Delicious Luscious Thrushus

Bad things happen in threes.

What the hell is that supposed to mean and why is it always said when someone dies??

Your wife died? Bad things happen in threes . . . expect to lose your mother and child . . .

It is the perfect example that idiots shouldn't mingle in the company of grievers.

This did, however, happen to me. And my oldest child. And my youngest child.

All three of us have thrush.

What is thrush? For those of you that have had a yeast infection-- that's what it is. In your mouth. Or where those nasty, little, infected buggers put their mouths-- yes, on my nipples. Gross.

Cottage cheese chunks on lips, tongues double-coated with white, semi-gloss paint . . . and they still smile. They have no shame.

"Be ashamed of yourselves!" I tell them. I'm not raising ladies here, but they could show a bit of decency. Not even mommy is flattered by a gummy smile with chunks of yeast infection in its corners.

(That's such a lie-- I still eat that smile-- "Could I offer that disgusting smile an infected breast?" Yummy.)

Supposedly babies with thrush are supposed to have pain while eating. They must be slurping right through the pain. No signs of a disabled appetite here.

Mommies, on the other hand, are known to have sore, red, blistered nipples. Check, check and check. At least I'm the only one in pain here. Mom takes the pain for all of our yeast infected sins. There better be a spot in God's hands for me. I know the right is full, and Jesus is probably a pretty big guy, but really, God must have equally large hands and I'm being crucified here.

I'm going to start a diet in a couple of weeks and I should fit perfectly into that hand . . . just as I should fit into my sweet designer jeans. Ooooooh, my sweet designer jeans.

I'm not sure which one is a greater incentive to diet.

In the meantime I'll just be scrubbing my nipples as penance while eating Oreos.

atta girl, atta girl, atta girl, atta girl, atta girl, atta girl . . .

The doctors could attribute my immediate postpartum mental breakdown to a variety of factors:

1. The fact that I was crazy before I got pregnant.
2. The extreme hormonal flux that occurs after birth. Double babies means double hormones.
3. Wild attempts to breastfeed two premature infants every two hours and pump after each feeding.
4. Lack of sleep. Lack of sleep. Lack of sleep.
5. Being a first time mother with HOLY CHRIST!!!!!!! two new babies.

I could slowly see and feel myself spiraling into the wacky unknown the day following birth. Panic attacks were coming on strong and I was desperately trying to learn to breastfeed, teach two babies to eat and avoid the sight of outside human beings (outside meaning from outside of my hospital bed). People made me frantic! How was I supposed to contain my burning insanity in the company of family and friends? I wasn't confident that I wouldn't scream obscenities, levitate over the bed and twist my head around backwards while spewing green vomit from my mouth. There just weren't any guarantees.

Call it what you will, but my breast pump was a huge determining factor in the awareness of insanity. Mind you, I am using this thing every two hours. My nipples are lacerated, blistered, bleeding, screaming obscenities of their own . . . I am sleeping roughly thirty minutes every few hours: totaling about four hours of broken sleep per twenty four. Oh, and did I mention that I was crazy? And did I mention that my breast pump was talking to me?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

Panic disorder is a painful thing. Honestly, it is much worse to have a broken brain than a broken nose. Sleeplessness, racing thoughts, the sensation of being smothered, paranoia, the feeling that you are disoriented to the point that you are having out of body experiences and even trying to ignore the messages come from your breast pump.

"Whacko, whacko, whacko, whacko, whacko, whacko, whacko . . . . . . ."

I asked Brandon what he heard. He heard the repetitive droan of a breast pump.

"Whacko, whacko, whacko, whacko . . ."

I decided not to tell him what I heard. Not just yet.

When we were back in the hospital, a good-natured nurse friend came in while I was pumping. "That sounds like a rap song!" Was she talking about my pump?? She obviously did not hear the hopeless, monotonous teasing that I did.

Mornings later I was sitting in my "pumping chair", chin to chest, eyes closed, half asleep.

"What gives? What gives? What gives? What gives? What gives? . . ."

You're preaching to the choir now, Pump.

My mother thinks I am eccentric. Liberal. A little different and often "crazy"--not so much "psych ward crazy"-- more like "You so crazy!" I told her the pump said things to me. Not like a devil-dog telling the Son of Sam to kill people, just mocking and sympathizing. It's quite the passive-aggressive pump. She looks at me with worried eyes. She wonders if I am serious. She doesn't hear it saying anything. She is afraid to leave her children alone with me.

Time passed quickly, babies learned to sleep through the night, meds balanced chemicals and I became more comfortable and confident with my awesome responsibilities. I had nearly forgotten that the pump had spoken to me months before.

The other day I was pumping and reading, not listening for any sort of message when I started to hear a mechanical cheering.

"Atta girl! Atta girl! Atta girl! Atta girl! Atta girl! Atta girl! Atta girl! Atta girl! . . ."

If the pump's messages are a direct indicator of my frame of mind, we can say that I'm healthy. I'm progressing and striving forward as a well-balanced mother . . . with her own cheerleading section.

zadie rolls over (and over and over)

For those of you that feel that Zadie has been overshadowed by Lydia's rolling-over-skillz and restlessness, this blog will put your mind at ease. Last Thursday (May 21 for recording purposes), Zadie Blue was sitting in her boppy . . . then leaning in her boppy . . . then sllloooowwwwwllllyyy rollllllllling out of her boppy. From her back, to her belly, out of the boppy and onto the floor, catching momentum and rolling onto her back and YES!!!!!!!! onto her belly and off of the blanket onto her back. On the floor. The child nearly cleared the room.

We cooked out this weekend. The babies were partying it up on a blanket in the grass when Zadie procedes to roll over . . . off of the blanket and into the grass. Brandon moved her back onto the blanket (out of the dreadful, poisonous, disgusting grass-- yuck!!) only to find her immediatly rolling back into the grass. And on and on.

Who is this child? This rockstar of a four-month-old? And why does she hate blankets so much?

Oh, and just for the record, I still haven't seen Lydia roll over.

We are still questioning that one.

"Whatever doesn't kill you makes you incredibly annoying."

"It's the same with people who say,"Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Even people who say this must know that the exact opposite is true. What doesn't kill you maims you, cripples you, leaves you weak, makes you whiny and full of yourself at the same time. The more pain, the more pompous you get. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you incredibly annoying."

-from Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield


Lydia read this book just months before she died. It's a personal account of a man who unexpectedly and suddenly loses his wife. One minute she's sewing at a desk, the next she stands up and falls over . . . dead. No warnings, no cries for help, no pain, no preparations. Just dead.

I read this book right after Lydia died. I was indulging myself and wallowing in my grief. Laying on the shower floor. Hot water was running over me with the door closed as I wailed and cried so much that I would choke and vomit up mucus. I didn't want to be heard. One day I thought I was alone in the house and I laid behind my closed bedroom door, screaming these guttural cries. Just screaming. I heard Layla on the other side of the door and I fit my hand through the crack underneath and Layla, being the beautiful creature that she is, placed her paw on my hand. And I wailed and wailed. Until I heard my friend Steve's voice from the other side, "Joy are you alright?" He'd let himself in. I was embarrassed. He'd heard me being vulnerable. He'd heard me getting some of the blackness out of my soul. I composed myself and drank the rest of the day away.

While reading this book I couldn't help but imagine Lydia reading it months, mere days before. She would have cried (I know she did, in fact, she told me so) for the loss of this spunky, much-loved soul such as herself. She must have thought about what Sam would do in the same situation . . . and her friends . . . those of you who know Lydia know she would have self-indulged. Ironically, horrifically, these things came to pass. She became Rob's Renee'. She left us just as shocked and stupefied as Renee' had left her friends. And there was nothing pleasant about the days to come . . . the hospital, the funeral, the weeks that follow. No closure. Nothing meaningful to say. Just raw grief at it's bloodiest.

I wrote those exact lines from Rob Sheffield's book in in black, permanent, Sharpie marker on the inside of my closet door at our rental in Charlotte. I read it every time I dressed. It said so much about my grief. I needed validation. I had become as pompous as a survivor of the dead could possibly get. I allowed myself the company of one friend. One friend that I felt had equal grief to my own. Everyone else was shut out and I didn't care. Why should I? I was going through the hardest part of my life . . . so much harder than everyone else . . . right? Right?

Two years later seems like lifetimes. Literally-- the things that have happened to me-- the ways that I've changed . . . After her death, I wanted to leave Charlotte. I wanted to buy a house. I wanted to have children. I wanted a little girl named Lydia. About as redneck as getting a tattoo in her honor. . . but, hey, until you've lost your twenty-seven-year-old best friend you have no idea as to how we deal with these things. We pompous grievers.

Last June my OBGYN told me that according to the magic-pocket-baby-due-date-predictor-dial I had conceived on May 20. One year to the day since I'd lost her. This meant that my due date was February 20. Her birthday. The most important day of all history that transcends races and cultures . . . the most magical day within the "birth-month" . . . the DAY of all days, her birthday. And I wept. And I was so grateful. And I can't help but to look at my two children that were conceived on May 20th, then split into two babies about a week later, and accept that maybe I'm not alone. Maybe she is with me.

Her soul is in my heart.

And I have nothing but gratitude for this.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO US, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO US, HAPPY (we're 4 months now & it's not a REAL birthday BUT WE MADE IT) BIRTHDAY TO US, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO US!

A reason to celebrate!

Friends and family lift your glasses (I've been lifting mine since the babes went to sleep), because tomorrow(we'll just say today for blogging/toasting purposes) is DRUMROLLLLLLLLLLLLL: Lydia and Zadie's FOURTH MONTH BIRTHDAY!! (horns sounding, fans clapping, people cheering, women crying, men blowing cigar smoke, HOOORAY!)

Yes ye people that are happy to drink to our success, Zadie, Lydia, Mommy, Daddy and Layla have officially made it four months. Three months seemed like such a short time but FOUR MONTHS?? Four months seems like a lifetime! So close to six months! Kind of how twenty-seven is close to THIRTY and fifty to close to EIGHTY-FIVE! YIKES! Celebrate with us, for we are not the normal infant making it to four months-- we are the Martin-Malone-Twintastic-Fiasco making it not only past day four, but month four!

I could recap but that might would take so long . . . I mean, I really only get seven minutes of free time a day . . . OKAY!! OKAAAYYYY . . . I'll speed-type:

1/19: vaginal delivery of identical girls with cool names, all is well, whoo-hoo!
1/20: mommy starts to feel a little crazy . . .why are all of these visitors/germs in my room? GET THEM OUT!!
1/21: seriously, you're sending ME home?? with babies to take care of? seriously . . .
1/23: please, not the psych ward! i'll be good, i promise . . .
1/24: line-by-line accounts of simpson's episodes, pee-queen crown, am i ever going to feel normal again?
1/26: home again. for good. with an old-person-day-by-day-medication-pill-box for mommy's little helpers.

blllluuuuurrrrr . . . the days turn into months . . .

february:
-does anyone know where to find preemie clothes that don't look like babydoll clownsuits??
-i left the house! okay, it was just to go to therapy but I LEFT THE HOUSE!
-brandon is back at work
-babies move into nursery to sleep/start bedtime routine
-layla barks at the door. all day. i consider putting a FREE PUPPY ad in the local paper.
-pumping saves our lives.
-i realize that i can read while pumping.
-reading saves my life (thank you Revolutionary Road)
-babies wake up every two hours to eat. we sleep about four hours a night. nap? please, we have two!
-i consider putting a FREE BABIES ad in the newspaper.
-mom and I realize that she is going to have to help every afternoon if we are going to keep these things alive.
-my girls are gaining weight! hooray six pounders!
-what is all of this grunting? surely these aren't normal sounds.

march:
-no, not normal sounds.
-babies on acid-reflux meds. to add to their gripe-water, mylecon, karo bottles and nightly cordials
-what are we supposed to do with these things? feed them? but what are those NOISES?
-layla vacays with the grandparents (bless you wonderful people)
-i am told that i no longer have a job to go back to. well, if you twist my arm.
-babies start smiling!!!! Yummy gummy smiles!!!!
-babies stop pooping.
-mommy goes berserk as a result of no pooping. mommy learns the unforbidden magic trick (wince . . . .)
-you can stimulate bowels.
-sometimes with a thermometer. sometimes with a q-tip. sometimes with your finger.
-go ahead and judge but your baby wasn't screaming.
-reading keeps me pumping (thank you The Story of Edgar Sawtelle)
-dear god in heaven is their a formula that my babies can have ONE bottle of that doesn't make them grunt?
-layla comes back. really, does she have to stay?
-babies are SO FAT! FAT like regular-newborn-babies-FAT!

april:
-already?
-we have genuine sleeping babies on our hands . . . we're talking six hours a night here.
-i've been charting these bowel movements and it seems that they are pooing every three days. sold.
-i can do this. (the meds must be working)
-we decide to start practicing art with the babies. hilarious.
-i realize that lots of mommys go crazy (thank you It Sucked and then I Cried)
-what? the babies used to grunt? i don't know what you're talking about . . .
-these things, like, totally eat A LOT of food. good thing I pump enough to feed a day care.
-mommy likes writing.
-there was a day . . . many years ago . . . when i wouldn't leave the house.
-we heart southpark mall.
-we heart target.
-we heart eating out.
-we heart, heart, heart our new bar. yes, our baby-friendly bar. (the girls LOOOVE their white russians!)
-porky and fatso are out of preemie clothes. and newborn. and 0-3.

may:
-christ, i love these things!
-lydia rolls over. or so my mother says.
-we lose our bob. we love our bob.
-mommy's first mother's day.
-we did not get mommy swarovski earrings . . . but we did get her an ULTIMATE MARGARITA! WHOO-HOO!
-have i mentioned that the babies are sleeping through the night?
-no, not that six hours bullshit . . . we're talking TEN PLUS!
-lydia rolls over again. or so my husband says.
-splish splash we were talking a bath. i mean REALLY splashing.
-we miss our bob.
-brandon is making me mention that he got a tractor (better known as a riding lawnmower)
-gabba gabba. gabba gabba gabba. gabba gabba.
-we made it to four months.
-layla is back into mommy's heart. (and still on the couch)
-mommy and daddy are still married.

A LITTLE "THEN . . . NOW"

cuddlebunnies

















sweet jane

















the ever proud father





















we saw, we ate, we got really chunky













zadiebugaloo . . . still not sure about us . . .













best mom ever! (that's just what THEY say)

















mommy still has the same look on her face . . . just less bloated

Michael Phelps Didn't Take Naps Either

I have two children who were conceived at the same time. With the exact same DNA. And weight-- down to the ounce. Seven minutes apart in age.

In every "Twins for Dummies" book that I've read, I am warned against labeling . . . and I TOTALLY AGREE! There is no "good" or "bad" twin, no matter how many people might ask (Yes, people actually ask if one is "better" than the other---OOOOH, OOOH!!!--- or which twin I like best! I just always say the name of the one I'm holding. No one is ever alarmed by this. How sad and stupid people are. And you should be offended if you are the one that asked, you sad, stupid person!)

HOWEVER, from the first time we saw them (in black and white on a flat-screen, that is) we have given them character traits. Lydia was always facing the transducer (ultrasound camera thingy) and squirming about while making kissy faces (thus, the name: Lydia). Zadie was usually pretty calm while being kicked in the stomach or having her head sat on. As the pregnancy progressed, Lydia dropped head first into exiting position-- "dropped" being that my OBGYN said she was only a couple of inches inside at 30 weeks. I could have felt my baby had I wanted. I didn't want. Zadie was the only face we saw (because Lydia was sooooo low) for over ten weeks-- calm, relaxed little Zadie-bugg.

I always silently swore I would stop once they were born.

Have you met my little Olympian?

I'm not saying that Zadie sleeps all day . . . but Zadie sleeps when she is tired. Lydia, however, my little Lydia Jane, thinks only of ONE thing: training for the 2010 Olympics. She is hoping to qualify in the "rolling over" category and has made it her life's goal to do so. While Zadie laughs at the paintings on the wall and gabs it up with Mommy, Lydia is serious, focused and determined . . . constantly pulling those shoulders and rotating those hips. BUT THE ARM! THE CURSED ARM that always gets stuck underneath!!

While Zadie plays on her tummy, spits up and cries, Lydia continues to arch her back. ARCH! PULL! WORK THOSE MUSCLES!! Zadie giggles, sighs and wants to be held. Lydia works through the drowsiness. ARCH!! PULL! TWIST!! Zadie rocks in a swing, paci in mouth, silky ducky in arms. Lydia screams in the swing. ARCH!! PULL! SPAT of paci! YOU STUPID PEOPLE!! CAN'T YOU SEE THAT I'M TRAINING HERE?? LET ME DOWN ON THAT SOFT, PLUSH BLANKY!! LET ME ROLL OVER! I CAN DO IT! I CAN DO IT!!!!

Again, I'm not saying that one child is "better" or "liked" more than another. All I'm saying is: don't tell Lydia that there is no "rolling over" event in the 2010 Olympics . . . that's kind of what's keeping her going right now.

milkjugs

What you are viewing is a morning pump.

One pump. From one morning.

A personal best, I must say, and though I might should be embarrassed by how much this gives away about the nature of my breasts, I am, however, quite proud.

Twenty-three ounces total. A two and a three. Beside of each other. Equaling enough milk to satisfy a small village. Or perhaps not quite enough for three bottles. Yes, three. My sixteen week old babies couldn't make it through the morning on this amount of milk.

Twenty-three ounces. A minimum of eleven per breast. Imagine eleven ounces in a glass. Now, in a breast. That's what my breasts are like in the morning. Each one.

In one pump. Twenty-three ounces.

YUMMY GUMMY MORNING SMILES!

we love our mornings.

before we can smell mommy's anxiety.

and daddy's depression.

or the fear of being alone with two babies.

we only smile.

because we are so loved.

and our world is a beautiful place to wake up.

I Have Seen the Devil's Latex Face

Brandon and I have a history of substance abuse on both sides of our family. This is something that you (well . . . I) think about when considering procreation, just like cancer and allergies to penicillin. Of course, EVERYONE has a history of substance abuse in their families, don't they? The alcoholic uncle, the coke-snorting cousin, the pain-pill-popping grandmother, the little four month old baby twitching on the corner?

Parents of addicts might argue that one drug is more dangerous, addictive and harder to quit-- each arguing that it is the drug that THEIR child is robbing grannies to get a hold of. Oh ye parents of heroin addicts and meth smokers, eat your hearts out.

My name is Joy, and my children are addicts.

I have seen the devil's face. It's smooth, squeaky, latex cheeks and hard, plastic body. I have met the devil in his many forms and names: Mam, Sassy, Binky, Soothie, Wubba-Nub . . . but my children are specific in their addiction. Not just any substance will do. They scratch their bleeding cheeks and gutterally moan for one brand only: The Nuk. Oh, The Nuk, in its many colors and *new* designs! Pink daisies, green whales, blue drangonflies and the standard solid pastels. Forever evolving to appear more attractive, soothing and "safe". Do you think that taking the BPA out of a paci makes it any less addictive? Or adding "air-flow" holes keep my babies from going back again and again?

The very worst confession of all is that I am an enabler. Yes, the first to judge a brother that lights a cigarette or a friend that offers a beer to a "quitter". Not only do I offer the drug, but I insist it. I force it into their mouths over and over. When they just don't want any more, I threaten to tape it to their mouths. I'll let them cry just enough to know that they have to have it, then pop it back in at the last moment. I slather it in a syrup devoured by biscuits and pecans (those sore-scratching pecans!) and then offer it. They're on a Karo Paci like a crackhead on, well, a crackpipe. The high lasts about five minutes and then OH!!!! THE PAIN!!!!! PUTITBACKPUTITBACKPUTITBACK!!!!

And I do. I wipe the dripping shame from my eyes, dip the paci in syrup and reapply. And reapply. And reapply. I am cutting coke and making lines. Holding the fire over the pipe. Tapping the vein.

And they shut up.

For the briefest moment, I forget who I am dealing with.

No, not my children.

The Devil.

Bubble of Courage

So many of us spend our entire lives living on the outside of a very special bubble. This bubble keeps the world moving forward, striving for better things, changing history and molding the future with gentle strength.

If you are on the outside, you can only appreciate the bubble. You can love and admire it with the very deepest, darkest, meatiest corner of your heart. You think you understand it. Or you don't think about it all, unknowingly taking it for granted.

After twenty seven years on the outside, I am now inside of the bubble.

The initiation was rigorous . . . much more than I bargained for: Nausea, cramping, heartburn, loss of feeling in my hands, loss of bladder control, loss of ability to tie shoes, back pain, head pain, stretching and pulling of muscles, joints and skin. Extreme weight gain, extreme blood pressure, extreme labor and extreme birth. And that's just the initiation.

Once in the bubble, your reactions are two-fold: a bright light has enveloped your entire self and your heart swells so much that it breaks-- about once every two minutes. You also realize that this is not what you expected or perhaps even bargained for. Can we please just go back to initiations?? Please??

One thing is for sure, however. Once in the bubble, you can never leave and you can never be kicked out. You now possess the burden of correcting and sharing the future of the world. Simultaneously, you have become one with the other members in the bubble. Encouraging their efforts, judging their differences, mourning their losses and celebrating every victory. And suddenly you can now truly appreciate the members who helped to bring you into the bubble as you never could before.

This is a bubble of many things, but most of all, it is a Bubble of Courage.

Today I would like to recognize some courageous women that brought me in.

I have two infants. I love them, feed them, change them, soothe them, live for them . . . Not until I became a mother did I realize that my mother did these things for me. That my mother loves me the WAY that she does. And now she is doing all of those things with my children. She is mothering them as well. I am so honored to share this experience with her. On this very sad Mother's Day, she has also gained the responsibility of mothering her own mother, in that my grandmother has just lost half of herself. We will all have to mother and nurture her through this loss.

My grandmother has always been the ultimate matriarch, with the greatest partner at her hand. Her hand is empty now. Yet, she has not flawed or stuttered in her ability to lead this family with graceful dignity. A lady among ladies. A woman among women. A survivor with the courage to wake up, put on her beautiful face and smile at the day. And smile at her kingdom. And cry while bringing order and tissues and food and peace to it's people. She is my greatest inspiration.

There are mothers that stand by their children regardless of the failures and consequences. This takes courage.

There are mothers that wake up every night to nourish a screaming baby with their breast. This takes courage.

There are mothers that are just feeling the first flutters of tiny fingers and toes inside of them (or was that gas?) and gagging at every scent within a mile radius. They are trying not to dream too big. Not yet. This takes courage.

There are mothers that sacrifice jobs and a sense of self in order to raise their children. This takes courage.

There are mothers that leave their children in the hands of strangers in order to provide the very best and allow the child to exercise independence. This takes tremendous courage.

There are mothers that lose children. Lose the dream and future of that baby that has already lived and breathed and fed from her breast. That runs through the grass and throws balls with his daddy. A little boy that goes to Kindergarten, learns to read, loves to laugh and sing, tells jokes . . . falls in love . . . drives a car . . . has children of his own. All of this is lost. And that mother tries again. Tries for another dream. For another baby. Not replacing what is lost, but hoping for the future. This takes the most courage of all.

Mothers, you are loved. You are amazing. You are beautiful. You are courageous and your work is the most important work on Earth. Bless you all on this very special Mother's Day.

BLUE SKIES SMILING AT ME . . .

WE all lose something different and personal when a person leaves us to go on without them. Some have lost a friend, a father, a husband, a teacher, a companion . . . I lost my grandfather . . . the most beautiful spirit I've ever know. The only person that still conjured that little girl love within me.

He recently told me that he hadn't slept well the previous night.

"I started singing songs in my head. I had to sing every song I knew before I could go back to sleep."

He woke up singing. He answered the phone singing. He sang as I walked down the aisle. He sang to my babies. I hear his sweet voice singing now-- constantly singing. There are hundreds of songs cataloged in my brain in his voice:



"Blue skies smiling at me, nothing but blue skies do I see. Blue birds singing a song, nothing but blue birds all day long."

"Aint she sweet? Justa walkin down the street? Well I ask you very confidentially, 'Aint she sweet?'"

"There were bells on a hill but I never heard them ringing. No, I never heard them at all, til there was you . . . There were birds in the sky but I never saw them winging. No, I never saw them at all, til there was you. THEN THERE WAS MUSIC and wonderful roses, they tell me, in sweet fragrant meadows of dawn, and you. There was love all around but I never heard it singing. No, I never heard it at all, til there was you."

"I had a dream dear, you had one too. Mine was the best dream cause it was of you."



I believe that a person never dies as long as we have them inside of us. I am lucky that he gave so much of himself for me to keep. That I can always listen to him singing.


Granddad gave a traditional Irish Blessing at my wedding. He also gives this blessing at the closing of his shows before he plays "What a Wonderful World".

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be ever at your back
May the sun shine warm on your face
And rain fall softly on your fields
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His Hand!"

WHILE YOU WERE OUT ( . . . pooping)

I spend so much time with my children. I do not go to work during the day. I just started going to sleep at night. I often eat with a boppy around my waist and a suckling (keyword: happy) baby at my boob-- at the dinner table. I sit on the toilet with a child sitting on my lap. I shower while watching the babies in bouncers through steam. I brush my teeth while an amazing contraption holds a baby to my chest. I sing, dance, read, entertain, hold, rock, bounce, feed, cry and laugh . . . with the babies.

My mother comes in the afternoons and *sometimes* I can break away to do important have-tos, such as pumping or making bottles. I was with Lydia at the changing table when the bowels began to move. When the bowels begin to move, there is no stopping . . . it is a curse and a blessing, taking the good with the bad. We'll fondly call it "impatient regularity". I throw Lydia to my mother and run to the bathroom. I have been out for a total of one minute when I hear my mother's gasp on the monitor (yes, a monitor in the bathroom). I knew right away that it was the most important gasp ever. A gasp saved for only for wedding gowns and graduation moments. And I knew it. My firstborn child, that I spend 23 hours and fifty-seven minutes a day within sucking distance, had either starting singing "Jesus Loves Me" or had rolled over for the first time. Betrayal. I stopped breathing.

"SHE JUST ROLLED OVER, DIDN'T SHE?"

More delighted gasps and the highest pitch possible whispered over the monitor, "Lydia!"

I scream louder, "SHE JUST ROLLED OVER DIDN'T SHE?"

I'm not finished, but I start wiping anyway.

The monitor squeals, "YES!"

I didn't see it. I wasn't in the room. The thing is, I knew that I would miss this. I just knew that when I turned to grab a burpcloth or RAN to get a bottle that I would return to find her on the opposite side. But never did I think that she would sink so low as to wait until I was pooping. When I can't even run into the room and join the celebration. I have to SIT . . . and listen to my mother oohing and aahing while she enjoys my daughter's most important milestone to date . . . without me. While I was pooping.