from Nini and Pop Pop!
“And none will hear the postman’s knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?” —W.H. Auden
Sophie
My Little Helper
Sophie always has been a great help to me with the boys. She eagerly fetches burp cloths and blankets, diaper rash cream and wipes. And lately, the tasks I’ve given her are more complex. “Please go upstairs, open the bottom drawer of the boys’ dresser, pick out a pair of pajamas and bring it down.” And she did! (I admit, I was surprised.)
Lately, she helps me feed the boys. Not for very long. She gets distracted. They get distracted and she can’t keep the bottle in their mouths. But she tries. And I appreciate it. I hope she knows that. And I hope she’s this willing to help in the future, say, when she’s 16.
“The only gift is a portion of thyself.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
Watching the Grinch
“What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.” —Dr. Seuss
Owen & Sophie
“I don’t believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at.” —Maya Angelou
Sophie’s Plum Galoshes
Guess what!
It’s raining and I’m outside!
Do you want to know why?
MOM BOUGHT ME GALOSHES!
Jumping in puddles is so much fun.
(pictures taken September 27)
“Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.” —Roger Miller
A Handmade Table Runner
While ripping off Sophie’s latest easel painting in order to pull down some fresh paper, my mom suggested using it as a table runner. It’s perfect. The table is a cheap Ikea pine number with deep scratches on it (Tucker). The painting covers much of the surface nicely and serves as a fun conversation piece.
“Sophie, what’s that?” (pointing to a scribble).
“A flower.”
“And what’s that?” (pointing to a nearly identical scribble).
“A rainbow.”
“And that?” (pointing to yet another scribble).
“A kookalock.”
“The dinner table is the center for the teaching and practicing not just of table manners but of conversation, consideration, tolerance, family feeling and just about all the other accomplishments of polite society except the minuet.” —Judith Martin
Refrigerator Art
In the beginning, when Sophie began to draw, we encouraged her by excitedly reacting to each piece of construction paper covered in scribbles and often asked if she would like us to hang her pieces of art on our refrigerator. She always said yes. She always seemed happy.
I don’t know if this has instilled a deep sense of confidence in her, prompting her to further explore her artistic abilities, or if it’s just given her a big head. Because now she puts everything on the refrigerator. After, of course, showing it to us first, eagerly waiting for praise.
I don’t mind when it’s something she’s worked hard on. But I admit, I do sigh deeply when I open the fridge and 12 pieces of loosely magnetized paper fall off, each with a single scribble on it.
Still, though, I have my favorites. Her finger paintings. Her first circle. One covered in marker, crayon, foam stickers, sequins and poof balls. And then there’s her letter, which she wrote to the cast of Yo Gabba Gabba!, dictated to Andy (it’s the bright orange piece of paper on the right):
Dear Plex, Brobee, Muno, Foofa, Toodee, and DJ Lance Rock:
I like to draw kookalocks. Can I have your phone number? I want to talk to Plex first.
Can you make some diapers with your pictures on them? Here is a picture I drew just for you: I like to chalk outside.
Your friend,
Sophie
Some days I think how nice our refrigerator would look clean, empty. But then, already, a sense of sadness fills me. A deep and scary they-grow-up-so-fast feeling. A I-want-to-hold-onto-this-time-as-long-as-possible feeling. So as much as the single-scribble pictures drive me crazy, I’ve learned to love many of the others. And really, truly, can’t imagine a time in my life when I’ll have an empty fridge.
“It has been said that art is a tryst, for in the joy of it maker and beholder meet.” —Kojiro Tomita
Sidewalk Chalk
Sophie has turned the word “chalk” into a verb, as in “I want to chalk outside, mommy.” She loves it. She especially loves to trace things—her hands, her feet. While Andy’s traced her shadow, one afternoon I traced her and then tried to replicate her outfit. She wasn’t all that impressed.
“There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.” —Shel Silverstein
On Guilt
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
On Painting Ankles
Sophie worked a long time on this painting. She kept telling me she couldn’t get the ankles just right …
“Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.” —Oscar Wilde