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. 

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.