Brows Don't Get Much Lower Than This

I’m trying to create a new bedtime routine for the boys. This change is necessitated by their move into a shared bedroom with Abbie. Previously I’d feed the boys in the living room with the lights turned down low, wind them all the way down while filling their bellies until it’s almost bedtime and their eyes are just about too heavy to lift. Then I’d yell at the dog for careening through the living room to frighten away those malevolent backyard birds, and finally calm the boys back down to sleep. With the boys down, I’d take Abbie through her bedtime routine of books and songs in her bedroom.

All that reading light and singing racket keeps the boys awake, though. Do you remember back in college when bedtime would roll around 2am and you just want to sleep, but your roommate insists on winding down first by reading some worthless fluff magazine like Entertainment Weekly while listening to Morrissey or something else that sucks, and the end result is everyone screaming at each other until the RA has to intervene and no one falls asleep before the sun comes up? Same principle applies, except substitute “Olivia” for “worthless fluff magazine like Entertainment Weekly,” “My Little Buttercup” for “Morrissey,” and “I” for “the RA.”

I’m basically incorporating the boys into Abbie’s routine. I set them on the floor with Abbie while I read. The eventual goal is to read in the general direction of all three children so they may all share in the read experience before thanking me for being the World’s Greatest Dad and drifting quietly to sleep. They may reach that stage sometime before I have to start establishing curfews, but for now Abbie reads her own book and the boys roll around in search of something to chew while I read aloud. After reading, Abbie kisses her brother goodnight, I set them in their cribs, and I sing to everyone. The goodnight song changes slightly from “My Little Buttercup” to “My Little Buttercups,” which works pretty well changing nouns from singular to plural along with their corresponding verb, although “a cottage built for four” doesn’t have the same ring as “a cottage built for two.” Then I shut the door and hope no one complains.

This change allows the pre-bedtime feeding to become livelier. Instead of sitting in calming darkness, we might turn on the television while feeding to see the Cubs lose, or watch American Idol name Crazy Dancing White Haired Guy the winner. Instead of soothing speech directed at the boys, Ellie and I might hold meaningful conversations about how each other’s days went.*

Ian celebrated this new slack in the feeding by letting loose last night in the only way he knows how: Pooping. He pooped, a lot. He tooted, loudly. I’m still sleep-deprived enough to find this hilarious on several levels, not the least of which is because Ellie was holding him at the time. Then Tory pooped, a lot. Not to be outdone, Ian pooped some more. Tory answered with another toot. Picture the campfire scene from Blazing Saddles, except the boys were less self-aware. This went back and forth for several minutes, each adding one final sound while the supposed adults in the room collapsed laughing. Abbie waited patiently in her room reading. She may have also been learning math by counting the days until we move and she gets her own room again.

* Fine.

"When will then be now?" "Soon."

I’m continuing on the then and now theme with Abbie. It’s exceptionally appropriate to look back because today is Abbie’s birthday, the big oh-two. So let’s travel back to the day before her birthday.

It’s May 29th, 2004. “Mean Girls” introduced a slightly older crowd to that charming Lindsey Lohan, “American Idol” crowned Fantasia Barrino as its latest can’t-miss superstar, and John Kerry and George W. Bush were locked in a fierce battle to convince a tiny plurality of likely voters that the other guy is the bigger scumbag. In our lives, a 38-and-a-half weeks pregnant Ellie graduated from med school at 10:35 that morning. We spent that afternoon celebrating her graduation at her reception.


Here she is (on the right) cutting the cake. Eight hours later she was in the hospital. I have a picture of her worn out body trapped in a hospital bed, but I’m not going to post it out of fairness to her because she certainly wouldn’t want a picture of her looking her most vulnerable plastered on the internet. Plus she’d kill me if she knew I put that picture on the blog. The hospital trip was planned. Ellie had been having some complications, and her OB declared her close enough to term to induce.

We didn’t waste that multi-hour gap between the reception and the hospital; we hosted a cookout for a couple old college friends, and showed our home to a couple of prospective buyers in that time. Sure, that was nuts, but in our defense that was one of the few times we got to see those friends since graduation, and we were really desperate to sell our home. Anyway, the harrowing scheduling prepared us for life with a newborn.

After a night on labor-inducing medication, the fun began the next afternoon. Abbie arrived around 4:30pm weighing 6lbs, 14ozs. My most vivid memory of my first hours with her is that she cried a lot. The only thing that calmed her down was the warming table in the room. I hoped they’d leave it for us to let her sleep in, but no luck.


Here she is (on the right) at 1-day-old. The baby on the left belongs to a friend. He’s 3-weeks-old at this point for comparison.


This is our favorite newborn Abbie picture. I bet you didn’t know you could do that in a Boppy. She’s 3-days-old in this picture, and it’s our first day at home. Don’t let that picture fool you, she was a horrible sleeper.


The only way we could get her to sleep in her crib was to keep her on her side. We bought a couple of sleep positioners to keep her in a SIDS-safe position. Note how she’s moved her head off the pillow, probably out of spite.


Today, Abbie is an excellent sleeper. She’s also big enough to jump on a trampoline…


Or play in a pool. Note the risqué cut on her bathing suit. Ellie says she looks like a slightly heavier Paris Hilton. The suit looks like that because it’s size 4T and apparently way too big on her. That’s okay; it just gives her something to grow into for her next set of then and now pictures.

"What happened to then?" "We passed then." "When?" "Just now. We're at now now."

I’ve seen a few other blogs do this, and I’m jumping on the bandwagon. Here are some then and now pictures of the twins. It feels like an appropriate time to do this since they just passed their half-birthday last week. Plus, it should be an easy post.


This picture is from the day after they were born. It’s a picture of someone, possibly Tory, but I’m pretty certain that it’s at least one of my kids. I probably should have made a note of who’s who.


This is the boys right before we loaded them into car seats to take them home. Actually, Ian was less than the car seat’s minimum rated weight (5 pounds) and had to go home in a car bed. They spent 25 days in the NICU. Looking at other parents’ tales of the NICU, we had an extremely easy NICU experience. Tory spent his first couple days on the ventilator; otherwise the scariest thing either boy underwent was the bile lights. No surgeries. No extraordinary feeding difficulties. No exceptional apnea episodes. They were just small, and needed to learn to bottle-feed.


Here they are a couple days ago. Looking back, they’ve grown a ton. It’s great seeing how focused they are now, instead of the dazed looks they gave us in the NICU. They’re hitting all of their developmental milestones for their age group, which is encouraging. They hold their heads up, recognize faces, make lots of sounds, roll and scoot in all directions, and they’re starting to push up on their hands and knees.


This photo is from today. It’s a picture of Tory. I’m making a note of that right now.

A 3 Share

Abbie is now officially two-years-old, as measured by the number of birthday parties. We still have a couple days to go before reaching the anniversary of her birth, but that feels a little trite. The boys are officially six-months-old, as measured by the anniversary of their birth. Going by their original due date, they’re closer to four-and-a-half-months, which is more accurate for measuring their developmental stage, but after six months of caring for them at all hours of the night, I want credit for the full six months.

The point is, the kids are growing, and as they grow we can cast away the temporary care mechanisms that we’ll only use for a few weeks and move on to more permanent care mechanisms that we’ll utilize for a few months. Specifically, we recently moved all three children into one bedroom, which should be where they stay until we move in about a year. Ideally I’d like to move the children into three separate bedrooms, or at least let the twins share one bedroom separate from Abbie, so that the kids wouldn’t wake each other at night, but doing so would require a four (or three) bedroom home instead of our two bedroom apartment. Like I said, we’re moving in about a year.

Until this past weekend, the twins slept at night in one Pack ‘N ‘Play in the living room, while Abbie slumbered contentedly in her bedroom. The living room was the best place to put them for the night, with the only other viable options being our bedroom* or the basement.** Living in such a small home, we’ve been anxious to move the boys out of the living room so we can reclaim the floor space for more useful purposes, like a stationary entertainer.

As long as the boys were still waking in the middle of the night for food, I didn’t want to risk putting them in the same room as Abbie and have her decide that their 5am feeding is her wake time. About a week ago, they started sleeping all the way through the night for 11 straight hours. This gives me the chance for a full night of uninterrupted sleep provided I can break myself of my habit of waking every time they make a peep.

Spurred on by my mother’s visit this weekend and the desire to actually use the living room once the kids are asleep, we moved everyone together on Friday night. This was scary since I knew I still needed to pop pacifiers into the boys’ mouths a couple times a night to calm them down. Plus I know Abbie like to run around her room when she should be sleeping in search of objects that make loud noises. I addressed the Abbie issue by bending down to her eye-level and explaining that I need her to be a big girl, stay quiet, remain in her bed or at least on the floor, and not bother her brothers. Just to be sure she’d be good, I asked if she understood, and she vigorously shook her head side-to-side. Close enough. I could only hope the boys would be good.

The first night went okay except the three of them took turns being awake and squawking for the final two hours of their morning “sleep.” The second night (last night) went better as everyone stayed mostly quiet until I was ready to wake them. Of course I woke at 5am and never really fell back asleep. Some day I’ll reclaim my sleep habits. We’ve already reclaimed the living room.

* Some parents co-bed with their young children. We refuse to even co-room.
** The dog refuses to go to the basement. What does that tell you about its habitability?

Happy Birthday

Today was Abbie’s birthday party. We spent a month planning it, perfecting every tiny detail despite swearing that this year would be more laid back than last year. The party would be the social highlight of the year for every child in the neighborhood.

Then it rained.

We moved it indoors where the roof keeps the water outside and the screaming inside. I know this because Abbie spent most of her party wailing. At what I’m not precisely sure, though I’d guess it had something to do with the throngs of well-wishers maliciously crowding her party.

The party was busy but went well. Ellie’s father was nice enough to grill in the rain. We had way too much food leftover, which is better than not having enough. We especially had way too much cake and had to give away most of it, which was a shame since Ellie spent considerable time and resources decorating it. Otherwise we spent a lot of time running around, keeping the party moving, keeping Abbie within sight, and now we’re worn out. So here are some pictures with quick comments:


This beautiful cake deserves its own picture.


Abbie is playing with one of her birthday toys after the rain passed. Sure, we’re letting her play in the street, but I’m watching her so it’s okay.


Ian is working hard getting ready for the party. Note his bib is turned around to look like a cape.


Tory is being held by grandpa. He’s apparently getting ready to eat something. Or someone.


I just like this picture of the birthday girl. You can see the innocence and wonder in her face. Specifically, she’s wondering how best to step off the curb and run into the street in this shot.

Checking My Schedule

Things to do tomorrow:

Buy ice.
Buy hot dog and hamburger buns.
Wrap presents.
Fill coolers with the 200 or so drink containers we’ve bought.
Grill 100 or so pieces of meat.
Keep three children on their schedule despite not really spending much time with them.
Try to enjoy Abbie’s birthday party.

Angry Dad

We’re trying a different disciplinary tract with Abbie and her pinching. My former approach was to tell her “no pinch” on the first infraction, warn her that she’ll go to her room on a second infraction, and send her to her room on the third infraction.

I initially thought this was a pretty good approach. It immediately and directly addresses the behavior. It gives her multiple chances to stop the behavior, and ultimately makes the punishment her choice. It’s non-physical. It removes her from the situation. Best of all, it really makes her scream so I know she hates it.

After a couple weeks of this approach, I realized that she was spending a lot of time in her room, sometimes as much as half of the morning, afternoon, hour that mommy is home before bedtime, or any other measurement of time. I also realized I was disgusted with her a lot, and recognized that there’s a fine line between feigning anger so she would understand she’s in trouble, and actually being angry.

At this point I decided I didn’t want to be That Dad with children who obey out of fear instead of respect, or admiration, or idolization, or whatever it is that makes kids listen to their father. After a little research I discovered that my entire reasoning for the punishment is wrong for a two-year-old.

It may address the behavior, but that doesn’t mean she understands the connection. The fact that she keeps pinching right after being told not to indicates that she doesn’t realize that pinching is wrong. She’s just too young to understand cause and effect.* As for the multiple chance to stop herself, I could probably give her a million chances to stop herself and she never would. Even assuming that she knows what she’s doing is wrong, she hasn’t developed self-control yet and couldn’t stop herself.**

Sending to her room is non-physical in theory, but she never goes willingly and things get plenty physical by the time I have to drag her. Sure it removes her from the situation, but I tend to forget about her in her room and leave her to stew for too long. That can’t be good for her self-esteem, psyche, or future therapy bills. Most importantly, being drug to her room really ticks her off, which makes her mad, which makes her want to pinch more, which gets her drug to her room more, creating a viscous cycle far worse than any Cubs tailspin.

So I’m toning things down. When she pinches, I tell her not to pinch and to pat my leg or say “daddy” when she wants my attention. This gives her a sense of control by letting her choose the way she grabs my attention, even if she refuses to do anything that involves speaking. Plus it still teaches her that pinching is wrong, though I don’t expect her to actually remember that lesson for a few months. That message is usually enough to stop the pinching, possibly because she just wants my attention when she pinches. If she keeps pinching, I threaten to stop reading since she usually pinches when I’m too slow to respond to a page turn, and I’ve only had to follow through with this threat a few times. Only under extremely egregious violations do I send her to her room anymore.

The result is everybody is happier. She doesn’t pinch as much, and I’m not nearly as disgusted or angry with her. I’m on the path to idolization, or at least I won’t be one of Those Dads.

* Note to Future Abbie if she reads this one day: If you’re old enough to read this, you’re old enough to understand cause and effect, so don’t even try using that excuse.
** Note to Future Abbie: You’re old enough to have self-control so don’t try that excuse either.

Solid

The twins turned six-months-old a couple days ago. In the spirit of giving babies cake for the first time on their first birthday, we gave the twins applesauce on their half-birthday, which we figure is about half as tasty as birthday cake.

The applesauce is their first real solid food that normal people eat, assuming there’s a normal person somewhere who eats applesauce thinned with Nutramigen. This is a big step up from their previous solid meal of rice cereal soup with a creamy Nutramigen base. Tory thought it was the tastiest thing since breast milk, sucking down one bowl plus the second bowl I mixed up mostly for him. Ian ate it, but seemed less enamored with the applesauce than Tory, though that may not be a fair comparison. That’s like saying a rattlesnake is less dangerous than a cobra, or the Marlins are less dreadful than the Cubs; it may be true, but that doesn’t mean the former isn’t enamored / dangerous / depression-inducing to its fans.

So far, Tory looks like a black hole for food, willing to accept it as long as it at least seems edible. He’ll pack in the solids until I’ve scraped the bowl dry, and then suck a few ounces off a bottle like he doesn’t already have a half-cup of applesauce lodged in his gut. Food makes him way too excited, especially for a little man who won’t even get to experience Goldfish for at least six months. He’s usually the first one to wake from his nap, or at least the first one to meltdown after waking in a desperate attempt to grab my attention because he hasn’t eaten in like three hours and is in danger of breaking into his perilously fragile fat reserves. While being spoon-fed, he flaps his arms wildly like a bird, possibly in an attempt to seize the spoon and feed himself faster than my slow hands, or possibly just because he likes watching the food go flying every time he whacks the spoon on its way to his mouth. Tory is like Abbie in this way, as both would eat anything early in life, though hopefully Tory avoids Abbie’s current preference for foods in nugget form.

Ian is generally more reserved. When he wakes from a nap, he just lays in his crib watching his surroundings and possibly chewing on his hand. He knows he can save his energy because Tory will call us to retrieve them by screaming when he wakes up. If Ian gets hungry before Tory wakes, he just grabs his face in a few tender spots until he wakes up angry, which makes us run to grab them because Tory sounds really hungry this time. While being spoon-fed, he just sits still, willing to take whatever we do or don’t deposit in his mouth. He seems indifferent to rice cereal, possibly because he knows we keep a box of Fruit Rings that would work just as well as the rice cereal if I just crushed it up real fine. Eventually he whines, which I interpret as a sign that he’s done with whatever glop we’re shoveling, as opposed to Tory who whines for faster glop shoveling. When he starts whining, I give the lion’s share of the remainder to Tory while continuing to give Ian the occasional spoonful. I’m not sure at this point if Ian’s full of solids or just ready for his bottle, but putting food in his mouth at least keeps him busy and not complaining.

The next step is more solids, both in variety and frequency. I tackled the variety tonight, giving them peas for the first time. Tory thought it was the greatest thing since breast milk, but Ian seemed less enamored. I have a bit of squash left from Abbie’s glop days that I can try tomorrow.

The frequency will take a bit more effort on my part. Right now I only feed solids once a day. I should be feeding them solids three times a day, but it’s so much easier to just plop bottles in them than it is to strap them in their high chairs, attach their bibs, and fend off Abbie while spoon-feeding. I’ll probably suck it up and go to three solid-feedings a day in June. Then I’ll start working up the chain of foods, from fruits, to vegetables, to starches, to meats, to birthday cake.

Oh, Behave

The 20 naughtiest things Abbie has done today:

20. Screamed.
19. Stole the babies’ toys.
18. Ran outside while the dog came inside.
17. Tried to eat dog food.
16. Turned the television on when it wasn’t TV time.
15. Tried to eat fish food.
14. Dumped dog food kibble into the dog’s water so it bloats into a mushy mess.
13. Tried to eat formula powder.
12. Threw her breakfast Tasteeos all over the floor.
11. Stole the Tasteeos box off the countertop after breakfast.
10. Knocked the water pitcher over on the counter. No, wait; I did that. She was quiet in the other room at the time too, so I can’t even blame her.
9. Ate yogurt with her fingers.
8. Repeatedly begged for Goldfish despite being repeatedly told “no.”
7. Chewed on a body wash bottle.
6. Chewed on a hand soap bottle, leaving the bottle tipped over to leak on the carpet when she was done.
5. Ran away in the store.
4. Ran away while walking from the car to the house.
3. Turned the computer monitor off while I was using it.
2. Pulled hair.
1. Pinched. What else would be #1?

Otherwise she was a perfect angel today.

"Why no pinch?"

I have the World’s Worst Behaved Toddler. This thought occurred to me while I sent Abbie to her room for the dozenth time for pinching yesterday morning. Or maybe I thought of it while she relentlessly pinched me in the store yesterday. Either way, I assume this is a phase that all children go through. At least I hope so because I’d hate to think it’s true.

“Wait a minute,” says my faithful reader. “Wasn’t there an entire post about pinching a few days ago?” Yes there was, but this blog is about my experiences with my children, and right now all of my experiences with Abbie end in pinching. I could write about the boys, but until they’re mobile enough to get into trouble, I’d have little to type.

Pinching is turning book time into bawl time. Usually when I read to Abbie, I’m reading while caring for the boys. This means I’m generally multi-tasking by simultaneously reciting her book, bouncing Tory, wiping Ian’s spit-up, and trying to finish reading yesterday’s newspaper. I can do all of these things at once because I have most of her books memorized and can narrate each page as she turns without looking at said page, provided that she doesn’t skip any pages, which she usually does, but how is she going to know I’m “reading” the wrong page? My massive multi-tasking tends to slow down my reaction time, and I don’t always start reading as soon as she turns the page. Abbie has learned to bring me back to what’s important (her and her book) by pinching. She’s getting to the point where she automatically pinches as soon as she turns the page, just in case.

The first time or two she pinches, I try to ignore it and continue speaking, especially since I should have been reading her book instead of that day’s Dilbert. Eventually my leg starts hurting and I tell her to stop pinching. Sadly, this break in the reading prompts her to continue pinching to draw me back to her book, or maybe me bringing up pinching just gave her a great idea. Either way, the situation generally degrades until I send her to her room screaming.*

Ellie tried a new anti-pinching technique the other night by making her say “daddy” or “mommy” before continuing to read whenever she pinches. This operates under the theory that pinching is her way of grabbing our attention. Optimally, this teaches her the appropriate way to catch our attention while forcing her to practice her language skills. It worked beautifully that first night as she immediately uttered “ah-ee,” which sounds just like “daddy” when there’s a large fan spinning to drown out the “d” sounds. It hasn’t worked as well since then as this technique combines the frustration of not being read to with the frustration of being forced to speak, and it just accelerates the inevitable go-to-your-room-screaming conclusion.

I know this is all normal. This is just a phase she’s going through when her emotions have developed beyond her ability to express her emotions. I just need to remain calm, keep my patience, and keep reinforcing in her that pinching is unacceptable. Eventually she’ll learn. I just wish it didn’t hurt so much.

* She’s the one who’s screaming; I’m just speaking forcefully.

These Are the Sales in Your Neighborhood

We went garage sale-ing yesterday. This is a noteworthy event now, unlike last year when I went garage sale-ing on almost every Friday, Saturday, and occasional Thursday between April and October. Such determination is how I accumulated the stockpile of baby clothes that’s overtaken a corner of our basement. That, and I think the clothes have learned to procreate, possibly from the stuffed animals that have overtaken another basement corner.

The first time I tried loading and unloading all three children for a trip to the mall, I knew it would be a long time before I visited any garage sales without adult help. Never mind the headache of keeping track of all three children; forget the skyrocketing gas prices that leave me spending the equivalent of four second-hand three-piece like-new name-brand outfits during my multi-stop mornings driving across town; I just couldn’t bear to load and unload all three children by myself nine times or so in a morning. Considering the variability of each sale’s offerings, it’s too much effort to exert just to discover that those “baby clothes” a sale advertised means a moderately-stained Wal-Mart onesie for $1.50 and a bag of something that looks like tights for $4.

With the loading and unloading exertion in mind, I picked out a simple neighborhood garage sale. This is a type of sale where a neighborhood association advertises the sale for about a four square block area once a year. All homes within this area are encouraged to set up sales in their garages, and many do,* along with a few deadbeat garage sales on the fringes of the neighborhood that happily mooch off the association’s advertising. These sales are good to visit as they let you park and quickly visit several sales without having to reload the car. On the downside, since they’re annual, they tend to encourage residents to hold garage sales every year, usually by setting out the same junk that I didn’t want from last year’s neighborhood garage sale. Plus I don’t know what each seller offers, meaning I have to delve deep into the garage to determine they don’t have any kid’s clothes. This puts us at risk of being noticed by the proprietor and setting off the inevitable “Are those twins? Are they identical? What do you mean you don’t know?” line of questioning, which I really don’t have time to answer when somebody is cranky, somebody else is poopy, and somebody else is cranky and poopy.

I parked at the southeast corner of the neighborhood sale, unloaded everyone, and started moving. Ellie joined me this morning after skipping work a little early and making it clear that her husband really wanted to visit this neighborhood sale. As we started down the neighborhood, I began thinking I wouldn’t need help for these neighborhood sales; the twins were content to sit quietly in their stroller, or fuss for their pacifier at worst, and I handled Abbie by myself last year, so how hard could she be this year?

When we hit the first garage sale, it was clear that she’d learned a few escape tricks in the off-season. While Ellie simultaneously browsed and pushed the twins, I simultaneously glanced at a few items and chased Abbie to make sure she wasn’t hurting herself or, worse, damaging items for sale. She was so fidgety, that I couldn’t even thumb through a box of slightly torn clothing for a dime unless Ellie took charge of watching her run away. It didn’t sink in how horrible she was behaving until I let go of her for ten seconds to pull money from my wallet, and she ran down the driveway and into the path of an oncoming van. Granted the van was extremely alert, still a half-block away, and was moving slowly from having just pulled onto the street so she was in no real danger, but I ran down the driveway as fast as I could to catch her while feeling like the World’s Worst Parent.

After that I vowed to never let go of her for any longer than absolutely necessary while out in public until she shows the capability to follow directions to my satisfaction, probably sometime around her 16th birthday. I also vowed to never try taking all three children garage sale-ing with adult help.

The rest of the sale went well. We bought plenty of clothes, picked up a little exercise, and nobody got hurt. We also answered the question, “Are they twins?” at least a dozen times before turning back to the car halfway through the neighborhood. Abbie was cranky and poopy.

* This neighborhood sale advertised 50+ homes, though some of those just set a couple pieces of furniture in the driveway with price tags.

When Two Become Three

A couple weeks ago I mentioned that I’m phasing out the twins’ early evening nap and down to a two nap a day schedule. I was implementing a well-designed plan to slowly extend their wake time until the twins stayed awake so long their nap disappeared.

The twins didn’t care about my plan; they wanted their nap. I abandoned my plan for now when I realized that no matter how long or late they napped in the afternoon, they would still nap in the evening. They’d fall asleep even if they just woke from a three-hour nap 90-minutes ago.

My first clue on their reluctance to stay awake came when I would leave them on the floor while changing Abbie, and find them asleep when I returned. Since I’m not the most absorbent diaper in the jumbo mega package, I figured they’d move in and out of three-nap territory before happily settling into a two-nap routine and continued with the plan. My big clue came when they were extremely fussy one night from what I presume to be lack of sleep. Not that I figured out that they wanted to nap that night; I spent more than a solid hour trying comfort two simultaneously screaming babies by myself while running down the usual list of causes: Teething? Gas? Abbie gouge them really good while I wasn’t looking? Only after decompressing with a good, stiff internet session followed by a solid four hours of sleep did I think “Huh, maybe they just wanted to nap.” I imagine that police and military officers are the only people who have to make more difficult decisions in more stressful situations than a parent with a screaming child, and that’s partially because they occasionally have to deal with strangers’ screaming children on their jobs.

I’ve kept them on a three-nap schedule ever since, setting them down an hour-and-a-half after waking them from their afternoon nap. They may only nap for half-an-hour, but it keeps them content and me sane.

I still have the plan ready when they’re ready, but for now the aftermath of that third nap provides the best chance to spoon-feed them. I can use Ellie’s help while training them to eat from a spoon, and she’s at least occasionally home for the evening feeding instead of almost never home for the earlier feedings. I’d like to concentrate on one child while spoon-feeding to make sure he’s eating at his preferred pace, keeping a high swallowed-to-dribbled ratio on each spoonful, not choking, and other important one-on-one interactions that I can’t do by myself. Plus I’d like to feed each baby from his own spoon and bowl, but that’s too hard to do while feeding both of them. I just feed both of them from one bowl with the same spoon, which makes me feel silly every time I worry about mixing up their pacifiers.

That third nap also keeps them calm for the spoon-feeding, which is important until they realize the spoon is bringing sustenance. I remember Abbie always woke from screaming from her naps. She always fell asleep screaming too, but that’s a different story. I could always calm her down by shoveling a few spoonfuls of cereal slurry into her mouth, which she would swallow and realize that I wasn’t trying to starve her to death. The twins are usually content when they wake, but I tried the shovel method with the boys the other day when they were angry and apparently hungry. Not getting a bottle combined with the strange milk-like substance that kept appearing in their mouths only made them angrier. After a few futile minutes, I unstrapped them and bottle-fed until they calmed down. It took a few minutes of crying, but I guess that’s what I get for trying to steal their nap.

"I Pinch"

Abbie’s latest ultra bad habit is pinching. She uses her whole hand to pinch, digging in with all five fingers in a gouging motion, possibly in order to maximize the possibility of drawing blood. This habit makes me long for the days when all she did was bite; biting hurts more, but at least her mouth has a far more limited range than her hands. Plus she only has one mouth. Not that she doesn’t bite anymore, but at least her biting is easily sidestepped.

I wish I knew what she was thinking. I know that pinching is usually her way of telling me something, specifically “pay attention to me,” but it can mean other things like “come look at this” or “I enjoy this pinching game.” The “I want attention” part I get, and I’m anxiously awaiting the day when she starts talking and can just say, “I want attention.” What I don’t get is the times she seems to pinch out of boredom or curiosity, where she’ll just walk up and start pinching for no obvious reason. Once I walked around the corner to find her pinching the top of Tory’s head in what couldn’t have been an attention-grabbing maneuver since I wasn’t even in the room. Fortunately she was pinching Tory who has an extra protective layer around his body to prevent harm.

I also don’t understand why she’ll even pinch after I explicitly tell her not to. She pinches, I state the obvious (“Don’t pinch, that hurts”), she pinches again (“You hurt daddy, stop pinching”), she immediately pinches again (“If you pinch one more time, you’re going to your room”), and she quickly pinches one more time (“Go to your room”). At that point she stops, looks at me hurt that I’d tell her to go to her room without warning, and offers some verbal protest ranging from squawking to outright bawling before I drag her into her room. After being locked in her room for a minute, well, a few minutes, I let her out and she usually behaves if for no other reason than she’s forgotten why she started pinching. The other day though, after imprisoning her for pinching, the first thing she did was walk up and pinch me again. I shut her back in her room, let her out after a couple more minutes, and she walked right back to me and pinched again.

I don’t know how best to react to pinching. Since she usually wants attention, my first instinct is to ignore her like any other tantrum, but that would send the signal that pinching is an acceptable way to express frustration, and I wouldn’t want her expressing her frustration all over her future kindergarten classmates. I do my best to ignore the occasional isolated pinch when it doesn’t hurt, but that may just be communicating that she needs to pinch really hard to grab attention. Or she could just pinch her brothers; that always grabs our attention.

As punishment, I send her to her room, though I try to warn her first so that theoretically she’ll learn that future actions have consequences. It gets her out of my hair and away from our skin for a minute, but that might be all it accomplishes since she has plenty of playthings in her room like books, stuffed animals, and the diaper pail. Plus I hate to associate her room with punishment. Ideally I’d like to put her on a timeout chair, but she doesn’t understand that punishment in any way and immediately hops back down a la Cartman.

Then there’s physical punishment. She spent most of our recent trip to the grocery store pinching me from her cart seat as my exposed hands pushed the handlebars.* As we neared the checkout lane, finally out of frustration** I slapped her hand. It worked as she stopped pinching for a minute, though I wasn’t sure if I looked like a worse parent because I have an out-of-control child who constantly pinches, or because I just hit my child.

She stopped pinching just long enough for the cashier to scan all of our items. As we pulled through to load our bagged groceries into the cart, Abbie pinched the cashier, who had obliviously turned her back on our little crab. I apologized, but the cashier said it was okay, that it just tickled a little. Hopefully that’s the last stranger who has to experience her pinching.

* The person who invents a set of handcuffs that attaches to the shopping cart seatbelt will make a fortune.
** Whenever the phrase “out of frustration” precedes an interaction with a child, you know that interaction is going to be something stupid.

"So, what do you kids want to play?"

I don’t get out of the house much these days. I have the weekly grocery and/or Vital Supplies trip, visits to the park when the weather is nice, and the occasional oddball appointment where I have to take all three children without help and I end up wishing I were back home, possibly crying. Other than that, walking the few hundred feet to the mailbox is the outside the house highlight of my day.

When a college friend recently invited me to her home for a couple hours, I took her up on it. She has a daughter a little over a year old, which would make our interaction a playdate except that none of our children are capable of playing together. The best we can hope for is they play near each other so we can keep an eye on everyone, but not so close that they’re constantly stealing each other’s toys. I believe my friend is, like too many stay-at-home parents including myself, starved for human interaction with her intellectual peers instead of the children we spend our days with who always manage to get their way in spite of their mental deficiencies. I also think she wants her daughter to spend time around Abbie in the hopes that she’ll pick up big girl habits, specifically walking since her girl refuses to give up cruising. I don’t think she realizes that Abbie’s motivation for walking is so she can quickly access forbidden objects on countertops and other high places.

Getting to her house was a challenge, and not just because I burn an eighth of a tank of gas driving to her. I couldn’t find a good time and day to make the journey. Mornings are the best time because the kids nap in the afternoon and our spouses are generally home in the evening, which solves the human interaction problem. A weekend trip is less than optimal since our spouses are theoretically home. Monday mornings don’t work well for me since I spend that morning cleaning up the house from all the projects I started but never finished over the weekend. Tuesday and Thursday mornings I have set aside for meetings. Friday mornings I’m preparing projects for the weekend, plus I have faint hope that I might be able to attend some garage sales. That leaves Wednesday as the only suitable day assuming I don’t have any doctor’s visits or vet appointments.* With that in mind, yesterday I loaded everyone into the car and left the squalor of our three young child home for the relative cleanliness of a one young child.

The playdate, for lack of a better word, was mostly uneventful. We had grand designs on letting the kids play outside while we paid minimal attention, grateful for the break in routine, but those hopes evaporated as the rain hit my windshield during the drive. Instead we stayed cooped inside like most every day, except our children had different company, and my children had a new set of toys to drool on. The twins spent their time rolling on the floor, perhaps appreciating the long, unencumbered runways of her more spacious house. They also enjoyed the lack of a dog barking at every suspicious squirrel and hovering over them waiting for someone to spit-up. Abbie spent her time pushing every toy button, turning every book page, and grabbing every almost-out-of-reach item.

We stayed through lunch. Feeding the twins away from home is much like feeding them at home since they still eat the same thing from the same bottle everywhere. Abbie tends to get more distracted and insolent during meals away from home though, especially if chicken nuggets aren’t involved. I should say, especially if fried chicken nuggets aren’t involved since our host lovingly baked homemade chicken nuggets that Abbie refused to eat, even with ketchup. She even refused the fresh baked, homemade cookies (snickerdoodles) we offered, throwing them to the non-existent dog. Fortunately I was prepared for this bout of finickiness with the yogurt and steamed vegetables I brought from home. Plus, it’s not like she refused everything offered by our host; she ate Goldfish and a little soda pop.

We left right after lunch and right before naptime. I had to play the radio really loud the entire drive home to ensure that at least Abbie’s naptime didn’t start in the car. Things could have gone easier, but it was nice to get out of the house and escape my rut for a day. We’ll have to visit again, probably on a Wednesday.

* Note to self: I must make a vet appointment for the dog.

Matt the Non-Mother

I generally need to knock out a few chores while the twins nap. I have several options for how I spend this time. I could clean the fish tank. I could water plants. I could fold laundry from that pile of clothes that are clean except for their thin coating of dust. After putting the twins down yesterday morning, I looked around and saw that I could still see the fish in the aquarium, realized that I’d never have to fold laundry again if I just keep pulling clean clothes off the top, and noticed that the plants were looking a little browner and sounding a little crunchier than healthy plants should. Figuring the others could wait, I grabbed some water and set about saving our few plants.

While watering the hanging plant just outside our front door, I found a bird’s nest. It was a small nest probably belonging to a similarly small bird, like a finch or maybe an escaped pet pygmy parrot. It looked about finished, packed tightly into a neat bowl with twigs and the occasional shred of paper, and it was probably better wired for internet access than our home. The basket is an ideal location for a nest, beyond the clutches of any terrestrial predators, and nestled under an overhang that offers protection from the sun and wind. It also stays dry most of the time since it’s out of the rain, and we rarely remember to water it as evidenced by the fact that I just now discovered a completely formed nest with its own wi-fi hotspot.

You may be thinking this is a magical opportunity to observe nature right outside our front door. I can spend the summer watching our avian guests start a family and sharing the learning experience with the kids: Eggs appear and eventually hatch, the parents bring food for the babies, teach the kids to fly, nurture them in preparation for the day they leave the nest, and finally withhold the food supply and internet access to force them out of the place. It would be nature at work.

I immediately threw yanked the nest out of the pot and threw it on the ground; didn’t think twice. I’m not some cruel ogre though; I made sure there weren’t any eggs in it before casting it to the concrete below. The last thing I want in one of my potted plants that I pour my heart, soul, and water into on at least a biweekly basis is a bird’s nest.

When I was younger and still living at home, my mom found a bird’s nest in one of her hanging plants. She found the birds charming and left them alone, carefully watering around the nest on a proper watering schedule. She found them less charming when they killed most of the basket’s vegetation, but she didn’t do anything since by that point the nest housed chicks, and only some cruel ogre would destroy a bird’s nest when it would likely result in the death of chicks. Eventually the supports failed under the avian weight and the basket crashed to the ground, knocking the nest and its contents onto the ground anyway. My mother scrambled to save the chicks that morning despite being late for work, and wound up covered in mites as a reward for her failed effort.

That was a learning experience for me. Specifically I learned to never leave a bird’s nest in your hanging plants. Someday I may pass this information onto my children, though I’d rather do it the easy way by telling them. In the meantime, I’d be happy if I could pass on knowledge about folding clothes.

Doorway to Abbie's Heaven

In Iowa, we have a saying: “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.” It refers to Iowa’s volatile weather that can change radically, although not quite by the minute. In other words, if you don’t like the heat wave frying your part of the state, just wait for that blizzard ravaging the western edge of the state to hit. This saying gained popularity partly because of the weather’s importance to the state’s heirloom industry of farming, and partly because there usually isn’t anything more important to talk about in Iowa besides the weather. I imagine most regions of the country have similar sayings, though it changes a bit for areas with more stagnant weather. For example, Phoenix area residents could say, “if you don’t like the undeveloped land around you, wait a minute.” Northern Californians could say, “if you don’t like your home’s value, wait a minute.”

I bring this up because I mentioned a couple of days ago that Abbie can almost turn a doorknob and open a door by herself. I also mentioned that we are almost in a lot of trouble. Well, if I don’t like Abbie’s developmental stage, wait a minute. The day after I wrote that, we saw her open the door to her shut herself in her room, and let herself out a minute later. She can now open doors in our home by herself, and we’re now in trouble.

We’d be in a lot more trouble if our home had more doors. We have five doors that we don’t want her to open freely because we want to keep her shut out or in. Fortunately, they make child-resistant doorknob covers that make it difficult for little hands or big hands that are carrying groceries to open the door. The day after I saw her open the door, I bought enough to cover all the doors in the house.

First I stuck the knob covers on the back and front doors leading outside. There are plenty of things in the house she could get into that would annoy me, like finding and dumping an entire box of cereal on the floor, and a few things that are dangerous, like the liquid soap bottles she mysteriously insists on chewing on, but nothing is more dangerous than her sneaking outside. I haven’t seen her open either of these doors, but we need to be safe. Even if she did open an outside door, I don’t think she can open the screen door behind it, although if she can punch a few more holes in the screen she won’t have to open the door to sneak outside.

On the inside, I stuck a protector on our bedroom door because I hate searching for the TV remote after she’s been in there. I put a protector on the bathroom door because all of our soaps say “FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY! SEEK IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION IF SWALLOWED!! KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN, YOU NEGLIGENT PARENT!!!” Ellie doesn’t like limiting her access to the bathroom since theoretically she should be learning to use the bathroom now, but I don’t like walking into the bathroom and finding the hand soap dispenser sucked dry.

I also set a protector on the inside and outside of her bedroom door to keep her on whichever side of the door I want her. When she should be asleep or in timeout, I want her trapped in her room instead of wandering the house in search of fresh meat to gouge. When the twins are sleeping in her room, I want her outside instead of reading books and screaming in frustration when they won’t tear the way she wants them. I have to occasionally remove the protectors when she shuts the door with herself on the wrong side. Sometimes she does this while playing with the door and enjoys repeatedly opening and closing it. Sometimes she does this when frustrated, or possibly just wants some privacy, and will walk into her room, slamming the door behind her. And I thought I had a few more years to go before my daughter was slamming her bedroom door in my face to shut me out.

That protects all of the dangerous and/or annoying doors. These covers should allow us to concentrate on the twins while Abbie roams free about the house without having to worry that she’s roaming her way out of the house. At least until she hits the developmental stage of defeating the covers, probably within a few days.

"Free Inside! One Jagged Metal Krusty-O!"

The twins’ latest milestone is eating solids. At least, their new food is as solid as a little rice cereal mixed with a lot of formula gets, which is to say still pretty liquid. It’s kind of like eating a steaming bowl of beef broth for supper in that I can’t imagine it’s the most texturally satisfying experience. I suppose that when your life’s biggest mealtime variety is switching from Alimentum to Nutramigen, adding a little rice cereal can be pretty exciting.

For any non-breeders who accidentally stumbled across this blog, infant rice cereal is a dried flake-like food made from, I presume, rice. It dissolves easily in liquid, slowly thickening it to the consistency of paste if you add enough cereal. It should not be confused with adult rice cereals like Rice Krispies, Puffed Rice, or Puffed Krispies as the infant version is easily digested by young tummies, and the various snaps, crackles, and pops of the adult version could frighten very small children. Plus no one who could choose a different food would ever agree to eat infant rice cereal.

We gave them their first serving of rice cereal a week shy of their six-month-birthday. We originally planned to wait until they were six-months, but I guess we were bored last night with only having to struggle to make one child eat solids. The information I’ve seen says children should wait until at least four-months before eating solids, but preferably six-months. The reasoning is that children who start solids too young increase their risk of developing food allergies. Figuring the boys already showed a cow’s milk allergy, we didn’t want to see them acquire any more food allergies since our family already has enough picky eaters at mealtime.

I prepared their meal according to the “Baby’s First Feeding” directions on the side of the box. They called for five parts formula to one part cereal, which creates a mixture thinner than the Kansas City Royals fan base. I poured the mix into separate bowls and stirred it with separate spoons because I wouldn’t want our little men who share bedding and probably pacifiers to swap germs.

We placed them in high chairs after supper, with Ellie feeding Ian and me feeding Tory. Spoon-feeding before the child recognizes the spoon is a matter of depositing food in the mouth, waiting for the oblivious child to realize that he now has food in his mouth, and watching him swallow. When an inexperienced child swallows, the food moves in a random direction with an equal chance of going down the throat or the chin.

The boys seemed to get the hang of it as we progressed, with definitely less than half of the initial amount ending up on the bib. Ian was pretty fussy by the time he finished his ounce of food, but Tory was ready for more when I scraped the bottom of the bowl. While Ian finished with a bottle, I prepared another ounce for Tory, this time a little thicker. He sucked that down a little less greedily with a little more squirting onto the bib. He then finished with a little bottle.

I’d consider it a fairly successful feeding. By the end, they’d even started opening their mouths a little as the spoon approached in anticipation. Now I just need to figure out how to spoon-feed both of them by myself while keeping Abbie placated, and this feeding thing will be easy.

Ellie, the Mother

Today was Mother’s Day. It’s a day for sleeping in late, opening lovingly selected presents, and enjoying a fancy brunch-like meal outside the home.

The twins shot the whole “sleeping in” idea when they woke up at 7am. Ordinarily I’d be perturbed at the twins for waking up early after a long night of staying up too late watching TV (me, not them), eating a meal at 4am (them, not me), and various grunts and bodily function noises throughout the night loud enough to wake Ellie (them, and possibly me). Last night they slept all the way until 7am with nary a peep, so I didn’t mind rolling out of bed to tend to them at such an early hour. When I say, “tend to them,” I mean “sticking pacifiers in their mouths for a half-hour while I doze on the couch because there’s no way I’m getting up before 7:30.”

My plan worked as it let me rest for an extra few minutes, but the twins still made enough noise behind their pacifiers to rustle Ellie from bed. I think she was awake anyway. Ellie took Tory from the crib and spent the time playing with him while Ian fell back asleep. Tory was so happy to be out of the crib and away from that mattress hog Ian that he smiled and giggled for Ellie the whole time despite not being fed.

This was a rare chance for Ellie to bond with her son, especially one-on-one, on an extraordinarily lazy morning; I’m counting it as a present. It was one of the few presents she received on Mother’s Day. Don’t worry, she’s getting presents, mostly jewelry, but it must be specially made and not available to give on her special day. Abbie gave her a coloring, which at this age is a flower from a coloring book colored black and green crayon scribbles and maybe a few drool spots from when she chewed on the crayons. Otherwise her presents consisted of cards, three of them to be exact, one from me, one from Abbie, and one from the twins. This may sound like a lot, but nothing is too good for the mother of my children, especially when I know a place that sells greeting cards for $.49.

After a quiet morning playing with the children, we moved on to the Mother’s Day meal. Ellie selected a hip, local barbecue spot just down the road to eat. We were supposed to go last Friday, but I was too sick to enjoy such a meal, which means no one at our table would enjoy such a meal. Now we’re scheduled to go Wednesday. We could have gone to a nice restaurant today, but all the nice places are too crowded. So we ate at Quizno’s instead.

We visited the mall on our way. First Ellie returned some unneeded party supplies to a party supplies store, giving us a chance to gawk at everyone who neglected to buy a Mother’s Day gift before Mother’s Day when the only $.49 cards left either contain misspellings, or are addressed to people like “caregiver.” Then we wandered the mall, particularly the mall-based big box store, for some leisurely shopping, meaning I had Abbie with me most of the time.

At Quizno’s, I ordered for Ellie one of their special, “limited time” sandwiches that was one of the most expensive on the menu. It’s extravagant, but she’s worth it, especially when I have a completed frequent eater card that entitles us to one free sandwich. I ordered a kid’s meal for Abbie with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I was amused to see them make those by opening single-serving containers of peanut butter and jelly and spreading them on bread. Considering that Abbie refuses to eat sandwiches and will only eat peanut butter and jelly if we scoop up the innards and offer them to her on a spoon, they might as well have given us the packets and saved the bread.

We returned home in time to set everyone down for their nap, mostly because the kids refused to fall asleep outside the house for some reason and stayed up way past their scheduled naptime. Ellie then enjoyed one of the best gifts young children can give to their mother: A long nap. That night, I gave Ellie one of the best gifts a husband can give to his wife: An extra trip to the mall; I forgot one of our bags of purchases at the big box store, and Ellie had to retrieve it before the employees returned everything to the shelves.

A Learning Experience

Things I’ve learned today:

- Never lift a child by one arm.
- Nurses are very sympathetic to a 2-year-old’s screams.
- In the grand scheme of things, a dislocated elbow isn’t a big deal.
- No matter the score, no matter the inning, no matter how bleak things look, there’s always a chance for a comeback when you’re playing the Chicago Cubs.
- Tory can stand while holding onto furniture without adult assistance for a second.
- My nose is too stuffed to smell a blasted thing.
- Abbie can dip her own chicken nuggets.
- Not being able to smell is a good thing after discovering a lost sippy cup that has about an ounce left of something that was once milk, but can now be best described as “spackle.”
- Abbie takes pretty cute pictures right now.
- Trying to take a cute picture of a six-month-old is hard.
- Trying to take a cute picture of two six-month-olds simultaneously is impossible.
- Trying to take a cute picture of two six-month-olds and a two-year-old simultaneously is so difficult it should be illegal.
- The boys can take a few steps with an adult holding them up.
- Abbie can almost turn a doorknob and open a door by herself.
- We are almost in a lot of trouble.

"I'm high as a kite and my teeth are green."

Whatever disease struck our household is currently running its course. Abbie has a stuffed and runny nose, and the drool soaked shirt that accompanies her new mouth-breathing ways, but otherwise seems no more rambunctious than usual. Ellie has a sore throat and feels a little off kilter, but otherwise feels okay. If the twins are sick, I hope all of their colds are this benign; their noses are a little runny and their breathing is a little snuffly, but they’re in good spirits otherwise except for that hour-long meltdown last night that I think was teething-related anyway. They haven’t slept all the way through the night recently, though.

I, on the other hand, was floored. That’s okay with me. When the kids are miserable, everyone is miserable. When I’m miserable, everyone else can go about their lives blissfully unaware of my soreness as long as no does anything silly like knock a glass of water on the floor or try to hold a conversation with me. Plus I can take NyQuil, something I can’t give (with a clear conscience) to the children. Yet.

Thankfully I’m feeling better already. This is unusual for me; generally when I’m sick, I feel kind of sick for a week or two. This cold came on Wednesday night with a sore throat and general yuckiness. The next morning I felt thoroughly rotten with vague aches, a killer headache, and sinuses that felt like I’d shoved a dish towel up one nostril, pulled an end out through my mouth, and was tugging it back and forth through the cavity like an oversized piece of dental floss. By the afternoon, I didn’t want to move, which made me regret the stairclimber session I’d undertaken an hour or two earlier. This mood continued through this afternoon when things started to improve, and now I’m back up to feeling rotten. Hopefully by tomorrow night I’ll just have a mostly vestigial sore throat as my immune system banishes the last remnants of the virus from my body like so much optimism for a Cub playoff run.

In the meantime, I need my sleep. Sixish broken hours of sleep will suffice when I’m healthy, but not so much with a cold. NyQuil, take me away.

The Outbreak Timeline

Monday Night: Abbie is cranky.
Tuesday: Abbie has a cold.
Tuesday Night: Ellie is cranky.
Wednesday: Ellie has a cold.
Last Night: I’m cranky.
Today: I have a cold.
Tonight: The twins are cranky.
Tomorrow: God help us.

Eating Buffet Style

Our family visits different types of restaurants depending on the mood. When Ellie and I want to celebrate, we ditch the kids, err, hire a babysitter and head for a nice sit-down restaurant. When we want to actually enjoy a meal with the kids, we head for a fast-food restaurant and let a bunch of high school kids worry about cooking and cleaning without wasting a lot of money or time. When we have a coupon, we head to the supermarket’s cafeteria.

Last night, we had a coupon, so we traveled to the grocery store for Chinese food. Their cafeteria has other things like a salad bar and a grill, but the Chinese food is their best offering. Not that we could visit the grocery store down the street from us; for some reason that may or may not be related to the two Asian restaurants in the adjoining strip mall, the nearby grocery store doesn’t offer Chinese food. We were out for Vital Supplies anyway, so we visited the next-closest grocery store a few miles further down the road for their surprisingly good Chinese food. When I say “good” I’m referring to speed, price, and taste, not extraneous factors like atmosphere,* quality,** or nutrition.***

The big drawback to eating cheaply at the grocery store is they don’t offer kid-sized meals, especially when that kid is under the age of 2. That means I can either buy a regular meal and watch her not eat three-quarters of it, or pay slightly less to pick and choose a few things off the salad bar and watch her not eat three-quarters of it. I choose the salad bar; it’s theoretically healthier for her, plus it adds a little variety to my meal as I finish what she wastes.

Making a plate for her at the salad bar is like eating at a buffet in that I could choose from a variety of foods, including one side of the table filled with traditional salad fixin’s, and another side filled with the kind of salad that doesn’t actually contain any lettuce. The big difference is I have to pay for everything by the pound instead of the flat all-she-can-eat rate. This made the peas a better choice than the denser carrots. Going around the table, I also grabbed meatballs for protein, macaroni salad thinking I could fool her into thinking it was macaroni and cheese, various fruits, and some Oreo fluff**** and fruit pizza because if she wouldn’t eat those I would.

Abbie insists on wielding her spoon, so I’m basically at her mercy as to what she’ll eat. She started with the peas, which was good that she’d eat some green matter. Next I tried directing her toward the meatballs, but that didn’t work. Instead she kept reaching to the opposite side of the plate and scooping up giant spoonfuls of my, err, her Oreo fluff. I scooped as much as I could onto my plate, and pointed her toward the macaroni salad. She scooped some up and gladly put it into her mouth, until she realized its yellow color came from mustard, not cheese.

With no more fluff on her plate, she attacked the next closest thing: the whipped topping dollop on the fruit pizza. I let her have it until she was about to dump the dollop on the floor; no daughter of mine would waste whipped topping. I took the topping from her and dolled it out with fruit on the spoon so I could think she was eating healthy in between the bites of Chinese that Ellie kept offering her.

I wound up finishing her meatballs, macaroni salad, and a little fruit, so I didn’t feel like I bought too much excess food. I also had to finish her fruit pizza and Oreo fluff because I didn’t want her to have all that sugar. It was the best Oreo fluff I’d had since last time I had a coupon.

* It’s a grocery store. What do you expect the atmosphere to be like?
** I’m pretty sure their meat is circus animal-free, but that may only be because I’ve never seen cows, pigs, or chickens in a circus.
*** Even the rice is fried.
**** Oreo fluff is vanilla pudding, whipped topping, and crushed Oreos mixed together, and it is good.

O Frabjous Day!

Two nights ago, Ian woke up around midnight. This is unusual for either of the boys; usually when I put them down for the night, they stay down until at least 3am. When they wake up, they spend several minutes screaming desperately for food until about three seconds before I arrive at cribside with prepared bottles in hand, at which point they fall back asleep. I knew he wasn’t hungry, or at least I was going to do everything in my power to avoid giving him the idea that it’s okay to eat at midnight, so I gave him his pacifier, helped him calm down, and sent him back to sleep.

20 minutes later, just as I dozed off, he woke up crying again. I grumbled my way out of bed, gave him his pacifier again, and watched him drift off again. Skittish about the kind of night ahead of me, I returned to bed unsure of what to do. On one hand, I knew they’d been fussy the last couple of days, and they might end up waking several times just as I doze off before the night is over. On the other hand, it’s now 12:30 and I was too tired to fight sleep. I quickly fell back to asleep, and this time everyone stayed asleep for another four hours.

Last night began much the same way, but with a different kid. Abbie woke up screaming soon after I climbed into bed around 11:30pm. This was unusual because she rarely wakes up until probably an hour before I awake, and she spends that time quietly banging around her room, finding things she’d like to put in her mouth after I clear her changing table in the morning for her to climb on. Even when she does wake up, it’s usually a panicked wail that quickly degenerates into whimpering as she falls back asleep before we can even decide to roll out of bed. This was steady panicked screaming, which was odd in that we didn’t hear the telltale “thud” that usually comes right before those screams indicating she just fell out of bed. Ellie stumbled out of bed this time to check on her, and I let her. She reported upon her return that Abbie had nothing obviously wrong with her, she just woke up. We figured she must have had a nightmare,* and went back to sleep, not knowing what kind of night we were in for.

I woke up four hours later. The boys were quiet, and Abbie never woke back up, or at least I slept through it if she did. I knew the boys would probably be up within an hour, and settled into an uneasy sleep.

The next time I looked at the clock, it was 6am, and everything was still quiet except for those blasted birds outside my window chirping like they’d never seen the sun rise. This was the latest the boys had ever slept, and there was no telling when they might wake. I spent the next two hours drifting in and out of a light sleep praying that every rustle I heard wasn’t somebody waking up.

At 8am, or maybe a little later seeing as how poorly I slept last night, I finally rolled out of bed for the day. The boys never did wake up. It took five-and-a-half months, but they finally slept through the night, all the way through the night. Hopefully they’ll do it again tonight because I’m tired. It’s amazing how poorly I sleep the first time they sleep through the night as I stare at the clock knowing they’ll start crying any second. I have a feeling Abbie will sleep through the night at least; that’s what happens when she gets Benadryl before bedtime.

* When she woke up this morning with snot running down her nose, I figured her awakening might have had something to do with a cold she just contracted.

A Change in Schedule

I’m in the midst of a schedule change with the boys. This is a process where I drop a feeding and a nap by slowly lengthening the time between each by as little as a minute a day until we reach the desired feeding and naptimes, squeezing out one feed/nap set. Currently we’re dropping from three naps a day to two, and six feedings a day to five, or better yet four feedings a day if I can just convince them to quit waking up at 4am. The process can take a month to complete, but when they gradually adjust to a new schedule, I minimize the stress they feel from a disruption in their routine. This allows them to enjoy their new schedule for a long time, sometimes for as long as several days before I realize that it’s time to drop another feeding and nap and start gradually changing their schedule again.

Changing Abbie’s schedule was easier than the boys’. The most obvious reason why is that there’s two of them but only one of her, doubling the chances that one boy will take offense that I’m making him stay awake one minute longer than yesterday.

I’m also running into problems trying to make everyone nap at the same time so I can enjoy some child-free time every day to nap, exercise, scream in frustration, or whatever else I need to ready myself for the afternoon snack to bedtime rush. Integrating a three-nap schedule with a one-nap schedule is easy; just leave Abbie’s nap in the middle of the day, and have the twins nap with her and place the other two naps in the middle of her pre- and post-nap time. It’s simple, and only takes an undergraduate college education to pinpoint the optimal times for naps. Synchronizing two naps with one takes a little finagling, though. I’m trying to keep the twins napping in the morning, putting the joint nap as late in the afternoon as Abbie will tolerate, and eliminate the twins’ late afternoon/early evening nap. If my plan works, I’ll get to continue enjoying an extended child-free time every afternoon; if the plan doesn’t work, I’ll need to step outside for a screaming session while someone is awake because I’ll have a cranky toddler until naptime, and two fussy babies until bedtime.

Even if I didn’t have a toddler’s nap to work into the day, I’d still have problems adjusting their schedules. The twins have no problem dropping one feeding, as evidenced by that one feeding every day where I have to fight to make them eat an ounce apiece. They don’t however like the concept of a couple long naps every day; they prefer several short naps, maybe cycles of awake for 90 minutes and nap for 15 minutes, thus minimizing the stretches they must spend away from their baby gym.* I’m determined to train them to take long naps though, so I poke and prod to keep them awake before naptime, and coax and pacify to send them back to sleep before waketime.

Things seem to be progressing well so far. Abbie loves staying awake, so I’m hopeful that she’ll love waiting until late afternoon to take a nap. The twins aren’t napping well in the morning yet, but they’re doing well moving the joint nap later. Today they napped so late in the afternoon that I was able to drop the early evening feeding like I ultimately hope to do. I didn’t notice any excess fussiness making them wait longer between evening feedings, but I believe they’re teething now so I doubt I could tell the difference between mouth pain fussiness and hunger fussiness anyway.

* This is the opposite of Abbie, who hated taking naps so much that early in life she would fall asleep for well over an hour to minimize the number of times I’d set her in her crib every day.

Just One of Those Days

We had one of those days today. What is one of “those days?” It’s a term meant to encompass a wide range of maddening child behaviors that make me want to set everyone down for the night somewhere around one in the afternoon and set up a walk-in therapy session with Dr. Daiquiri. One of “those days” could mean one of several things, including:

A) Abbie refused to nap.
B) The twins had an exceptionally fussy day.
C) Abbie shattered a dish by throwing it on the ground, and while I was cleaning that up she spilled dirty diapers everywhere by knocking over the diaper pail, and while I was cleaning that up she dumped a glass of water on the floor by pulling it off a counter that I could have swore was out of her reach, et cetera.
D) All of the above.

Today was mostly B), though we had a little A) mixed in when she ran around her room for an hour to start naptime, which she rectified by taking a two-hour nap. Our main problem today was keeping the twins happy. The boys have had fussy episodes in the past, but this one was exceptionally fussy.

Usually they’re nice enough to swap fussy episodes. One will demand to be held while the other one bides his time on the floor, grabbing objects off the baby gym and looking for dry patches of the floor to spit up on. Today they both demanded to be held, and not just the “put him on your lap while you try to determine what Abbie just put in her mouth” kind of holding, but the “held on the shoulder, drawing your sole attention or at least while you walk about to give him something interesting to look at” kind of holding. Ian was more laid back today, tolerating an extended period in his chair while I tended to Tory, but he got his fussings in too.

When they do fuss at the same time, it’s usually because I’ve done something to them, like keep them awake longer than they want or force them to wait several minutes while I prepare their feeding because darned if those five-piece bottles aren’t a pain to assemble. Today they just fussed off and on throughout the day, regardless of proximity to naptime or mealtime. I knew I was in trouble when Ian woke up from his morning nap screaming mad with hunger, and screamed only slightly less vociferously after packing in a few ounces.

Then there was the spit up. I expect massive spit ups right after feeding, and I’ve even started accepting the fact that they’re going to miss the burp cloth on my shoulder most of the time. Today though, they spit up right after feedings, right before feeding, and frequently in between feedings. I can ordinarily survive with a cache of two or three burp clothes, keeping one handy while the others dry, but today they kept a rotation of four clothes soaked most of the day; sometimes they got wet from a direct hit, sometimes they got wet absorbing overflow off my jeans.

I never figured out a cause. It could be teething, but they napped okay, which I would expect to happen with excruciating mouth pain. It could be digestion issues, but it would be odd for their guts to be upset all day. It could be poor sleeping habits, or maybe that’s just me.

Fortunately Ellie was home today to help with the children. I could hold one baby, Ellie could hold the other, and when one of them started to fuss, I could hand my baby off to Ellie and go figure out what Abbie just knocked on the floor. Sadly, at least for me, she returns to the relative calm of the hospital tomorrow, so hopefully the boys are easier again. We wouldn’t want to have one of “those weeks.”

"Oh boy, pico de gallo. They sure don't make it like this in Ohio."

It finally happened; we went out to eat, and Abbie didn’t eat a thing. I assume that this is a milestone every child hits, like blowing out a diaper or learning to talk. I just wish Abbie would have learned to talk before hitting this picky eater milestone.

I didn’t really want to eat out tonight. Money is tight as always and we’ve got a refrigerator full of leftovers that should be eaten soon, like chunky spaghetti sauce, green spotted pork chops, and white fuzzy chili. I had several chores I wanted to accomplish tonight though, and the only way we can do everything these days is to plan a grand excursion around mealtime on the road. Ideally, I’d like to feed the twins, pack up everybody, complete my chores, and return in time to feed the twins again without stopping somewhere to feed everyone whose diet consists of more than milk. The twins still eat so frequently though, that by the time we wake them, feed them, change them, and pack everybody up, it’s almost time to feed them and start the cycle anew.

So we just threw everybody in the car right after naptime and let whatever happens happen. What happened was we were right next to a favorite yet rarely visited Mexican restaurant when hunger struck Ellie. Never mind that it was several minutes before our regularly scheduled suppertime, or that Abbie was just finishing the bowl of Goldfish I gave her as a snack, it was suppertime.

We walked into the restaurant, and heard the greeter’s standard question, “How many in your party?” There was a time when we could answer with a simple number, “two.” Later we had to give a slightly more complicated response, “two plus a highchair.” Tonight my answer was “the two of us, plus a highchair, and we need someplace to set these two.”

We settled into our six-seat booth, and pored over the menu. Deciding upon the adult meals was the easy part, we needed to find something for Abbie to eat. They had chicken fingers that she’d probably eat, but I was reluctant to order those; it’s important to me that she eats a variety of foods, and I’d prefer that she eat something suitable to the ethnicity of the restaurant we’re patronizing instead of her fattening favorite of fried chicken everywhere we eat. Plus she already ate McNuggets earlier in the day.

We decided upon a platter with a taco, beans, and rice, knowing that those are all foods she’d eaten in the past. Maybe not the entire taco, but she’d eaten the scooped out innards with a spoon while leaving the shell, which is close enough.

We used to be able to feed her nothing but pico de gallo in Mexican restaurants, so the taco meal should be a feast for her. Of course, that was when Abbie was younger, and before she’d developed independence and a taste for McNuggets. We loaded a spoon and held the handle out for her to grab as is her mealtime wont these days, and she shoved it away. We then took the spoon and tried dumping it in her mouth, but she emphatically shoved it all away. I’d figured she’d get hungry enough to try it eventually, but she never did, instead spending her time crawling back and forth under the table and engaging in booth bouncing contests with the toddler across the room. Finally I held her down and tried putting a spoonful of beans in her mouth, but all that accomplished was smearing beans on her face and eventually her sleeve.

The meal ended with her not having eaten a thing, not counting the water she drank, though the only reason she tried that was the glass with a straw sticking out of it fooled her into thinking it was soda pop. Still, I wasn’t too upset. I thought she might not eat much, so I ordered a light meal or myself in anticipation of eating some of hers; the two adults at the table managed to finish most of her meal, and we wouldn’t want to waste food since I’ve heard that bad things can happen to families who waste restaurant food. I feared that she might start screaming from hunger soon, but the Goldfish and water kept her satiated until we returned home and I could give her a suitable meal of peanut butter and broccoli.* Best of all, her taco meal cost less than the McNuggets anyway.

* Broccoli she’ll eat. Tacos? Not so much.

The China Buffet Syndrome

I start every morning reading the newspaper over breakfast. Of course before I do that, I have to wake up, get dressed, prepare the twins’ bottles, let Abbie out of her room, feed the twins, change the twins, change Abbie, feed Abbie, and prepare my breakfast. But then I enjoy a leisurely read over a bowl of cereal while the twins sit quietly in their chairs and Abbie plays nicely elsewhere. Sometimes I even make it all the way to the B-section before someone screams for my attention.

Reading the newspaper gives me a chance to catch up with the news at my pace. I get world news (Guns N’ Roses will open for the Rolling Stones on two German concerts) national news (Nicole Richie says she’s “too thin”) and local news. It was the local news that caught my eye this morning, specifically this item.

For those who don’t want to read the original story, here’s my summary: A mother, her two children ages 7 and 5, and her boyfriend are regulars at a local $5.95 all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. On their most recent visit, an employee told them they were no longer welcome at the buffet because they waste too much food. The woman says kids will be kids and it’s hard to make them clean their plates. The restaurant manager says they leave too much on their plates; that they’ll dump an almost full plate of one dish, and go back to the buffet to grab another plate of that same dish before dumping it too.*

My first thought was “$5.95 is a pretty good price for a Chinese buffet, I’ll have to go there sometime. My second thought was “Where do my sympathies lie? With the wasteful family or the cheapskate restaurant?”

On one hand, I’ve been known to visit the occasional Chinese buffet, and I have three food wasters in training. I’d be mortified if a buffet told us to never return because one of my kids left a plate full of Moo Goo Gai Pan after taking one bite and declaring it to be icky. The story never says the restaurant had previously warned the group about their wastefulness too, which would seem to me a logical first step to me before leaping to lifetime banishment.

On the other probably correct hand, boy that’s rude on the family’s part. This family must be in the 99.99th percentile of food wasters to be the first people I’ve ever heard of banned from a buffet for said offense.

It’s rude to the other patrons. A cashier says, “They take four egg rolls and Crab Rangoon, take one bite of egg roll and throw the whole plate.” If I want an egg roll but you’re ahead of me in line and grab the last four, that’s my tough luck. But if you take one bite out of one egg roll and throw away the other three untouched, that’s inconsiderate towards me and the up to three other people who wanted a tasted of fried, rolled cabbage and pork goodness.

It’s rude to the restaurant. $5.95 is a pretty good price for a buffet, and repeatedly wasting the same food cuts into their profits. Eventually the restaurant will have to raise their prices because you can’t teach your kids not to fill a plate with a new food, which brings us back to the inconsiderate to the other patrons part.

It’s offensive to my sensibilities about wasting food. I’m embarrassed to leave any amount of food on anyone’s plate because we took more than we could eat. I’d be horrified if one of my children took a bite of garlic chicken, decided they didn’t like it, and grabbed another plate of garlic chicken to see if they liked that batch any better. While I don’t buy for a second that the story’s implication that the restaurant is concerned about this family wasting food while “hungry women and children don’t have enough to eat,” it’s still a valid point.

It’s rude to the family’s 7-year-old. I mean, he’s 7; the fact that his family was kicked out of a buffet has to be all over his school. That has to put him ahead of the funny-smelling kid as the school’s Most Likely to be Ostracized.

Maybe most importantly, sympathizing with the family would put me in agreement with the anonymous internet commenter who was printed in the newspaper as saying “this is America the last time I checked. Good for her.” Like the Declaration of Independence guarantees life, liberty, and taking all you want without eating all you take.

I could probably go on, but someone started screaming before I could think of more. Abbie was eating chinchilla food, and I was screaming “Why do you do that?”

* This was a front-page story by the way. Some state capitals have stories about murder or corruption filling the front page of their newspapers, Des Moines has stories about people being kicked out of a buffet.

Diaper Difficulties

Abbie is an expert at making diaper changes difficult. She’s honed several effective techniques over the months including the Rollover, the Scoot off the Pad, and the Stick an Appendage in the Mess.

The boys are still mostly immobile, so changing their diapers is fairly simple. They can rollover, but I don’t think it’s ever occurred to them to try it while on the changing table. They can’t really scoot on their tummies, much less their backs, so they still stay on the pad. They’re not very flexible or really even capable of deliberate movement, so they can’t put an appendage in the mess unless I leave the dirty diaper close enough for them to inadvertently kick into, which I too often do.

They still have a couple of tricks, possibly learned under Abbie’s tutelage. They squirm, especially Tory. They seem to have just discovered that they can flap their arms and kick their legs, and resting on the changing table seems to be the ideal place to practice this newfound skill. Tory takes particular delight in flailing his extremities like an poorly coordinated Olympic backstroker from one of those small where the largest body of water most inhabitants ever see is within a carafe. Tory seems so much stronger than his brother, possibly because he has to haul around an extra 20% in body weight, or maybe just because he has to be able to consume enough food to sustain his spare mass. While they’re waving that hard, it’s difficult to slide a diaper into the proper position and hold it there, plus it keeps their wipe targets moving.

Of course any child’s most powerful weapon during diaper changings is peeing. Even a newborn can pee during a diaper change, a fact the twins reminded me of by hitting the wall soon after we brought them home. I adjusted my tactics, learned to cover the appropriate parts with a wipe, diaper, t-shirt, or whatever was handy, and went on with life, minimizing the damage done. As they aged, they seemed to gain the ability to hold it while the diaper was off, going several days even weeks between peeing episodes, and I stopped concerning myself with fountains.

Then yesterday Tory peed twice with his diaper off. He’d been building up to this for a couple weeks by peeing once every day or two. I remember Abbie went through a similar phase, mostly holding it for a couple months before letting it fly again. I swear she went for two straight weeks peeing at every diaper change. Perhaps Tory is at the same developmental stage. Or perhaps he just likes having his onesie removed; he giggles every time I pull one off his body.

I’m sure they’ll regain control of their bladders soon, and I can stop running for cover during every eruption, only to return and discover how far away they can soak things this time. I can’t even remember the last time Abbie peed on the changing table with her diaper off. The boys should hit that stage soon, probably about the time they can start standing every time I try to attach a diaper.

The Crying Game

The top ten things that make Ian or Tory cry.

10. Being scratched by Abbie.
9. Plugged nipples.
8. Being left in the stationary entertainer just a bit too long.
7. Getting dropped. Not that I’d know.
6. Setting him on the Boppy in the feeding position, but not feeding him for a minute while I tend to his brother.
5. Trying to roll over, but getting thwarted by the baby gym supports.
4. Bonking his head just a tiny little bit on the floor while setting him down.
3. Spitting up while on his tummy and being unable to avoid setting his face in it.
2. Waking up a little early from naptime.
1. Whatever makes him suddenly melt down while resting contentedly. Gas? Boredom? Magic Elves?

Stain Game Answers

Here are the answers for Guess the Stains. The original picture is above as a reminder. The original text is in bold below, with the answers following.

1. The purplish streak running from the chest to the bottom. That would be a black jelly bean that she kept in her mouth for a minute before letting it fall out and roll down her shirt. I can’t say I blame her; there’s a reason we have so many black jellybeans left.
2. The light pink blotches on the abdomen. That’s strawberry yogurt. Abbie insists on feeding herself now, and likes to grab the biggest spoonfuls possible to minimize the number of scoops she has to do.
3. The reddish-orange blemishes around the abdomen and the sides. That’s pasta sauce. Rotini doesn’t stick to a utensil as well as yogurt.
4. The dark greenish blots throughout the shirt. Here we have … Abbie poo! She dug a handful out of her diaper, realized she didn’t like the way it tastes, and wiped her hands on her shirt. Aren’t children fun?

"That cost 88 dollars!"

We gave Abbie an ice cream cone today. This was her first ever ice cream cone; before tonight I always got a spoon with the ice cream and let her scoop out what she wanted until it was obvious that she wanted the whole thing and I’d distract her with Goldfish so I could actually eat the cone I ordered for myself because I wanted it dipped in the peppermint coating for a reason.

Ellie suggested we go out for ice cream after supper. It sounded like a good idea to me, especially since I couldn’t remember the last time I went out for any sort of frozen dairy dessert meaning it had been at least three or four days. It also fit in with my philosophy of giving Abbie only occasional treats as it would be her first bit of nutritionally-devoid sweet for the day besides those two jelly beans, the sucker, the two lifesavers, the Oreo that I think she snuck off the table, and a handful of chinchilla food pellets that I’m pretty sure she ate off the floor.

We loaded the kids into the car and drove to the nearby ice cream shop. It’s a small locally owned business meaning the parking is scarce, the owner is usually on premises, and they serve “slushes” instead of “Mister Misties.” Their trademark is lodging an animal cracker in everything they serve so you might have a giraffe standing atop your cone, an elephant stuck in your sundae, or a round and hollow cookie that I guess you could call a snake straddling your straw in your malt. Hopefully they just do that with the ice cream because I’m not sure that having a horse sticking out of your hot dog would be appetizing.

We went through the drive-through. We thought about going through the hassle of loading and unloading the kids into and out of the stroller so we could walk up to a window, but the stray raindrops hitting the windshield on the drive killed that idea deader than the Cubs’ playoff hopes. I wasn’t sure what to order when I pulled in, but when I saw a little girl toddling about with a baby cone, I knew that I’d get to enjoy my cone all to myself this time.

We handed her the baby cone in her car seat, and watched the fun. Actually, I watched the road while Ellie watched the fun and provided play-by-play. An Abbie ice cream cone was a foreign concept to her, so she grabbed the recognizable part, the animal cracker, and ate it first because she certainly knows what to do with a cracker. After mommy instructed her how to eat it, Abbie attacked the ice cream, putting it in her mouth. Not satisfied with licking it, she then tried grabbing the ice cream with her fingers and tried eating it like a soft, melty, slippery Tasteeo. That didn’t work, so she took another bite, and set the whole thing down to take a break. Ellie jumped to save the car’s interior, limiting the vanilla stains to her car seat, and Abbie held onto the cone for the rest of the drive.

When I pulled into our home, Abbie was a mess. She had ice cream smeared on her nose, her chin, and generally in an ellipse of about an inch radius around her mouth. The hand that held the cone was covered in melted ice cream, and vanilla streaks ran down that arm. I unbuckled her, careful to keep the ice cream melt isolated to machine washable surfaces, and set her off to meet mommy at the front door. I then grabbed the twins; Ian was mostly oblivious to fussy during the trip, but Tory seemed to watch his sister intently, perhaps anticipating the day when he might enjoy sweets on a half-dozen occasions in one day.

With everybody inside the house, we set about finishing our nightly chores. Ellie cleaned Abbie; I cleaned the car seat cover.

Stain Queen

This is the shirt Abbie wore today. At least, it’s a shirt Abbie wore today; I had to change it well before bedtime. It was a brand new shirt to start the day, pristine and pure white in all the appropriate places. In the same way that nature abhors a vacuum though, Abbie abhors a clean shirt and must quickly fill the great white void with any manner of foodstuff, or whatever else she might find.

So let’s play a game. I’ll call it “Guess the Stains.” There are major stains of four different origins on her shirt. They are:

1. The purplish streak running from the chest to the bottom.
2. The light pink blotches on the abdomen.
3. The reddish-orange blemishes around the abdomen and the sides.
4. The dark greenish blots throughout the shirt.

Take a guess as to what the stains are, and leave your answers in the comments. Here’s a hint: Three of the stains are food-based, the other one is something inedible, not that that stopped her from putting it in her mouth. I’ll leave the answers in a day or two.