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.

Remembering Sendak

It was a story I would ask my mother to recall over and over again: "Tell me about the time you realized I could read."

She always indulged me.

The details are fuzzy but the gist of it was this: I brought her a copy of Little Bear, illustrated by Maurice Sendak, opened it, and began reading to her. At first she assumed I'd memorized the words, since it had been read to me so many times. But there was something about the way I said the words that felt different. It seemed like I was reading them. So she handed me another book (I don't know which one but apparently I'd never seen it before) and off I went: I was reading.

And so Little Bear will always have a place in my heart. It was the book that launched a thousand (and many more) books for me. But In the Night Kitchen and Where the Wild Things Are would always be special too. And the soundtrack of my childhood? Hands down: "Really Rosie."

Last winter I caught an incredible interview with Maurice Sendak on WHYY's Fresh Air. It came on the radio when Ellie and the babies and I waited in the car on a bleak December day, while Leo was at speech therapy. I don't know how I managed it but I kept the babies sleeping the whole time and I was able to listen to the entire piece, as Sendak spoke of his childhood and his relationship with his partner and his thoughts on mortality and art and creativity. I was riveted, and I also (surprise!) sobbed through most of it.

One quote from the interview stayed with me, long after it was over, because it is so very true. Sendak was lucky to live a long life and he knew this, but the price of doing so was that he outlived a great many people that he loved:

"I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more."

Yes. This. Exactly. Thank you for all that you did, Maurice Sendak. You will be missed.

Where's Louie?

A certain someone is on the move. And this time I mean it.

Last night I lost her in the living room.

She is that fast. And fearless. And our new favorite question in the house is:

"Where's Louie?"

That baby girl is sneaky. She sees you coming, speeds up (sometimes she even squeals), and wiggles her stealth little body toward her target--she's a lover of corners and small spaces and electrical cords and outlets. Awesome. I don't know what's going to happen when she discovers/masters the stairs. Cue me, unable to turn my back for a second. Should make cooking dinner interesting. It's already a sight.

Good thing another certain someone is perfectly happy navigating himself via his rear end. Shockingly enough, that mode of transportation is not quite as efficient as movement a la Wiggle Worm. Who knew?

Hey! Let's hang out by the kitchen garbage can! Let's drag our white pajama clad self all over the floor around it and make Mommy realize just how dirty the floors really are.

Lucy is far the most curious baby I've ever had. Leo was definitely daring and tested boundaries but at the curious toddler stage? It just didn't seem that difficult. What? Oh right! There was only one of him. Yeah. That little detail made things a bit less complicated.

Ellie was cautious, a little timid and incredibly obedient. I said no to her once and that was it (ah, how things have changed).