Contagious Imagination

Nico has finally started talking. Not that he was officially verbally delayed, but he was certainly not early to speak. Neither of our kids were which I found strange because we are a very loquacious couple. One of our friends joked that maybe our kids didn't talk early or early-ish because they couldn't get a word in edgewise--touche. Maybe.

But now Nico's talking, and Alexandra's talking, and Adam and I are talking, and at times we will all four be sitting at our little formica kitchen table and Adam and I will be trying to break down the day to each other and then both kids start speaking at the same time, about things of absolutely no relation to either our conversation or anything in general, and it's just. totally. NUTS. You can't even hear a word anyone is saying. It's a stereo of voices.

And sometimes, this random talking gets too crazy and I get pulled into the crazy. Let me explain.

Nico, in particular, will scream "'Scuse me!" at the top of his lungs and interrupt a perfectly lovely conversation as if the world is ending and only he can see it. Once you give him attention (what he really wants), usually with an exasperated, "What Nico!?" he smiles coyly at you and says something like this:

"Mommy, sometimes I fly on an owl to come and see you."

Alright, kid. Kinda poetic, beautiful, and completely random. Statements like that usually get a reply of:

"You fly on an owl to come and see me?" (You always have to repeat what he says to get peace.)

To which he nods his head vigorously as if I have finally figured it all out.

"Okay, honey...."  (And then you have to tell him you understand him to get peace.)

So, this happened Tuesday night--exact conversation--but he kept repeating this same statement about flying on an owl to come and see mommy. The words would get switched up a bit, but it was always the same idea:

owl
flying
mommy

He introduced the topic at the table, repeated it in the tub, while I was reading books, and as I kissed him goodnight. He was so convinced that sometimes he flies on an owl to come see me that he started to convince me! Okay--this is where I feel I lose my already fragile grasp on reality--I start wondering,

"Hmmmmm....maybe he is flying on an owl. Maybe my son is a magical creature who flies on owls at night when I'm sleeping and I don't know it...Maybe he is telling me the truth but like all mothers in the world I am just nodding my head with a 'Sure darling, whatever!' smile while he's actually really flying on owls!!!!! How awesome, Nico flies on owls!"

And then I shake my head and wonder what's happening to me.

But I love it. I love the wild imagination these kids have, and I do love being pulled into it. Even if only for a split second, and even if it makes me feel a teeny-tiny bit like I might need a vacay at a mental institution or a very posh rehab center in Arizona. Ahhhh.....

The kids last day of daycamp is tomorrow and then they're home with me for the month of August. If you see us flying on owls, don't be surprised.

[This definitely looks like a kid who *just might* fly on owls....]

Love the Life You Live

This was our holiday card this year. As we decided on a photograph, we worried that our friends and/or family would find us twisted human beings for putting our scouring/crying kids on a card to be sent to the masses, but we were surprised at the amazingly positive response we got from nearly everyone. And, amid these responses, our choice of photograph grounded me in some deep thoughts about our life and our little family.

Last spring my close friend Julia Beck Vandenoever, of Julia Vandenoever Photography, spent a grey spring morning with us in Prospect Park. Adam was ridiculously hung over from a good friend's bachelor party the night before, I was cranky because he had been out to 6am the night before our family pictures (!), and the kids were just...Well, a one and a three year old. Needless to say, anyone who dared hold a camera up to take images of us as a family was a brave individual that day, and Julia did it with grace.

When we got the images back, I was thrown. I blogged about it here, but suffice to say we looked amazing--like photos of fake families that get put in frames (but much cooler, of course). I never like photos of myself, but I liked these. Wow. And there was such a great variety of all combinations of the four of us.

But, like every busy family, the photos were taken in April and by December they all still only existed on the computer. When we went back to look for a holiday card shot, I laughed--heartily--at the many photos of either one, or the other, or both of the kids crying. They sulked, scowled, cried, and ran away from Julia during the shoot, but she kept shooting. And it's those photos that I love the most: the ones of my kids being the little pissers that they are every day. She truly captured who they were, at those ages, in images. I'm not sure every photographer would keep shooting, or that every photographer would present those images in the final edited version that the client gets, but I am so thankful Julia did.

As much as we all try to get our kids to smile, be cute, look like little angelic model children, I think we all know that our kids can be difficult, challenging, or downright intolerable. I'm so thankful to have images of some of these less-than-perfect emotions documented. There were many a beautiful photo of them as well, but somehow they didn't resonate in me like the cranky ones.

And maybe I am twisted to put it on a Christmas card, but, as my friend James said in a text to me proclaiming his love of our card, love the life you live.

And I do.

stay-at-home mom

My gawd...Where have two+ months gone?

I will make posts of past life events as the month goes by, but suffice to say I have been crazy busy and haven't had time to think. Most busy-ness is due to my desire to go out and drink post- doctoral work with my bad influence coworkers (you know who you are, and how much i love you), but now that the school year is over and I'm summering (I love using summer as a verb), I'm back to a somewhat constrained routine. Why? Because I'm a mother freakin' stay-at-home mom.

Okay, you gals who do this all the time, let me crown you. You are both insane and goddesses in my book. I mean, I have been at this for one week and I'm about to sell myself on the street corner or barter my too old ovaries or call some illegal organ trade folks in Jersey to sell a kidney to put these animals (my children) back in daycare.

Yes, I am prone to hyberbole.

But the upside of my 11 hours straight a day with my kids is that they do get the best of me. When I see them at 5pm, I am spent. I have struggled with this since I had kids--how do I save any goodness and patience for them at the end of the day, because, sometimes, I literally have none and my love for them just can't cultivate anything from the dried up well of me. But when it's just me and them, they get all of me. The love, patience, frustration, anger, teachable moments, quiet moments of adoration, kisses, sarcasm...blah blah blah.

I am such a bougie yuppie that I have literally NEVER watched both my children before this summer. A day here and there, a weekend when Adam's out of town--yep. But two whole months? Nope. So, wish me luck folks. I need it.

Photographer Magic

My good friend Julia has a part-time business of photographing families, pregnant ladies, and weddings when she's not a full-time photo editor at Backpacker Magazine or mama. I have been watching her take photos of others for years, and I have always been amazed at how beautiful she makes everyone look. What I find amazing about her work is that everyone in her images just looks so lovely--and I don't mean, "Man, those are some attractive people!" (although they are), but it seems that she's able to get their spirits to shine through in the photos and you can see who they truly are. And, of course, since my friend Julia is an amazing person she just attracts more awesome people.

I have been wanting her to photograph us for years, and a couple of weeks ago she came to NYC and my wish came true. Of course, I was nervous. Would I look old, fat, tired, icky? I must admit, my husband--as much as I love him more than anything--takes the absolute WORST photos of me. Don't know what it is, but each time he captures me in a photo I look g-r-o-s-s. I faced Julia's photo shoot with some trepidation. Then I tried the whole get-over-yourself approach and thought that my kids would look adorable, so who cares about me.

Well, I must say, she's got some photographer magic.

I don't even remember the last time I liked photos of myself, and I love these. LOVE. I look at the family in the photos and am like, "Who is that wonderful family? Oh my god, that's us!"

Thanks, Hools. You truly have an amazing talent. Love you.
For her edited view of our session, please go to her blog here.

And, for those of you in NYC, hopefully she'll come back annually and get a base of folks here to shoot. Interested? Lemme know and I'll make a list of us.

(Btw, my kids just plain don't smile for pictures--such surly New Yorkers!)

Burka Princess

One of the reasons I love New York is for the diversity. Now don't get me wrong--I'm not delusional and/or ignorant. I know I live in a White suburb of New York City by living in Park Slope, but even my White suburb of the City is more diverse than a White suburb of say Washington, DC or Raleigh, NC. I know this because I grew up in those suburbs, and you'd never see the diversity of races and ethnicities there that I see here. I love that my kids are growing up thinking that exposure to all sorts of people is the norm. Honestly, this is a huge reason why we continue to stay here even when a nice little house in Carborro, the college town outside of Chapel Hill, continues to haunt my dreams, pregnant with possibility.

Alexandra is in her princess stage. I guess it was inevitable; everyone told me that no matter how much you try to keep her from the Disney mania that the princess phase sneaks up on you and swallows your daughter whole around this age (she will be four in June). They were right. We have never watched a Disney movie, have NO Disney paraphenalia in our home, nor do we speak of princesses, but she is obsessed with all things pink, wearing dresses 24/7, and wearing a veil (which is more bride than princess, but whatever....). It's pretty sick.

She has a few criteria that define princess-hood. One: you must have a dress that touches the ground (which she has been endlessly begging me to buy her) and Two: you must be wearing some sort of head jewelry or scarf. So, naturally, as we walked home from daycare the other day when she saw a group of Muslim women wearing full burka (albeit, faces showing, but long black dresses/cover ups and black hijabs) strolling past the playground she screamed and pointed:

"Mo0000mmmmmmmmmy! Look at the princesses!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I guess there's still some hope for her afterall.

Baby Ego

When I had Alexandra, folks used to say the rudest things to me. Statements like, "Are you sure that's your baby?" and "She looks NOTHING like you!" and "Maybe they gave you the wrong kid at the hospital!"--all sorts of crummy things that break a mom's heart.

Of course, I'm not blind. I know Alexandra looks nothing like me; she is a carbon copy of Adam, his mom, and her grandmother (strangely, she doesn't look like her namesake, Osa, but like Osa's mom). I comforted myself with saying that she was Adam on the outside but me on the inside, but the older she's gotten the more I have realized that the inside of these little people is nothing but uniquely them. They might have picked up some of our qualities or neuroses along the way, but they are--from birth--simply themselves.

When I had Nico I had hope that he'd look--at least a little bit--like me, and he does. Thank freakin' god. Nico is a blend of Adam and I, but he has my eyes, and the eyes are what folks notice first. Alexandra has Adam's almond eyes; Nico has my round eyes. I get comments all the time on how much he looks like me, and, honestly, they thrill me. They resonate in my core. They make me happy.

And having Nico, having a kid that resembles me, has made me like myself more. Not that I have low self-esteem or anything, but I have never been one to like my looks. Since my teen years I have taken refuge in the fact that I have a solid and likable personality--I'm funny, kind, and have a good soul, but I'd never describe myself as physically attractive. I remember looking at myself in the mirror when I was a little girl and thinking I was pretty, but somewhere in adolescence I lost that feeling. I also remember the guy I lost my virginity to telling me (in a disgustingly cliche line), "I think you're beautiful, not on the outside, but on the inside" and thinking, in my head, "F**k the inside, I know I'm pretty there! Tell me I'm pretty on the outside!" I didn't even realize how "meh" I thought my looks were until I had Nico.

But when I look at Nico, I see myself as a little girl and I remember that feeling of being pretty again. In some twisted way, he has bolstered my feeling of self-worth in terms of my looks. When I look at Nico, and I see myself, I see beauty. My baby has boosted by ego in a way that continuously surprises me. One more perk of motherhood noted.

Classroom Management

I have been teaching ten years, this is my 11th. Classroom management has never been my forte in this profession. I have never had serious problems, but when given a difficult group of kids that I can't immediately win over with my charming wit, my hilarity of performance, and my illuminating content knowledge, combined with my amazing lesson planning & effective instruction of course, I struggle.

Which is why today's anecdote about Alexandra made me laugh.

Adam came home to report that Alexandra's teacher told him this morning that Alexandra now reads the classroom story to the daycare class before naptime. Let me preface this by saying that Alexandra cannot read, but she makes up very descriptive and mostly accurate stories based on the pictures in the book. She creates different characters' voices, and oftentimes the dialogue emulates what she's heard at home or at school (i.e.: and the lion said, "If you don't stay in your chair through all of dinner you will get NO dessert!"). Having caught myself listening to her storytelling instead of doing the dishes, folding laundry, or making dinner, I can attest that she has quite a talent and is captivating. No exaggeration b/c I'm her mama.

BUT, the best part of the story--according to her teachers--is that when one of the teachers at daycare reads the pre-nap story, she always has to tell the kids to sit criss-cross-applesauce (the new politically correct term for indian style) and to stay seated and focus about a dozen times. But when Alexandra reads, the kids sit still and listen. Perfectly. Every. Time.

Man, my 3 1/2 year old already has better classroom management than I do.

the f bomb

I'm blaming this on on the Department of Sanitation. They're an easy scapegoat, as everyone has been all up on them since the lack of plowing during the blizzard of 201o and the complete lack of garbage/recycling pickup still, one month later, due to the snow that won't/can't freakin' melt b/c it's colder than a witch's tit outside. But seriously, I think the conundrum I have gotten myself into right now with Alexandra's new and frequent usage of the f-bomb stems from one night in particular.

I went to get the kids and I took the jogging stroller, since I thought I'd be schlepping through some snow/ice. It was on the day that all us teachers thought for sure would be a snow day--problem was--it wasn't. I got a call from Alexandra's daycare that she was sick so I made a doctor's appt. I got the kids, hung out at the Tribeca Peds office and played with wooden toys while over-protective parents scorned their kids for playing with wooden toys (I personally could give a rip), and headed home.

Well, seemed that the Dept of Sanitation decided to plow while I was out, and in one place on my block they plowed a MOUNTAIN of snow/ice/dirt/dog pee & feces RIGHT UP TO THE STAIRS OF AN APARTMENT BUILDING. This = no sidewalk at all but a mountain of snow/ice/dirt/dog pee & feces to summit with my jog stroller. I could have walked around the block, but it was cold, after 6pm (when I"m usually feeding the kids, not on the street still getting home), and shoot--I'm in shape. I strapped Nico in nice and tight and began the climb.

After my extreme toddler sledding post you have probably been questioning my parenting overall, and, let me tell you, you should.

So, I'm hauling Nico over the mountain of snow/ice/dirt/dog pee & feces and cursing like a sailor. Alexandra has scaled it lightly like all kids do, and was walking up the street. I thought she was out of hearing range, until I heard her start yelling, "You f**ker! F**ker! F**king snow!" Uh-oh. I shut up, almost catapulted Nico out of the job stroller by tossing it over the last leg of snow mountain from hell, and had a conversation with her about not using the word. Didn't hear it again until...

...Wednesday. I was still sleeping b/c of previously mentioned UTI and Adam was getting the kids ready and I was trying to sleep which is impossible in our house from 7-8am during a school day. Adam was trying to get the kids' coats on, and suddenly Alexandra just started saying, "F**ker!" like she had turrets. Poor Adam tried to squash the language, and was somewhat successful.

But then I was walking her home the next day. She was telling me about her day and she said, "Daddy gave Nico the mail, and Nico ate it, and daddy said, 'Nico, you little f**ker!'" (which Adam swears he didn't say and I do believe him, he really doesn't use the f-bomb).

Ahhhhh!

Any tips on subtracting Alexandra's amazing ability to appropriately use the f-bomb?

Extreme Toddler Sledding

Over the Christmas Holiday, we visited my dear friend Lisa at her parents house in New Hampshire. Unlike NYC, where there was 24 inches of snow, NH only had about a foot or so, which was the perfect amount for snow play with the three year olds. Her son Finn and my daughter Alexandra played in the backyard until they were near frozen. They sledded, hiked, used the swing, made a snow fort....It was all idyllic until (insert horror movie music here): extreme toddler sledding happened.

Our second day of snow bliss, Lisa and I took Finn and Alexandra out into the backyard alone. Actually, Lisa might have been wearing Zeo, their 12 week old baby in the Ergo carrier. The day before, we had found through extended experimentation the perfect sledding conditions. First, it was quickly noted that when our fat adult assess were in the sleds with the 3 year olds, they didn't go too fast (shocker). Then we found that two wiggly three year olds in one sled usually resulted in one tipping over and derailing the whole ride about 1/3 of the way down the small hill. We decided that each of them sledding separate was best for performance, but when they went downhill sitting up they usually tipped over. Lastly, we concluded that on the tummy was the best way to go. See above picture.

Until they sled head first into a running stream. Which is what Alexandra did.

Also note, the first day of sledding had SIX adults outside, and day two of sledding--during which extreme toddler sledding occurred--had two adults only, one at the top of the small hill & one at the bottom. I was at the bottom.

Both Finn & Alexandra left the top of the hill together & then went in opposite directions. Finn headed right first, towards the patio drop off of about 3 or so feet, then Alexandra veered left, towards the stream. Finn was a bit ahead, so I went to move towards him, envisioning his neck breaking as he launched off the patio ledge, but then I saw Alexandra heading towards the water. I couldn't get to her. I started screaming. It was probably one of the more helpless moments of my life.

She went over the bank of the stream, a rocky 4 foot drop that was covered with snow, slid less than an inch next to a tree, and her sled stopped with its tip dangling over the now running stream that had just unfrozen. I couldn't see her as I raced after her b/c the embankment was well below the yard level. I envisioned her skull split open and bloody, her face mangled, her body limp....but as I reached the lip of the bank I saw her on the sled, dangling over the stream, her hands gripping the sides of the sled tightly and heard her crying. It was a tiny stream, she would have just gotten freezing wet, but I yelled, "Don't move!" and tumbled down the slope to get her. She was crying, and a tad hysterical, but completely unharmed (minus the therapy bills that will probably emerge in 10+ years).

Due to my screaming, Adam and Ross (Lisa's brother) and Uros (Lisa's husband) ran outside and across the yard to the stream where Lisa was pointing, somewhat hysterical, too. I passed Alexandra up to Adam and the sled up to Ross and climbed back up to the yard. I was practically crying but I felt in shock, my heart was racing a million miles per hour, and I felt like the worst parent on earth. Seriously. She could have easily been badly hurt or worse. I was traumatized for at least a week after. I'd look at her and get teary, or just give her a squeeze out of nowhere. I felt like we had escaped some sort of horror.

After she stopped crying, the first words she said were, " I want to tell my teachers!" and she did. In fact, she told anyone who would listen for about a week that she went sledding so so so fast and "my face went over the water." Of course, that makes sense to nobody except those of us who were there.

Extreme toddler sledding--not recommended.

Firework

I had about five students tell me this week that I look like the woman giving birth in the new Katy Perry "Firework" video, so tonight, since Adam's in CT and I have ample time to procrastinate on my own, I found it and just watched it about five times. And yes, I do kinda look like her in that we're both White women with brown hair, bangs, and a decent-sized nose, so I'm kinda flattered that they actually thought of me. I love getting my pop culture references from them.



But something about this song really moved me. The video just seemed so powerful. And yes, before you crucify me as a pop music addict and refuse to take me seriously--watch it.

First, I don't think there's really a more perfect comparison to giving birth than to feeling like a firework is exploding out of you in the most amazing and terrifying feeling that that might bring. So, the woman giving birth--my doppelganger--really spoke to me. Especially since I birthed both my babies on my back and probably had a similar look of terror/exhaustion on my face as my firework babies emerged. Doesn't every woman? Really impressive metaphor there.

Secondly, the little girl with cancer just ripped me apart. Yes, because she was a little girl with cancer and if that doesn't just make you fall to pieces you are obviously not human, but also because of a story I heard on NPR probably 13 or so years ago. The story went over creative ways to celebrate the end of life, and one way was to get cremated and use your ashes in the creation of some fireworks and then to set them off in your honor. I LOVE that idea. No lie. I want to be a firework when I die. Every time Adam and I have seen fireworks together I point out the colors and shapes and sounds I like for future reference. So, when I saw that little girl my mind traipsed over the the death zone and I got all emotional.

And lastly, I freakin' love this vein of pop songs that celebrates being DIFFERENT and, as an educator, I can't say enough what a desperately needed mantra that is for youth today. I could make a whole post on that, but I'll save that for another day. Pink's "Raise A Glass" is another song like this that came out recently.



Maybe I am just a pop music aficionado, but watch the video. Am I wrong? It's spectacular.

febrile virus

So Nico has a virus. A febrile virus, characterized by a high fever. 103 yesterday. 102 today. Yesterday, he had a little febrile seizure. I was holding him and putting him down for a nap after having picked him up at daycare early b/c of said fever. I had just motrin-ed him b/c we couldn't get into the doctor until 3:30, and as I was putting him in the crib he started shaking a little and his long legs went straight and he started looking from right to left like he'd suddenly been transported to another planet and had no idea what the eff just happened--it was scary.

Well, it was scary after I realized what it was. While he was doing it I was more like, "Dude! I"m right here! Whatcha lookin' at?" Until I realized later that that'd been a fever-induced seizure. Then I stared at him on the video monitor all last night, afraid something bad would happen. Repeat that vigilance today. And right now, at midnight, video monitor next to me on the couch as entire family sleeps but me.

All day he's been kinda weird and crazy, the way we all feel with a high fever. The last time I had a fever like this was in February of 2008. Alexandra was 8 months old. I had a fever so high I couldn't walk myself to the doctor; Adam had to take me. They just told me it was a virus and gave me some mask to wear while breastfeeding. I laid in bed delirious while our nanny kept Alexandra out of our germ-y apartment all day. The worst part was Kat, my downstairs neighbor, had just had her son Luca, and our floors were so thin they might as well have not existed. Luca kept crying that tiny but powerful newborn wail, and each time he'd cry I'd lactate, but I was too feverish to get up and pump, so then I got clogged ducts in both breasts. Awesome.

But I digress.....

When one of the kids gets sick like this I go into panic mode. There's that horrible part of me that's just waiting for them to evaporate out of our lives like little clouds of steam. They both seem so fragile, still, and so dependent on us. And when there's something like this--a virus--and you can't do anything except wait it out I'm in agony. I don't sleep well, I have dreams of the kids dying. I recall every horror story I have heard of someone losing a child. Suddenly, our entire family seems so delicate...I mean, I guess it's delicate all the time, but at times like this I realize it.

I'm even afraid to post this. But if I post it, it's like Murphy's Law, right, and then nothing bad can happen?

Am I the only mother out there who goes bonkers like this?

THIS, world, is why all our mothers are nuts.

Thankful for Slips

The past two Thanksgivings I have blogged about the small, random things I am thankful for (those posts are here and here). These small things are the items that make life more sane for me. Of course I am thankful for my health, my beautiful family, and my amazing friends. I am honestly thankful for them everyday. But it's the small things that go unnoticed in the daily grind of work, daycare pick up, my dissertation, & life. I don't have the brain power to think of six things this year, so here's the one thing that has rocked my world recently:

SLIPS!

Oh my god, where have slips been all my life? I haven't worn once since my First Communion (and I still have that slip & dress!), but this fall brought out the rebirth of the slip in my life. I ordered this tshirt a-line dress and when I went to put it on there was just too much VPL for my liking (that's Visible Panty Line for those of you not in the know). I mean, I teach high school kids all day long, and they'll notice your panty line and comment on it to their friends loud enough for you to hear--the joys of my job. So, I tried with dress with a thong. Well, you could TELL I was wearing a thong. That's NO better with the 16-18 crowd. I was at a total loss when I found this old half slip that I have had since the beginning of time and slipped it on (haha) and it was m-a-g-i-c! Not only did it disguise the VPL, but it smoothed down some unwanted baby love that has taken up residence on my ass.

I rocked my little half slip and few times and then I upgraded and got a full body slip. OMG. It's pure poetry. It smooths down the belly flab that's hanging out since the birth of our two kids and the advent of this academic year which has prohibited me from setting foot in a gym. I'm sold.

But I warn you: I got a Spanx slip (just getting a little overzealous on the magic a slip might be able to do for me) and it sucked. It rode up and didn't really pull anything in that drastically. And it was too expensive. So, don't go there. Stick with the old school version.

I am currently obsessed with the new HBO show Boardwalk Empire during which many fancy and pretty slips are featured. That has definitely helped fuel my new love. And, isn't "slip" a great word? It just slides off the tongue. So pretty.

Advice to all of all you mamas out there with evidence of your childbearing years lingering in your lovehandles, you belly, your derriere, or your extended derriere I highly recommend a good slip. They're not your grandmother's underwear anymore.

(Above image is a "Freudian slip"--couldn't resist.)

Strange Sadness

I'm up at Teachers College today, desperately trying to work on my dissertation revisions that have been hiding in my closet (no lie) since the school year started. I'm sitting in the library, a place I never visit since having two kids, and pretending that I'm an academic when my brain just keeps traipsing into thoughtful digressions wondering what my kids are doing right now with the babysitter we hired for the day because their daycare is closed.

Caffeinated as usual, a trip to the bathroom just hit me and when I walked into the ladies restroom I got this overwhelming sense of sadness like I do every time I have walked into this bathroom since May of 2006. It was in that bathroom that I noticed the blood that had started the day I turned 12 weeks pregnant with our first pregnancy. As I stared at the reddish/brown on my underwear in the middle bathroom stall (I still remember which one it was) that evening, I tried to convince myself that it was okay, but I knew inside that something was very, very wrong.

For some strange reason, that bathroom still makes me super sad. I now have two healthy, beautiful children after two uncomplicated pregnancies and wonderful births, but there is something about walking through that bathroom door that brings back the emotions of fear, loss, and disappointment that that miscarriage brought into my life. It seems silly to feel that sense of longing and loss still, four years later, especially after having had two babies, but for some reason it's still there. And palpable. I don't know why.

My days at Teachers College are hopefully limited. I was told this morning that I'm using my last semester of personal exemption this Fall and that if I don't defend this Spring then I'll have to start paying the ongoing fee to be matriculated but not graduated. That's not going to happen. My days revisiting this bathroom that remind me of my miscarriage are limited, then, too. In some ways it's a sacred space to me, but it's one I'll be happy never to visit again.

Our Big Fat Gay Wedding

We attended our first gay wedding this weekend. This was Alexandra's second wedding this summer, and she looked forward to both Jen & Mary's and Sam & Maddy's with great anticipation. She was excited to wear a dress, to dance, to eat cake, and to go on "vacation" with us and have adventures. All week leading up to the wedding she kept asking, "Are we going to the wedding today?" and making statements like "Jen & Mary are going to be so so so pretty in their dresses!" Never once did it even occur to her that Jen & Mary's desire to marry each other was anything to bat an eyelash about.

There is something so amazing about that innocence and her lack of understanding that many folks do not think that Jen & Mary should have the rights and benefits that come with the legalization of their union. To Alexandra, the fact that our neighbors and friends were in love and wanted to get married was no different than mommy or daddy getting married or from the wedding she attended in August. She just wanted details on the car we were renting to get there, what type of cake there would be, and the color of Jen's dress and Mary's suit (after I explained to her that I had never seen Mary in a dress and that some girls didn't like/want to wear dresses, she easily accepted that Mary would wear a suit). The fact that Jen & Mary are both girls? No big deal.

The wedding was beautiful and, no surprise here, just like every union of two wonderful people that we have ever attended. I cried during their vows, got chills during their super cute choreographed first dance, and saw so many parts of their wedding that I wish we had done (great idea: a big picture frame hung between trees as a "photo booth" for all the guests to go pose in as wedding documentation--brilliant!). We danced until Alexandra started to fade (Nico had passed out in the Ergo despite my booty shaking), and we slowly traipsed back to our hotel room looking at the stars that elude us here in Brooklyn.

We didn't bring any books in from the car, so I told Alexandra a story as she fell asleep. I told her that one day, she'd have a wedding and we would all come. That we would eat cake and dance all night and be happy with all her friends and our friends. I told her that she could marry whomever she wanted and we would support her choices and love her (I decided to save the "as long as s/he isn't a total douche" addendum for later), and that she'd always be our baby girl. As she looked at me with her dark chocolate eyes, I don't think she realized the layers of meaning in my story of her future, but it would be just lovely if some of it would sink in and, in her mind, she would never feel the need to question the validity of Jen & Mary's wedding versus anyone else's.

Nico is One

My baby boy turned one on September 22nd.

The births of my children punctuate the school year. Alexandra's birthday falls on one of my last days of work before summer break; Nico's birthday is nestled into the first three weeks of back to school/work insanity. I guess I could have planned that better, knowing that both of those times are professional moments when I'm pretty stressed out, but the one thing having kids has taught me is that while I am forming the most beautiful and best-laid plans in my head (and often, even in illustrated spreadsheets on paper) their little bodies have plans of their own that will, inevitably, overthrow my plans in a skinny minute. But that's not always a bad thing.

Nothing speaks more loudly to this than my accidental/surprise pregnancy that produced Nico. When I peed on the stick that told me I was pregnant, I wept. I was NOT happy. When I found out we were having a boy, I was NOT happy. For about half of my pregnancy with him I was feeling nothing in terms of bonding with the baby. Actually, that was probably more than half of my pregnancy. Even when I was in labor, I was wishing Nico would come out as a girl. And while I, of course, took exquisite care of myself and Nico internally while pregnant, I could not help but constantly think about how this child had derailed my plans for my doctorate work, my job, our finances, etc.

And then he came out, and none of that mattered.

As corny as it sounds, the minute I met Nico all those feelings instantly evaporated. I was so happy he was a boy, and I continue to feel that way every minute of every day. I love having a son; it's different than having a daughter in ways I can't even explain that are so beautiful and intense and powerful. Nico's radiant personality and easy going self and infectious smile have made our small hill of debt because of double daycare more than worthwhile. He has brought such a richness and balance to our family that he'd be worth any unforeseen challenge or change we'd have to make b/c of life with 2 kids 2 years apart. I look at him and just think of how lucky we are to have him in our lives.

I still have moments of maternal guilt over the lack of enthusiasm I had for his creation and gestation; I'm not sure I'll ever fully forgive myself for those feelings. But Nico is the best unplanned event in my life, and, in a lot of ways, his arrival showed me that planning isn't always the best way to go.

First Day. Dammit.

Back to work this week. Got up on Tuesday and Alexandra was particularly peeved with my sense of purpose to the morning, especially that I didn't have time read to her or put her baby's diaper on, or dance with her to Michael Jackson. The world knows I am not, nor have I EVER been, a morning person. My mom says that I used to sleep so late as a baby that she'd come in to make sure I was still breathing (why neither of my children inherited that gene is plain sad). Therefore, when I have to wake early, I am not to be bothered. I am cranky, focused, and my mind is already in the classroom.

So, this week was hard for her As much as I tried to pull myself out of my myopic "Must get to work on time" mode, it wasn't enough for her. And the fact that I leave between 7:15-7:30 (they leave right before 8) got her all upset. Each day I left to her crying for me. As all mothers know--NOT the best way to start a day.

I have been trying to spend more time with her in the evenings to compensate. Nico just stopped his morning nap and only takes an afternoon nap, therefore he's exhausted and in bed by 7, leaving Alexandra to me & daddy for an hour. That's good for her. She's not happy with our new schedule in the morning, as evidenced by this conversation:

Setting: me tucking her into bed.

Alexandra: I missed you this morning, Mommy.
Me: I missed you, too, honey. But Mommy has to go to work now. School started and mommy's a teacher, so I have to go teach.

Pause.

Alexandra: Dammit.
Me: What?
Alexandra: Dammit.
Me: You mean, slam it?
Alexandra: No, I said "dammit" and I mean "dammit."
Me: Goodnight, honey.

Dammit pretty much summarizes how I feel about the summer being over, too, but sheesh. I guess a mommy with a salty mouth = a baby girl with one, too. Crazy thing is, I don't really say "dammit." Go figure.

My Hour of Bliss

This summer has been both lovely and hell. I am so excited to return to work to simply get away from this freakin' computer that I have been glued to all day, every day. I am tired of sitting in a chair all day and look forward to running around rabid at school. This is why teachers need summers, folks.

Of course, not going to work is wonderful in so many ways. I can work out in the morning instead of at night, I can poop in my own bathroom, I can grab small amounts of groceries easily, I can fold laundry without Alexandra around to destroy my piles...They are small things, but they really do improve my quality of life.

But my favorite part of the whole summer has been this routine Adam and I have going. The kids have been waking at 5:50/6am, so I'll get up, get Nico's bottle, chat with Alexandra and then, when Adam gets up at 6:15 I hand the kids over, go back into our air conditioned room, turn on the white noise machine, and sleep for one hour.

I don't know why, but that one hour is sleep is pure bliss. It's deep, I dream crazy dreams, and often I have a hard time waking from it. I have been wondering why I sleep so soundly for that hour when I sleep lightly and fitfully most of the night. Is it because I know the kids are up with Adam? Is it pure exhaustion that knocks me out? Who knows....but it's heavenly.

I'll miss that hour when I go back to work next Tuesday. In fact, tomorrow will be my last hour of bliss of the summer b/c our weekends have a different schedule to them. Next week, when I wake at 6am with the kids I'll hop in the shower, have a new aura of stress around me, and will have teaching on my mind.

Goodbye summer and your tiny, beautiful surprises.

Done

Since March of 2006, I have either been pregnant or nursing with a three month break between pregnancy #1 (miscarriage) and Alexandra's pregnancy and a three month break between weaning Alexandra and getting pregnant with Nico.

As of this week, two major things have happened:

1. Nico is fully weaned (although my boobs are still readjusting)
2. Adam had a vasectomy yesterday (although he's still going to be shooting swimmers for about 20 more shots, according to the doctor)

These are monumental steps in my life. Not only am I physically done with childbearing and nursing, but we have also taken a serious step to ensure that we won't have any more kids. There is a teeny, tiny part of me that mourns this. Yesterday I was super emotional about it all. Although the logical me knows the million and one reasons we are stopping at two kids, the emotional side of me is feeling sad, a sick maternal longing for another baby in my belly, the flutters of first feeling it move, the massive kicks that make your skin undulate, the power of giving birth, those first precious moments of meeting your baby, the sweet sucking sounds a newborn makes on your breast....the list goes on.

But we are done. And, once the emotional side of me calms down (I'm also PMS-ing which is no help. God, having your period again SUCKS after being menstruation-free for 20 months), I'm sure I'll find immeasurable relief in knowing that we no longer have to worry about another* surprise pregnancy.

(* Two of our three pregnancies were surprises. We are not model condom users, that's for sure)

(Photo of my last day of pumping breastmilk in the gross teacher's lounge bathroom. I WON'T miss that.)

Spanking

I was spanked. Even writing that seems like an understatement. I was spanked A LOT. As the child of a born again Christian who firmly believed in "spare the rod, spoil the child" and as a willful, smart-mouthed little girl (whom karma has paid me back with an identical one), I got spanked a lot. Also, I had a lying snitch of a sister who framed me for everything. No joke. I got spanked so many times for her lies that it's no wonder we're not really friends today, even just based on years 3-10 of my life. But...

...here I am with children, and I don't spank. I don't believe in it. I feel that hitting a child is a reckless use of power. I'm the adult. I should have control. It's a philosophy that I carry into teaching, too. Sure, call me a "F*cking white b*tch, blah blah blah" but I'm not going to curse at you because I'm the adult.

Right? Great in theory, harder in practice.

I hit Alexandra last week.

She had hit Nico in the face. I was carrying her to timeout in her bedroom, holding her by the arms with her face facing my chest. She was screaming like a banshee and then she lunged at my chest (braless, as it was 7:30 am) and chomped down and bit my left breast. Hard. I was stunned, let go of her, and wollopped her on the right arm. Then I threw her into timeout, shut her door, and ignored her screaming.

Not my best parenting moment.

Yes, it hurt. It hurt a lot as last week I weaned Nico off his morning nursing and my boobs were adjusting back to their normal milkless selves and were particularly tender. But I still should not have hit her. Literally, there was not a second between action and reaction. I felt bad.

When I went into her room after her 3 minutes of timeout, I immediately apologized for hitting her. I said I was sorry, that when she bit me it hurt so bad that I hit her without thinking, but that hitting was not right, which is why she was in timeout in the first place (for hitting Nico). Believe me, the irony of the whole situation was not lost on me.

A friend Denise Galang, who is an amazing poet and teacher, wrote this sonnet about hitting on her blog. I love it.

Friday, May 7, 2010
Striking Sonnet 1

To hit or not to; is there a question?
When she scratches her baby brother’s skull
with her sharpest nail while I breastfeed him?
Spits in my face when I give her a time-out?
Smacks my cheek in the backseat of the car?
Bites my arm at the end of music class?
Throws a magnet at me when I say “Please,
be gentle. Pulling his arm is not nice.”
Don’t know how else to bear this insolence.
A lightning pulse commands my arms to strike:
I drag her off the baby to her room.
I smack her in the face and say, “Don’t hit.”
Then my quake dies down. In the aftermath,
wails, quivering words: “No! You no hitting.”

Sam & Maddy

I have got to post about our vacation before my mind decomposes into all dissertation and work talk.

Our vacation! It was lovely! I was in shock that we did it, made it, and enjoyed it after our first attempt at a vacation in early July, but it worked and restored my faith that we CAN do things with two kids and actually have a good time. In fact, while the idea of vacation has totally changed, in some ways it was even more wonderful to experience all these things with Alexandra, who remembers so much and has a constant running dialogue about all we do. I'm going to start at the end of our vacation and move backwards:

Our last leg of vacation was in New Paltz, New York. I had never been there, but it was gorgeous. Soft mountains, green lush surroundings, the smells....yum. We had an epic 11 hour car ride from Cape Cod to New Paltz which was a challenge, and we arrived in New Paltz in the dark, me driving like a grandma on the windy mountain roads to our rented cabin, but we made it. We walked into the red cabin, got the kids in bed, and I immediately passed out. It was chilly! You can't imagine how wonderful it felt to be a little cold at night.

We were in New Paltz for Sam & Maddy's wedding celebration. Well, they didn't officially get married, but it was a joining of the souls in ways that I found touching, genuine, and simply beautiful in its intentions. They had transformed a retreat center into a wedding venue; it was nestled in the mountainous terrain, fields and woods around it. So beautiful. I never realize how much I am practically starving for nature due to our urban existence until I am plopped in the middle of it.

They officiated their own ceremony with help from their families. The love they had for each other and that their families demonstrated for them was moving. The evening was full of group gatherings--the ceremony, a blessing before dinner, eating, dancing--all orchestrated by Sam & Maddy to bring together everyone they loved. Unlike any wedding I had ever attended, but perfect.

My favorite parts of the night were when Maddy's cousins toasted them and explained how Maddy was the type of person who constantly encouraged you to have a "critical pedagogy." So perfectly on spot! And Maddy's sister then did an interpretative dance/performance toast which was hilarious and heart-warming. I want to marry into Maddy's family!

Alexandra asked about a dozen times, "When are we going to dance?" We have been practicing our dancing each night after dinner for the two weddings we're attending this year. When the band came on she went BONKERS. Too cute. And she loved watching the old hippies (the parent generation) get down in the dance floor. Sometimes she'd stop dancing and just stare. I don't think she'd ever seen adults dance or seen men and women dance closely...You could see her mind taking it all in.

We stayed in colorful little cabins with some friends and the kids ran around wild, eating cherry tomatoes, visiting the two llamas the cabin owners used to mow the grass, and hiking on woodsy trails. Had me wishing we lived in a cabin commune where the kids could just run free and the parents could pop over to each others' houses at will.

We snuck back into the city before the Sunday traffic hit. It was great to get home, mainly for all the baby accoutrements that we enjoy in our apartment, but for about a week I found myself thinking Brooklyn was gross and craving a quieter, greener environment. But now I'm back into my city grind and happy. Although my mind is curious about life outside of New York...Maybe one day.

Congrats and love to you, Sam & Maddy. We look forward to sharing all the next phases of partnership with you both! Bring on those babies (wink, wink)!

(ps: Adam wore an ironic moustache to the wedding in cahoots with Brian. That's why, if you click on the kissing both photo, he looks like a child molester.)