me to spend money on trendy clothes. While she's laying down hard-earned cash on stilettos and mesh T-shirts, I've got CDs and mutual funds maturing AS WE SPEAK.

Which is why I demanded -- and received -- a Kate Spade handbag for Mother's Day. Impractical, trendy and expensive. Much like arm-warmers, some things can't be explained with logic and reason.