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Archive for July, 2008

I’ve only been blogging for a month, and don’t know much, but I do know this: the web is gaga for baby neck cheese. How do I know this? I mentioned the smelly baby neck cheese problem we’ve been having with our twins in a brief paragraph on a blog post weeks ago, and damn if that MFer isn’t getting hit left, right, and center by every search engine going. Clearly this is a serious issue that needs further discussion.

What it is:

For those of you who didn’t get here via search engine and are ignorant to the silent, worldwide epidemic that is baby neck cheese, a little background. Baby neck cheese starts when milk dribbles down from baby’s mouth and settles into the many folds of her neck. This can happen while baby is drinking a bottle, or spitting up, both of which happen a lot with babies. That milk/spit-up is very stealthy. It slinks way down deep into a fold and hides there, maturing, staying so quiet that you don’t even know its there until it starts stinking- and man, does it ever stink. By the time it fully ripens to cheese, which, depending on climate, may only take an hour- that stench is enough to wake the dead.

Why it forms:

This problem would not occur if babies had necks. Sadly, they do not. Babies have chubby round faces that sit right on their shoulders, with only cavernous folds in between. These folds are Cheddar Gorge, and at their depths, Cheddar Caves. The real Cheddar Caves are made of carboniferous limestone, fyi, and once concealed the complete skeleton of a man for 8,000 years. That’s how deep they are. That’s what your dealing with, yo.

How to Diagnose:

You know your baby has neck cheese when the stench emanating from baby’s neck is enough to resurrect an 8,000 year old man. What type of cheese does it smell like? This is a topic of hot debate in my household. My husband thinks it smells of Roquefort, and I’m inclined to agree, but just for the sake of argument I like to say that it smells of a sharper, 10-years-past-perfect Camembert. I’m open to further discussion, however, if there are any Fromagers/new parents reading this.

Aside from smell, if you would like more criteria for diagnosis (though after whiffing the region I cannot imagine you would need further proof), you can also note the appearance, which not surprisingly is curd-like. In appearance and not smell, it is Feta-esque.

Environmental, Behavioral, and Anatomical Causes:

Baby neck cheese is a hornet’s nest of causes and factors. First you have the behavioral issues- babies are messy eaters and spit up at lot. Then anatomy comes into play. Without a neck, the milk/spit-up cannot roll off, and has no where to go but deep in the folds, which function as tiny, infant fromageries. Next, we get screwed by the weather. The warmer, moister climates really set the stage for cheese cultivation. We live in a jungle for chrissakes, so we get hit harder than most.

Treatment and Cure:

Treatment depends on the length of the ripening process, and the sensativity of your baby’s skin. Before the situation can be fully assessed, you must ferret the cheese out with liquid soap. Use baby soap. Baby skin is already delicate, and after suffering through cheese ripening, it really doesn’t need further insult. I suggest using a soft washcloth for this portion of the process. Not to get too graphic, but if you use your hand, you will never get the smell out. For real. Once the cheese is excavated, examine the fold. Is it red and irritated? Is it uncomfortable for your baby? It usually has to go undetected for a while to get to this stage, but if it does, or if you have any concerns at all, contact your baby’s Pediatrician because it could be a yeast infection. Gross, but true. If this is the case, the doc will prescibe a lovely cream to clear it right up. Most of the time, however, you can just loosen the curds with baby soap, mop them up with a washcloth, and baby’s good as gold until she gets the cure. The cure for baby neck cheese is growing a neck. When the folds cease to exist, the fromagies close up shop. Their time is odorous, but brief.

Prevention:

Not bloody likely! I’ll revise. If your baby is a messy eater, or frequent spitter-upper, and you live in a warm, moist climate, you’re f-ed. Your baby’s neck will be stinking it up with the rest of them. There are things you can do, however, to minimize the problem. Wisdom I will share with you from trial and error. When my twins were born, not long after we moved to this jungle, my husband and I found we we’re unaccustomed to the climate, and unaccustomed to the twins, for that matter. The girls had neck cheese so thick you could spread it on a cracker. We used a three prong method to attack the problem: bathe more often, burp more often, use oil. Method #1: Bathe the baby every day. With twins, this is really exhausting, and the baby books will tell you that a baby really doesn’t need a bath every day, but when that baby has neck cheese, she really does. And baths are fun! Even when you’re hellucinating in your exhaustion (especially then!) they are fun. Just suck it up and scrub those folds, dammit. Method #2: Burp more often. More burps=less spit up=less possibility of cheese. Need I say more? Method #3: Oil. After the bath, dry your baby completely and give her a nice soothing baby message, rubbing the baby oil deep down in every fold. This seems to help. I have a theory that the oil makes it harder for the curds to attach to the neck. There is only acecdotal evidence to back me up on this, as there has never been an in depth study on the prevention of baby neck cheese (I’m as good as it gets, kids), but I’ve found it to be effective, so give it a go!

Well, that’s all I’ve got. I welcome any comments/suggestions/questions from all you suffering parents out there.

P.S. An update! I wrote this post about 4 months ago, and damn if this MFer isn’t still getting hit like a son of a gun. So- just wanted to add that another effective baby neck cheese treatment I’ve found is to add a touch of burt’s bees diaper rash creme in the folds. Its gentle on skin, hard on cheese. Good luck :)

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My robot vacuum has really stepped up its game. Its one of those “Roomba,” disk-shaped vacuums that makes cute little sounds and bee-bops around the room on its own accord. I haven’t used it in recent weeks because we ended up caving and buying a regular, clunky old vacuum when the Roomba couldn’t keep up with the amazing amount of jungle debris and kitty hair getting tracked through my house. Also, it kept getting stuck between chair legs and beeping frantically before finally giving up when didn’t respond because I was too busy twin-wrangling. Anyway, I brought it out of retirement today for the hell of it, and it pulled some pretty gnarly stuff. It was like a new robot! It slid through chair legs with the greatest of ease, climbed over the metal stand of the swing chair, the bouncy chairs, did figure eights around toys. It was awesome. Where was this new, gnarly robot a few months ago? My best guess is that a few month ago it was exhausted and totally worn out like me. Even robots need a rest.

Speaking of- the twins are actually both sleeping right now, and this is unpreciden- wait, no-wait… Mumu is awake. I take it back. Since their birth, I have been told of these mythical, magical “naps” that the girls are suppose to take during the day. It never happens. They sometimes doze off, sure- but never at the same time, and never for very long. I try and try to get them on a nap schedule and fail and fail. And fail. Mumu is the worst offender. She’s better than a robot- she can go all day without rest. She’s figured out that if she stays awake while Lulu is asleep, she gets all the attention. I know I am being manipulated, but dang, she is so cute. I totally give in. We’ve been playing ‘Tour de France’ all afternoon and laughing hysterically. Every mom has a version of “Tour de France.” It involves laying your baby on a soft surface and pumping her legs like she is riding a bicycle. It helps to tell her that she is riding a bicycle, through France. Varying the pace and direction is key. Mumu likes to speed extra fast through the countryside, braking only for foie gras and pate. She pedals through cities, pausing only to boogie in the discotheques. She energetically zig-zags up the alps, and finishes with a real showboat victory lap around the Arc de Triomphe. Then she gives her victory speech in French. No, not really. Unless the French have recently added “agoo!” and a series of squeals to their language.

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We took T to see the spouting lava a few days ago. The twins were babysat for only the second time in their lives, and I was nervous as hell about it, but it all went fine. I’ve been itching to see the molten lava since we moved to this island, but it’s always been off limits to me on account of my pregnancy, and resulting preemie twins, both situations not conducive to sulfurous fumes and the general unpredictability of volcanoes. We had to park about a mile and a half away from the lava, which was fine, great even, because it built up the anticipation watching the smoke plumes and red glow on the horizon get closer.

The walk to the volcano was, predictably, through a lava field, and this was equally cool. People, a few insane people that is, had built little shacks in the lava field, and there were real estate signs advertising land for sale, if you can believe that. It was surreal, desolate. The whole landscape drenched in black, hardened lava. It wasn’t flat like brownies, it was curved, turbulent. Like rippling water that turned to stone when you weren’t looking. There was a long stream of people headed toward the red glow and we followed the crowd. We couldn’t not follow. Lava is dangerous, but so seductive. The landscape looks so harsh and hard and cold, and then you see this warm orange glow, like the sun, like dripping butter, and you can’t help but walk towards it.

There were so many people there (by island standards anyway) at the destination, the lookout point where we could see the lava spurting and falling into the ocean. The ocean hissed and smoked. There was ocean all around, fire and water, like we were standing on the end of the earth. Very cool. Very dark as well, out there in the middle of no where.

At one point I lost S in the crowd and felt a moment of panic. It brought back a memory from years ago about being at the Inti Rami festival in Peru (which is very cool by the way- colorful costumes, drums, etc), again in the middle of no where. It had taken trains, taxis on their last legs, lots of walking, all manner of transport to get there. We were pushing through the crowd when suddenly he was gone. I’m 5’3″ and couldn’t see over anyone’s head. I lost him at the top of a hill, but felt myself being pulled down. There was music, shouting, chaos. There were no English speakers, no cell phones, no arranged accommodation for the night, no internet, and, worst of all, because I left mine with him- no money. I was screwed. Totally, totally screwed. Then, out of the clear blue sky he landed right in front of me. I’ve never been so happy to see someone in my life.

After the lava, as we neared the car I asked S if he remembered that time, and to my shock, he didn’t. We talked about more of our adventures the next morning, about what went on before the marriage, the twins, etc., then S played Lulu’s favorite game, ‘robot baby.’ The idea is that she is a robot baby going through the assembly line of a robot baby factory. He sprawls out on the floor and lifts her high, then lowers her to his face with little robot jerks while making machine sounds- cha chink, cha chink, cha chink, then straight up- beep beep beep. She thinks this is the greatest game ever.

I can’t wait until the girls are big enough to take on their own adventures. When I was a kid we never traveled, and I was always desperate to get out of town and see new things. Maybe that’s why I live in the middle of the Pacific now, on this strange and wonderful jungle island. My little twins are only 5 months old, just over 3 months if you subtract the 7wks they were born early, and they’ve already flown thousands of miles. In 2 months, they’ll fly again. I want my girls to be travelers. They already are I suppose.

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Yesterday I walked down the little dirt path to my mailbox, peered inside the open lid, and got quite a surprise. There, on top of an L.L. Bean catalog, was a writhing pile of worms. Skinny, black writhing jungle worms. Gross. I used the catalog to fling them out and began to ponder how they got there. The nicest possibility is that the letter carrier left the lid open (she does that sometimes), and this being a jungle and all, the worms just kind of fell in there. Could happen. Or, neighborhood kids did it as a joke. Probably. Pretty harmless, but it put me in a really foul mood.

Today, I went to the mailbox again, and found the nicest possible surprise: a package from my best friend. It had adorable children’s books for my twin girls, all classics- really good stuff. Best of all, there was a Valentine she had written for them. They were born on Valentine’s Day of this year, and she had written the Valentine right after I called her and said, “tonight!” It was the sweetest thing I’d ever read. She remembered everything I’d told her throughout the pregnancy- how Lulu used to hide in my ribcage, how Mumu was always pushing on my side to get out. She’d followed their progress through fetus growth charts online, sent text messages every Wednesday, congratulating us all on making it through another week. She said how much she loved us all, and how happy she was we all had each other.

Its a funny old world. Sometimes the greatest things are waiting for you just around the corner, and that more than makes up for the times when all you get is worms.

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House guests are a funny thing, and jungle house guests are even funnier.

Back in New England my experiences with house guests were mixed, but often resulted with the guest or guests eating all my food and insulting my kitten. House guests are like that. Here in the jungle, its a new set of rules. In New England you can just direct people to museums, tourist activities, etc. Stick em on public transport and say ‘have fun!’ This doesn’t happen in the jungle. Public transport? You’ve got to be kidding. On this island, fun involves trekking through the jungle, braving big surf, and balancing on lava flows.

Ever since our friend T arrived, Jungledad and I have been beyond exhausted, but this is a good thing. We normally don’t go to botanical gardens, beaches, jungle hikes, waterfalls, volcanic eruptions, etc., every day. Or hardly ever. It takes so much time to get the twins ready and pack up all their paraphernalia for such expeditions, that its hard to psyche ourselves up for it, even if only once a week. Okay, once every two weeks. We normally talk ourselves into just taking them for a long walk or to the coffee shop in town. It was easy to justify because they slept through everything anyway, and were too small for those nifty baby bjorn type things (our top pic is the “ergo,” by the way), which meant we had to lug around their car seats, which weigh about 10,000 lbs each. But now they’re bigger. They stay awake for periods of time in the wide wide world. They fit in nifty kangaroo pouchey things. They are mobile.

Of course, everyday is a little extreme and obviously not sustainable when my husband goes back to work on Monday, but this insane schedule has opened our eyes to what is now possible. We hiked to not one, but two big beautiful waterfalls yesterday, and bought out the farmer’s market, and made a huge delicious tropical dinner with local ingredients. The girls loved it. They started to really look at things for the first time: banyan trees, birds of paradise, bloody great waterfalls. They were awake, interested even! It was great, not only for the twins, but also for me, because I made T carry a baby at all times, substantially lightening my load, and also affording me the opportunity to tell everyone we met that T and my husband were the “parents,” and I was just the “gestational carrier.” I might have been the only one that found it funny, but I found it funny enough for all of us! It killed me to see peoples faces. And the boys were good sports. I have my morale to keep up, after all.

Okay, gotta wrap it up, but I’ll leave you with my ‘raising twins in the jungle tip of the day!’ This is a new thing I’m starting, to amuse myself, if no one else. Here goes!

As you might expect, there are very few toy stores in the jungle (go figure!) and the one that does exist is vastly overpriced because the toys have to be shipped from the ends of the earth, to the mainland, then to our end of the earth, and man, all the toxic lead inside those toys is heavy! Fuel costs, yo. So- here’s a fun toy you can make that will keep not one, but two babies entertained for a period of time. Buy a skinny wooden dowel. Then take a knife, or other sharp implement, and carve little divots in one end of the dowel. Tie a colorful ribbon in each divot, and presto! a fun ribbon stick like those favored by medieval peasants circling maypoles.

The ribbon stick is awesome because you can wave it around your infant twins and they will instantly be distracted from their crying or eating cardboard or other unfavorable activity, and watch the ribbons with great interest. Shaking the ribbons frantically right in front of their faces, or on top of their bellies, or dragging slowing over the tops of their heads are all recommended because they result in the delighted squeals of happy babies. Also recommend letting them grab the ribbons, bite the ribbons, etc. They love it and its good for them. And you.

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There is a large department store on this island, everyone in America knows its name. We’ve all been there too. Its huge, its sprawling, its everywhere in the States, and I used to be extremely snooty about it. I don’t shop there, I’d say. That store is what’s wrong with America. That was back when I was in New England, living the pastey-white urban lifestyle often (and rightfully) poked fun of in “Stuff White People Like,” (a truly excellent idea/blog/book: http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/). A lifestyle of NPR and David Sedaris, free-trade coffee, and not owning a TV.

But back to the store. This store is the pulse, blood, and heartbeat of the island. Were this evil chain store ever to close, there would be mayhem in the streets, riots, looting, burning effigies, anarchy rule, 12 plagues, 4 horsemen of the apocalypse, earthquakes, spouting lava, monsoons, (okay, we already have the last 3 frequently, but they’d be worse) hell fury, zombies rising from the dead, civil war, hunger strikes, and cannibalism. And I would be leading it all!

Were it not for this evil chain store, my baby girl twins would be crawling naked through the jungle for lack of clothes. We would be supplementing my breastmilk with coconut milk rather than formula. They would be sucking sugarcane instead of binkies. They would sleep on the floor, for lack of a crib, wrapped in palm leaves rather than blankets. They would play with lizards and giant poisonous centipedes instead of toys. They would ride mongooses rather than bounce in their boucy chairs. Their diapers would be made of scratchy coconut husks…….

You get the picture. I will never again be snooty about big chain stores. Are they free trade? Hells no. Soul-less? Sometimes. Exploitive of cheap labor in third world countries? Youbetcha. Predatory? Often. Necessary? Absolutely. Junglemom has learned her lesson.

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There have been rumors of pineapple theft circling the neighborhood. That’s what passes for crime/news around here. Our next door neighbors have been hit on multiple occasions.  I’m outraged on their behalf because pineapples are really difficult to grow (I’ve heard). They don’t grow on trees you know! Ha, bet you didn’t know that. I was positive they grew on trees before I moved here, but no- they grow on the ground in large plants that look a lot like giant aloes to me, minus the prickles. My neighbor has a whole field of them. Er…………….had. Naw, just kidding- still has. Given the size and shape of pineapples, its pretty hard to make off with too many on foot. Not that I’d know. Not cool to take even one though, because planting them is quite a process. My neighbor told me all about it, and I wish I had paid closer attention so I could explain it to you. Just believe me when I tell you its complicated.

Another cool thing I’ve learned about tropical produce: coconut milk is not white! No sir! I buy fresh coconut at the farmer’s market, and a nice young man splits one open for me with a machete and sticks a straw in it so I can drink the delicious milk, which is not white, but crystal clear. If its white, its either really old coconut, or stuffs been added.

If you’re going to the farmer’s market in town, its always a good idea to bring babies, because people will give you free or extra food. “For baby!” Of course, there is a price to pay. They get to comment on the babies, and some of the comments are pretty weird. People here don’t really know what to make of twins, there just aren’t many twins on the island. Or indeed any! Well….there probably are other twins on the island, but I’ve never seen any. Not that I get out much. Or steal any pineapples when I do get out. Who said that? Ha ha, just kidding. Anyway, the most common reaction I get is: “One is dark and one is light! Why is this?” I’m always tempted to say, “They have different fathers! 5 papayas please.” Is that even medically possible? I don’t know, but I bet I could get people to believe me. Hey, if it works for cats!

Aside from both having blue eyes, the twinnies look nothing alike. Mumu looks like several of my family members- very light strawberry blond hair, very fair skin. Lulu has dark hair and skin that looks like most caucasian skin, maybe a touch olivey, but not really- its pretty much just because Mumu’s skin is translucent that hers looks darker. She looks like her Daddy. Hmmmm, what other differences? Let me think. Mumu has developed a wonderfully goofy laugh, and a fun squeal, and she burps like a frat boy. Barfs like one too! Her toothless smile is huge, it takes up her whole face and its impossible not to laugh when you see it, even if you’ve only had 2 hours of sleep.

Lulu has quite a distinct (and I would say heart-wrenching) cry that everyone else seems to find adorable (from afar). She kicks her legs frantically when she gets excited, loves to be tossed in the air, and looks very intently at people, so much so that my mother accuses her of “looking into peoples souls.”

They are the best pair ever, even better than fresh pineapple and coconut.

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I made the most gruesome discovery yesterday. No, not tropical flying jungle cockroaches this time.

I was about to make coffee (life’s blood when in times of temporary single-parenthood) when I noticed the coffeemaker smelled a little funky. After a bit of sniffing I zeroed in on the coffee pot itself. I unscrewed the top and didn’t notice anything right off, so I rinsed it and smelled again. Still there. Then I noticed some little white specks on the inside of the pot lid. Hey- wait a minute, those specks are moving! maggots!!! little maggots!!!!! crawling inside the pot too- ewwwwwwwww! Gag, dry-heave, scream- disgusting!!!!! You know what this means. This means Jungledad, who is the designated coffee maker (as I am the designated nurser) has been doing his slutty habit of just rinsing, not washing, the coffee pot in between uses. This is slutty indeed. I bet he’d never notice the smell either. Who knows how long this has been going on? If he hadn’t gone up to the volcano, forcing me to have to make coffee (and care for the twins alone, which makes me need coffee) myself, I would be drinking maggot coffee for months! Maybe I have been drinking maggot coffee for months! Maybe the occasional nausea I’ve attributed to too much coffee is actually due to the maggot content of my coffee. Well, maybe there’s a silver lining there…..

I’ve been freaking myself out for weeks because of this nausea- thinking its morning sickness. Its not, it must be maggot sickness! Hooray! I’m sure I sound like a terrible person to say I would rather have little worms inside me at this point than a new precious baby, but hear me out. Jungletwins are kicking my ass. With Jungledad away for work they are kicking my ass overtime. I love them to bits, I love all babies, I would love to have more babies. But not now. Not with my C-section scar barely healed, the memory of my 5 wk say in the hospital prior to their birth (due to unpleasant complications) still fresh in my mind. No jungle triplets please. Don’t worry, there is none. I’m not pregnant, just irrational. If Jungledad had managed to power through birth control and impregnate with babies, then worms, back to back, I would tell him to stay on that bloody volcano.

Moving on. Despite the many mold/maggot/large insect issues one finds living in the tropics, there are some pretty wonderful things about being here. As bad as my coffee pot smelled is as good as it smells outside. It smells amazing outside- there are wild flowers blooming all year round. The flowers are everywhere- bright, huge. Wild ginger smells the best- I can’t get enough of it. I took the girls for a long walk yesterday and the and there were huge ginger plants lining the path. Mmmmmm. It was a clear day and we could see everything: the volcano puffing, the town below, the Pacific wrapping all the way around. Everything was bright, glittering, silent. It was warm and not too hot, with tradewinds bringing in a lovely breeze. Its never too cold to walk, any time of year, and that’s an amazing thing for a girl from New England. There are always flowers. Flowers in December. Fresh fruits all year round. Picking delicious bananas from a tree on your front lawn- very cool.

Better wrap it up. Lulu is starting to get restless. Lulu is the most demanding/most delightful baby in the world. When she’s happy (like after she’s done a huge poop), she makes all manner of charming facial expressions. She wiggles and dances, coos and batts her eyes and this is all devastatingly cute. When she’s not happy- hold on to your f-ing hat! Speaking of, better leave now before she goes there.

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I met another Mommy and her way too adorable 3yr old daughter for a picnic yesterday.  We shared our cockroach stories of woe and laughed about the disgustingness of it all. Geckos in the house we can live with, giant centipedes even, with their poisonous legs, but the dreaded flying cockroach- no way.

Her cockroach initiation was hardcore. Husband was in Europe, all alone with the 3 year old when she heard the fluttering in the bedroom. Next thing she knew, it flew up in her face.  A decision had to be made. Raid? Traps? A hotel? She packed her suitcase…… and moved into the guestroom. She stuffed towels under the door to stop him escaping, then snuck out on her lanai with a flashlight to peer in through her own bedroom windows and make sure it was still in there, night after night until her husband came home.

Now that my husband’s gone up the volcano, I have my own metaphorical cockroach to deal with. Single parenthood. It sucks. I don’t know how people do it. It’s only been about 36hrs, and I’m already cracking.

The last time he left for the summit (he has to go once a month, usually about 5 nights), it wasn’t as rough. The girls were a little younger, a little less aware. They knew he was gone, but didn’t kick up too much of a stink. This time around, they went ape.  From dawn till dusk they went ape. Lulu regressed, waking up crying multiple times in the night. She took her diaper off and soaked her bed. Twice. Mumu slept like an angel all night but went bananas from late morning until about 8pm when I got both twinnies to sleep at last. All day they screamed in stereo. None of the usual distractions worked – rocking chair, singing, reading, bouncy seats, baby swing. They wanted Daddy, and nothing I could do could give them Daddy, and that’s the worst. You can’t solve that with Raid or even sticky traps. I’ll have to do what my friend did, wait it out. I’ll snuggle my babies and wait it out.

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Back in the day I used to teach art with a rag-tag group of instructors, all of us broke and grimy. I was friendly then with a fellow instructor, known to many as a reality TV star back when there were only a handful of reality TV shows. When I remember him, 2 things come to mind : 1, the day he wore pajama trousers to work (and not in an ironic, post-modern way), and 2, that he dated a Russian Au Pair, or wanted to anyway, because she was always saying adorable things like, “I feel…. there is a furnace in my brain. Do you have this expression?”

No, we don’t, but we should, and in that spirit I have adopted the phrase and made it my own. It is particularly applicable now that the twins are sleeping. When they weren’t, I got very used to being up all night. This is not to say I didn’t cry and collapse and hullucinate out of sheer exhaustion (yes to all of these) but I did get used to it. Now that they sleep, I’m still awake, the reason being that I have a furnace in my brain. I can’t stop thinking about my girls, how much I want for them, worrying I’m not giving them enough. I think about years down the road, about raising them right, teaching them to give back, to be kind, to not listen when people are talking rubbish. All of these thoughts and hopes burn away in my mind at night. That’s what motherhood does to you, it lights a furnace in your brain.

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