Country Mice Now

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Super Jake...

.... and Super Zach

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Tunnel Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

... 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?

"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

Without a Net

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

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.

Mother's Day, 2009
Brooklyn Botanic Gardens

With apologies to Henri

Wonder twin powers...

... activate!

Kidneys

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

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

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

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.