People say that adjusting to the second child is a bigger deal than adjusting to the first. Suddenly, when you're alone with the kids you have to choose which one needs your attention more. Occasionally, that means attending to the needs of one while the other one is crying and calling your name.
Ditto with going from one to three kids in two minutes, only more so. Remember the old-fashioned arcade game Whac-a-mole? You stand holding a padded mallet in front of a horizontal board full of holes. When you put in a token, little furry animatronic creatures start popping out of the holes at random intervals, and your job is to whack them on the head with the mallet as fast as you can. It tests your agility, strength, and reaction time.
A difficult day of parenting three very small children is a bit like playing Whac-a-mole. The hours fly by as you run from one child to another, taking care of their immediate needs and averting a small crisis only to have one rise up to take its place. I had just one such day this week. The twins spent the middle of the day Tag-Teaming-- what I call it when they are both fussy and as soon as I am holding one calm baby the other one starts wailing and I have to put the quiet baby down. This time they had it down to a science. It got so automatic that I caught myself walking over to Carrie's swing as soon as I tight-swaddled Melina because I knew she would start crying in fifteen more seconds. And she did.
A few minutes earlier I had opened up the Diaper Genie to empty it and found a red plastic ball, a pacifier, and a bulb nasal aspirator in the bag mixed in with thirty stinky diapers. Apparently, Devon had discovered the fun little cup on top and the lever to pull to make things disappear. This was not his only transgression of the day. He experimented with throwing things out of The Pen and then whining to see if I would fetch them. I gave it ten minutes, then calmly explained to him that Weeble (or Tractor or Farm Puzzle) was going into Toy Time Out because he was not being played with correctly and Devon would have to wait until after nap to play with it again. This, of course, devastated Devon, adding his occasional wail to the din the twins were making.
When I'm holding crying Carrie and Devon is crying in the high chair next to me, I call out "Come on, Melina, let's make it unanimous!" I hate listening to all my children cry at once, but it happens. I try to take it in stride.
Or, better yet, I decide on an outing. As soon as I go for Devon's shoes, he starts in on a deep, throaty chuckle of excitement as he realizes we're going somewhere. Then he "helps" me get the twins ready to go.
I buckle all three into the middle seat of the van, and back out of the garage. One block later, something magical happens. The van is quiet. None of my children are upset. Many people say they enjoy a respite from the demands of parenting small children by running errands by themselves. For me, it's enough of a treat just to leave the house. I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say that I won the parenting lottery by giving birth to three children that are perfectly behaved in public.
I enjoy the stares of others in the parking lot when I grab a cart and start pulling babies out of the car like a magician spooling silk scarves out of a sleeve. Then the comments start:
"You've got your hands full!"
"You got a wide-load sign for that cart?"
"You're a real woman, girl, you know that?"
"Are ALL those kids yours?"
"Where you gonna put the groceries?"
All three kids seem to revel in the attention, but especially Devon the Original Social Baby. I fix my Zen Mother Smile on my face: one part Mona Lisa and two parts Virgin Mary. Then I sashay up the aisle as the twins sleep so soundly they look like dolls and Devon points sweetly and beams at things.
I can feel people staring at me, and it's okay. I have to admit I get a little frisson of sadistic pleasure every time we pass a tantrumming child being pushed along by a harried-looking mother. Take notes, lady: I rock the Mom thing.
I knew from the first twins sonogram that their birth would mark the end of anonymity. I was right. People come out of the aisles to tell us about their twins, their daughter who has twins, or the eight sets of twins that run in their families and made them think that they would have twins. I've discussed my c-section among the frozen foods and told a stocker I wasn't on Clomid while waiting for the sweet potato fries to be unpacked.
It's amazing what some people will ask total strangers. I'm inundated with questions about my past and present birth control options and whether the girls were "planned." Really? Is any child ever planned? You can't just order a baby like you order a pizza. Lots of people want to know if twins run in our family. No, I say, they're identical, giving a mini biology lesson about the genetic factors that make fraternal twins not being necessary for my twins. Sometimes I get back, "Oh, so they're not the kind you get when you have sex twice in the same day!"
Umm...
Then I have to give another little biology lesson. Even that little nugget can lift my spirits when I'm having a hard day. When you have twins, the world is your support group. People marvel at the good job you're doing. They compliment your parenting skills, your genetics, or the fact that you've managed to lose even so much as a pound after having them. It's hard to buy a gallon of milk in less than an hour and a half.
The sweetest people are the ones who say "Oh, look at your beautiful family. How fortunate you are!" I am. And as I load the groceries and kids back into the van, I'm glad to reflect on that again.
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