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.

It's a bird, it's a plane ....

Time flies, or so they say. But for many years I managed to ignore the passage of time.

From about 1994 to 2004, I lived essentially the same life. I resided in New York City, worked and dated. I moved apartments twice, changed jobs a lot and had a couple of boyfriends, but the through line of my life remained relatively unchanged. For those things that did change, I had ways of covering them up: A few more gray hairs? More highlights! Frown lines? Nothing a little Botox can’t fix. Ticking biological clock? Let’s have another cocktail and forget it.

But now that I am a mother, nothing stays the same. This week alone, life has handed me irrefutable evidence that time is rushing by with alarming quickness.

1. August and Finley turned six months old.
2. August and Finley tried solid food for the first time. One moment, only milk, formula and a little Tylenol had passed through their perfect pink lips. The next moment, mashed up avocado mixed with breast milk was running down their chins.
3. Finley rolled over all the way from back to front for the first time.
4. August pushed up onto all fours. In a day, two days, a week, he will surely be crawling. At least that seems to be his intention. (I wonder if sleeping through the night is on the boys' agenda!?)

It always seemed like a cliché to say time flies. But it does move –- it runs, it leaps, it rushes through the 59th street station to catch the subway, it speeds past you on the 10 freeway in the fast lane. It goes by like the wind sweeping your hair into your face and obscuring your sight for a moment. Time, it turns out, is breathtakingly fast.

I don’t know what point I’m trying to make exactly, but I guess it’s this: I am amazed and appalled by how quickly my sons are changing. I can’t believe my little guys are already so big. I can barely remember what they were like two months ago. I can’t believe this is how fast babyhood goes. Some days -- like when I have to get up five times in a night to soothe crying babies -- I want to fast forward a few years. Some days -- like when August pushes away from me so he can go explore some new fascinating horizon -- I want to freeze time. Mostly, I try to savor the newness of each day, with mixed success. Sometimes I mourn the end of the day and other times I celebrate it.

Anyway, it's been six life-changing months of motherhood. And this is just the beginning.

A Plea for Advice from Working Parents

So many things have happened since I last blogged, I can’t even remember all the hundreds of blog posts I’ve started in my mind and never actually wrote. As a mom to twins, I find that time runs away from me each day. In the mornings, I come up with an ambitious list of things to accomplish. By the afternoon, I can’t even remember what was on the list. And now, the passage of time is speeding up even more.

The dreaded deadline in every working mom’s life is approaching fast: the end of my maternity leave.

The moment August and Finley came out of me, I started to wonder how on earth I could ever be parted from them again. (I mean, look at that adorable face of Finley!) They are, of course, the most precious things in the world to me. I hate the idea of giving them over to someone else for most of their waking hours every weekday. But this is not a debate I can have. My family requires me to work so that we can do little things like, say, eat and pay the mortgage.

As the day of my return to the rat race has gotten closer, I’ve started to come to terms with my new life. In fact, there’s a secret little part of me that is relieved at the idea leaving the house unencumbered, of being able to walk across the street and get a sandwich without pushing a double stroller, of talking to adults about something besides diapers, about wearing clothes that are not covered in drool.

I’ve talked to lots of my friends who work and have kids, and they all tell me two things. 1. It’s really hard. 2. But it’s not as bad as you think.

I’ve also been brainstorming with my husband and just on my own about how I can walk the tightrope of being a good, hard-working employee and a good, present mother. Each moment I can spend with my boys will be like an amazing meal to be savored, so I’m trying to carve out as much time as I can in my new schedule. Only time will tell how it works.

So I humbly ask your advice my friends: If you are a working parent (a mom or a dad), how do you strike a balance between your job and your family? Do you have any tricks, any suggestions for how this works? I very much appreciate any wisdom you have to share.

Jealous Mommy

August and Finley are just starting to get nervous around new people. They’re at ease with people they spend all their time with: me, Matt – and our nanny.

Yes, I already have a nanny even though I’m still on maternity leave. Flora comes four days a week and makes it possible for me to do things like shower. She’s great with the babies – maybe too good.

Today when I came home from running a few errands, August didn’t even look at me. He was totally focused on Flora. I’d been gone an hour and already he seemed to have forgotten me. I literally rubbed his foot and head and pinched his little cheeks until he looked at me and gave me a big gummy smile. “Hi, it’s me mom… remember me? I’m the one who has been with you every single day since you were conceived. Yeah, look at me!”

Trying to get his attention made me feel like a insecure, desperate teenager vying for the affections of the popular boy at school. He just has no idea what a grip he has on my heart. It feels awful and ugly, but I get jealous when August and Finley hit it off with anyone besides me.

Of course I want the boys to enjoy being with their nanny. But there’s this: Soon, my maternity leave will end. When that happens the nanny will be with my boys all day. She’ll be the one to greet them when they wake up and hold them up as they try to stand and pick them up if they fall. I’ll swoop in for a couple hours in the evening -- their most cranky time of day – before they conk out for the night (that is if they ever learn to sleep through the night!) And that is what makes me jealous.

The New Normal

Being mother to twins feels like wrestling a giant squid. There’s always another unexpected strangle hold coming to pull me under. But now that I’ve been a mom for four months, I’m learning to get this beast under control – sort of.

In the past few weeks, I’ve experienced glimpses of the thing I used to call “life.” Matt and I went to brunch -– twice -- with the babies. We also once socialized outside our home with the boys. We drove to the San Fernando Valley for a pumpkin carving party. Admittedly, we did not actually carve pumpkins. We showed up an hour early and left 30 minutes after the party started. But we went and that’s the point.

We’ve also started to just go ahead and venture out with August and Fin because the other choice is to stay at home for the next 18 years. Our little adventures have had mixed results: We’ve been to Trader Joe’s on a Sunday afternoon to grocery shop (bad idea); a nursery to look for flowers for the garden (too many bees!); a Halloween party for multiples (a success!); and Costco (terrifying, babies or no babies).

It’s not been easy -– nothing is easy anymore -– but I see hints of a new “normal” emerging. I still feel like I’m fighting a giant squid and I certainly look like I’ve taken a beating -- my hair is unkempt and I rarely wear makeup. But I fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans and I managed to watch the season premiere of “Top Chef.” With the help of a part-time nanny, I’ve gone grocery shopping, to yoga, to a doctor’s appointment, to the mall. I’ve become expert at loading the babies and their stroller into my car or just getting ‘em all out on the sidewalk to a stroll. I’ve even briefly carried both babies at once now that they can hold their own heads up.

So the new normal is a very, very scaled back version of the old normal: 20-25 minutes of free time at a stretch, brief appearances at barbeques, movies on Netflix instead of in the theater, lunch out but never dinner. But it’s fine. I mean, I’ve said in the past that I don’t care if I never go out to a nice dinner or sleep in past six a.m. again. That’s not exactly true. I ache for a morning of lounging in bed reading the paper, for enough personal time to go to the gym, but we -– my family and I –- are birthing a new life together. We're taking baby steps to figure out how to walk and later to run and that’s all I can ask for right now.


NOTE: typos are bad and I try not post them. But, as I mentioned, I have twins, which means I can’t always proofread as well as I’d like. Thanks for your understanding.

Flexing New Muscles

August is getting really good at holding his head up. He lays on the bed, hoists his noggin off the blanket and smiles proudly like he’s saying, “Hey Mom, look at me!”

But the new skill has taken a lot of work. As August raises his head, his body shakes, he pants and strains until he finally lets it fall back down with a light thud. That’s how parenting feels to me – I strain and pant and then collapse. But like August, I’m getting better it, and the accomplishment of each day can make me feel shiny and proud.

Still, learning to parent is like learning to flex new muscles. Last Friday, I was facing my first full day with both boys alone. I normally go a stretch of four or five hours by myself with them, but 10 hours… Ug. A whole day would include at least 3 feedings, 8 diaper changes and probably 4 meltdowns.

So, I flexed a new muscle: I asked for help.

I literally put out a plea on Facebook saying I needed assistance taking care of my babies. I tried to make it come across as light-hearted and funny to hide my desperation, but it was a serious request.

The crazy part is that people answered the call. I ended up with three babysitting “shifts” to my day. First, a very old friend of mine named Debbie drove all the way across town after dropping her own two kids off at school to come over and hold my babies. She helped put the boys down for a nap, get them up later and allowed me a few moments to actually prepare and eat food. Here’s the crazy part: Until recently, I hadn’t been in contact with Debbie for 20 years. We ran into each other at our high school reunion, realized we both lived in L.A. and vowed to get together. But we never did – until I had kids.

One day a month or so ago, Debbie showed up at my door with fresh tamales, all sorts of baby hand-me-downs and just wonderful positive energy. And then on Friday, she came over in my hour of need. I mean, my heart is practically breaking over her generosity.

What I’m finding out late in life, but not too late, is that it’s okay to ask for help. And even more shocking: People are willing to give it.

The rest of my day was filled with equally amazing acts of kindness. My sister-in-law showed up to help with the boys’ midday feeding. She shrugged off a large amount of spit up down her arm and even started the task of cleaning up an explosive diaper issue, which I simply could not let her complete. Some jobs really are just for parents to do.

Later a new friend, Kyle, came over with a gift for the babies even though he’s already given them one! Then he proceeded to spend more than two hours with me and the boys. He held August for 30 whiny, wiggly, fussy minutes before his feeding – then Kyle stayed and fed him! I mean, what? He saw my babies at their crying, inconsolable worst (well, not quite worst!) And he still stuck around for more.

It’s like the sky has opened up and beamed angels into my life. And they are helping me learn to hold my head up.

Motherhood Infidelity

The absolute hardest thing about having twins is the cheating.

At least that’s what it seems like when I am holding one baby, but smiling and cooing at the other one over his shoulder. I feel like a married woman who’s flirting with another man.

The other day I sat on the couch with Finley to my left and August to my right. I rubbed their tummies, massaged their little legs and talked to each of them, alternately bobbing from side-to-side like a crazed metronome. It was exhausting.

Yesterday, I smooched August as he was lying on the bed learning to roll from his tummy to his back. “Yay! Good job!” I said to him and planted enthusiastic kisses on his big round cheek and soft neck. I clapped and smiled at him. He smiled back happily cooing at me and making me feel like I just lit up his whole world.

I was beaming – for a moment. Then Matt, who was holding our other son right next to me, said, “You have to hold Finley now. He’s looking at you with August and he’s crying. He needs your attention, too.”

I am constantly aware of trying to spread my affection equally between my two boys, and of generally failing. When August and Fin were in the NICU, I’d sometimes end up holding and feeding Finley twice in a day and not spending any quality time with August, or vice versa. I’d go home that night feeling guilty and vowing to focus on August the next day.

This concept of splitting my attention equally is not new. I am an only child. While only children get the benefit of all their parents’ attention, we also have the burden of trying to please two parents.

I remember vividly going on a walk in the Sierra Mountains with my parents when I was about 12 years old and being hyper-aware of the amount of time I spent with Mom and Dad. If I pointed out a particularly beautiful wild flower to Mom, I tried to then share a moment appreciating the stunning view with Dad. I was utterly exhausted by the effort of keeping track of and maintaining equal contact with both of them.

At some point, I realized I can never slice myself perfectly down the middle. My relationship with each parent is separate, but not equal. Still, each Christmas I make sure to buy both parents the same number of gifts. They each get one “big” present and several small ones that all equal out to be roughly the same cost. I even make a list comparing Dad’s gifts to Mom’s: he gets a CD, so she gets some bubble bath etc.

With August and Finley, sometimes at the end of a day I feel like one of them has been deprived of his mommy time. Part of my parental fatigue is caused by keeping a running tally of what I did with each boy. How many times did I feed August vs. Finley today? Did I spend more minutes doing tummy time with one of them? Who got more hugs, kisses, cuddles?

Matt often jokingly asks me, “Which baby is your favorite?” I quip back, “Whichever one isn’t crying.”

In truth, I am determined not to favor one baby over the other and I’m devastated knowing I will surely fail. I take solace in the knowledge that as they get older I will have a unique relationship with each son. And for now, I’ll keep trying to match a kiss for a kiss.

I Think We're Alone Now

When I was a teenager I babysat to make spending money, but I had a secret: I was afraid to be alone with the kids I was minding. Now, I am alone with two babies many hours every day and that old fear still bubbles up.

In the mornings as Matt leaves for work and the night nurse heads off into the sunrise, I think, "Don't leave me alone with these babies! What am I going to do when they wake up?"

Of course they always wake up (thank god) and I overcome the fear long enough to do the things you're supposed to do with babies: Pick them up, cuddle them, kiss them, feed them, change them, sing to them, love them. But under the surface the anxiety looms.

I'm not scared of an accident happening. I'm mostly just terrified that August and Finley will cry loudly and uncontrollably. Which they sometimes do. I’m scared they'll cry so long and so loudly that I'll start to cry too, that I'll just sink onto the ground saying, "I can't do this!" or that a neighbor will call child protective services and the three of us will be discovered wailing on the floor of the babies' room and be hauled off by the authorities.

There's also this: Part of it is a fear that I lack the leadership skills to helm a family.

Let me tell you an embarrassing story. When I was in the sixth grade, I was elected class president for the second half of the school year. This was a huge deal because I'd just moved to town at the beginning of the year, so the fact that my new classmates liked me enough to make me their president was really an honor.

But then when the class president from the first semester – a supremely confident and popular girl -- announced my name, she said, "Well, come on up to the front of the room, Marla." She wanted me to take over the rest of the election process, which included taking nominations for vice president etc., and writing the candidates' names on the chalkboard. I have always had awful handwriting and been a terrible speller, so I was petrified to write on the blackboard. I thought everyone would suddenly realize I was not worthy of their votes. I was so scared that I told the teacher I didn't want to be president after all.

It may sound silly, but that decision is one of my biggest regrets. Of course, I should have faced my fears and just gone ahead and been president. I mean, if George W. Bush can be president of the United States, I could handle being president of the sixth grade, right? Anyway, sometimes I still feel like that little girl who doesn't want to be class president. All my self-doubt comes out and I think, "Who left me in charge of these small babies? I'm not qualified for this. There must be some mistake. What if I mess up?"

But the deed is done. I am the president of mommyhood for August and Finley. I can't step down. So when that door closes in the mornings and I'm alone with them, I acknowledge the panic then move on. I'm even starting to enjoy our alone time because of the other feelings it occasionally brings out like confidence, peace and flashes of joy.