I’m not a crafty person. I’m definitely not an artsy person. I quit taking art electives in school after I earned a C in 9th grade art. We did ink drawings that term, and I just couldn’t get the pen to flow correctly. Instead of art, I created the world’s most screwed up Rorschach test. My art teacher didn’t agree, so I got a C.
ANYWAY.
I always shy away from art projects because I’m a mess, and nothing ever comes out the way it looks inside my head.
My head is chock full of pretty projects. My house is not.
The first handprints of the babies we have is from when they were already a month old. We had asked right after birth if we could get prints, but the nurses said no. I’m guessing it was some sort of infection risk or just that they were too small and their skin too fragile. Whatever the reason, we finally took home prints just after they celebrated a month of outside life.
Six months later, I wanted to see how they’d grown, so at 7 months old, we broke out a no-mess ink pad and regular card stock. I loved seeing the crazy size difference and decided then and there that I’d continue getting their handprints every six months. I just had no idea what I’d do with them. It wasn’t until after I had the third set that I decided on a plan.
It had to be something artsy, something crafty, something worthy of doing more with these tangible memories than tucking them away in a dust-covered box.
Enter Pinterest, stage right.
I saw a few projects using this mystical substance I’ve seen in craft stores – Mod Podge. People I follow kept pinning these Mod Podge crafts – pretty papers they covered vases with, quotes they printed out and covered tabletops with – pretty, easy-looking things.
I bought some of this Mod Podge stuff and did what any social media hoor does – I asked Twitter what the crap I do with it now that I have it.
Anything! Twitter replied.
Hoo-kay! I have these handprints. What can I put these handprints on? Oh, look at those cute little wooden plaques the craft store sells! Starting at $0.99, too – can’t beat that! I filled my basket with handprint-size plaques, picked out a couple different bottles of paint (orange for Toby, pink for Eleanor and green for Callista), grabbed a variety bag of paintbrushes (there are so many to choose from! which do I buy?!) and went home to get my craft on.
I used Photoshop to scan, clip and reprint the original handprints since they were a bit of a mess on paper. From here on out, I’ll do the handprints directly on the wood rather than all the runaround that took.
I started with the plain wood plaques and, since I didn’t think to use primer, the green paint needed a few coats to actually look green while the pink and orange covered pretty well. I then spread a bit of Mod Podge on the back of the cutout handprint (on stock photo paper from Mpix), centered it on the plaques and spread Mod Podge over top to seal and create a gloss finish.
That’s it. Seriously. I couldn’t handle art class for 14-year-old kids, but I made this project my bitch.
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Even at a month old (33 weeks corrected gestational age, to be exact), my babies’ palms were just barely bigger than a US quarter. Their entire handprint, splayed out like this, measures at barely 2 inches. We owe a great deal of thanks to the March of Dimes for the research and procedures they continually develop to give babies like mine the best chance at a healthy life. We’re participating next week in the 2012 March for Babies and would love your support. Walk with us or donate to our team and help babies like mine grow to be bigger, healthier people.
Jenny, don’t forget these little toddler quirks, just days shy of reaching 17 months old:
- Toby, instead of saying, “Tickle, tickle, tickle!” says “Godee, godee, godee!”
- All three kiddos try to bite toes after tickling them – probably because we pretend to nom-nom-nom their chubby baby feet.
- They all give themselves away by setting their sights on something they shouldn’t do and saying, “No no!” on their way to make a naughty move. Distracting them with an agreeing, “No, sir/ma’am!” helps … sometimes.
- Eleanor’s favorite accessory is a backwards cap. She looks like a perfect little tomboy, and it KILLS me. She puts the hat on by herself and sometimes needs to add a second to complete her ensemble.
- Toby can perfectly, on-pitch, sing the “Oh oh oh,” part of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.” He sings it, starts dancing (bobbing up and down or swaying back and forth), and gets a huge grin on his face when someone continues singing his song for him. It’s totally his jam.
- Callista has become super interested in helping. She likes to hand out water bottles to her brother and sister, hand me their booster-seat trays, give out goldfish crackers to her siblings, put diapers away, clean water drips from the floor – she has a whole host of tasks she does with pure pride.
- They all love to sit and play Peekaboo Barn on my iPad and request it, saying, “Baaaahr!” The R sound is still really hard to pick out, but I’m fluent in Tripletese.
- I tell them what I’m doing as I buckle them into their car seats. My favorite part is when they repeat, “Tie-tie-tie!” when I say “Tight, tight, tight!” as I tighten the final strap.
- They run to Rob for hugs and kisses the second he walks in the door at night. It’s nothing short of adorable.
- Callista blows kisses, and Eleanor says, “Bye!” when we leave their room after putting the in bed for the night.
- Toby loves to lie flat in the bathtub. It seems he really likes to hear goings-on with his ears under water.
- They all freak their freak when they know it’s time for a bath after dinner. “BAAAAAAAAA!” is the triple-toned scream we get, along with claps and arm waving. I strip them of their clothes and diaper at their chairs and send them, one-by-one, to their bathroom (just down the hall off our kitchen), where Rob is waiting to plop them in the tub together. Seeing those naked tushies run for the bath is just too stinking cute for words.
- They love to go on outings. “Go, go, go!” they chant, once they see I’m packing the diaper bag and getting things in order. They run to grab socks and wait to get their shoes on, then they hover near the door chanting and waiting for their turn out to the car.
This age is fantastic. I love the new things they figure out and mimic each day. L-O-V-E love it.
Pregnant bellies are measured by fundal height. They quit taking that measurement when i was 23 weeks pregnant, measuring at 35 weeks by singleton standards. The OB who measured me that time was impressed by my belly’s width, remarking that I certainly was carrying across rather than outward.
He wasn’t kidding. I gave up trying to push in the head or butt that almost constantly bulged beneath my side shirt seams. My manipulations only made the baby on my other side push out that much more.
I can still see the lopsided shape my babies made of me. With the girls both on my right side and the weight of it all riding fairly low, I can see a bit of extra bulge on my right when I lie flat. No one else would ever notice, but I love that I can.
I never posed for maternity photos. With weekly doctor visits and all the impending costs with delivering and raising triplets, I just couldn’t bring myself to splurge on anything that looked remotely nice enough for professional photographs. Part of me regrets that, but part of me wonders if I would have even felt up to making myself look nice enough for professional photographs. One thing’s certain, I regret not having them done because I never got a photo of Rob and I together while I was pregnant – I was usually curled up on the couch or in bed by the time he came home in the evening, and I never thought to take a photo on the weekends.
My pregnancy was exhausting. It was easygoing in the vomit department, and I never fought with swelling, but my body was downright burdened with the rapid expansion. A heating pad and giant ice pack were my best friend, and I lived in yoga pants and forgiving shirts. I was rarely comfortable, and I often showed that in my almost-weekly self portraits (and I never had the forethought to pose in the same room or even the same position).
I was proud of the belly I grew, though, and I often made Rob try lifting it toward the end, completely in awe of how heavy my belly felt and how I could, in fact, lift it. I’m still proud of it and the fact that, despite giving birth 12 weeks early at 28 weeks and 1 day my three tiny preemies were right at the 50th percentile for singletons.
My body grew three perfectly average babies all together at one time.
I know I’m in here, mixed in with Wife and Mommy, Chef and Housewife, Milkmaid and Wardrobe Manager. I find myself every now and then when the house is quiet and my brain has room to wander. I sit in front of the computer, fingers poised over the keys, ready and willing to write, to tidy my cluttered thoughts.
And then I’m gone again.
I need to dust. I need to put away that stack of books. I need to start on dinner, put away laundry, go, go, go, do, do, do.
I don’t even know what my current hobbies are. Playing Peekaboo and I’m Gonna Get You? Wiping butts? I’m reuniting with my passion for cooking now that my kiddos eat basically anything we eat, but a money and time budget only allow for so much playtime in the kitchen.
My family is my life, but I wonder if I’m giving them the best of me or if I’ve lost some of what makes me the best me I can be while I’m busy being the best wife/mom/housequeen I can be.
Sitting in the theater watching The Hunger Games last night, a scene in which a character dies set my mind off on a not-focusing-on-the-movie tangent.
I really hope that’s what it’s like to die, I thought. Peaceful, bright – and I’d really like to have someone I love in view – someoneS, really – if I have to fade away from consciousness rather than die in my sleep.
Morbid thoughts while I’m supposed to be entertained at the movies, no?
I can’t help it. Death has been an underlying note in my life for as long as I can remember. My birth mom died when I was 22 months old. I don’t have any memories before then, so “Mommy died” has just been my reality. (The mom I write about is my stepmom, but she’s been Mom to me since I was 3 – she didn’t replace my first mom, she just added to my Mom Reality.)
Reality. It’s different for everyone. We only know what we live. I say this all the time to people who tell me they feel badly for complaining about difficulties with singletons while I’m wrestling triplets.
I don’t know any different, and neither do you, I say.
It’s true.
That being said, I’ve never thought my always-there thoughts about death are strange. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. Whatever the case, they’re always there.
I got my first (and only to date) tattoo in celebration of outliving my birth mom. Writing it like that makes it seem rude, but I swear it isn’t. You look up to your parents in a lot of ways. Some are normal, some not so much. I always looked at age 24 as some sort of expiration. If my mom didn’t live to see 25, why would I?
My tattoo isn’t terribly creative; it may even be a bit cliche. It says, “Carpe diem,” and it’s there to remind me that life is meant to be lived, that I’ve lived more days than my mom ever did and that I need to make the most of them to honor her and what she was never able to see.
I’ll turn 30 this year, and, while I’ve long surpassed my mom’s age at her death and have been married to my wonderful husband longer than she even knew my dad, I’m coming up on another milestone I’m horrified to admit I’ve wondered if I’d see.
Though much of her time as my mom was spent battling leukemia away from home, my mom spent a short 22 months with me.
It’s so unfair.
My trio are 16 months old now, and I cannot – will not – imagine leaving them in a mere 6 months.
They’re such amazing individuals now, but they’re so tiny and compact and just bursting with potential. The people they’re going to grow into are people I know nothing about. Thinking about not sharing their experiences, being there to laugh with them or to hold them while they cry … it feels like I’ve been punched in my windpipe.
This is the final milestone that’ll take me past my mom’s Big Life experiences. While it can’t come soon enough, I know better than to wish away the time between now and then just to get it over with. I’m hopeful the end of comparable experience will end my always-there fears of death. After all, my dad and the mom who raised me are still here today and have paved long, healthy lives for me to follow behind. I’ve barely begun to match what they’ve done in life. Grandchildren! I don’t even want to think that far ahead!
***
As a consolation prize for reading about my brain’s morbid zone, a photo! And a video! Neither will punch you in the windpipe, I promise.
Callista is our lovebug, almost always willing to give kisses (open-mouthed, of course). I love this stage. They’re really into showing affection for us and for each other. Just this morning, Callista patted Eleanor’s tummy while Eleanor was fussing about something, and I’ve seen both girls pat and rub heads and backs of their crying siblings. Toby isn’t overly affectionate with his sisters, but he does like to rub their hair sometimes. I pretend it’s because he loves them, not just because their hair feels nice to touch.
Technology-loving toddlers are difficult to photograph and get on video. They’re way too interested in cameras to keep playing or whatnot, but I was in the right place (the kitchen) at the right time (they were distracted) and am so happy to have one of their adorable rounds of Peekaboo on video.
The Charlotte March for Babies is at the end of this month, and our team could really use your help! One in eight babies (three for three with us!) are born prematurely, but preemies aren’t the only ones who benefit from the March of Dimes. Babies with chronic illnesses and mothers in danger of delivering prematurely benefit from the work they do. Please consider donating to our team this year – it only takes a few minutes, and every dollar counts. Click on the box in my sidebar and help us honor our March of Dimes miracles!
