kara

Sophie loved decorating the tree this year. She’d pick up an ornament, try to hang it up, hand it to one of us, watch us hang it up and then say “another one, another one” while running back to the ornament box. Often I think, this will be my favorite stage of my child’s life (and, yes, often I think this won’t be my favorite stage of my child’s life). But people are right. It does just keep getting better and better.

“Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmas-time.” —Laura Ingalls Wilder

Everyone has a dish their mom or dad makes that they absolutely love. (One of) mine is my mom’s homemade potato soup. I think it takes her hours to make. I know it involves homemade stock. And I know that I tried it once and it was nothing like my mom’s (in part because I did not take the time to make homemade stock). She recently came to visit and, with her, brought a glass jar full of soup and, subsequently, full of memories of home. I’m not the best cook. But I hope there’s something I someday make, consistently, that Sophie grows to love. And I hope to someday visit her with that something in a glass jar or in some Tupperware or on a plate covered in foil. And I hope that with each bite it will be more than something that tastes good—it will be something that tastes of home. And then, I hope she’ll smile—because of good memories in addition to good taste.

“Soup is the song of the hearth … and the home.” —Louis P. De Gouy

This is my friend Daileon. You can call him Dai Dai. He was saying “cheese!” for the camera while I was clapping. We’re good friends now. Especially because he shared all his toys with me. And was still nice to me when I cried. (I do that sometimes.) Can’t wait to see you again, Dai Dai!

“The most I can do for my friend is simply be his friend.” —Henry David Thoreau

Paw Paw came over the other day and watched me while Mom had a doctor’s appointment.

I showed him all my bracelets (including some new ones just my size that Grandma made me!) …

put them on …

and then sat on Tucker.

“It takes all the fun out of a bracelet if you have to buy it yourself.” —Peggy Joyce

“Christmas is for children. But it is for grownups too. Even if it is a headache, a chore, and nightmare, it is a period of necessary defrosting of chill and hide-bound hearts.” —Lenora Mattingly Weber

This year we went to a simple tree farm in Lewisburg, Ohio, from which you can see the farm where my dad grew up, and where my grandma still lives. There was hardly anyone there. There was no Santa or free hot cocoa or a tree shaker or wreaths for sale—just a guy and a fire and a log to sit on if you got too cold—it was perfect.

After we visited my grandma and enjoyed my aunt Ellen’s bread, coffee and hot tea.

It’s a beautiful tree.

“Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree. In the eyes of children, they are all 30-feet tall.” —Larry Wilde

Why, it’s Scuba Santa! At the Newport Aquarium! Because, really, no Christmas is complete without seeing a scuba-diving Santa.

After waiting in line for more than 30 minutes, Sophie was less than thrilled upon actually seeing Scuba Santa, complete with a snorkeling elf and sharks swimming about. She was especially less than thrilled when Santa kept trying to get the kids in the audience to clap and cheer louder and louder. Finally, seven minutes into it, she started crying, “Peoples! Too loud!” So we left and went to the quiet jellyfish exhibit, which she was thrilled with. Maybe next year, Scuba Santa.

“Oh look, yet another Christmas TV special! How touching to have the meaning of Christmas brought to us by cola, fast food, and beer. … Who’d have ever guessed that product consumption, popular entertainment and spirituality would mix so harmoniously?” —Bill Watterson

Somehow we have managed to screw up time-out.

We use time-out sparingly, for behavior we know Sophie knows is wrong—standing up on the antique wooden desk chair and rocking it back and forth (which will surely make it tip one day), opening the TV cabinet doors and pressing buttons, etc. In an ideal world, when Sophie engages in such behavior, we would tell her she has to sit in time-out. She would walk to her corner, upset, sit and want to get up. We’d tell her no, she has to stay. Then we’d ask why she’s in time-out and she’d say “chair no” or “cabinet no” and we’d know she understood. We’d ask her to say she’s sorry, she’d give us a kiss and hug, we’d wipe her tears and time-out would be over.

The problem? She loves time-out.

Whenever we say “no” she now smiles, looks up at us eagerly and says, “time-out?”

And now she’s begun rocking chairs and opening cabinets on purpose simply so she can go to time-out.

Here’s how time-out works in our non-ideal world:

Me: I hear the chair rocking and jump up to save her from a nasty fall. “Sophie, no!”

Sophie: “Time-out?” smiling (and sometimes laughing).

Me: “Yes, Sophie, what you did is bad,” in a scolding, responsible-mother-like tone. “Time-out.”

Sophie: “Time-out, time-out, time-out” in a sing-song voice.

She sits gladly—happily. I turn away, so as not to give her attention. She asks to get up. Good, I think. She’s going to want to get up and I’m going to say no and then she’ll be upset and realize this is a punishment.

Me: “No. You know you’re not allowed to rock the chair. You have to sit in time-out.”

Sophie: Nothing. She just sits, contentedly, or starts saying “time-out, time-out, time-out” in her sing-song voice again.

After more than enough time has passed for a not-even-2-year-old in time-out, I go back to her and squat, so we’re eye level with each other.

Me: “Sophie, do you know why you’re in time-out?”

Sophie: “Chair, nooooo.”

Me: “That’s right. Rocking the chair is very dangerous. You could fall and hurt yourself. Don’t do it again.”

Sophie: “OK.”

Me: “Please say you’re sorry.”

Sophie: “Sorry, Ma ma. Kiss?”

Me: “Yes, kiss. Thank you.”

Sophie: “Hug?”

Me: “Yes, hug. Thank you.”

A couple times, in the beginning, she would ask to get up and I would say no and she would get upset—even cry. And I don’t want her to cry but I also want her to understand there are limits and boundaries. I want her to be upset so she understands her actions have consequences. But the crying was short-lived. Recently we tried making her stand up in time-out and face the corner. She laughed and laughed, like it was the funniest game she’s ever played.

Perhaps longer time-outs are necessary—long enough for her to get really antsy but not be allowed up. Or, perhaps, we need to move the location (although there’s nothing exciting about the current location—a corner). Or maybe she’s smarter than we think. Maybe she knows that by turning time-out into a non-punishment, we lose an age-old parenting trick.

“In spite of the 7,000 books of expert advice, the right way to discipline a child is still a mystery to most fathers and mothers. Only your grandmother and Ghengis Khan know how to do it.” —Bill Cosby

Earlier this month Mom and Dad took me to Lebanon, Ohio’s annual horse-drawn carriage parade.

At first I sort of thought they were crazy for taking me—it was so, so cold and there were so many people and we had to park so far away and by the time we got the parade it had started and we couldn’t cross the street to stand with Nini and Pop Pop who had been saving us spots for a really long time.

But then a really nice woman gave us her spot on a bench so I was able to see!

There were so many horses—big ones and miniature ones and carriages pulled by six of them! And all the carriages were decorated, some with lights. I kept reminding Mom what horses say, in case she forgot. (It’s “neigh,” by the way.)

But then Santa came. (He’s so scary.) And people started cheering and clapping. (People are so scary.)

The parade ended and Nini and Pop Pop quickly crossed the street—with homemade hot chocolate!

Mom says nothing is better than her mom’s hot chocolate on a cold winter day but I have to wait until I’m a little older to have some.

By this time I was back to thinking Mom and Dad were crazy. It was cold! But fun. I’ll go again next year. Well, only if Santa doesn’t show. And maybe the other people could not come, too.

“Love is like swallowing hot chocolate before it has cooled off. It takes you by surprise at first, but keeps you warm for a long time.” —unknown

I find myself sitting, lately, a lot. If Sophie is content playing on her own, I sit and watch. If Andy comes into a room to talk to me, I sit and listen. Sometimes, while Sophie naps, I sit on the couch and think about all the things I should be doing—laundry, cleaning the kitchen for the fourth time that day, window washing, light-fixture cleaning, closet organizing, present wrapping, even Christmas card addressing, which is a job that requires sitting and yet I sit, without doing anything at all. I’m tired. All the time. So I sit and watch. Listen. Sometimes fret. But mostly, I just think.

Apparently, this is a good thing. I had a doctor’s appointment today and the babies are growing quite well. My official due date is June 26 but I won’t be allowed to go past June 12 (in which case Andy would share a birthday). We saw two heads, two torsos, four arms, four legs and two beating hearts. We saw swimming-like-yet-also-incredibly-human-like movement—all at 11 weeks, four days.

I was told there’s a 50 percent chance of bed rest with twins. I asked if there’s anything I can do now to prevent this. Rest, it turns out, prevents bed rest. I go to a group practice and the doctor I saw today was the oldest doctor in the group—she was grandmotherly and took her time, both listening and talking, and there was something about her eyes that made me trust her wisdom. Three times a day for an hour each time, she said, flat on my back, legs propped up on pillows.

At first I stifled a laugh. Did she not see the 20-month-old running around in circles in the small examining room? Does she have a maid and is therefore not used to daily housekeeping chores? Does she not cook or, perhaps, not eat? (She was quite small.) But then, I thought about it. In the morning, once Sophie and Mia and Tucker are fed, the coffee is made, Andy’s lunch is packed and I’ve eaten, I sit. Sophie plays or takes advantage of the fact that I turn PBS on in the morning for a half hour. I check e-mail and read and look out the window and gather myself for the coming day. So to follow my doctor’s orders, I would just have to change my position.

In the afternoon Sophie (usually) naps. I could rest then. And Andy comes home at 6pm. After dinner I could rest, too.

And thinking about it—as much as I hate to admit it to myself—I already rest a lot. I’m a worrier, especially when it comes to cleaning and organizing and preparing. I often worry myself into doing all those things, constantly. But maybe, subconsciously, I’ve been listening to my body a little more closely—as I should. Maybe my babies are, in their very early stages, telling me something—slow down. Or maybe I’ve just been too tired to physically peel myself off the couch.

It’s a strange mix of feelings upon realizing I already do rest—I feel guilty thinking of the time I’ve spent not doing but also very much at peace with the time I’ve spent doing, and by doing I mean growing two humans—humans with heads and bodies and legs and arms that already wave—inside of me. Perhaps I just need to rethink rest and take away the “not” in front of the “doing”—at least while pregnant.

And of course, if put on bed rest, I’ll roll my eyes at the thought of me thinking three hours a day a hardship. And, come June, I know I will give anything for three full hours of rest, and consider myself crazy for not treating it as the luxury—and yet also the important job—it is.

It’s hardly a hardship, only in the worry part of my brain, the part that makes lists and frets and sees dust where no one else sees it. I think about the few accomplishments I’ve had in my life and the amount of work they required. And while this one will require more work than I’ve ever put into anything come June, right now, the act of growing two people, two minds that will think things and say things and analyze things and love things and hate things and create things and destroy things, requires something so small and yet so complicated—rest.

“What is without periods of rest will not endure.” —Ovid

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