Chasing the Elusive Dream : Battling the Baby Blues by BethShelby |
When I was in my mid-twenties another lifetime ago, I found myself imprisoned in my own home by virtue of the fact that I had given birth to twins when I already had a child less than two. Suddenly, two hands were no longer enough, and trying to deal with a toddler and twin infants was overwhelming, to put it mildly. The world has progressed a long way from the days when all mothers had to choose from were two types of cloth diapers; a gauze layered type and a waffled cotton. I owned dozens of these white flags, and believe me, many days, I felt like flying one. With three babies sporting them at one time, the washing machine ran constantly. A drier was a luxury beyond our limited budget, and the cold, rainy winter days were something I don't care to recall. The twins learned at a tender age if one needed a quick change the best way to get it was to do it yourself. A bare bottom was preferable to a wet one. Removing a diaper from one’s own bottom was a bit tricky since there were open diaper pins to deal with. This was the pre-velcro days. Notwithstanding, in no time at all, both of my talented offspring had become adept at removing the offensive scrap of cloth. It was a trifle embarrassing to usher in guests to admire my little family only to find them sporting the bottoms to their birthday suits. During those early months, I stayed home because I was still naive enough to believe I had some wonderful ideas on child rearing. Besides, I couldn't quite figure out what to do with them otherwise. Slowly, I adjusted to the situation in which I found myself. I was pleased to discover, for a while at least, the babies were capable of entertaining themselves with each other as play things. Of course, it was necessary for me to disentangle their fingers from the hair of their twin when the wails became unbearable, It was also neccessary that I empty a jar of baby food into their waiting mouths at regular intervals. Actually, it isn't much harder to feed two than one, because while one is swallowing, spitting, or doing whatever else they might elect to do, you merely spoon a mouthful into the other baby. Jars are emptied much faster this way with far less leftovers. Bottles were a little harder, literally. Because back then, most of them were made of glass. You give two babies in the same playpen matching glass bottles, and you have the recipe for disaster. Babies are born suspicious they are somehow being cheated, and the milk in their sibling’s bottle must taste sweeter. Glass bottles can be held in such a way as to become very effective clubs, enabling the conquering twin to take by force the bottle which holds the tastier beverage. Still, we got through that stage without anyone being permanently maimed, and I actually had a little quality time left over for the toddler who seemed pleased at being dubbed "Mom’s little helper." (Now, unfortunately, she tells me she needs therapy because of being thrust into such a demanding roll at the tender age of twenty-two months.) There is a limit to how much time babies will allow themselves to be confined in an enclosure of any kind, and that day arrived all too soon. The boy twin was first to discover that by standing on the face of his sister, he could manage to pull up on the side of the playpen and hoist one leg over. From that day on, my life went downhill. Free at last, they made quick work of the lovely ceramic pieces which I had so painstakingly fashioned during my months of pregnancy. I remember the day I discovered my porcelain kissing-angels clutched in the chubby fists of my son. When I yelled "No!", he clashed them together like cymbals, sending broken wings and heads in every direction. Yes, I had put them out of reach, or so I thought. This child was preparing for a career at the top and was quite capable of finding plenty of objects that would support his weight on the way up. Next, the terrible twosome invaded my kitchen cabinets. Molasses and flour were favorites. These made an especially intriguing combination when poured generously upon the living room sofa. Regular trips to the emergency room and frantic phone calls to the pediatrician weren't at all unusual. On one occasion, they teamed up to climb onto the aquarium stand and overbalance it They were pinned to the floor, while ten gallons of water, broken glass and many jumping fish cascaded over their trembling bodies. Don, the more active and accident prone half of the twosome, got so many lumps on his head from falls and objects he caused to fall that these occurrences ceased to be a reason for serious concern. He seemed to thrive nicely with half-inch high lumps on some portion of his head. Force feeding him bread, which seemed to be the doctors preferred method for removing pins, buttons, tacks and other foreign objects, became a standard part of his daily cuisine. The day the two of them fed each other toadstools growing by the side of the wading pool was a bit more unnerving. That was the day I learned druggists carry a product specifically designed to bring up substances recently swallowed. Another item was added to my already overstocked medicine chest. In the long run, daycare proved to be a viable solution. I never went back to being a stay-at-home mom. My family seemed to appreciate my attention more when I was with them less, and I certainly enjoyed my time with them better when I wasn't so frustrated I felt like stringing them up. I didn't see any harmful side effects developing at the time. Their behavior appeared to improve with exposure to different people and situations. Maybe it's a cop-out and I should feel guilty for my decision to work, but I have to admit, I have no regrets. To those of my offspring who think perhaps they suffered from lack of full-time mothering, I can only say, don't judge me till you've walked a mile in my moccasins. At least, you're still around to complain.
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