It's all in the bag...

There is a saying that you can tell a lot about a woman from the size of her handbag.   Apparently, the larger the bag, the more extroverted a woman's personality. My theory is that it obviously has more to do with necessity than personality - after all, I have gone from carrying no bag in my youth, to carrying one now under which boy scouts could comfortably make camp with no fear of getting wet in the rain.  I doubt that my personality has changed that much.

Not only that, the contents of a bag are supposed to say a lot about a woman.  I once won a prize for being the only woman at a ladies meeting to have a socket wrench in her handbag (don't ask!). The Sweetpea meanly refers to my present handbag as the Bermuda Triangle because he swears things go in there that never have a hope of coming out of there alive.  When sorting out my handbag the other day, I found (amongst other miscellaneous and unidentifiable half-sucked and discarded objects covered in bag fluff) a fleet of six vehicles, three bags of no-MSG-added chips, a half-eaten stale biscuit (it was still quite good - give me a break: I am a breast-feeding mom and pretty much starving all the time), three odd socks, four pairs of sunglasses (only two of which actually have lenses in them), my cell-phone, someone else's cell-phone (lovingly packed up by one of my kids on a visit somewhere), some rocks and dried flowers, a lipstick tube with no lipstick in it (industrious fingers have scratched it all out), various scribbled works of art that I have thought worth saving, and a dried chicken bone (Why? Why?).  Not sure what this says about me as a person, other than perhaps I am a mom of three busy and creative children who think nothing of using my handbag as a dumping ground.


However, when it comes to finding things, the shoe is on the other foot.  Invariably, as we prepare to go anywhere, I gather up my receptacle for all that I will ever need (i.e. my handbag) while I smugly wait for the Sweetpea to say "I can't find my......" (wallet, keys, cell-phone - you fill in the blank), and then rush around frantically trying to remember where he used it/saw it/saw the children playing with it last.  At that point, just as tempers are fraying and ire is running high, I calmly interject "We could always buy you a man-bag?"  Nothing is guaranteed to cause more consternation in a red-blooded, testosterone-flooded male than the mention of a man-bag.  It is like kryptonite to Superman.  All his power drains away at the thought of that ball-busting object.  For the next few days, keys are hung on hooks, wallets placed carefully in cupboard, cell-phones left on the loudest setting so that an emergency phone-call from the land-line will be able to locate them without fuss.  Until he grows sloppy and the cycle starts all over again.  

It appears that the eternally-raging battle of the sexes can be summed up in this one illustration (probably stemming from the days of the caveman): the woman, the gatherer of the tribe, carries all she needs with her; the man of the tribe, powerful hunter that he is, does not want to be weighed down by carrying unnecessary objects.  Yet while out and about, even Neanderthal man was likely to come up to his counterpart at some stage of the evening and say "Please could you just put my club in your bag?"

Sticks and stones....

When the boys were little, we could hardly wait for their first words.  We were lucky in that we did not have to wait very long for them - by thirteen months they could already say thirty words.  We were thrilled.  Life consisted of engineering opportunities for our marvelous children to show off their amazing skills.  We would introduce strange topics into the conversation in the hopes that the boys would overhear and demonstrate their unique abilities.  I once caught myself talking for almost ten minutes on end about the Crocodile Hunter, much to the bemusement of my guests (that was around the time the boys first started talking about crocodiles). One would have thought that we were the only parents ever to have witnessed their children uttering words.


Now, it seems, it is the getting them to stop talking that is the real key.  We have both been unpleasantly surprised to hear a loud voice echoing through the congregation at church: "Don't worry, I'll be back" - in true Rambo style as the boys left to go to their children's classes (to the amusement of the audience).


However, the latest occurred when, surrounded by my friends who were at my house for a play-date, one of my little firemen announced to me in a stage whisper: "I don't want to play with Sam anymore.  He is a miscreant." Where he would have learnt a word like that in the first place is still open to speculation, but to use it in such perfect context and with such assurance was what got to me.  When I tried to shush him with an Evil Eye stare, he merely thought I had not understood him and repeated himself with more emphasis and in louder tones.  Eventually, I had to hustle him out just to keep him quiet.


We all long for the days that those babbles turn into first words, but sometimes, the peace is something we look back on with fond remembrance.  The days of calmly walking through the supermarket not wondering when one of the boys will remark loudly on something they find unusual or interesting, like "I did a pardon-me that was louder than a monster truck" (referring to his breaking wind of which he seemed particularly proud), are long gone.  Well, it is not a smooth path, but it certainly is an interesting ride!

The Womanly Art of Breast-feeding??! Part Two

Ok, so I had effectively been told I was going to need help to feed my twins.  That basically meant formula, and where I come from, that word is only said in hushed tones and while making several signs to ward off evil.   It is just not done.  Or if it is, it is not talked about.  There is a huge amount of guilt associated with being a mum who feeds her babies formula.


Due to this fact, and also that I so badly wanted to feed the twins myself, I went through a fit of depression where I blamed everything (including the modern culture of wearing clothes) but mostly myself for the failure.  All the reasoned, supposed-to-be calming comments of the Sweetpea (comments made in what I call his Gynae Mode, in which he quotes a lot of statistics and something called randomised control studies) made not one whit of difference to me - I was upset and I wanted to wallow in my pity for myself and my boys.


However, as every psychologist knows, the next step along the grieving ladder is that of anger, and as time passed, I got angry.  It was probably the best thing that could have happened.  Just who were these people, with all their degrees and experience, to tell me that I couldn't feed my babies?  I knew myself better than they did!  I could do anything!  I was incensed!  It became a challenge for me.  


I started reading books.  I read that if you take more, you make more.  I went straight out and bought myself the strongest pump on the market (think milking cows, and you probably will be somewhere close); bought numerous potions, pills and odious old wives tales to increase milk (like brewer's yeast, fenugreek and some truly awful teas made of wing of bat or toe of dog or something); drank copious amounts of milk stout (not too much of a hardship there!); and finally started on a course of medication to increase my supply.


From then on I worked really hard at nothing else but producing enough milk to feed the boys.  Twenty minutes after feeding them, I expressed milk (after every feed, day or night).  I used the extra to top the boys up. At first, there was only one sorry little bottle of milk in the fridge, about 50 ml, standing by itself on the top shelf.  But later, as time went on and I managed to increase the supply, I realised that I was producing two and a half liters of milk a day.  That is enough to feed the average family (not that I think the average family would want to drink it!).  And best of all, the boys drank up every scrap of what I produced.


Eventually, I was able to slow down all the interventions, and managed to keep feeding them until I was six or seven moths pregnant with my next little one (they were almost two by then, and probably able to cope without it).  And boy, did I love feeding my little ones.  Not a day went past when I was not grateful for just one more day of being able to feed them.  When we had to start weaning (I could not see myself being able to feed three hungry mouths), I think I cried much more than they did.  In fact they didn't cry at all - I weaned them very slowly, over about two months, and substituted my milk with other milk.  


This all worked for me, but does not work for everyone.  The most important thing is that babies are healthy and happy and not hungry.  While breast is (for very obvious reasons) the best, don't beat yourself up about it if you are absolutely not able to do it.  A happy mum is a good thing for a baby too - one depressed by guilt is not going to help anyone. So if you can, fight for it, and if you can't, make peace with it!

The Womanly Art of Breast-feeding??! Part One

When I was in hospital after having the twins, I was surrounded by poster images of the perfect mother, hair brushed, a gentle application of make-up on her beautiful, smiling face, gazing contentedly into the distance while she breastfed her angelic infant.  The emphasis on breastfeeding is really strong here (as it should be!), and there was never any doubt in my mind that I would feed my little boys.  I remember when the breast-feeding consultant first came around to see me, I confidently declared "I will feed my boys" and she warned me not to set myself up for failure.  "Feeding twins is a different story," she told me at that time.  "Especially hungry boys."  I couldn't see the problem: after all, two children, two boobs - what could go wrong? 


At first, all went well.  The boys were strong and huge at birth (for twins).  At almost four kilograms each, and almost full term, they were ready to eat.  After all, they had been hanging around for nine months doing nothing, and everyone knows boredom is a killer for any man, no matter how old.  So eating seemed a good option for relieving tedium, and from the second of their birth onwards, they wanted to do nothing else.  


One thing I had not prepared myself for was the very exposed (by necessity) manner of feeding twins.  A mom of one baby can discreetly tuck her little one under a blankie for a snack and no one is the wiser.  However, with twins, especially if you are tandem feeding, there is nothing for it but to get those suckers (pun intended) out on public display.  Being a relatively private person (in my "wild" youth backpacking around Greece, I sat primly on the nude beaches wearing a full swimsuit and sarong) this was really an unusual experience for me.  Having to make polite chit-chat to the pastor of the church while sitting bare-breasted and feeding twins was a novel sensation, and not one I particularly relished.  It is amazing how quickly you adapt to this though - very soon those two objects of sexual desire become effective baby-feeding mechanisms and lose all their mystery and allure (the problem is getting that sexual allure back, but more on that at a later stage).


Due to the extra strain of having a second mouth tugging on a very sensitive part of my anatomy, I managed to get every breast ailment known to man (or should that be woman?) during the next eight weeks: mastitis, cracked nipples, engorgement, thrush, etc.  That time was a period of non-stop howling (on the part of the twins) and gnashing of teeth (on the part of the Sweetpea and myself), but eventually we discovered that I had been effectively starving the boys.  Being such big boys right from the start, they needed huge amounts of milk, and my body was just not producing enough for them. We were advised to "top them up" with formula.  There are no words to describe the sense of failure I felt at that.  I felt that my body had betrayed me, that its sole purpose was to feed my littlies and here I was, unable to do even that most primitive of things.  I was devastated.  And the biggest irony of it all did not escape me - if I had been wandering about topless for the majority of my youth, I probably would never have had any issues with feeding - the open air works wonders for sore and cracked nipples, and they probably very seldom get thrush.  I blame the Westernised culture!


Be on the lookout for The Womanly Art of Breast-feeding??!  Part Two - coming soon!

This too shall pass...

It is the Multiple Birth Club Annual Garage Sale on Saturday, and for the first time in almost four years I have taken up the courage to get a table to sell some stuff myself.  It would be really great, I reasoned, to get rid of all the old things lying around, baby clothes, things we will never use again that just mess up the house (the house would still be a tip regardless, but my reasoning was sound).


So I set out to purge the place of all unnecessary paraphernalia.  In a self-righteous fervour, I started with the boys' old clothes.  I got as far as the old baby-grows, the ones with the little feet attached, and there I stopped.  Things I thought would be so easy to get rid of suddenly seemed like precious memories that I was heartlessly throwing away.  It seems like only yesterday that my two were in those tiny outfits, all snuggled and sweet-smelling, ready for bed (note I say bed and not sleep - they never actually slept).  Now I look at these two little men, all grown up now, with their long limbs and complex expressions, their hands that no longer have baby dimples, and sometimes I feel like they are strangers to me.  Wonderful, perfect human beings, who I have to get to know from the start again.  Are they still the little ones I held close to me in the start of their lives?  


I once heard an expression:  "This too shall pass".  At the time, I thought it must be an expression of hope, an exhortation to a struggling soul that the dark patch through which they were going would still be over.  Yet now, I think of it in a different way.  I see it not only as an encouragement, but also as a warning:  this time will pass.  And when the precious moments of holding and loving your tiny babies are gone, they are gone forever, and you can no more fill those abandoned baby-grows with their little warm bodies again than fly to the moon.

The other periods in life are just as special, each for its own reason.  I am loving the intricacies of life with my boys as they grow and develop.  I guess what I am trying to say is this: make the most of the time you have.  It may seem difficult, with crying babies, not enough sleep, loneliness, and what seems like precious little to motivate you to carry on.  But in those times, find the joys, no matter how small, and store them up in your heart for the times ahead.  I guarantee that one day, you too will be sitting, looking at a small piece of clothing that your child once wore, and aching to be able to hold that little baby to your chest once again.  And at that time, knowing that you made the most of each precious second, might just be enough to sustain you.


To life! And to living every moment!


I would love to hear from you all - let me know about your precious memories.  Click on the "Post a Comment" button and add your views.

A bird in the hair is worth two in the bush?

I always swore I would never tell lies to my kids.  It was one of my firmest resolutions.  That, and always keep my promises.  But lying is so easy - those little white ones creep in and before you know it you are caught in a tangled web with only yourself to blame.


I have been blessed with little ones with abundant locks of curly hair.  Now that they are older, it is less curly, but when they were young, they looked positively cherubic with their masses of golden curls.  Golden curls are all very well, but no one sees the effort that goes into keeping them either golden or curly.  With boys, a hair wash or brush is like trying to pull hen's teeth.  From the relatively tame screeching and kicking, to the tears, sobs and tantrums, teaching a boy proper hygiene and hair care is like trying to herd cats.  


However, I discovered the perfect weapon.  And it came in the form of a library book:  Ella Kazoo will not brush her hair.  It starts off relatively innocently, with Ella Kazoo not wanting to brush her hair, and hiding the brushes and combs, and then takes on a more sinister twist as her hair begins to grow longer and more snarled by the day.  Eventually, a bird comes to live in her hair and builds a nest there, complete with eggs and then chicks.  The upshot of it all is that Ella has to have her head shaved (she actually prefers it like this, but I cunningly never read my boys that part).  


Now for the lie.  With big eyes, they asked me "Will a bird come to live in my hair if I don't brush it?"  With very little hesitation on my part, I replied "Absolutely".  And so the myth was born.  Hair brushing became easy (or relatively more so) since all I had to say was "Do you want a bird to come and live in your hair?" and they would both submit without murmur.  At times, after an especially boisterous play session in the garden, I would use the pieces of grass I found in their hair as proof of birds starting to build nests to add fuel to the anti-bird-in-hair fire if they started to show reluctance in the brushing department.


This all broke down spectacularly on the day a bird (a real one), while sitting innocently in a tree above our heads, actually lifted his tail and did a poo in one boy's hair.  Instant hysteria ensued on all sides.  Me, trying to stifle giggles while looking suitably commiserating, he taking it as actual proof that there was now a bird living in his hair.  After no end of cuddles, pats and comforting, I had to let on that no bird would ever be coming to make a nest in his hair.

Let this be a warning - no matter how creative, a lie will always be overtaken by the truth.  My birds had definitely come home to roost (pun absolutely intended).

Addendum: Fireman Sam and Fireman Paddy on a mission

It never fails to amaze me what a young, impressionable mind can take in.   Having been either pregnant or breastfeeding for the best part of four years now, I have found that the existence of "baby brain" is not only conjecture, but is a provable fact.  I have become one of those moms who sits like a blob in front of the box (on those very rare occasions when I want to watch something) and falls instantly asleep.  


Little minds are not like that.  They are full of questions (in Autumn - "Why are the trees naked?"), comments ("You have a fat tummy, mama.  Mine is thin."), astute observations ("If I eat chicken, it goes straight to my muscles and I can be strong like a superhero") and nothing seems to escape them.  In all situations, this is great, though I can't help but wonder at the wisdom of partnering sleep-deprived mothers plagued by baby brain with inquiring young minds like these.


In all situations an inquiring mind is great: save possibly this one:  My two sat transfixed watching how the firemen pumped water to spray on the fires on the Fireman Sam video (forget the fact that not much makes sense in Fireman Sam, kids take it as gospel anyway.  Like why, when someone falls off the dock, wearing a full belt of tools, do they call the fire-station to come and rescue him instead of throwing him the life preserver clearly pictured on the dock not 10 feet away? But I digress.).  
After my two watched the fire being put out, action around the home for the next few days consisted of putting out imaginary fires all over the place. One or the other would suddenly, and without warning, screech "There's a fire in the playroom!" and true to form, they would both run to find their helmets, get on the bed with the brass headboard in order to slide down the "pole", and make their way to the fire singing the lyrics of the Fireman Sam song.  In most instances, this resulted in a harmless bit of fantasy play and lots of shushing noises as the fire was quelled.


However, that was before they discovered the pump.  On a camping trip, we used a person-operated pump (like a large bicycle pump with a long hose) to blow up the air mattresses for the tent, and the boys' eyes gleamed at this heretofore undiscovered piece of "fire-fighting equipment".  I should have taken more note of those gleaming little eyes.  The very next opportunity, the firemen sought out this valuable commodity, digging it out of the cupboard in the garage with ease and stealth.  But where to find a ready source of water to pump?  They were both too short to reach the basins or sinks.  One source sprang easily to mind.  With great ingenuity, they inserted the long hose of the pump down the bowl of the toilet and into the subterranean depths of the inner workings of the loo.  Then they stepped back, and proceeded to pump with great determination, dedication and energy....


It does not take much intellect to imagine what happened after that.  It would have been fine, apart from the fact that, having three kiddies, I always make sure that there is a nicely-coloured loo block in the cistern for those non-flush emergencies.  This block turns the water bright (and I mean bright) blue.  Which is fine as long as the water remains in the loo. When it is splashed over the walls, floor, miscellaneous bath mats, and parts of the ceiling, as well as over two not-so-thrilled and yelling firemen, it is not as attractive. An innocent firefighting maneuver resulted in about two hours of post-operation cleanup.

I totally forgot to mention the incident to the Sweetpea until relatively recently.  He looked at me with horror on his face. "Do you know how many times I have had the end of that pump in my mouth?" he exclaimed.  Turns out that since that toilet operation, the pump has been a bit faulty and has required the use of teeth (namely those of the Sweetpea) to hold the end on.  Oh well... what doesn't kill us, etc., etc.