A Late-Night Lipstick Story

January 16, 2011

(Owen and Sophie, taken December 28, 2010)

Tonight James was fussy. Really fussy. Cried, off and on, for hours fussy. And then Sophie called for me. She was supposed to be sleeping. She claimed she couldn’t. So I went up, all the while shushing and bouncing James.

She asked for me to crawl in bed with her (normally, I don’t). She asked for a story (she already had two, earlier). But I caved. I put James on one side of her (guarded from falling off by the bed rail) and I positioned myself on the other side of her. She wanted the lipstick story.

This is a story my mom recently told her and it involves me, when I was a little girl. It’s a simple story. But she loves it.

Me: “Once upon a time, a long time ago, when I was a little girl—not much older than you—Nini, my mom, told me it was time for me to take a nap. But I didn’t want to take a nap.”

Sophie: “Why?”

Me: “Because I was having too much fun playing. Just like sometimes you don’t like to take a nap.”

Sophie: “Yeah.”

Me: “So Nini said that I could take a nap in her bed. After my nap, Nini came to get me. And guess what she saw?”

Sophie (hands over mouth): “What?”

Me: “Lipstick. All over my mouth. And cheeks. And chin. And forehead. I found it on Nini’s bedside table.”

Sophie: (laughs).

Me: “So Nini got me up, washed off my face, gave me a snack and played with me.”

Sophie: “What did you play? Did you draw?”

Me: “I bet we did!”

Sophie: “Again!”

Me: “Time for bed.”

I find much joy in crawling into bed with Sophie and whispering a late-night story into her ear. We bury ourselves under the quilt my mom made. Her pink room looks so soft with the nightlight lit and her stars filling her ceiling. Often, her bedtime CD is still playing, quietly. But this night was made even better by the fact that it also calmed James. He loved it. He rubbed his hand across the netting of Sophie’s bed rail. He chewed Sophie’s blanket. He stared at Sophie’s face. This may not seem like much, but after three-plus hours of trying everything to calm a fussy baby, it was much, and everything and more.

Thinking back, though, it’s a trick I use often, when one of the boys are fussy. I put them next to Sophie, on a pillow, under a blanket. Sometimes in her bed. Sometimes on the window seat. Sometimes on a quilt on the floor. Maybe it’s because I’ve put them in a new environment. I like to think the closeness of their sister, though, has a lot to do with it, too.

So tonight, I was doubly blessed. I had my late-night story session with Sophie and, because of that, a calm James. And really, I have Sophie to thank for this—even if it was past her bedtime. Even if she should have been sleeping. Even if I did sigh, heavily, when she first called me name.

Like most things with children, though, in the end, I’m glad she did.

“I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.” —Vincent Van Gogh

Family Nap Time

January 12, 2011

Sophie insisted.

“For most of life, nothing wonderful happens. If you don’t enjoy getting up and working and finishing your work and sitting down to a meal with family or friends, then the chances are you’re not going to be very happy. If someone bases his happiness or unhappiness on major events like a great new job, huge amounts of money, a flawlessly happy marriage or a trip to Paris, that person isn’t going to be happy much of the time. If, on the other hand, happiness depends on a good breakfast, flowers in the yard, a drink or a nap, then we are more likely to live with quite a bit of happiness.” —Andy Rooney

Comparing Lives, in a Waiting Room

January 7, 2011

Today I took James to Cincinnati Children’s Hospital’s Crestview Hills location for a simple ophthalmology follow-up. (No glasses necessary—he passed.)

In addition to the normal waiting room time to get into the appointment, I had an extra 30-minute wait in the waiting room once drops were put in his eyes to dilate them. So James and I watched people come and people go—infants, toddlers, teenagers, parents, grandparents, siblings, caregivers.

Initially we sat across two women—one was a nurse. I wasn’t sure if she was the mother’s sister or, simply, a nurse, there to help the mother with her child. The mother was sweetly mothering her beautiful nine-month-old girl. The mother and I talked about teething—her daughter had just gotten her first two teeth. While the mother was away, filling out paperwork, her daughter made a terrible noise and grew extremely red in the face. The other woman, the nurse, calmly started up a portable machine, inserted a tube in either the baby’s mouth or nose (I couldn’t tell which), said sweet nothings to the small child and slowly, slowly, the baby’s red, scrunched up face softened, grew paler, and less afraid.

Shortly thereafter James and I noted an older man enter the waiting room with his teenage son, who frequently shouted, who was clearly nervous and who garnered a lot of stares. The older man—the boy’s father—looked rough. If I saw him on the streets, sans son, I would have never guessed he’d be the type of man who could calm his panicking, yelling child with calm words, a rubber ball for distraction and a gentle hand on the shoulder.

Near the end of our wait another teenager entered the room with what I assume wasn’t his mother but his caretaker. He was tall and solid—a big guy. He wore baggy blue sweatpants, a dirty white shirt and old leather shoes. I could see plastic braces on his ankles. His pants were wet. His caretaker noticed and began trying to convince him to go to the bathroom to change. Finally, he agreed. At this point I was walking around the room, bouncing James in my arms, trying to keep him calm. A few seconds later the teenage boy returned, eyes locked on James.

I smiled at him. I said hi. A couple times. I smiled again. Yet his eyes remained locked on my son as he continued walking toward us. His caretaker rushed behind him.

“Look at the beautiful baby!” she said. I couldn’t help but take note of the nervous tone in her voice.

She inserted her small frame between me and the teenage boy, using all her strength to push him back. While pushing, the boy kept his eyes locked on James. And then, something snapped. He softened. His gaze dropped. He turned around and walked away.

Sometimes, after I’ve had a long, trying day with my children, and everyone is asleep, I collapse in my big leather chair, with a big glass of red wine and think about how hard my life is right now.

I’m a fool.

My children are, for the most part, healthy. I don’t have to travel with a nurse and special machinery. Their infantile behavior will be short-lived—something I only will have to deal with while they’re infants. Potty training will end before puberty hits. And I doubt I’ll have to deal with panic attacks in crowded waiting rooms or one of my sons charging a stranger’s seven-month-old. And the very physical aspects of mothering will someday end for me. My children will (I hope) grow up. They’ll become independent, not require machinery to function. They’ll move away. While there’s a sadness to that, there’s also great pleasure, too. And so many (too many) parents never, ever get to experience that. For parents of handicapped children, often, they’re mothering, and fathering, in that very physical sense, until they’re gone.

And yet. I heavily sigh. I sip. I long for more time to do nothing.

Yes. I’m a fool.

“The only disability in life is a bad attitude.” —Scott Hamilton

Lucky

January 6, 2011

“Most human beings have an absolute and infinite capacity for taking things for granted.” —Aldous Huxley

Visiting Santa

January 3, 2011

James, clearly very excited

Owen, too sleepy to care

The view from the line.

First up, Sophie. She so desperately wanted to tell Santa what she wanted—a butterfly net. And up until we got to the front of the line, she was determined, and excited, to sit on his lap. But when the time came, she froze. So I carried her up there. Although a little fuzzy, I love this picture. In it, she’s talking to Santa. She’s telling him what she wanted—a butterfly net. But her body language proves just how terrified she was to be up close and personal with the man in red.

Still, this is a (small) improvement from 2008. And 2009.

The boys handled the experience surprisingly well.

“Alas! How dreary would be the world if there was no Santa Claus! … There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence.” —Francis P. Church

Watching the Grinch

December 30, 2010

“What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.” —Dr. Seuss

Poor James

December 30, 2010

Owen has a tendency to gnaw on James. This time, his arm. Sometimes his leg. Once, his head.

“The younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder.” —Jane Austen

Blessed Ink

September 22, 2010

Check out the lovely announcement my friend, Dara, designed for me. I love the color—peacock—new from Paper Source. (And let me tell you—it’s quite difficult to get two infants to pose for a picture. Thank you, Dad, for your patience—and the photo!)

Dara also did address label wraps, which I love. And my mom found these perfect Winslow Homer “Boys in a Pasture” stamps.

Thank you, Dara, so much. And if you need anything designed, check out her company, Blessed Ink. She’s done so much for me, including amazing business cards (which someday, I hope to use again 🙂 ).

“Design is not making beauty, beauty emerges from selection, affinities, integration, love.” —Louis Kahn

On Guilt

September 16, 2010

The picture above is of a game, a lovely little game that Sophie loves to play called First Orchard (made by Haba). It was a day of no’s for her, an in-a-minute day, a I-just-have-to-feed/change/rock/take-care-of-Owen/James day. She set the game up, by herself, on our dining room window seat while I was feeding the boys. She set it up perfectly. Without my help. The correct fruits were on the correct trees, the stone path that led to the orchard was perfectly lined up, with the fruit-eating-raven (her favorite part) at the bottom. And she waited. And waited. She picked up the raven, danced it around the window seat and said, “Caw, caw, caw!” And then she waited some more. So patiently. She just sat there, cross-legged, waiting for me—for someone—to play with her. “Now?” she finally asked. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The boys were eating tremendously slowly. I hadn’t even burped them yet. Finally, rightfully, she got upset. All day she had heard no. All day.

Andy came home from work before I could finish with the boys. “Play with her,” I pleaded. And he did. Without even changing out of his work clothes first. “Thank you,” I mouthed.

I knew, going into this twins-with-toddler experience, I’d feel a lot of guilt. Kids aside, I’ve always had guilt issues. I’m really, really good at it. I think my therapist pointed it out 10 minutes in my first conversation with her (if I remember correctly I was going on and on about feeling guilty that I drove to the appointment instead of walking, given that her office was so close to my house).

Lately, though, some things have happened that I feel really guilty about. And so here I’d like to get these few things off my chest.

1. (The worst.) Sophie had just finished painting and needed/wanted to wash her hands. I needed to feed the boys, who were in panic-mode crying at this point. So I got her set up (on the stool, water on, towel and soap in reach). Then I started feeding the boys. Sophie washed. And washed. And washed. Sensing that she was more playing than cleaning at this point, I asked her to turn off the water. She ignored me (so I thought). I asked again. And again and again and again. Finally, I yelled. “Sophie Olivia Uhl, turn off the water NOW!” She started sobbing, uncontrollably sobbing. Frustrated, I stopped feeding both boys (meaning both boys were manically screaming now) and marched to the bathroom. And discovered this: She couldn’t reach the faucet handles to turn the water off. There she was, trying and trying and trying to do as I asked, and she simply couldn’t reach. I felt terrible. I scooped her up and apologized a million times over. And while I know she won’t remember this, I always will.

2. When Sophie was a newborn, I remember holding her, all the time. And not just when she needed/wanted to be held, but also when she was sleeping. I’d hold her for entire naps. I’d sit, on the couch, holding her, listening to music, reading, watching TV or dozing myself. Now I find it a treat to hold Owen or James. Too often it’s, ‘Oh, thank God you’re sleeping, into the swing you go.’ So lately I’ve tried to make a conscious effort to just hold them. But still, I do it far less than I did with Sophie. One, there are two of them. Two, when they do nap, Sophie wants/needs my attention. Three, eventually I need to wash the diapers. But still, I miss that. I want that. And they need that. Guilt.

3. Last week I ventured out to a small park past the cemetery by our house, with all three kids on my own. Sophie was thrilled with this venture. All morning she talked about it. She practically ran the entire way there. And once there, she was, easily, the happiest kid there. And I bet she said, oh, 50 times, “This is so much fun, Mommy. This is really, really fun.” Clearly, I need to be taking her to the park more often.

4. I used to be so strict about Sophie’s TV/computer time. I grew up with 30 minutes of TV/day. But lately, when I’m feeding the boys or pumping, and I’ve told Sophie to color, read books, play with her dolls, build a train, build a tower, do crafts, bounce a ball, dance, sing, play with her musical instruments, run around in circles, chase Tucker, put on my bracelets, play her First Orchard game, line up my nail polish, etc., etc., and her response is always no, no, no, I cave. I turn on PBS. I find Dora and Diego and Wubbzy and Wonder Pets and Yo Gabba Gabba and The Backyardigans and The Fresh Beat Band online. And she watches. And she sings. And she dances. And she’s quiet and not whining and not upset and happy and the boys are happy but ohmygoodness is it way too much TV. Guilt, guilt, guilt. This, Andy and I are both working on. The now-occasional tantrum over us simply saying no to her asking if she can watch the computer is too much to handle.

5. I’m big on thank-you notes. Andy’s theory is, if you thank them in person, a thank-you note isn’t necessary. But I disagree. Last night I opened up my Google doc list of thank-you notes to write and, while once again noting how incredibly lucky we’ve been to have had so many gifts given to us, to the boys and Sophie, was appalled at the number of thank-you notes I still had to write—some for gifts given to us when the boys were born (that’s almost four months ago now). I admit it. When I give a gift, and don’t receive a thank-you note, I wonder. Did they receive it? Did they not like it? Should we have spent more? Do they care? That’s terrible, I know, but I do. So last night Andy and I wrote out 10 more. And each one began with an apology. Well, mine did. Andy’s … his went something like this: “Apparently twins need a lot of crap. So thank you for the Babies R Us gift card. Go Bucks!” At this point, I didn’t care. I just wanted them sent. (Guilt.)

I could write forever on this topic. I know I need to release myself from much of this guilt but some is deserved. And some, I believe, is part of good parenting. Still, I will never forget the image of Sophie sitting cross-legged on the window seat, waiting. Or the feel of her hot, teary cheek against mine in our downstairs half bath. Or how I felt simply holding Owen, and James, and noting how little I have done that. I imagine guilt is something I’ll always battle. I just hope I can, someday, turn it into small skirmish instead.

“It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.” —Oscar Wilde

A Cool Morning

September 13, 2010

(taken August 17)

Finally, a cool enough morning to enjoy my coffee outside while Sophie slid and slid and slid, and Owen and James watched leaves flutter in the breeze (a pastime I vividly remember Sophie enjoying, too).

“Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.” —Sam Keen