We Never Know the End from the Beginning

I thought, now that the initial emotion of the situation is over, to add an update to my last post. It has been an incredibly difficult month and one that I am glad is over. I have never thought of myself as a particularly naïve person. I’ve been around the block in more ways than one. But these last few weeks have shown me that maybe I’m a lot more naïve than I thought I was.

Our two ‘inherited’ daughters are gone from our house. It is a long and complicated story, but the condensed version is this: after YEARS (literally) of inactivity, CPS sprang to action about 4 weeks ago. The girls were formally removed from their mother’s custody. Although we had been told differently on many occasions by a few different social workers, the girls were both split up and sent to different homes. In spite of their patronizing explanations, their smug and condescending looks, I have bouts of nearly-uncontrollable anger when speaking with the social workers involved. They had turned me into a liar in the eyes of the girls. I had always told them that if they were honest and spoke up, that I would protect them and that they could stay with us. Now, they are apart and alone.

The way the ‘dominoes’ fell, the older daughter left us on a Wednesday and her little sister left us on the following Friday. All weekend long, my husband and I struggled with our own grief and consoling our children, who were afraid that the social worker would come to take them next. My husband is a tough guy; I’ve only seen him cry a handful of times in the nearly 12 years that we’ve been together. But he cried for hours that week. He still seems sad a lot. The girls’ absence has left a gaping wound in our family that I’m not sure will ever completely heal.

I’ve really thought a lot since then, about what the Lord would have me learn from this whole experience. It’s been a struggle. My faith has wavered more than once. I have been driven to my knees in sadness so great I wondered how I could ever be happy again. I think it’s really hard for reasonable people who are trying to do what’s right, to see things turn out so wonky. Reasonable people expect reason to prevail. We expect right to win. I guess that’s where my naïveté’ showed through. The real world is harsh and people are fairly unforgiving, generally speaking. I’m not trying to be pessimistic, but that’s what I’ve learned.

But, I have also learned about the capacity inside me to love. I love these two girls just like they are my own daughters. I love them to the point I would lay down my own life for them. They are my heart and soul, just like the children I bore myself. Loving anyone like that is a calculated risk: the more you love, the more it can hurt. If you ask my oldest son, he’ll tell you that family isn’t just the people who are your brothers and sisters; family is about the people who God sends into your life to love you. In that way, they are my daughters too. Just as literally as if I had given birth to them myself.

We’ve been able to keep in fairly regular contact with the older daughter. She is struggling, much more than we are I’m sure. I feel such guilt that I wasn’t able to deliver on my promises to her. I hope she knows that if it were under my control, she’d be here safely tucked under my wing with the rest of my chicks. The younger daughter went back to her mother yesterday. It’s, again, a long story, but I doubt if I will ever have the opportunity to see her again. I hope that she will remember us. But, I will think of her, of them both, and worry about them forever. I will pray for their happiness and safety every day. I have to believe that the Lord has them in His hands. That He will watch over and protect them, even when no one else will. I have to believe that He knows what is in the future for all of us, that He can see the end AND the beginning. I have to believe and I DO believe that His will will always come to pass, even if it takes longer than my mortal heart would like.

Other People's Children...

This is probably not the best day for me to be writing this post, or maybe it’s the perfect day. Sundays are rough… between getting kids up and dressed for church, to church on time, behaving through 3 hours of church, and then having them get along at home together for the rest of the day. Yes, Sundays are rough. Today, particularly so. I guess that’s beside the point though.

Most of you know that I have five young children, 4 boys and 1 girl. When my oldest son, Brandon, was a baby I had an experience that profoundly changed the way I thought about children. I was watching a news magazine (Dateline, or 20/20 or something like that) about foster children. It was heartbreaking. I will never forget the profile of a 12-year-old boy who was living with his elderly grandmother after being shuttled through 5 or 6 foster homes when his mother went to prison. The boy was sad, lonely, shy, withdrawn and had never been hugged in his life. I don’t know why this affected me so much, but it did. I thought of my own son. Being a new mother, the intensity of the feelings I had for my own child were new to me. I was absolutely and profoundly in love with him, committed to him, desperate for his happiness and health in a way that scared me at times. While I was watching this little boy on television, it was apparent that no one had ever felt those feelings for this child. The injustice of it haunted me. And then, something amazing happened. I imagined my own little boy as this one. I imagined what if some mistake had been made in Heaven and my child had been send to this other home (or one like it) where he was never hugged, loved, cherished, doted on, taught, disciplined or worried about.

The thought nearly crushed me with its’ sadness. Why was my son so lucky, so blessed? He had a mother and father who were married, who loved him, who would do anything to ensure that he was happy and well cared for. Growing up, I naively assumed that most parents loved their children like my parents loved me. Boy was I wrong. I have come to know that the home I grew up in and the home I strive to provide for my children is the exception rather than the rule. “Normal” is a term that has lost all weight and meaning.

After I watched this program, I talked to my husband at length about it. It was difficult for me to get my feelings across to him because I was so emotional about it. We promised each other then, that when our children were a little older, we would become foster parents. Since then, it’s something I’ve thought about often and looked forward to. A large part of the reason we chose to go to law school is so we can provide for foster children without having to rely on the state supplement. As soon as law school is over and we are settled somewhere, we plan on going through the training and beginning immediately.

Over the last 4 months or so, we’ve become acquainted with a 17-year-old girl and her 5-year-old sister. The older sister babysat for us a few times and the family was members of our church, though they rarely attended. I won’t go in to the particulars of their situation other than to say, Mom is single and struggling and has untreated mental health issues and both girls have absent fathers. As the months have gone by, these girls have spent more and more time in our home. We’re to the point now where they are both living with us more than half the time. Mom rarely calls to check on them or inquire about their welfare. The younger of the girls calls Peter ‘daddy’ and my boys are her ‘brothers.’ They each have their own bed, toothbrush and chores at our home. Despite their difficult upbringing, they are remarkably well-behave and loving girls. But I fear for them in the future. Child Protective Services have been notified, but it’s a frustrating bureaucracy with no real power to do anything to better the lives of kids, at least here in the state where we live. On the rare night when the girls are not at our house, I worry about them constantly. Are they safe? Warm? Happy? My heart breaks for them as they are continually disappointed by their own mother’s disinterest in them. It’s a difficult situation for them and for us; they don’t have any real stability going back and forth between our home and their mother. It’s difficult for our family to have them come and go and worry about them when they’re gone. On more than one occasion we’ve had to interrupt family events or outings to run and get them. The kids sometimes feel possessive of us as their parents, our time and our attention. I have been in uncomfortable positions as friends and acquaintances familiar with what’s going on have gushed about what an awesome person I am to do this.

So. Please, please, please if you see me at church or the store or anywhere else, don’t tell me what a great person I am for taking them in. Don’t tell me I’m a great human being for being the mom these girls need and don’t have. Don’t compliment me on my ‘selflessness’ or ‘service.’ I am a regular human being just like you. But I’ve been given a rare insight from my Heavenly Father: the ability to see other’s children, ANY children, as my own. It’s an insight that’s available to any and all of us if we ask for it and can open our hearts to receive it. Please, don’t tell me I’m some great person, because I’m not. I am just doing the least of what our Father in Heaven expects us to do for His little ones.

My Kids Are Awesome

                My kids are awesome.  They are funny, talented, caring, intelligent, and they are great little buddies for almost anything I want to do.  As I sit here, wrapped in a blanket in the middle of a frozen January, I am already starting to compile a list of things I want to do with them this summer.  Last summer was epic for us.  It was the first summer of my life that I was a stay-at-home mom and I didn’t have much else to occupy me other than mothering.  Peter was doing a legal externship with the city attorney 45 miles from our house, which left the kids and I by ourselves for around 10 hours a day.  I was determined to not let this time slink by, spending hours in front of the television or busied with Legos.

                As soon as school was out, we made a list of things we wanted to do.  Most afternoons, we headed to a local school and took advantage of ‘lunch in the park,’ a federal program that provides a free lunch to any kid under 18 years old.  No paperwork.  No ‘qualifying.’ No kidding.  It was the best.  We’d run our errands in the morning, and by the time we were done we’d swing over to the school playground.  The kids would eat, I would chat with other moms, the kids would play on the playground until they were good and tired and then we’d head home, exhausted, for naps.  There were never fights over who was going to sit in what chair, who wanted their sandwich cut in triangles instead of rectangles, and there was no mess to clean up afterward!  I loved it.

                We also learned basic American Sign Language together.  We had become acquainted with the Signing Time DVDs when Andrew was in speech therapy.  When the Signing Time website had a sale, I snatched up 6 of the DVD’s and we watched them pretty regularly all summer.  By the time school started, most of my kids could communicate with some fluency using ASL.  It opened a lot of conversations too, like how everyone is different, that some people have ears (or eyes, or legs etc.) that don’t work like theirs, that it changes the way they speak if their hearing is impaired.  My 7-year-old also had a light bulb moment when he was told that people who are hearing impaired aren’t ‘death,’ they are ‘deaf.’ J

                I started cooking with my kids a lot.  Each of my older boys had a night of the week when they got to help plan and prepare dinner.  It was pretty exciting for them, especially little Ian, my budding chef.  It helped them learn about the food groups, the way food looks, food safety (no we don’t cut the tomatoes for the salad on the same cutting board we used for cutting the raw chicken!), and general kitchen safety.  They also learned how to read a recipe and fractions (we double A LOT of recipes!)  At my birthday Sunday, I received a citrus reamer from my 5-year-old.  He knew I needed one. J

                We went to most of the movies in the children’s summer cinema series.  Our local schools partner with a theater and offer a series of 8 childrens’ movies (all older movies) for $5.  They were on weekday mornings, concessions were cheaper, and the kids always had fun.  It was a good opportunity to start to introduce the twins to ‘movie theater behavior.’  It was rough at first; trying to get them to not run all over the theater, but the winter series just started last Saturday and they didn’t budge for the entire movie!  Success!

                Again, I have to sing the praises of Pinterest. J  I found a ton of simple kid-level science experiments to do with basic household items.  We usually did one a week and usually on a really hot day when you couldn’t really play outside.  We made ‘elephant toothpaste,’ dissolved the shell off an egg, made our own bouncy balls with Elmer’s school glue and borax, and wasted a few dollars on the thrill of some Mentos in Diet Coke (if you don’t know what I’m talking about here, head outside with some and see for yourself!)

                All in all, it was an awesome summer.  When my kids were babies, it was hard to imagine a day when I would be able to do fun things with them, carry on a conversation with them, or even sleep through the blasted night!  But now that it’s upon me, I can see how every stage of parenting has its’ own downside and its’ own rewards.  Do I have any babies to snuggle and hold anymore, a little one who is just discovering the world and how it works?  No.  But I do have kids who laugh, run, play, are excited to learn, always want to have fun and know a ton of good knock-knock jokes.

                A couple of months ago, I was standing wearily in the grocery store check-out line.  It was nearly the end of a long day and the kids were being loud.  The babies were fussing a little in the cart, the big boys were asking for candy in the line, Nathan was telling jokes and Brandon and Ian were cackling hysterically… the typical grocery store bit.  There were a couple of young 20-something girls behind us, eyeing the kids, waving to the babies and talking to each other.  After we checked out and were crossing the parking lot to the car, the big boys hopped on the sides of the cart and said, “Run, MOM!”  I smiled, and took off at a full run, my cart weighted down by groceries and five kids yelling, “Faster, FASTER!”  As we hit the speed bump, the cart bucked satisfactorily.  We finished making our way to the van.  I loaded in kids and groceries and took the cart to the corral a few parking spaces away.  Parked next to it were the same two girls who had been behind us in line.  The one in the driver’s seat opened her door, got out and ran over to me.  Breathlessly, she cried, “Your kids are AWESOME!”  I smiled, “I know!  I’m so lucky!”  

The Makings of a Scratch Snob

I love to cook.  I’ve always enjoyed it, but now that I quit my full-time nursing job to stay home with my kids I have a little more time on my hands.  It was really my job that shaped my initial approach to cooking.  I was working in the morning, home in the afternoon, and working during the evening (i.e. normal dinner-prep hours.)  I had a million recipes that I prepped in the afternoon, slid in the oven before I left, and was piping hot and ready when I got home.  Because I was short on time, I used a lot of canned items.  Canned chicken, canned soup, canned veggies, canned tomato sauce.  Some other women I knew, whom I dubbed ‘scratch snobs,’ NEVER used canned anything.  They didn’t even use pre-made pasta.  Whoa.  I didn’t have time for that nonsense.  I felt secretly smug that I was feeding my family home-cooked meals in less time than it took these broads to make their artisan raviolis. I had four weekly menus that I rotated through each month so I always knew what to buy and what I was going to make that night.  I never stood, glassy-eyed, staring in the fridge at 4pm thinking:  What should I make for dinner?  I thought I had this cooking thing licked.

After doing this for a number of years, a few things happened that changed my approach.  This first thing was the birth of my twins.  I was committed to breastfeeding and so, I was essentially confined to the couch for much of the day.  Breastfeeding twins are a full-time affair.  I supposed I could have sat on the couch, nursing a baby, in silence, listening to the distant sounds of fighting and breaking glass as my three older boys busied themselves, unsupervised, somewhere else in the house.  But I opted to cover the sounds of my neglectful parenting with the television.  Now, the only things on during the day are soap operas and the Food Network.  Needless to say, I detest soap operas.  So that left the Food Network.

The Food Network opened up a whole new work for me, as far as my culinary efforts were concerned.  I was introduced to flavors and techniques that I would have never attempted otherwise.  I felt like Paula Deen was my long-lost grandmother, as I was a big fan of butter and mayonnaise myself.  After watching her, I attempted my first scratch-made chicken pot pie.  And a new confection known, sinfully, as ‘gooey butter cake.’  Both were huge successes.

Then I went on an Italian food kick after becoming hooked on Everyday Italian with Giada deLaurentiis.  After I got over being worried about her burning her cleavages while cooking in her dangerously low-cut t-shirts, my mouth watered over the pasta dishes and braised meat she prepared.  I tried my hand at white lasagna and used wine in my cooking for the first time ever.  Again, these dishes are a huge hit with my family.

On the more ‘ghetto’ side of things, I tried the big greasy burgers and hearty main dishes of Guy Fieri.  I also enjoyed Sunny Anderson’s Cooking for Real.  I was really starting to branch out from my four weekly menus and my family was thrilled.

After I quit my job and we moved, my sister introduced me to what is probably the best thing to happen to the home cook since the invention of the cooking range:  Pinterest.  Talk about a recipe smorgasbord!  Anything you could ever think about making, you can find it on pinterest.  My family has NEVER eaten so well. 

Another thing that influenced me was my other sister, Melissa.  She had begun a ‘clean eating’ thing that I initially rolled my eyes at.  But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.  I started simply, by restricting my grocery shopping to the perimeter of the store.  The perimeter, I discovered, contained the items that were the least processed (read: closer to how they actually exist in nature.)  Now, Melissa was making her own cheez-its.  As the mother of 5 young kids, the cheez-its were just fine coming from Nabisco and I certainly wasn’t going to reinvent the wheel on snack foods.  But as far as meals went, I bought as few processed foods as possible.   For the first time IN MY LIFE, I made a yeast-bread item.  Not a loaf, but breadsticks and rolls.  My family was in heaven.  I have found that pulling apart fresh-from-the-oven bread is one of life’s greatest pleasures.

As my cooking has become less processed, it’s also become a lot better tasting.  It has become my mission to make a meal so delicious that my typically reserved husband would take one bite, slam his fork to the table and declare:  “Honey, that’s the BEST thing I’ve ever eaten!”  Although that has yet to happen, I’m starting to get a reputation amongst my husband’s group of friends at law school.  He tells me there are jealous looks and some chop-licking amongst them when they see what new delicacy he has toted to school for lunch.  Our church missionaries, who change frequently and who we feed dinner to about once a month, have passed on the word that ours is the place to eat for dinner.  I, of course, am flattered and it makes me try that much harder to outdo myself and live up to their expectations.  I even made some pasta from scratch last week for them!  Who know?!

A Word on Marriage...

I decided another post was in order because my husband and I passed a very important milestone a couple of weeks ago:  On April 20^th, we celebrated our 10^th wedding anniversary.  Now, I understand ten years might not seem like a big deal to a lot of you.  Especially those of you who have been married much longer than we have.  But for us, it was pretty major.
Peter and I got engaged after a pretty short courtship (we met September 1^st and got engaged December 1^st) and had an engagement marred by a lot of strife between my future mother-in-law and me.  The aforementioned ‘strife’ put my poor husband-to-be squarely in the middle, which was not comfortable for either of us.  You can be sure that we discussed eloping on more than one occasion.

We married in the Bountiful LDS Temple on April 20, 2002.  The tulips were in bloom, and yet it snowed most of the morning.  By the evening, when our reception was held, it was sunny and warm.  In some of our pictures Peter and I are both wearing sunglasses. J  The next few years brought a lot of happy and difficult times.  Before our first anniversary, I was pregnant and we had purchased our first home.  By our fourth anniversary, we had 2 little boys and many changes on the horizon.  Peter was an anxious, but completely devoted father.  I was a working mom, holding down part-time employment with a home care agency while Peter continued to cover sports for the Salt Lake Tribune.

But then the inevitable happened:  reality set in.  There was job stress, money stress, parenting stress, marriage stress, church responsibilities, bills, sickness, and Peter quit his job at the newspaper to pursue a different career.  All the things that go along with life.  And if you haven’t been dealing with things together as they come up and resolving conflict as it arises, your marriage will rock.  And rock we did.  Our 6^th year was rough.  We moved twice, built a new home, sold our old home and had our third son.  Any one of these things would cause stress and friction in a family.  These things combined, nearly undid us. 

February of 2008 was the lowest point for us.  We were living apart, on the brink of divorce.  The catalyst for this, I have discovered, is really immaterial.  The bottom line was that things had gotten so far away from us that we didn’t know who we were as a couple anymore.  After not speaking for a few days, I called Peter on the phone.  I will never forget that phone call.  I was sitting on my sister’s front porch while she played with the boys inside.  We decided, in that phone call, that we were going to stick together. 

That phone conversation didn’t change anything, really.  We had a lot of work to do:  over a year of weekly counseling, talking, changing, becoming different people.  The only thing that phone call changed was our attitudes:  we took ‘divorce’ off the table.  We worked hard at our marriage for the next couple of years.  I’m happy to report that now, we are happier, and love each other more than we did the day we got married.  And we are still working hard at our marriage.  The difference?  We both came to the realization that in marriage, it’s not the love and romance that sustains the commitment you make to each other.  It’s the opposite:  the commitment and covenants you make to each other and God are what sustains the love.  People have it backward these days, you hear so often:  “Oh, we just fell out of love…”  What they really mean is that one or both of them quit trying.  Sorry, maybe that sounds harsh, but it’s true.  True things are hard to hear sometimes.

Since then, we’ve faced many challenges:  our 4^th child turned out to be twins, when the economy collapsed so did my once-lucrative job, we were in the middle of a foreclosure at one point, we rented out our dream home and moved 800 miles away, where we knew no one and Peter started law school and I became a stay-at-home mother.  But not for one day since that phone call on my sister’s porch have I ever doubted that Peter and I would be together forever.  An eternal family is not created the day you marry; it is built piece by piece along the way.  Through the fires and trials, the laughter and joy.  Happy marriages aren’t just luck or chance.  Show me any happy couple with a strong marriage and I will show you two people who have worked and struggled, sacrificed and toiled, to be that way.  I will show you two people who may not always like each other, but are committed to each other and their children.  I will show you two people who understand that going through the fire with someone purifies you as a couple and a family in ways you can’t really describe.  I will show you two people like Peter and me.  I love you, Peter!

Two-for-One Special...

Saturday, April 7^th was my twins’ second birthday.  The older I get, the quicker time seems to go by, but these last two years have definitely had some help.  I can’t believe that the tiny little babies I brought home are now rowdy toddlers who can feed themselves, hit and, yes, bite!  Let me give you a little background on the subject…

In June of 2009, Peter and I started talking about having another baby.  Of course, I was pregnant by the beginning of July.  That’s one of my superpowers:  reproduction.  Peter used to joke that I got pregnant using the same soap as him.  We were both pretty excited… we had three little boys and really wanted a daughter to round out the crew.  We both also knew that this would be our last child, little girl or not.  I was determined to savor every moment of the pregnancy and babyhood of this, the caboose of our family.  (When we got married, I had wanted 5 kids and Peter had only wanted 3, we decided to compromise and have 4.)

At the beginning of August, I had a miscarriage.  I was stunned, to say the least.  I had never had a miscarriage before and was pretty devastated by it.  The doctors I went and saw told me to wait a few months before trying again.  This doctor also told me that it would be at least 4-6 weeks before my hormones came down to normal levels and would even allow me to ovulate again.  So I went home, heart heavy, thinking we’d try again in three or four months.

In the aftermath of the miscarriage, I really started to freak myself out.  What had I done to cause this?  I scrutinized my diet, activity, vitamins, sleep patterns… had I taken ibuprofen for a headache?  Did I stand too close to the microwave?  What about that piece of sushi I had indulged in?  I was sure I had done something to bring about the end of my pregnancy and I felt horrible about it.  With all of our other children, we decided it was the right time and I got pregnant immediately.  I had healthy, easy pregnancies followed by quick deliveries.  Like clockwork.  This was definitely a ‘wrinkle’ I hadn’t planned on.  Maybe 3 was it for us?  Maybe God thought we had enough children and He was cutting us off?  I was heartbroken at the thought of not having any more children, but I knew if it was the Lord’s will, then no amount of whining on my part would change that.  I started to try to accept that maybe we were always going to be a family of 5.

About 2 ½ weeks after my last visit to the doctor, I had a positive pregnancy test.  I had been feeling strange and took the test simply because I had purchased a 2-pack and had one left.  I was sure it was residual hormone leftover in my system from the miscarriage, but three weeks later, it was still positive.  Hmmm.

I was thrilled when I realized I actually was pregnant again and that God had not ‘cut me off’ in the baby department.  J  A few weeks after that, a routine ultrasound at my first appointment with my midwife revealed not one, but two tiny growing babies snuggled safely together inside of me.  I was dumbstruck.  Two?  But I already HAD 3 kids!  Now I was going to have 5.

As the pregnancy progressed and I became larger and larger, I realized that I had always known that at some point, I would have twins.  I didn’t know when or why, it was just one of those little truths the God tucks away in your heart long before you realize it.  I was still surprised and overwhelmed, but that reassuring hand on my shoulder, that little whisper of, “It’s going to be ok,” from my Heavenly Father made me really believe that I could do it.  I could handle this.  I could be a mother of 5.

At about 18 weeks, Peter and I headed over to get an ultrasound to find out if we would have sons or daughters or one of each.  I was convinced that I was having two daughters, that these twins were my reward for having 3 boys in a row.  On the way to the ultrasound, Peter said to me, “I think you ought to at least consider the possibility that it could be two boys…”  My response was, “I don’t think God would do that to me!”

I was right.  Andrew Steven Richins was born in one push on April 7, 2010 weighing 5 pounds and 2 ounces.  He was so tiny and perfect, I was in love.  Nearly 2 hours and an emergency c-section later, his twin sister Olivia Kate Richins was born.  She was 6 pounds, 9 ounces and had a very healthy pair on lungs.

In the intervening two years, I have learned a lot about patience, love, sleeplessness and my own inadequacies.  My plans to savor this pregnancy and babyhood were replaced by a survival mode mentality that is just starting to ebb.  I have felt extremely guilty, lonely, and inadequate to the task of mothering two babies at once.  I was sure that I wasn’t giving them enough attention or love or reading to them or playing with them enough.  I felt, at times, that I was doing irreparable harm to their little psyches.  But now that I can see them being just as healthy, joyful, and rowdy as all of my other children were at 2, I know they are none the worse for wear.  The Lord knew they were going to be twins all along, He knew they could handle it.  He knew I could handle it.

Brandon, my 8-year-old, said to me a few weeks ago after a close family member suffered a devastating 2-trimester miscarriage, “Mom, remember when your baby went back to Heavenly Father and you were so sad and we went for a walk by the lake?”  “Yes, I do remember,” I said.  “That’s why we had Andrew and Olivia next, because Heavenly Father knew they were buddies and wanted to go together.”  I think Brandon was right.  I had a tremendous loss, followed by a very literal ‘double portion.’ J

So I think the thing I have learned the most from being a mother of multiples and a mother of 5 children is this:  Aligning our will with the Lord’s is one of the most difficult tasks we have in mortality.  It was His will that Andrew and Olivia come together and that I be their mother.  As unequal as I felt to the task, as much as I wished I could have changed things early on, the thing that got me through (that STILL gets me through) is that He knows I can do it. 

Metamorphosis

Well, wonders never do cease. It's amazing to me how my kids change every day and how the smallest variances in how I parent them can yield such dramatic results. My youngest son, Andrew, was a runt. I don't say that negatively, he was just the smallest of our litter, by a lot, weighing only 5 pounds and 2 ounces at birth. He and his twin sister Olivia were four weeks early, but she still outweighed him by a pound and a half. He was surprisingly healthy. The doctor told me that the smaller twin is always healthier. Something about how they have to 'work' harder in the womb. Both twins left the hospital with me when I was discharged. Andrew has always been smaller and grumpier than his cheery, happy twin. Peter has been know to privately refer to him as a 'malcontent.' He was always fussy, cranky, difficult. He never wanted to snuggle or be held close once he got out of the newborn stage. He would twist and arch his back whenever you tried to dress/change/hold him. He was a generally difficult kid, temperment-wise. Physically, he met all of his milestones right on time: he sat, crawled, and walked right on schedule and with surprising agility. He was extremely coordinated from an early age, being able to undo complicated clothing fasteners (overall hooks!?) and pick up Cheerios and stack them into a tower before he turned 1. But he wasn't talking. At all. By 18 months, I knew something was up, because all he could say was 'no' and 'dada.' Mealtimes became VERY difficult. How much grunting and pointing can I really understand anyway? He wasn't able to communicate his wants and I wasn't able to understand his cave-man-talk in a timely enough fashion to keep him from melting down at mealtime. It was getting frustrating. And loud. I decided it was time to consult the professionals. Speech therapy was on my radar and soon, we were getting regular visits from Ketha, a speech/language pathologist. Ketha was great, and understood that it might not just be Andrew's stubbornness that was keeping him from talking. She lent us some dvd's that are part of a series that teaches young children American Sign Language. She also sent Andrew and I to Kindermusik, a mommy-and-me type movement and music class.

The signing was the first big thing. My other children loved it and really picked up on the signs. The dvds were fun to watch with catchy songs and they would all watch them together. My older kids, especially Ian, can sign pretty fluently in some situations (we're still working our way through the series of dvd's... :-) One day at lunch, I asked Andrew if he would like more blueberries or more pretzels. He looked at me and signed 'berry.' I was so excited, I felt like singing! This was the first time he had every been able to express his wants to me before! I promptly praised him, and dumped a huge handful of blueberries (his favorite) on his high chair tray. When I did, it was almost like watching a lightbulb go on above his head, I could almost see the little wheels turning in his mind: "Things have names, and if I ask for it by name, I'll get it..." That was the start of a number of signs that he started using regularly. Over the next two weeks, he started saying 10 words! It was so thrilling for me, that I was texting his progress to Ketha almost daily to share my excitement. My boy could talk!

The next big change came with Kindermusik. I couldn't really see how this would help Andrew talk when Ketha first suggested we go. But, it was free, and I had never had the time to do this with any of my other kids when they were small, so I went. The first time, Andrew just ran around the room, exploring. Subsequent trips to the class have left me dumbfounded. The little boy who didn't want to be snuggled or held, parks himself on my lap for the entire time. He just laps up all the one-on-one attention he gets from me during those 45 minutes. The child who was once a malcontent, will now grab my face between his chubby hands, say 'kees!' and kiss me squarely on the lips.

When Peter and I decided to have "one more" child, we both knew that it would be our last. I decided right then that I was going to really try to savor every moment, to enjoy the pregnancy, birth and babyhood of the 'caboose' of our family. When we found out it was not one, but two, little ones who would be joining our family, I went into survival mode and stayed there until I was done breastfeeding. I think a lot of moms of multiples feel like I did: just making sure everyone is fed, diapered, clean, and dressed is such a monumental undertaking, that you just don't have the energy or brainpower for the little things like singing them to sleep, spending individual time with them, sitting and just enjoying them. Taking Andrew to Kindermusik and watching him become an entirely different child has really opened my eyes to how important taking time to do the little things is.

If I hadn't, I might have missed the 'keeses.'