I love my parents, but...

     Someone was really thinking when they created the idea of going to college and moving away from home. Not to say that everyone needs to go to college, or to judge anyone that lives at home for their post high school studies, but you get my point.

     My parents are wonderful people. They are kind, generous and loving. The spent years of their lives sacrificing for me and my brother and continue to do so even though we are both grown with our own kids. My childhood was spent playing, learning, traveling, and truly experiencing life to a degree that has allowed me to be a well traveled adult with a good mind for analytical and intellectual thought. However… yes, you knew this was coming.

     My parents didn’t have the luxury of being raised by calm parents. Each in their own ways, they were raised by well meaning and inconsistent parents. They often didn’t know what would happen next and found life to be an unpredictable force, one that they could not control or anticipate. When they found each other, married and had my brother and me, it was a match made in heaven. They understood each other perfectly and they agreed wholeheartedly to wrap their protective and worried arms around the two kids they loved so much.  They were successful. We were rarely ignored long enough to get hurt and climbing trees was entirely out of the question. What if we fell? Every need we had was met, and I do mean every need. No child of theirs was going unheard or unattended to. No, no, no…

     Many years later, having undone so much of the worry that they fostered in us, I find myself in the unfortunate position of growing irritated at their inability to relax when I find it so much easier. I find myself snapping at them when I feel they are creating unnecessary chaos in a situation that has the potential to be so simple.

     And it makes me feel sad, because at the core of my heart and mind I know that I have the luxury of this calm due to their hard work to not repeat the sins of their parents.  My childhood was not inconsistent. If anything, maybe there were elements too much the opposite. Everything was taken care of for me. While they had to fend for themselves unnecessarily, I was protected.

This has especially come to the surface with the arrival of my children. While visiting with my parents, my son ran into the kitchen table and hit his head. It’s a glass table, but it’s round and there aren’t any very sharp edges. While I certainly don’t think he enjoyed the experience, it also wasn’t going to send him to the ER.  I heard it happen and heard him whimper. Just as I was about to come out, my mom intervened. She began making noises that would make me think he was going to bleed out in a matter of minutes. (There was no blood, for the record). The whimpering turned instantly to wailing and I lost my cool. I snapped something about not telling him he was dying, picked him up, kissed his head and asked him if he was ready for his pizza dinner. “Pizza!!!!!” he exclaimed with glee, forgetting his head, and wiggled into his chair to bang his fork in anticipation. Injured child? I think not… 

     Was I right? Hmmm…. Was I correct in my assessment of his injuries? Probably. Was I fair to my mom? Probably not. But where’s the balance? And how do we maintain the focus that enables us to behave well, treat others well, even when we are so busy we don’t have time to take care of ourselves?

Life As Twins

Sometimes, when my kids decide to play cooperatively together, independent of adult intervention, I observe them. I watch them as they play with the same toy, gleefully handing it back and forth. I watch them as they play with different toys and continually NEED that toy that the other has. Thank goodness our enormous box of plastic food has 2 or 3 of everything. Wait! Maybe the manufacturers had kids? I remark upon how they gaze at each other, and how they frequently move in synch despite the fact that they are not looking at each other and didn’t seem to have any organized plan. I notice the smile and contagious giggle they share with only their twin, and I also notice the capacity that best friend has to annoy them like no other.

It amazes and humbles me. While I love and cherish many people in my life, I have never felt quite that way. I have many close friends, including my husband, and I don’t want to think about the state of my life without any of them. I do, however, have an image of my life before I met them. Additionally, I recognize that if my choices had carved a different path for me, one that didn’t bring me to my current loved ones, I would probably still be enjoying my content and fulfilling life with slightly different details.

I think back to my high school days when a classmate of mine asked another classmate what it was like to be a twin. Her answer, quite rightly, was “What’s it like to NOT be a twin?” I never forgot that.

When my twins were young, I was asked many times if I thought my kids were aware of each other. Mind you, this was at an age where babies don’t tend to have awareness of other children. Well, at least according to psychologists and studies, that is.  My belief is that my kids have never been aware of each other, they have only been aware of each other’s absence.  Sort of like my right arm. It is part of me and unless I have some specific reason (pain or discomfort, for example) I don’t think about my right arm. It’s simply there. If I were to lose my right arm in a tragic accident, its loss would be devastating and I would be forced to reevaluate my entire manner of functioning in life. Everything would be different, altered beyond repair.

Children in multi child families have an element of this bonding, but I don’t believe that it’s to the same level.  After all, the first child knows exactly what life was like before the competition arrived and is not afraid to talk about it. “Mom had more time for me before you came along… it’s not fair! “

I read an article about 92 year old identical twins. They were born minutes apart and they died hours apart, on the same day. They both perished from heart conditions. The ailment doesn’t surprise me terribly, because at 92 years old the heart has been working pretty diligently for a long time. While that sort of death is sad, it’s not tragic. Hey, I’ll live to 92 thanks. The same day, though? It made me think. What if they simply could not live without the other? What if their lives were so intertwined that they each needed the other for basic survival? What if their hearts really did beat as one?

My House Has Exploded...

Oh crap. My house has exploded. Really.

I could tell you that my house is a mess, but that would be akin to reminding that you that Hitler was not really a very nice man. Let me elaborate. My dining room table is a dumping zone for everything that enters the house that isn’t suitable for little fingers. Sometimes the piles actually get so tall that removing one item creates a mini avalanche, sort of like playing an unintentional game of Jenga.  It would be hilarious if it weren’t so terrifying.

The living room is where I leave all items that need desperately to go upstairs but make noise in the process. I can’t really take them up while the kids are awake, but I can’t take them up while the kids are sleeping either, for obvious reasons. Hmmm…

Our bedroom is where I deposit all the clothing, etc, that needs to get into the kids’ rooms eventually, but gets dealt with while the kids are asleep. When to put it in their room? You can see the dilemma, I imagine. The study/guestroom is overflow from our bedroom when I can’t take it anymore.

I am proud to say that the kitchen and family room areas are in good shape. The family room tends to appear as if a toy bomb exploded, but that’s to be expected with two year old twins, and we do a pretty good clean up each evening. I also have a compulsive need to keep their toys organized, but not for the obvious reasons. I certainly don’t object to it all looking neat at night, but my central reasoning is that I have an aversion to not finding what I’m looking for somewhat promptly. As an extension of that, I thoroughly appreciate that my anal retentive habits have created children that can find the specific toy they desire without my assistance, most of the time. Yes, at 2.5 years old. Cool, huh?  I’m all about the independent thing.

 The kitchen is kept clean and basically tidy most of the time, but I can do that while the kids are playing quietly(ish) in the family room and on our screen porch so I would have no excuse otherwise. Besides, unsanitary invites bugs into the house and I’ll have none of that.

I have joked, on many occasions, that I would be a really crappy 1950’s wife. I can cook and bake pretty well, but that’s probably the only skill I have that makes me a good wife, at least in the traditional sense. I have the household organizational capacity of an orangutan, along with their sense of neatness. My hair is never done and the kids go out in public with non threatening stains and dirty faces way too often for me to win any mom of the year awards.  I have a house cleaner that comes once a month to clean up the really nasty messes, but otherwise cleaning is not something that happens very often at all. I shudder to think what our cleaner says about my house after she leaves. Maybe I don’t want to know.

On the flip side, my children smile and wave at every person who opens a door for us with our double wide stroller. They even say “Hi, Nice man/woman” if they are in the mood, totally unprompted. They know how to say please, in the most adorable way, when they really want something and their “thank you smile” just melts me to nothingness. If you measure them by the standards of a toddler, they have a wonderful tolerance for waiting and they know (I mean REALLY know) that when I promise to do something I will do it. If we are fortunate enough to have avoided a meltdown moment, they even cease their requests until the time that I had promised to deliver.  I’m insanely proud of that.

My kids give the best hugs and kisses I have ever seen (in my unbiased view, of course) and they share, between themselves and with others, with an willingness that tells me that my constant and unyielding attempts to meet their individual needs must be successful enough to instill a healthy dose of self esteem.  

My husband and I still have something to talk about, when we aren’t too tired to think. We can still make each other laugh and on our recent vacation we actually spent most of an evening sitting on a balcony, chatting, laughing, and watching the sun set with glasses of wine. Almost  6 years and two kids later, that’s not too shabby.

Is that what “they” meant when they said to prioritize and let the rest go? Hmmmm…. Perhaps…   

Toddler Noise Pollution

     I would really like to request the passenger list for Southwest airlines flight 59, from West Palm to Baltimore and file an official apology for the behavior of my lovely little daughter. Let’s just say that sitting still in her seat, with her seatbelt on, at that designated times was NOT in her plan.

The flight there, while wonderful, really did set us up for disappointment.  Despite a really early wake up, a hustle to the airport, security and all the other “conveniences” of air travel, the kids were angels. Inhumanly so… I could bore you with the list of problems they did not cause and the ways they happily cooperated with the process. 

     I should have known that this kind of luck never strikes twice.  Maybe we tired them out over vacation with our multiple trips to the beach? Maybe the flexible nap schedule or sharing a room had them in a more fragile state? Or possibly, maybe they just didn’t want to leave because they were having so much fun?

     Whatever the reason, the result was heard by many. Here are few things I learned.

1-      Airplane seatbelts do not hold up to a thrashing 30 pound toddler. They do unbuckle during the struggle. That may be due to the wiggling, however, and not due to mechanical fault.

2-      When a child bangs her fist into the plastic wall of the airplane, it creates a reverberating echo that travels further than one would anticipate.

3-      The deafening white noise of the plane does not cover the intensity of a toddler’s wailing, unfortunately.

4-      You can rest assured that the windows are, in fact, strong enough. This has been tested extensively by my lovely daughters frequent and violent kicking. If she didn’t’ get out, the outside sure as hell ain’t getting in.

     I also learned that I have grown as a mom. I have grown thicker skin and I no longer believe that letting my child cry is going to break them. Sometimes crying can simply be anger, not sadness or pain. I have also grown a thicker skin in regards to the disapproving stares of my fellow passengers. I am reminded of the times, pre-parenthood, when I had the audacity to silently reprimand the parents of screaming children and wonder why they couldn’t simply control their own child. I send my apologies out to those parents as well, whoever and wherever you are right now.

     Finally, I have learned to truly embrace the roller coaster ride that is parenting. Bring on another day, I’m ready!

The Silver Lining

      Today has been a very ordinary day. The kids slept in a little, which was nice, and balanced the fact that my daughter woke us up a few times last night. She couldn’t quite get settled for some reason.

      My husband has been breaking his back, completing home improvements since breakfast and I took the opportunity to use my solo parenting time to make a target run. Being a Sunday morning, when all parents of young children go shopping of course, no “cool carts” were available and I had to limit my shop to the items that were safe in the basket with my destructor son or on the under shelf of the regular cart. Inconvenience, sure. Not tragic, though. We all took it in stride and the shopping went off without a hitch.

We had hot dogs for lunch, played like champs and (as I write this) my kids are currently in their cribs for their mid day nap/rest. My son is snoring and my daughter is objecting mildly, but there’s no shock in that reality. Napping has never been an easy process in this house.

      Why am I telling you this? Because I just spoke to a friend of mine who didn’t have very good news regarding the medical and emotional health of his family. Instead of having the luxury of an ordinary day, his day will be spent with worry and concern. The current crisis is not the end for them, it’s part of an ongoing situation that has plagued them for quite some time and may continue to do so for quite some time into the future.  My heart breaks for them, and it reminds me to appreciate what I have.

1-      I have a husband who is in good health, both physically and mentally. While I, a natural worrier, don’t ever totally relax in this current reality, I do appreciate that there are no realistic, imminent threats to this fact.

2-      I have a large extended family that is in good health and live lives that enable them to enjoy some of what they want, in addition to what they require for basic survival.

3-      I have two children who are developmentally normal, show no signs of special needs and have all the necessary intelligence and confidence to drive me totally mad on a regular basis. (Being born so early, this was not necessarily a given approximately 2.5 years ago.)

4-      My husband’s job allows us to enjoy a financial state that, while we aren’t going on fancy vacation or buying fancy cars, does allow us to feed our family well without major concern.

     Ultimately, I have the luxury of mild complaint when the stars don’t align to my complete liking. This is a luxury, not a right. When I lay down to sleep tonight, my most significant complaint will be the necessity for a second shopping trip. Big friggin’ deal. “Grow up, get over it, act your age! “

    
Thinking about my friends, recognizing this luxury makes me want to cry, both in sadness and appreciation.  I hope and pray for them, that this luxury becomes theirs soon.

The Invisible Woman

While vacationing in Florida with my husband and 2 year old twins, we decided to explore the local beach. Whenever I daydream about the beach, I must forget that I have kids now because my daydreams always seem to include the crashing of the waves, the wondrous sensation of the warm sun on my back and face and the sands of time slipping between my toes. These moments of delirium never include the constant reminder to not throw sand, the struggle that is the application of sunscreen onto two children who seem to have lost all their bone rigidity or the wailing when said children are placed under the outside shower to be cleaned off for the ride home. Oh, and let’s not forget my daughter’s compulsion for cleanliness, aptly demonstrated by her decisive statement of “dirty beach” as the sand covered her little legs on the first few visits of the vacation.

That said, it all went pretty well considering the reality. We arrived at the beach and after much patient coaxing, managed to convince my daughter that sand was not created by Satan himself. My son had already covered himself in the devilish substance and was having a great time picking up as much as possible. Yes, throwing it too.

As I was sitting on the wet sand by the water, playing quietly with my daughter, the onslaught of potential navy seal recruits began. I kid you not, they just kept coming. They were running along the beach, doing sprints, carrying and dragging each other.  And yes, you guessed it, they were shirtless. We’ve all seen a 6 pack or two, but an 8 pack is hard to come by. Not with these young gentlemen. 8 packs galore. Now that is what I call eye candy. My husband complained that he didn’t get his turn with bikini girls running, but that’s another story entirely. I felt like I should have been in an episode of “Sex and the City”. Samantha would certainly have known what to say and there’s no chance it would have been appropriate.

So, back to my Navy seals. I know that they were busy with their calisthenics and all, but not a single one seemed to notice me until I directed a specific question. At that point, the young man in question answered me concisely, politely, and moved on.  And that was when it hit me. I have become that age of woman where we become invisible. It’s not that I think I’m unattractive. For a 35 year old woman who gave birth to twins 2 years ago and who doesn’t/can’t make time to exercise off the baby weight, I’m not bad. Despite my generous size, I think I present myself pretty well, but I’m not turning any heads when I walk into the room. When I gaze into the mirror, I find myself recognizing that I am “her”. The mom, the lady who gets called ma’am in the supermarket, the woman your lost kid would approach for help. You know, that woman.

And you know what? I don’t mind it one bit.

Welcome to parenthood...

Welcome to parenthood…

When my husband and I found out we were pregnant, we were thrilled. Then, when we learned about the upcoming double dose, the emotions really got out of control. I couldn’t wait to meet my twins.  I started dreaming about how they would look, fantasizing about their perfect little noses, their precious little toes and their wonderful little round bellies. I could picture it- the two cribs in the nursery with my two perfect children snoring softly at their designated nap times. Ok, maybe that’s a bit optimistic, but you get the picture. The fact that we would never have to think about getting pregnant again was a certified bonus. As we drove back from the doctor’s office, these rosy thoughts swirling through my head, my husband started calculating the costs of college 20 years in the future, multiplying by two. Then he got deadly silent, a veritable black hole in the passenger seat of our car.

All of my friends that had preceded us in the entry to parenthood had advice, ranging from hilarious to downright ominous. I was assured that I would never sleep again, or at least not for a while, but I was reassured that my overwhelming and unconditional love would help me manage the inevitable frustration. I read articles, mostly written by moms, all of which talked about the need for self preservation, adult conversation and the dire necessity for couple date nights to preserve the marriage. While I believed all these “experts” I had no doubt that I would fine. I wouldn’t lose myself. After all, I really wanted my kids. Right? Besides, I had worked in multiple daycare centers. I would FINE. My husband I had practically defined PDA in our early courtship, we couldn’t stop kissing in public. With a spark like that, no problem.  I wasn’t worried at all. Totally justified confidence.  Right?

Then the kids arrived. Now, don’t get me wrong. I do love my kids. I love them beyond words, as promised, and this love does help me tolerate the inevitable frustrations brought on by their immature behaviors, as also promised. But now, when I read those articles written by “experts” I read them with a different shade of glasses. The shade is still a pleasant shade, mind you, but it’s no longer the flawless shade of rose. Maybe an olive green or mauve, but certainly not rose.

And as I begin this blog, I find myself in the wonderful yet precarious position of mom to twin 2.5 year olds, wife to a wonderful man who is saddled with the responsibility of funding our family of four and part time teacher who is in the constant struggle to achieve that balance between too little and too much professional life. Nobody said it was easy, though, did they?