At just over 9 weeks old, the twins are showing signs of becoming something, anything other than hungry complainers. They got shots for the first time and it did not go super well. Cole became a rage monster, completing the look with his trademark raspy Nazgul shriek. Lynnette told me that Avery puked up her entire Rotavirus dose. These are trying times in the Higa household. There’s a whole lot of crying and a whole lot of sshhing, but there are lighter moments, the ones that allow us to maintain our tedious grip on sanity, on hope. One of these is the twins’ favorite hobby.
The picture above was taken by Lynnette a few moments before she breastfed Avery and Cole. First, note the light green platform both children rest upon. It is called a Brest Friend, a wrap-around pad which allows for simultaneous breastfeeding without the use of 18 pillows or one beach inner tube. They know what lying on this pad means. As soon as Lynnette positions them horizontally on the Brest Friend, their cares evaporate and they inch themselves toward Lynnette’s chest. Breast milk is their favorite thing in the world, Mama Lydia’s singing and my vocal interpretation of John Cena’s entrance music are a distant second and third, respectively.
But they can’t always breast feed. They would if they could, but man, they would run Lynnette dry. So when they aren’t breastfeeding, they’re daydreaming about breastfeeding. I know this for certain. Here’s how:
All of the light fixtures in the living room look like this. I selected them and installed them myself after Lynnette’s cousin showed me how to do it. In retrospect they were poor choices. The glass is so thick and so tinged with yellowishness that the light provided is pretty weak. It’s been on the to-do list, but it’s so far down there that I don’t know when I’ll get around to it. Also, they kind of look like boobs.
Over the course of the day, we catch Cole and Avery zoning off into the distance. At first, we thought it was because their eyesight was still developing and they couldn’t really distinguish anything except light and dark. It made sense that their eyes drifted off toward the sunlight pouring through the window at the back of the living room. More recently, though, Lynnette and I have caught the twins staring upward, then smiling and giggling. They’re looking at the light fixtures. They love boobs.
Avery loves boob juice so much that Lynnette prefers that her mother or me bottle feed Avery formula. It seems that she gives up her protests much more quickly if it is anyone other than Lynnette trying to force that swill down her throat. Lynnette believes it’s because Avery already associates Lynnette’s face with breast milk. She holds out in the hope that Lynnette will cave and lift up her shirt. It should be said that at 35, I still have this specific hope as well. I feel you, Avery. Avery is such a breast milk snob that she’s actually tried to breast feed through Lynnette’s shirt on several occasions. Lynnette’s called her a piranha.
In time, I hope sports become an option for both of them. Perhaps one or both will inherit the music gene that has eluded me. Gymnastics? Writing? Who knows? But I have said from the very beginning of my stint as a parent that I would support my children in their passions. So you go, Avery and Cole. Get those boobs.