Stork's Nest

Pictures of Two

Lately, I have become a bit forgetful. I often can’t find my keys or my coat. I can’t remember if I’ve paid a bill, taken a vitamin or even brushed my teeth. Sometimes I forget things for the kids that can be almost apocalyptic, like not having Danny wear a bathing suit to Little Gym for beach week. But I never thought I would forget the details of my kids’ lives. But I think I have.

I remember when I was pregnant with Danny that I was so irritated by my friends, friends with mere babies themselves, that seemed to remember absolutely nothing about being pregnant. Every symptom, every weird feeling was met with a “Hmmm, that sounds normal to me. I can’t quite remember though, Maybe you should ask your doctor.” I could never imagine that mere years later I would have the same answers.

But what really bothered me this week was that I couldn’t quite remember the particulars of Danny and Annie’s babydom. Jay was hit with a rash which started on his cheeks and moved eventually across his whole body. Now Danny had been a rashy kid, but only on his cheeks during winter. And although the nurse practitioner insisted this was eczema, I kept thinking, I have seen this rash before. I think I took pictures of it once. But now I can’t even remember which kid had it. So I was happy when at our one year check-up, our regular doctor confirmed that it was indeed just a run-of-the-mill virus, but I was also a bit devastated that I couldn’t even remember which of my kids I’d seen it on. Mother may know best but this mother also remembers squat.

So I’ve been trying hard all week to piece back together the big kids’ infancy. And what I get is just images. Images of sitting with Danny when he was just crawling, reading him books as he tore around his bedroom; images of having the whole family chant “Go, Annie, go” as we tried to encourage my girl of multiple fat rolls to somehow heave her whole self over. Images of Danny and me hiding under the covers from Dan in the old apartment, hugging each other in mock fear of a monster whose name I now can’t even recall. Images of Danny calling himself “doobadoo”, of him dressed as a puppy for Halloween. Of rocking Annie as she twirled my hair and putting Annie, only a few weeks old, in her first dress, a pink pattern with a matching headband, on her first Easter.

But I don’t remember the entirety of it. I don’t remember a full day. I remember that Danny would watch TV in bed between Dan and I on the weekend, and that he would cry when I got up to go on a run. I remember that Annie loved to go in the bouncy and would jump like a maniac while I took a shower. But I don’t remember what their laughs sounded like exactly. I don’t remember what we said to each other, what we did on a rainy Saturday. And I remember a lot less of my precious Annie than of Danny, and that feels like a betrayal to her, my sweet three-year-old whose baby book I have yet to even begin.

They say that you forget the pain of childbirth, and I guess that is true to some degree. Sitting here, I can’t exactly feel the pain, but I know the sensation. And when labor started with babies two and three, I remembered the feeling exactly, knew completely what I was in for (and of course thought to myself in a moment of sheer panic, why am I doing this again?). And that actual moment of birth, that literal feeling of a slippery life kicking out of you, that I remember in vivid detail. That and the moment when my babies lay on my chest and looked at me for the first time. I remember every detail of their small hands, their blinking eyes, their chubby cheeks. And now I am scared to death that the day might come when I can’t even grab that memory. That those moments, those amazing mere seconds, will somehow become as unreachable as remembering when the big kids stopped eating baby food. That the quiet, the peace you feel after the baby arrives will somehow be replaced with a silence.

My brother-in-law is an avid photographer and videographer. He always has the multimedia going at any event, big or small, and I think maybe we need to do more of that. We need to capture these simple little moments, moments even like this where I sit on the couch, afghan and laptop in place while Dan reads his paper, both of us lulled by the sweet sound of Jay’s steady breaths on the monitor. Moments when Danny still wants to catch my hand when we walk to school, when Jay wraps his little arms around my legs and says “mamamamama” until I hold him close to my heart, when Annie lays her silky head on my shoulder and makes plans for us to be princesses together when she grows up. Even the moments when Danny sticks his tongue out at me for making him leave a playdate, when Annie spills her milk for the twentieth time and still doesn’t seem to care, when Jay hurls himself across the floor when I refuse to let him eat a Q-tip.

I should record every damn minute and watch it over and over again. Because these are the seconds, the often even irritating moments, that count. These are the minutes we never get back, the days when we get to go inside our babies’ rooms at night, get to fix their blankets and stroke their still smooth cheeks. These are the moments that someday we will stop people with babies in the supermarket about. We’ll tell them that time goes too fast, that we are sorry we sweated the small stuff, that we wished we had enjoyed it all more. That these are the moments.

And they are.

And I don’t want to forget a thing.

My Princess and Her Potty

I’ve had a run of bad luck with Annie and birthday parties recently. First, a few weeks back, she tagged along for a party for one of Danny’s classmates. It was a Friday afternoon after a long work week and I was in that sleep-deprived state where driving a vehicle at 3 p.m. is a bit of a risk and a cocktail is out of the question. But we soldiered on, me and all three kids, because no one wanted to miss out on the fun.

Turns out that Mommy’s fun that party involved taking paper towels and cleaning supplies inside the bouncy house that Annie had managed to pee in. It was quite a sight, me in a short jean skirt, my butt sticking out, while Jay screamed in a stranger’s arms. Oh, and fun science fact for you: the pressure in a bouncy house makes pee bubble. Which also makes pee spread. You get the picture.

Annie was not concerned in the least, except when I said—OK, not so discretely screamed through gritted teeth— that we had to leave the party. After a few minutes of hysterics, I gave in, took off her dress, stuck on some sweats I luckily had in my bag, and let her run around in a cardigan that was basically open to her navel. Not that Annie cared in the least.

Flash forward to the next birthday party. Annie was doing well, making plenty of potty trips. So I was standing, relaxed, holding Jay and chatting with a mother that I know from Danny’s old whiffle ball team while I watched Annie go up and down the slide. And then Annie stopped out of the blue, lifted her dress and said, “Mommy, poopy.” And oh yes there was. All over her and the slide. I told the other woman she must have gotten muddy and bolted to find Dan so we could collaborate on how to hide the scene of the crime.

The worst part of this wasn’t even the clean-up. The worst part was that about an hour later I found myself talking to this same woman. Remembering that she had twins that shared Annie’s St. Patrick’s birthday, I asked how their potty training was going. When she said she hadn’t started yet, I felt a huge wave of relief. And so of course I spilled on Annie’s regression issues. Driving home, I was psyched to tell Dan that we were not alone. And then I remembered. Her twins are a year younger than Annie.

Now, I know kids often have potty issues and regressions but yet no one I talk to ever seems to have experienced anything like this. So I was kind of excited when I noticed that a girl in Annie’s swim class who is almost a full year older than Annie had a swim diaper on. I asked her mom if she was having issues and she said she just hadn’t trained her yet. So, given that waiting until 4 seemed way freakier than pooping on a slide, I again spilled my guts. To which the woman asked me if there were problems at home. Or maybe I wasn’t spending enough time with Annie because “you have so many children”.

Ouch.

Even though we don’t have issues, I started worrying. I also started thinking maybe Annie just doesn’t get enough of my time. After spending half the night dreaming up scenarios where poor, lonely Annie grows up to be a juvenile delinquent, smoking three to five cigarettes at once as she leaps from her bedroom window onto a Harley Davidson where a 30 year old she calls ‘babe” waits. Or Annie coming home from college with a letter that her therapist told her to write to me, telling me all the ways I had failed her in the critical potty training years.  

Let’s face it, we have been made to feel like potty training has some almost mystical power in shaping the person your child will become. Don’t push them or they might be psychologically damaged later on. Don’t ever scold them when they poop on the floor for no good reason because they may have such scars from this experience that they will never have children of their own. And, whatever you do, never make a fuss when you are cleaning pee up because if you do someday your son may be unable to hold down a steady job.  

I think it’s time we reclaim the right to get mad when our kid pees in a bouncy house. I would do anything for my kids, don’t get me wrong. And I think they are perfect to a degree that no one else will ever feel because they are my flesh and blood, they are my wishes come to life, they are my everything. Annie is my sweet little princess, all ribbons and lace and fairy necklaces mixed in with dirty fingernails, skinned knees and rock collections. Still, even though I have a tendency to cut her some extra slack given her position as my middle child, my only girl, I do get aggravated when she pees all over the place. But, really, is that so weird? Why is it so wrong for me to get frustrated when I know she has peed herself simply because she didn’t want to waste her time going to the bathroom?

Personally, my guess is that Annie won’t ever remember being potty trained. And, if she did some day, she will wonder why I didn’t give her a harder time about it. Let’s face it, no 16 year old girl wants to hear that she once defiled a slide.

But I will say this, maybe ignorance is bliss. All of my web research on regression told me that I should not say a thing when Annie had an accident, just clean it up and move on. And Annie does seem to be having less accidents since I have started this tactic.

But then again this could just as likely be because she just doesn’t care.

Oh, and in case you are wondering about that lady from swimming: the following week Annie got out of the water mid-class because she had to pee. After I had gotten her back in, that same mom smiled at me. And I just couldn’t help it. I volunteered that Annie had a little urinary tract infection that had caused her to temporarily regress but now she was back to normal.

Was this true? No.

And I just don't care.

Lucky Numbers

 If I was a lottery playing type of gal, I’d have three especially lucky numbers, the times of my childrens’ births: 7:31 a.m. for Danny, 4:44 p.m. for Annie and 9:58 p.m. for “Baba” Jay, whose first birthday we’re celebrating today. Jay was born on the 13^th, a number that many find unlucky but which has been a special number all my life.

On this exact day 39 years ago, Senta, my best friend until I was 32, was born. She always told me that she was born on a Friday the 13^th and because of that we would always have good luck on any such day. Oh, and by the way, she also had ESP and other magical powers because of this special birthday. So, of course, when I was induced on May 13^th last year, I was excited. It was a powerful day and one with much meaning for me. It’s just sad that Senta will never know that my littlest boy shares her same birthday.

Before you pull out the Kleenex, I must warn you: there is no tragic story here. Actually, there is not much of a story at all, which is shocking for two girls who started writing novels (about Becky Jones and Jill Johnson—what other names would girls stuck with Senta and Eileen pick) when they were four. Who danced to “We are the Champions” on the record player and then ran down to the rocky beach to enact their latest movie, often involving killer lobsters or nuclear disasters or Ricky Springfield. Who built Little People houses by the fireplace in the winter, then swam and roller skated their way through the beach all summer, together every minute of every day. Who spied on neighbors and were sure that the house next door had ghosts (including seeing a bloody window on full moon nights). Who were best friends from the age of three when one chubby little girl walked up to another on the sandy beach, bucket in hand, and asked if she wanted to be friends.

We were, as a friend recently said of Danny and her son, cut from the same cloth. Senta was an only child and I was like one as well, as my siblings were 12 and 16 years older. She lived with her grandparents and I spent my weekends and summers with my great aunt and uncle a few doors down. We shared everything growing up—meals, dreams, frustrations, stories of first kisses and even a boy or two. We were like sisters in every sense, even in the backseat slapping fights we’d have each summer when Senta came on vacation with my family. We were playmates that became soulmates. Through college, through divergent lives (Senta an actress in New York, me somehow ending up in tech) we stayed close. Sure, we didn’t talk as much but when we did talk it was as if we had just paused for a breath.

Then something happened. Shortly after my wedding, Senta called one day and told me she was leaving her current gig doing theater in Sonora and heading back to New York. She had ditched the weird boyfriend she’d had, and was moving back to her home. I’d said I’d call her in a week, but it actually took me a month. And then she never took that call, let alone replied to any letter. Even her grandmother would give my mother no leads. And that is the end of the story.

After a few more attempts this year, I’ve given up. But of course I’ll never forget her, especially on this day. So as I watched Danny with his own best buddy at preschool today, a beloved placel he’ll finish in mere weeks now, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sad even on such a happy day. Next year will mean a new school, new friends, new adventures. But I know firsthand that Danny will miss his best friend, the guy who laughs at all his jokes, who saves him a seat at snack, who loves to play all the same silly games. And so we will work hard to keep in touch, to stay together. But even if someday their paths untangle, I know it will be OK. Because, like me, he will have the memories of a true friendship. And that, more than a secret birthday power, is a gift to be treasured for an entire life. Even if some day that friend just stops calling you back.

 
 

 

 

 

Love Is.

It’s hard to believe that this will be my sixth Mother’s Day. It seems like yesterday that we celebrated the first one, when I was about five months pregnant with Danny. Some traditions have stuck, like going to Il Fornaio for brunch. Others have been added along the way, like Annie spilling the beans on all my gifts the week before.

Of course, my greatest gift is the fact that I get to be a mother. But I’ve also gotten to learn some interesting stuff along the way, things that have surprised, disgusted and delighted me. So, in honor of all you fellow moms out there and all your own lists of lessons learned, here is my current top ten. I hope you’ll share yours too.

1.    Love begins pre-conception: The day that my husband and I agreed to have a child was the day I fell in love with Danny. Now, luckily, those two days weren’t far apart for me, but I think even for women who have to wait years to hold a baby in their arms, the minute you decide to be a mother, you become one. And every single second, every flutter in your belly, every trip to the bathroom, every time you gaze proudly at an ultrasound picture even though you have no idea what it is of, every single second that that second heart beat beats inside you, that love just gets stronger and stronger. And when that baby arrives, you already know him. Because from the time you decided you wanted to give your life to him, you have been one. 

2.    A decorative band-aid cures all hurts: Skinned knee, bruised ego, either way, if you whip out some Scooby Doo or Barbie band-aids, your child is instantly cured. I’ve been known to sport a princess or two myself, although they haven’t always been the best for work meetings.

3.    Love really is patient and kind: I can’t even count how many weddings, including my own, where I have sat through that good old letter from St. Paul to the Corinthians, but until I had kids I never knew just how true it was. To make it as a parent, and as a family, you have to be more patient and kind than you often have any interest in being. And you wonder why dentists tell everyone they grind their teeth.

4.    Girls are not easier to potty train than boys: I would still like to hunt down and punish every single person who ever told me they were.

5.    Being a parent makes you a child all over again: There are so many things that I had forgotten that I love, from searching the beach for sea glass to taking a whirl on a Sit-and-Spin. There are also things that I have not forgotten which I have to work hard not to project—all those little embarrassing things that happen to you as a kid that stay with you, from friends no longer wanting to sit with you at lunch to someone making fun of  your shirt. You want to save your kids from all of these hurts, but chances are your kids aren’t even worrying about anything yet, let alone the things that once worried you. So forget about the bad, and just re-enjoy all the good.

6.    Let sleeping children lie: Never wake a kid up, let them get whatever sleep they need, no matter what the consequences are to your schedule. It’s worth it just to see those tiny bodies so soft and still, with their flushed cheeks, damp hair and loose limbs. Sit on their bed, they won’t wake, and listen to their soft breaths. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ll ever hear.

7.    This too shall pass: This is advice that my mother has always given, in every kind of situation imaginable, and she’s right. Just when you think a situation can’t get worse, that a fever won’t break, that a baby won’t ever sleep through the night, that a child’s sadness won’t go away, things get better. There is always some new challenge around the bend, but there is also always a solution. Just try to remember, things really do always get better.

8.    Yeast happens: In my household, kids’ yeast infections seem to happen a lot. As do ear infections. And random high fevers. And so on. Since March, there has been only one week when I have not been to the doctor’s office. So pick a pediatrician and staff that you absolutely love, someone you could imagine going to drinks with, because chances are that at some point down the line, someone at your doctor’s office will suggest that for the amount you see each other you might as well do just that.

9.    There is no greater blackmail than co-ed sibling bathing: Someday, somehow, Danny and Annie’s time in the tub together will come back to haunt them. Sweet sixteen. Wedding, Graduation. I don’t know when it will be, but kiddos, Daddy and I are ready.

10.   They really are always your babies: Jay turns one in just a week and I remember like it was five minutes ago the absolute feeling of joy and wonder when I first held him in my arms. And I remember every detail, every moment of Danny and Annie’s arrivals too. When I look at them all, when I hold them when they are close to sleep, I can see the same expressions that have been there from day one. Their bodies may be stronger, their vocabulary bigger, but I still can read them like a book. I alone notice when Annie’s stork bite, once so clear on her left eyelid, catches just the faintest blush of pink when she is on the verge of tears. I alone can judge how tired Danny is based on how he twirls his hair. I alone can comfort Jay when he wakes up in the middle of the night. And even when they are grown and have babies of their own, I will still know them better than they know themselves. I will still be able to soothe them, to hold them, to boost them up when they are down, and to remind them that this too will pass. Because no matter how they grow, I know the very essence of what makes them them. Because they are, now and always, mine.

 

And that is the greatest gift of being a mother. No matter how big they get or how old I become, I have three beautiful babies to call my own. And no matter what life throws my way, I am a mother. And I get to love and be loved.