Vacuu-cide

The night before the twins' first birthday party, I was doing the last-minute cleaning to get the house ready for the 35 or so people who would be celebrating with us. (Aside: no, I did not invite the whole neighborhood to their party...believe it or not, all but about five of those people are family that live nearby--yeah, holidays in my world are a total bitch.)

As I was vacuuming I started to notice that the floor just wasn't getting clean. Then I noticed that the bar wasn't spinning quite right. And when I went to check...snap, whiiir, kaput. Dead vacuum.
Upon inspection by J.R., who will be referred to as MacGyver for the remainder of this post, it was discovered that some belt somewhere had broken. Sorry, Insta-Mom, no new vacuum for you.

Knowing what was wrong, however, did not help with my dirty floor problem. Since most vacuum repair stores aren't open at 9 PM, which was about when I started cleaning, we had to call in reinforcements.

So MacGyver was off to pick up my mom's vacuum.

Only mere moments after my call for back-up, I was vacuuming again. But I noticed that the bar wasn't spinning quite right. And when I went to check...snap, whiiir, kaput. Dead vacuum.

After calming down his hysterical wife who was certain she would have filthy floors when her 35 guests arrived, MacGyver diagnosed the vacuum with the same problem. Yes, you read that right...the same damn belt broke. I imagine the statistical probability of that is about 1 in 2,234,098,237,453,245.

So MacGyver dusted off his nasty garage vacuum which used to be the lovely house vacuum until MacGyver decided to use it to pick up the concrete from our kitchen counter remodel which led to me deciding that I needed a new vacuum.

That bastard garage vacuum survived the remainder of the house cleaning, in spite of the fact that it has picked up who knows what crap since leaving the house. Dumb efficient vacuum.

But as promised, MacGyver fixed my current lovely house vacuum. And for the last three weeks or so, I have been happily using the repaired vacuum to keep my floors dog hair and Cheerio-free.

Until I was vacuuming our room today. The vacuum started to smell funny. And then there was smoke. Thinking that might be a bad sign, I turned the vacuum off, lifted it to look, and discovered a pile of carpet lint and melted plastic where the clean floor was supposed to be.

This is when I proceeded to break down about how I had just purchased MacGyver the TV he has wanted for the last two years so he can finally build the entertainment niche where the pile of ugly shelves and various electronic devices is and where was the money for the new vacuum going to come from when we'd just bought the stupid (fabulous) new T.V.?!

MacGyver kindly avoided mentioning that rationality is not my strongest personality trait when he took the vacuum away from me to diagnose its latest problem.

And that latest problem apparently has something to do with a melted part. Which MacGyver is currently holding as he waits for whatever repair he made to it to dry. While my vacuum is in pieces in the garage.

And while I, again, lament that I don't get a new vacuum. And I'm fairly certain that if I ever want a new vacuum, I'm going to have to get a new husband because this one just keeps fixing the damn thing. (Don't even get me started on how long I had to wait to get a new refrigerator because MacGyver kept fixing the stupid old one.)

So while you can trust me with your car, your pets, or even your children, never, and I mean never, let me borrow your vacuum.

And the winner is...

Revolutionary Road, by Richard Yates

Since it appeared that Revolutionary Road was going to be chosen by a landslide, I picked it up on my way home from breakfast and got through most of the first two chapters before we arrived at home. So far, I'm really enjoying it (although I totally expected to).

I have to admit that at first I was disappointed because I really want to see the movie. And if I'm going to read the novel, I usually insist that I do it before I watch the movie. But who are we kidding? I have four kids...and not many babysitters are willing to take that on. I will be watching the movie via Netflix while sitting on my couch, not in the movie theatre. Plenty of time to get the book read first.

Domestic Extraordinaire was kind enough to create a button for us. You can check it out in my sidebar or, better yet, copy the html and post it to your own blog.

<a href="http://insta-mom.blogspot.com/search/label/Book%20club"><img src="http://i371.photobucket.com/albums/oo160/DomesticExtraordinaire/instabutton.jpg" /></a>

You can use the link at the top of this post to get the book from Amazon. I'll post more details about Tweet Chat as soon as I get my act together and read through the stuff Maura sent me. But let's plan on setting a date for sometime the first week of March.

In the meantime...enjoy and happy reading!

And the nominees are...

This is rapidly becoming the Insta-Mom Book Club blog instead of the Insta-Mom "look at my cute family and read me ranting about random crap" blog. Eh...whatever. There's been a lot going on lately. And by a lot, I mean, holy hell someone dig me out from under this suffocating mound of responsibility. I'm not dealing well.

But through the fog, I can still clearly see books. They are tangible. I can hold on to them, breathe them in, and feel like there is something that won't change at the last minute or ask me for more, more, more. Ah, yes...books.

I am not taking Maura's suggestion that I pick the first book because I need not add pressure and anxiety to the suffocating mound of responsibility. So, without further blathering about me, I give you this month's nominees. (You can also find them in that lovely poll on my sidebar...yes, you actually have to click through on your reader in order for your vote to count.)

The Zookeeper's Wife: A War Story by Diane Ackerman
The Gravedigger's Daughter by Joyce Carol Oates
Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates
The 25th Hour by David Benioff
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

Click the links, check 'em out, then cast your vote. I'll announce the winner Sunday so we can all start reading.

Insta-Book Club

Now that we are past the birthdays and doggie drama (more on that later) in the Insta-house, it's time to return to my big, fancy book club plans.

The response was fabulous--because you are all fabulous.

First, let me say that everyone is welcome. Lurkers, commenters, subscribers, non-subscribers...everyone. Join in the fun. Maybe even de-lurk (::wink::).

I will say, though, that you all stink when it comes to offering suggestions for what we should call our fabulous book club. Of course, Maura came through, as always, and has suggested that I christen us the Insta-Book Club. While I worried that it was a tad narcissistic, she did point out that it only really took one post to organize the whole thing, so in a sense, we are an "insta" club.

Then Issa went and called me a whore. Okay, maybe not me specifically; but she did point out that we bloggers are a bunch of comment whores. And let's be honest, we are all putting ourselves out here hoping for just a tad bit of attention. Perhaps there is just a wee bit of narcissism in there somewhere.

And so, with this post, I want to kick-off the Insta-Book Club.

Maura may have found a lead on teaching us all how to do tweet chat. And if you don't Twitter already, you can sign up easily. Just be warned...it is a highly addictive time suck. As soon as I have details, I'll post them here.

In the meantime, we need to pick a book. If you have a suggestion of a book you'd like to read, email it to me--instamom {at} roadrunner {dot} com--this week. I'll post a poll here on Monday, give everyone time to vote, and then we'll start reading by the end of the month. If you don't have any big book ideas, just come back next week for the poll. Sound good?

Oh, and consensus seemed to be six-weeks to two months to read. I say we start at two months and see how it goes from there.

Go forth and be literate!

Joy and forgiveness

**I had planned to break this into more than one post. That didn't quite work as planned. Get comfortable.**

I went into labor with the twins at 31 weeks. I was sitting in my office at work and kept having awful back pains. I was induced with Noah, so not only did I have no clue what the early stages of labor felt like, I had never experienced back labor.

When it occurred to me that I could be in labor, I called my best friend; she had horrible back labor with her first child. I described to her what I was feeling.

"You're in labor. Call the doctor. Now."

So I did. And I was told that he was at the hospital for a C-section, and I should call back in an hour.

"But I'm in labor. And I'm only 31 weeks pregnant. And I live 45 minutes away from the hospital," I pleaded.

"We'll page him and have him call you when he's out of surgery. He'll be able to tell you what to do then. It will be about an hour."

At that point, I called J.R., sobbing. Looking back, I cannot imagine what that phone call must have been like for him. I was barely coherent through the tears. My pregnancy had been stressful from the first day.

J.R. spotted Baby B at our first ultrasound, when I was only six weeks pregnant. When the doctor checked, he said that the baby's heartbeat was faint and that, though J.R. was right and I was technically pregnant with twins, I shouldn't expect to carry both to term. At our second ultrasound with the actual ultrasound technician on the fancy machine her first words when she saw Baby B were "That's the nonviable fetus."

By the end of the first trimester, our nonviable fetus had continued to grow, his heart beating strongly. Only then was the doctor willing to acknowledge that this was, in fact, a twin pregnancy. So off to the perinatologist I went.

At our first appointment with the perinatologist, Baby B's neuchal fold measured abnormally large--a sign of Downs Syndrome. Within minutes we were being told about tests and procedures, all of which posed a risk of miscarriage to both babies. An appointment was made for us to see a genetic counselor before the end of the day. It was rushed. Stressful. Panicked. Everything was alarmist and urgent.

J.R. took me to lunch. We talked. We breathed. Then we cancelled the appointment with the genetic counselor, and the next day scheduled ourselves to see a new perinatologist. The best of the best on the west coast. But a doctor that a friend of my sister-in-law's called "Dr. Gloom and Doom"--he didn't sugarcoat the truth, he just gave the facts.

At our first appointment with him, he told us he could see exactly what the other doctor saw. He rattled off numbers and measurements and statistics. And then he asked the question. The big, scary question.

"If this baby does have Downs Syndrome, would you abort it?"

J.R. and I had never discussed that possibility. We had never had that talk. But we looked at each other, and I knew that our answers were the same. For so many reasons, we just couldn't.

"Then we'll just continue to monitor the baby. No more tests," the doctor told us, as matter of fact as telling us at our next appointment that we were having boys. A small weight was lifted. But every four weeks when we drove to Pasadena for our appointment, we held our breath, waiting for the news about Baby B, wondering if there were genetic abnormalities.

So when I called J.R. in labor at 31 weeks, my tears were a release of months of stress and anxiety. I couldn't hold it together any longer.

Somehow he did. Minutes later he called me back. The charge nurse in the maternity unit at our hospital had a room ready for me; the admitting knew we were on our way and would have the paperwork ready for us to sign; did I need his help walking to the car?

After two days in the hospital, we found the right medication to stop the labor and keep it stopped. I received those two nasty shots of steroids for the babies' lungs "just in case." I was sent home with the prescription, a bed rest order, and weekly appointments to check on our progress.

I had been told that 36 weeks was the magic number with twins. If I could make it that far, everything would be okay.

So for five weeks, we held on. I slept sitting up on the couch in our room, next to the two big windows in December, freezing under an old down comforter. We did all my ultrasounds in five-minute increments so I wouldn't faint since there was so much pressure when I laid down. We held on, and we waited.

The doctor wanted Baby B to turn head down before we made any decisions about delivery. Every week, we would check. Around 33 weeks he went head down. Around 34 weeks, he moved back to breach. He stayed there.

At our 36 week appointment we could see from the ultrasound that there was no way Baby B was going to move. His head was resting next to Baby A's feet. In order to turn head down, he would have to turn his body completely around and move down past the other set of feet. It just wasn't going to happen.

So the doctor gave me a choice. I could hold on and hope for the impossible. Or I could accept that I was going to have a C-section, stop the medication, and see what happened.

I was miserable. I hadn't slept in weeks. I could feel my body starting to fight the medication. And I was worried. Worried about what the stress was doing to the babies. Worried that my body wouldn't be able to continue to support the needs of two growing babies.

I chose to stop taking the medication. I went through the remainder of the day without a contraction. Not a pang, tug, pull, or ache. Nothing. J.R. took the next day off work to be safe, but by the time we went to bed late that Thursday night we were certain we would spend the next day waiting.

I woke up the next morning with the same back pains I had had at 31 weeks. Within half an hour, my contractions were a steady eight minutes apart.

My water never broke, my labor was never truly painful. By 2:00 I was in an operating room. At 2:56 PM Palmer emerged followed a minute later by Vaughn. As they were cleaned, weighed, and examined, I asked the pediatrician if they were okay. She assured me that they were, but something in the tenseness of her face told me otherwise.

I saw both babies briefly before the were carried out of the room. Laying on my back, my abdomen being sewn and glued shut, I could only look at them and touch them for a moment before they were taken away. As he left, Palmer grasped my finger, an action I would read so much into in the days that followed.

While I was in recovery, J.R. came in and told me that both babies were being given oxygen. They both were diagnosed with transient tachypnia of the newborn, not uncommon in babies born via C-section, and they were hoping the oxygen would help them clear the extra fluid in their lungs.

The hospital I was at did not have a full NICU. In fact, there were only two beds reserved for intensive care babies. Since mine were taking up both, they would have to be transported to a larger NICU in case any other babies needed temporary intensive care.

There is so much I could write about that experience. And certainly someday I will.

In the end, they only had to transport Palmer. Vaughn cleared his lungs and stayed with me for the next three days while my husband and our mothers tried to be with Palmer as much as they could.

For the last year, I have questioned the decision I made on the day before they were born. In my heart, I know I truly thought everything would be alright. I had steroid shots. I made it to 36 weeks. We had seen them breathing well in ultrasounds.

When they get colds, I wonder if it's my fault because they were born prematurely. I wonder if there will be any long term effects that I will trace back to their prematurity. When they develop slightly slower than their cousin who is only 18 days younger, I wonder if it is my fault. When Palmer would cling to me, and only me, I worried that it was because of those days he spent without me.

I have only now begun to forgive myself for the decision I made a year ago. I have watched my NICU baby grow larger and stronger than his brother, but I still wonder. And though he is sharp and inquisitive, I wonder if Vaughn is physically behind babies his age because of his prematurity.

I may never stop questioning that choice. But I hope someday I can forgive myself for it. For the anguish and fear and loneliness it brought us. For the things that it could bring that we still don't know.

Today, I cried again. A deep, heavy cry. A cry filled with laughter. A cry filled with the anxiety and fear built up over nearly two years of worrying, wondering, hoping.

I cried because they are with me today. Because they are with me every day. For the first time, I was able to wrap my arms around them both on their birthday. And my heart ached with the joy of sitting on the floor with a couple of toys and my precious sons.

Today they are one year old. And along with the tears, there was cake.

A modest proposal

When Oprah started her book club and millions of women across the country joined in I was skeptical. Thinking I was soooo fancy because I worked for a literary agent, I was certain this was a fad, that in two years, Barnes and Noble would see a huge plunge in profits and millions of books and bottles of wine would be gathering dust on the shelves of women everywhere (well, maybe not the wine).

I am not too proud to admit that I was wrong. Horribly wrong. So wrong in fact that I'm kind of sick of hearing about people's book clubs.

Mostly because I don't have one.

And that's mostly because I don't have many (or for that matter, any, really) friends in my town. But that's fodder for an entirely different post.

Stick with me, I have a point. Somewhere.

Now that the twins are approaching a year old, I feel like I'm emerging from a foggy daze and am ready to (somewhat) reenter the world of thinking, functioning human beings. And with that, I want to start doing something I love again. I want to start reading.

I will grant you that so far, I haven't been horribly successful. About a month ago, I picked up a book I had been wanting to read for quite a while. I'm about to page 30. I blame the holidays.

Recently, a friend of mine invited me to join Good Reads. I was thrilled to see the book lists of my friends, but I also felt horribly inadequate next to their lengthy lists--I couldn't even remember the last book I had read!

Since I can't make a decision by myself, I turned to my friend Maura. I proposed to her a blogger book club. Here's how it will work:

• Each month I will ask for book nominations via email.
• I will post a poll for any interested readers to vote on the book we will read. Poll results will be announced and reading will commence.
• When the reading is done, we can meet up on Tweet Chat for a virtual book club evening. You'll just have to supply your own wine.

Being the lovely friend that she is, Maura kindly patted me on my head, assured me that my neediness was not annoying but really quite endearing, and sent me on my way to write this post.

The only thing we need to decide is how often we want to do this: monthly? bimonthly? every five weeks and three days?

I will attempt to design a flashy button for us. But I need help coming up with a flashy name--unless we like the decidedly unflashy Blogger Book Club.

If you're interested, comment and let me know. Because I'm not going to go to all this effort just to Tweet Chat with myself. I already have enough neurosis.

(I apologize to those of you who were hoping for some baby eating. For that, you'll have to turn to Jonathan Swift. Or Marinka.)

The inevitable choice

Every other year we can count on the phone call. The one that comes the morning after we celebrate Christmas with Aaron. The one from his mom. And while I've never invaded his privacy so much as to listen in, it's not hard to know what's being said.

Immediately after the usual pleasantries, the "Hi Mommies," the "Yes, Christmas was so much fun" comes the inventory. It didn't take long for us to figure out that it wasn't one-sided. Aaron has a habit of repeating questions; "What did Santa bring?" or "What else did I get?" and "What did Grandma give me?" repeated into the phone give away just as much as picking up the other line would.

The same conversation usually follows his birthday party. Or if we go on vacation, a detailed itinerary of how we spent each day accompanies any phone calls to her.

We are a two income family. The bio-mom, though married, is not. Those are the choices we all have made. So often we do more here, give more. Vacations are a little grander, stockings a little fuller.

That's not to say that the choice we made is better. I know childhood isn't just about things. And I'd be lying if I didn't admit that sometimes I question the decision we made.

Because there are trade-offs. And the biggest one is time.

The bio-mom gets to be present in his classroom. She has time for regular game nights. She's there every afternoon for his homework.

Parenting shouldn't be a competition, but the differences that result from our choices often make it one. We should all be happy that he has the opportunity to be happy no matter where he is. We should be happy that he gains something different from each of us. Unfortunately, that's not the reality.

On New Year's Eve this year, we told Aaron we would try to stay up so he could, too. He said something about how much fun he would have next year at his mom's house, playing Super Scrabble and drinking hot cocoa.

When you're a blended family, statements like that aren't just observations, they can be challenges. A challenge to J.R. to make the night memorable. A challenge not to have to listen all night to what else he could be doing.

The popcorn was popped, a Wii competition ensued, and the night ended with the proclamation "That was the best New Year's Eve ever." Mission accomplished.

Because even though it shouldn't be a competition, it is. It's something we're aware of, but don't talk about. It's something we all do.

Because someday, Aaron will get to choose. In three years, if he wants a change, the courts will listen to him. With his driver's license in seven years comes the freedom to do as he pleases. And even after he moves away from home, there will be holidays, vacations, the best table at the wedding reception--choices between mom and dad.

So we do what we have to do. We are careful about what he notices. We try to be subtle. It's not something we're proud of. It's not healthy. Yet in it's own way, it's an act of love. And if I had a choice, it would be different. But in this case, the choices aren't mine to make.

How soon is too soon?

I realize that is was a mere three posts ago that I wrote about sending our dog to live on J.R.'s uncle's llama ranch. (I also find humor in the fact that we actually did send our old dog to live on a farm and aren't just using that as a euphemism to protect our children from life's hard truths.)

And I honestly couldn't tell you what possessed me. Maybe it was that for most of my life, there has been a dog at my feet. Maybe it was looking at the faces of my boys and knowing that if we wait for another bird dog puppy, it will be a good three years before they have a pet again (because Lord help me, I am not having two toddlers AND a puppy).

Regardless of what it was, I somehow ended up on Petfinder. It is impossible to go onto Petfinder and not fall in love. I should have known better. I should have told myself not to be foolish. I should have closed my laptop and done anything else but look at dogs.

But I couldn't. The faces. The eyes. The poor little hearts just begging to be loved.

And then, this face.

The face that did me in. Chester's face.

J.R. did not fall in love as quickly. He told me he needed a break from picking up dog mess and wiping dirt off of paws. He reminded me about the dog hair I will no longer have on my baseboards.

But the one that got me was when he argued that it looked like we had pawned off our dog just so we could get another one.

And then I remembered that for as much as I loved Cody, he was never really "my" dog. J.R. had him for nearly five years before I came in the picture. And I was the woman who moved in on Cody's pal and produced all these little people who yanked his ears, woke him from his naps, and littered his floor with toys.

Oh sure, we had our moments. You haven't lived until you've had an 80-pound dog try to turn a simple ear scratch into an opportunity to climb into your lap.

We tried to adopt a lab puppy several years ago. A dog that would be "mine." Unknowingly ended up with Cujo. Our sweet little lab ate all the ducting and wires connecting our air-conditioner to the house, devoured four firethorn bushes, and then started to eat the door jamb leading from the dog run to the garage. Nevermind what she did to my favorite pair of boots. She was more than a chewer. She was an eating machine with severe separation anxiety.

My broken heart decided I just wasn't going to have a dog. And ultimately, Cody was always the reason that I didn't have the dog I wanted. Not that I loved Cody any less for it, but I knew I wasn't Cody's person and never would be.

So something possessed me the other day, and I found Chester. After three days of whimpering and pouting (and a lot of manipulation), J.R. reluctantly admitted last night that he missed having a dog. That maybe this little love could be part of our family.

And if not Chester, maybe Dawkins.

So I filled out the application. I explained our decision to give up Cody. I explained why we miss having a dog. I hit send.

And then I started worrying. Maybe Aaron won't really do his fair share of the work, and I'll spend the next 10 years listening to J.R. talk about how he didn't want this dog in the first place. Maybe J.R.'s parents will misunderstand our decision and think we'll never have another bird dog for them. Maybe this adoption will end up being as disastrous as our last.

But mostly, I'm worried that maybe it is too soon. Maybe this is my rebound dog. Maybe I just can't resist a pathetic face (maybe that explains a lot of my ex-boyfriends).

I just don't know how soon is too soon.