I Do Know How She Does It

Country Mice Now

2010-05-23T15:26:00.000-04:00

More Wonder Twin Powers!

2010-05-23T15:12:00.003-04:00

Super Jake...

.... and Super Zach

Turn 3!

Tunnel Light

2010-04-25T20:27:00.007-04:00

They are finally cutting me open.

By "they," I am lumping together the cadre of neurologists, pain management specialists, orthopedists and various and sundry "spine guys" I've seen in the past three months. (Although, to be specific about it, the only one doing any actual cutting will be the surgeon.)

It's amazing how fast "the system" can function once you lose the ability to move something - like your toes. After months of white-coated "we'll sees" and a veritable pharmacy of pills to pop, last week my case suddenly morphed into something urgent, complete with late night MRIs, next-day second opinions and now, Friday, surgery.

I can't wait.

I suppose it's a bit odd to be waiting with baited breath for full anesthesia and a hot date with a scalpel. But, then again, anyone who's been through this (and its truly shocking how many have) can relate to my impatience. I simply can't wait to get my life back.

Of course, it's not like I've done a great job of admitting how compromised my life is now. In classic only-I-would-set-it-up-this-way-style, I have engineered an truly awe-inspiring set of logistical challenges for the next few weeks.

Did I mention we're moving upstate for the summer? And that our original moving date was the day I'm having back surgery? Because someone is moving into our Brooklyn apartment May 1st? Oh, and that my grand plan this summer is to commute from upstate New York - no small stretch mind you? And that hubby is heading overseas for two months, starting at the end of May?And that I, too, am slated to travel to multiple foreign countries for work in June and July? And that, currently, I can barely sit, walk or bend - let alone lift anything heavier than a Vicodin?

Like I said, I can't wait for surgery.

It turns out that, to keep on chugging through my i-can-do-it-all so sometimes i do-too-much, every-moment-is-a-moment-i-should-be-doing-something-useful kind of lifestyle, I need a functioning spinal column. And toes.

But we're working it all out. Even faced with an overwhelming to-do list of hauling, shlepping, and flat packs, even owning up to the reality that I can't do anything remotely helpful or useful for weeks, we're finding the way to get it all done. We are heavily relying on family and friends. We re-signed with the au pair agency, and a lovely young woman moved in last week. Telecommuting is a wonderful thing.

In a few short weeks, half-finished pill bottles and a small scar will be all that remains of this particular saga. That, and the fact that both boys want to be doctors.

Jake, this morning, when asked "what do you want to be when you're big?" replied: "A doctor. I want to be a doctor. Than I can make mommy all better."

Hear hear.

Waiting and Wait-listed

2010-03-03T20:59:00.003-05:00

Chalk this one into the "update" column:

Despite my attempt on writer-ly kiss-assing (see: Wouldn't you want to teach these two?,) the boys were wait-listed at the one school to which we applied.

Of course that was the one school we tried. My bad. Our bad. Then again, they are NOT EVEN THREE YEARS OLD. And they are FINE where they are. So be it.

And Update #2, the spine saga: Round two of epidural injections tomorrow. And I'm cautiously optimistic that they might be working.

Actually - to clarify - I was feeling incredibly optimistic 24 hours after round one. I was walking around, bending my knees, hugging my boys, and claiming to be living proof of medical miracles. Then I regressed. Horribly (It was, no doubt, karma. And/or my own damn fault for not taking it easy enough). All that said, today was actually a good day. I sat - actually sat - through a meeting at work. A long meeting. And I took the subway. And I made it through the whole day on only half of a Vicodin. And, for the first time in days, I wasn't blinking back tears come 8 p.m. So, cautiously optimistic. Definitely in "wait and see" mode.

Three cheers for more giant needles!

Sticker Shock

2010-02-25T08:00:00.001-05:00

We're definitely in the throes of "terrible."

Every day holds a constant barrage of "No!", "ppphhhhttttt" (complete with stuck-out tongues and sprays of saliva) and my personal favorite "why? why? why?" Shirt collars serve a whole new function: hand holds in lieu of actual neck scruffs. Even more telling, the boys are starting to lie. White lies, but lies none the less. Witness the exchange Zach and I had the other morning:

Z: "Mama, I want to watch a movie"
Me: "We don't watch movies on school days"

Z: "I don't want to go to school today"

Me: "You have to"

Z: "My head hurts. I'm sick. I can't go to school." Pause for a beat. "Now can I watch a movie?"

Some days it seems hubby and I spend half of our waking hours screaming. And some days - especially Monday mornings - the apartment feels like we're on the despot side of a police state. With some very, very annoying would-be rebels in our midst. It's brutal.

So we've decided to try a new tactic: incentives. And, so far, it appears to be working.

We're employing the popular tactic of "sticker boards." There are several categories of "good behaviors" (stay quietly in bed until 6:30, sit properly through dinner, etc.) Successful completion means the worthy child can choose from "special" stickers (a.ka., Disney, Pixar, Dora, Thomas) to put on his "board" (a.k.a., a large sheet of paper hanging on the wall).

Here's what we didn't anticipate (and should have) : sticker incentives are SO exciting, the boys are now scheming to earn more. Poor Zach sat on the portable toddler potty for a good fifteen minutes this morning, trying to squeeze out at least one tiny drop of pee (pee pee in the potty = 1 sticker. Poopy in the potty =2). And why? So he could get his hands on a sparkling Lightening McQueen. Poor kid hadn't drunk enough milk though.

A few moments later, I caught Jake dumping a box of Lincoln Logs on the living room rug, just so he could clean them up (clean up = 1 sticker). Needless to say, he didn't get any rewards for that maneuver.

In fact, the whole thing is working so well that the temptation is to start using the stickers for EVERYTHING. Eat your vegetables. Don't complain about getting a shampoo. Hold mommy's hand crossing the street. But I fear overuse. And I fear every moment becoming a negotiation.

Of course, that said, most moments feel like negotiations now.

"If you want to cookie then finish your peas."

"No TV until after bath."

"Pick up your toys if you want mommy to read a story."

... and so on.

Maybe, the bigger concern is, how long until it gets old, until the luster of tacky-backed animated characters has dimmed? Can I trust the Pixar film slate to keep up with my needs, providing me with enough fresh, shiny new characters to maintain the requisite level of excitement? After all, one needs heavy artillery for behavior modification. And potty training. And I don't want to have to escalate to *real* rewards, like money. Or chocolate. Stickers seem a reasonable currency.

I suppose, like everything about parenting (especially of toddlers, especially of boys, especially of toddler twin boys) it's about moderation. Deploy tactics wisely, sparingly. Remember that relative infrequency is what makes a treat a treat.

And trust that Disney will always know how to make a dime.

Not-so Criminal Minds

2010-02-23T08:20:00.000-05:00

I'm not "doing" anything these days. No multi-tasking tight-rope-walking super-woman working mom-dom.

I'm just getting through.

Of course, I do have an excuse. If "'excuse" is, in fact the right sentiment. Unclear.

(Please note: I'm struggling - and failing - to avoid sounding like I'm blatantly stumping for sympathy here. So forgive.) At any rate, I've ruptured a disc in my spine. Currently I can't sit for more than a few minutes at a time. I can't bend or lift. And I'm in constant, significant pain - particularly in my leg. (Cue the requisite "Oohhhh you poor thing"s and "oh that's terrible"s).

It hit in the playground with the boys a few Saturdays ago. One moment I was pushing a tricycle while trying to explain "pedal." The next I was gray-faced, nauseous with pain, and en route to the ER.

Three days (and a ridiculous amount of morphine) later I was released from the hospital. And since then I've been drowning in a steady stream of pharmaceuticals, doctors and more than three weeks of lying in bed. Current approach is all percocet, all the time. Coming this week: edipural steroid injections (with a whole lot of fingers crossing that it works).

So, lots of reading books with mommy in bed. Lots of "don't climb on mommy" and "i'm so sorry sweetheart, but mommy can't do 'up' right now" and "Papa's coming in a minute." Poor papa. And poor boys.

Favorite moment #1:
"Zach, how was school today?"
He put hand on his lower back. "It was OK, but my back is hurting."

Favorite moment #2:
"Mommy, mommy..."
"What is it Jake?"
He has run up holding a cardboard toy drill, taken from a well-loved "fix-it" tool book.
"Hold still. I'm fixing your back." He holds the drill bit against my skin, and procedes to turn the handle. A beat. "All better?"

And moment #3, the classic:
Unseen little fingers yank up my shirt from behind, quickly followed by a succession of damp kisses on my lower back.
After a moment - say, five kisses each - two little heads poke around to the front.
"Mommy, now is your back all better?"

In fact "mommy, your back better? your back still hurting?" is a common refrain. Every day, multiple times a day. And there's a new game in the repetroire: Doctor (Not the naked kind. Not yet). They've created a whole new character named Doctor Super Snap. A doctor and super hero in one single super-duper package. Luckily for me Doctor Super Snap seems to have an endless supply of both bandaids and kisses.

It's simultaneously heart warming and wrenching to watch them navigate through having a broken mommy. Clearly the most traumatic series of events in their lives to date (not counting the NICU - and I'm sorry but I can't believe they were actually aware of that one).

But, honestly, there is a silver lining in all of this: I know without a doubt that they aren't psychopaths.

OK, fine. Maybe I'm reaching And maybe I've been clocking a few too many FBI CSI CIA CBI NCIS medical dramas while on bed rest. But what I mean is these boys of ours are undeniably empathetic.

And I know we are all going to be OK. I'll get better. The boys won't be scarred for life because I couldn't pick them up for a few months (or ever again). They won't need years of therapy because mommy had a bad back. They will indubitably need years of therapy for all the other things I'm doing. But not from this. Soon I will be "doing" again. We will all be OK.

Except maybe hubby. He hasn't slept in a month.

Escape Artists 2, Or Why We've Started Locking Their Door from the Outside

2010-02-21T10:06:00.007-05:00

Ring. Ring.

I groggily reach for the night stand, knocking over books, tissue box, water bottle, as I scavenge for the phone. Squint to try and see the clock sans glasses: 5:02 a.m.

"Hello?" It comes out more like a grunt than a word.
"Um.... Rebecca? It's Tim, the doorman, from downstairs? Well... I thought you should know your boys are out..."
"What?!?!"

Yep. That's right. 5 a.m. They were out for a morning stroll. Or rather, running up and down the halls of our apartment building, screaming at the top of their lungs. I think they were pretending to be super heroes. But it might have been airplanes. The difference between Captain Pickles and a Jet Plane is murky at best, let alone at 5 a.m.

And how did they get there? Remarkable, really. A true testament to perseverance, ingenuity, and collusion. They moved a chair from the dining room table to get over the gate. Then they moved a stool from the kitchen to the front door. Then they clamored up and unlocked TWO deadbolts AND the safety latch.

That afternoon hubby bought another lock for their door. It's been two days, and, so far, so good. I'm not delusional though. Not in the slightest. I give it a week, tops.

And to all of our neighbors on the 16th floor: I am truly, truly, truly sorry.

Escape Artists

2009-12-11T10:48:00.003-05:00

So it's happened. The inevitable. They made it out.

Apparently, while I was holed up in an office in London and relishing three nights of uninterrupted r.e.m., the boys figured out how to climb out of their cribs. At 6 a.m. hubby woke with a start to see two grinning little faces right next to his own.

This morning they gave me the demo: Jake climbed up on the railing and jumped down into Z's crib. (joys of apartment living: the cribs are jammed next to each other, nose-to-tail style.) Then, no doubt egged-on by mutual words of encouragement, they both climbed up the rail of Z's crib, levered over the top and onto the window sill, and jumped to the floor.

For the record, we live on the 16th floor. They were on the window sill. Feeling really good about enormously thick, double-paned glass right about now.

Sigh.

So. It's over. No more crib jail. No more: well, i'll just let them scream a smidge longer so I can finish my shower. No more: well, sure he doesn't want to go to sleep but lets just let him cry it out, he'll stop soon.

I know, I know - in the long run, its a good thing. After all, think of how unimpressed any woman would be if showing her his crib was, in fact, a truly literal suggestion. And I know even in the nearer term, that additional bit of autonomy could, theoretically, grant us a teensy bit more sleep on a Sunday morning. Maybe, just maybe, they'll crawl out of their beds, head straight for the legos, and entertain themselves for, say, 20 mins. One can only dream.

Still. It's a milestone. And now we have to actually *assemble* the big-boys beds, still nesting in their flat-packs.

Anybody need a crib, or two?

These are not G and Ts

2009-12-03T15:41:00.007-05:00

... although apparently we've spawned the next generation of I-Bankers. Note to self: keep as roast fodder for when they become angst-ridden, bleeding-heart, non-profit-working liberals trying to change the world one grant at a time. (a Mom can only hope).

Wouldn't you want to teach these two?

2009-11-20T13:48:00.004-05:00

"Without relying on physical attributes, what three descriptive words would you use to best describe how your child navigates his/her world? Please support each descriptive word with a short paragraph. "

- School Application Form

So, here's what I wrote. And why the heck not go for multiple distribution channels?

(Edits, comments welcome. )

ZACH:

The Listener
From a remarkably early age, Zach was hearing the world around him. From music, to words, to the cadences of speech and city, Zachary is constantly absorbing and replaying sounds he hears. And as we listen to him sing himself and his brother to sleep each night through the vent in the wall, we are witnessing his evolution from clever parrot to lyricist and composer. He “composed” his first song at 18 months – an ode to Broccoli, sung to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle. Now his nighttime ritual has become a collage of the songs and sounds of the day, his words the emerging pattern of his memories. “Old McDonald had an engine, e-i-e-i-o, and the engine had a magic feather, they can’t find it, where is thumbkin, e-i-e-i-o, broccoli-broccoli-broccoli song”

The Flirt
There is a certain girl that is magic for Zachary. She’s between the ages of 5 and 8. She’s small enough to be at the same playground, young enough to find entertainment in a slide, but big enough to know what she wants, when she wants it. Without fail, Zachary will find her – impossible to miss in her red sparkly flats – and within 5 minutes he will be holding her hand. Our theory is language: he can communicate with older children clearly. Not only does he understand directions, he can hold up his own end of any exchange. But he’s also young enough to be starry-eyed at the attention of every Disney Princess he meets.

Steady
“You could drop him on the moon, and he’d be OK, wouldn’t he.” So said another mother, as she watched Zach during his first day-care drop-off. He turned with a wave (“bye bye mama!”), made a bee-line for the Thomas trains, and never looked back. Zach is comfortable in his skin. He’ll sleep in any strange house in any dark room, no matter what creepy shadows dance on the walls. He’ll dive right in to any play date, jump onto any new jungle-gym, and accept every baby sitter we throw his way.

JAKE:

Problem-solver
Although Jacob (Jake) is only two and a half, he has already shown himself to be a prodigious problem-solver. Whether it’s figuring out how to reach an apple on the counter (move a stool to a chair to a high chair and voila, a make-shift staircase!), turn on a CD (play drum music!), or find the missing pieces of a puzzle (under rug!) Jake displays both ingenuity and tenacity. We are convinced he will have dismantled – if not actually fixed – a DVD player by the time he is three.

Empathic
When Jake is thirsty, he always asks for two glasses of milk –one for himself, and one for his brother, Zachary. When I strained a muscle, he asked, every day for weeks, “mama’s back feel better?” and gave me a kiss on the small of my back. He is often the first to give a hug and a kiss, and is able to share with the grace of a much older child. Of course he is two –he is just as liable to yank the toy from the hands of his twin brother versus grab an alternative or attempt a trade. But Jake is clearly attuned to the feelings and needs of those around him.

Busy
Jake is not one to let his hands sit idle. He is a busy guy. He’s not particularly interested in the television, but give him a set of legos and he can built the world’s tallest towers for an hour straight. He is constantly finding ways to be physically engaged in the world around him- turning the pages, connecting the dots, sorting my change and hearing each penny land with a satisfying ‘clink’ in his piggy bank. At least one part of his body is almost always in motion – his feet, hands, fingers – even in his sleep he’s moving his legs as though he’s still making his way through the world.

Blues Brothers

2009-10-09T15:21:00.001-04:00

Without a Net

2009-10-06T10:19:00.004-04:00

Things I didn't do this morning:

* Eat breakfast

* Read a newspaper, magazine, or back of any cereal boxes

* Wipe up the congealed combination of syrup, milk and banana currently coating our dining table

* Fold the increasingly-wrinkled laundry that's been in a basket for I don't even know how many days

* Put on eye-shadow (though I did manage dabs of lipstick and mascara)

What I did do this morning:

* Got both boys up, changes, fed, relatively clean, dressed, teeth brushed, with lunch boxes in hand, ready for hubby to walk them to school

* Read four books with the boys, including"Mr Rush" (of which the irony was lost on my children)

* Made it, showered, lipsticked, and high-heeled onto a subway by 9 a.m., with a banana in my bag

Actually, the above is a bit of a misrepresentation. The boys are the ones who woke ME up, shouting "RE-BEC-CA, OP-EN THE DOOR!" whilst jumping up and down in their cribs. And hubby won the jackpot, changing the poopy guy while I just had to wrestle with his brother to change the remnants of last night's milk.

So, why was this morning noteworthy? Because, for the first time, we are child-care free. No more nanny. No more au pair. No one living in our apartment that doesn't have the same last name.

See, the boys started day-care, and they are loving it. So much, they actually refuse to leave with alarming regularity. And it just didn't make sense to have an au pair living with us, if she only has to work an hour or so a day. And now I get to have a home office. And we save money. And other people do it, every day. They get up, get their kids up, get their kids to school, get themselves to work, leave work, pick up their kids, and get ready to do the same thing the very next day.

I'm sure it will get harder. We'll forget things, like packing lunch the night before. The exceptions will hit - hubby and I will both have early meetings on a day when one boy wakes up with a fever of 103.

But there's no denying hubby and I got off to a great start. Perhaps the most important evidence to support that claim: we made it through without a single argument.

To top everything off, I found a seat on the subway - a gift of 30 extra mins. to be used however I see fit. To be used, for example, to facilitate writing a blog entry, even on my first day without a net.

Tick-Tock You Don't Stop

2009-09-29T13:38:00.008-04:00

So, four months. OK. Fine. Lots of things to blame for radio silence. But, really, just myself. So, fine. Anyway.

Been hearing a sound lately - a shocking sound. It's the incessant ticking of my internal, must-have-more-babies, time-is-running-out-and-you're-still-fertile clock. Why is that shocking, exactly? After all, I'm 35. Smack dab in the middle of nature making a run on my ovaries. Why shouldn't I be feeling that urge to keep procreating?

Why? Because I'm done. We're done. DONE.

See, we always wanted two kids. We live in New York city, land of ridiculously expensive apartments and even more ridiculous school tuition. And I never want to drive a mini van. And I believe in putting back what you take out - I'm not trying to repopulate any tribes. And my life is holding steady to a perfect, precarious balance. And I got lucky with a two-for-one-deal - I don't HAVE to be pregnant again. (And let's not forget how particularly awful my pregnancy was).

So I am DONE.

It doesn't even need to be said that I love my children. There is nothing in my life that even compares to being a mother - or that ever will. I don't even subscribe to that 'I don't want anything to distract me from the kids I have today' because not a single part of me doubts that I - that we - have more than enough to go around. It's just, I am DONE. And I'm GOOD. And I know, I said that already.

Maybe I'm repeating myself because, apparantly, someon needs to aprise my hormones of that fact. Or my ovaries. Or milk ducts. Or whichever weapon Nature deploys when I'm in the presence of one of those cute, squishy, sweet-smelling, wanna-squeeze-'em-even-if-they're-hollering, bundles of someone else's joy.

What the ...?!?!? There is absolutely no sane, reasonable explanation for me to be thinking "I can do this, it wasn't so hard, we could totally do this again" or, even more tellingly, "awwww..."

Didn't I do that already? Didn't I already meet my Darwinian obligations? Isn't there someone else who should be hit with this onslaught? Some youngish, financially stable couple that just can't decide if they're ready? It's really quite upsetting, to be honest. I really thought it would go away. And the realization it hasn't is worse than acne in your thirties.

Because I'm done. Truly, really, truly, done.

I think.

2009-05-13T15:06:00.001-04:00

Mother's Day, 2009
Brooklyn Botanic Gardens

With apologies to Henri

2009-04-15T17:00:00.001-04:00

Wonder twin powers...

2009-04-15T11:13:00.001-04:00

... activate!

Kidneys

2009-04-13T22:52:00.005-04:00

Here's what the boys ate for dinner last Sunday:

* Grilled kidney

* Dandelion green salad

* Veal loin

* Zucchini

To be fair, they definitely ingested more meat than green things. They are clearly carnivores. Still, I think it is pretty safe to say that they are - at the ripe old age of almost-two - less picky eaters than I am. (Just to be clear - hubby was the cook.)

I suppose the idea of small children eating what many might consider unorthodox (if not unappetizing) meals isn't too crazy an idea - after all, how many of us want to scarf down tiny jars of pureed chicken and carrots? (Not to mention breast milk.) But that is all before they have the power of choice. These days the twins have decided mastery of the word 'no.' And - perhaps even more pertinent - they ask for things they want: "cracker? cookie? cake? snack!"

And yet, they eat almost everything we set down in front of them. With the exception of a higher daily dosage of raisins and rice cakes, they pretty much each what we do. Even broccoli.

So, here's the real question: how long is it going to last? How long until we slink into that deep oil vat of chicken fingers and french fries? How long until we're fighting the battle against monochromatic meals?

My fear is that it is inevitable. All toddlers hate almost all food. And all the anecdotal evidence I've amassed over the years certainly supports that view: meals rejected for their condiments (or lack thereof), menus discarded for 'noodles with butter,' vegetables pushed around plates to the point of wilt.

But maybe there's an alternative. Maybe the boys have inherited some crazy, no-such-thing-as-picky-eating gene from their father. Maybe they are preternaturally conditioned to think of food as the world's most refined extreme sport - anything has the chance to be good, so why wouldn't you try it?

Me? I have to be convinced. Like with those kidneys on Sunday. I gingerly took a bite - having sliced off a tiny sliver from the end, and coupled it on my fork with enough vinegar-soaked leaves to drown out any potentially noxious taste. And phew - it was fine. More than fine. I ate (almost) all of it. I might even try it again. Maybe. To be fair, I have a rough personal history with the kidney as an organ - so my squeamishness is at least understandable. (Although one could think I have even more incentive to chomp my way through them.)

Hubby's way is better - no question. It leaves one open to new experiences, and facilitates finding meals in foreign countries (I did see him demur when offered fried bugs in Thailand, although he's likely to deny it). Hopefully, they'll take after him.

Could we really be that lucky, and bypass the worst of the 'it's just a phase' phases? Or is it all about to come crashing down as the clock strikes midnight on their second birthday?

Regardless, for all the anecdotes I've witnessed as other parents try to wheedle their way through the food pyramid - I haven't witnessed malnourishment. Even if the ketchup bottle is about to take an extended bow, they'll live. We all will.

Except, of course, hubby. He'd have a conniption.

Increments

2009-04-07T22:42:00.007-04:00

Another shameless plug:

A retrospective of my mother-in-law's work is getting published in May. The book is extraordinarily beautiful - it's being released by an independent publisher that specializes in hand-made books.

Her book is called Increments: Drawings 1970-1995.

You can learn more about the book here or on her own web site.

The publisher is The Crumpled Press - also worth checking out.

The Line

2009-04-06T21:23:00.008-04:00

Jake is getting interested.

"Pee pee? Potty? Pee-pee in potty? In there?" It's a pretty exciting development. After all, what mother isn't entranced at the idea of a not-quite-two-year-old falling in love with the promise of a toilet?

But, see, well... Jake is interested in everything. He wants to watch others on the potty ("he's in here for the show!" the nanny called through the closed bathroom door the other day.) And, more than anything, he wants to help. He comes in to watch, standing sentry while I keep up my end of the conversation. "Yes Jakey, Mommy is going pee-pee in the potty!" He carefully pulls off a few sheets of paper from the roll - each movement infused with that intense, careful deliberation that is the hallmark of toddler explorations. And he hands me paper saying "Paper? Boom-boom?, which is toddler for "can I help you wipe your ass, mommy?"

Jake's new found toilet fixation has replaced his footwear fetish. I don't mean to say shoes have completely evaporated from the list of fun options (although Zach seems a little more excited to clomp around in Mommy's heels these days.) But gone are the days when Jake scrambles into my lap and tugs at my stockings and the zipper of my boots. (Yep. Fetish. I did not use the phrase lightly.)

Now he's all about the toilet. And, well, helping.

Which, honestly, feels a little, well... weird.

How do I teach my children to navigate cultural norms, but avoid forcing them into rigid, cultural constraints handed down from those Puritans of yore? When does encouragement and openness cross the line to inappropriate? And is that line even relevant for a not-quite-two-year-old with a burgeoning fascination for the porcelain God?

It's not like we don't continue to evolve on things like this as a culture. After all, we can show ankles these days without fear of recrimination (or the stocks). And blood and vomit permeate our entertainment. (Although human excrement doesn't seem to get as many Hollywood minutes.)

But still... we're not fully evolved yet. And I didn't let him help.

"No Jakey. Mommy does that herself. Thank you for trying to help, but people should touch their own private parts." Thank goodness he is only not-quite-two, and didn't immediately jump to the obvious hypocrisy After all, who, exactly changes his diapers? It's not like that's a solo act.

Of course, that's the good thing about twins. When they aren't developmentally in sync, you get a built-in, near-term do-over.

Maybe by the time Zach wants to see the show and lend a helping hand, I'll have figured out how - and where - to draw that line.

Maybe.

Mojo

2009-03-27T22:09:00.003-04:00

My head has been, well, fuzzy lately. Perhaps a better word is full. And by that, I'm not simply referring to the snot and phlegm that seems to have taken out a multi-year lease in my sinuses. (Been a bit of a brutal winter.)

It's just that I haven't taken a lot of moments for self-reflection. Or reflection on much of anything at all, to be honest.

As evidenced by the lull in posting dates.

So I'm here, rekindling my blogging mojo. And trying not to sink in the idea that this is, at heart, a take-time-to-smell-the-roses metaphor for all the other things whizzing by.

The boys are singing, these days. One favorite, sung to the tune of 'Twinkle Twinkle:' Broccoli, broccoli, broccoli, broccoli, broccoli, broccoli, broccoli song. (Try it. Out Loud. It works.)

More to the point - they are talking. Zach in sentences - of which I can usually interpret 1 in 4. (Luckily, they are oft repeated four times in a row.) Jake in dictatorial commands, fingers pointing imperiously, the exclamation points impossible to miss. Ma! Up! Milk!

And they need their own wheels. Clearly. These days, every scooter, bike, tricycle, hot-wheels we encounter is an untapped opportunity for speed. On? Up? Faster? Every car and truck and motorcycle is an object worthy of protracted, rapt attention. (Latest trick to distract from a brewing tantrum: look Jakey, is that a bus?) So, for their (imminent) 2nd birthday: wheels of some sort. (and, I think, helmets. But not for the slide. I don't need to be that kind of crazy mom. I don't think.)

So, where have I been, exactly, while my boys have been discovering their innate love of NASCAR? What have I been doing, other than blowing my nose for what must truly be some sort of House-episode-inspiring medical record?

I've been riding the subway, reading headlines of the world crashing in an ever-shrinking New York Times. Watching a president doggedly try to do things differently.
Watching my roster of laid-off friends get longer and deeper and closer to home.
Of course I am, admittedly, one of the lucky ones. More than lucky. After all, I'm riding that subway to work. And I've been working hard - thrown into the deep in chaos-inducing uncertainty and trying to keep my head while clearly in over it.

I've been reading books - fantasy crap to lull me to sleep. Board books of horsies, duckies, boats and planes. The ever present, indomitable Elmo.

I've been managing bills and paying taxes and heading to doctor's appointments. Buying diapers, filling the fridge, feeding the cats. I've been doing all those things we all do, all the things that keep our heads full.

So here I am. Blowing my nose. Thinking about writing, reflecting, mojo and roses.

And Spring. Finally.

Unnecessary roughness?

2009-02-02T21:37:00.006-05:00

I recently realized a glaring omission in parental preparedness: I have no friggin' idea how to referee.

When do I break it up? When do I force the apology, the kiss and make up? When is it OK to 'let off steam,' to 'wrestle,' to sigh and shake my head that 'boys will be boys?' I honestly don't know.

The thing is, I never really played sports. It's not that I was too much of a girly-girl - OK, maybe I was - but, honestly, it was more that I was just kind of fragile. I broke easily.

I was little. (5' 2") And skinny. I wasn't coordinated (except in ballet class.) I liked books. And playing the piano. I had glasses. I wasn't exactly first pick for kickball. Or softball. Or anything.

But I have a sneaking suspicion that my boys will willingly participate - perhaps even passionately participate - in sports. They are already physically fearless. They climb. They fall. They hurtle their bodies off edges and at each other. Clearly, I can chalk some of that to the not-yet-developed common sense of all toddlers. But it goes beyond that. They are BOYS. They need to run around and around and around. And they are completely covered in cuts and scrapes and bruises - 90% of which they gave to each other.

I've been trying to live by a simple rule: blood. If blood is drawn, we have problems. Time outs. Stern words. But already it's not enough. After all, biting of any kind is bad (not to mention the inevitable Mike Tyson-related shudder it elicits.) And what about shoving each other in the bath tub? And what about pinching? And grabbing? And pulling hair?

If I don't set careful standards, are they going to be bullies? (Are they already?) Will they be the kids kicked out of kindergarten for 'behavior difficulties?' How do I teach them sportsmanlike conduct if I don't know the rules?

Luckily, I DO have a husband. Not that I'm looking to reinforce gender stereotypes, but at least one of us is passionate about football (Jets), basketball (Duke, Knicks) and baseball (Yankees). He knows the rules. He may have grown up an only child without a brother of his own to pound on a regular basis, but at least he has a keen sense of right and wrong when it comes to the physical world. (not to mention the fact that he can actually throw a ball.)

Perhaps the only solution to this one is pure delegation:
I'll keep kissing the boo boos. It'll be up to hubby to decide what penalties they've earned.

25 Random Things

2009-01-28T21:09:00.002-05:00

Got tagged in the latest Facebook gimmick making the rounds... and, well, felt like it made sense here too.

Bitten and Biting Back: 25 Random Things About Me

1). I can cross one eye but I can't wiggle my ears
2). I grew up in a very, very, very small college town.
3). My twin boys were born 2 months premature. They spent 6 weeks in the NICU. They are now 20 months old. They are perfect.
4). I nursed my boys for 8 months. At my peak I was making a gallon a day. I was a cow. Literally. A COW.
5). I didn't date my husband for three years after I met him. We met in a bar.
6). We started dating on a street corner in London three years after we met. We were engaged 10 months later. Now we've been married 5 years.
7). I spent 5 years in a back brace for scoliosis - during those impressionable young teen years (age 11 to 16.) Funny thing is, although it was my DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC in my own mind, when I talk to folks from that era, they don't even remember it. Gotta love the baggy look of the 80s. And the inherent self-focused narcissism of all teenagers.
8). I went to prep school - because I wanted to. (see small town, back brace above.) I applied on my own - to the dismay of my parents. I still don't fully understand how i talked them in to letting me go. It was the best decision we could have made.
9). It sounds obnoxious (snotty? egotistical? like I'm full of myself?)but I've had 4 job interviews and four jobs (other than those I gave myself.) If that streak doesn't end, I didn't take enough risks.
10). I started out my professional life as a newspaper reporter. I wrote for a bunch of publications including the New Haven Register, the Dallas Morning News, and the Yale Alumni magazine. One story I covered for Dallas was the bombing of the Murrah building in Oklahoma City. I was 20.
11). I started my first company when I was 21. With my boyfriend at the time. Needless to say, it was a really, really bad idea.
12). I started my next company when I was 23. My partners and I sold it a few years later. That one worked out a bit better.
13). I've never taken a hallucinogenic.
14). I learned to read music at the same time as letters. I remember a set of intermingled flash cards.
15). I have two brothers. One is a Broadway composer and conductor. The other runs his own IT consulting business.
16). I spent a year in LA - living large in the independent film scene where I partied with celebrities, spent way too much time at Les Deux, worked on a few projects, and learned to drink chai lattes. It got way old, way fast.
17). After LA I overcompensated and went to McKinsey where I worked as a management consultant. And wore lots of brooks brothers.
18). Now I sell lipstick (and opportunities for women!) I love it. And now I accessorize.
19.) I've never been to continental Africa or Australia. I HAVE been to Asia, Latin America, Central America, Eastern Europe and Western Europe. I want to hit every continent. Except maybe Antarctica.
20). I want to live with my family abroad. I want my boys to be citizens of the world. I want to be fluent in another language. (my husband is fluent in lots.)
21). I'm wearing braces. Now. As an adult. After having them as a teenager. (note - during the back brace era - I had braces, glasses, AND a back brace. I was smokin' hot, lemme tell you. Smokin'.) I have to have surgery on my jaw. Everyone is going to think I had a face lift. Maybe that's OK?
22). I seem to change careers every 5 years. Maybe that's OK too?
23). I love novels and tolerate non-fiction. I've never read a business book (although I've skimmed some flaps.)
24). I skip meals and forgo sleep too often. I get sick too often. I'm constantly looking for balance and falling off kilter. But on average, everything works.
25). A few months ago, I started writing a blog, and I'm really enjoying it. Someone called me a hack of a writer once. I was pissed at the time, but now I think he may be right. I write glib, quick, little nuggets. I don't really edit much. I just sort of spit it out. And its fun. It's not great literature and I have no interest in suffering for my art. I enjoy all of the other things that I do too much to sacrifice them. So yes, I'm a hack. And blogs are my perfect medium.

Obama Babies take 2

2009-01-22T12:23:00.004-05:00

Proud mama moment: Showed the boys the inauguration speech on the theory that you're never too young for exposure to history (not to mention erudition.)

Needless to say the enthusiasm was infectious. So much so, in fact, one twin almost fell off the couch.

Crocodile mornings

2009-01-17T13:46:00.006-05:00

My mornings have gotten a whole lot harder lately.

My boys love me. A lot. It's wonderful. They shout 'Mama mama mama' when they see me. Several times each day, they will stare at the door and plaintively cry 'mama? mama? mama?' (at least according to the nanny.) They kiss my picture. And when they fall down - as they do, oh, 27 times a day and lately from frighteningly high distances - I'm the one they reach for.

It's gratifying. Immensely. After all, who scoffs at unconditional love?

But then there's the flip side: How do I leave the apartment in the morning without feeling like I'm ripping out their hearts and stomping all over them in my ridiculously high heels?

I admit it: sometimes I sneak. They'll be in their room with the nanny, and I tip toe out without saying goodbye. Because when I do go in for that goodbye, love-you, mommy-has-to-go-to-work-kiss, there are screams. A lot of screams.

In fact, the screaming starts when they see me in 'work clothes' (needless to say 'weekend mommy' wears a whole lot more denim).

I know. It's just a phase. And I don't, honestly, feel too horrifically guilty about leaving them during the day. They have a wonderful, stimulating daily life and they are surrounded by people that love them. I make their breakfast and tuck them in at night - which averages out to more than 3 hours a day. (not that I count or anything. That would be neurotic. Actually, a spreadsheet would be truly neurotic. But I don't have one. I swear.)

No matter how logical and rational and reasonable I am, it's hard to deliberately turn the spigot on those crocodile tears.

I know its just a phase. I know in too short a time I'll be nostalgic for the moments they actually *wanted* me around. And I know it will never, ever be easy. But for now, at least every once in a while, I might sneak out the front door in my stockinged feet.

Collusion

2009-01-09T16:33:00.001-05:00

Bribery and Blagojevich

2009-01-07T17:33:00.006-05:00

I have no intention of defending him: the notion of selling a senate seat is beyond reprehensible, and there's no doubt in my mind that Blagojevich's blatant opportunism has tainted our political system.

But it's occurred to me that we teach our children a whole lot about bribery. At least, I am teaching mine.

"Don't you want to get in the stroller? Don't you want to go outside? If you don't get in the stroller, we can't go outside. Won't it be fun to go outside?" And then the inevitable: "If you get in the stroller, I'll give you a snack!" For all of my attempts to make it a healthy snack (who knew raisins could bring so much joy?) it is clearly, incontrovertibly, a bribe.

And I do it all the time.

If you get in the tub, I'll help you make bubbles! If you drink your milk we can read a story! If you finish your beans you can have an apple! (See above re: healthy snacks. Of course, the animal crackers and gogurt are starting to sneak in - and I'm a far worse culprit than hubby - but at least they still think of apples as a treat. And I haven't yet resorted to candy-as-bribe.)

Of course, at age 20 months, when logic is just beginning to emerge and is at constant war with the demands of instant gratification, there are only so many weapons we have. How can we count to three if they can't count? How many times can you use a time out before it loses its power? (And does refusing to leave the bath *really* warrant a three-minute cone of silence?) Not to mention the fact that they are only just now beginning to form memories that last longer than a nano-second.

Bribery is a pretty damn useful tool. It's almost no small wonder that it seems to come so naturally to our illustrious Illinois governor.

So how do I keep my boys from becoming expletive-spewing, pompadour-sporting, corrupt politicians who dole out favors like I pass around boxes of snack-sized dried grapes? Not to imply Rod's parents are at fault here - there's nothing like having twins to make you fully appreciate the primacy of nature over nurture. But, on the other hand, it's not like we're powerless either.

I suppose we have to make sure we change our methods when we can pull from a larger armory. We need to shift from bribes to consequences, cajoling with treats to establishing expectations.

And trust in our own ability to teach them right from wrong.

(and yes, strains of CSN&Y and Cat Stevens are running through my mind...)

Realizations (& Resolutions)

2009-01-02T19:26:00.005-05:00

Realizations

1: It's a lot harder to find a room of one's own on the days without child care

2: Hosting a crazy dinner party on New Year's eve because you don't have baby sitter is totally fun. Waking up at 6 a.m. the next day because you don't have a baby sitter is brutal.

2B: Hangovers are a whole lot worse at 34 than 30

3: Recessionista entertainment: There's no need to pay for cable if you don't have time to watch anything except the Daily Show on Hulu, even during your staycation.

4: Recessionista child care: nanny shares (boy #3 joins us on Tuesday for our first 'group day')

Resolutions

1: Use date night for dates

2: Get a physical

3: Manage my personal calendar as adroitly as my professional calendar. (this one's for you, hubby.) (And for you, Dad, who I forgot to call on your birthday - see 2B above.)

4: Spend time with each boy one-on-one

5: Moisturize

Happy New Year

Should have been obvious

2008-12-28T14:17:00.005-05:00

Note to any and all NYC parents of toddlers: there are no highchairs in Chinatown.

Hubby and I had the genius idea of taking the boys for their first dim sum experience this morning. It was unseasonably, ridiculously warm - so much so, that when one twin pulled off his shoes and socks and flung them over the side of the stroller, I merely bent over to pick them up and let his bare toes dance in the breeze.

So we thought - why not a walk? And who doesn't love dim sum? During the holiday week. In Chinatown. Where the hoards of tourists are more motivated than ever to find a Canal Street bargain, and there wasn't even a hint of sleet or slush to keep them at bay.

Really, really, really bad idea.

Pushing a double-stroller through the crowded streets might have been worth it if there had been the reward of at least one measly dumpling at the end. But no such luck. Every waiter looked at us, then wagged their fingers and heads while they gestured to the door. Clearly, we were not welcome. And, frankly, I kind of see their point.

We should have known better.

Of course - all did not end in disaster. Hubby and I haven't filed for divorce (although there were some decidedly snippy exchanges en route.) We found a diner. The boys gobbled fries (who doesn't love fries?) Now, if only we didn't fully destroy any chance of a nap with our complete disregard for the schedule... (At this moment, shoeless boy wonder is screaming his head off in his crib. I'm writing this as a stalling technique so I don't intervene too quickly. At least his brother is sleeping blissfully through the din.)

As I said, we should have known better.

Epilogue: Nap destroyed. And no dim sum for at least another year.

Christmas #2

2008-12-25T15:32:00.008-05:00

We helped the boys open their gifts this morning as they mastered the word 'present.' (Present? Present. Present!)

It's the last year we were able to take our time, sip our coffee, and clean the kitchen without facing accusations of torture. (Mom, Dad, C'mon!). The last time the boys didn't stay up too late the night before, tingling with an excitement they can feel down to their toes. The last year the ritual is not seasoned by their anticipation.

It's funny - I don't know when I lost it myself, although I remember it vividly. Trying to stay awake to listen for Santa's clatter on the roof. Lying in bed, restlessly moving my legs under the covers as I fight for sleep. Waking up too early and watching the hands of the clock move tortuously slowly towards 7 a.m.

But now Christmas is a day off. The culmination of too little time for shopping, and wrapping, and cleaning, and cooking, and family negotiations.

I'm not sure when it changed. Clearly it was something gradual, like the loosening of my mother's skin or the graying of my father's hair. The practical has superseded the magical. But seeing the boys' eyes widen at the sight of a box tied in red ribbons, their eagerness to tear off the paper, throws the difference in to stark relief.

I've heard it said so many times I have to believe its now an official cliche: you re-experience childhood through your children.

And now I can't wait for next year. I've regained anticipation.

Happy Holidays.

PS Hubby just gave me crap for this over my shoulder. Apparantly it's too cheesy. Bah Humbug.
PPS Thanks be for nap and grandparents - the only way I would have a chance to set the table, AND have a moment to sit on the couch to gather my thoughts.

Tetris Dreams (aka Christmas wish)

2008-12-19T10:53:00.009-05:00

It all started in high school - prep school, to be perfectly clear. (Perhaps if I'd been living with full parental supervision things might not have been quite so out of control.)

It started out slowly - a few minutes here, a few there. But then I got good at it. Not the best in my dorm mind you, that was Claudia, but not bad either. I could go for more than 60 minutes at a stretch. Do the math: it's a lot of levels.

And of course there were the dreams. Little falling blocks, cascading indefinitely, twisting and turning until they fit and 'click,' everything falls in to place.

I'm talking about Tetris - that silly, silly game that sucked hours from my life as a sixteen year old. I like to think I've evolved. But, then again, I'm not so sure. They have different names now: Bookworm, Scramble, Bejeweled, Bamboozled. And we have different platforms: Blackberry, Facebook, iPhone. (yep - still awash in device-envy for hubby's iPhone. Sigh.) But some things haven't changed: I still find myself drawn in to those mindless, no-skills-required games that (hypothetically) never end.

Only now there's a new twist when I play: a litte, niggling part of my brain keeps questioning whether it's the best way to be spending my time. As a 16 year-old, that question never really surfaced. The only real consequences from an all-night Testris-bender was the challenge of staying awake during class.

Now it's a different story. Am I on the subway? I should be reading the newspaper. Or email. Catching up with the world and/or my own life. Am I in bed at night? I should be reading. Even crappy mysteries would be more defensible. Or (hubby would chime in here) sleeping. I don't do enough of that.

To my credit, I don't really play these games any other time. I've never been one to need that kind of distraction during the work day. (and I'm pretty sure my company blocks access to any game sites regardless.) Yet still, as I sat on the Q train yesterday, suspended over the river as the groaning MTA chugged slowly through an ice storm, I noticed I'd managed to log playing time of more than 60 minutes on my latest round of Bookworm. And a score of >100,000 points.

Sure, it's good to turn off your brain. I can't spend every moment managing, creating, running, doing, caring. But still... there must be more productive ways to unwind.

Got it. Eureka. The answer: I clearly need an iTouch. That way, when the train stalls, and my brian can't pull together yet another list, I can watch The Wire. I haven't seen it, and from all reports, it's gotta be better than Tetris. Just one more little pop for Steve Jobs' P&L. Just one more thing I can do to help the economy.

On second thought... Santa?!?

Miracle

2008-12-14T23:04:00.009-05:00

We just had a perfect weekend.

Saturday, we braved the Brooklyn mommy hoards to get 'official' haircuts for the boys (e.g., not by someone wielding too-dull shears, wrestling with a squirmy toddler, and realizing at that most inopportune moment that boy hair is hard.) I swallowed a gulp when I realized the buzz of that clipper was the bell tolling for babyhood. (Not to be overly dramatic or anything. Luckily the hands-flailing, legs-jerking, ear-piercing temper tantrums later in the day made me remember they truly are only one and a half. )

Then an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum - complete with grandparents for extra hands, and the chance for hubby and I to actually see the Morandi show. Many, many, many bottles. Many, many bottles. Many many Bottles.

We made our way home (no traffic) and, for the capper, made it on time to a babysitter-enabled cocktail party with real wine and real adults. Discussions about issues. Politics. The economy. New York real estate. Recent supreme court hearings (ok, so it was a bunch of lawyers.)

But the real coup d'grace was Sunday morning: no adult intervention required until 7:51 a.m. I cracked an eye, rubbed out the blur as I tried to read my bedside clock, and couldn't believe it.

Day two of the perfect weekend: the Bronx zoo, good naps and an impromptu play date (complete with hallway hide-and-seek, three-in-a-tub, and apple crumble.)

Of course I'm exhausted. But I'm not sick anymore. Neither are any of my boys - including hubby. I've finished (almost all of) my holiday shopping. The fridge is stocked. And our cleaning lady comes on Mondays.

Truly the planets have aligned.

Scrooge(?)

2008-12-11T23:04:00.009-05:00

So work has exploded. Gone from 0 to 60. Meals have been skipped, bills not paid, the personal inbox filling up. Its thrilling. Its hard. Its challenging. Its consuming. Very, very consuming.

So here it is - a stop-fighting-and-just-admit-its-true moment: I am not sending holiday cards this year.

I know, I know. I have two adorable children. It's an absolute crime to omit their picture from collage of smiling faces on the refrigerators of our friends. And, what with all those just-a-click-a-way tools out there, how much time would it take, really? I mean.... really?

Too much.

There's the taking the picture. The choosing the picture. The formatting the card. The inevitable negotiations with hubby re: format, color scheme, message. Then there's the damn addresses. Sure, I know, it can all be managed for me... electronic submission, one-click ordering. They print. They send. But I still need to have all those damn addresses. With zip codes.

So - apologies in advance. For giving up before I even try. There will be no family card this year.

On second thought... maybe I'll send an e-card.

Addendum: OCD

2008-12-03T15:42:00.002-05:00

Hubby rightly pointed out that he deserves a shout-out for beating doctor to the punch. "I've been saying you needed to go see a doctor for weeks," he said while he poured my tea. So, yeah. He has been. He was right.

OCD - optimistic compulsive disorder

2008-12-02T13:23:00.009-05:00

I've had a crappy few weeks - at least from a health perspective. Here's the run down:

4 weeks ago: 2 days of stomach flu. The violent, toilet-bowl hugging kind.
Went straight to congestion without even passing Go or collecting $200.
Congestion moved to my ears. Got so bad that I've literally fallen down from vertigo on 3 separate occasions after blowing my nose. No joke.
The phlegm kept traveling south. It's now firmly settled in my chest, where I'm coughing so badly and frequently I've damaged a rib.
And now - for the (hopefully final) cherry on top - both boys have pink eye. And so do I.

I finally got myself to a doctor today. I waited in a throng of other hacking, coughing, snotty patients only to be told I was the worst he's seen this season and handed a prescription for the WMD of antibiotics.

Needless to say, there was a lot of head shaking and finger wagging. "You take better care of your boys than you do of yourself." He said. "I can't believe it took you a month to see me," He said. "You just can't treat yourself this way."

OK, so fine. I have toxic, germ-magnet toddlers. I can't remember what my real voice sounds like. And I'm currently lying in bed, listening to my boys giggle in the living room because the medicine has made me too nauseous to get up and play. But despite how this reads, I'm not actually trying to complain here. Nor am I gunning for martyr of the year. I swear.

OK, so maybe I am worse off than most at this moment - but I know I'm not alone. The majority of new parents spend the first years going through tissues at such a clip I have to believe we collectively represent a significant chunk of the Kleenex market.

What struck me today, as I teetered on my too-tall heels to the pharmacy counter at Target, is that fact that I've barely written about all of this. It simply hasn't felt 'blog-worthy.' Instead I'm talking about balloons. And the one time I did write about it, I focused on the joy I found in my unexpected moment for contemplation.

It struck me today that I am addicted to optimism.

I think that might be one of the ways I 'do what I do.' After all, If I don't wax on about the crappy parts, they diminish in importance. Hacking up gobs of phlegm? Who cares. A giant, inflatable Smurf coupled with the kindness of strangers? That's worth sharing.

Still like all addictions, it can have some pretty scary side-effects. Not acknowledging the crappy crap to the rest of the world? Not necessarily important. Not acknowledging it to myself? That's a problem. And one I've encountered on more than one occasion. Like when I didn't go to a doctor for a month. Or when I couldn't admit I was in a dead-end relationship (not this one, thank goodness). Or when I couldn't acknowledge that I was no longer in love with my job. (Again, not this one, thank goodness.)

So tonight, as I follow doctor's orders to swill my cocktail of codeine and antibiotics and let hubby deal with the night-terrors, vomit, coughing or what-ever the God of small twins throws our way, I'll think about those side-effects. And I'll think about how to temper my optimism with a little more common sense.

But not too much.

Karma

2008-11-29T21:47:00.003-05:00

There's a scene in a Woody Allen movie - Zelig maybe? Definitely black and white - at any rate it's a chase scene, staged amongst inflated, monolithic balloons as they wait for the Macy's Parade.

I (clearly) don't quite remember the details, or how this particular moment fit into the undoubtedly neurosis-filled plot, but I do have a vivid memory of men racing around these giant, alien, globs, casting bizarre shadows as they hid behind one bulge and scurried to another.

History has not stayed true to Woody Allen's vision. At all.

In a move similar to hitting Time's Square on New Year's Eve, hubby and I decided to take the boys to see the balloons being inflated for the Thanksgiving Day Parade. Actually - it was worse than Times Square. We never would have attempted to push a double-stroller down 42nd street at midnight.

Thousands - what felt like hundreds of thousands - had the same idea.

We made it to 79th street, and even across Columbus avenue (which itself took about 30 minutes.) But as we turned the corner, caught in the swell of the inexorably moving crowd, the boys seeing nothing but a sea of denim-clad knees, we opted to cut and run. The chaos. The crowd. The cold. The schlep. It just wasn't worth it. We turned a sharp left, pushing our way past the barricade to the relative calm of the crosswalk.

That's when she stopped me. 40s(50s?). Nice coat (fur?). Nice hair. ($400 cut and color).

"You have kids, right?" I must have looked at her blankly. "Your kids? These yours?" She gestured to the stroller. I nodded.

"You look miserable. You should come with me. Otherwise this is a waste." She waved a piece of paper - cream, card stock, embossed, red ink. Then she turned to a cop on the far side of the street. "They're with me. Let them through."

With a magic worthy of Ali Baba, the 'private viewing,' 'residents only' barricade opened, and we were shuttled through as our savior disappeared down the block (to her apartment? a party?)

It was a different world on the other side of the street.

Instead of throngs, there were neighbors. Instead of kids perched on teetering shoulders, straining to see something, anything, there were a few leaning against a fence while others dashed up and down the sidewalk shouting "I see Dora! I see the Energizer Bunny!"

We let the boys out of their stroller and they, too, raced up and down - pointing at the balloons, eyes widening as they saw a giant Smurf rise up from the blacktop.

It was New York magic, of the oh-my-god-I-can't- believe-how-lucky-we-were, variety. The kind of thing that lets karma circulate, from the taxi driver who drops off a lost wallet, to the no-fee apartment real estate tip that truly pans out.

Of course, we're not going to press our luck. We know better now, and karma is a fleeting friend. We will never, ever, try to go to that place on that night, ever, ever again.

(Unless, of course, we move to 79th street.)

Self-Promotion (shameless?)

2008-11-25T17:50:00.005-05:00

OK - a slightly different posting topic - but strikingly relevant: Avon is offering deals for readers of Mommy-blogs.

Free Shipping on $30+ at Avon with coupon code: JINGLE30 if you shop online - which you can do at http://youravon.com/rgranne. Feel free to pass the code around.

Too Big

2008-11-24T13:53:00.007-05:00

It's official. Or perhaps the better word is 'inevitable.' I am overcommitted. And it's my own damn fault.

Here's a run down of all the things I've said 'yes' to in the last six months or so:

- A new job (the focus of which is reimagining a business model that's been around for more than 100 years)

- Helping my mother-in-law get the recognition she deserves for her lifes' work (she's a painter: http://www.granne.net)

- Helping to start a non-profit, progressive school in my neighborhood (http://www.greenehillschool.org)

- Writing the book proposal for a would-be-best seller with my cohorts LillyParrot and BrooklynChickens

- Hosting Christmas

It's ridiculous. And it's not just the length of the list, it's the SCALE of it.

Someone told me once 'you're attracted to big things.' He is right. I am. I get excited by ideas - and the bigger, the broader, the more far-reaching the idea the better.

But I need to live my life at a human scale. The scale that lets me remember to take vitamins, to not feel guilty if I want to 'waste' a precious hour watching a TV show. The scale that helps ensure I'm not falling down with exhaustion when I'm playing with the boys.

I lose sight of that in the midst of the daily decisions, in the wake of the barrage of my own ideas and the asks of others. I lose sight of the fact that if I say 'yes' to everything - and help everything balloon to the size of its maximum potential - I will not do anything.

('Balloon balloon balloon!' says one twin. 'Boon' agrees his brother)

So, what to do? I know, I know... "Delegate." "Learn to say no." "Prioritize." "Keep things in perspective."

But, on top of that, I might just need to let some things stay small.

Runny noses

2008-11-18T16:30:00.003-05:00

It's ridiculous, really. After a pretty much solid week of stomach bug, we've careened right into cold season without stopping for breath. And I even got a flu shot this year.

Both boys' constantly running rivulets of snot are only outmatched by my own. And hubby - still recovering from the last of the belly-bug - knows he's next on the list.

So I went home early today.

Now, I'm sitting in bed at 4:30 in the afternoon, laptop perched on my knees, and feeling that luxurious, rare moment of home-at-the-same-time-as-the-nanny.

Of course, I do feel like ass... not to wallow or anything, but the cough, fever and clogged ears do not make for a truly enjoyable moment.

And yet it is these unexpected moments for soliloquy that ensure my life does not dissolve into unchecked anarchy. These are the times to check the lists (bills, christmas shopping, cancel time warner cable), organize the closets, or mull over the latest impossibles I'm trying to make possible at work. And, when my brain / immune system doesn't allow for much else, these are the times for ... this.

And now they are back, tumbling through the door fresh from the playroom, and we're all going to wipe our noses together.

The Honeymoon Continues

2008-11-16T22:13:00.010-05:00

Why I love my job:

- I’m having fun getting dressed in the morning for the first time in a decade (although sometimes I’m a little worried I’m crossing the line and dressing like I am still in my twenties. That exec / fashion-forward / milf trifecta is a tricky balance to strike. Hubby sent me back to the closet the other day for a shoe change. Apparently super-trendy platform high heels plus super-short skirt was a little too Ally McBeal meets S&M for the office.)

- I can share perks with my friends (free samples!)

- The commute doesn’t suck (and rarely involves an airport)

- I can’t foresee a time when I’ll stop learning something new daily

- It’s challenging (I've never had to get so many people to agree to something so different. A whole new level of politics. Makes Congress look easy.)

- I get to do things no one has ever done before (See above.)

- I have time to think (and they want me to)

- I get to use both sides of my brain: the creative part that likes writing blogs and dreamily envisioning all the world’s nifty possibilities, and the type-A, efficiency-rocks part that wants to make sure the numbers add up

- It matters. (Or will, if I do it right.)

- I can make the boys breakfast and kiss them goodnight

Help

2008-11-12T15:27:00.004-05:00

Help. I have a lot of it. A ridiculous amount of childcare.

At least I openly acknowledge it: I'm not hypocritically striking an every mom, Wal-Mart wardobe pose while dropping $150K at Saks.

In fact, if I didn't have so much help, I have no idea how my crazy chaotic life would work. Which, of course, makes me drown in a vat of wasp-induced guilt on behalf of all the working moms who do not have access to my level of support.

Frankly, its a pretty big vat - big enough to hold almost every other working mother in the world. I live in a friggin' bubble.

Here's what I have:

- Full-time nanny (who is extraordinary. I am the envy of the playground regulars)

- Au Pair (newly arrived from Brazil)

- Cleaning lady - 2Xs / week

- In Laws in the West Village, who are actually disappointed if they don't get an overnight once a week with the twins. At their house. So they can have 'quality alone time' with the boys. No joke.

- A husband with a (moderately) flexible schedule

Of course I work quite hard, and I have twin 18-month boys who are the personification of chaos, and the reason I have so much help is that two pairs of hands is the best way to keep them from certain death these days, and I constantly race from one thing to the next in hopes of optimizing any and all available time with my children...

But take today. I'm sick. Stomach flu. In fact, it's been an ugly few days: One boy puked all night Sunday. I got sick Monday night. Other boy puked all night last night. I had a relapse this morning. Needless to say, there was quite a foul odor hanging over our household. (Better now, thanks to ventilation and a whole lot of laundry).

So yes, miserable. But the au pair woke up with me at 6 a.m. this morning, and took care of one sick boy while I was sick. The nanny came later and cleaned up all the mess. I was able to stay in bed with no true consequences - no loss of pay or threat of losing my job.

The true super moms are the ones who keep it all together, keep smiling, keep their children safe and fed and happy, without the benefit of a full staff behind them. Who wash the vomit out of their hair, beg a neighbor to watch their sick kid who can't go to day care, and make it to work on time.

10 things my nanny thinks I should be doing more often:

2008-11-10T09:00:00.002-05:00

washing their hands
wiping their noses
washing their toys
sleeping
sewing the holes in their clothes
yelling at my husband
yelling at my mother-in-law
vacuuming the stroller
remembering the rain cover
applying sun block

Sunday morning: single-momming it day 2

2008-11-09T07:10:00.001-05:00

Woke up to giggles and sunshine after 9 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Epiphany: It's not about the balance within a day, it's about the balance across them

In Defense of Cereal

2008-11-07T21:17:00.002-05:00

My husband is a foodie. Actually, that terms sounds a little too glib for his level of commitment. He's a farmer's-market-shopping, wine-list-critiquing, slow food, art-of-eating reading, full-on gourmand. And, to my taste buds' relief, he's the one who cooks around here.

He's also the one who feels entitled to make the food rules around here. And one of those rules is that cereal is not, can never be, and will never be, dinner.

He's wrong.

Of course, I do recognize that my vantage point may be a little bit suspect. I did come from a household where frozen vegetables were a daily staple no matter what the season. I didn't know lettuce came in any flavor besides 'iceberg' until after college. Suffice it to say, consumer packaged goods companies have quite a customer in my mother.

But I do think cereal can, on occasion, be a perfectly reasonable dinner choice. Make that, a vital, life-saving option.

After all, as a friend of mine said, it's fortified. They are actively trying to ensure you get the nutrients you need, even if it cereal is the only thing you eat. (And by 'they,' I mean those good folks at Kellogg's and General Mills).

Sometimes, when I get home from work, after I've raced in the door to get my 45 mins before bedtime, (note: one bone of contention from hubby is that I never stop to get the mail. He's right. I don't.) after I've put the boys to sleep, if there's nothing cooking, and reheating is too much bother, and ordering is too much of a wait ... then it's all about cereal.

Of course, I'm drowning in hypocrisy. Would I let my children have cheerios for dinner? Hell no. I won't even let the au pair.

But I will, in fact, keep doing it, hypocrisy and all. Every once in a while, no matter how much the hubby scoffs, I'll pour myself a bowl of honey nut. And I'll enjoy it.

You know what I can't figure out? Is this a classic sign of not taking care of myself, or a sign of that fact that maybe I am?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TODAY's TALLY (single-momming it edition):
- 5:45 a.m. wake up
- 1 busted lamp
- the au pair's bus (she missed it to help me settle a screaming, refusing to nap boy)
- ever-growing arm muscles after carrying one velcro-boy twin 20 blocks in the rain. (take that Madonna)
- rain
- poop in the bathtub (floaters!)

Been a tough one tooday.

Swell ground

2008-11-06T14:14:00.001-05:00

I would never consider myself politically apathetic. And, in fact, I have felt more passionate about this presidential race than any in memory. I have in fact, felt active.

And yet... what did I do, exactly?
Did I give money? check. Multiple times. Small increments. Every time I saw Palin open her mouth.
Did I campaign for Obama? Well... does donating my Facebook status count?
Did I phone bank, or knock on any doors? Traipse through the wilds of Pennsylvania proudly sheathed in sandwich board? Well... I did forward a cute photo to my address book...
Did I do anything that lifted my ass out of my desk chair? well... no. I didn't. Except vote.

So why, when I got an email at 11:30 p.m. November 4th from Barack himself thanking me for all of my hard work, did I feel I did, in fact, deserve such kudos?

I did. And still do.

Maybe it's not rational - and it's probably not fair. After all, if everyone connected to the campaign exercised only their virtual voice, there's no way history would have been made.
But I do feel as though I should get some of that credit - that I did, in fact, help make it happen. That yes, yes we did. Emphasis on "we."

Social networking is clearly a boon for the would-be-politically-active but can't-possibly-squeeze-in-one-more-thing working mom. I could join the crowd without shlepping to a rally. I could give money without licking a stamp. I could buy paraphenalia with the click of a mouse. I could hassle my friends without picking up the phone. And I did all of those things.

Could I have done more? Maybe. Assuredly. But could I have done a whole lot more, and still kept my carefully, precariously balanced, chaos of a life in functioning order?

Honestly? Probably not.

And, thankfully for the future of my children, what I did, when coupled with the efforts of everyone else ...? That was enough.

3-hour wait at the polls

2008-11-04T15:23:00.001-05:00

Worth it.

Addendum to pilot

2008-11-03T10:07:00.001-05:00

Ok so it was diaper rash, not teething. And ok, so his brother woke up screaming at 4 a.m., which means I got a grand total of four hours of sleep last night. And both diapers exploded. (Note to self: 7th gen doesn't save the environment if it means you do an extra load of laundry every day.) But no worries. Still cheery. Obama is ahead in the polls. Stock price is up. And I just need a bit more coffee.

Season 1, Episode 1 - Pilot

2008-11-03T00:54:00.002-05:00

I've been feeling like a stereotype lately (although I think I'd prefer the term 'archetype.') No matter what the prefix, I am, in fact, a type. The type that has a full-time high-pressure bread-winner job, toddler twin boys and a scary-high mortgage. The type that tries not to lose herself in the daily deluge of diapers and doggies and parents and power point.

I aspire to perfect mommy milf-dom, complete with a rocketing career and a fabulous sex life. I aspire to be so much more than getting through the days and waiting for the weekend.
But, all that said, I'm friggin' exhausted.

And now in classic type-A style, I've decided that adding yet another project to my ever expanding list, is, in fact, the one thing thats been missing from my 'to do' list. So here goes. A blog.

To be honest, I've decided to start writing this all down so I can, in fact, understand how I do it. Because, despite being so tired I can feel the weight of my eyelids (and the fact that the last paragraph was interrupted by a screaming, teething little boy who flailed his arms but didn't open his eyes) I am, actually, for the most part, quite happy.

And, as far as I can tell, that means I'm an anamoly among other would-be super moms. (Or at least, among those who aren't running for public office.)

Of course - such happiness can be fleeting I know. I'm in the honeymoon of a new job (it's so interesting! the people are so terrific!). I just returned from a romantic, kid-free weekend for my 5th-year anniversary, and both boys are (once again) sleeping soundly. If course all it takes is another round of molars or a terrifying election result (Palin as VP).
That said, I'm pretty certain my average is in the plus column.

The stats:
- 34, married, live in Brooklyn
- two kids, 18 month-old twin boys
- full-time job (executive type at a big public company)