Memorial Day Memories

This weekend marks the one year anniversary of our last weekend before babies. I know I've said it approximately fifty bajillion times, but I still can't believe how much things have changed in a year.

The view from here, last Memorial Day. Giant red blob = Harry and Lucy, three days before birth.

The view today. Things are definitely busier these days, but these babies are way more fun on the outside. My ankles are much happier (and thinner!) too.

One

I will always remember the grief and fear I felt when I learned we'd be having two babies.

Four kids. Two parents. Totally outnumbered.

The grief was for the loss of our so-called "easy" life with just two kids.

My biggest question stemmed from fear: How would I ever be able to give Leo and Ellie the attention they needed?

Growing up as an only child, some of my sweetest memories are of the things I did one on one with each of my parents. With my dad it was building circus lions out of Legos and drawing aliens and giant, Technicolor flowers on enormous pieces of paper and going roller skating on Friday nights at Oaks Park. With my mom it was getting picked up from school early to have bagels and hot chocolate, shopping at the Lloyd Center Nordstrom ("This one's on me"), meeting in Laurelhurst Park for a walk after walk, (that went on long my twenties.)

The twins must have been about a week old when I sat on the little striped love seat in our living room, to begin the long, exhausting stretch of evening that was tandem nursing newborn Harry and Lucy. It was bedtime and Ellie was crying exhausted, overtired tears "But I want Mommy to read to me. I want Mommy to put me to bed."

"Mommy's busy. She has to feed the babies. She'll come see you as soon as she can."

The words stung. And the hormonal, post-partum tears flowed. Oh did they flow.

The guilt. For as long as Ellie could remember, I had effortlessly put her to bed untethered. Oh sure, the little bedtime ritual had been known to stretch out much longer than it needed to and yes, my patience had been known to wear thin a time or two (or seventeen) but I was there for her when she needed me.

Suddenly, overnight, because of the babies, I wasn't there.

Experienced and encouraging friends and family assured me things would get back to "normal" again someday soon. The babies wouldn't always be so needy and they too would have a bedtime, allowing those treasured evening rituals to return. But it wasn't just bedtime that changed at our house after the arrival of the twins (by the way, everyone was right, the bedtime routine returned to normal after a few months). But just by virtue of there being two babies, it's not uncommon for me to bring one baby with me on an errand with Ellie (or Leo) that before, would have been just us. Things are crowded. Boisterous and fun (Life-y Chaos, anyone?) but one-on-one time? We strive for it, but it's not always possible.

Which is why last Friday was so special.

Ellie's school invited all the parents to chaperone their children on a field trip to the Land of Make Believe, a theme park in western New Jersey. Aside from the fact that a more appropriate name for the place would be the Land That Time Forgot, (there were some old rides there) we had an amazing time. It's a sweet little place.

World's Most Un-P.C. Ride

Clearly Ellie was unaffected by the politics.

Ellie rode her first roller coaster. Luckily I escaped that one (I was not so lucky when it came to the Tilt O'Whirl--she was too short to ride that alone and all I can say is Holy Motion Sickness--I felt so nauseas it was like being ten weeks pregnant all over again). I really did try to go on as many rides as I could with her but I will be the first to admit I am pretty much a ride wimp.

Did you know that Ellie is quite the dare devil? Because I did not. She marched up to nearly every ride, ready to go it alone but delighted of course, when I did join her. Sidenote: the one ride she was too afraid to go on? The ferris wheel! ("Too high," she explained.)

She was (forgive me) thrilled when she found out the roller coaster had a name. All afternoon and into the evening she kept asking me, "What was the name of the roller coaster I went on, Mommy?"

There are many hard things about being a parent to four young children, but I think one of the most difficult is multi-tasking and keeping your head when you are trying to do several things at once and also meet the needs of many little people.

Somebody almost always needs something. It's enough to make me very tense and grouchy sometimes. When I was home on maternity leave with the babies and Ellie, I couldn't get impatient with the babies, so I know that I sometimes lost my temper with Ellie. There were many times when we couldn't do what she wanted to At That Moment (not that there's anything wrong with that). But so often I felt like the words "I can't do that right now," came out of my mouth.

Which is why, to have a whole day of Yes you can do that and Yes you can go on that ride and Yes you can have more cotton candy...

...felt so special. I felt light. Relaxed. I could be completely present and there for just Ellie.

I believe this is right before Ellie announced this was "the best day EVER Mommy!"

As the day drew to a close I asked Ellie if she wanted to get an ice cream cone on our way out. Because, why not? The sun beat down on our heads as we waited in line. The weather was wonderful-unseasonably warm but comfortable and the vanilla soft serve would be the perfect conclusion to our day.

We took our cones and found a spot on the hill overlooking the park. We talked about all the rides we'd been on and Ellie told me how she loved the lemonade they'd served at lunch and she was so glad she got to sit by Sid on the roller coaster. We talked without interruptions or cries from a baby monitor, without having to make compromises about what to do next, without having to ask Leo to take turns with Ellie, or vice versa.

And then a man with a scraggly beard and wearing overalls approached us and caught my eye and I thought He's going to offer to take our picture. He knows what an important day we're having, he can just tell. He wants to help us preserve the memory. How nice.

"Ma'am? The park is closing," he said.

I looked at my phone. Right. 2:30. That's right when they said the park was going to close.

But I wasn't ready to leave.

I took a deep breath and reached out for Ellie's small, sweaty hand. We made our way to the parking lot.

Heaven is Here

If there is a Heaven, and I really hope there is, I'm pretty sure it looks like this:And also this.

Saturday afternoon, sipping lemonade against the backdrop of the tall ships lining the Mystic River, the soundtrack of our children laughing as they ran up and down the grassy fields (we played the "Let's tire them out game"--aka who can run the fastest--works every time).

This weekend was the annual trip to Mystic. It always feels like the kick off to our summer.

You may recall this photo from last year.

No, that's not a beluga whale in between Leo and Ellie, that's just me, bloated and swollen and pregnant with twins. Yes, things looked a little different last year. I remember looking at that picture and thinking: Technically, there are five people in this picture. Next year we'll come back here with two babies.

And here they are. The missing two, on the outside now, here to enjoy the aquarium and our little patch of "Heaven" (yes, I realize they don't look all that thrilled to be there--you'll have to trust me--they did have a good time.)

That's more like it. Thanks Harry. (Lucy's pondering something: her next escape, perhaps?)

We spent a wonderful afternoon by the river, the babies on a blanket, getting their shakes out after the long drive. Here Lucy demonstrates her newest favorite trick: Climb whatever obstacle is in front of her. There was a time when a setting like this, the bank of a river, would have given me palpitations, in relation to Leo. But he's in such a great place right now. I really see him maturing in wonderful ways. He's listening better, mellowing out.

Lobster rolls and macaroni and cheese (I'll give you two guesses as to who ate what) by the river at Abbot's. Everyone looks so giant to me here. The babies are clearly still babies but in my mind I often think, We have two kids and two babies. But I look at this picture and it's very clear: There are four of them. I also think: How did we get all these kids?

It always seems like going away (even for one night) is so much work but every time we do it (whether it's going away for a weekend or spending six days in Disney World) I'm always so glad we did it. I can't believe I'm saying this but it was actually more fun with the babies (except for the sleep part--Harry and hotel rooms still don't mix but we all know sleep is overrated).

Another highlight of the trip for me was a Sunday morning swim with just Leo and Ellie. Ellie adores a hotel pool--I'm pretty sure she would have chosen the pool over the aquarium--lucky for us we got to do both. It's just so different now that they are these big kids who know how to swim. It's-dare I say it-relaxing to be with them. We laughed and threw a foot ball. At one point Leo and Ellie were in the pool and I snuck over to the hot tub--of course I was watching them but I didn't need to hover. And of course no one was happy with me in the hot tub and I was ordered to get back in the pool to throw the football to Leo in a matter of minutes.

By the way, pool, then hot tub, then pool? Big Mistake.

Tattler/Comedian

Spiderman came to visit school last week. Ellie's teacher sent me this picture.

Ellie has always been a fan of tattling but it seems to be amping up a bit lately, for some reason. Sometimes it's handy, like when I'm upstairs trying to finish getting dressed for work and Leo is digging around in the freezer for ice cream. Sometimes it's really annoying. And sometimes, well, you be the judge.

Last night in the midst of the usual horror show--oops I mean comedy hour--of screeching babies and whining big kids and a barking dog that is dinner time at our house, the following conversation took place:

Leo: (to Lucy, who was sitting innocently in her high chair eating sweet potatoes and pasta shells): "You're fired!"

Ellie: "Mommy, Leo said Lucy's fired."

Me: "Ellie, do you even know what that means?"

Ellie: "It means Lucy's on fire."

Me: "No, it means she can't work at her job any more."

Leo: (to Lucy, again, this time with even more feeling): "You're fired!"

Ellie: "Mommy! Leo said Lucy's fired. She doesn't even have a job!"

Mother's Day 2012: Part Two

A while ago I read a wonderful description of twins. It described them as a "funny sort of abundance."

Jane Roper (who also has a new book out that looks interesting) writes:

"With twins, you've got not just one smiling face to get all googly-eyed at, but two. Two pairs of feet to nibble on. Two tiny butts to lower into the tub. Two different-feeling but equally satisfying bundles of baby to hold in your arms. How lucky you are! How overjoyed by this excess of beautiful, bouncing baby-ness! But at the same time, you're a little overwhelmed. Maybe even slightly stressed out. The way you might be at a big brunch buffet, a great museum, or a really good used bookstore. Where do you start? How do you choose? How do you make sure you don't miss anything?"

Talk about abundance. I guess two + twins is what? A hilarious sort of abundance? Ridiculous? All I know is, we've had four for almost a year and I still look at them almost single every day and can't quite believe they're all here. And that they need me to make them dinner every single night.

I am very, very grateful. And have much to celebrate.

On Mother's Day 2012

I’ve been thinking about my mom more than usual lately. Impending Mother’s Day? The anniversary of her death? Perhaps. I think it’s more that I always miss her a little more when I’m thinking about Big Things. Going back to work has been a huge adjustment for me (ha-I say that it in the past tense as though I’m adjusted—I assure you, I’m not!). And even though I’ve been without it for going on twelve years, I’ve been craving her guidance and wisdom to talk me through this process. What I wouldn’t give to pick up the phone and ask What would YOU do, Mom? What do YOU think?

But twelve years is a long time. I’m no longer the young adult I was when she last saw me, just starting out in my career, eager to take on a new relationship and New York City and my first apartment in Brooklyn. More than a decade later I have a wonderful partner, many grey hairs, a thicker middle, four ebullient children and a house in the New Jersey suburbs.

I don’t think she would even recognize me.

I’m still me, of course. And in my heart, I’m still her little girl. And I still so badly want to pick up that phone and call her, it makes my eyes sting.

I see her face dancing around in the faces of my children. All of them except Harry have her steely blue eyes. But they all have her round face and soft, pink cheeks and when Ellie and Lucy smile, I so often see my mom grinning back at me that it can take my breath away. In tiny ways, she’s here. But of course, she is not.

What do you think Mom would say to me, right now, about all of this, if she were here? I asked my dad the other day. We chatted via phone about various “light” topics, including “work/life balance” (cough, cough—as if such a thing exists).

He was quiet for a long time. And then:

“I think she would say that nothing is perfect. That it’s never going to be perfect.”

For a minute, I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Because he was right. It is never going to be perfect. And it's exactly (what I think) she would have said. It was both eerie and wonderful hearing to hear those words come from my father, someone who had once known her so well. But we both squint to think of what she'd say, what she'd make of the lives we lead now. We can only speculate.

"It's never going to be perfect."

That was it. It was as if my mom was sitting across the table from me in a coffee shop, saying the words herself.

“Live your life, live your life, live your life,” said the very wise Maurice Sendak, who we also lost this week. So simple. And such the perfect bookend to another beautiful, true and yes, rather melancholy quote that I posted earlier this week: "I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more."

We hold onto the sweet memories of those who have left us and hope they are proud of the things we do without them, of the decisions we make without their counsel. I’d like to think I knew my mother so well that I instinctually know what she would advise me to do. But like I said, I’m so far from the person I was when she last knew me, that sometimes I wonder. And that terrifies me. The few pictures I have of her, dotted throughout the house, together in Amsterdam in 1999, of her and my stepfather on vacation in Japan in 1997, they feel like images from from a previous life. They are.

But of that much romanticized motherly advice? Who am I kidding? Did I always do what she told me to do? Was her way always best? Of course not. It’s so easy to canonize someone who is no longer here to make mistakes or give advice you don’t agree with (because if they are here you at least have the choice to disagree). Instead, I just have this gaping question mark.

What would Mom say?

So I do what Mr. Sendak says to do. I live my life. My wonderful little life that I hope (and think) she would be proud of.

But I still miss her.

Happy Mother’s Day.

The World Is Her Oyster

Or at the very least, the dishwasher is.