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. 

Mountain Climbing with Babies

I did it! That is a phrase we use in our house often these days. If August climbs into his high chair by himself, he’ll say, “I did it!” Or if Finley kicks the ball really well – or even not well – he’ll shout, “I did it!” Now it’s my turn. I drove my kids from Los Angeles to San Francisco and took care of them myself for a week. Yes, I did it!

Ever since I gave birth to twins nearly two years ago, I’ve equated caring for them with something close to climbing Mount Everest –- a very dangerous, nearly insurmountable task that requires lots of special training and a Sherpa. 

Whenever Matt has to work late, I beg my sister-in-law to come over and help with the chaos that is dinner-bath-bedtime. On the few occasions I’ve gone to see a movie on a weekend with a friend, I arrange it so the boys will be napping at least half the time I’ll be away. Because who on earth could take care of twins alone for more than a couple of hours!? It’s impossible! You at least need a Sherpa.

Of course, our nanny Flora takes care of the boys for eight hours a day, but I’ve often suspected that she is a superhero disguised in clothes from Forever 21.

But then three things happened.
1. I got laid off my job. (More on that later)
2.  Matt had to go on a business trip to New York.
3. I saw a middle aged dude in my neighborhood strolling newborn twins around. We stopped to chat and he told me his partner was out of town so he was taking care of the twins alone all weekend. I almost fainted. "Oh," he said, "we both travel for work a lot. We do this all the time."

I figured if this regular looking non superhero dude could handle twins alone, I could too. Since I have a lot of time on my hands and my husband was going to be out of town, I decided to take August and Finley on a road trip to the Bay Area.

And you know what: It was effing awesome!

I was even more exhausted than usual. There were several days when I did not shower. I got up every morning at 5:30 a.m. and went to bed by 9:30 p.m. I did not read the news, log onto a computer, watch TV or consume any media. But I spent a glorious, bonding week with my boys. I fell even more deeply in love with them. I introduced them to many of my friends. I found out that my kids are cool and funny and adaptable and even more fun than I realized. 

More than anything, I discovered that I can totally climb Mount Everest.

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