Month: July 2018

The story begins like any other 8pm night, though this time I’m solo parenting.

In the babies room, twins asleep, singing Wheels on the Bus for likely the 19millionbillionth time. I hear a noise in the directions of the twins bed. Can’t place it. But it scared me. I ran over. They both seemed to be breathing, but something didn’t sit well with me. Sounded like a balloon (organ?) bursting inside of them. I didn’t want to touch them for fear of waking them. But I was also nervous something very wrong happened. I left the room to confer with Nathan who was at a wedding. I went back in and as I was about to lean over Jory’s bed, his head popped up and I was spotted. I quickly ran out of the room as he let out a wail. Marley was wriggling around so I knew she was safe. The noise was bizarre. But everyone was alive.

I laid in bed thinking I’d get some early sleep. But the babies kept making noises, which is abnormal for that time of night. By ten pm everyone had settled in to sleep – so I did too.

Fast forward 5am, mother fucking cat wakes me up. Babies start to stir within the hour, but we know to keep them there until 6:30.

6:30 rolls around. And we go in. As usual their bedroom smells like a large pile of crap as the babies haven’t quite regulated their poop time. After a little chat with Harper, some smiles with baby Marley, I make my way over to Jory. And OOOOO MMMMMM GGGGG.

THERE WAS SHIT EVERYWHERE.

I mean EVERYWHERE. Crib. Mattress. Arms. Toes. Back. Head. Fingers. Every. Fucking. Where.

By 7am we already had a baby in the bath. Laundry in the machine. And the “oh my god we need a vacation” internet search open.

My only saving grace is this delicious drink. I know it’s not those beach pictures my single friends are posting. And it’s not the beach houses my fancy friends are posting. And it’s not even the pool, my friends with parents close by are posting. But it’s not the first picture of the day which was us arm deep in baby shit.

Oh yeah, our dog’s pad ripped off her paw and we need to bring her to the vet. I guess this can happen tomorrow since I can’t work again – since my boy is covered from head to toe in what look like chicken pox. 🙈

I read an article, a story, a something recently, and it was just so poignant, it stuck with me.

It was a woman recounting a memory from her childhood. She reminisced about the special nights she had enjoyed with her single mom. What she remembered most were the evenings they ate together, when her food was sliced into tiny, tiny pieces. They would sit on the floor eating hot dog and chicken nugget bites, just the two of them. When she shared this memory, her mom was shocked at her retelling of those nights, as she recalled them too, but for a different reason. Those were the nights she had thought she had failed as a mother. She was so tired by the end of the day, working two jobs to support them, that she didn’t have the energy to cook. So she opened the refrigerator, found what they had, warmed it, cut it, and sat down with her daughter to finally get off her feet.

This is such an important reminder. In this day and age with social media as our dictator, we see our friends cooking their kids kale and quinoa and colorful plates of beautiful gourmet food, that in a million years I wouldn’t even consider whipping together. So from time to time, I question my abilities as a mother. “I can’t even feed my kid well. I’m failing her.” And yes, the pictures present well on Facebook, and yeah, maybe the kid is getting the nutrients they need. But, reality check, I will never be able to do that. And guess what? What the kids remember aren’t those meals.

Earlier this week, Nathan was stuck late at work. The plan had been for him to cook dinner, as he does, but now it was up to me to prepare something. Lacking the cooking gene, I asked Harper what she would like, listing off the things in our freezer. She opened the cereal cabinet and said, “cereal, with Mommy. Sit on the floor, with a mommy bowl and a mommy spoon.”

You see, there was a night a few weeks ago where I just couldn’t deal, couldn’t function, couldn’t manage, and the easiest, most possible thing for me to do, was feed us cereal on the kitchen floor. And this 2 1/2 year old’s tiny brain, even now, a few weeks later, remembered that night, that memory, and wanted to share it again with me. It made me realize what’s important. What really matters. And that’s the special time we get to spend with our kids. Sure, maybe roasted squash is better for her than Frosted Mini-Wheats, but she is still going to grow up, she is still going to get the nutrients she needs (somehow), and to me, right now, impacting her memories is the most important thing.

When Harper was less than 2 months old, I demanded that we take her to the museum (what?!). I thought it would be so good for her to be surrounded by art at such a young age. In retrospect, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Was I presuming that by osmosis she would become cultured? She couldn’t see 10 inches from her face. To get a baby from downtown, in a massive Bugaboo stroller, to the UES, to schlep her around a museum, where she slept and shat the entire time, was a complete and utter waste of time (and anxiety levels).

When the twins were born, I tried to get out immediately with them to do things. I soon realized that the amount of stuff, the amount of schedules, and the amount of stress was simply not worth it.

Needless to say, we have not strayed far from Stuytown in the last almost 10 months. Who am I kidding? I couldn’t walk for the last half of my twin pregnancy, so it’s been well over a year.

Sometimes I get sad that my kids aren’t experiencing all that the city, all that life, has to offer. But I have to tell you: When we walk into their room when they first wake up in the morning, and they are all lying there, teeny-tiny eyes open, and they see me, and they see Nathan, and their little faces light up, nothing else in the world matters.

Harper and I are home together tonight—just us. I could pretend I’m already planning dinner, making sure the fridge is stocked. But we all know that’s a lie. We will be eating Frosted Mini-Wheats, in a mommy bowl, with a mommy spoon, on the kitchen floor, and I simply can’t wait. And I’m willing to bet, she can’t either.