Mojo

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?

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

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

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

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

Bribery and Blagojevich

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)

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

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

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.