One!

Why is it that sincere thank you notes are so much harder than ones you're indifferent about?

Today I sat down to write the most grateful thank you note I've ever written, probably ever will write, and the words just would not come.

The note was for the NICU staff at the hospital where the twins were born. A year ago St.Matt was on the first floor watching football and I was upstairs bedresting and reading --- and my water broke.

The Schmidtlets were two months early. They were tiny. I wasn't ready and they weren't either. Nothing in my years of babysitting or in our baby care classes had prepared me for incubators and feeding tubes and picc lines and lungs that kept collapsing and collapsing. Tubes and tubes and tubes taped all over my babies. Babies I wasn't allowed to hold. The Wild Imp – who wasn't wild, he was medicated and sedated into oblivion — I wasn't even allowed to touch because he was in so much pain.

 

 And the NICU staff somehow held me together, gave me strength, taught me about gavage feeding, and breast-feeding, pneumothorax, and infant CPR. What every bell, alarm, and squiggly line on their monitors meant — how to tell a false alarm from an apnea or bradycardiac event. How to touch a preemie so that he wasn't over-stimulated and didn't hurt. 

They were there to clap when St. Matt changed his first diaper. And to laugh when Asher managed to pee out the porthole on his incubator. They cheered with us when the boys began to self-regulate their body temps and we could finally dress them. Clothing, snaps, laundry!– this seemed like such a major victory at the time – and we all looked at the too-big size-preemie outfit and said "he'll grow into it."

And they've grown so big.  They're so healthy. They're so happy and giggly. They're so mischievous and chatterboxy –-- no clue where they get that from.

I'm so blessed.

So appreciative of all the help, support and love the NICU staff lavished on us during our month-long stay.

I thought, way back a year ago, that I couldn’t possibly love anyone more than I did those palm-size babies.

How wrong I was.

Happy 1st birthday, Schmidtlets

Boo!

Happy Halloweenie from some twins who are Teeny

Yes, they ARE dressed up like Winston & Churchill...

Hoping your Halloween is full of sugar and nothing too spooky. 

SLOWED to a crawl? How inaccurate.

I'm trying to decide if I should dust the cobwebs off my blog or allow them to stay as festive Halloween decorations.

Probably dust them… I don't do scary.

Last time I wrote that the twins were starting to crawl. At that point it was *wobble, wobble, move a few inches, beam at me.*

Now it's ZOOOOOM, CLIMB, STAND, FALL, WAIL – in the same amount of time.

Plus, The Wild Imp is stubbornly convinced that he can stand unassisted.  He SO can't. He also believes it's a brilliant idea to hang from the top of the babygate and then fling himself backward.

I spend much of my day diving across the room trying to prevent traumatic head injuries. As a result I wear the bruises instead of him. Many, many bruises.

But, there's bedtime and naptime and my writing stays alive in these snatches of time. SEND ME A SIGN's revisions were approved and it's been moved on to copyedits (HOORAY!) and I just finished revisions on my second book as well. (Lots of Revision Skittles were consumed in the past two months. LOTS).

And my work in progress is a thing of love. I adore it. Everything about it. Even its writing playlist, which I have to stop myself from listening to when I'm not working on it.

The song I play most often is this one:

And while I won't tell you what it's about just yet, a HUGE hint is that this band's name would be a fabulous title for the book.

Let's Make A Deal

Bargaining with babies is hard. I thought the Schmidtlets and I had a deal: no learning to crawl until after I turned in my revision.

The Wild Imp had other ideas. And he is fast.

Baby A isn't yet crawling, but he's still mobile: rolling around like a top, scooting backward across the room, and calling: "Mama. MAMA. MAAAAAAMMAAAAA," if I dare to leave his sight. Better yet, the little wombat would like me to constantly be within reach of his chubby little paws.

Chasing and clutching aren't the best revision-companions. But that's what PEI was for. That's what the hours between bedtime and sunrise are for.

And I finished last Thursday.

Pressed *Send* on the e-mail to my editor – and then, before I could even gulp a panicked breath or sigh in relief:

THUNDER.

POWER LOSS

THE WAILS OF TWO WOKEN NAPPERS

Have I mentioned that one of the major threads in my book is superstition?

My first thought was one very like my main character, Mia, would have had: That was a very bad sign.

Later, after the twins had been soothed, the power restored, and my confidence petted by some Twitter support, I revised my thinking: That was a very good sign – if the power had gone out even a minute sooner, I would've been prevented from sending.

And we all know how little I like to wait.

Apparently the Schmidtlets have inherited that trait from me: The Imp is extremely IMPatient, and Baby A is currently calling my name.  

Maybe we'll strike a new bargain: Ten more minutes of naptime in exchange for peaches at every meal.

*goes to buy peaches in bulk*

A Good Life

Yesterday the boys woke up at 4:45. They were fussy all morning, feeding off my own nervous energy.

We were visiting the elementary school where I've taught for the past seven years. My first visit since I left in October to go on bed rest. My first visit with the twins. 

My first visit since resigning last month.

There were many things whirling in my mind: fears of germs, nap schedules, diaper changes, did I remember binks-Winston-Churchill-teething rings-diapers?

But my mind was most focused on how would I feel returning. Would I sit in the parking lot daunted by the eight months that have passed since I crossed that threshold? Would I feel left out, overwhelmed by all the experiences, jokes, and events I've missed while holed up with the twins? Would I remember my students' names? Would I regret my decision? Would it feel like good-bye?

When I actually pulled in the parking lot I didn't pause to feel anything. There was a stroller to unload, two sleepy babies to settle.

And it was school. My school. It was a parking lot I've crossed a thousand times, a front office I automatically pause to chat in.

School was school. It felt like I'd never left, like I could step through the door of room 202, pick up the pen on the SmartBoard and resume teaching where I left off.

Except my students are a whole lot bigger than they were eight months ago.

I loved my job. LOVED it. Adored my colleagues and felt privileged to work with the students. It challenged, inspired, energized and fulfilled me.

I will miss it.

BUT.

This morning the boys slept in, we played, cuddled and lazed around and then went to a playdate with the Schmidtlets still in their pajamas. I drove there grinning and so grateful – I love this life. Today and tomorrow and next week-month-year is a combination snow day and summer vacation.

I am so lucky. So blessed. And so thrilled to be able to stay home and saturate myself in baby love and memory-making and writing.

Asher is giggling in the baby sling while I type this. Brad is napping with Churchill and smiling in his sleep – revealing a spot of spinach I missed when wiping his face after lunch.

When he wakes up we've got a baby dance party scheduled.

I can't think of a better song than this one --

It took me 6 months to realize this?

Writing with infant twins is hard. In other shocking news: water is wet, books contain words, new mothers lack sleep.

Maybe it's that sleep deprivation that kept me from realizing this fact until now. After all, I've had the Schmidtlets for six months.

Everything has changed in that last six months – I can spend hours watching little fingers grasp little noses as they try and get their thumbs in their mouths. Or in each other's mouth. My world fits in the palms of those little hands and I'm wrapped around each of their little fingers. Often literally – they're both very good at clutching my fingers, shirt, and hair.

It's not solely an issue of detangling myself from their grasps, and it's not just a where's the 25^th hour in my day? issue either. It's an escapist one. It's a first draft dilemma.

The revision part of my brain isn't broken. I worked on revisions while I was still in the hospital. But that book is in Agent Extraordinaire's hands.

And I'm faced with blank screens and ideas that need to be translated from thought bubbles to words on a page – and this is where the hard begins.

Drafting for me was always full immersion. I'd interrupt myself while having a conversation to say "what about…" or "what if…" and then scramble for my keyboard. I'd have 4K Saturdays while St. Matt watched or played tennis. I'd stumble into bed just hours before my alarm because I was being carried along by an avalanche of words. I'd watch my word and page counts rise with delicious pleasure. The real world seemed almost secondary or less tangible than the one in my head – as if it were the layer under which I super-imposed my story.

Well, baby spit up is tangible. And wet and smelly. Baby cries and giggles aren't to be ignored. And while I'd like to put on my WIP playlist after the Schmidtlets are asleep, it clashes with the ceaseless repetition of the classical playlist on their sound machine. Or the tinkling of their mobile. I can't tune those out, can't shut the baby monitor off – and can't close out this world to escape into one of my own creation.

So I've had to work around this, find ways to invite the babies into the world of my head, and find ways to incorporate that world into my reality.

Baby A's definition of bliss is snuggling in my lap, so I've spent hours reading and singing pieces and scenes to him. I just try not to take it personally if he falls asleep. *makes note: scene needs more tension *

Baby B is a mover. He inherited his fidgetpants from me – so I settle both boys in their stroller and we head out on the walking paths. They watch trees and hunker down for naps and I brainstorm, scratching hasty fragments in the notepad I keep in the stroller for this purpose.

And the simultaneous nap? It's as elusive as a unicorn and just as magical, but when it occurs, I take advantage. I may not be able to fully immerse myself in the world in my head – but with a reality this adorable, I'm not sure I want to.

Speaking of simul-naps. There's one occurring right now –-  time to go unleash some words.

Maybe I Should do the Laundry...

Meet Churchill.

The frog, not the baby - that's Brad.

 Here's his brother, Winston.

Hippo = Winston, Baby= Asher

The pictures above represent approximately 0.5% of my photo collection of Schmidtlets with Winston and Churchill. The babies are Very Attached To Them.

Naptime isn't naptime without Churchill tucked under the chin. And tummy time doesn't work well unless Winston is within reach.

W & C are exposed to much loving and drooling, so last night unbeknownst to me, St.Matt decided to throw them in with the baby laundry.

This morning I went on the Great Churchill Hunt – called St.Matt – and eventually located both of them In The Dryer.

Winston is fine.

Churchill is crispy.

He must've gotten stuck to the vent, because he is definitely dryer-fried.

I took this pretty calmly – much calmer than overdue-for-his-nap Brad. I figured I could order a replacement and have it in a few days. Naptime until then might be a little rough, but it was a short term problem.

I even thought I'd be SMART and order a Back-up Winston and Back-up Churchill.

BUT.

Churchill has been discontinued.

I can order as many Winstons as I want.

BUT.

Churchill – crunchy, need-a-replacement Churchill – is discontinued.

And I can't even find another one on Ebay.  I thought you could find ANYTHING on Ebay.

A much-chagrined St.Matt called Pottery Barn Kids customer service.  I bet he was calm and steady. The e-mail I sent them included lots of !!!!'s and HELP! and the line: Please save my naptime.

BUT.

Even as I have this Mommy Crisis, I also have perspective.

It's a toy. He's 4 months old. This is more upsetting for ME than it is for HIM.

I know this moment is heightened by having sent my finished manuscript to Agent Extrordinaire, Joe Monti, this morning. Because everything seems more panicked after pressing *send*.

I know that even if Crispy-Churchill can't be salvaged. Even if Pottery Barn Kids can't hunt down a leftover Green Frog Thumbie, and even if one never appears on Ebay, Brad will be fine and I haven't failed as a mother.

Even if it feels like it every time his lip quivers.

 You'll let me know if you come across a Churchill, right?

***UPDATE*** We have a Replacement Churchill being shipped from Ohio and a Backup Replacement Churchill coming from Florida. Thank you so much, Awesome Pottery Barn Customer Service! *exhales*

Almost equally exciting - my cousin-in-law told me about the wash-in-a-pillowcase secret (thanks, Melissa!) now St.Matt can continue laundry-duties without fear!

Something to Celebrate

I discovered recently that not everyone dyes their milk pink for Valentine's Day, or green for St. Patrick's Day. This baffles me. Excluding those with dye allergies, why wouldn't you?

 

I'm a big fan of celebrations. For big things, I know how to make a BIG fuss… but I like to make a BIG fuss for little things too.

Each year in my classroom I read the kiddos Byrd Baylor's I'm in Charge of Celebrations because I love the narrator's mentality of searching out the extraordinary in the ordinary and finding a way to honor it. 

With writing I honor the start of each new project by buying a set of my favorite pens - Staedtler Triplus Fineliners. And don't forget about Revision Skittles -- they're a tiny celebration for every page completed.

Babies are made for celebrating. Everything they do is miraculous; they are snuggle-sized bundles of magic and love. And each day they grow, learn and change. If I don't stop and celebrate their discoveries as they happen, it will be too late.

So St. Matt expects the phone calls at work:

Today Asher cooed at the ceiling fan.

Brad just rolled over onto his side – twice!

Oh my head, Brad's learned how to smile, and he hasn't stopped doing it all day.

Did you get the pictures?

When I sing Twinkle Twinkle to Asher and twinkle my hands, he twinkles back.

Guess what?! I was burping Brad, and every time I patted his back, his wee little hand patted mine.

We celebrate the ounces they gain and the clothing they outgrow. St. Matt celebrates when they sleep through the night… I mostly want to wake them up and cuddle.

And today we celebrate something momentous – they are 100 days old.

I know that celebrating a baby's 100^th day is a Korean and Chinese tradition, but I'm borrowing it. These past 100 days have been filled with more love and happiness than I have any right to deserve, but they've also been tinged with some terrifying moments too.

The twins were two months early. They were little. They both had trouble breathing. And maintaining steady heart rates. They spent their first month in the NICU. They're both still on apnea monitors that go off with heart-shattering regularity and send St. Matt and I flying across the room to check for color changes and chest movement.

That first month left some physical scars on them and emotional ones on me.

It's not possible to gaze through the Plexiglas of an isolette at the mess of gauze, tubes, wires, sensors and bandages covering your newborn and walk away whole.
 

 After just looking at those pictures and writing those words I had to wake little Brad up, snuggle him close, and reassure myself that he's nearly tripled in size and is thriving.

So today, we will celebrate. 100 days. They may be little, but it's no small accomplishment.

And tomorrow?

We'll celebrate then, too.

TWO-Minute Update

I'm living my life in twos right now.

• Two bassinets perched at the end of my bed.
• Two binks to locate when they drop from two little mouths.
• Two bottoms to diaper and two million loads of laundry to keep them covered.
• Two distinctly different cries that correspond to two very different personalities.
• Two downy heads to kiss and two sets of ears to fill with whispers of your mommy loves you so very much. 

Two little Schmidtlets who are two months old!*

Baby A & Baby B – aka Acorn & Bean Sprout – aka Asher & Brad, arrived on November 16^th.

Since then they've been busy making St.Matt and me the two happiest people in the world.

*which means this post is two months overdue, but in my defense, they were two months early in arriving.

The Nursery that IS

Back before there were Schmidtlets, we used to refer to their room as the NTB: Nursery To Be. It was my favorite writing room -- how can you beat whiteboard walls?

But they're not my whiteboards anymore -- and I've spent the past few weeks fussing over every other detail of the NTI. You'd be surprised that it's possible to spend 12 hours researching knobs, but when you're Bed RestLess, why not?

So, mayhaps finishing the twins room became a minor obsession. Thank God for the internet, which made assembling the room a snap… well, a snap for ME.

St. Matt and my in-laws had to do all of the hard labor I lay on the daybed and supervised – while my bed rest bodyguard went into stealth mode and scrutinized every move I made.

Without further ado, I present the Schmidtlets' room!

But just because the room is ready, doesn't mean the twins are.  Stay put, Schmidtlets!

Sticker Charts and Schmidtlets

I've always been a rules girl. Sticker charts were made for people like me. If I set the table I got a sticker. If I made my bed I got a sticker. If I went a whole day without a time out in the Naughty Chair, that was worth at least three stickers. 

I'm not going to say I never tried to manipulate this system (comforter pulled up over a tangle of sheets never works, does it?) but this method of rule à reward had always worked well for me.

Um, it still works well: Revise one page, get one Revision Skittle…

Which is why bed rest baffles me.

I've followed the rules. I spend all of my time confined between the headboard and footboard of my sleigh bed or down on the couch in a flurry of pillows. Bathroom visits are a field trip – but only require a couple dozen steps. Food is the same: St. Matt emptied and carried our wine fridge up to the bedroom and stocks it daily with a large enough food and liquid selections for a woman who's carrying at least quintuplets.

All that's required of me is that I stay put – and the payoff is healthy babies who also stay put.

Which is why bed rest baffles me.

I've done my part…

… the Schmidtlets don't seem to want to do theirs.

I may gripe a bit and I may complain of BedRestlessness, but, in truth, my role is easy.  I've got an engrossing WIP to play with, shelves of books we've stockpiled (I read seven last week alone), TV's with DVR, friends a few keystrokes or phone digits away, and a saintly, saintly, truly saintly husband who has gone out of his way to envision things I might want, before I've even dreamed them up.

What's not easy:  knowing I've followed the directions with NASA precision, and the results aren't in my control.

We've started steroid shots to advance the Schmidtlets' lung development. We've started packing our hospital bag. We've started prioritizing the to-do list for the what-if?

Preparation is great, of course, but it doesn't change anything. It doesn't grant me a second more of pregnancy if the twins decide that NOW is when they want to arrive.

But they haven't picked Now, or Now, or even Now and every second they continue to grow is a blessing.

So, stay put little ones. The world is waiting to love and cherish you, but it will still be waiting in a few weeks. And your momma will put extra stickers on your sticker charts if you make it a month or more. Stay.

Do not pass Go. Report directly to BED

 My last day of school was Friday. I've spent the past seven weeks very conflicted about today – the battle of exhaustion versus my desire to teach. I wasn't surprised to discover that I woke up this morning feeling a little lost soul-ish.

I spent the morning as a flitterbug --  popping from one task to the next without accomplishing much of anything. Any progress I might have made was hindered by Biscotti. She's been a wee bit overprotective as of late; she will not let the Twin Belly out of her sight. Today she added a new trick:  doing her dangdest to herd me back to bed.

I should've listened.

This afternoon we had our first NONstress test. They hooked up monitors to capture the babies' heartbeats and a third monitor to my uterus.  In typical Bean Sprout fashion, he showed off for the doctors by doing all sorts of barrel rolls and squirm-worm maneuvers. And in typical Twin Belly fashion, my uterus reacted to his movements by having what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions.

They weren't. Apparently they're the real deal.  And regular.

The doctor took one look at my printout and announced: Bed Rest.

St. Matt and I exchanged a look that said everything: But wait! We're not ready yet. It's my first day off work. You said I'd have some time to run errands and take it easy. I was going to make cookies tonight. We were going to walk the dogs. I have plans tomorrow. We have plans this weekend. We're NOT Ready.

Out loud we said, "Okay, what do we need to know?" because none of that matters. And we'll do just about anything to make sure these two little boys stay put and stay safe for as many weeks as possible.

So now I sit. And wait. Thursday AM's our next NST and I'm hoping for better results.

In the meantime, Biscotti, bodyguard puggle extraordinaire, is thrilled that I'm taking her advice and lying down. If a puggle could gloat, that's what she'd be doing, from her supervisory post at the foot of my bed.

This is NOT a Post About Italy

So, I tell you we're having some babies, I accept all of your congratulations, and then I disappear again. Bad Tiffany!

I was actually unplugged and off-grid for a ten days, enjoying a "babymoon" in Italy with St. Matt. And believe it or not, I didn't go through Petunia-withdrawal or whine about missing my laptop – not even once. *pats self on the back*

And while there are plenty of Italia stories to tell – look! I even included a teaser picture – today all I can think about is names.

Baby names.

When I'm writing a story I go crazy picking the perfect names for my characters – they have to match temperament, appearance, background, etc. But luckily, I know the character before I know the name and if I need to change it halfway through the book, that's what the "Find and Replace" command is for.

Not so much for the Schmidtlets in my belly.

And right off the bat, there was going to be none of this "Baby A" and "Baby B" business that the doctors insist on using. We weren't even in our car, and I certainly hadn't recovered from the news it was twins, when I was already paling and saying: "Now we need twice as many names."

But, seeing as we had a good four months before we'd find out gender, interim names were a must. St. Matt suggested Alpha and Beta…

What can I say? He's an engineer.

I countered with Alcott and Bronte and was resoundingly shot down. Why? Because, as St. Matt so wisely realized, "You're going to get attached and want to actually name them that."

He was right. Later that night I woke him up: "Alcott's kinda cute, isn't it? For a girl? We could call her Ally for short."

So you can see why NON-NAME interim names became essential.

After a week of what-about-this? and what-about-that? We settled on two: Acorn, and Bean Sprout. (See how they're still A and B words… St. Matt is SUCH an engineer).

But now there comes a bigger problem. REAL names…

I have post-its of possibilities everywhere. I've just about worn out Baby Name Voyager. In Italy – look, another teaser picture – I stopped St. Matt at every playbill and construction sign so I could read the names of contractors and actors.

He's learning not to get too attached to any name, because as soon as we find something we both agree on, I change my mind.

I'm learning not to wake him up in the middle of the night when I come up with potentials – because the interrupted-REM answer is always, "No."

The fact that we've got roughly five more months to find the perfect combinations of first and middle names has not prevented me from lying awake and whispering ideas at the ceiling. Or turning to the bookshelf beside my bed and scanning for ideas.

… you know, now that I think about it, Bronte's kinda cute, too.

An Explanation and An Announcement

It's been a heckofa long time since I blogged. Normally I don't make excuses for blog lapses; you just can assume I've been: A) busy B) lazy C) uninspired or D) held hostage by a band of wild sixth graders who insist I grade their personal narratives thisveryminute.

This time my blog-absence was absurdly long. But I have a good reason.
TWO very good reasons:

Baby A
&
Baby B

St. Matt and I are expecting our first children -- twins -- early next winter.

Go ahead and jump up and down in glee for me -- the doctor says *I'm* to refrain from impish dancing. Do you know how hard it is to refrain from impish dancing and other hijinks when you're this elated? WICKED HARD!

And while the Schmidtlets (lettes?) will be the very best things to happen to us, they are also terrible nausea-monsters. I've spent most of the past 3 months in varying shades of green.

Luckily green is my second-favorite color.

Even more lucky is the fact that The Queasy is finally, finally starting to pass.

Until it's completely gone, however, I'll keep rocking my sea-sickness bracelets and wearing a pea-soup completion with a smile. They're the latest trends, you know.