Merry (cough, cough) Christmas

We seem to have developed an unfortunate holiday tradition: illness.

Beginning with last Thanksgiving -- when we had to go to the emergency room twice in as many days! -- someone has gotten sick whenever there is any kind of holiday or special occasion.

This year, it started with a runny nose. August woke up one day and had a bit of clear liquid coming out of one nostril. Matt immediately started to freak out, "Oh my god, I can't believe it! Why is this happening to us? Next time, we are going to quarantine the boys for at least a week before any holiday!"

I, on the other hand, was in total denial. "He's not sick. What makes you think he's sick? It's just a little runny nose."

Matt: "When has a runny nose ever meant he's NOT sick?"

The next morning -- Christmas Eve day -- August had Niagara Falls coming out his nose.

But still, I was not particularly alarmed. All kids have runny noses. Every kid I see out in the world has a runny nose, seemingly all the time. They are all grungy and runny and teething and drooling and putting their grubby fingers into their mouths. That's just kids.

Christmas morning, August woke up with the Great Wall of China blocking his nostrils. Caked on, dried up snot. I could no longer ignore it. He was sick. 

When a friend of mine gifted me the NoseFrida Snot Sucker when I was pregnant, I was like, "Eww, that's so gross. There is no way -- no way -- I'm ever going to suck snot out of another person's nose, even if it's my own kid."

Cut to being a mother of 18-month-old twins. I have sucked snot out of one of their noses probably every other day of their lives. This holiday season I can say without hesitation that I'm grateful for that NoseFrida!

Anyway, August got truly, undeniably sick. He's miserable and snotty and whiny and upset and coughing and clinging. And he's spreading his germs to Finely and me and Matt and probably to my parents who came over for Christmas. 

I spent Christmas night sleeping fitfully, nursing a sore throat, listening for coughs and moans from the boys' room, thinking I'd probably have to take August to the doctor this week, images of antibiotics dancing in my head.

This whole parenthood thing, especially to twins, is so much more difficult than I ever imagined. I have been bone tired every single day since June 26, 2011. 

But I also wouldn't give it up.

Last night, when Finely woke up coughing at 2:30 a.m., I brought him onto the couch in his room with me, fed him a little bit of bottle, rubbed his back and cuddled for probably an hour while he slept on my chest. And while I was there I said to myself, to god to the universe, "This is really hard. But thank you. Thank you for entrusting me with the job of caring for these children."

The thing is, I simply adore them. I adore their squeals and the silly, unbridled way they dance whenever they hear music. I adore their glee and wonder at every new experience. I adore seeing how they learn new words every day, how they hone new skills -- like stacking about seven Christmas presents on top of each other!

It comes down to this. My throat hurts. I hope I don't have an ear infection. I really, really want a good night's sleep but can't count on it. I'm tired. I look tired. But I also love my kids beyond measure and I'm grateful now and forever that they are in my life.

Merry (cough, cough) Christmas

One Step at a Time

One of my greatest fears has been that I would miss August and Finley's first steps. Being at work 5 days a week, I already miss so much. I miss them making friends at the park, learning to crawl into their stroller, eating lunch at parks and restaurants around our neighborhood, story-time, free concerts at The Grove. It makes me crazy, crazy how much I am missing.

So one moment I really wanted to witness first hand was my boys walking for the first time. Well, on Sunday, August accommodated my wishes.

It happened while we were in the living room. He was holding onto his stroller near the front door. He pivoted, let go of the stroller and stepped, once, twice, then went down onto his bum.

"Wow," I yelled to Matt, who was in the kitchen. "August just walked all by himself."

He did it again that afternoon in our bedroom. He just stood and walked toward me. "You did it! You did it!" I shouted at August as I scooped him up and smothered him in proud kisses. (Above photo shows Fin in front, August behind him, just a couple hours before the steps were taken.)

And once again in the evening, he performed his magic trick, taking three steps toward his Mozart Music Cube - this time with Matt as a witness, too.

That night, as I was getting August ready for bed, I held him tightly, looked up at... God, the universe, the sky, the ceiling, and said, "Thank you. Thank you so much for letting me be here for this moment."

But as with everything about parenting (and life, for that matter) things are not black and white. August "walks" only sometimes, in little tentative, but excited spurts here and there. He takes two or three steps, screeches with joy and plops down onto his bottom.

I'm so grateful I got to see his first steps. Now I am wonder, 'Will I be there when he really starts to walk, to run, to leap?' I wish I could see every moment. It kills me that I can't. All I can do is pay close attention when I am with him and hope I can catch many more big moments.

The Big Birthday

I've been avoiding writing about a million things, but here's the big one. A few days ago, I turned 40. Forty. That's right. Sigh.

When I think about my birthday, the number sticks in my throat like a giant spoonful of peanut butter. I can't ingest it, digest it, swallow it. Forty just gums up my mouth.

But why? It's one of two things: either it's such a monumental, life-changing number that I can't process it -- or it's not such a big deal at all. My suspicion is it's a little bit of both.

By nature, I'm a nostalgic person. I love to dwell. I love to mull over the past. I adore looking through old photo albums. But I'm running a marathon called being a full-time working mom to twins. My legs are like jelly. My neck hurts. My mind is a jumble. I can barely remember my own address. I don't have time to look back.

This year, the big birthday is actually 1 not 40. August and Finley will turn 1 next month. Now that number leaves me flabbergasted. I'm breathless. Winded. What the...? How did that happen? But there it is just over the horizon. One.

August and Fin (pictured above with balloons even though it wasn't their birthday) are not even really babies anymore. They're standing, cruising around the house, almost walking, shouting, saying "mama, mama, mama" (even though it's not directed at me.) It's stunning. They are stunning. I am stunned. And I am 40.

The truth is, I've thought of myself as 40 for the last couple of years. Hell, once you have trouble getting pregnant, get poked and probed by doctors, become pregnant with twins, go on bed rest for two months, give birth to premature twins at age 39, then don't sleep for 9 months and spend all the money you ever had on a night nurse, turning 40 feels like brushing your teeth, like pouring your morning coffee, like something you just do and move on.

So, bring it on 40. I'm ready for ya.

The Evil Eye

People love twins. They go crazy, cra-zy when they see them. They stand in front of the stroller so I can't move. They tell me, "God bless." They make faces at August and Finely, who usually look impassively at the gawkers.

I feel like Angelina Jolie and her six kids. Wherever we go, people look, point, whisper or sometimes just come right up to the boys and talk to them or even try to touch them. I've lived a private, reserved life. I don't easily talk to strangers or strike up conversations with people in line. Or I didn't. Now I do.

One day recently, Matt took the boys for a walk. He was stopped by an elderly Russian lady, who advised him first that August's socks were too tight. She then recommended that Matt put a red string around both August and Fin's wrists to ward off the evil eye. "There will be many people looking at them because they are twins," she said. "So they need protection."

When Matt told me about the encounter we both laughed. A little while later, I turned to Matt and said, "Should we get some red string?"

Before I was a parent, I would read terrible news stories -- kids who were abducted, burned, molested, hurt in car accident -- and think, 'Oh my god, how awful, that poor family.'

Since having children, my thoughts are more like, 'OH MY GOD! HOW HORRIBLE! HOW CAN THAT FAMILY GO ON?!' The mere idea of something happening to August and Finley sends me into a spiral of despair and revenge. In my mind I morph into a crazy, vengeance-seeking vigilante superhero.

In the real world, however, I am just a mom doing my best to love and protect my sons. And someday I will have to send my boys out into the world. Hell, I already leave them in the care of someone else five days a week. At 8 months old, they go out into the world without me all the time.

I would like to accompany them everywhere. I'd actually like them to just stay in the padded kitchen nook we've turned into a play room. But I can't contain them even in the house. August and Finley are crawling like mad, standing, exploring. They are already finding their independence. Look at Finley crawling away from me!

So back to the red string and the evil eye. I will not put physically put a red string on their wrists -- it seems like a choking hazard! Instead, I'll just try like hell to protect them, and spend the rest of my life worrying about them. But I'll also proudly let old Russian ladies at Trader Joe's admire my sons. I'll take all the "God bless" comments I can get. And I'll let August and Finley out of the kitchen nook occasionally.

To Have or Not to Have The Family Bed

I never thought I'd be open to a communal bed, but now the idea of sleeping with our two sons is starting to seem like a not-so-terrible idea.

Here's why:
1. Sleep! August and Finley don't sleep through the night. Maybe if they slept in bed with Matt and me they wouldn't wake up as often -- and even if they did, at least I wouldn't have to get my butt out of bed and down the hall to soothe them. Instead, I could stick a pacifier in their mouths and rub their little backs in a half-dream, half-awake state. Good idea or just plain lazy?

2. Closeness. Now that I'm a working mom, I want to spend more time with my boys. I miss them terribly during the day. I see them for about an hour and a half each morning and then another hour or so in the evening. So sleeping in the same bed is the only way I can think of to have them with me more often. Good parenting or totally weirdly clingy?

Before you answer, let me share the background. When I was pregnant, I thought, 'Of course, I would never let my kids sleep in bed with me. That's just too close for comfort. It's not healthy. They need to have their own space.' I loved (and still love) the idea of all of us cuddling under the covers on a Sunday morning. But I never wanted to spend my nights crammed into a queen-sized bed jockeying for space with two babies and Matt. I love sleeping too much!

Then one afternoon when August was about four months old I couldn't get him to settle down, so I cradled him next to me on the bed, and together we fell into a deep mid-afternoon sleep. I awoke from the nap relaxed and blissful. Since then, I have stolen occasional brief snoozes separately with August and Finley. Those little naps are probably the most intimate moments of my life -- breathing in the sweet smell of baby, feeling their buttery soft skin, hearing their gentle breath, knowing I would do anything and everything to protect them for the rest of my life.

Not that it's easy sleeping with a baby. They spend a lot of time rolling and cooing, drooling, kicking, scratching at your face and pulling your hair. But once they fall asleep, it's like being weightless and in love.

So my friends, as I settle in at the ripe hour of 8:45 p.m. for a disturbed night of sleep, tell me what you think. Is it a good idea to have a communal family bed or not?

A Work In Progress

I think I forgot to brush my teeth this morning. That’s just how my days go lately. The usual stuff of life –- grooming, eating, sleeping, socializing –- often slips through the cracks.

I also didn’t wash my hair today. I’ve always been the kind of person who washes her hair every single day (almost), but this is the new me. Now I am a fulltime working mom and some days, probably every day, something has to give.

I’d like to be the kind of woman who has perfectly straightened hair with no ugly, rouge, stray grays sticking out. I’d like to be a person who’s in good shape and wears clean, tailored clothes. I’m not that person. I am a working mom of twins.

For months I worried about going back to work. The day finally arrived this week. Many friends – all women – sent me emails, texts, facebook messages wishing me well. They all know that first day is impossible. It’s like man walking on the moon kind of impossible -– something that seems insane, wild, unreasonable, foolish even, until it actually happens. And then it's just reality.

In the morning on that first day of work, I rushed from the house with tears streaming down my face, leaving August and Finley with the nanny on the play mat in the kitchen nook, which is now a playroom. They were fine. I was the one who was a mess.

It’s a small miracle I was not in a major car accident on the way home I drove so frantically, cursing L.A., idiot drivers, horrific traffic, a society where we must leave our children with strangers all day. I was a mad, mad woman. The minute I walked through the door I dramatically threw myself at my sons as if I’d just gotten home from a four-month tour in Afghanistan. Happily, the boys were wildly excited to see me, too. They each smiled from ear to ear, shrieked with joy, laughed and hugged me as much as any 6-month old baby can hug, and covered me in wet, gummy drool. Bliss.

That first day I thought I would never make it another day. But I got up at 5:45 a.m. the next morning and pushed ahead. It’s only been three days, but I have made it this far.

I’ve even developed a bit of a morning routine: pump, shower, dress, make bottles, greet babies who have just woken up, feed babies, change diapers, make second breakfast of cereal and pureed banana, set up high chairs, feed babies again, shove something edible into my mouth, greet nanny and go to work. You see, there is no ‘brush teeth’ in my routine! What can I say? It’s a work in progress. My whole life is a work in progress.