New Year

I got everything I wanted and more, for Christmas. I hope you did too.

It's been a year of highs and lows. Of utter frustration and almost daily moments wherein they are so cute and funny and charming, I am moved to tears. Happy tears. 




I can't wait to see what this new year brings.

All the best, for a healthy and happy new year, to you and yours.

Your success and happiness lies in you. Resolve to keep happy, and your joy and you shall form an invincible host against difficulties. 
--Helen Keller

Merry, Merry

Have yourself a merry little Christmas...

Let your heart be light...


From now on, your troubles will be out of sight...


Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow...

But 'till then, we'll have to muddle through somehow.*

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.

Blessed is the season
Which engages the whole world
In a conspiracy of love
--Hamilton Wright Mabie, American Author

*From the inimitable "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane

Wrecked

I am sorry I was cranky, Bye [sic] Ellie. Ellie wrote me this note a few weeks ago after an evening tantrum.

It always happens like this. A terrible event, a horrific loss puts it all in perspective, reminds us of what really matters. Being late for school suddenly feels trivial. The giant piles of laundry that require me to wade through the floor of the laundry room? Eh.

And then gradually the loss fades away, and my occupation in trivialities returns.

But this time really feels different. And nearly everyone I know agrees.

In the last week I've cried washing dishes. I've cried on the bus to and from work. I've cried listening to "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." I've cried reading about how one of the children who died at Sandy Hook had special needs and his aide reportedly died trying to protect him. I've cried reading about the teacher who barricaded herself and her class in a bathroom, telling her students she loved them because she thought it was the last thing they were going to hear. I've cried dropping Ellie off at school, not because I'm afraid for her safety, but because of all those little faces, all those teachers and support staff and the principal. It could have been any of them.

"I can't even think about it," a dear friend wrote in an email yesterday. "Except I can't stop thinking about it."

It just feels so close.

"What Six Looks Like" summed it up perfectly for me (if you haven't read it already, please do). Why are so many parents of young children having such a difficult time with what happened in Newtown (aside, of course from the obvious horror of it?)--By the way, I'm not saying that it's only the parents of young children who are struggling--I'm just speaking about it from that perspective:

"I think it's because we know what six looks like. We see it every day... in all its glory...this friend and I both have a six-year-old child. I, a six-year-old son. She, a six-year-old daughter. Both are in first grade. Both, I imagine, so heart-breakingly similar to those 20 kids who were so brutally and senselessly killed on Friday morning. And we do, indeed, know what six looks like. We do see it every day. In all its glory. We see the good, the bad and the ugly. The beautiful and the infuriating. It's in our face. We live it and breathe it."

Overnight, mundane events like school drop off and bedtime became fraught and loaded.

For some reason Ellie has been having a hard time going to sleep the last few weeks, and coincidentally it heightened following the Newtown shooting (and no, she doesn't know about it).

She wants to sleep in our bed. She wants us to stay with her until she goes to sleep. She's lonely. She's scared and sad. But she can't tell me what she's afraid of or why she's sad.

In my head I'm thinking: Will you just go to sleep? I still need to pack lunches and snacks and clean up the kitchen and hopefully do a load of laundry-lights-we need more washcloths-before I collapse into bed with Words With Friends. Really I just want to play Words With Friends.

But in my heart? I'm thinking about how she is hurting and scared. And would it be so terrible for me to wait another thirty minutes to make the damn lunches? I could lie down next to her and listen to her breathing change as she slowly relaxes and falls asleep, feel the warmth of her small, sturdy body next to mine (but not too close--she gets hot--sleeps with a fan in December--don't ask).

I think of the parents less than two hours away who I imagine would love to have a drawn out bedtime with their children.


This is Five: Ellie's illustration of last week's unit on Probability. I realize I'm biased, but I don't think it really gets much cuter than this.

"The harder life is, the softer I must become," read a comment on a blog I read sporadically. Yes. This. It's hard to care so much about packing lunches and loading the dishwasher, right now. Except that those tasks do still have to get done, preferably before 10:30 p.m.

But right now, I have more patience. I am yelling less. I am hugging more. I am stepping over toys instead of fretting about the mess and clutter.

I would like to stop crying, and I know that I will. But I don't want to forget this feeling, or all that we lost that day.

Love and Light: It's All I Have

Yesterday morning, bleak, cold and rainy, I dropped Ellie off at school, like any other Monday. Except it wasn't any other Monday. It was three days after Newtown. It was the day the funerals started. 

I thought about all those parents, who had hugged and kissed their little first graders goodbye on Friday morning. Not knowing, of course, that the unthinkable was about to happen.


As a parent, I worry about a lot of things. But never, in a million years, would this scenario have entered my mind. 


First graders.


Teachers and administrators and educators just doing their jobs.


None of it makes any sense. There is no way to explain what happened, there is no "reason" for it. Yes, we can hope and pray that some good comes out of this terrible tragedy, but that won't make the losses any less heartbreaking.


I can't stop thinking about the parents. The siblings. Lives will never, ever be the same. 


It's human nature to seek comfort and answers, when something so awful happens. I do like what President Obama said at the memorial service in Newtown on Sunday:


We know our time on this Earth is fleeting. We know that we will each have our share of pleasure and pain, that even after we chase after some earthly goal, whether it’s wealth or power or fame or just simple comfort, we will, in some fashion, fall short of what we had hoped. We know that, no matter how good our intentions, we’ll all stumble sometimes in some way.


We’ll make mistakes, we’ll experience hardships and even when we’re trying to do the right thing, we know that much of our time will be spent groping through the darkness, so often unable to discern God’s heavenly plans.


There’s only one thing we can be sure of, and that is the love that we have for our children, for our families, for each other. The warmth of a small child’s embrace, that is true.The memories we have of them, the joy that they bring, the wonder we see through their eyes, that fierce and boundless love we feel for them, a love that takes us out of ourselves and binds us to something larger, we know that’s what matters.

Others have been saying better, what I've been feeling. I wish I could do something with this grief, this guilt (besides donate money, yes, donating to very worthy causes is of course, wonderful). I'm interested in this idea of Tonglen, a Tibetan Buddhist term, which writer Kyran Pittman describes as something that "teaches neither to resist or cling to suffering when it comes, but breathe in the pain, and breathe out peace. A kind of spiritual photosynthesis that helps everyone."

Perhaps of little comfort to those who have lost a child (I don't dare imagine or speculate as to what they are feeling). But, something. I have to do something.  

***

In the midst of the horror, tiny gems of grace are trickling in. I was moved this morning by the story of Gene Rosen, a retiree who found a group of Sandy Hook students at the end of his driveway minutes after they escaped the school shooting. "We can't go back to school," one little boy reportedly told Rosen. "Our teacher is dead. Mrs. Soto; we don't have a teacher." 

Rosen entertained them with stuffed animals, gave them juice and called their parents. He said it was his experience as a grandparent, not a trained psychologist, that helped him on Friday.


Look for the helpers, as the wise Mr. Rogers advised, in a now well known quote that (deservedly) went viral shortly after the shootings in Newtown:


When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.”


***


A twin group I'm a member of raised $5,000 in less than twenty-four hours, to plant a tree in Central Park for Noah Pozen, one of the young shooting victims who was also a twin. They actually raised close to $7,000, total (and people are continuing to give). A donor just stepped in to donate an additional $5,000 for a second tree, a "twin" that will grow beside Noah's tree.


***

Saturday night was the last night of Hanukkah. I was tired and emotional and I'm a little embarrassed to admit there was a part of me that hoped the kids would forget. I didn't feel like dealing with the frustration of trying to jam fragile candles into tiny, wax clogged holes (there has to be a better solution, menorah makers of the world!) while Leo and Ellie bickered about who go to light which candle first;  and then I'd be left with cleaning the mess of the melted wax off of the kitchen table. But wouldn't you know it? Ellie has fallen head over heels for the whole notion of "a present every night" and she would certainly not let me forget it (lighting candles = presents).

And how could I ignore the eighth night, when all the candles are lit?

For the first time this year, I used all three menorahs.

They flooded our little house with light. 

It was all I could do. 

It's the (Mostly) Most Wonderful Time of the Year

We are...


Shopping. Leo delighted in setting off nearly every battery powered Rudolph and Singing Goose (?) at our local Bed Bath & Beyond on Saturday.


He was in Heaven. Bed Bath & Beyond? Not sure how delighted they were in us.


Still waking up at ridiculous hours. Hello 5 a.m. Saturday morning. How are you? Harry caught on to the fun of the Wash Cloth Wear and Toss. Now it's apparently a synchronized sport.

Creating....




We made these last weekend. I hadn't planned on doing them so early in the season, usually preferring to do them closer to Christmas. Let's just say I had a fit of It's Cold And Rainy and What Can We Do Inside That Doesn't Involve the Viewing of "My Little Pony?"


And so, gingerbread houses it was.




Something about making the gingerbread houses makes me a little teary. It's such a marker of time. The first year we made one, Ellie was too little to participate (the age the babies are now). That feels like it was yesterday. And, well, you know the drill. Time marching on, and all of that. On the other hand, I swoon at the thought of four big kids gathered around the table making gingerbread masterpieces.

I tried to coincide the project with nap time so that I'd be able to give the big kids my full attention (story of my life, these days).


 Of course, some people are less than cooperative and had other ideas.


Ah, well.


The more, the merrier.

Eighteen, Wha?

Everyone says the first year of twins is a blur (YES). The second year is proving to be even quicker, if that's possible (though admittedly, the early part of that first year didn't feel all that speedy in the midst of round the clock nursing sessions and non-existent bedtimes).


I am still calling them babies. They are my last babies, therefore they will always be MY BABIES. Even though they wear shoes and walk around and do adorable "grown-up" things like crouch and kneel and jump.



And create chalk masterpieces.

Eighteen months feels somehow momentous, one of those markers or milestones, like one year.

It should come as no surprise that even as full-fledged toddlers, they continue to have very distinct, nearly opposite personalities.



But they are unexpectedly opposite.

While Lucy is very deliberate and careful in her movements and is the one more likely to listen to me when I tell her to stay by me, she was also the first one to learn to climb the couch and the one most likely to dive off said couch. Or at least threaten to.

Her speech slays me. Sometimes I look at her when she says these words and I am just...Who are you?

(In no particular order):

Hot dog
Harry
Bye-bye
Outside
Thank you
That's mine
Mama
Mommy
Ellie
Apple
Cheese

And of course, the favorite of every toddler: NO!

I'll stop there. You get the idea. No baby of mine has ever talked this much, this early. It's slightly...terrifying. I am already seeing the seeds of bossy-ness emerging in her (gee, wonder where she gets that...Ellie, Me, cough, cough). She definitely rules the roost in the Harry and Lucy dynamic, at least for now, as she thinks nothing of grabbing any toy, book, piece of food, wash cloth, out of Harry's chubby little hand. Also, she shoves Harry. Just for fun. The other day when I got home from work our babysitter reported that she'd pushed Harry off the couch. On purpose.

His reaction to her domination is either A) burst into tears or B) do a sort of shrug (if babies shrugged) and walk away as if to say Eh, not worth getting into. I see an even BETTER set of stacking cups over there!

She remains the happiest baby I have ever met. She just exudes positivity. She smiles and giggles and just wants to bebyyou. As in, on your lap or in your arms. Sometimes when I'm sitting on the floor she will just back up and sit on my lap, like it's the best, most natural chair in the house (it is, of course). In the mornings, when she senses I'm leaving for work, she gets very whiney and clingy and I often carry her around on my hip as I'm gathering backpacks and shoes and keys.

She loves little more than going "outside."

And loves to run down this driveway, reaching such velocity that she's taken a tumble. Or nineteen (see the scab on her nose from a crash two weeks ago that made her look like a junior prize fighter).


Harry doesn't have any words that we can yet understand, but he "chats" up a storm. Also? Somewhere he learned to breakdance. No joke. If Mickey Mouse or Barney or Elmo come on Pandora? Boyfriend busts a move and can cut some serious rug, complete with donkey kicks and twirls.

He's definitely a watcher. He takes in his surroundings and is far more sensitive to new things and people than Lucy is. If anyone new comes to the house? Rivers of tears. Until he gets to know the person and deems them harmless. He plays with toys and explores the house like it's A Job. In the morning, after a quick cuddle and a diaper change he is raring to go, off to blocks or stacking rings or his most favorite of all, the book corner. He has things to do!

No one. And I mean, No One can make a bigger mess than Harry does when eating.


Harry has an "old soul" quality about him. He's a thinker. A studier. Sometimes I will catch him looking at something, a book, a toy, one of the big kids' drawings, and I will meet his gaze and then he will just break into the biggest, meltiest, cheesiest grin. I can't wait to find out what is going on in that little head of his.

They are each other's punching bags (Lucy climbs Harry, tries to wrestle him or use him as a step stool). Sometimes he giggles and seems to want more...sometimes he bursts into tears and whines for rescue, escapes Lucy's "clutches"...and three minutes later he's back for more.

Many twin parents I've talked to say the dynamic between their twins was set early on. It will be so interesting to see if the one we have now continues. Lucy=boss; Harry=amiable follower.

They are roommates. Fast friends who still wait up for each other every night. I put Harry down first and sometimes he appears to doze off, but pops up squealing with glee when Lucy shows up for bedtime, five minutes later.

This week Harry and Lucy learned to give kisses on command. Big, sloppy, open mouthed kisses. They give them often and willingly and I melt and die every time I get one. Or two. I mean, is there anything better than kisses from two babies?

Kisses times two are almost making up for nearly a year of sleep deprivation.

Almost.

Someday We'll Look Back On This and Laugh, Volume 972

Hey. Whatcha doin'?

Saturday morning dawned early as it always does (Hi Harry!). I let him cry in his crib longer than I probably should have but sometimes it just gets so old, feeling like every morning I'm awakened by a fire drill. There is no stretching of achy muscles, no contemplating the events of the coming day. It's more like a slap in the face or having a bucket of cold water poured on you. 

Hi! Hi! Get Up! Get Up! You! Are! Needed!

The thought that there was once a time that I not only needed to set an alarm, but that I had the audacity to press the snooze button, to let my body wake gradually? Laughable. I think Tina Fey may have said it best:  "It's the year after the baby comes that is like someone hitting you every day in the face with a hammer." 

I would argue the second year is not exactly a vacation either, particularly with two (or, um, four. Heh).

Yes, yes, I know, someday I will need an alarm clock, someday I will read the New York Times in bed on Sunday morning, while I glance at the phone and think "That Ellie never visits anymore. I haven't seen Harry and Leo for months and why won't Lucy return my calls?"

Anyway, blah, blah, blah sleep talk=boring. You can sleep when you're dead and all that (and believe me, I intend to!). Really, all of this back story ranting is just leading up to this:

No, that's not my actual phone. But that's exactly what my phone looked like at about 5 a.m. Saturday morning. When awakened throughout the night (sometimes by a baby's cry but way more often these days by a big kid climbing into our bed) I often glance at my phone to check the time. And apparently at some point on Friday night/early Saturday morning, I did just that, and then, in a hazy, dreamy, half-asleep state, promptly set the phone down perfectly in A Glass of Water. Where it remained for at least four hours. I mean, who does that? Well, apparently I do. To quote a friend's response to my phone + cup of water: "Gee. Do you have kids?"

I was surprisingly zen about the whole thing (and no, it's not because I was going to use my ridiculousness as an excuse to upgrade to the iPhone 5). I think four kids have dulled my ability to freak out about anything that doesn't involve hospitalization or death. At the end of the day (or in this case, at the way beginning of the day!) it's just a silly phone. An inconvenience, a financial annoyance (though I send huge props to the Geniuses at the Genius Bar at the Apple store on Fifth Avenue who cut me a sweet little deal on a "new to me" phone). Hint: If you kill your iPhone, run, don't walk, to the Genius Bar. Don't even bother with your phone carrier who, if you're not eligible for an upgrade will quote you ridiculously large, scary sounding numbers.

I was most upset about the fact that it had been a while since I'd backed the phone up and was pretty sure I'd lost a few thousand pictures.* And quite a bit of music. I know. My fault. But the phone going into the glass of water? Totally the kids' fault. At least, indirectly. Isn't everything?

*Happily most of the photos and music were retrieved. A pre-Hanukkah phone miracle!

Wherein Harry Thinks We Changed His Name to Harrystoptouchingthelights

He even looks guilty, doesn't he? By the way, the only reason he's not touching the Christmas lights here is because he's holding the television remote control. What can I say? The boy likes electronics. Or, electricity.

Also, note the gaping hole of no lights on that poor tree. Hey, you can only adjust a string of lights so many times before things start to look...sloppy.

But more importantly, the tree is STILL standing. At least, it was when I left for work this morning.

Furiously knocking wood.

Letters Home

I received this note from Leo's speech therapist this morning:

"I just want to mention something that was really touching during Leo's group session yesterday.
We were having a "tea party," a nice little vehicle for language exercises.
Just before everyone pretended to drink the "tea," Leo bowed his head and started giving "Thanks."
And so the rest of the students started doing the same. It was adorable.
He is a great boy."

Gratitude Weekend

So very Thankful.













And thankful to you, for coming here when you can, to let us share our little world with you.

Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift.
-Eleanor Roosevelt