The Secret Emotional Life of Bloggers

My brilliant privacy solution: I was thinking about starting an email digest of posts. In other words, I would email posts that I worry about having WWW exposure to a select list of email addresses (that you readers must provide me) in lieu of attempting password-protected posts or starting a new blog. I like the idea of having some sort of reader transparency….if I have an email address then I know who’s reading, and can somewhat control exposure. Right? I don’t know. Jury is still out.

I will lament again how I wish I blogs could be more personal and detailed and truthful. Some people like to use blogs as a sort of Trapper Keeper of daily thoughts and events, and that’s fine. It’s their prerogative, after all. I now some bloggers in real life, whose lives are much much more layered and complex than the one they reflect on computer paper. I guess I just want more sometimes, for myself.

There are several blogs that I read that have recently just dropped bombshells: Everything is fine, fine, fine; the typical ruminations of a woman in her mid 30s or 40s. A collection of the normal ups and downs of life, spliced with witty insights and funny commentary. Then, all of the sudden, there is a break in posting, followed in due course by the Final Post. The “I’m shutting this blog down” with a quick explanation that usually involves some awful blindside of a reason that was never written about, never hinted at, never discussed. I hate reading a book and not being able to finish the ending.

Blogs used to be so interesting because they were so honest, raw, and exposing of truths that were for so long forum-less. Finally there was a place for women to talk about, say, the horrors of infertility in detail. Or the difficulties of being an alcoholic mom who is trying to get sober. And the whole mommy blogger revolution, where moms were exposed as people who—horror of horrors—were sometimes annoyed, overwhelmed, horrified or left unsatisfied by the process of raising children. Who doesn’t like to read a blog from a person who is telling it like it is?

If I can’t discuss in detail my relationship with, say, my mother, then what good is a blog, other than to record some daily events? Yet, I can understand why we all self-edit, why we all hide what we hide. I do see how one-sided blogging is, and how unfair it might be to paint a portrait of another person without their portrait of me. But, hey, they can start their own blog, right?!

Anyway, I didn’t mean to get into all this again. I was going to write this post about the duality of the verb “to settle.” But that will have to be for tomorrow.

Pictured above: Haircut Number Two.

Nobody knows where you're going; nobody cares where you've been

I grew up on Long Island, and knew even in those formative years that I wanted to go to a college in a city. Not just any city; New York City. I applied to tons of schools located in bucolic settings, with squares and quads and trees and woodsy paths. And I applied to NYU. When I got into NYU, I knew without hesitation or equivocation that that is exactly where I wanted to go. That is where I belonged. I promptly started playing “You Belong In the City” on the car radio (had to rewind it to listen on repeat!) and tried to make sense of the tangled colored spaghetti lines of a subway map, even though I was initially afraid to take the subway. I bought black jeans and black turtlenecks, because my only role model for NYC Cool was the Sprockets on Saturday Night Live. I was so sure that I made the right decision and couldn’t wait for my “real” life to begin. See ya, one-horse town, I’m off to the Big City! But that wouldn't be the first time my "instinct" was wrong.

Well, not wrong. Life is one big experiment, so to look at decisions as bad or wrong seems to undermine the whole point of life. Everything is an experience, right? We learn from the good decisions and the bad. But, looking back, I think I would have been much happier in a much smaller college setting. In a leafy place in a small town with a tight-knit community. A place where I might have bumped into my professors walking across a Quad. Where connections might have been forged by the seemingly insignificant events like getting coffee at the same time every day and the same place.

NYU is very, very big and very, very easy to get lost in. And that is exactly what I did. I sort of disappeared into the chaos of the city and a giant university, and ran away from childhood issues and all that, and let the city shape me. Passive maturation at its best, and most expensive.

While most of my friends have a cadre of friends from their college days, I have just one. It’s easy to see how that happens: While my high school friends were in their dorms in their non-city schools, making friends and finding the one bar in town that served the underaged, I was roaming aimlessly around an entire city. Dorms at NYU were mainly places you slept, not places to bond with floormates. There were no campus hangouts. No one spent time in the Student Center. And, sealing my fate in the friend department, at NYU I roomed with one of my best friends from high school. I don’t regret that, but I do see how that makes it harder to find new friends.

But this city. What a love affair. I love New York, and always have. I have lived here 21 years. I feel like it is more my home than Long Island ever was. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

Until recently, that is. This morning, on the treadmill, I was thinking about life in the city vs. life in Massachusetts. I was thinking how in just over a year in Mass, I have carved out a social life there that I never had in New York. When we are there, the girls have active, fun-filled days. We go to the play group every day. They have Store School. A backyard accessed through a door, and not from a stroller walk to a park. We are starting to make friends, which will certainly lead to play dates in our future. I have never managed to do that in NYC. Here, the girls’ play dates are with my group of high school friends. (I am, if nothing, a loyal person. In fact, today I will head to Long Island to visit with one and her three little girls.)

So it all has me thinking, is this another case of thinking NYC is the best place for me, the only place for me, but it really isn’t? Am I still blinded by the lights of the Big City? Am I still fooled into thinking this is the only place to make a happy, fulfilling life? Would my life be more rounded living full time in Massachusetts? The poignant part is, it’s not about me anymore. Now we need to make decision based on what’s best for the girls, and what makes sense for Nicole’s career. I take solace in knowing that I love both places. But there is a part of me that really wants to see how this story ends.

Right now, we have the best of both worlds. The truth is, I love New York and Massachusetts. And I am working on finding that ever elusive balance between the two. I don’t like spending too much time alone with the girls in Massachusetts, with Nicole in NYC working, because that fritters away the connections of our little family of four. Next year, the girls will most likely go to preschool, but the big question is, where? We are looking into some Mass schools, and will be applying to some in the city. And then there is kindergarten. Same thing: Where will they go? Where will our primary residence be? I feel so in control of this, and not.

Yeah, I can’t stop this blog. I just can’t. Thanks for your comments and emails. I will always need a forum to work through my thoughts and I truly do like feedback and other perspectives. Oh, except for the homophobic perspective. The big dilemma: How to be truthful without infringing on other’s privacy.

I'm being beckoned to a ball. Princess is encoded in Avery's DNA.

Pictured above, Valentine’s cupcakes.

Maybe I am Over Thinking It

There seems to be an epidemic of “I’m not going to blog anymore,” and bloggers who are blogging less and less. I am swirling in it too. And there is part of me that thinks I may stop soon. There are multiple reasons for this:

1. I’ll admit it, the homophobic comment freaked me a bit. I posted about it on facebook: Someone left a nasty comment here that basically said I had issues because of my sexuality and that my children will suffer in a gay family. Nice, right? I deleted it, so I doubt anyone saw it. But it really bothered me. I get that my family is not everyone’s cup of tea, but I am not thrilled when people feel like they have the right to tell that to my face, via blog comment, that is. It made me feel very exposed, and very exposed for my children.

2. Time is at a premium: In fact as I sit here, Avery is squirting leave-in conditioner in my hair and brushing it, as Madeline builds magnet boxes next to us. Taking the time to write seems like a luxury. I feel guilty, like I should be engaged with the girls instead of engaged with my own thoughts. I don’t want to take away from their time. 18 months till Kindergarten. Yes, I’m counting.

3. Not full disclosure: One of the reasons I write is because it helps me sort out my thoughts and issues. And I really value other people’s thoughtful comments. But I am having a hard time writing about certain relationships with certain people. If you’ve read this blog for a while, you will know most likely of who I speak. There are things in my head that I am trying to sort out. For example, how awful I feel about my niece and nephew’s move to China. How I feel like my relationship with them is forever cracked, due to the distance. How upset I am that they were in the US at Christmas but I didn’t see them. However, I feel like I can write about all that in detail. “I miss Leif and Skye” isn’t exactly encompassing. It’s ok for me to expose my life, but I just don’t feel like it is my right/place to expose other people’s lives and/or issues.

4. Privacy: My girls are getting older, and I feel like I need to protect their privacy more. Down the road, they might not be thrilled with the stories and anecdotes I share. There could be a lot of retro bitterness. And more of that exposure word. Or, overexposure.

There you have it. I’m still trying to figure out what to do. I sit down and write and what I write is to personal to post. Or is it? I can’t figure it out. All I know is, I will be lost if I don’t write. It is the last thread of me, who defines who I think I am. So I need to figure it out.

Something I can post about is this: Parenthood, the television show, makes me cry every episode. Every single one. I find it to be a very realistic and well written show. I did have one issue with it, though. A few weeks ago, I saw an episode (I think from the first season) that included a story line of how the teenage daughter was so impressed with her aunt’s fancy career, but she seemed not so impressed with her stay-at-home mom. I thought it was great that a television show was addressing this. This resonates with so many moms. Every single close friend mom friend I know has expressed to me at one time or another how they feel like they aren’t contributing anything/doing anything/etc. if they stay at home. So I was thrilled when I saw this very issue on television! But then, not so much. This is what happened next: The father took the daughter to a beautiful park and said, essentially, “See this great park? This park wouldn’t be here if your mom didn’t petition some people and raise $200,000.” The message that that sends is, it’s ok to be a stay at home mom, as long as you, you know, do something important, like raise 200K to build a freaking park. Maybe I am over thinking it.

Earlier this week, my friend Jen made Chicken Lo Mein for dinner. As what usually happens with us, her cravings become my cravings, and vice versa, so naturally I had to make it. The next day, she tells me how it took her two and a half hours to make and how her kids didn’t even eat it, though she and her husband loved it, even though it was too salty. (Mental note: Chinese five spice + soy sauce + Hoisin sauce + oyster sauce = seltzer all night long.). She lamented how she spent so much time —time that she COULD have spent with her kids — and to what gain? This didn’t deter me, and I subsequently spent two and a half hours doing the same thing, and ending up with the exact same result: good, but salty; kids won’t eat it; and was it worth it? Wouldn’t that time have been better spent with the girls? Should I be cutting slivers of cabbage or reading with the girls? Maybe I am over thinking it.

On an exciting note, I won a one-hour session with a psychic, and my appointment is tomorrow. I want to be a believer, I really do, but there is a giant skeptic that lives in me. I am looking for some hard-core evidence of an after-life. Which I guess proves that I suffer from a crisis of faith. Isn’t faith, after all, believing in what can’t be proven? And yet I need proof? Maybe I am over thinking it.

Pictured above, winter and scribbled art. And Avery, at the dentist, because how cute is that?

Strange, Since I've Always Been A Self-Service Kinda Girl Anyway

We are up in Massachusetts and as far as the eye can see is beautiful, fluffy, snow-white snowy snow. This is why I came up here this week, to be here for the storm, so the girls could experience Winter Wonderland, because they haven’t had much of it this year. But this is snow of the useless variety. We can’t sled on it, make good snowballs with it, or make a snow village with it. We can barely walk in it. Waist-deep for the girls; knee-deep for me, and difficult to trudge through, to say the least. A giant white blanket of tease.

That didn’t sop us from trying to make he most of it. I took the girls out in it today. It took forever putting on their socks and snow pants and mittens and boots and hats and coats. Snapping, tying, Velcroing, poking, prodding, pulling, all in an effort to cover every inch of their mini bodies to protect them from the frigid air. The girls looks ready for an Antarctic Expedition. The best part is, we almost spend more time getting ready than we do being outside! They trudged around for a little less than an hour and then started requesting “inside” and “movie” and “snacks.” So much for my dreams of taking them for a long walk in the snowy woods. I forget that their legs are like a foot long.

Still, it was a great day. And yesterday was a nearly perfect day, start to finish. I would like to take those days, Apple C them and Apple V them (copy and paste, in Mac world) on my calendar to the days that follow. I feel content and satisfied and busy. I feel like a good mom and, though Nicole is still in NYC, like a good wife, like I am keeping up my end of the unwritten, unspoken, fuzzy bargain/contract of stay-at-home mother. I felt full.

But this in not by accident. I have been working hard lately at learning how to fill up my own tank. Not easy at first, believe you me. Especially for such a Needy McNeedystein as myself . I used to have a tank that only Nicole could fill. A Nicole-shaped nozzle and hose. When I was empty, I asked her to fill me up. Not just a little….allllll the way to the tippy top. After all, we don’t put gas in our car a gallon at a time, right? All or nothing, baby.

But how can one person be solely responsible for another’s tank? It’s romantic, and practical, in some ways, but unrealistic by a mile. Maybe this would work if we were prisoners who shared a jail cell. So I added mini nozzles for the girls, thinking, oh, this will take the pressure off of Nicole. After all, I let the girls live in my womb for 38 weeks; it’s the least they could do. But filling another’s tank is way too much pressure for people who don’t even understand how to add and subtract. And besides, if I’m going to be honest here, I am not going to raise my children in a paradigm where they are responsible for the mothers’ happiness. Their very existence makes me happy. Period. And almost every night, when I go into their rooms while they are sleeping, and re-tuck them in and kiss their sleepy sleeping faces and I lay my hand over their beating hearts (I really do) and whisper that I love them and that they make me so happy. And just to be sure the message sinks in, I tell them this all day too.

This big old tank of mine, turns out, it is pretty easy to fill up. It’s obvious, I guess, to most people. But did you know that each of us are responsible for our own happiness? That we need to fill our own tanks? That there is more than one gas station? And that we can’t let people take from our tank unless we let them? There's Self Service and Full Service, and both are fine. Thunderbolt! I know I am making this all seem so simplistic, and its really not. At least, not for me. But, my goodness, I have a big tank and access to a lot of nozzles. Just sitting here, writing this blog, listening to Ingrid Michelson while also googling boxing lessons (I’ll explain later) is adding to my tank. And then, drinking some tea while I catch up on the Good Wife adds some. Tomorrow, when I take my girls to Play School and watch them run across the room and hop into the Cozy Coupe (M) and onto a trike (A) and ride around in circles for two hours fills me up twenty times more. And the best, best, best living metaphor part part? They love to play “gas station.” So I sit in my designated space on the steps of the altar (!) in the church basement and put gas (!) into my girls’ Coupe and trike tanks (!) and the realness of it, the literal, the figurative, the imagery practically makes my tank overflow. Visceral, indeed.

Pictured above, snow! Notice Avery is clutching snow balls in her mittens. They were for me, those snowballs. Also pictured, scenes from Maddie’s and my Momma/Maddie date. I love that she is holding a cupcake-to-go in a cup. Literally, a cupcake! Clever, Cupcake Cafe staffers!

I Was Feeling Part of the Scenery/I Walked Out of the Machinery

This year will go down in the record books as the year that I learned that there can indeed be spaces in togetherness without causing the entropic collapse of the universe. Or even my emotional universe. My most favored state of being is that of barnacle (as wife, mother, friend, etc.) and I am really, really good at it. I require almost no alone time. Ever. Lots of therapists have had lots of theories, but I don’t need a theory. And I don’t need to force myself to spend time alone when I would rather spend time with others. I don’t need to imagine what alone time would look like/feel like/taste like. Sharing space with others is my most favorite pastime, and I can do it until someone peels themselves away from me.

I am back in NYC after spending nearly three weeks in Massachusetts. I headed up there with the girls early December and never came back. Nicole came up for long weekends and then for the week after Christmas, and then we all headed back to NYC together on January 1st. And now, I am going though a mini culture shock.

Originally, the idea of spending time up in Massachusetts without Nicole seemed preposterous. Why ever would I go up there with the girls alone when we could all be together in NYC? Why would I want to parent (The Verb) on my own when I could look forward to company/relief/help/companionship when Nicole came home from work? And why would I even think of spending the night alone in a house in the middle of the deep dark woods, outside of screaming distance of the neighbors?

But I did it, this fall, and I worked through the fear. I am proud to say that I no longer sleep with a knife, car keys, phone and flashlight under my pillow. And I even stopped sleeping with the girls and now sleep on the couch. Sleeping upstairs alone: The final frontier. One of my Christmas presents this year should help with that. Though I still think Nicole really got this because she can control the heat from her computer, thus lowering my 80 degree thermostat setting to a more reasonable and chilly 70.

And now, I’m sort of going through this period of wondering where I belong. Ah, yes, the first existential crisis of the year Twenty Eleven. Existential with a touch of narcissism, since it isn’t just about where I belong. Madeline and Avery are power players in this scenario too. And Nicole, of course. There is no “me” in family or “I” in team and all that. And yet every me and I in a family is very important.

Winter in the city scares me a little. There is a serious deterioration of quality of life as the snow banks in the city make the sidewalks even harder to navigate and the freezing weather keeps up locked inside. Our daily trips to the park/playground/zoo halt until March. Our daily wandering walks are replaced with most-direct-path errand running. Last year was rough. It was too cold to go outside and the girls were too young to take to places like movies and museums with any sort of favorable outcome. I felt cooped up in the apartment with two energetic toddlers who didn’t understand why we could go to the playground. But in Massachusetts, there is no cooped up. There’s the parent group and Store School and all that land. And there, I feel like I am a better mom. More patient and more sane and more balanced. With a huge carbon footprint.

And yet, when I am in Massachusetts, I feel like I am leaving part of me in New York. And I don’t just mean Nicole. I do like the duality of it, and love and am grateful that we can expose the girls to the best of both worlds. But the other side of me that loves consistency and routine is feeling the burn as I straddle. And I am seeing these two sides of me emerge: The fast-walking, aggressive driving New Yorker with the meandering, “no, please, after YOU” New Englander. My parenting styles are even quite different. In NYC, I need to, for example, yank Avery by the coat collar if she dashes too close to the sidewalk’s edge and traffic. There’s mere inches between children and horrific traffic accidents. But in Massachusetts, if she is running down the driveway, I can just tell her to slow down and wait for me at the end because there is not a car in sight. And now, I feel just a little less New Yorker and a tad more New Englander, and I think that’s a good thing. Although, the New Yorker side does rear its head in Mass at time, to uproarious effect. But that’s another post.

I always said that I don’t care where we are, as long as we are together as a family. And that will never change. So this is very much a work in progress. I am very much a work in progress. And the girls, bless their little hearts, are just going with the flow.

Pictured above, snow fun! And Avery, my emotional doppelganger, with Nicole, her physical doppelganger.

Out of the Cacophonous World Symphony, A Melody Emerges

Geez. A month between posts. This is my longest hiatus since I started this thing. And I don’t even have a good excuse. I feel rusty, disconnected and a little lame.

The simple reason is my routine has shifted, and when my routine shifts as significantly as it has recently, it takes a while to figure out how all of my life parts fit in. The girls and I have stayed up in Massachusetts since Thanksgiving, with only one week back in NYC. Nicole comes up on the weekends, or longer, if she can. She comes back this Wednesday, and will then be here for the rest of the year.

Up here, seemingly out of the blue, the girls and I suddenly and serendipitously found a rhythm. It’s like we jumped into a fast game of double-dutch with both feet. I discovered an amazing parent’s group that meets every morning for two hours. The girls and I go there, and I get drink coffee and make mom friends while the girls start flexing their social muscles and playing. Then, we go to the library to pick out books and DVDs and color pictures at the crafts table. We take mini hikes in the woods or play outside in the yard, collecting rocks or sticks or leaves or whatever Madeline deems collection worthy. Even going to the mailbox is an adventure. I take them to the food store and shopping, two tasks that are much easier here than in the city. We pop popcorn and watch movies and take long bubbles baths. And at night, I read them two books, tuck in one (Maddie) and uncover the other (Avery), and kiss them both goodnight and then I relax on the couch, reading books luxuriously like I haven’t a care in the world or catching up on TV shows (Dexter, Nurse Jackie, Good Wife) that I have missed over the past two years of our TV-less life. It’s all very good. Except for that Nicole-in-NYC-thing. It’s hard on the girls and it’s hard on me, and it’s hard on her. After this season, we will need to find a better balance.

And now we are distracted by holiday madness. Last Monday I spent a lovely evening wrapping presents and drinking egg nog and feeling the spirit of consumerism I mean Christmas all around. It was all good, and I was merry indeed. The very next day I inconveniently became sick. I developed a dry, hacking cough, which turned into a rattle, then a wheeze, then back to a hacking cough, with low fevers sprinkled in here and there. I tried to carry on with the play group and the girls’ busy social agenda, but I think that in the long run prolonged my illness. Only now, on Sunday, a week later, am I staring to feel like I am turning the corner. Thank goodness, because there is less than a week till Christmas and there quite a few loose ends to tie up.

There’s a lot to look forward to this week. Nicole comes up Wednesday, which makes all of us happy. There will be lots of holiday baking. I can’t wait for our Christmas Eve fondue. And to make cookies for Santa with Avery and Madeline. And to for our annual screening of Love, Actually. And to see the looks on the girls’ faces when they wake up Christmas morning and see that Santa visited. This is it, the beginning of the wonder of childhood, unfolding before my very eyes. The magic reel that plays until it is replaced with the jaded version. How many years do we get until they stop believing? I want to appreciate and enjoy this while it lasts.

I also need to figure out which smoke detector is chirping in this house. It is driving me crazy!

Pictured above, Madeline meets a sure-to-be very important player of her childhood memory bank. And, while I was watching TV, Nicole was spending her evenings with Arianna Huffington. Yes, I am jealous! Very jealous!

Tis the Season For Tis The Season Blog Title Variations

I have a Facebook friend who is constantly broadcasting her good deeds: How much she volunteers and how much she donates and how much she does for others, with no gain for herself. And I find it perplexingly annoying. If you do a good deed and feel the need to announce it, then that seems to make it a little less altruistic, no? And yet I feel ridiculous lambasting a person who does indeed help others.

This is something interesting I noticed: In NYC, at the food store checkout line, there are little slips of paper that you can rip off and add to your bounty. Each slip is a little under seven dollars and it buys a meal for a homebound person in the city. It is subtle and casual and oh so easy to do. Here in Mass, I was at the grocery story and I nearly ran into, literally (runaway toddler) a giant display of those now lead-filled recycled bags filled with food. You can lift one of these ten pound bags of food and put it into your cart, taking up a good quarter of your cart, then pay for it, and — this is the kicker — put the giant bag in a giant box at the front of the store, to be delivered to a food shelter. Why not just employ the same slip of paper method? Why waste so much space and effort?

This is my very unscientific survey: In the city, I am a the grocery store every day, and frequently waiting on lines, and I have not seen one person take one of those clandestine tickets and buy a homebound persona meal. Not one. But in Mass, every time I am at the food store, I see DOZENS of people lifting those big, showy bags and putting them in their carts. Sometimes, even, two bags. I know there are all sorts of studies about this. Turns out we adults are a lot like kids, and we respond well to recognition and reinforcement for good behavior. “I Voted!” stickers come to mind. And the blood donation stickers. That sort of thing.

And, as long as we re talking about giving, it has always bothered me that some celebrities refuse to do commercials or endorsements, even though they are promised millions of dollars. I always think, why CAN’T you do a commercial for a freaking jewelry line that will be aired only in Japan, and take your $5 million dollar endorsement fee and, I don’t know, build a school? Make a food shelter’s year? Support a library? The celebrities say doing commercials and endormsemt will hurt their career. So what does that say about our society? Are we really going to stop watching someone’s movies because they did a commercial in Japan? It’s all so absurd. I would think that it would help their careers. Instead, pseudo celebrities are taking money for their own gain. Those ridiculous family of sisters have their clothing line and credit cards and TV shows and will show up for the opening on an envelope, especially if they get aid for it, and they are laughing all the way to the bank. Are they sharing? I’m gonna go out on a limb and say no.

Something I love about my Massachusetts town is that they just approved in their budget to spend just over 100K to help secure housing for the “6 to 7” homeless people in town who are committed to sobriety. I love that. The local food shelter recently received a 200K donation from a local school janitor, who saved that money his entire life. I love the sense of community here.

So what is the point of this whole post? I have no idea, really. All this is running though my head and the girls are sleeping and I have the luxury to raamble on.

Pictured above, I took the girls to Friendly’s. About halfway through our meal, a Veteran (he was wearing one of those war hats) came over and gave me a coupon for a free kid’s meal. It made me cry. Here is this hunched over man, who gave his time to serve our country and even now, in his old, old age, he is still giving. What can I say? I’m feeling sentimental these days. Meanwhile, the sundae looked nothing like the picture on the menu! False advertising. Who can I sue?

Mother/Electrician/Emotional Caretaker/Mere Bystander

Tonight Avery was climbing up the steps to the deck and said something when she got to the top that stopped me in my tracks, literally: “You can’t get me, monsters.” Now, there is little doubt that Avery and I share nearly identical emotional circuitry, but this particular statement is one that I used to say often (and its variation, “Monsters come and get me”) as a child. My own battle cry, of sorts, that I would declare once I was certain I was in a safe zone. And hearing Avery say it…How does that happen? How does Avery echo iterations identical to mine, thirty years later? My personal childhood soundtrack, in her three-year-old mouth?

She’s sensitive, this we know for sure. She is very loving and affectionate. She’s creative and gentle with animals and infectious with her joy. She has a sense of humor that cracks me up. And…she’s a little needy, which, of course, is adorable when one is three, but not so much when one is, say, close to 40. Life is hard when you go around with your heart stapled to your sleeve. But how do you warn a toddler about that?

Avery is also very impressionable, which was reinforced today when I introduced the Elf on A Shelf thing to her and Madeline. I told the girls the whole story (elf watches the girls all day; flies back to Santa and reports at night; relocates to new spot each morning). This highlighted Avery’s other quality silmilar to mine: She asks a LOT of questions. How does he fly, she asked. He has no wings. I said he flies by magic, like Santa. But Santa has flying reindeer, she responded. Oh. So that’s how it is now. I actually need to work on my lies. I can’t leave Grand Canyon-sized holes and assume she will not see them. I wormed my way out of that one. Just barely.

She kept an eye on that elf all day. I caught her sneaking peeks at him. She even referenced Chaco to her sister: When Maddie misbehaved, Avery warned her that Chaco saw it and Chaco would tell Santa. At the end of the day, she asked me to pick her up to see if Chaco was smiling. I assured her that Chaco would deliver a glowing report, and she seemed visibly relieved. I swear she sighed with relief. It is cute and charming and all that, but I felt terrible. I know there is a tangible reward for all of her good behavior (lots and lots of presents) but the writing is on the wall: We have a people-pleaser, an approval-seeker; keep-the-peacer on our hands. Hello, Mini Me.

We went out to dinner tonight, and meet up with Auntie Annie. The girls were both a little not tame, which is never good when spaghetti is involved. Madeline literally had a hysterically laughing Avery in a head lock and Auntie Annie told the girls that the waitress talks to Santa, so they better behave. Avery’s face went white and she became still as a stone, lips pursed, hands down at her sides. Maddie continued her hi-jinx — if not escalating said jinx — as if to pooh-pooh our waitress and her Santa connection. Then Auntie Annie delivered the best line of the night: “Maddie doesn’t care about Santa because she can make a toy out of a stick and a rock.” And that is so true. Maddie doesn’t need the toys. Or approval. Or incentive. Or even to please. I don’t mean that in a bad way; indeed those very qualities will serve her well in life. I admire that immensely. Maybe she can teach me a thing or two. But my Avery, she just sat there, almost petrified. Because she is afraid she is disappointing Santa and disappointing Santa hurts her.

So all day I found myself delivering Yoda-like speeches to Avery: “You don’t have to be perfect all of the time, but you must show remorse if you were not good.” And “Being good is its own reward sometimes.” I delivered various other statements that I am sure went over her head because the truth is, I have never been good at imparting lessons to the toddler set. It’s an art, really, and this coming from someone who is good with metaphors and similes and such.

But let the record reflect that there is a smidge of concern over here. I want Avery to be Avery, but I also want to shrink the lessons I learned after almost four decades of living to fit her. Going through life overly concerned about what others think is not the greatest way to live. How do I dial that down without overly distilling who she is? How do I cater to her emotional needs, while also showing her that she doesn’t need to be so needy? How do I let her exercise free will while also molding her? This is the parental paradox. On one hand, I am just a caretaker of this beautiful blooming flower. In a way, my job is just to protect it in the most basic way and watch it grow, because with or without me, she will. On the other hand, I am trying to add some fertilizer to the soil and help the flower be the best it can be. I love my daughter exactly how she is. But I can say with certainty that her emotional makeup will lead to quite a few sad days in her later life.

In many ways, I am proud that my daughter will grow up and be like me. In a way, seeing this girl evolve into me — especially lately — has made me feel a little more confident about myself. But I don’t want her to suffer the heartache and break that comes to those of us with such raw emotional circuitry. So I find myself scrambling a bit now, to burn the end of my own emotional circuits and disconnect a few wires that have proven to always end in sadness; to remember that while my job is to feed and bath and clothe, it is also to be a role model for my children, which is a role that often gets lost in the shuffle.

But if Avery chooses to live her life that way, then I am fine with that, too. I know how to feed that kind of soul. And I can promise her that I will always be there to help her pick up her pieces.

It is raining and I love the thud of the big drops on the roof. My girls are up now. It’s time to see where the Elf landed last night.

Pictured above, this is the face Avery had when I told her that Nicole and Maddie went for a walk alone. Avery, like me, wishes she could Velcro herself to Nicole. Alas. Also pictured, the Elf on the Shelf. And Avery, concentrating on painting her spice rack for Nana.

If You Don’t Have Anything Nice To Say

If our tax dollars pay for roads and schools, then why are there all those adopt-a-highway programs and why do we subsidize school funding with lotteries? There is a Wall Street hedge fund billionaire (this guy made two billionaire last year, which means he made a million dollars 2,000 times in ONE year, which means he could spend a million years every morning and every night for a year and still not come close to tapping his bank account) who is funding the campaign of a radical candidate who believes that the Constitution should be replaced with the Old Testament and that public schools should be abolished. Billionaires can buy candidates, and that is exactly what is going to happen soon. The top .000000001 percent of our nation’s populace will pick our government officials, and I’m guessing this doesn’t bode well for the masses.

Yeah, this is the sort of stuff that runs through my head all day. Well, that among other things. But it is really easy to feel like a teeny tiny speck of not-gonna-make-a-difference-so-why-bother. I’m trying to come up with my own action plan. My first objective: Convince Nicole to close all of our Big Chinese Bank accounts and put all of our money into a local bank. And if Bloomberg decides to run for President I will totally volunteer for his campaign.

Meanwhile, when random political thoughts aren’t racing around my head, I am reeling from a gift that our neighbors in NYC gave us. They were doing a bathroom renovation, which made quite a bit of noise. As a thank you for putting up with it, our neighbor gave us a gift certificate to have a family portrait done by a professional photographer/artist. We sit for a photo session and then an oil painting is created, based on the photo. Black tie suggested, for all of us. Total cost: Five-thousand dollars. Insane! I am beyond excited, and have spent more than a few hours coming up with creative outfit ideas. I tried to convince Nicole we should all dress as equestrians. Overruled. Hey, I thought it would be kitschy. Though I am trying to figure out a way to include over-the-knee boots. I scheduled a sitting for early next year, so we have some time to figure out clothes. And color my hair. The photographer will call me a month before to discuss the color scheme for the portraits intended hanging spot. Ha! Our apartment is not a blend of mid-century or Baroque or Minimalist anything. Cute that he thinks we have a design scheme. "Pottery Barn" with touches of "Restoration Hardware" about sums it up.

Pictured above, dress idea? That is so not something I would wear, but why not have fun? Who wants to see a portrait of me in jeans and a turtleneck with a cardigan? Not hot.Not hot at all. Also pictured, a bird, with a nut in his mouth.

Nature, 2. Nuture, Zero.

Avery may physically resemble Nicole, but it is becoming abundantly clear that Avery has the same emotional framework that I have.

The girls and I came up to Massachusetts early again this week. My “soaking up every last ounce of fall” rationale is evolving into “we need to be here to witness the first snowfall, which can be any time” excuse. Regardless, the girls love it, and I do too. Walks in the woods and trips to a real food store and visits to the library and running in the driveway trying to catch leaves as the fall on us does our souls good. Obviously, the biggest drawback is Mommy/Nicole withdrawal. We all know that I do not crave many spaces in togetherness, but I am at the point in life when I realize 1.) it isn’t all about me anymore and I need to remember that the girls come first and 2.) some space is a good thing and 3.) Nicole loves alone time so she benefits from an empty apartment every now and then and 4.) really interesting things happen when routines are all shook up.

Avery mentions Nicole all the time and asks when she is coming back. She misses her in an obvious and constant and wistful and occasionally visceral way. (Madeline, on the other hand, is the strong, silent type.) That alone makes her a lot like me. But our exchange the other morning really drove the point home.

Let me preface this by saying that I don’t like to yell or raise my voice to the girls, but when one spends 12 hours a day, every day, with them, sometimes I slip. And being up here alone, without Nicole, means that there is not an ounce of relief in sight. The other rainy morning, I was trying to get the girls dressed and shoed and jacketed and hooded and out the door to go to a toddler event at the library. I am never late, but having kids has definitely pushed me to the border of my lateness comfort zone. Cooperation is key, and I wasn’t getting it form Avery at all.

The more I asked Avery to cooperate, the more she too that as a license to run around like a crazy child. And she was being very picky and petulant. She had a fit and wanted to wear Maddie’s jacket, which I foolishly acquiesced to after about five minutes of listening to her whine about it. But then, after I switched the coats (Maddie is so very low key about these things), she wanted her coat back. You see where this is going. I started to loose my patience, and I spoke in a strong voice. She was jacket-less. She still didn’t have her shoes on. Maddie was ready and I was ready, so I started gathering the keys and books and told Avery to put on her shoes and meet Maddie and me at the car. Avery freaked out. She burst into tears, and ran around in circles looking for her shoes. She looked and acted terrified and was clearly in a panic. And then she broke my heart and asked me “Can you please hug me, Momma?”

She has asked for hugs before, and I know I need to hug her after a time out or a tough toddler/Momma moment, but this time it hit a chord with me. That is something I would do, demand that hug. Beg for physical contact. That is exactly how I act. I get so upset when I know (or think) I disappoint someone or even just during a difficult exchange that I feel like I need an instant and immediate physical act of proof that the other person still loves me. So while maybe I made someone mad or upset, I still feel like they love me. Childish, I know, but it is important to me. And it is why I tried to enact a rule that Nicole and I had to hold hands when we argued (I read it somewhere), but that sort of fell by the wayside. But I do think it is an important symbolic gesture.

Nothing is crueler than capitalizing on a child’s worst fears, and I won’t do it to mine. Some people, once they smell your intense fear of abandonment, really love to exploit it. This fear of mine has been exploited on quite a few occasions in my life, starting at a very early age. Was I born this way or did it evolve? I don’t know. But I do know that apathy and abandonment and even the threat of abandonment certainly added fuel to that emotional fire of mine.

While denying Avery affection or a hug certainly would drive my own point home to her, I won’t do it. There are probably 40 parenting philosophies that contradict this, but I will hug Avery on demand, no matter when she demands it. I will interrupt a time-out for a hug. And I am now starting to tell her that even when Momma is angry or upset or sad that she did something, I still love her. I don’t want her growing up thinking that love is conditional or that abandonment is normal. It’s not in my world.

In fact, I have a philosophical argument that proves that there is no such thing as abandonment, but that is another post.

And right now, at this very moment, Avery is biting her toenail with her mouth, which is something I did as a child (and can assure you I DON’T do anymore!). Nature, Point 2!

Pictured above, look who snuggled next to me as I typed this post. See….no space, physical or otherwise, in our togetherness! And also, late fall pictures.

It Might Come Cannon-Balling Outta the Sky

Watching the election return coverage is making my heart race. Political discourse these days is just so petty, contentious and annoying. Fox is too FOX. CNN is too CNN. MSNBC IS too MSNBC. Everyone yells and bickers and no one answers questions anymore. Spin spin spin and push your own agenda. Oh, then make an “It Gets Better” video, but don’t actually do anything to help things get better.

I voted in the morning, and it was a harrowing experience. It feels like it never happened. First, the polls opened about 25 minutes late, and I was five minutes early anyway, so I waited about a half hour to *maybe* vote. I watched one doctor walk out without voting because he had to get back to the hospital, and wouldn't get a chance to leave later in the day. Democracy in action, folks! The scanners weren’t working so I was directed by three distracted employees, who were clustered around me and several others, reading manuals and chewing on their fingers and arguing over how we vote without scanners. It was decided we fill out the ballot and stuff it into an envelope. I feel like my vote is out there, uncounted, lost in the bureaucracy of the NYC Board of Elections. The poll workers were not very encouraging. I had to even ask the yawing poll worker to return my ID.

And now, the returns on TV are just making me feel anxious and sad. Everyone seems so defeated or smug. Plus, I really hate that they make Rachel Maddow wear makeup. Couldn’t we take her seriously in a clean face and sneakers? I could. Why can't that be a Prop to vote for?

Anyway. After voting, I hightailed it up to Massachusetts with the girls. It is decidedly past peak here, but it is still heart-stoppingly beautiful. The palette has changed again: The golds have deepened to a rusty color and the reds are a bit browner. Most of the leaves have fallen off the trees, and the ones that are left drop like torpedoes. The air is chilly, though, and you can feel winter’s icy fingertips reaching for us. I’m ready! Well, first I need to buy new gloves, but the I will be ready. I lit a fire tonight, my first one all by my own self, as Avery would say, and after some fits and starts, it was decidedly roaring, then all glowy with burning embers. The girls are sound asleep and I am lounging in partial pajamas, as it is so hot. But I don't mind.

And the stars are just beautiful. I held Avery outside, tipping her back in my arms so she could see them twinkle, and she serenaded me with her "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

Tomorrow we will collect pine cones to make fire starters and go to story time at the library and paint with purple and red paint (their favorite colors) and make our daily trip to the food store for coffee! and cart rides! and aisle wandering! and go in search of some post-Halloween 90 percent-off bargains. I also will officially begin Christmas shopping.

There is an electric charge in the air or maybe just in my air. Or maybe it’s my lip gloss. Could be. Who knows? There's something due any day, I will know right away, soon as it shows. Etc.

Pictured above, Avery, our little Firestarter, helping with the wood. And Halloween. It was kinda a bust, as only three people in the neighborhood we traveled to opened their doors. I had NO idea there was a scientific process for picking out a neighborhood (I went with one with sidewalks....) But the girls were ecstatic anyway, so that alleviated the guilt I felt a bit. Next year, we will pick a better hood. You know, one with people that give out candy.

OK, I need to crack a window or take off more clothes. It's getting hot in here....

Triangles, Tanks, Teabags and How Does Your Garden Grow?

Everyone has a few talents in life, and one of mine is metaphors. Or, if I want to be technically accurate — and who doesn’t — I am good at long, in-depth analogies that include metaphors and occasionally similes.

I was talking today to a friend — who describes herself as a go-getter, a why-waiter, a love-maker and a life-liver — and explaining my garden analogy to her. She encouraged me to write it down, along with a couple others I have shared with her.

So here it is. Maybe it will change the way you look at yards.

You can tell a lot about a person by observing how they garden. Or, as the case is often, how they don’t garden. This is impossible to understand without examples (here come the analogies and metaphors!), so here’s one: There is this….person….I know who fancies herself a gardener. When asked what activities she enjoys, she will mention gardening. Conjures up images of wet dirt and spades and shovels and piles of weeds in a wheelbarrow. Sounds nice, right? However, step into her yard and you will notice immediately that you are not in the yard of someone who truly understands the verb “garden.” The lawn is frequently not mowed; trees and bushes grow out of control, with no pruning or trimming. There is no new growth, except weeds. Seeds are never planted and new plants and trees are never cultivated. The yard looks almost the same as it did twenty years ago, when she bought the house. She simply moved in and…did nothing. The only things she does is occasionally buy showy seasonal flowers: The kind you display for a couple of months till they die. Or, in other words, the kind of beauty that requires no effort at all.

This is not to say there isn’t beauty in this yard: There is. There is a beautiful thriving blue hydrangea, which blooms each spring without fail. The lesson here is simple: Beauty can grow, sometimes without attention or effort or intent. It’s indomitable, and can thrive in the worst of circumstances. And it’s inability to be killed off often speaks more to its own tenaciousness and not always that of its groomer.

So why does this person consider herself a gardener? Who knows, but she really and truly does. And yet her efforts in the garden amount to a couple of hours every couple of months and a few afternoons of raking leaves in the fall. This is also a person who does little to change her life; a person who does not put time and attention into relationships; a person who will take credit for beauty when it is not hers to take.

There are people who plant seeds, and water and weed and nurture and grow. There are people who look at a dying plant or tree and think, I can save that, and do. There are people who plant bulbs each fall, knowing that their reward may or may not come the following spring, but they do it anyway, their patience and faith and optimism is just that solid and formed. There are people who buy expensive plants and then ignore them, leaving them to wither and die, starving for water and light and attention. There are those rose gardeners, in their neat little gloves and usually a wide-brimmed hat, who carefully and strategically snip snip snip, even taking away what seems beautiful, for the greater good. There are those who carefully remove the weeds that are choking their trees. The ones who plant the same things year after year, with amazing results. The ones who plant the same things year after year, with detrimental results. There are those with no yard at all, who have one old plant on a windowsill or fire escape, that they water faithfully for years and years. The ones who have the most amazing flowers, shrubs and trees right outside their window, but they don’t even notice. People who see the beauty in weeds. Those whose street-facing window boxes are perfect, but private back yard is a mess. I could, of course, go on and on, as there is an endless array of gardening styles out there.

Is this an infallible way of learning about a person’s character? I think not. What is, really? But I do think that every action we make speaks to who were are as people. If there is one thing I believe in with all my heart it is this: Actions speak louder than words. This is one of the reasons why all those “It Gets Better” videos bothered me. I can’t stand the hypocrisy of politicians — including the president — saying it will get better and it will be okay, and yet these politicians are not taking steps to make laws that might protect these people and make changes that just might ensure that things will indeed get better. Yes, they get their damn sticker for even making a statement, but back up all those words with some actions. I digress.

So: Actions speak louder than words. And every action we execute helps define who we are. Our words can support who we are, but sometimes they support who we want to be instead. Our intentions, as it were. But our actions don’t lie. Therefore, how a person gardens just might offer some insight into who they are. It doesn’t work across the board, and it is open to much interpretation, and, yes, it is hard to apply to city dwellers (but not impossible), but it does work on a certain level.

I could extrapolate this further and say that the type of flowers we like might also give insight into who we are. Like me, for example. I love hydrangeas. Love them. Blue or pink or white. I want a yard full of them. I have no clue why I am drawn to them, but I am. They are a little fussy and only bloom under specific circumstances and need a lot of attention. Pot, meet kettle. My friend Molly reminds me of a sunflower: Sunny, bright and heliocentric, which means she, like the sunflower, will turn her head into the sunlight. What a great way to get through life. We all need to be sunflowers sometimes. I know a few cacti, of course (who doesn’t?) and a few beautiful vines that really are toxic weeds. But most of the people I surround myself with are perennials.

What kind of gardener am I? We have had the Massachusetts house for a year, and I can now say that I am more of a gardener than I ever was before. My gardening traits are starting to show. I know I should rake, but I love to see the lawn carpeted with those golden yellow, red and brown leaves. I planted bulbs for the first time this year, but am skeptical that those brown, onion-like nuggets I threw six to eight inches into ground will actual bloom into something beautiful. How does that happen? I tend to gravitate toward planting fully grown or partially grown things. I took it personally that the sunflower seeds I planted didn’t grow, even though I literally threw a few seeds in the dirt to see what happens. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty or get down in the mud, but I am not sure what I am doing and need lots of guidance from manuals, seed packets, other people, or the Internet. I don’t like watering plants, because I am not used to standing still for any length of time, but I do it anyway, because I know plants need it. I think weeds have a place in this world.

I want to have the most amazing, lush perfect, sanctuary-like garden by next spring, but I realize that it is going to take years of continual hard work, effort and patience, not to mention weeding, deadheading, transplanting and cultivating, before that even remotely happens. And I am okay with that.

I have gotten into the habit of checking on the girls before I turn in, and re-tucking them in and giving them another kiss or three. Three and a half years old and I still can’t kiss them enough.

Coming soon: More analogies! One about tea bags and one about impenetrable triangles and one about the tanks that we all have…

Pictured above, as someone once wrote (and named a blog!) hydrangeas ARE pretty! Below that, my little gardeners. And Madeline, in the leaves. I am so proud that she sees the beauty in fall foliage. And some of the bulbs: A big seed and a lesson in patience and faith wrapped up in one onion-like package.

I Need A Trapper Keeper For Random Thoughts

A snippet of a typical toddler conversation in these here parts:

M: “Looks Avery, Tape! Tape tape tape!”
A: “Momma got brand new soap for us and it’s pink!”
M: I like tape!

Well, their conversations aren’t always this scattered. They can have full-on chat fests and they tell each other stories all the time. Pretending is big with them now. I’m grateful that they get along so well. Apparently that is a rarity in the sibling world.

I am up in Massachusetts alone. Well, not alone, with the girls too, of course. I think of us as an inseparable unit: Wherever you find them, you’ll find me, and vice versa. Not that I am complaining. I am trying to slow down the passage of time and make these days last longer, especially since my niece and nephew left for China. Time is fleeting, and forty other clichés. This precious time home with my girls will pass, and I will lament that some day. I know I will. Empty nest syndrome is going to hit me hard, in kindergarten.

Coming up here alone is no easy feat for me. I am not a fan of spending the night alone, and being in the middle of the deep, dark woods does not help. I sleep with a flashlight, cell phone and car keys under my pillow. I would put a pocket knife under there too, if I had one. I sleep in the girls room and have an escape plan, should something happen (jump out window with girls and run like the wind). I leave the car parked in the opposite direction that I usually do, to facilitate a snappy, high-speed getaway. Yes, I worry and fret and conjure up all sorts of awful scenarios that are too absurd for even a bad made-for-TV movie. Be prepared: That’s my motto. Which might serve me well in life, if it weren’t for the fact that our lives are defined by moments that we never see coming. So I may be prepared for fires and intruders and bears, oh my, but it’s the wild card scenario that will do me in.

Which remind me…a friend of mine asked me to email her my final wishes. A list of things I want to make sure will happen, should I die. Morbid, no? But smart, especially as we get up there in years.

It is worth it, though, coming up here. We miss Nicole/Mommy, but the girls have such a great time. There is more room for them. We spend so much time outdoors. There are farms and pumpkin patches and llamas to visit. Stores with free day care. Fall foliage in abundance. Today I am taking them to a toddler story hour at the library. Yes, I can do these things in the city but everything is 1,000 times easier out here.

And, starting today some time between 2 and 5, we will have cable. After almost a year of no television, we decided it might be a good idea after all.

Final thought: I hate Play Doh containers. It hurts like hell, ripping those lids off. The side of my finger all ripped up. Yet another good reason to buy a multi-use pocket knife.

Pictured above, the girls first hair cut, and fall is busting out all over. And yet we are already putting up the Xmas lights….

Turning the Shards into a Stained Glass Window...

I am a mother of toddlers, which means if you looked in the giant bag I carry around (it’s a bag, not a purse. I don’t own purses) you will find extra pairs of size 4 princess undies, an extra pair of size four pants, a pink tutu, a random, awkwardly shaped toy that I was unable to negotiate leaving at home, and crushed emergency snacks in a zip lock bag. Today I brought the traveling Mom show on the road, and took the girls to visit Nicole at her office and then onto a play date with two friends and our combined seven children.

The girls lost their little minds in the glass elevator trip up to Nicole’s floor. Madeline actually gasped as we ascended, she was that excited. A few minutes later, as I sat in Nicole’s office, I wondered out loud (Nicole is used to my unedited ramblings…) if this could be one of the girls’ first memories, visiting Mommy at work. “Work” is such an esoteric concept for them, so could being in her office and putting the words with imagines make something click? I always wonder when that magic moment is going to happen, of the first memory. I hope that it is a warm, safe, cozy one. My early memories are just shards. I'm trying to arrange them into a lovely stained glass window, I really am.

Anyway, office visit did not disappoint. The girls were in heaven. Not one not two but THREE computers. A giant phone with a fancy screen and buttons. Avery pointed to various parts of the mega phone, asking Nicole what it is, because she has never seen a phone quite like this. “It’s still the phone,” Nicole said. About six times, as Avery’s finger inched a little more right, right, right. A chair that spins in circles and a round conference table to run around. A strange multi colored wall plug. And, of course, the corporate candy of choice, Twizzlers. Avery even found a Tinkerbell candy at the bottom of Nicole’s candy dish. The girls were in exploration nirvana, and I will not be surprised if they ask me to take them there every day for the next week or so.

The play date was so very pleasant. It was amazing how all of the kids played well together and actually gave their mommies time to (gasp! Can it be?) talk. Of course, she sat around talking mainly about the kids. But it was nice to do that without interruptions. We also discovered that combined the three of us would make the perfect wife: One excels at cooking, the other excels at meticulous cleaning and making a lot of money, and I bring organization to the table. That may seen insignificant compared to what the others bring to the table, but let’s remember that an organized home is a happy home. And imagine life arriving five minutes early for everything. Nice, right? Oh, and I could be the memory keeper and I am good at packing and heavy lifting. Cue up "I'm Every Woman."

Above, we went to a Fall Festival over the weekend. Maple snow-cones and fried dough with maple cream and apple pies and cider and artsy craftsy things. And one of the best caramel apples I have ever eaten (I may be wrong, but I think I tasted marshmallow is the caramel…) And the girls in Nicole’s office. Crappy picture, but I like that I am in it with them, sort of, all fuzzy in the window's reflection. Here we go again with window imagery and metaphors. I have so few pictures of the girls with me. They are my picture unicorns.

tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther....*

When my girls are in bed, in cute jammies, sleeping soundly, I feel like the worst mother in the world for a thousand little reasons. Like I could have done better. Should have done better. More, better, faster, longer. I feel bad that I didn’t make magical Bento Box lunches, like the magical Briar. That they didn’t eat anything green today. I feel bad that I didn’t read enough books, and even snapped one closed when they were being too wiggly, and threatened to stop reading for good unless they adhered to my reading policiy. I let them watch too much TV, because we were stuck inside for most of the day, trapped by the threat of a massive storm named Nicole, which turned out to be not much of anything. (We made it to the playground, at least.) I let them eat way too many ice pops, mainly because I love watching Avery shuffle off to the kitchen, open the freezer, pull out a pop and hide it behind her back and then come and find me wherever I am, and say “Don’t be mad Momma. I just want a purple pop. Purple’s my favorite.” How can I say no to that? How? I can’t. But after three pops each, they explode into a sugar rush and play Let’s Move All The Cushions And Pillows into One Central Location and Jump! and I deeply regret my errors and lose patience.

But now when they are all nestled in their beds, Maddie tucked in like a bug in a rug and Avery, on top of her covers, which are already twisted up. And then I take comfort in the fact that I let them stomp in puddles at the playground, because that’s what kids do, and just gave them a bath when they got home. And I let them play “Slide” in the tub, even though it is, oh, dangerous. “Look Momma, you’re smiling” said Avery. Because it did make me smile, the way they stood up at the back of the tub and said “Let’s do it together” and then they would sliiiiide down and make a splash. The look of surprise on the faces, it made me smile. And I let them each pick out a snack at the store (Cheddar Bunnies for Avery and Scooby Snacks for Madeline). So maybe that is the balance there. I try to remember that a good mother doesn’t have to be perfect all of the time.

Back up to Massachusetts tomorrow. It is stunning up there now, with the leaves changing color. It’s bulb planting time. I think the girls are going to love doing that. Maybe almond asiago pesto pizza with farm-fresh leeks and squash and corn. Maybe a movie on the couch at night, while I wait, hopefully, to hear the owl calls. Taking lots of pictures and waiting to see if one of my pictures receives an honorable mention in a photo contest I entered. That would be nice.

* Thanks Fitzgerald. He gets credit for that quote.I always loved that. Seems an apt description of motherhood.

Political Parties, Potties, Personalities, Pink Sauce

I am thinking about switching my voter registration to republican, but not really switching parties. Here is my maybe-not-logical thinking: If I register as a republican, I can vote in their primary elections. And if I vote in republican primary elections, I can select the lesser of republican evils. Before people start yelling, I am not calling republicans evil. Well, not all of them. But there is a special place in hell for Cheney, don’t you think? Also, not a fan of the recently deceased Kl.u Kl.u.x K.la.n senate member Robert Byrd. So if a republican is holding a public office, then I would prefer a liberal one, who supports gay rights and stem cell research and a woman’s right to choose, etc. And the republican party is on the cusp of change and evolution, and these divides are becoming quite prominent. They are becoming so much more dynamic than democrats.

What good is my democrat primary vote doing anyway? The democrat party is white-washed and the candidates are too close in positions to make any real difference to me that I tend to vote for The Woman, my own political version of affirmative political action. As a democrat voting in primaries, I am basically practicing feminism, and not true political decision-making. But if I were voting in the republican primaries, I am pretty certain I would be paying more attention to the subtle nuances of character and record, and looking deeper into their positions. And when it comes down to general elections, I can make an informed decision. Or, at the very least, be able to defend my selection with more facts.

All this mosque controversy and Quran-burning ridiculousness (A church with fifty followers? I feel like I could establish that by dinner. Think of the tax breaks!) and the mid-term elections and DADT and double-dip recession talk and, in international news, France and its Burqa ban, has got me in a political/religion-discussion mood. Anyone else? I miss the conversations and debates and even the flame wars that everyone was having around the presidential election time. Everyone, including myself, seemed much more engaged way back then. Now bitterness and anger and I-told-you-so’s are the flavor of the day, in both camps. There’s the “Nobama” camp and the previous Obama supporters, who are a tad more defensive than I would like. Is he a Clinton or Carter? Only time will tell, but history has proven it is too early to know that answer quite yet, so we should simmer down, live with our decision, for better or worse (after all, there’s no going back now) and focus on the critical November elections.

On a completely different note, my children cleverly justify any annoying sound they make with “But Momma, I’m trying to make music!” This makes me feel like I’m interfering with their artistic expression if I ask them to stop banging with a wooden spoon or hitting their potty with a block. Other expressions heard round here include “But Momma, I’m trying to make a cake” and “But momma, I am trying to make a pool.” These situations usually involve big messes. And then there is Maddie’s all-encompassing line: “But Momma, I’m trying to do something” and “I’m practicing.” This is what she says when she is doing anything wrong.

There are two potties here now and we are in the throes of potty training. We started last week in Massachusetts, and it was touch and go. In other words, frustrating, messy and traumatic for both of them. Then, on Sunday, something clicked with Avery. She is suddenly using the potty exclusively and using a pull up at night. Nicole warns not to get too cocky; indeed I have heard horror stories of reversals. My fingers are crossed that she is transitioned.

Madeline is taking a slower path, but she is wearing underwear and is making it to the potty 75 percent of the time, so I am grateful for that. When I start to get frustrated I remind myself that they are two different children with two different personalities and two different internal schedules. This is abundantly clear when they dance: Avery channels Bob Fosse while Madeline prefers a Twyla Tharp approach. Still, potty training is going a lot faster than I thought, which is in general how I feel about everything since having kids. It's 2010. When did that happen?

OK, time to make pink sauce for dinner.

Pictured above, scenes from last week, including a rare picture of Madeline, the Marlene Dietrich of the twin set. Well, technically, I have so few pictures of Madeline because she is so kinetic, not because she is private. It’s hard to get her to stand still, let alone smile at the camera and say cheese.