My Soapbox

I used to be fit. I worked out most days. I lived in a fifth-floor walk-up. I walked everywhere. I biked on the weekends all over NYC. Now, I drive my car, sit at my desk, play with my kids and collapse into bed by 9:45 p.m.

Since having kids, my free time has diminished to the hours between 8 and almost 10 p.m., precious “me-time" that I spend cooking and eating dinner, doing a mountain of dishes, talking to my husband for 10 minutes and getting in bed.

No one would really say I’m fat, but I’m fatty or fat-ish and also flabby. And this feels, well, kinda yucky. For many reasons -- health, vanity and mostly for my children -- I decided I had to put the brakes on my downward spiral and expanding waistline before it was too late. On a whim at the end of last year, I signed up to do this fitness/lifestyle thing called the Whole Life Challenge.

If you go onto the Whole Life Challenge website, it sounds kind of mysterious and vague, but here’s the deal: It’s an 8-week program in which you forgo sugar, wheat, soy, most dairy and any unnatural ingredients; also you work out 10 minutes a day and stretch 10 minutes a day. You pay $50, log your points, get inspiration from the thousands of other people doing it, and for eight weeks live a highly conscious existence in which you pay attention to ingredient labels and start to realize just how many opportunities there are in every day to each chocolate.

I wish I was the kind of person who didn't need to join a program to make myself stop eating so much pasta and cheese, but I’m not. So, on Saturday, I’m going to start the Whole Life Challenge for a second time. I hope I’m not being preachy, but I just wanted to put it out there that this has helped me feel like myself again. I am not perfect, and the challenge is not about perfection, it’s about awareness. I say have  no time to exercise,  but I do have 10 minutes a day--and I found that 10 minutes can make a difference. 

Happy 2014.

A Beautiful Child

This almost never happens, but recently I was in the store with just one child.

I pushed Finley in the shopping cart as we looked for rice milk and chicken soup, when suddenly a woman stopped to look at us. “What a beautiful child,” she said. I looked at her for a moment that seemed to go on forever. I was frozen by the back-and-forth response bouncing through my head. What I was about to say is, “Oh, and I have another one just like him at home -- he’s a twin.” After some confusing internal whiplash, what I finally made myself say instead was, “Thank you.”

I am accustomed to people stopping my family, staring at and commenting on our two boys. “How cute!” “You must have your hands full!” “Are they identical?!” “Wow!”

Yes, we are like a little traveling circus, our family, and I’m used to attracting attention because, well, there are two adorable, blue-eyed little guys and that is indeed special.

The thing I sometimes forget is that just one adorable little guy is special. On his own.  

I’m sure people who have just one kid at a time (i.e., most people) have no trouble realizing that their one precious little bundle of joy is unique and wonderful and worthy of praise. My Facebook feed is full of pictures of super cute babies that don’t come as a set. I’m sure the parents of those babies are not taken aback when strangers tell them their baby is cute.

The world will give Finley and August all sorts of attention for being part of a duo, but it’s my job to make sure that each one knows he is separate and fabulous and worthy, all by himself.

The Unsuspecting Mother of Boys

When I was growing up, I expected that when it came time to have kids I’d have one, sweet, calm daughter just like my mom had. My mom saved a box of my delicate baby dresses that had been hand-knit by family friends when I was born. She also kept a precious, tiny green rocking chair that I planned to give to my little girl. I imagined mother-daughter bonding and a mini-me who would mirror the best parts of my own childhood. I even imagined moving to Hawaii when I had kids, just as my parents had done.  

Now here I am with two boys -- and totally not in Hawaii.

The day we found out we were having boys was a rough one. My whole pregnancy, from conception to carrying the babies to their birth, was difficult. On this particular day, my husband and I needed some good news so, on the spur-of-the-moment when the doctor asked if we wanted to know the gender, Matt said yes and I agreed. 

Before she told us, the doctor asked what I thought I was having. Despite always expecting to be the mother of a little girl, I had a feeling I was carrying boys. Mother’s instinct or just luck? Who knows. I had a 50-50 chance.

When the doctor confirmed my intuition, I was happy. Girls can be complicated and mother-daughter relationships are notoriously sticky and tricky. Most women I know have a close, but slightly troubled relationship with their moms. Most men I know adore their moms. These are broad strokes. There are not guarantees. But I liked the idea of boys.

I’m not girlie-girl. I don't care much about makeup or shopping or trends. As a kid, I liked climbing trees and playing with cars (as well as Barbies). I like playing ball and wearing jeans. I like boys. I like dudes. They are, for the most part, straight forward, easy-going, what-you-see-is-what-you-get people (except when you are a single woman dating, when men are dense and complicated riddles!) 

Annnywaaaay, so far having boys is better than I imagined. My guys are sweet and cuddly and funny and cool. They love to hold my face and stare into my eyes. They caress my back when I am holding them. They smooth my hair and squeeze me hard. They are awesome -- and I mean that literally. My sons fill me with awe.

They are also totally wild, crazy animals.

My boys are constantly on each other like two WWE wrestlers --  jumping, kicking, poking, pounding, slapping, rolling, yelling. They are two balls of nuclear energy smashing into each other.

They do love to hug and say “I love you” to each other. But the hugs often turn into headlocks and the “I love yous” are muffled as they smush each other’s faces into the floor.

For me, an only child who thought she’d have a sweet little girl to sit and play dolls with, it's a kind of play I don't really understand. Still, I've learned quickly when something is about to go from good to bad to potential serious injury. And the thing is, my boys are not aggressive. Outside of our house, they are shy and clingy. They are afraid of dogs. They hate the talking Halloween mask in our neighbor's yard, who I have named Bob. They are terrified of certain old people (don't ask me why!) But they love to jump on top of each other from a great height.

Yes, I admit that when I walk through Target ('cause I really don't go a lot of other places) I moon over the adorable dresses and sparkly shirts in the girls' section. But I would not trade my little wrestlers for anything.

It's September So There's Always This...

I’m in a funk.

There are several potential reasons for my mood. I just started a new diet/lifestyle challenge that prohibits eating my favorite things: pasta, pastries and potatoes.

Also, it’s almost Sept. 11.

Every year, I start thinking about Sept. 11, 2001, about a month before the anniversary. I go over the day in my head. It was a beautiful morning, sunny and warm. I voted for mayor at the local elementary school on my way to work (a vote that would later have to be recast). I walked the two miles through Central Park to my office in midtown. I was excited because my dad was flying into New York for a visit later that day.

I worked in a newsroom then. When the first plane hit, we were on alert, curious, watching it live. We thought it was a small plane, an accident, tragic, but probably not many casualties.

The first thing I always think of though, around Sept. 11, is the sound that my coworkers, Jim and Paul, made when the second plane hit, the “whoa!” that echoed from their corner of the newsroom. That was the sound of the world changing. It was immediately followed by ear-splitting beeps from all our computers that indicated breaking news, then shouts from the editors, talking, typing, calling, ringing. All that noise is what I remember about the moment we realized this was no accident.

A photo I took at Windows on the World at the top of the World Trade Center in 2000. 

My memory is also flooded with people, all the people I worked with on that day and in the days following, the endless hours in the office, the relentlessness of it, the seriousness of the job, the just being together as history happened. Every year, I think of Michael, Marie-France, Kathleen, Robin, Catherine, Jim, Paul, Refet, Steve, Jen, Marcel and the whole group. These people, most of whom I haven’t seen in years, are in my mind like it was yesterday—and they always will be every Sept. 11.

I also think of the first people I called, my friends who were still asleep or getting ready for work because it was only 9:03 a.m. I called Rick and Jenn and Farrin to tell them to turn on their TVs, to stay home, to be safe.

Of course, I called my mom. While I was on the phone with her, I lost my breath for a moment as I remembered my father was supposed to be getting on a plane in San Francisco and coming to see me. “Oh my god, Dad,” I said and hung up.

Frantic when I reached him, I told my dad that under no circumstances should he get on the plane. “Leave now,” I said. “Leave the airport. Go home.” My dad didn’t understand. “Oh, I have to get my bags. I’ll see how it goes,” he said. “No,” I shouted into the phone, starting to cry. “Go home. You are not getting on a plane today.”

Of course, my dad could not have gotten on a plane even if he’d wanted to—all flights were grounded for days.

Eventually, sometime in October, my dad came to New York. He visited Ground Zero with me, but mostly he was there to take me away from N.Y.C. for a few days. I admit, I had become kind of obsessed, riding my bike as close to Ground Zero as I could every evening, staying up late reading The New Yorker, then going to work and writing about it. I was white-knuckling it every day.

Dad and I went to a beautiful B&B in the Berkshires to see the fall colors and put some distance between Ground Zero and me. There was a couple staying at the B&B who had both been in the Twin Towers when the planes hit. We looked at each over brunch, seeing the haunted look in all of our eyes, and silently agreed not to discuss it anymore.

But just because I don’t talk about it, doesn’t mean I will ever forget it. I won’t. I will never forget. 

No Mommy Hondo

Before I had kids, the only Spanish I knew was “cerveza” (beer), “gracias” (thank you) and “la cuenta, por favor” (check, please). Obviously, my trips to Spanish speaking countries were very focused.

Now my vocabulary includes “donde esta la pelota?” (where’s the ball?), “sucio” (dirty) “cuidado” (careful) -- and “hondo” (work). The actual word for work is “trabajar,” which is conjugated in a way that sounds like TRA-VA-HONDO, at least it is in my house. I don’t even speak Spanish – our nanny does and I hope August and Finley will, too. My point in explaining all this is that every day, August and Finley look at me and say, “No Mommy hondo,” meaning “Don't go to work, Mommy.” And it breaks my heart.

Maybe I read too much into their constant requests for me not to work, but each time they say it I feel like I am failing as a mother. 

Yesterday, "No Mommy hondo," was the last thing Finley said to me before I left for work. It was the first thing he said when I got home at 5:30 p.m., and it was the last thing he said to me as he was going to sleep. It physically hurts me to hear it. 

To be clear, Finley and August don’t cry as I walk out the door each morning. They yell, “bye!” and squirm away when I give them hard hugs and smooches all over. They have great days filled with lots of socializing, activities and play.

I spend every waking moment of my life either at work or with my children. I rarely see friends. I quit the gym. My husband and I have had only a handful of date nights in two years. Outside of the nine or so hours a day that I work and commute, I live and breathe my sons—yet I still feel like I am irreparably harming them by leaving them with our (super awesome) nanny five days a week.

Please, someone tell me that I am crazy, that it's normal and fine and well, just life.

Earlier this year, I lost my job. I was disappointed and scared, and yet it was the best thing that happened to me in ages. For four months I had time to get to know August and Finley so much better. I could understand their language more easily. I read them more stories. I was relaxed with them. We played and explored new activities. We had more play dates. It was spectacular.

But to pay the mortgage and the bills, a lady's got to work. I have a new job now that I really, really enjoy. It gives me peace of mind because I do something that contributes positively to the world. Also, I don’t have to check my blackberry the minute I wake up, before bed and every other moment in between the way I once did. I work with nice, smart people. I take lunch breaks. I leave most days at 5 p.m. Also, I realize that I am incredibly blessed to have a job at all, let alone a good one.

I also believe that working makes me a better mother. I am more fun, more calm, more patient and loving because I have some time away from my kids. I just wish it wasn’t quite so much time. These years are flying by like clouds on a windy day. I don’t want to miss them.

And I can’t shake the look on August and Finley’s faces when they say, “No Mommy hondo.

Happy (Almost) Birthday to August and Finley

I recently toured the NICU at the hospital where I've started working. A woman I had just met walked me through the hallways pointing out the rooms where tiny babies were being treated.

I tried not to, but I got teary. I couldn't help it.

All I could think about was when August and Finley were born, the weeks they spent in the NICU, the machines that monitored them day and night, the nurses who stayed vigilant 24 hours a day to make sure my sons were safe.

I thought about how, after my C-section, my two babies were brought into my field of vision only momentarily as the doctor sewed me back up, and then whisked away for immediate care. I didn't know it then, but August was in serious distress.

I am embarrassed to admit I was so overwhelmed with the experience, the discomfort and lights and doctors and noises and pain killers that I barely registered the moments—at 8:32 p.m. and 8:33 p.m.—when I became a mother two times over.

My husband, sister-in-law and dad all got to see August and Finley right away, but I was strapped to a gurney and pumped with meds. The next day, the NICU was closed until the late afternoon because a critically ill baby was undergoing surgery. I sat in my hospital room in pain, nursing my wounds and weirdly disconnected from the two tiny beings I had given birth to.

I fell in love with my sons the moment I saw them. I stroked their tiny hands. I couldn't wait to hold them. I felt like I lived in the NICU for the three weeks the boys were there.

Yet it is really only now—as August and Finley approach their second birthday—that I truly feel like a mom.

The first two years of parenthood were a blur of sheer, unfathomable exhaustion. My daily life didn't feel like something anyone could rightly call “normal.” I staggered to work on a fraction of the sleep I’d been used to. I rushed home in a frenzy, fighting traffic at the end of each day, desperate to squeeze in extra moments with the boys. I waited for life to stabilize somehow.

Somewhere along the line when I wasn't looking—or maybe it was only a few days ago—I started to feel like myself again.

Now, as I mentally prepare to have a bouncy castle set up in our tiny back yard and research how to make a low-sugar cake and watch August and Finley become more of themselves—sweet, mischievous, cuddly, independent, smart, funny, musical, adventurous, awesome little dudes—every day, I feel the joy of motherhood so profoundly that it takes my breath away.

I think about those babies in the NICU who I saw just last week and I am so thankful for the progress my family has made in the last two years. I feel like falling to my knees in thanks. And with all my heart I hope the parents of those babies have the chance to order a bouncy castle of their own in two years.

August and Finley, you turned my world upside down. Thank you. I love you.

The End and The Beginning

What would you do with your last day of freedom?

I plan to go shopping, pick up my prescription, get a manicure and take myself to a nice lunch. 

After nearly four months of being unemployed, I start a new job next week.

I say tomorrow is my final day of freedom because my nanny will be with the boys tomorrow. I guess it's more like "me time" rather then free time.

Anyway, I'm full of mixed emotions about going back to work: relief, anxiety, excitement, regret, sadness. Mostly I just think about how much I will miss my boys. I ache with missing them already.

Still, I am so lucky. Getting laid off from my old job was an amazing gift. It pushed me from my little nest. It gave me months to spend with August and Finley during a mind-blowingly beautiful time in their lives. It gave me time to regain my sanity, my balance, my self. Oh, and I got paid. And I found a new job I'm excited about. That is a blessing. 

Now, it's time to start a new chapter and try to keep hold of those things I located during my time off – sanity, balance, self.

Slippery Slope

Today I did it. I gave the boys sugar.

Technically, August and Finley have had sugar before. Brown sugar in oatmeal. Homemade carrot muffins with sugar. Very ripe fruit.

But today was full on frosting and cake pulsing through your veins sugar.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I didn’t even intend to get a cupcake as we sang happy birthday to our 2-year-old twin neighbors. But then Finley was pushing against me like a starving wild animal eyeing fresh meat. He was yelling “mine, mine, cake, cake” as other moms and kids reached for the homemade vanilla concoctions. Matt looked at me slightly horrified from across the table. We hadn’t talked about this. There was no time for discussions. “Should we give ‘em a little bite of cake?” “Sure, it’s a party.”

It was Finley who made the decision as he reached his tiny body, all muscle and will, toward the white fluffy frosting. Once the cupcake was in my hand, Fin literally thrust his face into it with all his might, mouth wide open. He’d inhaled a quarter of the cupcake by the time I reached Matt and August on the other side of the backyard.

Quick and dirty, I broke off a piece for August who was also writhing in Matt’s arms like he was a caged beast. They each had a bite more and then I shoved a piece in Matt’s mouth and in my own so I could tell the boys, “All gone! All gone!”

The aftermath of the cupcake was not pretty, but it was funny. August and Finley acted downright drunk. They laughed too loud, ran around in circles, jumped up and down, took their shirts off at home and got more affectionate. It was like babies telling each other, “I love you, man!” 

After an hour, their eyes drooped and they crashed hard into their cribs. And so did Matt and I. 

My Sweet Sundays

When I was young and single and living in New York, on Sunday mornings my favorite thing to do was go out and buy the New YorkTimes, a good cup of coffee and an amazing croissant from Patisserie Claude in the West Village. 

Then I'd go back home to my fifth floor walkup, sit in bed next to the window, devour my croissant in three minutes and read the paper for an hour or two before heading out on a bike ride. Even though I lived in a bustling neighborhood, my apartment was bright and quiet. It overlooked a big beautiful tree sprouting out of the backyard. The memory of the serenity, the peacefulness of my ritual still makes me smile.

But now I have a new Sunday morning ritual. Usually I'

Easy like Sunday morning.

m up between 5:30 and 6 a.m. – like I am every day – and after bottles and cuddles and books and our first breakfast, I take August and Finley on a walk in the stroller. We go to a local café where the ladies behind the counter know what I like – a latte, a muffin and a scrambled egg sandwich to bring home to Matt.

August, Finley and I sit at a table where their little legs dangle off the benches in their jammies and we share "cake" (i.e. an apple bran muffin) and talk to strangers and drink the cucumber water they serve at the café and watch the passers-by and greet the hipster customers who manage to straggle in early. It's doesn't provide the same kind of peace I enjoyed in the West Village, but it's a mighty sweet way to start a Sunday.