The Bitter and the Sweet

What a couple of weeks it has been. I know it’s incredibly trite to say, but I absolutely can not believe that the babies turned 1 on April 2^nd. Their actual birthday was so interesting, because the party was not until the next day, I we really got to spend the day enjoying the girls. Every couple of hours we would look at the clock and recount where we were a year ago: loading the car, waiting in triage, wheeling into surgery. At 4:28, I picked up Sophie, held her close, and sang “Happy Birthday to You.” It was an absolutely precious moment. Of course, at 4:29 I did the same with Olivia. I took a few minutes to think about the past year, from the first glimpse I got of the girls over the surgical drape up until this very moment- all that our family has been through, good and bad, and how very very lucky we are to have each other. My girls are healthy, they are clever and engaging, and their very existence thrills me every day.

So there’s the sweet.

The bitter of last week was the kind of news that you have to read 3 times to even get it to begin to sink in. My blogging friend Lindsay (you may have seen her comments on this blog) experienced a tragedy beyond imagination. I’m still not sure where to put it. I was first drawn to “The Other Lindsay’s” blog because we had so much in common: same age, both teachers, both struggled with fertility issues for years, both embarking on our first round of IVF at the same time. So many parallels. Of course, we know the outcome of my first round, and even though Lindsay’s didn’t work out, she never gave up. Finally, after 5 rounds of IVF, she and her husband conceived a little girl. I was so thrilled for her, so excited for all that was to come for them. She had finally made it to the third trimester, and was really allowing herself to get excited: picking out bedding for the nursery, preparing to bring their daughter home. On April 2^nd, my girls’ first birthday, Lindsay learned that there was no heartbeat. They had lost their little girl. Their Sophia.

I immediately went up to where my Sophia was sleeping, put my hand on her back, and wept. This was not FAIR. This was CRUEL. WHY, when we have so much joy, are they having to endure so much pain? The chaos of this world is so disheartening.

I hate feeling helpless. I wish there was something I could do. We made a donation to the charity “The Compassionate Friends”, in Sophia Marie’s name. They provide services to parents who have lost a child. I hope it helps someone, somewhere. For now, I will hold my little ones a little bit tighter, remember how lucky we all are, hope that Lindsay can find peace, and I will always think of Sophia Marie on April 2^nd.

Generalizations are... general!

Things that Sophia has insisted were "Coda" this week:


My friend Becky's big fish

Deer heads in local bar-b-que restaurant

Her toy Chewbacca

Peaco the Ugly Doll

Howard Stern on T.V.

Please, Internet, help me to understand what all of these things have in common with poor Coda.

Milestones

Why is it that every milestone that I look forward to, every step towards the girls' independence, makes things 1000 times more difficult for me? Each skill they master, I convince myself, will give me more down time, as they start taking care of things for themselves I will start to gain the legendary “down time” which I once had hours of? I haven’t really had a moment of down time, with a few notable exceptions, since the lovelies arrived. But I keep thinking… the bigger they get, the more I will have. Right?

Take crawling, for example. The art of locomotion via rolling is an inexact one at best, so the kids, if they wanted something, needed me to get it for them. Crawling, I thought, will make that so much easier! They will be able to seek out their own toys, amuse themselves, frolic around the house and tire their cute little selves out! Sure, I may have a couple of extra toys to pick up here and there, but it will make things SOOOO much easier! I shall sit and drink martinis whilst the little ones crawl about the family room.

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

First of all, forget about the family room. Why would you want to be on that mushy carpet when the rest of the house is covered in wonderful, unforgiving tile? And why would you stay in there where there is NO cat bowl to lick, when there is a cat bowl in the kitchen, a mere 6 feet away? I can not count how many times I have pried the cat food bowl out of Sophia’s clutch, her screaming the whole while. And Soph is still only scooting, Olivia is the one who really means business. We put up the pool gate, in the event that she should figure out how to open the sliding glass door and get out on the patio. Sounds crazy, but if you know this kid you know that may not be that much of a stretch.

And feeding themselves. That SURELY will make things easier. Whatever will I do with all the downtime I will gain not having to shovel little spoonfuls of puree into their adorable pie holes? I will TELL you what I will do with all that extra time! PICK UP CHEERIOS OFF OF EVERY SURFACE IN THIS HOUSE. HOW do I get Cheerios in my hair every day? Or stuck to my butt? Wasn’t the dog supposed to help me clean underneath the high chairs when the girls started feeding themselves? When did he become so damn finicky? Last night the girlies had whole wheat pasta, which, I have learned, is a perfectly acceptable finger food. They did an amazing job of feeding themselves. It still took me 20 minutes to get all of the sauce off them, and all of the pasta off of the floor and out of the high chairs.

Soon they will be talking. Sophie already says “Co-da” when she sees the dog. (Wait a minute. Shouldn’t MAMA be her first word? After all, he doesn’t even clean up under the damn highchairs. I feed them AND clean up. Also I brought them into the world and all that. And he gets top billing? Unfair.) When they are talking, you see, things will be easier. Because they will be able to tell me what they want. Oh CRAP. THEY WILL BE ABLE TO TELL ME WHAT THEY WANT. Probably pink clothes. Noooooo….

I am not complaining. They are meeting and exceeding all of their milestones. I know that there are those who are not so fortunate. All too soon these will just be memories. If I am lucky. Truthfully I have a terrible memory, which is why I take so many pictures. And it’s why I force myself, every day, to take a deep breath and just enjoy things the way they are. Even if it’s just for a moment, even if the moment I’m enjoying is imperfect. They are already 8 months old. There are so many milestones to look forward to. But there are already so many that we have passed. I just know that when they are walking things will get easier. And I will have so much down time I will have to take on a hobby to keep from getting bored. Right?

English Muffin Pizzas

When I was about 10 years old, my dad took a new job and my folks lived 1000 miles apart. It was a separation of necessity, mom stayed in Michigan to get the house in order and sold, and dad went to Missouri to take advantage of an excellent career opportunity. My folks sat my sister and I down and explained to us, matter-of-factly, what was going to happen: Daddy was moving, mom was going to stay here, eventually we would all be back together again. I don’t remember this being distressing in any way: we moved fairly frequently, and we had been without my dad for stretches before in similar circumstances. The thing that made this event memorable is that my parents presented me with a choice: I could go on ahead with dad or stay with my mom and sister. I was in 6th grade, on the cusp of adolescence. I was aware that Jr. High loomed in my future, and was always open to new adventures, so, after giving it some thought, I decided I would go with dad and try to make some friends in the “safe” elementary school environment before moving on to big, scary Jr. High school. It was not an agonizing decision for me to make, although in retrospect I wonder how my parents felt about it: was mom worried about dad and I being on our own? Was dad secretly annoyed to be burdened with a kid tagging along when he was starting a new job? If they had those feelings, they never let on to me. I went with my dad to Columbia and it was just me and dad for… weeks? months? Anyway, until mom sold the house, and mom and my sis joined us.

Lately I have been leaving the Sisters Lovely alone with Dearest here and there: while I go to a doctor’s appointment, or a meeting, or to run a quick errand. I will be the first to admit it: I can be a total control freak. I like routine, a rhythm and predictability to my day, and I have projected that on to my girls, convincing myself that THEY like a routine. Maybe they do. Does Dearest do everything exactly the way I do it? Surely not. Do I have to fight the urge to leave him a child care itinerary every time I go to take a shower for 20 minutes? Yes. Have I considered putting together a folder, like we keep in the classroom for substitute teachers, with a schedule, likes and dislikes, and alternate activities? Yup. But I won’t. First of all, Dearest doesn’t need it. He knows the girls so well, and is not only capable but excellent at seeing that their needs are met. Secondly, so what if he does something a little different from the way I do it? Is that really going to scar the kids? Just the opposite, I have to admit. It’s probably very good for them.

Did everything go perfectly during the time I lived with my dad? Certainly not. I spent time alone for really the first time in my life, was picked on and considered “weird” by the kids at my new elementary school (hmm… I was new, had no mom living in the house to be sure I brushed by hair and dressed nicely (I’m sure I didn’t), was picked up and dropped off by my dad’s secretary, occasionally came to school on crutches just because I felt like it, and lived in a retirement home. So… maybe they had a point.) But what an experience. If I had stayed behind, I would have missed out on so much bonding time with my dad during those months of bachelorhood: wading barefoot in the creek that ran though the grounds of the facility, staying up late enough to watch SNL for the first time, getting pet birds and letting them fly around our apartment without worrying too much about the mess, eating English Muffin pizzas pretty much every weekend. Was it how my mom would have done it? Almost certainly not. Did I turn out just fine? Well… I guess you could argue that one either way, but I doubt my oddities have too much to do with my time with dad.

Letter to a 6-Month-Old Singer of Songs

Dear Sophia (AKA The Soph, Peanut, Lil’ Bit),

We still can’t decide what color your eyes are. Today they are leaning towards hazel, yesterday, outside, they had a greenish tinge to them. Six months you have been on this earth, little one, half a year already and as much as I feel like I know everything there is to know about you, it’s clear that you still have more to reveal to me. You have been, for the whole of your life thus far, all about your hands. They are for you a source of amazement, comfort, and amusement. You had your thumb in your mouth before we even left the hospital. Even now, sometimes you will get so quiet, and I will peek to see what you are doing, only to find you studying your hands- opening them, closing them, pressing fingertips together and eternally studying any texture within reach. What will those little dimpled hands grow up to do?

Not long ago you started to recognize your own reflection in the mirror. You greet your image with a great gummy grin, and I wonder, as I look at the two of us looking back at ourselves, if you know me too. I think you must, because there are moments, when strangers approach, that you look at them, your lower lip juts out and starts to quiver, and then you look back to me for reassurance and comfort. Of course, my dear, I don’t want you to be fearful, but I have to admit I secretly love that you are aware of our “us-ness” and their “them-ness.”

I love watching you react to music. Ever since you were first born you have been comforted by singing (yes, even MY singing) and not too long ago you started to sing along when I croon “Rubber Duckie” to you in the bathtub or “Eleanor Rigby” when we are cruising around in the van. Maybe you only know one note so far, but your singing is music to my ears. You are a contented little creature, sometimes a little on the sensitive side, but a million miles away from the newborn who screamed endlessly for reasons that were mysterious to your loving folks. I admit, there were moments when I wondered if you would EVER be happy, and after I stopped drinking milk and your screaming ceased, I can not describe to you the relief. You were OK. Now that toothless smile makes my heart sing.

Every night, after I place your sister in her crib, I pause at yours to breathe you in. Your Dad puts you to bed, rocks you and gives you a warm bottle and marvels at your sweetness. This is a routine established when I wasn’t sure that you were gaining weight fast enough, this bottle of pumped milk, and your Dad loved tucking you in so much that it stuck. You lie there serenely, head turned to the left, thumb in your mouth. I silently study your long eyelashes, that little Kem chin, and I watch your chest rise and fall. Even at the end of an exhausting day I pause to remind myself: they won’t be little forever. Soon I will be gazing at a sleeping toddler, then preschooler, and before you know it a young lady. It’s hard to imagine now, that your peach-fuzz will turn into actual hair, your little babbles will turn into actual words, and your eyes will finally settle on a color.

Happy 6 months, Sweet Pea. Looking forward to watching you grow.

Love,
Mom

Letter to a 6-Month-Old Mover and Shaker

Dear Olivia (AKA Livi, Tootsie, Meatball, Chunka-Munka),

The ultrasounds were deceiving. You were supposed to be the quiet one, the mellow baby. You kept up the ruse the first couple of weeks of your life. While Sophia screamed, you quietly observed, taking it all in. Only now do I realize that you were conserving your energy, saving it and plotting for the day that you were mobile. One day, around 3 months old, you realized that you could stand up on our laps. At this moment in your short life, you decided that you were no longer a baby. Gone were the days of cuddling you sweetly. You wanted to stand up! And jump jump jump! In the blink of an eye you were focused solely on locomotion, rolling around the house, crawling backwards, wreaking havoc as you went.

You now come with a warning, when someone scoops you up because you are grinning that irresistible gummy grin of yours, or when they place their baby down near you. I am obliged to give them the heads up “Be careful. She pinches.” And you DO, little one. You pinch with gleeful abandon: the happier you are the harder you pinch- me, your sis, Grandma Jo, none of us can escape your enthusiastic talons. The only thing I think you like to do more than pinch is eat. As soon as someone in the vicinity picks up a spoon, you start with your demands of “Ummmmmmm. UMMMMMMM!” Although you have soundly rejected green beans and were pretty luke warm on avocado, you devour your oatmeal, peaches, sweet potatoes, squash, and pears with voracity. It’s no wonder that you are positively off the charts growth-wise, and something about your chubbiness makes me so proud.

At 6 months, I am still nursing you to sleep at night. I can’t tell you how much I treasure these moments of stillness, how, when you are not a blur streaking past me I take the time to really marvel at you. I stroke your hair, feel your breath, listen to those contented baby murmurs, and swell with love for you. After a chaotic day of trying to save you from yourself, I relish the time spent in rocking chair in your dim nursery. These moments, too, seem finite. More and more often I put you in the crib awake and you fall asleep all by yourself. But the rush, the absolute joy of hearing you coo and squeal through the monitor and going in to get you out of the crib after a nap, to be greeted by the most enthusiastic of grins when you catch sight of your adoring mama, is beyond compare.

Happy 6 months, my busy girl. I love your intensity. Don’t ever lose it.

Love,
Mom

The Dirt

Took the ladies to the house of mouse to see their daddy at work today. I have been back only a small handful of times since I quit over two years ago, and it is always with mixed emotions that I return. Disney was synonymous with such a specific phase in my life- that post-college, pre-grown up time- and it is always strange to see it going on without you, the same players busy at the same game, never missing a beat, while your life seems so far away from what used to be your reality.

On the way home, I noticed a little dirt road intersecting with the main highway that I hadn’t thought about in a long time. I couldn’t even tell you the name of the road, I affectionately referred to it as simply “The Dirt” when I was still working at WDW, but I know every hairpin curve, every rut and every abandoned orange grove along its route. I drove that road home from work many times, not because it was faster or more efficient, it was quite the opposite really, but because it was a refreshing change from driving past the tourist trap strip malls and junky hotels with their “All Rooms Just $39/Night” signs that dotted my normal commute. Sometimes I would drive The Dirt by myself, cruising slowly, scanning the horizon for a coyote, searching the shoulder for a tortoise or armadillo. Sometimes I was flanked by my friend and fellow adventurer D, recklessly careening over ruts and around hairpin turns, my confidence bolstered by her 4x4, rope, and towing know-how just ahead of me. I took The Dirt in the orange glow of the sunrise, in the blackness of night without a streetlight in sight, even in the blinding rain, radio blaring, laughing out loud to myself, not much of a care in the world.

How things have changed, I think to myself, glancing in my minivan’s rearview at my two snoozing little ones. I wouldn’t dream of turning on to The Dirt now. Not a chance.

This change in me didn’t happen over night. I left Disney a couple of years ago, the first step towards my transformed life. Teaching Kindergarten was a totally different kind of responsibility from what I had shouldered as a tech. On the stage, if I made a mistake I put the lives of performers and fellow technicians at an immediate risk, and I was constantly and acutely aware of that fact. Teaching, if I made a mistake, the consequences might not be so immediate, but could be damaging in an entirely different way- a word spoken harshly, a skill not taught to mastery, missing a sign in a child that things were not well at home- these things put kids at risk too, and I took it every bit as seriously as I did my technician gig. Teaching changed my life outside of work too: suddenly I was a member of the community. People recognized me out and about. My days of wearing midriff shirts to the grocery store and cursing loudly at the Post Office were over. Now I glanced around surreptitiously before ordering a beer in a restaurant, concerned about undoing our “Too Good For Drugs” lesson about the evils of alcohol. My days of being a Responsible Citizen, of being a role model, had arrived.

Then, of course, there are the girls. I want them to be fearless adventurers, to not be afraid to face The Dirt in their lives, all the challenges and the beauty revealed in those experiences. It’s a fine line to expose them to this way of thinking, to encourage them to take chances, without ever putting them at risk. I want to lead by example, to show them life off the beaten path, the road less traveled as it were. But at the same time, I guess it’s ok that they know that my more carefree lifestyle, (A long time ago, yeah / Before you were born, dude…) was not better or worse than my more “traditional” suburban, mini van driving, stay-at-home mom life. It was just different. My life is still rich and rewarding. More so, even. Just in a totally different way. For now I will protect them. Because I can. But soon, they will be taking their first steps, toddling off down their own path, literally stumbling and falling from time to time. Soon those stumbles will be figurative. I will do my best to encourage them to take a different route, to explore a dusty trail, because you never know what you are missing by staying on the highway. I guess I just want them to know that no matter what, I won’t be far behind with 4 wheel drive and a rope. Just in case.