Last week I took Dee Dee and Sylvia to Colorado to visit my parents at their home near Tabernash. Although neither Don's nor my parents live nearby, I am determined my children will know their grandparents. Don's parents are a long day's drive away, so we see them several times a year. To visit Baba and Mimi (the names Clayton gave my parents when he was the age the girls are now) takes more doing. But despite the three hour plane ride I'd have to endure with two squirming, over-tired toddlers, I'd been looking forward to the trip for weeks: the gorgeous mountain views, my mother's gourmet meals, the respite from the mid-Atlantic heat wave, the rare chance to spend some quality time alone with the girls. In all of those respects, I was not disappointed. Always the early riser and still on Eastern time, Sylvia was up before six most mornings. And although I hated to abandon the coziness of my bed-- ah, the vacations of yesteryear, lounging beneath the covers with a novel, watching the sun creep up the mist-shrouded mountains-- it was nice to have a couple of hours alone with my youngest child, before the strength of her sister's personality nudged her ever so slightly to the side.
Thousands of miles from the relentless demands of our quotidian life-- the dishwasher to unload, the floor to mop, the vegetables to harvest from the garden--my focus as a mom shifted. Without a household to run, I found myself able to engage with the girls more fully. With my parents at the helm, preparing meals and doing laundry, I let responsibility lapse. Instead, I stacked blocks and read books and had repetitive, endearing conversations with my daughters.
"Baba?"
"Baba's upstairs."
"Baba?"
"Baba's still sleeping."
"Baba?"
"You'll see Baba soon."
"Mimi?"
"Mimi's upstairs, too."
"Mimi?"
"Mimi will be down soon."
"Mimi?"
Pouring water from cup to cup in the kiddie pool, ad infinitum, while Dee Dee announced, "La-la! La-la! La-la!" again and again, I found that I felt peaceful, not bored. I watched my daughters play and gazed at the mountains; there was nothing else I should be doing, and Mimi would come out soon to check on us and chat. Even the usual, tired venues-- the playground, the library, the grocery store-- felt novel with Mimi or Baba along. It is not hard for me to delight in my daughter's experiences, but to share that pleasure with my parents, who love those girls as I do but who see them with fresh eyes, that was a delight, indeed. Watching Sylvia go wild with joy at every passing dog, or Dee Dee devour her ice-cream cone with her signature gusto-- never had the twins seemed quite so cute, so lovable, so dear.
And yet, the thing that struck me the most from our time there, I had not anticipated. I already knew what wonderful grandparents my parents are. I had heard my mom sing song after song after song to Clayton, had seen my dad take Dee Dee on his back to water the garden, pull Sylvia to his lap for patty-cake. But this time, I saw it all differently. Watching my parents with my baby girls, I thought, "This is how they were with us! This is why I loved them so!" When Mom stroked Dee Dee's chest and sang to her-- "This is the way we stroke your chest..."-- Dee Dee, who is ceaselessly on the move, barreling through life and furniture, stood still for long moments, gazing at her grandmother in rapture and begging for more. Little Sylvia is in love with her new baby doll, hugging her tightly to her chest and rocking her in her arms. Within minutes of our arrival, Mom had given her a tea towel as a baby blanket and helped her put the baby to bed in the block box. "Shhhh!" they would both say, fingers to their lips.
Dad pulled the girls to his lap after meals, pushed a cranky Sylvia in the stroller until she fell asleep, stocked the fridge with baby yogurt, bought them ice-cream cones at the beach...
"Baba!" they announced delightedly when he came down in the mornings.
"The one and only!" he told them. "Aren't you cute, little girlie fru-frus?"
Of course, I don't remember my parents when I was nineteen months old. I have no memories of my childhood at all until quite a few years later. But as early as I can remember, I remember loving them both desperately. I was also fiercely proud that they were my mom and dad. In fact, for years and years, I remember believing so adamantly that I had the best parents and the best family, I was shocked when I eventually realized that it was possible for other moms and dads to be good parents, too, that other kids might be equally proud of their own families.
Watching my parents with my daughters, I felt like I was time-travelling. I could imagine myself in Dee Dee and Sylvia, experiencing my parents the way they did, the way my sister and brother and I must have when we were small. "This is what it is was like!" I thought. No wonder I loved them so! How lucky I was! And how lucky I still am. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for then, and for now.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Time Does Not Relent
As one of a long list of summer projects, I've been going through all of our digital pictures since 2010, sorting out the best ones to print for old-fashioned photo albums. I try to make it through five folders a day, and afterwards, mixed with the satisfaction that I'm actually making progress, I've been feeling a little sad. There's little Clayton, looking so much like Dee Dee, laughing in the baby swing, or sitting in his high chair with mashed carrots all over his face. And there he is again, holding one of his newborn sisters. And there's little Sylvia in the baby bath tub, and Dee Dee when she first learned to crawl... In the scope of a lifetime, we are not so far from those times, and yet I never leave the computer without feeling pummeled by how fleeting they are.
Oh, this is hardly a revelation. Every parent of young children knows it viscerally, the changes that seem to happen overnight, the others that creep up on you without you really noticing. One day Sylvia won't sing "Why! Why! Why!" in her carseat anymore; one day I might not even remember that she once did. It is enough to break your heart a dozen times a day.
Dee Dee says, "Teee!" when she wants more of something. She used to sign for "more" with her hands, and we would always say, "More, please!" So, "more" for her became "teee!" and, of course, Sylvia, who imitates her sister at every opportunity, now says it too. Clayton used to say "Mmmm" for water, who knows why, until one day he didn't anymore. Now he says things like "Absolutely!" and "Mama, I was wondering if you would mind if I took quiet time?"
It is the irony of these times. While our hearts are constantly wrung out by all that we cannot hold onto-- if they would only nod like that, forever, their whole little bodies bobbing up and down emphatically!-- we are counting the months until things are easier. The other day I had made a perfect salad: greens fresh from the garden, just-picked raspberries I'd managed to hide from the kids' begging mouths and reaching fingers, crumbled feta, and almonds roasted a golden brown. It was a simple thing, but how I was looking forward to it! I set the table, put the salads and dressing out, helped the girls into their seats, went to fetch whatever unmemorable entree we were having for dinner that night. Within seconds I heard the crash: Dee Dee had dumped my salad off the table, the precious little jewels scattered across the deck. Howard, our new little dog, had lost no time in devouring the feta, and all those perfect almonds that for once I had managed not to burn. I shoved him out of the way and fell to my knees, trying to salvage what I could, pathetically close to tears.
In our house, there's no point crying over spilt salad, or spilt cheerios, or dog water spilt so many times the bottom of the kitchen island has turned black with water damage. The dogs help out with a lot of the clean-up; they have to earn their keep, we say. But even that has its downside, since Sylvia will feed Soca yogurt with her spoon, alternating his bites with her own, and Howard has such poor manners he will eat the girls' food right off their trays if given half a chance.
It's hurricane season, now, and Don jokes that Debbie should have been called Dee Dee. She is a storm of destruction, breaking the wind chimes that hang off the deck, dumping out boxes of screws for the chicken coop, chewing up tampons, systematically dropping the cats' food by fistfuls out of the cat door. A fearless climber, nothing is reliably out of her reach. In seconds, she is on the toy chest, grabbing at picture frames on the windowsill or a cell phone left on the railing. She knows what she is doing, for when she sees us coming, she'll make a break for it, then, just when she senses she's about to be caught, will throw the stolen item to the floor with all her might. The only hope is to call on the better side of her nature, to give her a task that she'll feed proud of accomplishing. "Dee Dee! Can you put that mug in the dishwasher?" (instead of throwing it on the kitchen tile.) "Dee Dee! Can you be a big girl and give Mama her phone, please?" (instead of dousing it in the toilet.)
Sometimes it seems impossible that the chaos could be as fleeting as the cuteness. It seems to have dug in its heels to stay. The other day I was showering with Clayton, getting ready to meet a friend for a drink. Don was getting the girls ready for bed, Dee Dee on the changing table, Sylvia in the bath. I hopped out of the shower and heard Sylvia sounding distressed. "Uh-oh!" she kept saying. "Uh-oh!" I looked in on her-- she was pressed up against the end of the tub, pointing at an enormous poop floating and disintegrating in the bath water. "Uh-oh! Uh-oh!" Her legs were streaked with it, the shower curtain soiled. I'm scooping poop out of the tub in the buff, the dogs careening around the house as they play, claws skidding on the wood floor, Sylvia singing her refrain-- "Uh-oh! Uh-oh!"-- and Dee Dee looking on. "Big poop!" she says, pointing. "Big poop!" Clayton emerges from the shower, dripping water all over the floor.
"Uh-oh!" Sylvia tells him.
"Uh-oh is right!" he says. "I need to get dwied off!"
I wonder, will we remember this? Years from now, collecting eggs, will we look at the chicken coop and marvel? How did we manage to build this-- together, no less-- with three small children to take care of? Will I remember how I put all three of them in there with me, the girls playing with screws and Clayton making up some elaborate game of pretend-- "Mom, pretend I'm a chicken, but when you get to the zoo and look into the cage, I've turned into a chicken man!"-- while I hurried to attach the last of the chicken wire?
At two, I seem to remember, things were easier, the mindless destruction mostly over. "Only five more months," Don and I console each other, "until they have some sense." But no sooner do the words leave my mouth than I regret them. Everyday, overwhelmed by some endearing cuteness, I wish I could keep them this age forever. How dare I rush these times?
When Sylvia woke the other day from a typically short nap, we cursed when we heard her cries. We were working on the coop, and wanted to finish that day. I was sweaty and impatient, in the middle of putting hinges on a door, but I sat with her in the rocker, letting her doze off again against my chest. Momentarily I regretted not grabbing a New Yorker. If I was going to be doing nothing, I could at least catch up on some reading. But then I called to mind a similar moment with Clayton. It was winter, and I held him against me as he drifted back to sleep, rocking and rocking while the thud of Don chopping wood echoed in from outside. The memory has always seemed to me a bulwark against the erasure of time, a precious sliver saved as the moment became buried in the years, the Clayton of then so thoroughly consumed by the Clayton of today. I adjusted Sylvia against my shoulder and stroked the tears and damp tendrils of hair from her face. I sat with her a long time, even when she seemed so asleep I wondered if I could put her down and finish the coop door... Instead, I tried my best to etch the moment into memory, her pudgy limbs limp against me, her sweet mouth fallen open as she breathed against my skin. It may not have been the last time she will slept against me, but it could be-- time does not relent. I held onto her as long as I could.
Oh, this is hardly a revelation. Every parent of young children knows it viscerally, the changes that seem to happen overnight, the others that creep up on you without you really noticing. One day Sylvia won't sing "Why! Why! Why!" in her carseat anymore; one day I might not even remember that she once did. It is enough to break your heart a dozen times a day.
Dee Dee says, "Teee!" when she wants more of something. She used to sign for "more" with her hands, and we would always say, "More, please!" So, "more" for her became "teee!" and, of course, Sylvia, who imitates her sister at every opportunity, now says it too. Clayton used to say "Mmmm" for water, who knows why, until one day he didn't anymore. Now he says things like "Absolutely!" and "Mama, I was wondering if you would mind if I took quiet time?"
It is the irony of these times. While our hearts are constantly wrung out by all that we cannot hold onto-- if they would only nod like that, forever, their whole little bodies bobbing up and down emphatically!-- we are counting the months until things are easier. The other day I had made a perfect salad: greens fresh from the garden, just-picked raspberries I'd managed to hide from the kids' begging mouths and reaching fingers, crumbled feta, and almonds roasted a golden brown. It was a simple thing, but how I was looking forward to it! I set the table, put the salads and dressing out, helped the girls into their seats, went to fetch whatever unmemorable entree we were having for dinner that night. Within seconds I heard the crash: Dee Dee had dumped my salad off the table, the precious little jewels scattered across the deck. Howard, our new little dog, had lost no time in devouring the feta, and all those perfect almonds that for once I had managed not to burn. I shoved him out of the way and fell to my knees, trying to salvage what I could, pathetically close to tears.
In our house, there's no point crying over spilt salad, or spilt cheerios, or dog water spilt so many times the bottom of the kitchen island has turned black with water damage. The dogs help out with a lot of the clean-up; they have to earn their keep, we say. But even that has its downside, since Sylvia will feed Soca yogurt with her spoon, alternating his bites with her own, and Howard has such poor manners he will eat the girls' food right off their trays if given half a chance.
It's hurricane season, now, and Don jokes that Debbie should have been called Dee Dee. She is a storm of destruction, breaking the wind chimes that hang off the deck, dumping out boxes of screws for the chicken coop, chewing up tampons, systematically dropping the cats' food by fistfuls out of the cat door. A fearless climber, nothing is reliably out of her reach. In seconds, she is on the toy chest, grabbing at picture frames on the windowsill or a cell phone left on the railing. She knows what she is doing, for when she sees us coming, she'll make a break for it, then, just when she senses she's about to be caught, will throw the stolen item to the floor with all her might. The only hope is to call on the better side of her nature, to give her a task that she'll feed proud of accomplishing. "Dee Dee! Can you put that mug in the dishwasher?" (instead of throwing it on the kitchen tile.) "Dee Dee! Can you be a big girl and give Mama her phone, please?" (instead of dousing it in the toilet.)
Sometimes it seems impossible that the chaos could be as fleeting as the cuteness. It seems to have dug in its heels to stay. The other day I was showering with Clayton, getting ready to meet a friend for a drink. Don was getting the girls ready for bed, Dee Dee on the changing table, Sylvia in the bath. I hopped out of the shower and heard Sylvia sounding distressed. "Uh-oh!" she kept saying. "Uh-oh!" I looked in on her-- she was pressed up against the end of the tub, pointing at an enormous poop floating and disintegrating in the bath water. "Uh-oh! Uh-oh!" Her legs were streaked with it, the shower curtain soiled. I'm scooping poop out of the tub in the buff, the dogs careening around the house as they play, claws skidding on the wood floor, Sylvia singing her refrain-- "Uh-oh! Uh-oh!"-- and Dee Dee looking on. "Big poop!" she says, pointing. "Big poop!" Clayton emerges from the shower, dripping water all over the floor.
"Uh-oh!" Sylvia tells him.
"Uh-oh is right!" he says. "I need to get dwied off!"
I wonder, will we remember this? Years from now, collecting eggs, will we look at the chicken coop and marvel? How did we manage to build this-- together, no less-- with three small children to take care of? Will I remember how I put all three of them in there with me, the girls playing with screws and Clayton making up some elaborate game of pretend-- "Mom, pretend I'm a chicken, but when you get to the zoo and look into the cage, I've turned into a chicken man!"-- while I hurried to attach the last of the chicken wire?
At two, I seem to remember, things were easier, the mindless destruction mostly over. "Only five more months," Don and I console each other, "until they have some sense." But no sooner do the words leave my mouth than I regret them. Everyday, overwhelmed by some endearing cuteness, I wish I could keep them this age forever. How dare I rush these times?
When Sylvia woke the other day from a typically short nap, we cursed when we heard her cries. We were working on the coop, and wanted to finish that day. I was sweaty and impatient, in the middle of putting hinges on a door, but I sat with her in the rocker, letting her doze off again against my chest. Momentarily I regretted not grabbing a New Yorker. If I was going to be doing nothing, I could at least catch up on some reading. But then I called to mind a similar moment with Clayton. It was winter, and I held him against me as he drifted back to sleep, rocking and rocking while the thud of Don chopping wood echoed in from outside. The memory has always seemed to me a bulwark against the erasure of time, a precious sliver saved as the moment became buried in the years, the Clayton of then so thoroughly consumed by the Clayton of today. I adjusted Sylvia against my shoulder and stroked the tears and damp tendrils of hair from her face. I sat with her a long time, even when she seemed so asleep I wondered if I could put her down and finish the coop door... Instead, I tried my best to etch the moment into memory, her pudgy limbs limp against me, her sweet mouth fallen open as she breathed against my skin. It may not have been the last time she will slept against me, but it could be-- time does not relent. I held onto her as long as I could.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Mother's Day
It is Mother's Day and my sweet husband has taken all the kids out for the morning. "You say you never get time alone at home," he says. It is true, but I can hardly complain. I don't feel that I lack for time to myself these days. I have the YW, of course, and Don graciously handles the evening routines alone once a week while I go out, to dinner with a friend, or book group, or a blood donation. But time to myself in our home, when I am not half-listening for a baby to wake up-- that is a rare treat.
I know I'm not alone, of course. The cover for this week's New Yorker was of a scene at a bustling playground. At first, I didn't get it. Playground, babies, slides, strollers. The point? I turned to the table of contents to find the cover title, hoping that would help: "Mother's Day." Flipping back to the cover, I finally noticed--all the parents at the playground, save one startled mother with a stroller, were dads. Ah, the irony. Mother's Day, and the greatest gift we can receive is time without our children.
It brings to mind an article I read a few months ago, which cited a study that seemed to suggest that people without children are happier. When asked how pleasurable parents found various activities, from talking on the phone to taking care of their kids, spending time with kids came out at the bottom of the list, just above cleaning house. Oh, I get it. Every morning Clayton begs me to read him a book, tell him a story, play with his toys. "Just let me unload the dishwasher," I say. "Hold on, I just need to put up this laundry, change your sisters' diapers, sweep the floor..." I'm relieved if he relents and plays by himself, so I can get the table cleared or the bathrooms cleaned. In those moments, I honestly feel like I'd rather scrub the toilets than make his toy animals talk to one another. Partly, it's that I really do need to do those chores. I hate coming home and trying to fix lunch with the breakfast dishes still cluttering the counters. But it's also that playing with toys is boring. How many variations of some bad guy (the zebra, for instance) trying to catch some good guy (a lizard, perhaps) before the zebra turns "nice" can one stand? Plus, I know that as soon as I sit down the girls will swamp me, wanting to nurse, or grabbing Clayton's toys out of my hand. "Just a second," I'll tell Clayton, "Let me find something to make your sister happy." I'm up and down a zillion times, fetching books or drinks for the girls, or chasing them down to recover stolen toys, while Clayton gets increasingly frustrated. "Come on, Mom! Will you just make them talk!" Of course I'd rather be accomplishing something.
Even today, when Don left with the kids, I had to resist the urge to clean our bathroom without having to worry about Dee Dee chucking a toy in the toilet. Instead I filled our giant tub, lit the eucalyptus candle Don gave me for my birthday, and took a bath. A light, steady rain was falling outside, the birds were singing despite the damp, and the house was deliciously quiet. I opened the windows wide and just lay and stared at the trees, my skin steaming.
But so what if right now "taking a bath" comes out above "spending time with my kids?" That study misses the point. I'd rank the bath higher, probably even cleaning the bathroom higher, because that's what I don't often have the freedom to do. It is certainly no indication of my happiness.
And, I am happy. More than a year and a half after I left my job, I feel like I'm finally at peace with it. Oh, when I went to the middle school last week to vote, and saw the teachers in the hallways, looking official with their ID badges and their keys, dodging adolescents and smiling at coworkers, I admit I felt a pang. That used to be me... But mostly the world of teaching feels more and more remote. I'll be back there one day, I'm sure, but it feels good to have let it go for now.
And then there's my marriage. The other day at playgroup, one of the moms said, "Someone should have told me I'd be annoyed at my husband for the first year of my son's life." It was hyperbole, of course, and we all laughed, but really. I think of those childbirth classes, the cheerful, excited couples acting out C-sections, the soon-to-be dads showing off their new vocabulary: dilated, effaced, transition... We breathed together lying on the floor and came up with code words for when the pain became unbearable, but I don't remember any hint at what was to come after the birth: your relationship will be tested like never before. Maybe we couldn't have heard it then, anyway. (Although I do now often recall our teacher saying "Scrambled eggs is a fine dinner," so there's no real knowing what will stick.)
But here we are, a year and a half after the birth of our second and third children, and it's like the sky has cleared. I am overwhelmed daily by my love and gratitude for the father my husband has become. When he used to change diapers, I'd listen with annoyance to the curses. Spit-up on his shirt, or poop all over the changing table... Now I listen for Sylvia's shrieks of laughter; a diaper change with mom is rarely so much fun. This morning Clayton complained of his stomach hurting-- "I think the Special K is poking it!"-- and I brushed him off. He just wanted attention, and I was eating my breakfast. But Don took him in his arms, and watching them, I was overcome by how much they love each other, how easy it is for Daddy to make everything all right.
Don and I hug more now, and laugh. The other night, Clayton, up past his bedtime and casting about for something to distract us from sending him back to bed, caught sight of the figure of Ganesh on the bookcase in the living room.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing.
"It's a Hindu god," Don explained.
Clayton stared at the Buddha-like belly, the elephant trunk, the four raised arms. "That's God?" he said in disbelief. You could almost hear him thinking, that's who we're talking to when I say my prayers? He looks like he could be a monster from a Scooby Doo episode. Don and I cracked up. So much for our stern reprimands to go back to bed.
I remember when Don and I were newlyweds who wouldn't shut up about our dogs. All of our conversations turned to them eventually. "Did you see how Dulce..." Even having started that sentence, I can't for the life of me think what we had to talk about. But it's worse now. We follow each other around the house to tell our stories. "You should have seen Sylvia at the playground. She got this woman to pick her up!" (Sylvia, my serious little girl, in so many respects far less outgoing than her sister, flirts unabashedly with total strangers.) Or, "Dee Dee loves that trampoline! She stops nursing to tell me, "Dumpa-dumpa!" We're both bursting with pride over how well she jumps. "Look at her!" we say in amazement. "Look how much air!"
We had friends visit from out of town this weekend. Their daughter is almost exactly the twins' age, and for the better part of their visit, we alternated raving about our kids, politely waiting for the other couple to finish their anecdotes so we could share ours. I know their daughter must be as cute and extraordinary to them as Dee Dee and Sylvia are to me, but I don't feel it. Nor, of course, do I expect my kids to be as interesting to other people as they are to me. (Sort of ironic, I suppose, that I'm blogging about them.) Only Don truly gets it. So, yes, I miss the mountain bike rides that started us on our journey together, miss the way we used to dance in the kitchen on weekend mornings while the cheese grits bubbled on the stove. But our love for our kids, and the joy we both find in our family, has brought us together in new and unquantifiable ways. Sure, I'd probably rank a kid-free overnight at a B&B as more pleasurable, but cracking up in the bathroom together--yet again-- over Clayton's incredulous "That's God?" or watching Dee Dee and Sylvia holding on to each other's hands as they stumble down the hill towards the trampoline....Well, I'm pretty darn happy.
I know I'm not alone, of course. The cover for this week's New Yorker was of a scene at a bustling playground. At first, I didn't get it. Playground, babies, slides, strollers. The point? I turned to the table of contents to find the cover title, hoping that would help: "Mother's Day." Flipping back to the cover, I finally noticed--all the parents at the playground, save one startled mother with a stroller, were dads. Ah, the irony. Mother's Day, and the greatest gift we can receive is time without our children.
It brings to mind an article I read a few months ago, which cited a study that seemed to suggest that people without children are happier. When asked how pleasurable parents found various activities, from talking on the phone to taking care of their kids, spending time with kids came out at the bottom of the list, just above cleaning house. Oh, I get it. Every morning Clayton begs me to read him a book, tell him a story, play with his toys. "Just let me unload the dishwasher," I say. "Hold on, I just need to put up this laundry, change your sisters' diapers, sweep the floor..." I'm relieved if he relents and plays by himself, so I can get the table cleared or the bathrooms cleaned. In those moments, I honestly feel like I'd rather scrub the toilets than make his toy animals talk to one another. Partly, it's that I really do need to do those chores. I hate coming home and trying to fix lunch with the breakfast dishes still cluttering the counters. But it's also that playing with toys is boring. How many variations of some bad guy (the zebra, for instance) trying to catch some good guy (a lizard, perhaps) before the zebra turns "nice" can one stand? Plus, I know that as soon as I sit down the girls will swamp me, wanting to nurse, or grabbing Clayton's toys out of my hand. "Just a second," I'll tell Clayton, "Let me find something to make your sister happy." I'm up and down a zillion times, fetching books or drinks for the girls, or chasing them down to recover stolen toys, while Clayton gets increasingly frustrated. "Come on, Mom! Will you just make them talk!" Of course I'd rather be accomplishing something.
Even today, when Don left with the kids, I had to resist the urge to clean our bathroom without having to worry about Dee Dee chucking a toy in the toilet. Instead I filled our giant tub, lit the eucalyptus candle Don gave me for my birthday, and took a bath. A light, steady rain was falling outside, the birds were singing despite the damp, and the house was deliciously quiet. I opened the windows wide and just lay and stared at the trees, my skin steaming.
But so what if right now "taking a bath" comes out above "spending time with my kids?" That study misses the point. I'd rank the bath higher, probably even cleaning the bathroom higher, because that's what I don't often have the freedom to do. It is certainly no indication of my happiness.
And, I am happy. More than a year and a half after I left my job, I feel like I'm finally at peace with it. Oh, when I went to the middle school last week to vote, and saw the teachers in the hallways, looking official with their ID badges and their keys, dodging adolescents and smiling at coworkers, I admit I felt a pang. That used to be me... But mostly the world of teaching feels more and more remote. I'll be back there one day, I'm sure, but it feels good to have let it go for now.
And then there's my marriage. The other day at playgroup, one of the moms said, "Someone should have told me I'd be annoyed at my husband for the first year of my son's life." It was hyperbole, of course, and we all laughed, but really. I think of those childbirth classes, the cheerful, excited couples acting out C-sections, the soon-to-be dads showing off their new vocabulary: dilated, effaced, transition... We breathed together lying on the floor and came up with code words for when the pain became unbearable, but I don't remember any hint at what was to come after the birth: your relationship will be tested like never before. Maybe we couldn't have heard it then, anyway. (Although I do now often recall our teacher saying "Scrambled eggs is a fine dinner," so there's no real knowing what will stick.)
But here we are, a year and a half after the birth of our second and third children, and it's like the sky has cleared. I am overwhelmed daily by my love and gratitude for the father my husband has become. When he used to change diapers, I'd listen with annoyance to the curses. Spit-up on his shirt, or poop all over the changing table... Now I listen for Sylvia's shrieks of laughter; a diaper change with mom is rarely so much fun. This morning Clayton complained of his stomach hurting-- "I think the Special K is poking it!"-- and I brushed him off. He just wanted attention, and I was eating my breakfast. But Don took him in his arms, and watching them, I was overcome by how much they love each other, how easy it is for Daddy to make everything all right.
Don and I hug more now, and laugh. The other night, Clayton, up past his bedtime and casting about for something to distract us from sending him back to bed, caught sight of the figure of Ganesh on the bookcase in the living room.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing.
"It's a Hindu god," Don explained.
Clayton stared at the Buddha-like belly, the elephant trunk, the four raised arms. "That's God?" he said in disbelief. You could almost hear him thinking, that's who we're talking to when I say my prayers? He looks like he could be a monster from a Scooby Doo episode. Don and I cracked up. So much for our stern reprimands to go back to bed.
I remember when Don and I were newlyweds who wouldn't shut up about our dogs. All of our conversations turned to them eventually. "Did you see how Dulce..." Even having started that sentence, I can't for the life of me think what we had to talk about. But it's worse now. We follow each other around the house to tell our stories. "You should have seen Sylvia at the playground. She got this woman to pick her up!" (Sylvia, my serious little girl, in so many respects far less outgoing than her sister, flirts unabashedly with total strangers.) Or, "Dee Dee loves that trampoline! She stops nursing to tell me, "Dumpa-dumpa!" We're both bursting with pride over how well she jumps. "Look at her!" we say in amazement. "Look how much air!"
We had friends visit from out of town this weekend. Their daughter is almost exactly the twins' age, and for the better part of their visit, we alternated raving about our kids, politely waiting for the other couple to finish their anecdotes so we could share ours. I know their daughter must be as cute and extraordinary to them as Dee Dee and Sylvia are to me, but I don't feel it. Nor, of course, do I expect my kids to be as interesting to other people as they are to me. (Sort of ironic, I suppose, that I'm blogging about them.) Only Don truly gets it. So, yes, I miss the mountain bike rides that started us on our journey together, miss the way we used to dance in the kitchen on weekend mornings while the cheese grits bubbled on the stove. But our love for our kids, and the joy we both find in our family, has brought us together in new and unquantifiable ways. Sure, I'd probably rank a kid-free overnight at a B&B as more pleasurable, but cracking up in the bathroom together--yet again-- over Clayton's incredulous "That's God?" or watching Dee Dee and Sylvia holding on to each other's hands as they stumble down the hill towards the trampoline....Well, I'm pretty darn happy.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
More Than Double
Does it seem odd that after seventeen months into mothering twins, it has started to feel really hard that there are two of them? Maybe it's because, for a long time, having twins meant that the chores and the challenges were mostly just doubled: twice as many night nursings, twice as many diapers, twice as many babies to console and cart around. But now, just as the girls are getting easier in some ways-- they feed themselves, wet fewer diapers, can transport themselves more reliably-- I'm feeling the challenge of mothering multiples in other ways. It's hard not to point fingers. Dee Dee is a beast, stealing toys and sippy cups, knocking Sylvia down and piling on top of her, taking Sylvia's shoe and making a run for it with an evil little grin before tossing it down the stairs. But even sweet little Sylvie dishes it out, pulling her sister's hair with a vengeance, as if to make up for all the times Dee Dee kicked her in the head in utero. And even when they're not intentionally pissing each other off, there is still the simple fact that there are two of them and one of me. Sylvia will be screaming her head off, only relenting when I get out the Ergo and resign myself to hauling her around. Ah, a moment of peace! But when Dee Dee sees her sister in the Ergo, she's irate. She clings to my leg and howls: "Up! Up!" Sylvia is content and quiet now; I imagine her looking down at her crying sister with a smug little grin. Down Sylvia goes-- I'll just switch them out, I think-- but the moment her feet hit the floor she's howling again. Now, instead of one screaming baby, I've got two.
And so it goes. Sylvia will be perfectly content on my hip, but the moment Dee Dee gets in the swing, she's suddenly desperate to swing, too. Dee Dee will want nothing more than to push the ball around in the little stroller, until her sister gets on the bike. Then, mayhem. Do they make tandem tricycles, I wonder? If they do, I'm sure the girls would find a way to make it not work. In the side to side stroller, they hit and flap at each other until one or both are in tears. When one's in front of the other, it's the hair pulling again.
The prospect of weaning, daunting in itself, suddenly feels doubly so. The other day, the girls and I were hanging out in the sandbox while Clayton and Townes jumped on the new trampoline. Dee Dee was merrily filling a bucket of sand; Sylvia was in a constant state of fuss. Finally, her shrill and constant refrain of "No! No! No! No!" wore me down, and I offered her my breast. Within seconds, Dee Dee had dropped her shovel and barrelled over. And if she was a nuisance while I was nursing her sister, grunting and demanding, when Sylvia finished and was finally content to sit quietly in my lap, Dee Dee ramped it up. She knew it was her turn, and she wouldn't relent. Gently, I set Sylvia down in the sandbox, hoping that mama's milk had worked its magic. She was screaming again even before Dee Dee could dive into my lap. I tried bringing her onto my knee while Dee Dee nursed, but that wasn't good enough. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to have just one toddler. In that moment, I could have nursed and cuddled Sylvia indefinitely. I could have moved her onto my back and trimmed the hedge or thinned the lettuce or simply walked around the yard in peace. I think back to my ennui when Clayton was a baby-- it certainly didn't feel like a piece of cake back then. I have a vivid image of myself, cooking dinner with Clayton on my back in the Ergo, willing him to sleep with every once of my being, wearily resigned to the fact that I'd be stuck carrying his thirty plus pounds around for the next hour and a bit. I didn't know how good I had it. But isn't that always the way?
A few weeks ago, a paperback at the used book store caught my eye. It's called High Heels to Bunny Slippers and it's part memoir, part self-help, written by a woman who left her career to care for her young children full time. It is not the book I would have written-- a whole chapter is devoted to the perils of daycare-- but parts of it definitely resonate. She writes of finding herself especially resentful of the perks of her husband's job: the travel, the lunches with coworkers, the freedom to leave the house unencumbered. But then she reminds herself that her "job" has its perks, too. Although the perks she identifies are not mine (she sleeps later than her husband, and has an hour or two while her youngest son naps to read or write-- ah, one can dream!), still I found myself thinking, "Of course!" I, too, often envy Don his ten-minute, kid-free commute, his faculty breakfasts, the camaraderie he has with his co-workers. But I've got perks, too. I get to be outside a lot during the day. I can go to the gym. I have the freedom to structure the day the way I want.
That last paragraph was not meant to be a complete non sequitur. It's just a reminder to myself how much our attitudes about something are determined by what we choose to focus on. Sure, having three little kids is harder than having two. Even as I write this, I find myself watching with envy the families of four who come into the bakery, each parent with a child in arms, making it look so easy. But being able to go one-on-one defense with their kids is their perk. Having twins has its own. Like when Dee Dee comes with me to get Sylvia up from her nap, sees her in her crib, and enthusiastically announces, "Baby!" Or when Sylvia takes morsels from her tray to give to her sister, or Dee Dee offers Sylvia a toy when she's in tears. There are so many, really. They kiss each other with exaggerated smacks, make each other laugh, bounce up in down in opposite ends of the wagon, stumble around together on the trampoline. And even when they inspire each other to mischief-- I'm embarrassed by how many times I've looked over to find them both standing up on the kitchen table, their chubby arms plunged into the cereal boxes, pleased as punch with themselves-- it's pretty darn cute.
I remember how I talked the midwife into doing an ultrasound on my first prenatal visit. "I just want to be reassured I'm not having twins," I'd said.
"Yep," she said nonchalantly as she prodded me with the wand. "There's another one. Let's see if there are any more."
"Oh shit!" I said. "Oh shit."
But of course I came around. I'm lucky, I told myself. Not everyone gets a chance to have this experience, and I do. It may be double the trouble at times, but it's my path. There are rocks and troughs and times when the ascent is so hard I wish I could have stuck to the flat, but, oh, what a view!
And so it goes. Sylvia will be perfectly content on my hip, but the moment Dee Dee gets in the swing, she's suddenly desperate to swing, too. Dee Dee will want nothing more than to push the ball around in the little stroller, until her sister gets on the bike. Then, mayhem. Do they make tandem tricycles, I wonder? If they do, I'm sure the girls would find a way to make it not work. In the side to side stroller, they hit and flap at each other until one or both are in tears. When one's in front of the other, it's the hair pulling again.
The prospect of weaning, daunting in itself, suddenly feels doubly so. The other day, the girls and I were hanging out in the sandbox while Clayton and Townes jumped on the new trampoline. Dee Dee was merrily filling a bucket of sand; Sylvia was in a constant state of fuss. Finally, her shrill and constant refrain of "No! No! No! No!" wore me down, and I offered her my breast. Within seconds, Dee Dee had dropped her shovel and barrelled over. And if she was a nuisance while I was nursing her sister, grunting and demanding, when Sylvia finished and was finally content to sit quietly in my lap, Dee Dee ramped it up. She knew it was her turn, and she wouldn't relent. Gently, I set Sylvia down in the sandbox, hoping that mama's milk had worked its magic. She was screaming again even before Dee Dee could dive into my lap. I tried bringing her onto my knee while Dee Dee nursed, but that wasn't good enough. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to have just one toddler. In that moment, I could have nursed and cuddled Sylvia indefinitely. I could have moved her onto my back and trimmed the hedge or thinned the lettuce or simply walked around the yard in peace. I think back to my ennui when Clayton was a baby-- it certainly didn't feel like a piece of cake back then. I have a vivid image of myself, cooking dinner with Clayton on my back in the Ergo, willing him to sleep with every once of my being, wearily resigned to the fact that I'd be stuck carrying his thirty plus pounds around for the next hour and a bit. I didn't know how good I had it. But isn't that always the way?
A few weeks ago, a paperback at the used book store caught my eye. It's called High Heels to Bunny Slippers and it's part memoir, part self-help, written by a woman who left her career to care for her young children full time. It is not the book I would have written-- a whole chapter is devoted to the perils of daycare-- but parts of it definitely resonate. She writes of finding herself especially resentful of the perks of her husband's job: the travel, the lunches with coworkers, the freedom to leave the house unencumbered. But then she reminds herself that her "job" has its perks, too. Although the perks she identifies are not mine (she sleeps later than her husband, and has an hour or two while her youngest son naps to read or write-- ah, one can dream!), still I found myself thinking, "Of course!" I, too, often envy Don his ten-minute, kid-free commute, his faculty breakfasts, the camaraderie he has with his co-workers. But I've got perks, too. I get to be outside a lot during the day. I can go to the gym. I have the freedom to structure the day the way I want.
That last paragraph was not meant to be a complete non sequitur. It's just a reminder to myself how much our attitudes about something are determined by what we choose to focus on. Sure, having three little kids is harder than having two. Even as I write this, I find myself watching with envy the families of four who come into the bakery, each parent with a child in arms, making it look so easy. But being able to go one-on-one defense with their kids is their perk. Having twins has its own. Like when Dee Dee comes with me to get Sylvia up from her nap, sees her in her crib, and enthusiastically announces, "Baby!" Or when Sylvia takes morsels from her tray to give to her sister, or Dee Dee offers Sylvia a toy when she's in tears. There are so many, really. They kiss each other with exaggerated smacks, make each other laugh, bounce up in down in opposite ends of the wagon, stumble around together on the trampoline. And even when they inspire each other to mischief-- I'm embarrassed by how many times I've looked over to find them both standing up on the kitchen table, their chubby arms plunged into the cereal boxes, pleased as punch with themselves-- it's pretty darn cute.
I remember how I talked the midwife into doing an ultrasound on my first prenatal visit. "I just want to be reassured I'm not having twins," I'd said.
"Yep," she said nonchalantly as she prodded me with the wand. "There's another one. Let's see if there are any more."
"Oh shit!" I said. "Oh shit."
But of course I came around. I'm lucky, I told myself. Not everyone gets a chance to have this experience, and I do. It may be double the trouble at times, but it's my path. There are rocks and troughs and times when the ascent is so hard I wish I could have stuck to the flat, but, oh, what a view!
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Sick
My first year of college, I was not wild in the traditional ways. I did not have one single drink. I stayed up late in the library, doing physics problem sets that would not be graded and went swing dancing on Saturday nights. The first time it really struck me that I was a thousand miles from home was the day of my first college track meet. I didn't make it to the meet. Instead, I spent the day puking into the toilet of my dorm's co-ed bathroom.
I dragged my garbage can next to my bed and longed desperately for my mom. How could one be sick alone? I wanted mom to rub my back while I vomited, to take away the bile-filled bowl and bring me ginger ale and ice chips and saltines. I wanted her cool hand on my forehead, the comfort of her footsteps in the hall, the reassuring clangs of pots and pans that echoed up through the floorboards of my bedroom from the kitchen below. Not yet nineteen, I was hardly a grown-up, despite my pretensions. (At my liberal arts college, I had quickly learned to say "woman" instead of "girl.") But that day I thought that I understood what being an adult meant. Cleaning up my own vomit, I had never felt so alone, or longed so much for childhood.
Last week, almost exactly twenty years later, I missed my mom again, with a desperation that made me catch my breath. She and my father were in the middle of a month long vacation in India when my whole family got sick. It began on Thursday morning. Sylvia, who usually wakes long before six, had slept in. When seven o'clock, then eight, came and went, I was pleasantly surprised. Maybe this would be the new norm, I couldn't help but hope. When I finally heard her cry and went to get her, she was standing in a cold orange puddle of puke. Perhaps something she ate had not agreed with her, I thought. She seemed okay. A little subdued perhaps, but then she had just woken up. I rushed her through a bath and loaded her into the car-- we were late for Clayton's school.
Later that morning she fell asleep on my back in Amazing Savings, but still I didn't clue in that something wasn't right-- she has always loved her morning nap. But by afternoon she was puking again, with a vengeance. She wanted to nurse, but couldn't keep the milk down. Her vomit-soaked clothes and sheets piled up in the laundry faster than I could do the wash. The next morning she woke early as usual. I felt her bed in the dark-- dry! It had been 24 hours; probably the bug had run its course. I brought her to our bed to nurse as usual, and she drank greedily. Afterwards she lay quietly for a moment and then began to writhe and fuss. An instant later, we were both drenched in milk. More laundry-- our sheets and mattress cover-- went into the pile. The washer ran all day.
By afternoon she seemed better. It was a beautiful, mild day, and we were all a little restless. We headed to the park. Sylvia fell asleep in the car on the way there, and when she woke up, puked all over us both. Driving home, still in my shirt that reeked of her vomit, I heard retching behind me. Again? I thought. I was sure she had fallen asleep. And then I saw Clayton's horror-stricken face in the rear view mirror, the vomit streaming down his chin.
"Mama!" he wailed. "What happened?" Despite the fact that he had spent the first six months of his life spitting up profusely after every feeding, this was his first conscious experience really being sick. He was terrified, and covered in vomit, but there was nothing I could do. I concentrated on the road, telling him over and over, "We'll be home soon. We'll get you in the bath, clean you up..."
Finally home, Sylvia was listless. She hadn't eaten for two days, had barely kept down milk. Clayton whined in the bathtub, " I don't want to be sick!" while she cried pitifully, rubbing at her eyes in exhaustion. It was after four, so I called Don at work. Please come home! Clayton's vomit-soaked clothes were still in the garage where I'd stripped him down, his soiled car seat still in the van. After his bath, I foolishly let Clayton watch videos on the laptop with a bucket beside his chair. He puked on the kitchen table instead.
Don still wasn't home, but things started to look up. Sylvia went to sleep without complaint, and Clayton made it to the toilet for the next round. Dee Dee, bless her, charged happily around the living room, the last one standing. With Clayton resting in bed and Sylvia asleep, I made her scrambled egg and green beans for dinner. She scarfed it down with her usual zeal, and I clung to hope that she might be spared.
At bedtime, I was reading to Clayton when I heard Dee Dee cough, then Don swear. All her dinner was on the living room floor, the pyjamas Don had wrestled her into moments before now covered with scrambled eggs and beans. In a few minutes Clayton was at it again: more soiled pjs, more dirty sheets. In the morning, the stench in his room was revolting, his comforter reeking of puke.
Probably I should spare you any more of the gruesome details. Suffice to say that it was a very challenging week. Sylvia vomited sporadically for five days. Both girls had horrendous diarrhea that no diaper could hold, so pair after pair of pants had to be hosed down and added to the laundry. Don and I both succumbed, as well, despite relentless hand washing. (Don, after throwing up on Saturday evening, ran a 10K on Sunday in forty minutes, winning his age group!) Clayton recovered quickly from the stomach bug, but a couple of days later developed a hacking cough and fever. I blamed myself. On Sylvia's fifth day of puking, I had taken her to the doctor's, with Dee Dee and Clayton in tow. Without my mom to call for moral support, I had called the phone nurses at the doctor's office several times, wanting reassurance that five days of vomiting was in the range of normal. "Why don't you bring her in?" they said. Although I wondered if it was necessary-- it was so clearly viral, so what could a doctor do?-- it was a relief to follow orders. After the visit, Sylvia never puked again (supposedly even 12 days can be normal for a toddler) but all three kids quickly developed colds. Why hadn't I trusted my instincts, I wondered, and avoided bringing them to a waiting room surely teeming with sick kids' germs?
For over a week, the scope of life narrowed. I did load after load of laundry. I changed diaper after diaper after diaper. I washed my hands so many times my already dry skin cracked and peeled. I hosed down carseats, scrubbed vomit-splattered walls, wiped down mattresses, changed sheets. Worried about the girls staying hydrated, I nursed round the clock. I served up Pedialyte popsicles, mixed Culturelle into apple sauce, coaxed down Tylenol mixed with ice-cream. I rocked and stroked and soothed and worried. And through it all, I longed for my mom. Not so she could help me, although if she had been here, she surely would have. I just wanted to talk to her, the sympathy in her voice as comforting as her cool hand on my brow so many years ago. I wanted her moral support, her advice, her concern. Maybe, too, in the midst of taking care of so much and so many, I wanted to talk to someone who would have wanted to take care of me. Thirty-seven years old, with three kids of my own, presumably I really am a grown-up now. But when the going gets tough, I still want my mom!
Monday, February 13, 2012
Mama's Milk
I began the new year resolved to wean the girls before spring break. I was having fantasies of jetting off by myself somewhere, even if just to West Asheville, spending my first night ever away from my children in the three plus years since Clayton was born. I've been pregnant or nursing so long now that I've almost forgotten what my "normal" body looks like, although I do vaguely remember a time when I could run without doubling up on jog bras. But it wasn't eagerness to reverse my natural boob job that motivated me to wean, although, honestly, I do prefer my non-lactating bust. I just had the sense that it was time. Clayton had stopped nursing cold turkey at eleven months, when three teeth coming in at once made it just too painful to nurse. And although the suddenness of it made for a few painful, engorged days, I was glad in retrospect to have totally avoided the challenges of weaning that so many of the nursing moms I knew experienced. There are enough power struggles with toddlers, I told myself. I didn't want battles over nursing to be one of them.
The girls, though, seem to have other ideas, their interest in mama's milk showing no signs of slackening. At the playground, the library, the Y, they beg to be picked up, then arch their backs and fling themselves to one side. But while the theatrics of their insistence irks me at times, I never cease to be amazed by the transformation a few minutes nursing can work. Sylvia, who has been loathe to give up her morning nap, by late morning is often near the end of her proverbial rope. She pulls on her hair and rubs her eyes, wailing if I put her down, thrashing even in my arms. I nurse her to buy time while the others go down the slide a few more times, or listen to one more story at the library. She is almost always invigorated afterwards, sliding off my lap to go and play herself, as if my leche were a double latte. Dee Dee, on the other hand, charges through the morning tirelessly, but often wakes from her nap flushed and grumpy. She refuses food and drink, shaking her head wildly and flinging anything I offer to the ground. A few minutes of nursing, though, and she breaks away talking-- "Dad-dee!" she says to anyone these days-- and slips to the floor to march around with her little bow-legged gait and jutted chin. It's as if mama's milk is some kind of magic elixir. It can make a tired baby lively, a grumpy one content. And how easy! I can let Dee squawk and fuss, raising my voice over hers to read Clayton a book, while she grabs at the pages and claws at my legs, or we can all sit quietly reading on the couch, Clayton playing tenderly with her feet while she nurses.
Nursing feels like the "get out of jail free card" of mothering, a sure-fire way to comfort, soothe, quiet. And despite the elaborate plans I devise in my head for how I'm going to cut back-- three times a day by the end of February, two weeks of twice a day, just once by the end of March-- there's no time of day that I really want to cut out. I love the way nursing eases us into the morning, how, when Sylvia wakes before the alarm goes off at six, I can bring her to bed and cuddle with her quietly in a cocoon of warmth beneath the blankets. Bedtimes, too, I treasure, the way, after nursing, Sylvia collapses willingly into bed, how Dee Dee quiets in my arms, all her boisterous energy of moments before dissolving as we rock.
So why, I wonder, if nursing is such a boon for me and a comfort to the girls, do I want to-- or, rather, feel like I should-- wean? When the girls practically tackle me in the childcare room at the Y, arching over backwards in my arms, why do I feel like I have to apologize, "I'm trying to cut back!" When the only comments I've heard from strangers have been positive-- "I can't believe you're nursing twins! Way to go!"-- why do I fear the judgement of others? At not even fifteen months, the girls are hardly pushing the envelope when it comes to nursing longevity. And anyway, who, other than myself, is counting? When it comes down to it, isn't it just between us? Maybe I'll tire of it before they do, maybe not. I guess we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it, and hopefully we'll manage to do it with a little bit of grace.
The girls, though, seem to have other ideas, their interest in mama's milk showing no signs of slackening. At the playground, the library, the Y, they beg to be picked up, then arch their backs and fling themselves to one side. But while the theatrics of their insistence irks me at times, I never cease to be amazed by the transformation a few minutes nursing can work. Sylvia, who has been loathe to give up her morning nap, by late morning is often near the end of her proverbial rope. She pulls on her hair and rubs her eyes, wailing if I put her down, thrashing even in my arms. I nurse her to buy time while the others go down the slide a few more times, or listen to one more story at the library. She is almost always invigorated afterwards, sliding off my lap to go and play herself, as if my leche were a double latte. Dee Dee, on the other hand, charges through the morning tirelessly, but often wakes from her nap flushed and grumpy. She refuses food and drink, shaking her head wildly and flinging anything I offer to the ground. A few minutes of nursing, though, and she breaks away talking-- "Dad-dee!" she says to anyone these days-- and slips to the floor to march around with her little bow-legged gait and jutted chin. It's as if mama's milk is some kind of magic elixir. It can make a tired baby lively, a grumpy one content. And how easy! I can let Dee squawk and fuss, raising my voice over hers to read Clayton a book, while she grabs at the pages and claws at my legs, or we can all sit quietly reading on the couch, Clayton playing tenderly with her feet while she nurses.
Nursing feels like the "get out of jail free card" of mothering, a sure-fire way to comfort, soothe, quiet. And despite the elaborate plans I devise in my head for how I'm going to cut back-- three times a day by the end of February, two weeks of twice a day, just once by the end of March-- there's no time of day that I really want to cut out. I love the way nursing eases us into the morning, how, when Sylvia wakes before the alarm goes off at six, I can bring her to bed and cuddle with her quietly in a cocoon of warmth beneath the blankets. Bedtimes, too, I treasure, the way, after nursing, Sylvia collapses willingly into bed, how Dee Dee quiets in my arms, all her boisterous energy of moments before dissolving as we rock.
So why, I wonder, if nursing is such a boon for me and a comfort to the girls, do I want to-- or, rather, feel like I should-- wean? When the girls practically tackle me in the childcare room at the Y, arching over backwards in my arms, why do I feel like I have to apologize, "I'm trying to cut back!" When the only comments I've heard from strangers have been positive-- "I can't believe you're nursing twins! Way to go!"-- why do I fear the judgement of others? At not even fifteen months, the girls are hardly pushing the envelope when it comes to nursing longevity. And anyway, who, other than myself, is counting? When it comes down to it, isn't it just between us? Maybe I'll tire of it before they do, maybe not. I guess we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it, and hopefully we'll manage to do it with a little bit of grace.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
YWCA Yeah!
Before last week, I could count on one hand, with fingers to spare, the number of times I've worked out in a gym. Once was in college, when, in the few short weeks before I'd quit indoor track, the coach encouraged me to add lifting weights to my training. Working out in the windowless weight room in the basement of the gym, I'd been bored... and indignant. I ran track because I wanted to run-- outside. With a defiance of authority that I would have never dared with my beloved high school coach, I insisted on doing my indoor track workout on the outdoor track, despite the Connecticut winter cold. (Needless to say, I was not long for the team, and I never entered the weight room again.)
The next time, it was my idea. Or sort of. Over Christmas break, I'd worked out on my father's Boflex with my brother, then a track coach and athletic trainer himself. I've always had a natural tendency to look buff. In high school, the other kids called me "She-rah," not kindly, and I was so embarrassed by my upper arms I refused to wear tank tops and searched high and low for a prom dress that would cover my arms. I got over my embarrassment, but I've always felt a little sheepish that my biceps are so defined through no real effort of my own. So, during that Christmas workout, when my brother idly mentioned the obvious-- that if I actually worked out, I'd soon have results that most people would kill for-- I resolved to join a gym.
I was living in Oakland at the time, and the gym was across the street from Lake Merritt, whose polluted waters nonetheless sparkled brilliantly in the California sun. A novice with the machines, I felt self-conscious and out-of-place inside, while just beyond the glass doors, the lake-- with its bird sanctuary and running trail-- beckoned irresistibly. That did it-- I just wasn't a gym person, I decided. I was a runner. I literally ran out the door and never went back.
Many times on my runs, in weather fair and foul, I have run by gyms and pitied the poor people inside. What were they doing trudging along on a treadmill when there were miles and miles to cover outside? I just didn't get it.
After the girls were born and I'd committed to mothering full time, I was told again and again, "You should join the Y!" A membership included free childcare, and I heard many a mom sing its praises: two hours to work out and shower to oneself-- a lifesaver, really. Worth a try, I thought. But after muscling the girls' carseats into the stroller and ushering a confused and cranky Clayton through the crowded parking lot, I was already exhausted. The frenzy of bodies inside, the stench of chlorine and sweat, the chaos of the childcare room, my total lack of anonymity, with my behemoth stroller and crew of kids, the prospect of trying to squeeze it all in between nursings and naps... I just couldn't do it. I'd get up before six and run outside in the cold winter dark; the gym was just not for me.
Nearly a year later, I saw a groupon: a two-month family membership at the YWCA. A good friend had recently raved about her dance class there and admired the community programs the organization funds through its gym memberships. Even if I don't use it, I thought, I'll have supported a good cause.
All through the mild and glorious fall, the groupon went unused. The holidays came and went, its expiration date fast approaching. As the January doldrums set in, I thought, "Why not give it a try?" The mornings were killing me anyway. By seven, Clayton has already dismantled the couch. He and Townes jump on the springs, pretending to be--go figure-- baby zebras in a nest. By seven thirty, they are tired of it and begin to follow me around, fighting over toys and begging for stories. Dee Dee climbs on the kitchen table and tosses the salt and pepper shakers on the floor while Sylvia splashes in the dog water she's emptied onto the kitchen tile. By eight, I'm more than ready to escape the house, but it's too early and cold for the park, and none of the toddler stuff starts for hours yet. Needless to say, the gym was starting to sound pretty good.
So, one morning after taking Clayton to school, I signed up. The girls still had diarrhea from a lingering stomach bug, and runny noses to boot, so it wasn't until the next week that the third gym experience of my life began. It does not feel like an exaggeration to say that it changed my life.
What freedom I felt, walking back down the hall from the drop-off childcare room, with no baby on my back, not one child in tow. What luxury to read last month's New Yorker while riding the stationary bike, to fly through my novel on the elliptical. I took my first Pilates class and was amazed to find I have no "core" strength. (It turns out that without someone sitting on my feet like in elementary school, I cannot execute one single sit-up.) One morning, having forgotten my book, I took a "Pump" class for the hell of it. "It wasn't a great workout," I reported to Don that night. "I didn't even sweat." But the next morning my body ached like it hadn't since I bucked hay working at a barn at summer camp.
I had steeled myself for tears at the drop-off, but only Clayton protested, and halfheartedly.
On Friday, I dropped Townes and the girls off and took Clayton to check out the pool. It felt like a date, so seldom is it just him and me these days. I felt such a surge of love for him I had to stop in the hallway and give him a hug. "It's just us!" he said and threw his arms around me. After we'd been chased out of the pool (I had read the schedule wrong) we played hide and seek in the locker room. Watching him crawl into a locker-- "Now find me, Momma!"-- I felt so grateful for those few minutes for just the two of us, when I could enjoy his company without admonishing him to be gentle with his sisters or to stop bullying Townes.
"I'm going to be in the best shape of my life," I joke, although it may well be true. But even better is the fact that we now have a destination in the morning, somewhere fun for all of us. And better yet is having a few moments to myself, to stretch on the mats with my book, to shower without anyone climbing under the shower curtain, to do those pesky abdominal exercises... More than a year after the girls were born, I feel like I'm finally taking care of someone other than my kids. And as cliche as it sounds, I'm a better mother for it.
The next time, it was my idea. Or sort of. Over Christmas break, I'd worked out on my father's Boflex with my brother, then a track coach and athletic trainer himself. I've always had a natural tendency to look buff. In high school, the other kids called me "She-rah," not kindly, and I was so embarrassed by my upper arms I refused to wear tank tops and searched high and low for a prom dress that would cover my arms. I got over my embarrassment, but I've always felt a little sheepish that my biceps are so defined through no real effort of my own. So, during that Christmas workout, when my brother idly mentioned the obvious-- that if I actually worked out, I'd soon have results that most people would kill for-- I resolved to join a gym.
I was living in Oakland at the time, and the gym was across the street from Lake Merritt, whose polluted waters nonetheless sparkled brilliantly in the California sun. A novice with the machines, I felt self-conscious and out-of-place inside, while just beyond the glass doors, the lake-- with its bird sanctuary and running trail-- beckoned irresistibly. That did it-- I just wasn't a gym person, I decided. I was a runner. I literally ran out the door and never went back.
Many times on my runs, in weather fair and foul, I have run by gyms and pitied the poor people inside. What were they doing trudging along on a treadmill when there were miles and miles to cover outside? I just didn't get it.
After the girls were born and I'd committed to mothering full time, I was told again and again, "You should join the Y!" A membership included free childcare, and I heard many a mom sing its praises: two hours to work out and shower to oneself-- a lifesaver, really. Worth a try, I thought. But after muscling the girls' carseats into the stroller and ushering a confused and cranky Clayton through the crowded parking lot, I was already exhausted. The frenzy of bodies inside, the stench of chlorine and sweat, the chaos of the childcare room, my total lack of anonymity, with my behemoth stroller and crew of kids, the prospect of trying to squeeze it all in between nursings and naps... I just couldn't do it. I'd get up before six and run outside in the cold winter dark; the gym was just not for me.
Nearly a year later, I saw a groupon: a two-month family membership at the YWCA. A good friend had recently raved about her dance class there and admired the community programs the organization funds through its gym memberships. Even if I don't use it, I thought, I'll have supported a good cause.
All through the mild and glorious fall, the groupon went unused. The holidays came and went, its expiration date fast approaching. As the January doldrums set in, I thought, "Why not give it a try?" The mornings were killing me anyway. By seven, Clayton has already dismantled the couch. He and Townes jump on the springs, pretending to be--go figure-- baby zebras in a nest. By seven thirty, they are tired of it and begin to follow me around, fighting over toys and begging for stories. Dee Dee climbs on the kitchen table and tosses the salt and pepper shakers on the floor while Sylvia splashes in the dog water she's emptied onto the kitchen tile. By eight, I'm more than ready to escape the house, but it's too early and cold for the park, and none of the toddler stuff starts for hours yet. Needless to say, the gym was starting to sound pretty good.
So, one morning after taking Clayton to school, I signed up. The girls still had diarrhea from a lingering stomach bug, and runny noses to boot, so it wasn't until the next week that the third gym experience of my life began. It does not feel like an exaggeration to say that it changed my life.
What freedom I felt, walking back down the hall from the drop-off childcare room, with no baby on my back, not one child in tow. What luxury to read last month's New Yorker while riding the stationary bike, to fly through my novel on the elliptical. I took my first Pilates class and was amazed to find I have no "core" strength. (It turns out that without someone sitting on my feet like in elementary school, I cannot execute one single sit-up.) One morning, having forgotten my book, I took a "Pump" class for the hell of it. "It wasn't a great workout," I reported to Don that night. "I didn't even sweat." But the next morning my body ached like it hadn't since I bucked hay working at a barn at summer camp.
I had steeled myself for tears at the drop-off, but only Clayton protested, and halfheartedly.
On Friday, I dropped Townes and the girls off and took Clayton to check out the pool. It felt like a date, so seldom is it just him and me these days. I felt such a surge of love for him I had to stop in the hallway and give him a hug. "It's just us!" he said and threw his arms around me. After we'd been chased out of the pool (I had read the schedule wrong) we played hide and seek in the locker room. Watching him crawl into a locker-- "Now find me, Momma!"-- I felt so grateful for those few minutes for just the two of us, when I could enjoy his company without admonishing him to be gentle with his sisters or to stop bullying Townes.
"I'm going to be in the best shape of my life," I joke, although it may well be true. But even better is the fact that we now have a destination in the morning, somewhere fun for all of us. And better yet is having a few moments to myself, to stretch on the mats with my book, to shower without anyone climbing under the shower curtain, to do those pesky abdominal exercises... More than a year after the girls were born, I feel like I'm finally taking care of someone other than my kids. And as cliche as it sounds, I'm a better mother for it.
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