The Double-Edged Sword

For months and months, Kathy and I eagerly awaited the time when Riley and Leah could communicate their needs and wishes. The whole trial and error parenting of trying to figure out whether your infant daughters are hungry or thirsty or sleepy or poopy or bored or overstimulated or sick or annoyed at daddy gets kinda old after awhile, and you fantasize about that wonderful time when your daughters will be able to look you in the eye and say "daddy, you're annoying".

Well, over Thanksgiving week, Leah and Riley made some sudden leaps and bounds with their communication skills, and while it's wonderful and all to see their little personalities developing, part of me wishes that their little personalities were, I dunno, maybe a little less stubborn?

We spent the holiday weekend at my parents' house. Upon our arrival at my parents house, Riley decided that she was completely obsessed by the little decorative Japanese figurines that my parents have scattered around their house. So obsessed that Riley basically showed no interest in her toys or books for the entire weekend. All that she was interested in was having her daddy or auntie or uncle shuttle her back and forth between the six or seven Japanese figurines in the house:

"Dah!" Riley would command, pointing her finger across the room at the nearest figurine.

"Doll! Very good, Riley!" I would say encouragingly, lifting her up and carrying her over so that she could see the figurine.

Riley would gaze admiringly at the doll for about 1.5 seconds, then she would turn and point up the stairs at the figurine located near the top of the stairs.

"Dah!"

"Okay," I would say, "let's go look at that other doll," and then I carried her up the stairs so she could see that figurine.

Again, Riley would gaze at that doll for 1.5 seconds, then would point and turn back down at the first figurine at the bottom of the stairs.

"Dah!"

"Um, okay, let's go at that doll again," I would say.

And repeat. And repeat. And... repeat. The only thing that would break the cycle was (a) auntie or uncle stepping in to rescue daddy, (b) a trip to the nearest playground, or (c) food. If daddy tried to prematurely break the cycle by ignoring Riley's calls for "dah", the dahs would get louder and more insistent and screechier until either they could not be ignored any longer or they started upsetting her sister. At which point, the tour of the Japanese figurines would resume. On the good side, it was an excellent low-impact cardio workout for daddy to burn off all the pie he ate during the week. Mmm. Pie.

This same week, Leah decided that she liked to have mommy read the same book read to her over and over. Specifically, the timeless classic "Moo, Baa, La La La". Kathy would read the book to her, and then Leah would take it back, flip through the pages for a few seconds, then hand it back to her mommy. Then she would exclaim "Gbdlegok!" and look up at her expectantly until Kathy started reading again. This would happen about five or six times, with Kathy reading the book each time slightly faster and with less intonation and interest than the previous time. By the sixth time, she sounded like that guy who reads the disclaimers at the end of pharmaceutical commercials. After the sixth time, she would usually hand the book off to me. Now I love me some "Moo, Baa, La La La" as much as the next guy, but after about four readings, you start losing your sanity a little bit. It's almost enough to make you want to go stare at some Japanese figurines for a half hour.

Oh well. Sanity's overrated anyway.

Now, a couple typical scenes from the week, featuring Uncle and Auntie:

Parents Not Invited

We generally put Leah and Riley to bed sometime around 7:15 at night. Generally at this point of the night, they're grumpy, they're rubbing their eyes, Leah's sucking her thumb, Riley's whining - all signs point to the fact that, dammit, it's time for bed. So at 7:15, we put Leah and Riley in their cribs and close the door. But usually, that's not the end of the story. If you sat outside the door for the next half hour and just listened, here's what you would typically hear:

• 7:15 pm -- Leah cries for 20 seconds.

• 7:15:20-7:25 pm - (Silence)

• 7:25 pm - Riley giggles.

• 7:25-7:30 pm - (Silence)

• 7:30 pm - Leah giggles.

• 7:30-7:32 pm - (Silence)

• 7:32-7:35 pm - Riley does a three-minute stream-of-consciousness monologue, in a sing-songy, nursery-rhymey voice.

• 7:35 pm - Leah giggles.

• 7:35-7:38 pm - Leah does her own three-minute stream-of-consciousness monologue.

• 7:38 pm - Riley giggles.

• 7:38-7:45 pm - Riley and Leah talk and laugh like the best of friends, like gossiping suburban housewives chatting by the white picket fence, making fun of their husbands. Occasional squeals of delight and amusement emanate from the room.

• 7:45 pm - Room goes silent. Girls, apparently pooped out from their little 7-minute party, are asleep.

I know, it sounds like the most boring episode of "24" ever.

Anyway, basically there's this very exclusive 7-minute party every night that mommy and daddy aren't invited to. We can't even watch it, because if we dare open the door and poke our heads inside, the spell will instantly be broken, and Leah will start crying for mommy to pick her up.

And of course, Leah and Riley never get along this well in the light of day, because during the day, they're always stepping on each other, crawling over each other, running each other over with their walkers, or stealing each other's toys or books or food or milk or pacifiers. Or biting each other. Or pulling each other's hair. Should I go on? Anyway, the point is, these 7 minutes are special times indeed.

So, on the one hand, it's exciting to know that the much-anticipated twin bonding thing is actually happening, but on the other hand, it's only happening for seven minutes a day, and it happens in the dark, and we don't get to actually witness it happening.

Meh.

I've said it before and I guess I'll say it again -- we take whatever we can get.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

Example #483 of how Leah and Riley have totally different personalities: their reactions to their first real Halloween. Leah and Riley are 13 months old, so this was technically their second Halloween, but for their first Halloween they were pretty much oblivious to anything but mommy's boob and their poopy diapers, and they mostly spent the day lying on the ground and looking at the toys we were waving above their heads, so I'm gonna say that one didn't count. Although they did get to wear some awesome socks with pumpkins on them.

Anyway, suffice it to say that Halloween 2009 was not a big hit with Riley. I think it all stemmed from the fact that Riley hated her costume. Not just hated, but really HA-TED. Hated with the heat of a thousand white-hot suns. I kinda thought she might dislike the costume at first, but that eventually she would forget that she was wearing the costume, and then she would go back to being her normal happy-go-lucky self, like a dog that eventually forgets that it's been forced to wear a hideous Christmas sweater.

But oh no, Riley would not forget. Every moment that she was wearing that costume, Riley was letting out cries of pure unadulterated anguish -- pleading, desperate cries with extra woe sprinkled on top, and these cries would not let up until the costume was removed from her body.

Here, let me show you some photographic proof:


This is just a small sample of the many, many Halloween pictures that show Riley crying in her costume. We do have one or two pictures where Riley does not appear to be crying, but trust me, these are purely photographic mirages resulting from split-second moments in between sobs where Riley paused to take in a quick breath before letting out yet another mighty yowl of protest.

Leah, on the other hand, was completely indifferent about her costume. The fact that she was dressed up as a chicken was of absolutely no concern or interest to her. It was just another outfit for her, like a somewhat bulkier set of footsie pajamas. She just did not care.

It was the same when we went for a little evening walk down to the mini-Halloween-block party down the road. I watched Leah's face as she watched all the San Franciscans parade by, dressed up in various cute, bizarre, ironic, and/or topical costumes, and I saw absolutely no reaction. No fear, no confusion, no laughter, nothing. Riley, on the other hand, found the whole spectacle completely and utterly terrifying, to the point where mommy had no choice but to take her out of the double-stroller and carry her home.

Unfortunately for Riley, mommy and daddy's reactions to her cries all day were a little less urgent than usual, because, let's face it: while Normal-Clothes-Wearing Riley crying can be alarming and/or annoying, Dressed-as-a-Lion Riley crying is a-DOR-a-ble. Awwww - lion is cranky! Look-y at the poor lion, she's letting out her roar! Awwww- We'll get you out of your suit soon, Miss Lion -- right after mommy takes a few more pictures!