Week 9: In Sickness and Mental Health

Monday was, mercifully, a public holiday. We decided to take the boys for a walk along Mullum Mullum creek after breakfast. L brought his bike and after escorting him carefully through the steep car park area, he pan-caked into the gravel on the first hill I let him roll down alone, his bike flipped up over his head and landed on top of him. I dusted him off and checked his chest (which bore the brunt of the fall) for grazes, as he cried and sobbed, “cuddle… cuddle!” I gave him a cuddle and he jumped back on his bike and rode off down the (now much less steep) path. I scoffed at B’s suggestion we may need to get him a helmet. “That’s a bit overprotective. That wasn’t that bad, he jumped up and got straight back on? What?” I said as B eyed me suspiciously. Clearly aware I was diverting attention from the fact I (probably) let him go way too soon.

We settled into the walk, marveling at nature like newly disembarked aliens. Leaving the house unusually sweet amongst the trees. I basked in the tranquility, A and O sound asleep in the pram. I was only roused when a random beetle landed on the back of my neck, which caused me to jump when I unexpectedly caught the insect in my fingers when scratching at it moving through my hairline. L spent the next few minutes saying “Mumma! There’s a beetle on my neck!” and giggling. I’m pretty sure he was taking the piss.

A and O attracted the attention of every grandmother within a 500 metre radius. I can still feel a palpable sense of disappointment when we pull back the hoods of their capsules to reveal that they’re not identical. Stating the obvious, I always direct them to O’s shock of ash-blonde hair, which stands on end almost two inches from the top of his head. Now that he’s becoming more aware, he opens his eyes incredibly wide, giving off the impression of someone who has just stuck his finger in a light socket. I usually point and say “Check out his hair!” No, they’re not identical, but one of them has a weird, eighties flattop. My peace offering to the grandmothers of the world to offset the social injustice of fraternal twins.

We walked for around 1.5 kilometres. A walk with a three year old is always a tricky situation. You have to make sure you leave enough in their tank for the walk back. Or you end up carrying their bike and giving them a shoulder ride. Which is exactly what happened. The last half a kilometre was a tad trying with the extra 20kgs on my shoulders, the car park situated awkwardly on a rather unfriendly sloping hill. I do like to remind myself this type of child-related heavy lifting is probably the only exercise I’m getting, but honestly, I could have done without it.

Tuesday B began trying to shift the boys into more of a routine. Attempting to get the boys into their cot for longer and longer periods, with (expected) poor results. A had apparently been an angel and O was the one that wouldn’t settle. They are keeping me on my toes in this favourites game. Previously O had become the favourite, he’s got my ‘sleeper’ genes and usually settles well. A seems overly dramatic to say the least. Although, this was originally the opposite, so hopefully it’s just another phase. I always thought A would be my favourite due to his underdog status and his resilience in the face of multiple needles (not a tear, whilst O screamed the house down) and various man-handlings. He still kind of is, O (besides his hair) is easily the least cute of all three. But I suppose it will swing around and even out eventually.

Needless to say, it was a rough day for B. When I offered, (I thought) empathetically, that she shouldn’t expect them to fall into a routine on the first day of trying B snapped, “I’m not a fucking idiot!” The night was good, though, as the boys slept from 8.30pm to 2.00am.

I continued to descend into a deeper pit of sickness. It seems I had caught B’s throat cold, which was originally O’s sniffles and previously L’s runny nose. Kids seem to get over their colds in a breeze, whilst once caught, almost kill me and B. Though you certainly don’t get any sympathy in the twinsphere. If you’re sick, I’m sicker and I’m breastfeeding. Two children. You selfish prick. Or, at least, in my own flu-ridden, sleep-deprived brain, that is how it felt. Eggshells are present in every corner of our collective psyche. Watch your fucking step.

Wednesday I croaked through work like a demented frog. Rolling through emotional ups and downs as the cold-and-flu uppers saw fit to allow me some respite. Apparently the boys had a better day, though still not quite diving into any routine. Although I was too emotionally wrought to respond to B’s text detailing her day. In the midst of sickness I can truly only think of one thing at a time and I’m trying (most of the time, whilst at work) to not cut my fingers off.

The night was a bad one. After two nights of encouraging sleep patterns, the boys woke at 11.30am, 2.30am and again around 5.00am. At one interval (I really can’t remember which one) I returned to bed only to be awoken by A screaming and B swearing in frustration. I woke up and zombie shuffled into the twins bedroom where I mechanically took A, plopped down on my usual spot on the floor, cross-legged, and began to burp him. He burped and seemed to settle, but as I returned him to B he again began to squawk and thrash about, unwilling to take the boob. I foolishly tried to intervene by doing my best impersonation of a lactation consultant. I (thought I did anyway) expertly handled both A’s head and B’s breast to try and encourage better latching. “It’s not a fucking latching issue! He’s just not interested!” Said with the venom of countless nights of constantly interrupted sleep, steeped in lashings of uncontrollable hormones. I simply turned around and walked back to bed. A disheveled, sickly, fifth wheel.

Thursday B (also getting sicker by the day) struggled at home and I struggled at work. Buoyed, though only slightly, by the fact that Thursday is my last work day for the week. I returned home to a refreshing air of contentment. B’s Aunt K was lending a hand again. In lieu of any (sane) local grandparents she does an exceptional job filling in and helping B. We ate an early dinner of leftovers and had L in bed around 7.00pm and A and O followed soon after. That time right after the boys go to bed and we are able to pretend we are young and irresponsible (by that I mean we get to watch adult TV until 9.30pm) for a couple of hours with no trepidation (or ears piquing at every squeak or squeal, baby related or otherwise), is truly the best time of your life. Right? Don’t believe the hype: babies fucking suck.

By the following morning I couldn’t remember how Thursday night played out. Did we get four hour blocks or two hour? Three? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t great. What I know for sure is Friday was one of our worst days so far. As I read back over the start of this blog entry I wonder how we got from there to here? Monday seemed like a world away.

Sickness and sleep deprivation had me and B at each other’s throats by midday. Any argument that descends into tears as B dares me to tell her what I really think and I state point blank that I’m certainly not holding back, can’t be productive for anyone. Definitely not L who stood silently between us whilst we exploded on one another, unmercifully enough that he felt the need to apologise to us afterward. To be fair, he probably had never heard it happen before as it may have genuinely only happened a handful of times in our twelve year relationship. We were truly beat up and turning on each other. In sickness and in health aint got nothing on reality.

Saturday was a breath of fresh air with a trip down to my Nan’s. The reliably sensible air of normality. As Nan puts it, “so normal, we’re just boring.” Surrounded by aunts and cousins (both first relations and also quite a few times removed) we were able to relax, it would actually seem as if it benefits us to get out of the house and do something. A and O sleep well in the car and we get to be around people who want to hold our children. One in particular, T, my third or fourth (maybe fifth?) cousin, continues to leave me humbled by her generosity and enthusiasm for my boys, although in the midst of (very) unexpected teen motherhood, she continues to find the time and thought to get gifts for our kids and pass over any hand-me-downs she can spare. Her incredible maturity and, at the same time, youthful enthusiasm is an odd combination which leaves me grateful and unusually guilty at the thought perhaps the presents and hand-me-downs should be coming from her thirty-six year old cousin and not the other way around. It seems having twins is a rather universal get-out-of-jail-free card.

Like usual, time spent at Nan’s place is a special kind of soul food, the perfect panacea for a tough week. Myself and B got chocolate thickshakes on the drive home and L, a chocolate sundae. We made him promise he wouldn’t make a mess. Which he reminded us of once finishing, proclaiming “I didn’t make a mess! Dadda!” He huffed. I’m not sure where he gets it from, but he certainly seems to like letting you know what he’s thinking.