On Having it "Never Be Okay"

My mom, Eleanor, circa late 1990s.

I'm not really sad anymore on Mother's Day, which sure is a refreshing change from all those teary, Woe is me, let's have a glass of wine at 1 p.m. Mother's Days of years gone by. It's been fourteen years of not having a mom here and by this time, having my mother to fuss over and take out to brunch and buy peonies for just feels completely foreign and "other" to me. It just isn't my reality and hasn't been for a loooong time. 

I plug along. She is in my thoughts some days but I'm almost surprised to admit (and a little ashamed) that on many she is not. There was a time I don't think I could have ever imagined that I would honestly write that sentence. But there it is.

And then the other day I read this, by Cheryl Strayed:

"It will never be okay," a friend who lost her mom in her teens said to me a couple of years ago. "It will never be okay that our mothers are dead."

...Our moms had been dead for ages. We were both writers with kids of our own now. We had good relationships and fulfilling careers. And yet the unadorned truth of what she'd said--it will never be okay--entirely unzipped me.

It will never be okay, and yet, there we were, the two of us more than okay, both of us happier and luckier than anyone has a right to be. You could describe either one of us as "joy on wheels" though there isn't one good thing that has happened to either of us that we haven't experienced through the lens of our grief. I'm not talking about weeping and wailing every day (though sometimes we did that). I'm talking about what goes on inside, the words unspoken, the shaky quake at the body's core. There was no mother at our college graduations. There was no mother at our weddings. There was no mother when we sold our first books. There was no mother when our children were born. There was no mother, ever, at any turn for either one of us in our entire adult lives and there never will be.

And that's the truth. It will never be okay that Eleanor never got to meet Ellie. That she never got to eat scrambled eggs with Leo or push a ridiculously giant double stroller housing two (two!) wailing newborns down our treelined New Jersey street. 

 

And it will never be okay that my mom never go to meet Erin, but I will always be so glad that in a brave moment during one of our many afternoon phone calls (she in Oregon, me, away at graduate school in New York City) I decided to tell her about this new person that I'd only been dating for a handful of months. And because of that, for the rest of my life I’ll have a printed out email from my mom that says simply, "I'm glad you have Erin." Boy, was she right.

And the fact that it's not okay? Serves as a counterpoint to all the unbelievably wonderful and beautiful things in my life: Leo's hugs, and the way he throws his arms around my waist and holds onto me with his very soul, Ellie's witticisms and the way she will just look at me in the middle of dinner and say "Can we snuggle?" Harry's chocolate brown eyes and the way he leans in to give me a sloppy kiss and then declares, "That's a juicy one!" Lucy's blonde ringlets and watching her drink milk from a straw and eat peanut butter and strawberry jam with as much satisfaction as one would garner from drinking a glass of Pol Roger and eating Malpeque oysters. 

There is just so much beauty and joy and grace and hilarity in my life now, that the "not okayness," feels somehow easier and harder (if that makes any sense at all). Easier because I'm so busy with all these children! And my life is so full! And yet, she's missing all these children. And all this fullness. But. That is just the way it is.

 

There are so many things my mom and I never got to talk about. I was twenty seven when she died, and at that point, becoming a mother myself was the farthest thing in my mind. Who knows if I'm right, but to this day, I think one of her greatest worries for me was that I would never become a mother.

Of course now we all have a good laugh over that one. I hope my mom is laughing too.

It Gets Better: Bounce House, ENT and Primal Screaming Edition

A few rainy weekends ago, Leo and Ellie were blessedly invited to a birthday party at one of those bounce places. I'm not kidding when I say I was GRATEFUL for that party. At 3:47 p.m., after three hours of "STOP IT LEO" and "GET OUTTA MY ROOM ELLIE!" and the ensuing tears and shoves, I was positively ecstatic to drive thirty minutes in a downpour so they could jump and bounce and slide and get out of the house and out of my hair. The twins stayed home with Erin and I got to drink Diet Coke and chat with some old friends from Leo's preschool days (and yes, big kid birthday parties qualify as "Me Time" these days).

Ellie and Leo prepare to mount the "velcro wall."

After about an hour and fifteen minutes, the children (a mixture of nine and ten year olds with Down syndrome and their typical siblings) were unequivocally All Bounced Out. Parents and children filed into the party room across the hall where cheese pizza slices were impeccably arranged on "Despicable Me" plates. All twenty little pink faced people gratefully sipped pink lemonade out of Minion adorned cups while music from various Disney movies played from some far away iPod. When "Let it Go" came on, Leo had to stand up and step away from his pizza to belt out the lyrics (complete with hand gestures). No one batted an eye or even seemed to notice.

As I sat and watched this group of children, most of whom I've known since Leo was three years old (!) it hit me. I remember attending this particular birthday boy's parties back when I had to cut Leo's pizza into bite sized pieces. When I had to watch him every single second and find all the exits as soon as we arrived, to make sure he didn't find one. When I had Ellie, a squirmy toddler in tow and I dreaded attending birthday parties with the two of them because it was so hard to keep track of Leo and Ellie at the same time. And what if I had to change a dirty diaper? That would mean trying to pry a transition-challenged Leo from doing something he loved. In other words? Nightmare.

To say nothing of his escapist tendencies at that age. All those tunnels and nooks and crannies used to practically give me angina. He was a runner. And a hider. And it was the opposite of fun (for me, at least).

But at this recent bounce party I found myself lost in conversation several times. Every once in a while I would look up and think--Huh. I guess I should check on Leo. And Ellie. And I did. And they were fine. But I didn't have heart palpitations when I couldn't spot Leo immediately and I didn't have to tear pizza into bite sized pieces and I didn't have to chase a toddler down a hall. Not even once.



A few weeks after the party, I took Leo to his annual appointment with the ENT (ear, nose and throat doctor). He got a clean bill of health and it turns out he doesn't need his allergy medication anymore. Leo was a little wary at first and none too thrilled with the exam (who likes having little instruments stuck in their ears?), but he cooperated just fine, didn't cry or kick me (or the doctor-hey, it's happened!) in the shins or the stomach. There were a tense few seconds when I didn't think he'd sit for the hearing test (why oh why don't they employ more kid-friendly audiologists I will NEVER UNDERSTAND) but we rallied and he did it and we can check off that little box (and by the way, Leo's hearing is just fine).

Speaking of angina, I practically have PTSD from all those years of traumatic ENT appointments. The second I'm in that waiting room it all comes crashing back. The flailing. The tears. But the fact that Leo now cooperates and I don't have to chase him around the waiting room or drag him kicking and screaming from the play area to the exam room or hold him down while he wails and stiffens and punches? I will never not be grateful that it is So Much Better. Now.



There are a multitude of things that are helpful and remarkable about having a multitude of children, one of which being that as they get older, they give you (even more dramatically than one or two might, I think) the gift of perspective. As a parent, when things are hard, it's so easy to feel stuck and frustrated, to think, It's ALWAYS Going To Be This Way. I absolutely love the ages Leo and Ellie are right now. It feels kind of perfect. Aside from the fact that the two of them fight with each other quite a bit (talk about typical behavior--I should be relieved, right?), they are genuinely fun to be with. We have interesting conversations. We laugh. I'm never worried one of them is going to take off in public and if I can't see one of them as they round the corner of an aisle at the store, I don't get that sick, poison-in-my-veins feeling that I used to get when I lost sight of Leo, or that I get now when Lucy wanders off from me at checkout line at Target when I'm momentarily distracted trying to activate my "Cartwheel" app (Ugh and true story).

Speaking of Lucy, I've written here about our, shall we say, challenges with her, of late. Or perhaps I should say they are my challenges with her. At any rate, her latest is trick is screaming when she doesn't get what she wants. Sounds simple, right?

Well, it's not. Because I mean, S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G. I know this is something that almost-three-year olds do. I've just never had an almost three year old that's done it.

When Lucy doesn't get what she wants (not every time, but often enough) she digs deep into her tiny body and, like a cornered animal, out comes something from, well, another world. Harry reacts by covering one ear, turning his head and whimpering. Leo covers both ears and sometimes screams back (yeah, that's fun). Ellie raises her shoulders to her ears and says, "Oh Lucy." I...do the best I can, but admittedly have been known to react less gracefully than I could.



Not allowed to wash her hands at the kitchen sink (which isn't as simple as it sounds--it involves moving the rug in front of the sink, scraping the kitchen chair across the room)? SCREAM!!! Denied chocolate animal cookies at 6:45 a.m.? SCREAM!!! Asked pleasantly to Please put her shoes on so we can go pick Ellie up from school? SCREAM!!!

But. I know from seeing it over and over again in Leo and Ellie that this too shall pass (which remains one of my favorite parenting tips). As quickly as Lucy discovered this talent is as quickly as it will disappear (though perhaps not as swiftly as we'd all like it to).

And I just know that Lucy and I have an endless number of carefree bounce house parties in our future.

Unruffled

Leo, get dressed please.

Leo, it's time to get dressed.

Leo, I made your eggs. After you're dressed you can eat breakfast.

That's my script, almost every morning. In other news, isn't that one of the most frustrating things about being a mom? The nagging. The feeling that no one is listening to you. I swear I get tired of the sound of my own voice and I get on my own nerves sometimes, so I can only imagine what my children must think of me.

Back to mornings. Fourth grade seems to be going fine for Leo, but the early morning hours of his day can be less than stellar. Leo hasn't been moving very, shall we say, efficiently lately. This has led to a lot of cajoling and repetition of the same request.

Imagine my frustration yesterday morning, when, a few minutes after my twelfth request to him to get dressed, Leo appeared in the kitchen finally out of pajamas but wearing considerably less than what is customarily expected of a nine year old boy. That's when he started trying to open the back door.

"Outside! I want to go outside!" he demanded.

That's fine, I said. But you have to get dressed first.

See what I mean? I get on my own nerves, seriously.

Leo groaned at me as he's apt to do when I irritate him to new levels, and stormed back to his room.

I drank some coffee. I wiped some crumbs off the kitchen counter. I helped Ellie find a show on television. I changed a diaper and dressed a baby or two.

That's when it occurred to me. Where was Leo? And what was he doing? And why wasn't he standing in front of me, dressed?

I went to his room, knocked on his door, and then opened it.

There was Leo. Except he wasn't exactly in his room. No, he was standing at one of the the windows of his bedroom. Outside the window. Yes, he had climbed out the window. LEO CLIMBED OUT OF THE WINDOW? Because, of course.

Well, he did say he wanted to go outside, I thought to myself. Ahem.

I have to say, I've seen a lot in my days as a mom of four, but a kid climbing out the window is [thankfully] a first for me. Keep in mind it's not quite as dramatic as it sounds. Leo's room is on the ground floor, so when he climbed out of said window, he literally just stepped onto the deck. But still. Leo climbed out of the window. The window!

The look on Leo's face when I opened that bedroom door will stick with me for a long time. It was part horror/part Oh Crap/part What the Heck Do I Do Now? He immediately started scrambling to climb back inside. That's when I turned around, walked into the living room, and said to Erin, He's all yours. I think I had more coffee. And probably changed another diaper.

Erin handled Leo with aplomb as she always does. He was immediately, unabashedly contrite, bursting into tears the second she started talking to him (a sure sign that he knew he'd screwed up royally). Leo is not a crier.

It wasn't until halfway through the day that I realized I'd forgotten to mention what happened to anyone. I didn't text my usual friends about it or tell any of my co-workers (the likes of whom I often share parenting war stories anecdotes).

That's when it dawned on me. My life has reached such a stage of (wonderful) ridiculousness lately that a kid climbing out of a window--and landing safely, thank goodness--did not even phase me or give me pause. That speaks volumes. It was just another morning. I've (almost) seen it all.

And yes, we'll be heading to Home Depot this weekend, for the "better" window locks.

By Any Other Name

I took the whole gang to Costco yesterday (and yes, I'm still standing, why do you ask?). In any event, only at Costco do people ask, "Are they all yours?" Do you know anyone who brings EXTRA children to the store? On purpose?

The proverbial terrible picture, but photo evidence nonetheless. What on Earth are they all looking at? Who knows. Certainly not me!

The experience was far more positive than I anticipated (except for one minor detail, more on that later). But when we came home it was the usual perfect storm of misery: Exhausted babies in need of a nap (but first! New diapers for all!). Of course Ellie needed a snack and was pulling on my guilt strings with a request to play Gingham Girls paper dolls ("Will you do it WITH me Mommy?"). Meanwhile, there was Leo, sitting at the kitchen table trying, unsuccessfully, to get a movie to play in the laptop, wailing for help and pounding on the table in frustration.

Did I mention I still had not unpacked the groceries from the car? And don't forget--we'd gone to Costco, so everything was Giant and Heavy and, well, Costco-sized.

Mommy?

Mommy!

Mommy!?

Mommy?!

I took a deep breath.

Within a few frenzied minutes, the babies were blessedly down for naps (at least, in theory, though by the sound of the "chatter" on the monitor not a lot of napping was going down). So there were two less people who needed something for the moment.

I stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing cups, feeling like I literally had not stopped all day. Even the drive to the store had been a constant barrage of questions (harmless and entertaining, but nevertheless, things were demanded. Of me).

Can we just take a break from saying Mommy? For a few minutes? I asked.

And without missing a beat, Ellie replied: "How about we call you Charlie?"

Of course, I laughed. How could I not?

"Ellie, THAT was a good one," I said.

I think that's when Grandma Jerry called to check in and Ellie answered the phone. She told Grandma that we'd just returned from Costco. "It was fine," Ellie explained. "Except when Mommy squished Harry's fingers."  

Yes it's true. Just when I was about to get very confident about my parenting abilities, I mis-steered our enormous, overstuffed (with items and children) and definitely lopsided cart a leetle too close to the wall, pinching poor Harry's left pinky and ring finger between a doorway and the cart. OUCHIE.

Instant tears and hysteria from the little boy who is normally Mr. Tough Guy. When Harry wails? You just know it hurts.

Luckily, he recovered relatively quickly. As it turns out? Costco vanilla frozen yogurt aids in the healing of pinched fingers. Just so you know.

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. 

What I Wish I Knew: The Mom Edition

My mom seeing me off to sleep away camp, circa 1983. My dad sent me this picture a few weeks ago and it was like an early Hanukkah present. I saw it and immediately burst into (happy) tears. I'd never seen it before, yet after staring at it for a few moments was able to piece together exactly when and where it was taken. Isn't memory a funny thing?

In many ways, as the years go by, it gets easier not having my mom here.

Of course I miss her. But the proverbial It is What it Is springs to mind. And thankfully, the grief is no where near as raw as it once was. With every year that passes, she gets farther and farther away. For this I feel equal parts heart broken and pragmatic.

In the old days (read: before I had children), I often pined for the things we used to do together. Now that I'm nearly forty years old, I'm not embarrassed to admit that my mother left a huge, gaping hole in my social life when she died (or at least, the social life in my mind, since we lived 3,000 apart). Of course I missed her, her very essence, but I also longed for our afternoon walks at Laurelhurst park; Saturday matinees at the art house theater, followed by chocolate chip cookies and lattes at Grand Central Baking. She was more than my mom. She was a confidante. She was almost always the first person I went to for counsel and advice (back then the "hard stuff" now seems blissfully benign: research papers, and roommate conflicts were my biggest concerns back in 1999.)

As delightful as a Saturday matinee sounds right about now, I have found myself missing something else about my mom lately.

Her wisdom. And her experience as a mom.

Of course, it's easy to romanticize it all. If she were here and I went to her with a question or seeking advice about one of the babies or the kids, surely we'd be in full agreement and she'd say just the right thing! Because we all know that adult daughter/mother relationships are never complicated or fraught in any way.

HA.

I just have so many questions. There were so many things I never asked her, because at 27 years old? Having children seemed a lifetime away, if not improbable all together.

My longing for her ebbs and flows. I can go weeks-months even, without thinking of her much at all. I mean of course I think of her, but they are mere flashes of memory. Or I'll see a movie or book and think, She would love this. And then other times, at little mundane moments, pulling sweatpants up on a chunky thigh, wiping a baby's little heart shaped mouth, reading a book that I loved as a child (Corduroy--which Ellie recently announced she "doesn't like anymore"), downloading a photo sent by Leo's teacher of him proudly holding an "A" spelling test--these are the moments I get a little stabby feeling in my throat. She's gone. She missed out. On all of this. And she's never coming back. And it's so unfair that it's almost unbelievable. Strike that. It is unbelievable.

Lately I think she's been on the forefront of my mind because Ellie and I have been...having some disagreements.



In addition to Ellie's kindergarten portrait, the Thanksgiving projects started rolling in last week. And it's official. This year, Ellie is "Thankful for herself."

God bless her, really. If you knew Ellie, you would understand that this statement truly does summarize her, at age five. She is a little force, that one.

She also rolls her eyes at me. Often. She grows impatient with my inability to get her chocolate snack biscuits RIGHT NOW (and, unintentionally, feeds on all of my guilt over the babies and feeling like I can't ever pay enough attention to anyone, that invariably someone needs something they're not getting...sigh). She commands me to "Stop talking!" when I explain to her why we can't do something right at that moment. (An example: Why can't we go to the birthday party now? Hmm...well, because it doesn't start for another six hours?) I know! I'm such a stickler!

She asks mind-numbing questions like "Why do I have to get dressed for school?" And when I calmly and quietly begin to explain why she roars "I know! I know! Don't tell me to do it!"

Part of me wants to strangle Ellie. And part of me wants to slam the door on her, hide in the bathroom and call my mom and ask her: Was I like this (secretly I am pretty sure of the answer)? OK I know I was no peach as a teenager, that I remember, but five years old and already with the attitude?

Of course, Ellie can also be incredibly sweet and kind and loving. She draws hearts with the word "Mom" in the middle and stuffs them in my pockets. She can never get enough about snuggles and can't understand why she can't sleep in our bed every night like she did when we were without power for ten days after Hurricane Sandy. Sometimes I catch her gazing across the kitchen table at "her babies" with more affection and love than I would have ever thought possible (though she did confess to me the other night in the midst of a particularly vocal tandem crying jag "It's hard having babies...but I love them." Well there's one thing she and I are in full agreement of).

Happy and surprised to see Mommy at a recent school pick-up.

Why does any of this matter? Why do I care what my mom would say? Who knows if she would have anything to say that would help. Hell, maybe I just want commiseration. Oh Mom. You wouldn't believe what Ellie did this time. She would probably get some amount of satisfaction knowing that what goes around comes around-moms of snarky little girls unite!

After Leo was born, I was pleasantly surprised by how whole I felt, once again, for the first time since my mother died. Somehow, becoming a mother myself made me feel complete, awash in a glow of purpose and strength, feelings I hadn't had in years. And with every baby, more fulfillment, though always tinged with disbelief: She isn't here to see them, to share this, to share them, with me. But it seemed that looking into their little blue eyes (yes, three out of four kids have blue eyes, just like my mom and unlike me) grounded me. Gave me purpose and forced me, to be brutally honest, to think of someone other than myself.

I walk solidly, mostly confidently with this band of little people, this family I have that surprises me almost every single day. Becoming a mother of so many has made me more decisive, less wish-washy, less prone to grief and regret than I was as a twenty-something in mourning. But all of this will never keep me from wondering, what could have been.

The Explosion and the Aftermath

“What happened to my life? It feels like it just exploded.”
These are lines from a movie that I cannot, for the life of me, remember. Shocking I’m sure, knowing my eternally sleep-deprived state. All I know is, these lines popped into my brain the other day and I have not been able to get them out. Because it’s exactly how I feel.

Let me step back and say that I would not for a minute, wish that anything had gone differently than it did, or has. I love, love, love the babies. But I would be lying if I said that life has been anything other than a bit, well, crazy lately.

Of course it has, you’re thinking. You’ve gone from two kids to four. You have two newborns.

But I'm a bit of a control freak. And my life has never been messier than it is right now (and I mean that both literally and figuratively).

It’s all so complicated.

Most people of a certain age, I think, have momentous events in their life, some good, some bad, nevertheless they are moments of demarcation: Before this, my life was this and after? It was never the same. I think I’ve had that happen three times now.

1. When I found out my mom had cancer and she was dead four months later (that was one long moment of demarcation.)

2. When Leo was born with Down syndrome.

3. When my doctor calmly and coolly announced at my six week ultrasound, “You have twins.”

And life, as they say, was never the same.

It reminds me of one of my favorite sayings: "People make plans, god laughs."

Oh, and that other one: Everything Happens for a Reason.

And on that cloudy November day last year, I promptly burst into tears when Dr. T. made the proclamation and turned the ultrasound monitor in our direction to show two perfectly round sacs, two little people, with two tiny heartbeats, already. How would we ever do this? I wasn’t completely surprised, I’ll admit. I’d been sick since the pregnancy test showed the "plus" sign and my hormone levels at my five week blood draw had been a bit high. There was a bit of foreshadowing and I had a feeling, but denial is fierce. We’d had two singletons the exact same way we’d become pregnant with our “third.” There was no way it could be twins this time.

But it was. And of course, they are.

Lucy and Harry, 10 weeks
My biggest fear when we learned our third would actually be our third and fourth, was for Leo. How would we possibly be able to give him everything he needs with our attention and resources so stretched?

Thank goodness for Dr. T., who in that moment of discovery said all the right things. I can’t say that I (pretty hysterical and hyperventilating) remember all that much of what was said, I just know he made me feel better. It was something along the lines of:

A) You can do this.
B) You aren’t the first people to do this.
C) You have plenty of love to go around.
D) You will surprise yourselves.
E) This might actually be a good thing for the children you already have, especially Leo.

I’ve worried since that cloudy November day about my capacity to do This, this mothering of four, this having twins, properly. I’ve mourned the loss of our “easy” life, the closeness I had with Leo and Ellie that has temporarily (I hope) been sidelined by the constant neediness of the babies.

The last two months have been the hardest two months of my life. Scratch that. Life since November of last year has been pretty rough. Of course it hasn’t all been bad. Leo and Ellie were ecstatic when we told them about the babies and their enthusiasm for the most part, hasn't budged (except maybe when Harry pulls one of his screamathons in the minivan). But. I got sick right away with the twins and by the time I’d recovered from the “morning sickness” (which was really all day sickness), I was physically encumbered. Huge and heavy and swollen and yes, grouchy. In a sense, things have been out of control since the start of all of this, this twin journey.

And yet. These babies.


When I finally broke the news at work that I was not only pregnant but that it was twins, news traveled fast. I returned from lunch one day to a congratulatory email from a colleague. “You are one brave woman,” she wrote. And went on to say how happy she was for me and my beautiful, growing family.

“Brave! I’ll say,” I typed back, my response tinged with fear and uncertainty and a healthy dose of what have we done/what is going to become of us? (not sure if she could read between the lines). “I can think of another one!” My list was long: terrified and crazy topped it.

The email alert on my computer chimed almost instantly:
“I can think of another word too,” she responded. “How about, lucky?”

I am many things these days. Tired, broken, depleted, short-tempered, overwhelmed. But this too shall pass. I know this. And also?

Lucky.

And that’s all I really have to remember.

That Much Sweeter

The Breast Imaging Center at my local hospital hands out roses to all the patients. A nice touch. This rose bloomed more beautiful and longer than any rose I've received in a long time.

I spent last Thursday morning at a place no woman wants to be. The breast imaging center at our local hospital. The same hospital where I’m due to give birth to two babies in roughly five weeks.

A few months ago I found a small lump in my armpit. My gene pool is lousy with breast cancer so I immediately feared the worst. I showed it to my OB (I was fairly early in the pregnancy at the time) and she felt the lump, but told me it was probably just extra breast tissue due to hormones (did you know breast tissue extends into the arm pit? I didn’t) and blah blah blah.

Pfew.

But then a few weeks ago I noticed the lump again. And this time it was bigger. A lot bigger. My doctor felt it again at my last check-up and immediately said she wanted me to get an ultrasound, which of course, scared the hell out of me. How could this be happening? For the past seven months I’ve been getting “fun” ultrasounds. Ones that involve heart beats and little hands and feet and the discovery of hair on tiny 32 week-old heads. An armpit lump ultrasound? Decidedly not fun.

Of course, because I was so worried, there was a two hour wait at my appointment. For a five minute procedure. When I was finally called in by the cheery tech, I studied her face as she read the screen. I swear that her expression immediately went from buoyant to tragic. As she gazed at the little gray and white blob on the screen (which she pronounced as “kidney shaped”) she appeared serious, concerned. It was bad. I could just tell. She told me she’d show the scans to the doctor and he’d either come in to discuss it with me and look further, or perhaps just relay results to her. I reminded myself not to be worried if the doctor came in. It had happened when I had a mammogram a year ago and that had turned out fine.

I flipped through a wrinkled, two-year-old copy of Life & Style magazine and three minutes later, there was the doctor. He offered his hand to shake, dimmed the lights, and then immediately came the questions. How long had I had the lump? When did I first notice it? Had it gotten a lot bigger recently?

My heart began to pound. My body felt heavy. The room felt like it was getting darker, closing in around me. This could not be happening. The Doctor slid the ultrasound wand across my armpit a few more times and peered at the fuzzy screen, at my infamous kidney shaped blob. All the Good Things, all the Things To Look Forward To—the babies, the kids, Erin, seemed suddenly very far away.

And then:

“Well this looks totally normal. Benign.”

The proverbial weight lifted. But all I could think was, Why couldn’t the doctor have led with that? With normal and benign? He gave me a bunch of information about hormones and underlying infections and lymph nodes and keeping an “eye on things” but the only thing that mattered to me were the words “benign” and “normal.”

Melodrama aside, I’ll be honest. For twenty-four hours, my little life got quite a jolt. Sure, it was just a little armpit lump, but it could have been something more, something worse. As much as I tried to tell myself it would be OK, willed it to be OK, I knew. It wouldn’t necessarily be. After all, I’m a member of the Club. The Club of Bad Things. I know those things don’t just happen to other people. That as much as we can think positive and hope for the best, we’re all ultimately, just one cross town bus or extra chromsome or abnormal cell away from catastrophe. The question isn’t how could this happen to me, but rather, why shouldn’t it happen to me? To anyone? Stuff just happens. There is no explanation.

I remember after my mom died, I went through a phase where I wasn’t afraid to die. Maybe because I felt I would see her in the afterlife, so how could death be a bad thing? Although I would describe myself as faithful, my religious stance is murky. I don’t know if I’ll see her again. But what I do know is I want to be here now. There are two, almost four little people who need me. And oh, do I need them. Now is not the time to go anywhere. I know what it’s like to lose a parent. And more than that, and to make it about me, I don’t want to lose them. To lose out on raising them.

I didn’t tell anyone but Erin when I found the lump. But when the good news came, I called my dad. I told him about my fear being wrapped up in the kids, in losing them, in them losing me. We got on the subject of time and how once you have kids it seems to speed up. My dad, a practicing Buddhist talked about how difficult it is to grasp time, to appreciate the Now. We all seem to be inherently hard wired to move onto the next thing. He said what helps is to focus on the sensory experiences of life. The smells, the feels, the sounds.

And it’s funny, because the morning of the big Armpit Ultrasound, I sat with Ellie as she ate her cereal and strawberries and felt more present with her than I’ve felt with anyone, in a long time. It was an unseasonably warm day and she wore a little pink cap-sleeved top, exposing the length of her remarkably soft, chubby little arms. I couldn’t help it--I reached over and stroked her tiny arm and she looked at me as if she was about to protest, as if to say “Mommy why are you doing that?” (a common refrain), but instead she said nothing, and went on to take a sip of apple juice and another bite of cereal.

It was just a little moment. A little snapshot. But it was one that made this one, little, happy ending for now, that much sweeter.

Time

I think that I need to back away from the twins books.

Unless of course, I want to burst into tears or hyperventilate. But you know what’s funny? What’s getting me is not the idea of nursing two or not sleeping (because it won’t be that different from now, actually!), or changing twenty diapers a day. It’s how it’s going to affect the kids that are already here. The big kids. Leo and Ellie. My babies.

Everyone I’ve heard from with big families (really, who has four kids these days?) has nothing but good things to say. There’s always someone to play with! We were our own little gang! With four kids, someone is bound to like someone, right? And the opposite of course, but I won’t think about THAT right now.

Still, I can’t shake the anxiety that I’ll be spread too thin, that Leo and Ellie, who are so accustomed to the spotlight, will feel resentful and hurt, when they have to share. It is what it is, and I know all of this is normal. It would be weird if I wasn’t thinking about all of this. I guess reading about “older siblings” in a twins book last night (big mistake) just kind of did me in and made me want take to my bed with a glass of merlot (don’t worry, I didn’t). I remember feeling this way when I was pregnant with Ellie too. I would look at toddler Leo and my burgeoning belly and think What Have We Done?

Probably the one thing I'm not worried about is the love. Before Ellie, when it was just Leo, I worried and wondered, how can I love someone as much I love Leo, my first baby? Now I know better. The capacity for love? It's boundless, truly. I guess that's the saving grace (well, one of them) in this crazy life.

***

Switching gears: This weekend was a babymoon of sorts. We took what was likely one of our last trips as a family of four (gulp) up to our beloved Mystic. On the way, we also met up with old friends who bestowed on us a minivan full of twin hand-me-downs. After unloading the van Sunday night, the future nursery looks like Babies R’ Us after a hurricane. I have a lot of organizing to do but seriously, I can’t thank Amy and Elizabeth enough for their generosity.

The trip to Mystic was whirlwind.

More pictures to come, but I will say that we swam in the hotel pool (Ellie’s favorite, hands down). Actually, I’m not sure what she was more excited about, the pool or her new bikini, courtesy of Grandma Jerry. It’s replaced the ballerina dresses in terms of the amount it’s taken off and put back on, just BECAUSE.

We visited with everyone’s favorite, the baby beluga (not really a baby, but no matter). We even got this book from the aquarium gift shop. Ellie made me sing it to her before bed on Sunday night and I panted all the way through).

This is my last week of work for a while. I know. I am in state of shock. Life is about to change in ways large and small. This week is a week of “lasts.” The last time I will attend a staff meeting, eat a burrito in the company cafeteria (not sure which is more momentous), sign off on a proof.

I’m ready though. I’m feeling a little unsteady on my feet as I navigate the crowded, increasingly warm streets of Manhattan (today is flip flop weather though, thank goodness, and while we’re on the subject, I waited a leetle too long and now can’t get my rings off my sausage fingers. Oy.). The nightly commute home gets more and more challenging.

And there are two little people who need more of my undivided attention.*


*(And yes, that is a two-foot tall chocolate Easter bunny.)

Words of Wisdom

I think this is pretty great.

I read it this morning, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, for reasons I can't go into right now.

It's been a hard week. Something is up with Ellie. She has a cold or is coming down with something. She's whiny from the moment I pick her up, to the moment she passes out, which for every night this week, has been at about 10 p.m. She tries my patience like no one I have ever known (even Leo!) and my frustration is often tinged with guilt. She wants macaroni and cheese now! She doesn't want that kind of macaroni and cheese! It's too hot! She wants her new library book! She doesn't want her library book on her bed!

And oh is our girl emotional. Yesterday morning, after Leo boarded his bus and I drove Ellie to preschool, she asked me where Leo was (though she knew full well). I watched her consider the morning's events, through the rear view mirror, and then she announced quietly: "When Leo goes, I make tears."

Is she needy because she misses me? Is she like this because she doesn't see me all day? Is she starved for attention? Or is she just plain tired? Probably a combination of all of that. I try to make up for everything on the weekends (letting her sleep in, when possible, extra cuddles, plenty of down time) but that only goes so far. Or is this just what it feels like to be three years and four months old? How can I not give her "just another hug." One more kiss. More back rubs. There are never enough back rubs.

So yes, we are all just a bit exhausted. But I know these moments are fleeting. These too, shall pass.

Meanwhile, Leo has had a wonderful week. He's been talkative and agreeable and helpful and although I'm afraid to even say it out loud, the new car seats seem to be working out quite well. I haven't had a "get in the van" meltdown once this week!

And in the mornings, before the sun comes up, I wake to Leo's warm little body squeezed up against mine. In his sleep he is more cuddly than he is awake. He rests his little baseball mit palm on my side and breathes quietly, serenly. Gone are the days of his torturously restless sleeping habits: the epileptic octopus sleeper is officially no more. He's now a sweet little bed companion. And when he wakes and sees Erin and me both there he breaks into one of his trademark grins, wraps his arms around our necks and declares "Whole Family!"

***

Often, the comments section for little pieces like the one I posted above are not worth reading, but there were a few gems in there, for sure. A few bear repeating, especially for me, this week.

“Honey, I have three sons – all grown. All I can say is I really wish I would have yelled less and drank more.”--Tabatha

"What I’ve learned: My five don’t remember the countless healthy, home cooked meals that I have spent years of my life planning and cooking, but they all still whisper fondly of the night mom was so sick that all she could do was dump a box of Lucky Charms in a large mixing bowl, pour in the milk and hand them their own spoon and told them to dive in!"--Kristi

"I’ve learned that sleep is overrated (also coveted, but still overrated). When my youngest is a surly teenager, I’ll wish he still wanted to wake me up at 5 a.m. to cuddle and talk to me about superheroes."--Lylah

"My biggest lesson is learning to move on. I’ve made mistakes. I’ll make more. I can’t dwell on them. I can learn from them, hope my children learn from them, and move on to the next thing."--Jules

"Just try to remember…little people, little problems, big people, big problems. What seems insurmountable today, will be nothing in a few years."--Dianne

"Apologize. Teach them that no one is perfect, not even parents."--Keyona

"My mother in law told me this once and I always try to remember it whenever I get OCD about cleaning my house:
'Your children will not remember how clean your kitchen floor was when they are older, they will remember the time you spent with them when you wanted to clean the kitchen floor.'"--Random Chick


"No matter how tired I am, or how much I don’t want to, if they ask for another good night kiss, to read a story, sing a song, play a game, sit in my lap, “help” me with something, I always say yes. Because I never know if this will be the last time they ask.Hearing you are loved by your parents is something you never outgrow, even if you act like you don’t care."--Sarah

Amen.

Parenting Advice From the Unlikeliest Places

I’m always pleasantly surprised when wisdom comes in unexpected places.

Most recently? Last night’s season premiere (hurray! Finally something on television worth watching again other than Friday Night Lights!) of Mad Men. It was from the all-knowing and wise Joan, who responded to Don Draper’s tantrum with the pronouncement:

“It’ll pass.”

Honestly I think if parents need to receive just two words of advice, this should be it. I realize it’s unbelievably simplistic, but think abut it. It applies to, well, everything really.

Baby won’t sleep through the night? Hysterical toddler demands “Uppy! Uppy!” while you’re trying to make dinner (her dinner, the way, the one she will mostly throw on the floor)? Children run to the back of the mini van instead of climbing calmly into their car seats?

It’ll pass.

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this but it’s always a welcome reminder, since it’s can be so hard to remember, especially when you need to.

Granted, it is very challenging to remind oneself of this in the heat of the moment. When your almost six year old is throwing an enormous tantrum because he absolutely does not want to leave the pool at that moment, it’s hard to tell yourself calmly and quietly that it’s going to be ok, that someday you will be able to leave a place when it’s time to go without making a scene, but you will. You will.

As an added bonus, it reaches far beyond children. Fight with a friend or spouse? Can’t pay your cable bill? Don’t know how you’re going to shake the grumpy, heat wave induced bad mood (purely hypothetical of course)? It will pass.

Of course the whole “It’ll pass” reminder is also a touch bittersweet. Sure, I won’t miss whining through dinner (hi Ellie!) or getting shoved when I have the nerve to suggest Leo take a bath at the end of a hot, sweaty day. I'm pretty sure I won't look back on Leo’s propensity (still) for spraying me with the garden hose every chance he gets with much nostalgia, nor do I think I will ever pine for the nights when Ellie is cozily ensconced in her crib, blanket up to her chain, all the various stuffed animals arranged as they are required and she announces: “Mommy I have to go potty.”

Thankfully, the list of things I will long for is much longer: Being asked by Ellie when I pick her up from daycare: “Mommy how was your great day?” Watching small, wet bodies move with grace, ebullient happiness and complete confidence through the backyard sprinkler on a sultry July day, the smell of clean hair before bedtime, and hearing Leo proclaim, from the backseat, “Happy!” as he clutches a bag of grapes in one hand and his beloved dog tucked under his arm.

Watching Leo, the human pretzel sleep, and knowing that for now, there is no where he feels safer and happier than in his house.

Witnessing Leo at play. Here he is lining up his "guys." Clearly, he has a plan.

Leo eating watermelon. Pure joy (in case it wasn't obvious).

Ellie and her love of accessories. (Actually that probably won't pass, will it?)

Mostly clothing optional baking with Ellie.

It all reminds me of the great joke in one of my all time favorite movies, Annie Hall. In it, Woody Allen’s character, Alvy Singer does a bit about two elderly women at a Catskill resort:

“One of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.”

Ditto for parenting (though thankfully, in addition to the loneliness, misery, suffering and unhappiness I would add moments of transcending joy, pride, and a love like no other). So take that New York magazine, who recently proclaimed: "All Joy and No Fun: Why Parents Hate Parenting."


It'll pass. Much too quickly.