Moms of Manatee

One More Kiss

Bedtime has always been one of my favorite times of the day as a parent. When my kids were little, I thought Laurel and Trevor looked adorable in their footy pajamas and loved reading bedtime stories to them.  And I will admit that part of the reason was that it meant I didn’t have to worry about the toddler eating the dog food for a few hours and could catch on grown-up television.

Since these days my kids are most likely not going tumble down the stairs and can put on their own shoes, I have more time for myself during their waking hours. But I love bedtime now for completely different reasons. Even though footy pajamas have long been put away and the kids spend their days acting like “big kids”, nighttime brings out the little kid inside.

Each night Laurel and Trevor ask me to snuggle and rub their back for a few minutes before they head to sleep. And oftentimes they tell me things about their day that they don’t mention in the daylight. After a bit, I cover them with blankets and kiss them before heading out their bedroom door.

Every few nights, one of the kids calls for me to give one last kiss after I have tucked them in. I lay a few extra on their forehead because I know that one of these days they will decide they are too big for bedtime kisses. And “one last kiss” will be added to the long list of things I miss about my kids being young.

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The Nine Minutes

When I was growing up, I remember there was a paperback book on the shelf in my grandparents' basement called The Seven Minutes by Irving Wallace. The book was published in 1969, so I probably found it when I was perusing the shelves in the early 70's when I was 11 or 12. It was VERY risque and graphic, so naturally I had to secretly read it. All these years later, I still think of that book when I savor my own special time...the nine minutes (which have nothing to do with the subject matter of the book if you were curious enough to click on the link).

Nine minutes. In nine minutes I get some of the most decadent sleep in the world. In nine minutes I can have a vivid, memorable dream. In nine minutes, I can lie still and contemplate the coming day. In nine minutes I can feel like a rebel. A rebel with a snooze alarm.

I wonder who decided that nine minutes was the appropriate time for an extra few Zs in the morning. They probably did all kinds of consumer testing like analyzing dream cycles, REM sleep, impact on mood, etc. Or the person who invented it found out that the clock wouldn't accept a two-digit number for a snooze cycle, so went with the next lower single-digit number. It doesn't matter. I love my nine minutes.

I'm pretty sure that with my fancy iPhone I could program my snoozing for any length of time I wanted. But there is something comforting about nine minutes. I can justify it. I'll only have one cup of coffee before leaving instead of two. I don't REALLY need a shower. I can put my make-up on at stoplights. (This is not the NOW me because I work at home in my pajamas...but I remember my commuting days!)

I have to leave the house to take my son to school at 6:20. My alarm is typically set to 5:50. I could hit the snooze button and still be up before 6! I had plenty of time to make sure my son was up and running. If I set up the coffee maker the night before, I might even be able to have a second cup before driving.

It's only recently that I have consciously appreciated the nine minutes. I don't know why. Because really, if I wanted to, I could come home and go back to sleep after dropping my son off. But I don't. And it wouldn't be the same. I decided to try an experiment and see if a SECOND nine minutes would be as delightful as the first. So I reset my alarm to 5:40. I KNOW my iPhone could make it 5:41, but when you grew up analog, you just can't do that.

It was as delightful as the first nine minutes...maybe even moreso because I knew I could hit the snooze AGAIN and another nine minutes of decadence. OR, I could jump out of bed full of energy and get a head start on the day. And I really do that sometimes. Not often.

I would like express my appreciation to the unsung hero who invented the snooze alarm and came up with that magic time of nine minutes. I think of you every day. 

Now if they could just come up with a snooze alarm that works on children!

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Extraordinary Mom- Johnna Elstob

Accepting the Gifts

Johnna Elstob of Raleigh is not extraordinary, she declares firmly.  But her son, Ryan is.  And in the two years since Ryan's been born, Johnna has learned how many extraordinary gifts and circumstances her little boy has brought Johnna and her family.

Ryan was a surprise baby—a 40th birthday gift, Johnna says.  Already a mother of an elementary schooler and a middle schooler, Johnna, an artist specializing in whimsical decor and ornaments, and her husband, Mike, hadn't anticipated another pregnancy. 

Although Ryan was small when he was born, by all appearances he was a beautiful, healthy baby, and older siblings Hannah and Jack, immediately fell in love with him.  As the weeks went by, however, Johnna began to be concerned about Ryan's lack of weight gain, and although she tried formulas and increased feedings, at six months, he weighed just eleven pounds.  At that point, doctors suggested genetic counseling to determine if Ryan could have a congenital disorder. 

After numerous visits to specialists and hospitals, the Elstob family received the heartbreaking diagnosis: Ryan had septo-optic dysplasia.  This rare genetic disorder affects several parts of his body, including his eyes, so he has difficulty with vision, his pituitary gland, which affects his growth, and the corpus callosum in the brain, which helps the left and right side of the brain communicate. 

Certainly, it's not the type of challenge a mother would wish for their child, but Johnna chooses to appreciate what she and her family have been given, not what's been taken away.

"Ryan's very healthy, that's the biggest blessing," Johnna says.  "He's happy and healthy, and the sky's the limit for what he can do."

Many two-year-olds are motoring around, exploring the world, and Ryan is too, but he needs a little more help.   Ryan gets daily growth hormone shots, which Johnna gives him.  She works with him every morning, gently exercising his tiny fingers, helping his muscles loosen and his mind wake up.  He is learning to take steps with the help of a walker, and he is starting to communicate using sign language as well as speech.  Every weekday, Ryan gets physical, occupational, speech and feeding, visual and developmental therapies. 

Much of this Ryan's help comes from the Children's Development Services Agency (CDSA) a part of North Carolina's Department of Health and Human Services program for infants and toddlers.  After the CDSA assessed Ryan, they connected Johnna to a variety of services to help.  Ryan also gets assistance through the Governor Morehead Preschool.

The help and love that have been showered on Ryan is what is extraordinary, Johnna says.  The personal attention that his therapists have given him, the kindness that friends have provided and the support Ryan's siblings have maintained is extraordinary.  And accepting that need for help is a gift as well, she says. 

Certainly, there are times when it can be wearing.  "It takes hours because you're trying to listen to what he tells you and jump on it," Johnna explains.  "A couple of days ago, I must have sung "Row, row, row your boat" 42 times because he kept asking for it." 

But overall, Johnna is keenly aware that Ryan, with his sweetness and his challenges, has provided her family with chance to deeply appreciate so many gifts.

"You learn to be grateful," Johnna says.  "The sadness is harder and more severe, but the joy is much greater."
 

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Always Fair, Sometimes Equal

I counted the oranges. That's how I know what my struggle will be. The older my twins get, the less unique my story. My challenges will become more and more like anyone with closely spaced children because having two two-year-olds or two three-year-olds is not all that different from having one two-year-old and one three-year-old. There will be quite a few more people in my boat as we move along on this journey.

Always wanting to be prepared, I started reading twin-specific books and articles almost as soon as I knew we were expecting our double blessing.  Most of the literature focuses on twins as babies, partly because that is the most unique time, and partly because it’s just hard. 

The majority of what I’ve read past this stage has centered on two topics.  The first is whether or not twins should be in the same class in school or purposefully separated.  I don’t see this as an issue for us.  I fully expect G and M to adapt beautifully to whichever situation they find themselves.  The other theme deals with preserving the individuality of twins.  I admit I worried about this before they were born.  I promised myself I wouldn’t fall into the habit of referring to little M and little G as “the twins.”  This resulted in my constantly referring to them as “the babies.”  I’m not sure that’s any better, except that they will not always be babies so there is a natural end to that habit.

But I no longer worry about their individuality.  They’ve been displaying their inimitable personalities since birth.  G is my sensitive observer, the one who notices every single time I try to slip out of the room, finds any new object fascinating and likes to snuggle.  M never stops.  She’s always after something and is so frustrated that she cannot talk.  I can see in her eyes all the opinions that she desperately wants to share.  I know neither one will let me forget how separate they are.

So what is this struggle that I see in the future?  It’s the notion that fair does not always mean equal.  Life is not fair of course.  Some of us accept this earlier than others, but we all accept it if we ever want to be happy.  But while life is not fair, Mom should be.  I try to be.  And most of the time I’m pretty comfortable that I am. 

Every parent with more than one child wants to be fair.  When your kids are different ages though, fairly different is easily fair.  It doesn’t matter if one could sit at the table without being strapped in a whole year ahead of another or if one gave up naps at a younger age.  You simply try to dole out privileges and responsibilities as they seem appropriate. 

I’m afraid it won’t be as easy with two kids the same age.  Already I’ve occasionally found myself trying to force an impossibly equal treatment for “the babies.”  For example, I cannot physically put two babies to bed at the same time.  Their beds are in separate rooms.  In working out a bedtime routine, I first considered putting one baby to bed first every night, reasoning that at least that would be expected.  Then I thought of alternating so each had equal turns staying up those extra ten minutes.  Then I came to my senses and decided that the best idea was to put to bed first whichever baby seemed more tired (i.e. cranky) regardless of which baby was first on any other night. 

Then there was lunch.  I had opened up a can of mandarin oranges to feed the babies.  At some point, I realized that I was counting the oranges to make sure each baby was getting the same amount.  I made this discovery when I came across a particularly large slice and paused to consider whether it should count as two.  I knew I was being ridiculous even as I knew it was not the first time I had counted their food. 

Of course my husband admits to a different type of forced equality.  He has slipped a few extra Cheerios to whoever weighed less at the last check-up and nudged along the twin who sat up and crawled later than the other.  Both of us are normally rational people.  I’m not concerned about our weird internal hang-ups scarring the children.  (I’m not even worried about M and G accusing me of being unfair.  I already know that’s a given.)  This is just something I’ll be thinking about as they grow. 

The other thing I wonder is whether or not I’ll miss the attention.  There is a definite irony to the fact that as it becomes less and less obvious that M and G are twins, fewer people will feel the need to stop us and ask if they are.  Fewer people will gawk and point us out in a crowd (because of our twins anyway, there will still be those who think four children in one family is some sort of spectacle).  I’ve never liked the extra attention.  It’s hard enough to manage all the buckles involved in car seats and stroller seats without feeling like everyone is watching to see how I do it.  And it’s not my imagination.  I once had someone start clapping in the middle of a parking lot because he was impressed with the way I folded the double stroller. 

But I’ve gotten used to the fact that people regard my babies as something truly special.  Will I feel like we’ve lost something when no one comments on their presence?  Will I find myself telling strangers that M and G are twins when one hits a growth spurt ahead of the other?  Will I be reluctant to let M ride her bike without training wheels until D can get her brother to catch up?  I doubt it.  I think we’ll adapt beautifully to whatever changes our kids throw our way and we will largely do it in private.  But I know better than to say anything with certainty.  I know better than to try and predict the future.  After all, I never would have predicted that we’d have twins.

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