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.

 

The Circuit

 
This has been the first week when this blog was in true peril of just not happening. Work has consumed me like never before. Throw in a few kids’ classes and dentist appointments and soon you’re eating dark chocolate alone at 2a.m., simultaneously sending emails, watching Gray’s Anatomy, and sleeping sitting up.

These are the nights when I long for candy corn.

Once, when I was young and staying up until 2 meant sleeping until 11, I didn’t get it when people would refer to life as just spins on a hamster wheel. Now I do.

My life is a series of repetitions and, with a five year old boy, one of the basic truths of my weekends is that on any given Sunday there will be a birthday party. The theme, location, kids may be different but we will be there, Danny off and running before we get through the door, Annie draped around my knee until she gets some sugar going and makes some new little “girlfriends,” and Jay wandering around trying to eat bits of balloons or plastic forks. Dan will likely be there too, off in the men’s enclave discussing work and sports between turns changing dirty diapers and holding squirmy siblings.

To many, the kids’ birthday party is the bane of their existence. It’s a time suck. It’s too much sugar, too many little plastic toys that will clutter up the playroom or break in the car. It’s the promise of a balloon lost on the way to the parking lot or, worse yet, floating around your house for the next week, limp and smeared with chocolate yet inexplicably a favorite toy. (Until Mommy remembers to get the scissors out post-bedtime.)

But I have to admit it, I love the parties. I don’t mind the sugar or even the plastic toys. (Although I am anti-balloon as I just can’t take the inevitable heartbreak.)

I partially love the parties because they represent the one and only time in my week when I get to sit down, eat a piece of cake, and let someone else sweep under the table.

I also love the parties because I get to see my friends. When Danny was only a few months old, I joined a playgroup for him through our local mothers club. Although now it seems a bit hysterical to think back on all the museums and parks that we’d drag our tiny babies to, this groups of moms—initially brought together solely by our self-identification as working moms with kids of a certain age—have become dear friends. And even though our Saturdays are now too filled with T-ball and tap to even think about bringing the most recent crop of babies to the zoo, we do still get to hang out at all those birthday parties. We swap stories, have some laughs and pull out our calendars to get a night out on the books. Just think, without these parties, we might never get a chance to organize our own adult fun.

But the fact is that I simply love kids’ parties. And yes I maybe go a bit too far on my kids’ celebrations. I love the entertainers. I love the fancy cakes. I love planning the goodie bags. I have even been known to love a piñata. I buy dishes and decorations online. I get birthday T-shirts. I plan a menu. In the past five years, we’ve done music classes, magic, puppets, science experiments, princesses and pirates, and one ill-planned big bear which scared off most of the kids at Danny’s first birthday party. So, yes, I go a bit overboard, as perhaps only a mom whose own birthday is the day after Christmas can go.

My husband is constantly asking me to scale it down. No more printed invitations, no more entertainers. But I just can’t help myself. For me, planning the parties is a bit of time off of that gerbil wheel (or perhaps just a turn on a different setting). It’s a chance to plan something fanciful, something that makes people smile, something that the kids will someday remember. Just like I remember the year my mom’s friend made me a princess birthday cake, with a real Barbie doll as the body and graceful cascades of delicate pink frosting decorating her delicious chocolate dress.

And let’s face it, before you know it, my kids will be tweens and birthdays will involve sleep-overs and nights out at the movies with their own friends. There is so little time when seeing Cinderella at the door is going to make Annie almost faint with excitement, where Danny will start planning in March the theme for his party in September, or where Jay will want to hold my hand and shake a maraca as we sit in a circle at the park on a sunny spring day.

I’ll do my rounds at the computer, my rotations of classes on ExerciseTV, but give me my spin of the birthdays too. Let me sit and enjoy a friend’s story of how she too lost it on her kids this week because her three year old had an accident at the same time that her boss called her with a crisis. Let me watch as Annie untangles herself from my legs and skips away, holding a big girl’s welcoming hand. Let me see Danny work with his buddies to build a volcano and then run like the wind when the sucker blows. And let me hold my littlest love in my arms, a birthday crown on his fuzzy, still baby-warm head, as we celebrate his birthday with the promise of a first taste of sweet frosting, and many more to come.

With age I have learned something important about this crazy wheel after all. There simply are some things that are worth repeating.

 

Brazilian Blowout

I’m turning forty. And no, not someday. This year. The very end of the year, mind you, but the count-down is on.

Turning forty is in many ways unfathomable to me because, despite my parental duties, I like to think of myself as a kid. It seems like yesterday that I was in grade school, being called to the principal’s office with a group of my friends, accused of kicking boys at recess with our heavy snow boots. It seems like yesterday that I was in middle school, tilting my chair too far back in art class and ending up flat on my back to the class’s great hysteria. It seems like yesterday that I was in high school, having my first taste of freedom hanging out in boarding students’ dorm rooms. And of course it seems like yesterday that I was in college, beloved college, drinking cheap beer and planning world domination as we sat on idyllic grassy fields, shaded by great elms and hundreds of years of dreams.

But then I look at Facebook and frankly you, my friends, ruin it for me.

It’s hard to forget that you’re going to be forty when eight out of ten of your friends’ profile photos are actually of their kids. And those photos that you can see—well, those boys with the beautiful long hair, they don’t tend to have any left. And when did the brooding boy start caring about taxes? And how did that summer fling, the guy who would never settle down, end up with five kids? And how did the college roommate, who thought she was the next Sylvia Plath, end up another disgruntled Connecticut housewife? (OK, that was an easy one, but how is she old enough to be that?) And why do some of those blonde girls from high school look like they’ve already been dabbling with Botox? And why isn’t anyone famous yet? And why oh why do we all look so old? And, by the way, how oh how have some of you turned Republican?

I’m not saying I am any better. I am almost forty and I have not saved the world, maybe not even a single tree. And I hate having pictures of myself on Facebook unless I am hidden behind my kids. I am a bit intrigued with non-surgical tummy tucks. And my updates tend to be about TV shows or funny things my kids said. Pretty heady stuff.

I started thinking about all this because of the latest rage in my mothers’ club, the Brazilian Blowout. I’m sure this name has just conjured up many images for you, but in reality it is a three-hour process by which your frizzy, wavy hair gets restored to its straight, glossy former self. It actually sounds pretty amazing to me, and I am tempted to try it out. But one thing really threw me about this Brazilian Blowout and its great popularity among the suburban mommy set : it exists because my hair did not turn wavy because of some fun, genetic quirk, as I always suspected, but instead because I am getting old.

It’s funny, every year as my kids get older I forget that I am aging with them. As I’ve said before, I am not afraid of the wrinkles, the responsibilities, the sleeplessness that has come with switching from child to parent. There are some fun perks that come with parenthood, even beyond the daily gift of having a child to call your own: more confidence, more experience, more happy hours with friends. And I do enjoy those Facebook friends’ updates. It is a good thing that you are all looking like me and thinking about the same things as me. I think I would be pretty bitter if you weren’t.

But I have to admit that these decade markers tend to get me a bit edgy. Turning thirty bugged me because of the things I wanted to jump-start in my life, mainly having a family. Turning forty bothers me because of all the things I want to slow down: my kids’ youth, the weekends, the actual—no longer just biological—clock.

Time is ticking away. I wouldn’t trade in a moment of what I’ve gotten so far, but I sure wish it could all slow down. And I do agree that youth is wasted on the young. Especially that gorgeous glossy hair.

Family Planning

This past week I made the insane decision to have Danny and Annie’s annual check-ups performed at the same time. We’ve had a rough month, with way too many trips to the doctor with some combination of the three of them, so I figured a well visit would be a piece of cake. And, hey, why not take Jay along for the ride too. So Danny is getting four shots today, no big deal.

I really thought that. And who needs a doctor?

From our first moment in the big old family-sized check-up room, I knew we were in for trouble. The initial part of the visit had gone OK. Danny had focused enough to pass his eyes and ears testing. After much coaxing Annie had stood with her back straight against the wall to get an accurate height reading. My husband Dan had even been able to slip out and join us between conference calls. Yes, there was a moment as I jotted down the latest heights and weights in my little baby books that I thought, this is great, no problem at all. The Bradys, the Waltons, that bizarre family with 18 or so kids, they have nothing on me. I am in control.

And then Danny started jumping—literally, two-footed bunny-hopping—around the room, his kid-sized Johnny flapping in the wind. Jay began uncontrollably eating books and sobbing for me to hold him. Annie, immediately identified by our doctor as a “drama girl”, moved quickly from tears when told it was Danny’s turn on Mommy’s lap to picking up delicate medical instruments (items actually labeled as such) and running across the room with them. And then my big boy, who typically never even cries when he gets a shot, began uncontrollably screaming and wrestling away from his dad, shouting, “I am going to die” when the shot lady appeared.

I have often heard people talk about “flop sweat”. It exists. I lived it.

But ironically this wasn’t the worst of it. Because in as much as the chaos surrounding us was louder than a circus and more out of control than an MTV docudrama, it’s our chaos and we have basically learned to tune it out, just like we have learned to let our kids wander off unattended at birthday parties. Yes, somewhere between kids two and three, we became those parents.

I remember fondly when I had just one baby how disgusted I was by parents with older children, not to mention multiple kids. When my kids are older, I would think to myself, I will watch—and wash—them better. They won’t climb on my furniture. They won’t eat with their hands. They won’t eat crayons. They will always say please and thank you. They will never color in a book, let alone lose a library book. They won’t scream in the car, spill on the floor, push younger kids down and claim it is out of love. And, most of all, they will not run wild in restaurants while their selfish yuppy parents down margaritas with friends.

Oops.

The worst part of this visit was our beloved pediatrician’s advice to us as parents. “What your kids need most of all,” she said (with a straight-face), “is time with the two of you together. Set up a sticker chart, reward them for good behavior, for chores done, not with a toy or with food but with what kids crave most of all, one on one time with their parents as a unit.”

I cannot imagine getting a more impossible assignment.

First off, I must say that I absolutely love spending one-on-one time with my kids. The stories that they tell and the ability to actually listen to one kid at a time without  having to wipe someone else’s nose or ask someone else to wait their turn to speak is truly amazing. I feel so free when I have just one child with me. I feel like I can take on the world, can accomplish anything, can be an amazing, focused mom. Even if I am just playing dolls on the kitchen floor with Annie, singing with Jay or playing soccer with Danny, I feel like we have a moment to really connect, to not have to worry about what comes next, who needs what or, more often these days, who did what to whom. I wouldn’t give up this time for anything and I know that someday I will miss this time terribly, just as much as I will miss the circus.

And in theory I absolutely love the idea of doing something with just me, Dan and one of the kids. It reminds me of the old days, when Danny was a baby and we could still move slowly on a weekend morning, could both go to a Gymboree class and marvel at everything he did together. Today, Jay took his first steps and it was noted and praised, but it wasn’t celebrated and obsessed about like when Danny did the same thing. I’d like to be able to keep giving my kids all that individual love, that showering of two parents watching your every move all the time. But, frankly, who is going to watch the other kids?

I have an amazing nanny who already goes way beyond the call of duty and is in every sense a member of our family. She is, in fact, babysitting for us for the second Saturday in a row while Dan and I do something incredibly rare for us, adult nights out. But in order for us to have quality time with each kid individually even just once a month she’d pretty much have to kiss her husband goodbye. And I don’t think that would go over so well. And plus there is that little matter of work to take up some of my time. And then of course those rare but needed adult nights out.

So, for the first time ever, I am going to have to decline my doctor’s advice. As much as I want to be able to guarantee that two-on-one time for all my kids, as much as I want to recapture those days of blowing bubbles in the backyard and never missing a nap, it just isn’t reality. In a day that is already stretched to its breaking point, there just isn’t time for a trip to the park or a dinner alone. There is no more us three, there is an us five.

But I can commit to giving each person a bit more attention within that five, to making sure everyone gets heard, everyone gets hugged. And that us five have fun times, blowing bubbles, going to the park or just eating a big old messy dinner.

And I can commit to sneaking one-on-one alone time with each one of the kids. To practicing walking with Jay while the big kids are in the bath, kissing his sweet flushed cheeks in the early morning hours when the rest of the house is still. To reading Annie fairy stories as she twirls my hair, and painting her fingernails a glossy pink while the boys play down the hall. To holding Danny’s hand as we race each other to preschool and then holding him close and quiet as we listen to songs before he drifts off to sleep.

And when we are out walking together, Dan and I can take turns putting one child between us at a time, and counting one, two, three, and swinging them up to the beautiful, endless sky.

It’s not really alone time, but for us five it will have to do.

 

 

You, Me and Us

Back in the day, there were two things I read cover-to-cover every weekend: Us magazine and Entertainment Weekly. Many a Sunday morning post-college would find me with coffee mug in hand reading every single article, every movie review, every beauty tip. When I moved to California not knowing a soul, most Saturday afternoons were spent sitting by the pool reading my magazines. And even (gasp) novels.

Then life got busy. Over twelve years, I picked up some high-profile jobs, my own company, many close friends, a devoted husband and three time-consuming kids.

Oops. I meant adorable kids.

And the reading? Well, Entertainment Weekly, I am sorry to say that you were the first to go. You were just too dense, too full of opinions. I think Entertainment Weekly hit the skids about the time I realized I was pregnant with my oldest, Danny. While I was still making time to exfoliate daily and even do a facial mask twice a week, my free time had begun to be filled with baby shopping, baby preparation classes, baby magazines and endless sessions lying on the couch, eating ice cream and crying watching “A Baby Story” on TLC.

And then there were the novels. For a few years, I made an attempt. Occasionally at night I would read before I went to bed. And when flying back and forth to Boston to visit family, I would sneak a few chapters in while Danny slept beside me. But then came Annie and reading my books was replaced with extended story times meant to please their very different tastes. My lap space on the plane became consumed with a rosied-cheek baby girl that would rather play with my hair than sleep. And of course there were still those sessions watching “A Baby Story” to fit in.

Where I once kept a log of the novels that I would read in a given year, I now keep track of baby milestones and big kids’ steps to independence. Twelve years ago, my April might have been a list of Alice Hoffman novels or a re-reading of my favorite Rebecca. Today it is a list of Jay’s first solo stands and tentative steps, Annie’s first spin into a big-girl ballet class, and Danny’s first attempt to tie his own shoes.

The funny things is that I actually go to the bookstore more than ever but today it is to buy early reader chapter books and princess stories. Where I once would count Irving and Lamb among my favorites, I now choose Geronimo Stilton (a mouse writer, mind you) and Disney.

And then there was Jay. With baby number three has come the unthinkable. The fall of the giant. Not only has my subscription to Us lapsed, but I didn’t even realize it until a few weeks after it happened. Once unthinkable, today barely worth a second thought.

To give some context, breaking up with Us is a bit like getting divorced from myself. Us magazine has been my stalwart, my tried and true friend. Long after EW and novels were put to the wayside, Us came with me to the hairdresser, to the OB’s office, on BART, on planes. When I had to be monitored because of an abundance of fluid when pregnant with my giant baby Jay, the steady beat of his heartbeat and fluid kicks of his tiny legs accompanied every last page. Us even played a key role in Annie’s potty training as she found nothing as fun as looking at the” princesses” and their dresses with Mommy as we spent hours in the “royal potty”.

As I looked at those pictures with Annie and tried to answer her questions of who each person was, I realized that something shocking had happened. I had no clue. And, stranger yet, I could care less. Maybe it is just a sign of my impending old age, but frankly I still haven’t figured out who the Kardashians are and I have zero interest in hearing about how some chick with huge fake boobs enjoys breast feeding. I am not clear on who the "Real Housewives” are. I haven’t seen High School Musical (although I do enjoy watching Zac Efron dance). And then there is an enormous list of young actresses that I can’t even tell you enough about for you to know who I mean. And, yes, I have read enough Geronimo Stilton books that when I read the word “enormous” now what I say in my head is “enormouse”.

So, why blame Jay for the fall of Us? Well, one very practical problem is that Jay tries to eat anything near him and had taken a real liking to tearing apart and then trying to devour the magazine before I even got past the cover page. Then there is the fact that Jay is my worst sleeper. Or the fact that with one more baby to love and honor for his own unique self, there is just a little less of me left for me.

But I should blame my iPhone as well since my now far-between visits to the hair dresser and rare work trips usually feature work emails and press releases. Technology has a tighter grip than a shy three-year-old.

It’s really like I said. Life got so busy, so crazy that any non-essential reading has gone to the wayside. This is not to say that pop culture is totally passing me by. I haven’t missed a single American Idol in years, except for when that pesky Jay insisting on being born at 9:58 p.m. May 13 last year, right when the two finalists were being announced. (And no, if you’re wondering, I did not keep the TV on for the 20 minutes or so it took for him to arrive. I’m not that bad.)

But I do worry a bit about losing so much of what I once loved that some day when my kids are bigger there will be nothing left of who I used to be. While I wish they could stay little forever (and I honestly mean that), I do think I need to take a bit better care of myself. Let my hair get blonder like it used to be back in the day, even though it will mean more trips to the hair dressers. Watch a bit more Jersey Shores. Say Good Night Moon, hello two-year-old John Irving novel. And this really isn’t just for me. Some day Annie is going to need to know who those Kardashian kids are.

They say to be a great parent, or a great spouse for that matter, you need to maintain who you are. You can’t just live for your kids. You need to show them who you are, so they can understand how important it is to develop their own sense of self. Especially for my Annie, I want her to know that a mother can be the world to her kids and still contribute to the world on her own.

This is not to say that I have been without hope all this time. I am proud to report that I am three pages away from finishing the novel I began this time last year.

Now, what to read next.

 

Yellow-bellied Cottontail

This probably means I am getting old, but I must admit that my favorite holidays are the ones that don’t involve gifts. Although, of course, they do involve a lot of candy.

I’ve been a big fan of Halloween since I was a kid myself, but Easter kind of crept up on me. I think part of the reason I love Easter so much is for the same reason that I have been obsessed with daffodils this year. The colors, the eggs, the dresses, the hats…after a long rain, inside play and endless runny noses, it’s nice to see something bright and cheery, anything that doesn’t involve muddy shoes.

And Easter also holds the promise of our family’s favorite cuddly creature, the big old Easter Bunny.

Now, Danny has pretty much never been afraid of oversized characters, except for one run-in with the Cat in the Hat. And Jay is too small to realize that a bunny that is taller than Daddy and rattier than his old sweatshirt is a bit on the unusual side. But Annie. Oh man, that’s another story.

Last year’s Easter bunny picture features Annie in mid-howl, eyes scrunched up in horror, tears running down her face as Danny stares in pure sibling obliviousness at the camera. This year, after a successful visit with Santa, I thought we were home free. We even ran into the Bunny on his way to a bathroom break and all seemed well.

All was well…until he arrived at his throne and reached out his hand to Annie. And then it began. Annie, a year stronger, was no longer going to be put on some bunny’s lap. As her brothers settled in, she hollered on the floor, turned red in the face and made all kinds of threats (which I am a bit relieved I couldn’t quite make out). The only way to get her in to the picture was by having Mommy make her first, and hopefully last, appearance in a holiday mall photo op.

When asked over dinner that night why she was so afraid of the bunny, Annie quite rationally explained that it was because he had one oversized tooth. This was in fact true. One tooth surrounded by a Darth Vader mesh opening and a clownlike perma-grin graced our Bunny. But still, was one tooth that bad? Another theory that emerged a few days later was Dan’s admission that he might have told Annie that the Easter Bunny liked to pinch children when they sat on his lap. Don’t ask why Dan would do such a thing---that’s a matter for our kids to work out in therapy some day.

But as much as I’d like to make Dan sweat this one out, I must say that Annie’s crying was not his fault. And it wasn’t even about that weird old tooth. It’s just about our Annabelle. She likes a good cry. Just like me.

I have friends who have all girls who, when planning a third baby, were desperate to have another girl, figuring boys were just too hard. One even went so far as to research positions. But, as a mother of two boys and one girl, I must say that I think they have it backwards. Boys may be hard on the ears and a bit like a spinning top that never unwinds, but girls can mess with your heads and out-think you even at three.

My Annie is at once the sweetest, most gentle princess that you ever could meet, and the most difficult, manipulative banshee that ever roamed the earth. She gives amazing hugs and kisses, but then might give a surprise offensive kick in the bath. She loves to snuggle but at night she likes to kick off the covers and stretch out alone. She knows how to turn on the tears in five seconds flat if that is the only way to get her way, and will smile at you like nothing ever happened when she emerges from time out. She is shy with adults, but once she starts talking, she never stops. She loves to spin, to twirl, to do princess ballet. She says her name is Cinderella and I am Snow White. She collects rocks by the bucketful and has a tendency to steal flowers from neighbors’ carefully pruned gardens. She wears a tiara on her head and spaghetti on her shirt. She is all girl with a dash of tomboy thrown in on the side. And I love every bit of her.

But sometimes I worry that I don’t show it enough. In many ways, Annie is my most difficult child simply because she is the most complex. With the boys, things are all about cause and effect. With Annie, she’s often going for an effect, never mind the cause. She can be stubborn for no reason or in a bad mood because of nothing. But on other days her smile is brighter than a rainbow after an El Nino winter. And I must admit that while I am trying to listen to Danny’s stories and keep Jay from eating the furniture, sometimes Annie’s voice can get a bit lost. Especially since listening to Annie is a lot like listening to me. And I try to avoid that as much as I can.

Even at three, I can see so much of myself in Annie. Some of it is good, like her easy sense of humor, but then some of it is not so great, like the shyness that I hope she can avoid. When she throws a fit or has a dark cloud over her head, I know what she is doing because I do the same thing. And that irritates me to no end. But then again when she sings off-key and does her crazy little dance, well that’s me too. So I have come to decide that if I am going to raise Annie to love herself, then I have to do a better job of loving (or at least strongly liking) myself. It’s not easy to do, even on the best of days, but if I think of myself in terms of being similar to Annie, then even I have to admit that I can’t be half-bad. To turn away from what makes me tick is to turn away from what makes Annie who she is. And that would make me a bigger scaredy-cat that Annie could ever dream of being, Easter Bunny or not.

I think maybe the secret to being a good mother to a daughter is in embracing her complexity and moods. In not trying to make a girl black and white, but in finding the beauty in a gray that can be as lovely as a daffodil. In playing princess with her for as long as you can, but not complaining when she muddies her dress or gets food in her hair. In letting her rage when she needs to, cry when she feels like it, and have quiet time to make her secret plans. In letting our girls be just like us, not forcing them to be some better, more modern model of what a strong, self-sufficient girl should be. In not trying to make them into the new, improved versions of ourselves. Because, really, a girl, just like a boy, and just like a man or a woman, doesn’t need anything more than love and acceptance. And the freedom to be themselves, dark clouds and all.

So I will give my girl that love and I will hold her as close as I can, even when she cries for no reason, even when she tugs on my hair, my sweet little Annie, foe of the Easter Bunny, princess of the rocks.

Beauty and the Boob

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I was a young PR chick who wore short skirts, high heels and could drink all night. Flash forward only seven years and I am a secretly (and only very, VERY slightly) graying STORK who realizes the night before going to a swanky conference that not only does she have nothing that fits the now oddly shaped body three children have left her with, but she can no longer balance in heels.

It’s amazing how the things that once came so simply can suddenly seem so daunting. Pre-kids, I had an endless supply of outfits, even brand names, that I could wear to any kind of event, ranging from casual to the most formal. I could pack a carry-on bag in a second, without thinking. I owned more than just flip flops (although they have always been my true shoe love). And when choosing an outfit, my first requirement was not, believe it or not, easy access to my boobs.

Ah, my boobs. Today, my boobs are the subject of endless hours of conversation, typically involving phrases like “you are a boobie baby,” “JayJay wants the boobie,” “you are a big boobie head,” or “Jay is crying, I don’t know what to do with him. You take him, he must want the boob.”

I don’t mind all this boob talk, really. I have never been Penthouse material so I’m glad that what I’ve got has at least gotten some good use. Still, the one place my boobs don’t really belong is on a work trip.

The first problem occurred in my crazy, Sunday night scramble to find something to wear. I saw a number of appropriate dresses. However, given I was going to be flying down to the conference at 6:30 a.m. and returning home that night at 9:30 p.m., I was going to have to take my breast pump along and find places to use it along the way. Given that I had no hotel room, and a dress would mean that I would be nursing with my dress basically over my head, I decided that this was not the best choice for the public bathroom.

Because, yes, the public bathroom is where I spent a good amount of my time Monday. The public bathroom at the airport where I stood by the paper towels, hooter hider over my pump, and greeted everyone as they dried their hands, inches from my equipment. And then the hotel bathroom, where I perched on a little couch and made small talk with women reapplying their lipstick.

And you know the weird thing, no one, not even those little twenty-something year old me’s, really even looked twice. No one noticed that my bra was stuffed with Kleenex because today was of course the first day in ten months of nursing that I had forgotten to put on breast pads.

And a lot of people liked my skirt.

Once, last summer, I told my husband that I still felt like I was 25, and that I thought maybe I still looked 25. He was a bit skeptical on that point, and being in a room of twenty-somethings at this conference made me realize that yes, I don’t look 25. I look better.

As I watched those fledglings wander around the show floor, in their strappy sandals and shiny lip gloss, they looked confused, maybe even a bit scared. And you know what, my clothes were actually cooler than theirs. Sure, their stomachs might be a bit (OK, a lot) flatter but I was suffering through it all in heels, so with that little boost, who could really tell. And I could move around with confidence because, really, if you just spent 15 minutes pumping in a public bathroom, is a room full of “important people” going to intimidate you?

I think as a married person, let alone a mom pushing 40, it is easy to look back at your 20s and see only the highlights--the first dates, the nights at the bar with your big group of friends, the late morning sleep-ins. It’s easy to forget the hang-overs, the biological clock, the nervousness about what might come yet.

As STORKS we know what’s coming next: more diapers, more milestones, more sleepless nights, more family trips, more tantrums, more hugs and kisses. And more things that are one hundred percent out of our control.

Being able to accept the imperfection, to look yourself in the mirror with no makeup and wild hair and still somehow find the guts to go out and face the world, well that’s pretty beautiful. So rather than thinking about all the things we once did, we should enjoy more all the things that we can do now. We STORKS are a pretty interesting bunch. Even more interesting than my boobs.