Last night I did the unthinkable. I withheld my love from my children. They had completely dismantled a handmade necklace, scattering it in every direction. When I found them it was too late to salvage the piece, bedtime was minutes away and my head was going to explode. Fuming, I yelled for them to get to their room! and then went into my office to try to settle myself. It was Tim’s turn for bedtime and I decided that I was just going to get my yoga things together and leave the house early, give myself a few extra minutes to calm down.
One thing led to another and the early start to class did not happen. But I saw one of the boys run by the window on the outside patio and started to see red again, knowing they were drawing out the already arduous process of bedtime yet again. I yelled, telling them to get back! to their room and get in that bed!. I turned off the light, shut the door and went back to find the ever elusive pieces of yoga that I need for classes. And then I heard it … from their room.
I could hear him crying. Racking sobs, so loud. I knew Tim was in there, that they were not crying out of fear. But even more, I knew exactly what I had done. In my anger I had diliberately ignored our bedtime ritual, the kiss-hug-high five and repeat that happens every night unless we are too far to touch. I had ignored them racing past the window which was the two of them looking for me to say sorry and get that hug-kiss-high five. I had let my anger get the best of me and was hearing the result of it.
I opened the door. Mason was there, devastating tears and deep sobs, Owen just staring at me, closed face and shut down. Both looked at me and I opened my arms and they came into them. I felt their still small bodies burrow into me, I apologized for being so angry and also for being so mean. I apologized for letting my hurt hurt them and then we cuddled and laughed a little and said a proper good night.
Yoga last night was like a purge and a prayer. I have been at the end of my tether in so many ways lately. There are times when being stretched so thin in so many directions feels like it will never end. Sometimes the hardest tether to take is the one of Mother. There is no rest from it, it is a ceaseless demand and a challenging position. Sometimes the tether feels like a noose as they refuse to eat this or cooperate with that or take 10 minutes to usher from car to house or house to car. It is no matter that I have to work or launder or cook or clean, always the Mother part comes first now because it should, because it has to, because they are and so that it how it is.
It struck me as I thought of writing this post that so much of it has to do with what I am mothering. They are children now, unmalleable in many ways. They are assertive and have desires and wants and wishes and ways of giving and holding back now too. They challenge us daily to think of new ways to entice or engage or just get away. They make me worry in a different way as school and reading and learning and Life starts coming in. I am feeling a new fear, unacknowledged until this moment, that I cannot do this. That I don’t know the right way to do this. That I am hurting more than helping, that I am fucking them up.
That feeling has not gone away as I write this, my fears still sit at the back of my throat as we contemplate huge life changes, knowing they will have to go along with any ride we choose. But I know one thing. I am not going to with hold my love from them, no matter what anger sparks from whatever is happening. Because that was a scary thing and it left me feeling empty and them feeling so sad, so sad. Chalk it up to another lesson in the land of Mothering. A good one, an important one, an essential one.
Going to go hug one of my boys now. Lesson learned.
You know, you hope and dream that your children will grow to love the same things you do, love the same life you live. And then you see that they do and it makes you feel so very good.
I am not sure how many parents embrace the idea that they know how to raise children. It seems in this day there is always some expert offering the latest way to do things or an explanation for why things are as they are. But how often do we hear that we do know what to do? That we are doing a good job?
Ha ha. I wrote the above a week ago, hours before our family was slammed for the second year in a row by some terrible virus. Let me tell you, I did not feel the above at all in the last 7 days. Alternately I felt like throwing one of them or myself or maybe even Tim somewhere. But I could not because I could not really get up long enough to do so. There is a particular kind of evil to your whole family coming down with something at the same time, its like being taken out by the knees. Not good.
Now we are almost on the other side of it, the boys are coming around and getting back to some semblance of sleep. We, the adults, are hacking up less stuff (and the stuff hacked up is becoming less disgusting in nature and color). Every time I wanted to cry and stop this week, I thought that if my throat feels like someone shredded it with broken glass, well, imagine how a the little people must feel. No wonder there was almost constant wailing and wake ups.
So, the post originally featured some adorable clips of the boys at snow play. And it still will. Because, now, a week after our fun and successful and chilly getaway, I am reminded to embrace the days that are just that. It ain't always sunshine and roses, but when it is, it sure is fun.
Last week my Mom found a great library book for the boys titled NO DAVID! It is about a little boy that hears a litany of NOS! from his Mama for his every action and the boys love it to bits. They insist that we read through the scenes page after page while they inform us of every wrong David is doing, all the things he does that gets him into big trouble.
They tell me David should not come over because he does some pretty 'bad' stuff. They do not get the irony of telling David to "Stop that this instant!' on the page where he is picking his nose... while they are picking their own noses.
Every single thing that David does is an action that the boys have somehow incorporated into our daily lives... climbing for cookies (or in Owen's case, the giant bag of M&Ms my Dad poorly stashes in their room), tracking in mud after a session in the backyard, running naked down the sidewalk (this one really gets the to the boys because though they are down with the naked, they know it does not happen in the front yard. God forbid...)
I take a perverse satisfaction while reading it in the sheer amount of NOs I am allowed to say without feeling guilty. Because there are a lot of NOs involved in the raising of twin boys that are three. Like, double the usual. And that is okay.
What I really love is that the author of the book re-wrote this book as an adult. The first edition was made by him when he was a little boy and had the same basic premise. He heard NO a lot. But I love that what stuck with him when he viewed the little booklet from his youth was not just the NOs but the love that his Mama had for him in the end.
You should find it. It is a great book. And believe me, if you have boys you will get it. And if you want them, well, don't say you haven't been warned. They really are little heathens.
And, totally unrelated, but I love this shot of my Mama. She is the coolest. Also, she finds really great library books.
I don't really count the months anymore...they are just three to me. But in keeping with those early times when there was one every month...well, here it is. My latest musing on the mothering of my twin boys.
Sometimes I feel like a broken record when I start to talk/write about my twins. I know I have said before that they are so grown and different than ever before. I know I have said I thought I understood what it would mean to watch them ‘grow up’. I know I have said that before my very eyes they have become boys. But I really had no idea.
I am starting to realize that this is the way it is always going to be. Because you cannot catch and hold your children with words; fingers can never type fast enough, shutters can never click as quickly and as often as they should, video will let you glance at the moment but not let you slide a finger over the baby softness that does not disappear so much as shift…shift…shift.
So, now I will repeat myself like the record needle that stutters over the same gap. Because what I once thought was ‘boy’ has been disproved and now I see a new version of boy daily. The ones I watch are able to tap into an imagination I had misplaced for awhile where every view is a vision of something other. Reality rarely intrudes or is flexible enough to bend to their will. And I see that slowly accumulating body of knowledge inside of their heads filling in spaces that make sense sometimes only to them.
The world of storytelling is theirs now, their unique voices tell night time versions of their days that morph into emergency adventures where they drive fire trucks and lock up bad guys in small jails, securing them with tape. They begin each oral story with the words “Laaaaast tiiiiiiiime…..” syllables drawn out for effect. They do this because every story I have told begins with the words ‘Once upon a time’ even if it about fire station 144 just down the street. I find it beyond endearing that they adopt my practices in their own ways. And so for our evening bedtime ritual now I listen rather than speak, I listen to them occasionally compete, then complete, then complement each other as they spin out their yarns.
And the singing, oh the singing. Gone are the days when I sing the lullabies to them. Now they sing along to Twinkle Twinkle and Teapot. And once Owen made up his own song, his little voice ringing sweet and clear as he sang, “’Nana, ‘nana, monkeys call on the ‘nana phone” (his own idea and lyrics, I swear).
That one is a study in contradictions. All sweet clear voice, then growling lashing out anger.
He can cradle and crush with the best of the three year olds and though I find it hard to deal with his wild swings when they happen, with his overt meanness and goading of his brother when he is off his game…well, it is always hard to hold onto the frustration. Not in it, but right now as I try to find it. It is not there….all I find is him, Owen, my boy, a boy that will keep growing stronger in will, in his challenges to us and the world.
But as he grows his empathy does too. I watched him sit next to a friend at the park the other day, a pouting sad/mad friend and ask her what he could do for her. And then he just waited. And then asked her again if she wanted to play. And she did. No prompting brought him there, just his internal desire for things to be right. In those moments I see the way he will grow, the depth he has.
And Mace. Oh, the Mace.
He is like wild sweetness all over the place. Like a naughty cherub or a grinning pixie. His eyes hold such a sparkle, a desire to tell stories and let his words and world run wild. He talks and talk and talks, gives us as many words as we ask for and more. He never holds back the words, tossing thank you and I love you with abandon at anyone that will catch them. He has a wicked laugh and pout now that he uses to full advantage.
He is easily wounded by correction or my freak out moments. And I find him alone, playing in his own world, no need for reassurance from play friends, just creating them as he goes alone. Mace is always willing to join me in my gym trips, open and willing to go to the kid’s care without his brother at his side.
But on the way home he asks for Owen, and Owen is looking for him. Because that it how is goes with twins. I am starting to see just how intertwined their lives are, will be. It is fascinating and beautiful and I am struck by the privilege….of having children, of having twins, of mothering, parenting. It ain’t easy…hell, no, three has had some really rough days, hours, minutes…and in those moments, three feels almost unbearable.
And then those moments end and I find myself playing at legos, ridiculously entertained as I try to piece together a floating spaceship that will navigate the waters of their small pool. Drawing silhouette tow trucks and police cars with sirens just so and spelling out letters as they demand more words and pictures and sirens. Or snuggling between their sleeping bodies at 1 a.m. because I cannot sleep and their sweet deep regular breathing brings me such peace. And as I settle into my own sleep I feel so clear in the knowing that they are my people, some of the most wonderful things I can claim to be part of.
And I am sure you know what I will say next, my loves, if you are reading this. Your mama loves you, loves you so very much.
Ah, how my last post mocks me a bit. That was Saturday past and now here we are at Friday still saturated and almost growing gills from the wet. We have now been in some form of precipitation for 23 days and we actually left North Vancouver days early to escape the horror that is trying to camp and tent with three years olds in soaking wet conditions. One of which has developed unexplained spiking temps.
Monday we headed back to Portland and the rain followed us down. I wanted to apologize to all my lovely blog friends that we missed in Vancouver and Seattle and Portland but when the fever came I did not want to risk exposing any of you and your littles to whatever was lurking in our immune systems. It would not be the greatest of meet ups if we left you sick and miserable, right?
Portland was as lovely as it can be soaked in rain and holding a 30# child constantly. We did get in and out of the house, I did make it to my stunningly good dance class but really, the time was about family. When family is so far away, it is hard to keep cousins connected. The mellow days with my nephews allowed time for play and bonding and just being. I had a special request from the almost grown boys for new knit beanies and those projects came along the road with me. I bound off the second hat Wednesday with plenty of perfect weather still around in which to wear them. Look at these handsome boys...so big and ready to become men. One graduates from middle school this year (Congrats, Kyle!!!) the other enters it (Congrats, Austin!!!!).
The week felt really vulnerable to me, maybe it was my sick child or the weariness from the wet or ovulation or road fatigue or the loss of a young vibrant boy....it all made me ache. So much of this trip is in processing mode, deep in and folding and unfolding as I think about what it means to have done this. Last night after a phenomenal West African class, my body in total release, it occurred to me that the Mondo list I wrote in January is spooling out, not checking itself off, but just revealing itself in my life.
But please understand that there is not a lot of glamour to life on the road. It is surprisingly mundane....each day we get up and make brekky and try to find fun and engaging activities to occupy the boys and then try to carve out a little Me time while juggling their needs and ours. The backdrop has been changing frequently but the routine is not very different, except for bedtime which has assumed new hours of lateness in our lives. Each day has held something special and lovely but then each day at home holds moments of this. I am realizing a lot of it is in the lens one looks through. Mine is not rose colored, but I like to think it does haze out some of the rough for a moment or two.
We are in Arcata, geographically back to the first point of our journey actually. We came back to see my sister Em and brother in law Isaac in their joint effort to bring beauty to the world. Last year I was here alone, my first solo trip since their birth. I remember missing them and wishing that I could bring them next year, to play in the river and see all the fun things in the children's tent area. And here we are.....exactly a year later, all four of us present and ready. Ready for sun, ready to go south, ready to take the journey home.
We still have a few more stops along the way, a few more days to revel in the rhythm that is the road. But we are almost back, re-immersion imminent. My plans include posting about the places we have been and the things we can suggest, but also trying to delve deeper into what this actually meant to me, to us. Oh yeah, and working my ass off as we really need to get back to the world of wage earning and paychecks....
One thing I know though, it is a powerful thing to dream. If you are in the market for some delicious dream time, go here now and sign up. It sounds like a wonderful way to keep up this energy and I am signing on with sisters in tow. Any other takers out there? Let me know if you do sign up so we can dream together this summer.
Slainte. (Yeah yeah, I have a beer in hand at 4:30...its been a long week, people).
One of my very favorite movies is Harold and Maud. Yes, it is a little odd, the octogenarian and the odd teen getting it on. But the quirks and the Cat Stevens and the pure and simple loveliness of it slays me every time. And that part when Harold throws Maud down the shaft...priceless.
One of my very favorite scenes is the one with Maud and Harold in the field of flowers. I sat in our campsite with the boys yesterday and made myself a chain of daisies to put on my own head. We were waiting for Tim as he took his first shower in days. They sat too, obsessively playing with cars (Mason) and obsessively tracing the campsite numbers over and over with their finger (Owen). And I thought about the quote from the movie...
Maude: I should like to change into a sunflower most of all. They're so tall and simple. What flower would you like to be? Harold: I don't know. One of these, maybe. Maude: Why do you say that? Harold: Because they're all alike. Maude: Oooh, but they're *not*. Look. See, some are smaller, some are fatter, some grow to the left, some to the right, some even have lost some petals. All *kinds* of observable differences. You see, Harold, I feel that much of the world's sorrow comes from people who are *this*, [she points to a daisy] Maude: yet allow themselves be treated as *that*. [she gestures to a field of daisies] Maude: [cut to a shot of a field of gravestones in a military cemetery]
I didn't cry though a part of me wanted to. Instead I took this picture of a child I have been at war with for a few days...we had just gotten in a fight...can you believe I fight with my three year old? Gawd. But then I found him studying the flowers and he smiled and I realized all I ever need him to know is that he can be any type of flower that he likes. As long as he remembers his Mama loves him. Loves him so very much.
The road with the boys has been beyond my expectations but there have been rough patches. Like the asking to go home. All the time. The waking from impromptu naps with crying and crying and CRYING. The camp sleep...oh, god, my back. But a part of me still thrills to the fact that we are doing it. And they are too.
Check out Harold and Maud if you can. It makes the world a little lovelier.
I am going to post about the boys' third birthday party but I am going to preface it with a statement. I read this blog post linked from a friend's tweet and though I found some of it a little harsh, I have to say so much of what she said resonated with me. (If you do not read the linked piece, it is about the 'perfect' crafting blogs where everything just looks, well, perfect. And believe me, I do not put myself in that category at all but feel like I have read that category and felt those feelings of envy and bewilderment at the level of achievement and a bit flabberghasted at the lack of, uh, mess in all of it). But it did make me think before I wrote this up. When I write here I try to encapsulate the lovely with the real, no post represents the whole of it and you will never convince me to post a picture of the bedlam that our bedroom can be, but it is far from 'perfect' around here, even though I like taking pictures like this because it just looks pretty.
In reality, the banner I made last year is missing an "i" and the "&" and I ironed and hung it 15 minutes before people starting showing up and decided that no "i" was going to stop me from hanging that banner (because it was hella' work, you know?).
Last year we wanted to give the boys a fun celebration and acknowledge the fact that we had skimped a bit on their first birthday. This year I barely had time to plan or craft, but still wanted to do something special. We settled on a home party with a few good 'little' friends, some treats and cake and Cuban food. The boys have not really found a good bond with any of their 'school' friends but we have ties to some wonderful other littles through our community. Of course, they turn out to be mostly girls. It was a blast to watch the small hoard of 10 kids, girls (6) boys (4) run rough and tumble through the yard, wreaking havoc in a good way, as only little can do.
There were plans for a simple scavenger hunt but that was too ambitious of a plan and so it fell by the wayside... given up in lieu of Mason's one birthday request..."Me have candy everywhere...bowls and bowls of candy" (direct quote). Owen really could have cared less as long as the neighbor Clarissa was there...imagine how bewildered he must have felt when he realized that there were 5 'other' Clarissa's there at the same time (I am not sure original Clarissa was too jazzed either).
There were cakes using this recipe which tasted lovely, and this year I figured frosting could look however frosting wanted to as three year olds just want candles and cars on their cakes.
Not one picture of the candle blowing out came out clear but I like this one because we all look happy and that is all that matters.
It was fun and funny and full of impromptu water balloon fights by both children and adults (actually there was paying off the small children in order to get to the adults which was even funnier).
It was hard to keep Mace clothed, he spent the better part of the morning in his original birthday suit (with crown, of course). It was impossible to get a shot of Owen's face so we stopped trying. The house still looks like it was hit by a tornado (well, in a way it was). But I had fun. And that is really what it is all about. They have embraced play wholeheartedly and so learn from them.
What I am finding out as a Mama that likes to make, has to work and hates to clean is that there is a healthy place in it all. I am not and never will be a Marthette, it exhausts me to think about trying. I know I will always try to make and craft and create for the boys because it validates me and my love for them. I know I will always take pictures (sometimes the exact same picture over and over year after year) because it gives me great pleasure and happiness. I know there will always be a flaw, a fly in the ointment, because that is how it works out for me.
I am also learning it is only a flaw in a certain light....viewed through another lens, it is just Life. Fun and silly, rushed and sweaty, done or not done, we have to learn to embrace it and GO. In a day and age where creative craft and DIY achievement and perfect party themes and gorgeous photos abound in the blog world, I think it is also good to remember there is never full disclosure.
But, er. I had a blast. And I will finish all the things I had planned on making for them sometime in the near future. Right after I find my second wind. (Post-party face)
They are three! We find it hard to believe, but there it is. Onward, ho!
Full set of pictures here if you like that sort of thing.
A few days ago I started some thing new with the boys. I talked about sleep a few posts ago, these days it is a rare morning that we wake alone. Often one or the other will crawl into bed with us around the four a.m. witching hour and we end up just letting them stay. It seems to help them sleep past 6:30 which helps Tim and I sleep past 6:30 which is a first in all the years that we have had these particular children.
Anyway, a few days ago in my yoga class our instructor introduced a new component. She started by telling us to self massage our hamstrings and then calves while we were folded into forward bend. Then the top of the feet (ahhhh...) then the shins and the knees, the thighs up to the belly and heart. I was amazed how the simple act of touch, the gentle rubbing on each part gave instant relief and unleashed a kind of joy. This realization was powerful and a bit ironic as I am a physical therapist trained in massage. It was a huge reminder about the power of directed touch, even when the gentle touch is directed at oneself.
It has me thinking about the boys and their recent troubles. Lately our household has been all sickness, and then when that takes a backseat all tantrums and whining. It has reached an unbelievably difficult impasse, where Tim and I are short and harried and exhausted and mad. So easy to get mad in the face of the seemingly incessant demands and seemingly unreasonable behavior, doubled in our case.
(Lip courtesy of O and an accidental bat to face. Hopefully accidental).
It had me thinking about the stages they are going through, where a certain level of autonomy has been reached. No longer are they cuddled over shoulder as the norm, rather they walk with their hands in our and their bodies self propelled. No longer hand fed, no longer hand washed....so many of those early touch opportunities fall away in the progression towards growth. Don't get me wrong, they receive as much hug and cuddle as they wish for, it is just that they do not wish for that very often. More often than not they lock us out of their room in fits of rage and fury.
So, now we have these precious hours while their sleepy bodies curl up in comfort and companionship and I really really like it. Not changing anything in that way. I like to think of it as practice for the Vanagon months ahead. But the thing I started doing in the early morning when one wakes up and is coming out of sleep is giving them a gentle massage similar to the one we started in class.
I love that they just lay there, sleepy and welcoming the day. I can see the relief melt over them, and I can feel the touch healing some of the challenge and struggle that must be part of the becoming of a person. And I am finding it heals that part of me that struggles with 'losing' my little ones.
It is easy to think we are giving them enough touch, but throughout the day the opportunities have waned. Busy as they are, Tim and I being in different places throughout the week, and the multiple demands of schedules and dinner and occasional housework, and Bam! when was the last time we sat down with focus and direction of affection.
I came across and very interesting post and it linked to this book. Now, I have yet to read it, but was caught by the description as follows ::
From Publishers Weekly In an attempt to reclaim the primal intimacy of the parent-child bond from dogmatists who see close physical affection as suspect or indecent, Oxenhandler (A Grief Out of Season) argues that parental love is inherently erotic. Despite her flamboyant terminology, what Oxenhandler means is that the parent-child bond can have the same physical and emotional intensity as a bond between lovers. There is, she points out, some scientific basis for this magnetism. The chemical oxytocin "controls a woman's pleasure during orgasm, childbirth, cuddling and nursing." Meanwhile, a child's "irresistibleness" in infancy is also a mechanism for survival. But Oxenhandler soon leaves science behind in favor of addressing the different "erotic" feelings a parent may experience. Throughout, she stresses the importance of "attunement," a process by which parents modify their physical affection as their children grow older--after all, the same caresses one showers on a baby are hardly appropriate for an adolescent. While the subtitle suggests an evenhanded treatment of the "light" and "dark" aspects of the parent-child relationship, Oxenhandler is much more skillful at presenting its sunnier side. She admits she has little experience in dealing with victims of child abuse, incest or pedophilia, and her attitude toward these issues may strike some readers as dismissive and uninformed. (In one chapter she suggests that adults use "playfulness" as an alternative to slipping into forbidden territory, though that seems an unlikely remedy to true pedophilic impulses.) Despite the flaws in her argument, many parents will find some comfort in this beautifully written book, which reassures them about the pleasure they may find in their child's natural curiosity and unconscious sexuality.
Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
I first found the author via Mondo Beyondo and have her second book on order from the Library (you do order your books from the Library, don't you? Free, people, free). And I am not sure the book will add much to my belief in touch and the importance it holds as we raise healthy and attuned young people. (And the Library does not have it yet, so I can't get it for free. Free, people).
I am glad for the reminder I received in that class. That I have a tool to go to when I am feeling stressed out, that I have a tool to offer them when they are. Has it stopped the craziness? Hell no. But does it help. Anyway, I believe it does.
mar·vel Pronunciation (märvl) n. 1. One that evokes surprise, admiration, or wonder. See Synonyms at wonder. 2. Strong surprise; astonishment. v. mar·veled also mar·velled, mar·vel·ing also mar·vel·ling, mar·vels also mar·vels v.intr. To become filled with wonder or astonishment. v.tr. To feel amazement or bewilderment at or about: We marveled that they walked away unhurt from the car accident. [Middle English marvail, from Old French merveille, from Vulgar Latin *miribilia, alteration of Latin mrbilia, wonderful things, from neuter pl. of mrbilis, wonderful, from mrr, to wonder, from mrus, wonderful; see smei- in Indo-European roots.]
I am sitting on our bed, watching a little bit of Martha Speaks (I love that dog because she uses interesting words in her dialogue like loquacious and taciturn) with Owen. It is raining, Mace is sleeping in with his Daddy in their room and O and I are reviewing our latest haul form the La Verne library. He missed the weekly trip due to yet another unidentified virus that left him fevered and coughing all yesterday afternoon. He seems totally revived now and he is currently explaining to me the story behind The Caboose That Got Loose, a book I originally read to them over a year ago.
And I realize that he will be three in a few months. He vehemently denies the age of three, insisting he will be four, sometimes even five. He has some weird bias against three. He skips it every time he counts. But I think what strikes me is that he counts. Not accurately, and sometimes in this odd repetitive circle from 5 to 9 and over again, but he has the basic concept. And now he reads to himself, entertained by a story that we have riffed on at bedtime, a story that has now become his own. This child of mine sings in his sleep, it is not melodious at all, instead a deep ahhh, ahhing that he started in infancy. I know this singing well as in the last few months I am usually sleeping with him. It is odd, but I love it. Sometime in the night, not every night, but most, we end up with a small child curled between us, or I in his room, warm and silent until he sings, his solid body close, the only time of quiet in my son, with my son. And though as an infant I refused to have them in my bed, now that they are grown bigger I find it hard to imagine that day when they will be too big to shelter in my bed, in my arms.
Mace is such a different story. He lays his head down and rarely wakes, even as his brother yells full in his ear "mom, get in here". He sometimes wants to cuddle, but sleeps like a wild cat...beds down like one too. He is all elbows and knees, flailing. Once he even punched Tim in the nose in the dead of night. He, who gave us the most sleepless nights as an infant, drifts into his sleep peacefully with his old blanket wrapped securely around his chest and his "mama-made" blanket tangled around other parts. I had not intended to make this a post about sleep. It isn't really. It is mostly about marvel. Marveling how small delicate creatures like this become small boys, versions of their grown selves. I watch as they consume knowledge and ideas, learn concepts and behaviors, mirror our actions and create their own.
I worry too, as we watch the dawning of true twin on twin aggression, where full face punches have become de rigeur when a fight breaks out. We watch as O reveals his natural wrestler's instincts, taking his brother down with a swipe to the leg. Or Mace shows his cunning side, running away as wounded when he was instigator. And it exhausts me and I lose patience and snap, bellowing out for peace as a little one scampers out of the room with bottom lip protruding, going willingly to the safe haven of his room 'time out'.
I worry as the school situation we are in starts to disintegrate, a classroom full of boys, 9 to be exact, where the only two little ladies are swallowed by the tide of miniature testosterone-laden boys, a few with (dare I say it) lax parents who think their bruisers are cute. I listen as they tell me the "mean kids" at school make them want to stay home, as O tells me he played with toys today at school. But that is a topic for another post.
The worry intertwines with the marvel, doesn't it? I have kept most of the worry at bay in these years. I find it does not help me to dwell on whether I am doing it right, there is no right. Instead, I try to focus on the now. On the fact that a child that once would not sleep through the night will now not wake up unless we go it and help him welcome the day (just like his Daddy). And I can marvel at the fact that my son, the one who once would not meet my eye, that seemed to prefer looking at the architecture of a room now only prefers to sleep sharing my pillow.
It is precious and fleeting, the hard and the good. It changes day to day, moment to moment. But I still find it hard to believe that three years ago I lay in this same bed, where I sit now typing and eating toast with my quiet morning companion reading his library books, and I willed them to stay in just a bit longer, to wait to enter this world. I can see now why they were so eager to be here, when there is just so very much to marvel at.
So, last night was the boy’s very first Christmas program, and it was very very nice. Surprisingly devoid of shenanigans especially when you consider the fact that there were over 32 small children under the age of 5 gathered on a church altar. And I thank the merciful gods for the lack of shenanigans as the day leading up was chock full of them.
The plan was a free day for me so I could spend a few hours with a very good friend and her adorable little baby girl. I had met Bean a few months earlier but now she Is 6 months, when all the fun starts (you know) and I just wanted to play with Shan and a baby and it all seemed to be no problem. Though we both technically live in Los Angeles county, we live on opposite ends of the spectrum so I spent a nice hour or so driving out on unclogged freeways and arrived excited to squeeze this little girl's cheeks. Yummy.
I missed a call by Tim figuring it was just a check in, but just as we settled in for a good talk/play on the floor session I heard my phone again and the thought “uh on” flashed through. It was my Dad, I answered and he asked if Tim had reached me. Uh oh. The message he relayed sounded like this : “Tim went to school because someone bit off Mason’s finger”. You know that feeling that happens when your body is so cold it is hot, when you feel your bones fall into jelly-like state? That was me….but I always laugh when I am nervous so I think I did that too. Then I hung up and called Tim.
The teacher Mrs. B answered and she was the epitome of calm. She asked me if I was okay, then explained the paramedics were at the school, Tim was with him, his finger was mostly severed at the top with the fingernail almost off, he was okay. She sounded a little shaky, but then who wouldn’t? Then I had to ask, “Um, someone bit it off?” That made her give a nervous laugh and clear up that it was actually a door, not a child that perpetrated the act. Whew. And that it was Owen, not Mason who was hurt. My mind instantly flashed to change the injured child image in my mind, which was not a relief at all, but at least it was accurate now.
I told Tim I would get in the car and be home in about 90 minutes, he was taking O to the ER, I hung up and then had to lay down for a minute. Shan and Lucy were both very understanding (of course) and I had to snuggle her for one more minute before I left to work up my fortitude, then in car, back to freeway, home to local ER.
It was all a little anti-climatic when I walked into the ER hospital room. Owen’s hand was heavily bandaged, he was smiling, reached for a big hug. Tim told me that x-rays had been done but he had yet to be seen by the MD. My relief evaporated as I knew the rough part was to come when they took off the bandage, but O seemed so happy, no pain at all per his actions. (Calm before the storm, believe me, I did not even think about taking his picture after they took off the dressing).
So, when the PA came in and started to remove the bandage I was in shock when I saw the injury….it was baaaad, people. At least, that is what we both thought when we saw it, I could hear it in her voice, I could feel it in the turning of my stomach. My advice is that if someone tells you your child’s finger is partially severed, you should listen and not look. O was screaming, it was bleeding, I was holding him, Tim was soothing him…it was a bit of a zoo for a minute.
But they decided it needed numbing, irrigation and sewing up, there was no fracture and he would be just fine. Right. The hardest part for him and us was that they needed to immobilize him so the wrapped him in a sheet and papoosed him to a board on the gurney and he flipped his lid. Screamed at us to let him out, please, out, please, ME OUT!!!!. Ah, my heart clenches just thinking about it.
I laid on the gurney with him and told him stories as we waited for his hand to get numb and he calmed a bit but when the medical attention began, that was it. He screamed the ER down. He pleaded with them, he said stop, and ouch, and hurting, and out, me out, me out. He would not look at me, instead watching the medical team, they hid his hand from us as they working and I knew he could feel it because he screamed at each stitch but I could not tell her to stop because it just needed to be done, over, so he could get out.
Thank god I was lying down next to him or I might have fallen down, hearing his voice, helpless to help. It was horrible. The ER team was amazing and wonderful with him, but it was still horrible. And then they finished and he passed out, one second screaming, next one asking for water in a cup (not juice, he told the nurse) and then out like a light.
We got our papers, I carried his limp little body out to the car, into his seat, into our home and he stayed asleep through it all, only moaning a little. And when he woke up an hour later, he asked for water in a cup. Mace was home and the minute the door opened I heard his voice say, “Mommy, Daddy home? Owie Okay? Doctor fix it?”. My mom sad Mace was telling her about the incident “Door smashing smashing, Owie big bup, me doctor and me fix it”.
And he seems no worse for the wear, his hand mitted up, he adapted easily to not using it, playing with one hand and holding his other up and he goes about his business. We did make it to the Christmas program and he did fine there too. Mrs. B and I commiserated about just how awful it is when one of our little ones gets hurt, for he is her little one too. She did such a good job taking care of him, I told her thank you a million times. And Tim did such a good job handling it all without a blink even though he hates hospitals. Me, well, I handled it okay until I got home and needed a glass of wine stat.
The finger will be fine, good circulation per the team, fingernail gone but likely to grow back. It bled through the bandage but we see his regular doctor today and he is all pink and eating apples and only complained abut hurting last night when he finally stopped and laid down in bed with us. (Did you know you can dose your kid with Tylenol and Children’s Motrin at the same time if you need to? Yeah, I did not know that until yesterday. Might have helped during sleepless night molar teething time).
You know what sucks about parenting? You cannot control doors, or other people’s cars, or things that happen to your kids out of your control. There is not way to stop those things. You can feed them good food, keep them warm and dry, give them things that stimulate their minds, give them hugs, but you cannot control doors. Or other things. That really is the suck factor in this job.
Just so you know, he is a lot better and acting just like O usually acts...though he sings it here, he did not at the program. Mace on the other hand? Never sang it once at home...put him on the altar and he became a total ham. It was awesome.
I know it may seem like Thanksgiving was a hundred years ago and we have plunged headfirst into the Christmas season, but I have to do my recap of the holiday, it is becoming a tradition.
It seems we have developed a new tradition by leaving for the Thanksgiving weekend. Last year we skipped a family dinner, but this year we scheduled to have an early dinner at my brother and sister in laws on Wednesday night. It was the real deal with two deep fried turkeys and 20 or so people at the table. Alon took extreme precautions which included fire suit, cordoned area and safety glasses. Always the safety glasses. The turkey was delicious; Owen did not eat any though, choosing to stick himself in the head with all the clean forks instead.
The next morning we took to the road and made it up to our family cabin with no puking and lots of daylight, but extreme cold. For us, that is. And I have learned that I should not trust my iPhone weather app for reliable reports, it said highs of 62, we experienced a high of 38 or so and some snow. Snow, people.
It may seem a little weird that we leave our family on the holiday that usually gathers them all together, but you have to remember we live with my family, like, directly in the same house, so the occasional ‘nuclear’ family time is good for us in many ways.
Thursday night I made a homemade chicken pot pie that initially tasted awesome, but later woke up from sleep with serious gastric issues. I am pretty sure we had bested the H1N1, so I must have poisoned us somehow. That was not so awesome.
We spend a lot of time at the Cabin hiking, then coming inside and eating, then going back outside to hike some more, than come back inside for some TV. The boys had a blast feeding the ducks and chucking rocks into the water, and just as much pleasure watching the Chipmunk movie we found abandoned by the TV. It was in heavy rotation and I actually came to find the little buggers weirdly cute. But it was some heavy rotation.
The boys were thrilled to see the snow early Saturday morning, there was a lot of shrieking and jumping and my new favorite phrase “yook at it, Daddy, yook at it, mama!” we were thrilled to see it was only a inch or so, pretty but not too much. It would not be cool to be snowed in with toddlers. There was also the tradition of visiting the town Santa for a quick picture, which really did not go over well. Owen seems to be okay with characters; Mason has no interest in getting near those folks. I did wrangle them into a few hand knits because it would not be a picture of the family unless they were wearing something I made, right?
It was a really nice time, but I have to say the while going away with kids thing is not getting easier. The sleep was shitty for all of us, maybe just too much of a change for them. They both woke up a lot, Owen at 10 p.m. most nights. He would open the door and stroll out into the living room. One night he was totally unable to sleep so he laid next to me and watched The Incredibles. A new experience for all of us. They call the Cabin their Faraway home and the last night Mace woke up at 2:30 a.m. demanding his real home 'where the witches live' (huh?) and then would not sleep until 5. That was a rough one.
But you just roll with it, you know? And you love it for what it is. The walks by the pond, on the rocks, by the calm lake, in the trees. The experience is so totally different from the early years when it was our time. But this is the new Our Time.
And it always make me so very grateful to have our Real home, where there is a depth of people and hands and love, so much support, no vacuum. It is a place where we never feel alone and those extra hands and extra daily love make such a difference in our lives.
I love our Far Away home and will always look at it as a place of clean pine smell and peace in some way (even though that peacefulness looks so different these days). But I am so very thankful for this place we call our Real home.
And now we are ready to embrace some whirlwind weeks of holiday preparations. There is a freshly cut tree that came home stuffed in the back of the Subaru (literally hovering over the boys’ heads, but at least it masked some of the barf smell when Owen got sick 45 minutes from home). We have some lovely cinnamon ‘cookie’ ornaments made with lots of spills and lots of fun.
And a plethora of ideas. (Those pinecones are coated with peanut butter then rolled in bird seed...an idea we are going to try on Christmas Eve for our backyard birdies)
Bring on the holiday making, I am feeling so excited about it all. Um, just realized I did miss Day 1 of Advent calendar opening. Will rectify in the morning.
:: And if you want to read my interview from the GIE it is here, entitled :: Amiee the Beer Drinkin' Knitter. Woot. Have to admit I wrote it while tipsy so it is pretty appropriate.
