When they're not sleeping...

They're eating, eating, and eating. (And, yes, pooping, but we'll save that for another time.) I'm here today to give you a glimpse of the good, the bad, and the exhausted with respect to feeding.

The good: It's so easy to look like a good parent when you're awake and in public. Note the individualized attention I'm able to give Juanito here, the bottle tilted at just the right angle, the child held in the most comfortable position.

But look again. Do you see how fragile this scenario is? It all hinges, really, on Sarita. As long as she's quiet, the scenario is intact, but the moment she decides to scream her Wail of Hunger, I move into doubletime child care, and instead of one child being held, no child is being held, because the parent's hands are busy holding bottles for the two children lying on the blanket/the bed/what have you. (That's why you don't see single parents at the park with their twins-- this shot was taken by Juan during our visit to the Iwo Jima Memorial.)

One might suggest that I stagger the feeding times so that each child has his/her own turn. Nice idea, except that one feeding event can take up to an hour, and with feedings taking place every 3 hours or so,... well, you do the math.

The bad: That's when you're alone and the babies are both, suddenly, famished or otherwise unhappy. They scream like cats and cry unnegotiably. All of this is designed, physiologically, to break my heart.

Sometimes it's not really hunger that's at the root of discontent, but it takes a while to figure this out, bottles flying, spit-up flowing. When all else fails, I turn to the one sure thing that will calm them. I call it "My One Sure Thing," but it's really TWO sure things, if you get my drift. When we're at home, I whip out the EZ2-Nurse Double Breastfeeding Pillow, and voila! I feel like on of those Hopi Storyteller dolls, her children attached to her like Velcro, always wanting more. (If only there were such a Velcro... think of the many uses!)

Equipment aside, part of dealing with crying has been not to let it make me crazy. In the hospital, someone gave me a very useful piece of advice: when the babies cry, just imagine that they're singing to you-- and that crying is the only song they know. This works. When they cry in tandem, I listen for harmonies and try to add the third voice.

Even so, I do become a bit crazy on occasion-- just ask Juan. Luckily, he is able to board the runaway Crazy Train and slow it waaaaay down.

The exhausted: Here, Dad has fallen victim to what I call Baby Bottle Narcolepsy, whereby the feeder loses consciousness within seconds of inserting the bottle into the baby's mouth.

Notice the unfinished bottle in one hand, the TV remotes in the lap, the three-way sleepfest going on. This is our life.