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. 

Bedtime Stories

One thing I love to do with August and Finley is to recount the day during bedtime.

Matt and I each hold one of the boys in our arms while they drink their bottles (yes, they are too old for bottles – don’t judge.) We sit on the comfy red couch in their room with the lights dimmed and quietly whisper the day’s highlights.

Last Saturday, I held Finley in my lap. I stroked his baby soft hair and leaned in close to remind him of all we’d done, giving him good thoughts as he drifted toward sleep. Here is what I told him:

We went to the tar pits.

We saw dinosaurs.

We saw a big mammoth that moved from side to side.

We watched turtles swim.

We made boats out of leaves and watched them float away.

We ran down a really big hill laughing and holding hands.

We listened as a man played three different instruments – a guitar, a banjo and a mandolin.

You sat on a giant bear’s lap. (It was a statue, people!)

You ran through the grass soooo fast.

We saw lots of kids at lunch and you flirted with the beautiful lady at the next table.

You learned to jump with two feet for the first time!  Wow!

You are amazing.

Say “night night” to August; say “night night” to daddy. I love you.

Sweet and Sour

I lost my job. Not like I can’t find it – I know where it is – I’m just not invited to go there anymore. It’s okay. I was ready to move on and they were downsizing.... Plus, I got a package. Otherwise, it would not be okay. I have two kids and those little dudes ain’t cheap.

Anyway, what has it meant for me as a mom not to work?

First of all, it’s such a relief in a million ways. Our whole family life is better. I’ve learned to make lasagna and quinoa with roasted veggies and delicious corn salad. I plan meals. I grocery shop. I take the garbage out. I pay bills. Matt doesn’t have to rush home from work.

But it’s also weird because we still have a nanny. The deal is I need a job. And when I get one, we will need a nanny. So, our fabulous nanny agreed to go part-time – four days a week – while I look for the next thing.

This way we save a bit of money. I have time to look for work and get a full weekday with August and Finley to myself. What more could I want, you ask? I’m living the high life: no job, a paycheck, a part-time nanny and personal time. I’m like an effing Housewife of Beverly Hills!

Still, it’s weird and sticky. Every morning when Flora arrives, I leave my kids and find something to do with myself. Of course, I have lots to do – interviews to attend, thank you letters to write, a resume to revise, phone calls to make, advice to ask, the unemployment office to visit (that was special), jobs to apply for, etc. etc.

All that stuff needs doing. But I do other things too: Go to the grocery store practically every day. Check Facebook. Get coffee. I waste time when time like this should not be wasted.

I beat myself up for not exercising until I have six-pack abs, not writing my long imagined book proposal and not being with my kids every waking moment. That’s the real ache. If I’m not working, shouldn’t I be with my kids all day, every day? Shouldn’t I maximize this time so that when I do go back to work I’ll have packed months of love and bonding and special time into their little minds and bodies?

To be clear: I do spend more time with them than when I had a job.  We have long leisurely mornings together with lots of eating, playing, reading and cuddling. I’m home when they wake up from their afternoon nap. I meet them for lunch or during outings sometimes. But I’m still letting someone else take care of them for a good chunk of the day. I feel like my boys' lives are like this picture above: a blur of color and motion that goes by so fast, I gasp and grasp at it hoping not to miss too much.

The guilt of not using my time wisely enough feels like a giant bag of sugar (one of those massive, professional bakery bags) sitting on my chest. I know this time is sweet but I feel guilty for not being judicious enough about its use.