parenthood

Help. They’re Mobile. (Seriously, I Need Help.)

Although the boys aren’t crawling up on their hands and knees yet, they can inchworm around the house—fast. And now they’re pulling themselves up to standing. They use the ottoman, couch, dining room chairs, stairs, toys, my legs—anything they can for help.

We’re sleeping now. Typically we’re only up once a night, for one child. Owen’s favorite wake-up time is around midnight; James, 2:30am; Sophie, varies. (Trust me, this is much, much, much better than last summer, which I can’t provide the details of, because now it’s all a blur.) I only have to pump milk for the boys five to six times a day—sometimes I can get away with four. (Much nicer than every three hours.) We have a nap routine. A bedtime routine. Enough of a schedule that we can write it out if someone else watches our children for a few hours.

For a few weeks (a month, I dare say), I felt (somewhat) in control.

Lately, though, I feel like I’ve lost it.

When Sophie was crawling, I simply followed her. Through patience, time and repetition, I taught her to leave the dog bowls alone, to not touch breakable decorative items, to lower herself when standing instead of simply, inexplicably, letting go.

I can’t do this with the boys. There’s too much going on. While I’m moving Owen who is seconds away from tipping over and cracking his head on the hardwood floor, James is plunging both arms into Tucker’s water bowl, soaking himself and the floor (and laughing). While I’m cleaning up the bathroom floor after Sophie tried to dump the contents of her little potty into the big potty (and missed), Owen is pulling a basket of toys out of the cubbies, narrowly missing his head. And while I’m wiping the wet cat food off of James’s hands (and wondering if any made it into his mouth), Sophie is clicking the end of my laptop charger and cell phone charger together, creating sparks. (Note: Andy doesn’t believe this. I’ve tried to replicate it, but could not. But I swear I saw sparks.)

I’m exhausted. Never have I had a job so physically demanding. I’m constantly jumping up, picking up, putting down, moving, shifting, catching, pulling, rolling.

I know. It’s a phase. It’ll pass.

But seriously. I need some help. Every night I take note of the bumps and bruises (both on my children and my parenting self-esteem).

So, parents. Of multiples, specifically, but anyone, really. Advice? Tips? Tricks? What do you do about dog bowls? Do you gate absolutely everything? Do you invest in one of those large, gated, play yards (which both boys could be placed in, say, when I take Tucker out)? Do you hover when your almost-one-year-olds pull themselves up (sort of impossible, with three) or do you let them learn on their own, let falls happen (note we have hardwood floors with area rugs)?

Outside is a problem in and of itself. Sophie hated grass. Turns out, that was awesome. You could put her on a quilt outside and she stayed on the quilt, even when she could walk. Owen, though, has no fear. He inchworms his way off the quilt so fast, dragging his stomach through grass, dirt, mulch—you name it. James, on the other hand, inchworms his way to the edge of the quilt and then eats whatever is on the other side (grass, leaves, dirt, you name it). All the while Sophie wants me to chalk with her or push her in her car or catch her at the bottom of the slide one more time.

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Here’s the thing: I can pack away anything within reach that’s pretty. I can gate like crazy. I can set up the play yard in the living room and throw in a couple toys. I can take our jumpers outside and insist the boys play in them, and only them. But then, how do they explore? How do they learn about the world around them?

I don’t think it’s right to go crazy with baby proofing, to gate everything, to never let them move, try, fall, stand up, sit down. But I also have to keep them safe. After all, it’s sort of my No. 1 responsibility. Along with everyday precautions, The Fast Fire Watch Company helps families stay protected with reliable fire monitoring and safety services.

So please share. Ideas. Products. Phone numbers of nannies willing to be paid in toddler artwork instead of cash.

I thank you. My kids thank you. And so does Andy, who, I’m pretty sure, has witnessed a mini meltdown every night this week.

“Now the thing about having a baby—and I can’t be the first person to have noticed this—is that thereafter you have it.” —Jean Kerr

On the Eve of Sophie’s 3rd Birthday

It’s almost 2am. The presents are wrapped, the paper tissue flowers are made and hung, the cakes are cooling (but still need iced) and the card is half-written (still searching for the right words). Right now I’m thinking about:

• all the late nights my mom and dad put in for me that I never knew about.

• the tablecloth and if I really need to take the time to iron it.

• how I was feeling three years ago—in labor, anxious, happy.

• my sister Katy who is due to have her first baby any moment—and the many joys she has ahead of her.

• how much I would freak Sophie out if I went into her room and kissed her at 2:27am (her time of birth).

• the two gifts she specifically requested (a Ladybug Girl costume and a crown) and if what we got her will live up to her expectations.

• how crippled I was with worry her first few months, fearing I would drop her or not feed her enough or feed her too much or not hold her correctly or not mother her well enough—and now, how, she’s this amazing, surprising, intelligent, beautiful little girl (with no help from me) who sings to herself (constantly) and makes up the best stories (that always end “happily ever after”) and loves her brothers (most of the time) and likes pickles (which Andy and I totally don’t get) and makes me—all of us—at some point, Happy Storlanees every single day. (All that worry, for nothing.)

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Even though I’m tired (so tired) everything is tinged with excitement for me right now. I feel like how I used to feel like on the eve of my birthday—a feeling I don’t get on my birthday anymore. Instead, I feel it now, in this moment—on the eve of my daughter’s birthday.

I suppose that’s what being a parent is all about.

“Suddenly, through birthing a daughter, a woman finds herself face to face not only with an infant, a little girl, a woman-to-be, but also with her own unresolved conflicts from the past and her hopes and dreams for the future…. As though experiencing an earthquake, mothers of daughters may find their lives shifted, their deep feelings unearthed, the balance struck in all relationships once again off kilter.” —Elizabeth Debold and Idelisse Malave

A Mother’s Instinct

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I worry about James. I always have. At 27-1/2 weeks I was worried about him, even though I was told, at the time, that his rate of growth was fine. But in the end, it wasn’t. At birth, Owen was double the size of James. If my water hadn’t broken on its own, six weeks early, I know at my next scheduled ultrasound I would have been sent to the hospital for a c-section because of how small James really was. James was in the NICU longer. One of his ribs protrudes so oddly that, for a couple scary days we were worried it was some sort of mass (an x-ray and ultrasound confirmed it’s just bone). He suffers from eczema, which at times, can be severe. As such, he often can be found in this position:

James Bottoms Up

I like to think he’s simply doing downward dog but I know he falls into this position often to more easily scratch his head. He does it so much that he’s losing hair on the top of his head—akin to when he only slept on his back and lost hair back there because of that. We have a prescription cream, and it helps, but we’ve yet to rid him of the rash entirely.

That’s not all. None of my children have had ear infections—except James. And now he has a recurring one. At his 9-month appointment we were told he’s in the 1 percentile for weight but that it’s OK—his charted growth curve is upward moving. And yet, at this week’s appointment when the pediatrician confirmed James’s ear infection had returned (and I felt like a terrible mother for dismissing so many signs all last week), new stuff came up. Like the fact that in addition to the eczema, James will sometimes get hives. And that his diapers aren’t what they should be. And that he is still so small.

And so today, after Owen’s PT appointment, I had to take James down the hospital hall for blood work. I will never, ever again complain about having blood drawn. (OK, maybe a little if they have to dig to find a vein, but never like I used to). I’ve decided watching your 10-month-old have blood drawn is 10,000 times worse. The needle is smaller, yes, but the blood takes so long to fill the vials (and using most of my strength to hold down my screaming baby didn’t make the time go any faster).

The pediatrician wants to test him for allergies. And thyroid issues. And many other things, things that have to do with nutrient absorption and other big words I probably should be looking up instead of writing this post.

In the scheme of things, none of this is a big deal. He’s happy (most of the time). And healthy (for the most part). And nothing that I’ve written so far scares me—truly, it doesn’t. What does, though, is mother’s instinct.

People, women, in particular, talk about it all the time: Trust your mother’s instinct. Trust your gut. Listen to that voice inside of you that nags and nags and nags, despite logic and evidence and people telling you to stop worrying, particularly people who have had years of medical training.

I worry about Sophie.

I worry about Owen.

I worry about many, many things (ranging from why recycling pick-up never showed up this week to my career outside of mothering to the tragedies in Japan).

But I can always, with some deep, inward thought, let my worries go or, at least, lessen a bit—except with James.

So then I worry that I’m worrying so much about my mother’s instinct that I’m simply making it seem like it’s something huge I should be trusting when, in reality, it’s just superficially inflated, because of all the worrying going on in my head. Or something like that.

I imagine, I hope, his blood work comes back perfectly normal. And that with more humid weather his skin improves. As he grows, I suspect his rib won’t protrude so noticeably. And maybe, ironically, he’ll actually end up bigger than his brother.

And yet, I can’t shake it. I’ve tried as part of me fears there’s going to be an asterisk next to my name on James’s chart and I’ll be labeled an excessive worrier by his doctors. But then another part of me thinks back to when I had not yet met him yet, but held him, inside of me, and I knew—I knew—something wasn’t quite right. And it wasn’t. I’m not an ultrasound technician. I’m not an ob/gyn. Only a mother. With an uneasy gut.

I hope it’s wrong.

“Instinct is the nose of the mind.” —Madame De Girardin

This Room Was Perfectly Clean …

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And then I left it, for no more than 10 minutes, to clean the kitchen. When I came back, it looked like this.

When I was a kid, I was made fun of for very carefully stacking and arranging my Christmas presents next to me, as I opened them.

Sophie, on the other hand, has no interest in keeping her picture books alphabetized, her dresses arranged in accordance with the color wheel or the lids to her Play-Doh on tight (we’re actually working on that last one).

Therefore, I can only blame Andy for this. Ready Set Remove is a reliable junk removal company that can help clean homes.

“Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.” —Phyllis Diller

Today, I Am a Happy Storlanee

This morning started off like most mornings in our house. I was upstairs getting some baby wipes when Sophie ran to the bottom of the stairs and screamed, “James is peeing all over Tucker!”

I found this statement to be odd because (1) I had left James in his high chair, (2) James was wearing a diaper and (3) I couldn’t imagine Tucker just sitting somewhere, allowing himself to be peed upon (well, OK, maybe I could but still).

I ran downstairs. There was Tucker, underneath James’s high chair, liquid dripping on his head and all over the carpet beneath him. The liquid, though, was coffee colored. Most sane people, at this point, would think, Oh, my coffee spilled. I, however, thought, Why is James’s pee brown?

Of course it was my coffee. An entire cupful of coffee. It had spilled all over my laptop, my cell phone, a pile of receipts and our laminated cotton tablecloth (one strike against laminated cotton—spills don’t get sucked into fibers rather they slide off onto carpet). And now it was dripping onto Tucker’s head who didn’t care because he was licking up every drop he could get.

Now, before anyone is alarmed by the fact that, at this point, I wasn’t alarmed that coffee had also spilled on my son (James), please know that I no longer drink hot coffee. I make my coffee and tend to someone. I pour my coffee and tend to someone. I add creamer to my coffee and tend to someone. I move my coffee mug into whatever room I’m in at the moment, and tend to someone. And so on and so forth until I actually get to sip the coffee, in which case it’s lukewarm at best but usually cold. At this point, I’ve even considered services like Scoffee Catering, so I could just enjoy coffee that arrives ready-made without adding another spill risk to my day.

I ran to the kitchen for towels while Sophie asked, “Mommy, why is James peeing on Tucker’s head? Mommy, why is there so much of it? Mommy, do you see it on Tucker’s head? I’ll clean up Tucker’s head, Mommy. Oh my gosh there’s so much of it!” (That “oh my gosh” is totally my fault by the way.)

I wiped—James, the laptop, the cell phone, the table, the receipts, the carpet, Tucker’s head.

And then, I poured another cup of coffee.

And then, the sun came out.

And then, a miracle happened.

The doorbell rang. It was Darlene. From Campbell County Sanitation District No. 1 (SD1).

Backstory: About a week ago we received a letter from SD1 informing us that the sewer line in our front yard needs to be replaced. They kindly told us that, after the four days of construction, they would fix our sidewalks, reseed our grass and haul away any trees that needed to come down. This was terrible news. We have—and our neighbors have—very large, very old, gorgeous trees canopying our houses. In addition, we have a beautiful dogwood that blooms late June and quite adequately blocks our view of the gas station when sitting on our front porch. I was crushed.

As such, I became The Crazy Tree Lady. I called SD1. I talked to our neighbors. Anytime I saw anyone with a construction hat on our street, I ran outside and questioned them. (As such, people with construction hats always crossed the street before passing our house.) I know, if the sewer line is broken, it needs to be fixed. But I also know I love those trees.

Back to the miracle.

Darlene was at my front door. Along with another woman who I had pleaded with earlier this morning. (When I had run out to talk to her she said, “You live in that house, don’t you.”) Darlene said they were rerouting the sewer line to save the trees. She said it was going to be more expensive, and would require two new manhole covers in the street, but, she added, “We like trees, too.”

I was shocked. I squealed out loud. I said, “thank you, thank you, thank you” over and over again. When they left, I did a little dance and squealed again. “What, Mommy?” Sophie asked.

Without thinking I said, “I’m a Happy Storlanee!” She smiled. And then I laughed.

You know you are deeply entrenched in your children’s lives when their language becomes part of your everyday vernacular. For months now, Sophie has called someone who is filled with joy a “Happy Storlanee.” For example:

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After Sophie was done tickling James, she said, “Look, Mommy, he’s a Happy Storlanee!” (And, as you can see in this picture, Sophie was, too.)

I have no idea where this came from. Or why. But I love it. Andy does, too.

This morning, when dealing with a dog covered in coffee and a possibly broken laptop and cell phone (don’t worry, Andy, they work fine), I was not a Happy Storlanee. But right now, writing this while my children nap, the sun shines through the window and our beautiful trees prepare for spring, I am.

I hope this day finds you a Happy Storlanee at least once, too.

“Happiness is like a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.” —Nathaniel Hawthorne

Comparing My Children

Everyone says, Don’t compare your children. No two children are alike. Every baby develops at their own pace. When dealing with babies who are premature, you must consider their gestational age in terms of developmental milestones. Don’t worry so much.

I know all this. Honestly, I do. But I also don’t know a single parent who hasn’t compared—either their child to another child or their child to that child’s sibling. We may not talk about it, admit to it, but we do.

My boys will be 10 months old Saturday. They’ve been eating solid food for about a month now, and just recently we introduced Puffs. I can pour a small handful of Puff’s on Owen’s tray and, as long as I watch him closely, he typically does OK feeding them to himself. James, on the other hand, has given us a few scares. So we feed him broken-in-half Puffs, one at a time.

I can’t imagine the boys eating birthday cake when they turn 1, in two months. At their 9-month-appointment the nurse practitioner assured as that they would.

I began thinking about Sophie and her eating habits. To be fair, she wasn’t premature. And she hated baby food (whereas the boys love it). Still, just for fun (OK, OK, to compare) I looked back to the day Sophie turned 10 months old. She was eating spaghetti.

I looked some more.

At 9-1/2 months, she was cruising.

At 10-1/2 months, she was reading. (OK, not really, but she was standing and pulling books off her bookshelf and making considerable messes for me to clean up.)

Owen gets around pretty well now, but he moves like an inch worm—he’s yet to crawl on his hands and knees. James is following in Owen’s footsteps, but gives up (or becomes content with some other activity) sooner. They can both sit, unassisted, but only for very short periods of time. And they have yet to get themselves in a sitting position.

No one’s concerned. Continued physical therapy and exercises at home have been recommended (by both their physical therapist and pediatrician) and that’s all. This is normal, everyone says. By the time they’re 2, they’ll be caught up. It’s best not to compare.

But I do.

And then I think back to last night. My parents were visiting and my mom was holding Owen, who was content to be held. She commented on his baby-ness, how nice it is that he still likes to be held—most 10 months olds don’t. I remember a friend saying the same thing about her twins, who were born early. She worried about them being behind but loved that they were so baby-like for so long. And there’s something to be said for that. Because, in the scheme of things, they’re only babies for such a short period of time.

And then I think back to the spaghetti. I can’t imagine two times the spaghetti mess. Or two boys, accomplished crawlers, crawling off in different directions (or, soon enough, cruising, walking—running—in different directions). I can’t imagine finger paint projects times three, drippy ice cream cones times three, new running shoes times three, new bikes times three, new (OK, they won’t be driving new but still) cars times three, my God, college times three.

And then I’m a little more content with their development, wiping pureed peas off chins while Sophie spills a glass of milk all over our cloth-covered (what were we thinking) dining room chairs. I relish, and appreciate, their baby-ness. And will wait until they turn 11 months old, to revisit my blog archives and compare.

“Comparison is a death knell to sibling harmony.” —Elizabeth Fishel

Why Is Spanking Legal?

I don’t make it a practice to write about controversial parenting techniques not because I don’t like controversy (I do) but because one of the most important things I’ve discovered as a parent is this: Most of the things I once judged other parents doing I have now done—and still do.

Before I became a parent I swore my children would never watch TV before the age of 2; would only wear cloth diapers; would only eat organic, homemade baby food and drink only breast milk for at least a year; would never fall victim to gender stereotypes; would never watch DVDs in the car; would play outside every day no matter the weather; would never be allowed to throw a tantrum in public; would never be a picky eater; would be given a bath every night; and would never witness me lose my patience.

Sophie loves Dora and Wubbzy and Ming Ming and Little Bear. I do cloth diaper, but not exclusively (and hardly ever when we leave the house). The boys refuse to eat our homemade sweet potatoes but love the store-bought ones even though the ingredients are the same—sweet potatoes. I’m still pumping breast milk for the boys but we’ve gone through at least three tubs of formula as a supplement. Sophie plays dress-up every day and, without any prompting from us, really wants a pink, sparkly tiara for her birthday. We bought a portable DVD player for our last drive to Baltimore. Many days I just don’t have the energy to bundle everyone up for playtime outside. I now assume if we’re in public, they’ll be a tantrum from at least one of my children. We bribe Sophie with dessert in order to get her to eat her dinner. The boys get bathed twice a week. I lose my patience in front of my children at least 12 times a day. I yell.

But I never hit.

I will never hit.

And I honestly don’t understand why hitting your children (including spanking) is legal.

Sophie hit Owen today—in the face. He was screaming. She was trying to watch “Finding Nemo.” I saw it, used my most-mean-mom-ever voice and told her to go to time-out while I finished changing James. I know she knew she did something very, very wrong because she immediately said she was sorry and ran to time-out and stayed there without complaint (a rarity). When her time-out was over I asked what she had done and made her apologize to Owen. I then made her tell Andy what she had done at dinner, and we spent a long time talking about hitting and why it’s bad, how it hurts other people and makes them sad.

If you spank your child, and your child hits another child (or you), how do you punish them? By spanking them? That makes zero sense to me. By telling them that it’s wrong even though you do it, too? But I only spank my child if they break specific rules, you might say. Well, in Sophie’s world, Owen broke one of her rules. And that is, to talk at a reasonable volume while she is trying to watch a show. (And Owen’s volume was far from reasonable.)

The American Academy of Pediatrics doesn’t recommend spanking. I have yet to meet a pediatrician who advocates it. Spanking in Sweden has been outlawed for more than 30 years. Frankly, I don’t know why it’s legal here.

I do many things that irritate my husband. In fact, I just asked him for an example and he rattled off the following: When emptying the dishwasher I don’t put the inserts to Sophie’s sippy cups with the sippy cups. I talk too loudly on the phone. I’m always losing my keys and credit cards. I hang up his coat in the coat closet (?!). I constantly put his pajama pants in the laundry where he can’t find them. I put the van’s parking brake on when parked on our non-hilly driveway. I don’t cook enough meals with meat in them. To him, these are “rules” that shouldn’t be broken. Just like we have rules for Sophie that shouldn’t be broken. But he would never hit me for breaking these rules. Because that would be battery. And last I checked, battery, whether it’s a slapped hand, punch to the face or a spanked bottom, is illegal.

But those are minor annoyances, you might say. I’m trying to teach my son or daughter right from wrong, you might add. OK, say I cheated on Andy. That’s a huge transgression, no? But legal, yes? If he found out, and in a moment of passionate rage, he hit me, I could have him arrested.

And yet.

A child can ignore a parent’s request to pick up toys and be spanked for it. A child, someone younger, weaker, more vulnerable and still learning right from wrong can be physically hurt for minor transgressions and, in some circles, many parents accept that. Advocate that. Think less of your parenting skills if you don’t do that. This, literally, blows my mind.

There have been times when I’ve lost my patience with Sophie. I have picked her up and, very aggressively, put her in time-out. But that was me reacting to the situation. Revenge and rage were at work in that moment—not a desire to teach. And when a young child does something wrong, I strongly believe that it’s a parent’s job to teach. Hitting is punishing. Time-out and talking are teaching.

But we’re human, you say. Sometimes I just get so angry I can’t help myself, you add. Yes, you can. When Andy changes out of his work clothes and leaves them sprawled out all over our bedroom even though I’ve told him 12,000 times to please hang them up or put them in the laundry, do I hit him? No. Do I want to? Yes. But do I? No.

Finally, I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine physically harming my children in order to teach them right from wrong. It seems so very cruel. I know some of you might think I sound over the top with that sentiment but I’m being 100 percent sincere—it’s seems so very, very cruel.

So how is this OK? Why is this legal? Please, share your opinion. For this, I welcome the controversy—I think it’s that important.

“I think that spanking and discipline are an oxymoron, because the word ‘discipline’ comes from the Latin term which means to lead.” —Martin Sauer

Overthinking, as a Parent

Today, Sophie was swinging her legs, sitting in a Bumbo (which was precariously perched on our ottoman) and watching Finding Nemo when she said, “Remember that day when Daddy came home and I was upstairs and I wanted to see him so I came downstairs but I fell down the stairs?”

“What?” I asked.

“Remember that day when Daddy came home and I was upstairs and I wanted to see him so I came downstairs but I fell down the stairs?” she repeated.

“The time you fell all the way down the stairs and landed face first on the carpet?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“And we were so scared and you really hurt your face?” I asked. (Sometimes I say things before I think, like when she asked why I had to hold her when she used an adult potty and I said, “Because otherwise you’ll fall in.” That statement, by the way, did not go over well.)

“Do you remember?” she asked again.

Of course I remembered. I’ll always, always, always remember. She basically fell down five hardwood steps and landed, face first, onto our hardwood floor, which, at the time, was only covered with a jute rug. The pattern of the rug was on her forehead the rest of the day. I screamed. For days Andy talked about how upset he was that he couldn’t get to her in time to catch her. We kept her awake, and constantly asked her simple questions and rooted around her hair, watching her (several) bumps get bigger. I can still vividly see her falling and still, it makes me sick to my stomach.

“I remember,” I said. “But that was a long, long time ago—many months ago. Why are you thinking about it now?” I asked.

“Because I want to do that day over again,” she said.

“What?” I asked, totally confused.

“I want to do that day over again! Can we?”

“Why would you want to do that day over again? You hurt yourself really badly that day. Why are you even thinking of that day?”

“But you gave me milk and lemonade and water and made me feel better.”

That was true. Well, sort of. We gave her milk (but not lemonade and water). And we (tried) to make her feel better.

“We did give you milk,” I said. “And we loved you and gave you lots of kisses and hugs.”

“So can we do that day over again?” she asked again.

Cue the parent freak-out. I had no idea why my daughter was suddenly remembering what was, to me, a terrifying day. And I had no idea why she wanted to relive it. Had she been having nightmares about it (which explained why I had been up with her all this week)? Was she upset that Andy was at work? Did she only remember the split second of when she probably felt like she was flying and not the face-planting part? Was she on track to become a stunt woman? Was her months-ago injury somehow resurfacing and only now was the brain damage taking place? And worst of all, I thought, were we not showing her enough love on a day-by-day basis?

“Sophie, I don’t know why you would want to relive that day! You know Daddy and I love you very, very much and we will give you hugs and kisses and make you feel better and good any day, every day—you don’t have to fall down the steps to make that happen.”

I gave her a huge hug. And kiss.

“OK?” I asked.

“You also gave me milk and lemonade and water,” she said.

“Yes …” I said.

“And a Popsicle.”

“What?” I asked.

“You gave me a Popsicle, to make me feel better.”

I thought back to that day. We had given her a Popsicle.

“Sophie, do you want to do that day all over again just so you can have a Popsicle?”

Her face, literally, lit up.

“YES!” she said.

“And that’s why you brought up that memory, because you want a Popsicle?”

“YES!” she said.

My thoughts of Daddy abandonment, stunt-woman career paths, lack of love and permanent brain damage faded as I walked to the fridge to get her a Popsicle. She ate it, in her Bumbo, still perched precariously on the ottoman, smiling the entire time.

“Insanity is hereditary—you get it from your kids.” —Sam Levenson

Mom Friends

This week I stopped by a new bakery in Fort Thomas, Cake Towne, to buy a small chocolate cake with peanut butter icing. Six months ago this trip would have seemed impossible to me. I had all three kids with me. I didn’t know the parking situation. It was cold. I had no idea how I was going to carry two carriers and a cake, and hold onto Sophie’s hand on our walk back to the van.

But this week, I just went. I knew I wouldn’t have all the answers going into it but I also knew (having done this for almost nine months now) that somehow, I would get through it. I’ve quickly learned that an “I can’t” attitude will deprive my children of many excursions and leave me miserable. So, I’ve adopted an “I can” attitude even though, if I’m really honest with myself, often I have no idea if what I’m attempting is possible—in which I then just remind myself how thankful I am that my mom is retired because worst case scenario, I can call her and plead a rescue.

Back to the bakery. My “I can” attitude paid off. Before I even handed over my credit card to pay for the cake the woman who (quite beautifully) boxed it offered to carry it to my car for me. But before she could do that a friend of mine, Peggy, unexpectedly walked in. We knew each other in high school but only recently bonded via Facebook, in part thanks to our similar lives—we both live in Fort Thomas, and we both have toddlers and baby twins.

About 42 seconds into our conversation two of my three children began to melt down. Sophie wanted held. Owen started to cry. I picked up Sophie and lifted my foot to rock Owen’s carrier, which was on the floor. However Peggy (who was without children that morning) leaned down and picked Owen’s carrier up—swinging it, calming him, helping me. She carried on our conversation like it was the most normal act of her day and, given her very similar situation to mine, it probably was. She carried a carrier for me to my van. She even put it in.

I am thankful for all my friends but let me just say this: I love my mom friends. And I especially love my friends who have multiples. There’s never any asking. These friends will pick up one of my children instantly, instinctively and incredibly the moment before they melt down as a means of helping out–even when their hands are full with a child (or children!) of their own.

My friends who have children also have the lowest expectations when it comes to cleanliness—of myself, my children and my house. My friend Jenna came over the other day and I pointed out a basket of clean clothes in the middle of our living room floor. The clothes were just sitting in there, getting more and more wrinkled by the minute. First, she offered to fold them (which I thanked her for but told her no) and then she commended me for having clean clothes to begin with. Normally, I would have inwardly obsessed about that basket our entire visit. But her attitude towards it made me forget about it and, for once in my life, truly not care about it.

My friend Angel stopped by this morning. The house was a disaster. Andy was still in his pjs. I can’t tell you how I looked, because I hadn’t even had the chance to look in a mirror yet that day. But I didn’t care at all. She has a child (and another on the way!). She was painting that day. I was dealing with a teething baby. She said how much she loved our living room paint job, which is only halfway done. She didn’t care that we still had paint cans, brushes and a ladder out, along with a bazillion toys and remnants of breakfast—plates with muffin wrappers, bottles, and coffee and sippy cups—all over our living room, dining room and entry.

Back to the cake. It was a birthday cake, for my friend Michelle, who has a daughter in kindergarten and twins a little younger than Sophie. We were meeting Tari who also has twin girls, a month younger than Sophie. We had a play date scheduled that morning. I was an hour and a half late. If you knew me before kids, you’d know I never used to be late. I hated being late. But now bottle feeding and diapers and spit-ups and lost shoes and diaper bag refills and pumping and bottle making and Mama-but-I-have-to-bring-my-favorite-toy-of-the-hour-you-HAVE-to-find-it and taking Tucker out and loading the van (after emptying the van of all sorts of toys and trash) get in the way.

But here’s the most wonderful thing: They didn’t care. It was assumed. I love them for that. I also love that I can go over there in a ridiculous headband because all the hair I lost postpartum is finally growing back—which means I have 1″- to 2″-inch-long chunks of hair all over my head, which I have no idea what to do with. I also love that I can disappear to find Sophie who has disappeared to find a potty or a toy to play with or whatever and I know someone (probably, both of them) will instinctively watch my boys. I love that Michelle has purposefully kept a bouncer at her house for when we visit (which is not enough!) and that Tari will pick up Sophie even if she’s holding her daughter Whitney while her daughter Lauren is hugging her leg (I have a great picture of this). And I love that I can tell both of them many things, anything, and they don’t think I’m a bad mom. Their children cry, too. They lose their patience, too. They struggle with loving these little people so much they can hardly stand it—yet at the same time, admit that every once in awhile they miss their old lives—as I do, too

Before I had children I had no clue. I never thought to make a casserole when visiting a friend’s newborn. I was too shy and scared to pick up a friend’s crying baby without asking. Never ever would it have crossed my mind to offer to fold someone else’s clean clothes.

But now I know. And I’m so very thankful for my friends—both with children and without—who know. Because it’s so freeing to be able to visit a friend, sans makeup. And it’s so relaxing to not stress about the state of my house when an unexpected visitor stops by. And it’s so calming to know that if one of my children cries, there will be another set of hands to help. And it’s so fulfilling to know that I can do the same, for them. And now that the boys are older, I’m trying. Slowly, but surely, trying. Because I owe so much. (For example, thanks to my mom friends Julie, Rebecca and Christine, we’ve hardly spent anything on new clothes.) And you know what? Not one of my mom friends has asked for anything in return. Instead, they’ve said to pay it forward. Because all the kindness that they’ve bestowed on me has, at one point, been bestowed upon them.

So I think back to when my friend Julie (who has three children, two of which are twins) would come by and take Sophie out for a few hours—because she knew that’s exactly what I (and Sophie) needed. And I think back to when my friend Michelle came over with her oldest and insisted I nap the entire time she was here—while she watched Sophie and my boys.  And I think back to the free crib we received and the NICU visitors we had and the meals that were made and the extra—the so many extra—hands we have benefited, and are benefiting, from.

I wish I could run into all my mom friends in a bakery and pick up their second (or third or fourth) born who is crying, without even being asked. But in the meantime, thank you. Thank you. And know that I now know. And even if I’m not returning the favor, I’m trying to remember to forward it. Whenever I can.

“It takes a village to raise a child.” —African proverb

Sophie Wants a Mountain

Friday I loaded the kids in the minivan and drove 90 minutes south to visit a good friend and her son, who live in Louisville. (Thanks again for the great afternoon, Maria, and the delicious lunch!)

On the way home I was listening to my iPod while all three children slept. Pete Droge‘s “Going Whichever Way the Wind Blows” started playing and I was immediately struck with memory. Sophie and I used to dance to this song, when she was baby. I often found myself choosing it when she was frustrated, for a reason unknown to me, therefore making me frustrated. I think Pete’s voice and our dancing calmed her, and Pete’s words calmed me.

“Going whichever way the wind blows,
you were caught in your world,
I was lost in mine.

Going whichever way the wind blows,
staring through the windshield,
seeing the other side.
let it go, it will get easier,
let it go, just enjoy the ride.”

The song reminded me of so many things: that it was OK if things got a little off schedule. That sometimes we just had to go wherever life took us that day. That we were two separate people, speaking two different languages and that sometimes it took several tries to figure each other out. That I shouldn’t worry so much, that it will get easier, that I need to enjoy the moment for what it is, not what it wasn’t.

Back to our drive home from Louisville: A few songs later, another Pete Droge song came on. This one, “Lily Wants a Mountain.” The song is about a little girl, Lily, who, while looking at Mount Rainier, asks for a mountain. I used to change the words to this song, singing “Young Sophie, young Sophie, wants a mountain” instead of “Young Lily.” And I remember thinking how absurd it would be that Sophie would someday be old enough to ask for such a thing—to ask for anything—in a way other than crying.

But now, Sophie is the same age as Lily is in the song. And while she hasn’t asked for a mountain (yet) her daily requests include milk, cereal bars, “Maggie and the Ferocious Beast” on the computer, Tucker to move, Tucker to come, Tucker to stop running away while she gives him a doctor’s appointment, milk, a clementine, new panties, her water shoes, a gold crown, laughter from Owen, snuggles from me, Dad to come home, milk, a popsicle, errands (which, to her, include the park, the zoo and the children’s museum), a light on, a door opened, a glue stick cap unscrewed, yet more milk.

And today, we went to a preschool open house with a plan to enroll her (somewhere) this fall. When Ms. Susie asked her her name, she said “Sophie Olivia Uhl.” She said how old she was. She introduced her brothers. She asked to play. She counted beads and sorted colors and painted a picture. She looked at the fish and talked to the doves. She threw a fit when it was time to go.

She is very much the Lily in that song. And, looking back, I really did just go whichever way the wind blew. (I have twin boys now!) I just can’t believe it blew so fast.

“Music cleanses the understanding; inspires it, and lifts it into a realm which it would not reach if it were left to itself.” —Henry Ward Beecher