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.

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.