Shaking Off The Dust

The twins are now 3 1/2, if you can believe it.

In some respects, it feels like it has been for.ev.er since they were born; and in other respects, I can't believe how quickly it's gone.  I was only just getting the hang of parenting twins when we found out (unexpectedly) that I was pregnant with Nathan, and in the blink of an eye I was, quite suddenly, a mother to three children under the age of 2.  Add a full-time job into the mix and, well, you can imagine how the last few years have seemed a little foggy.

I don't know how to say it other than to say that I feel like I'm slowly waking up from a long nap.  Things seem brighter, and happier somehow.  I am enjoying spending time with my children, and laughing with them, rather than constantly changing them and feeding them and rocking them to sleep and worrying about whether or not I was giving them enough attention.  

And I don't think I'm the only one that is noticing.  The kids seem happier lately.  (And by happy I mean they are only screaming, crying, and fighting 75% of the time, instead of 90%).  Michael surprised me with flowers today...a token of affection that I haven't seen in years (not that he's not affectionate....but we have definitely felt too busy and overwhelmed for any romantic gestures).  And colleagues at work have been so complimentary lately, too. I can't tell you how happy this makes me, since three and a half years ago my post-partum depression was so bad that I felt I would never be happy again.

I know I still have many busy years ahead.  But I certainly appreciate how far I've (WE'VE) come.  :)

Some Days, Other Days

Some days I feel like I have tons to blog and talk about. Other days I feel like I have nothing important to say at all.

Some days I feel like I should be Mother of the Year. Other days I figure I'll be lucky if the twins are still speaking to me when they turn 18.

Some days I feel nothing but love; huge, encompassing love from Michael, Charlotte, and Gavin. Other days I feel completely unappreciated.

Some days I want to be a stay-at-home mom forever. Other days I can't wait to go back to work.

Some days I think I manage the demands of being a wife and mother pretty well. Other days I ignore the dust building up on the TV screen and order pizza for dinner.

Some days (most days) I'm happy with the way my life has turned out. Other days, I wish I could go back about 15 years and do it all differently.

Do you have days like this too?

Who Says Romance is Dead?

Michael and I went out to dinner last week, alone, for only the second time since the babies were born last March. Sad, I know. As we were eating and talking, I realized that the bulk of our conversation was solely about the babies. When we thought they would finally crawl, why Gavin's diaper keeps leaking night after night, how we're going to swing daycare for two when I go back to work in September, what the theme should be at their first birthday party--you get the idea. I began wondering: "Who are these two? What has become of us? I remember the day when we would stay out on weekends until 2 am, and now I'm happiest if I'm in bed by 9! And we would discuss all manner of things without the slightest mention of diapers or sippy cups!"

So on Saturday night I finally took the advice of the countless parenting magazines and websites I've read. I decided we needed a "date night" at home after the babies went to bed. First, I should let you know that the babies decided not to cooperate. I think they knew something was up...they have a little baby-sixth-sense that way. I wanted to at least get out of my sweatpants and maybe even put on a little mascara for our date, but by the time we finally got the babies to sleep, our dinner was practically cold. I decided just to wear my pearls, which looked very stylish with my sweats and all...but that was really all I had time for. Michael thought that was pretty funny.

Anyway, we used our china for the first time in our entire marriage, and drank champagne. (Sidebar: Does anyone actually ever use their china? I'm going to make an effort to use it once a month). We dined on lemon-butter tilapia, sesame-roasted asparagus, and rice pilaf (I'm not ashamed to tell you that the rice was out of a box). We decided not to talk about babies, which frankly, left very little to talk about. Which is why this date night was so important; I think we need to reconnect on other levels.

Afterwards, in keeping with the theme, we decided to rent a movie. Our choice was The Bourne Supremecy, and I'm sorry to tell you that we both fell asleep halfway through. What exciting lives we lead.

The Healing Power of Touch

I had a massage on Saturday. It was a gift from two of my sisters for my birthday, and Lordy, did I need it. It was only the second massage I've ever had--unless you count the time Michael and I had a "Couples Massage" in Negril. (That massage was outdoors, in an open-air gazebo that happened to be on a nude beach, atop a cliff overlooking the ocean. It was incredibly picturesque, but I was feeling uncomfortable about disrobing in front of the 100 or so other beach-goers. I also had a few cocktails the night before, so I was feeling a little...queasy. And I had just read an article about how some people believe that, if your masseuse is in a bad or negative mood during your massage, they can steal your positive "chi." I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I was naked and queasy, so I knew I didn't want my positive chi stolen. So about 5 minutes into the hour-long massage I told the masseuse I wasn't feeling well, got dressed, and went to lie down in our hotel room. Of course, Michael stayed for the entire hour, and of course, I was charged for the entire hour.)

All that aside, this massage was pure heaven. I felt so calm and relaxed afterwards, and it got me thinking about other things that make me feel that way. A happy baby (better yet, two happy babies). Soaking in the hot tub. A nice glass of red wine. A hot cup of peppermint mocha. Girls' Night Out. A good shoe sale.

I think a challenge as a mother is how to get yourself to that point, a calm and centered place, as often as you can. Ultimately, I think you become a better mother for it, and a better person for that matter. I'm not big on resolutions (I hate the New Year and all it entails, but that's another post), but I think this year I'm at least going to try to focus on activities that help me attain that calm, relaxed state. So if you see me stressing, help a sista out! Let me know some of your tricks that relax and center you.

Holiday Shopping

I really, really hate the mall this time of year. I hate it mostly because people are stressed, and when people are stressed, they tend to be nasty and unappreciative. And when people are nasty and unappreciative, it puts me in a foul mood. And when I'm in a foul mood, no one's happy.

Last year at this time I was pregnant. And deliriously, unapologetically happy about it. I was really starting to show, and I had just begun to feel the babies move, and after all that I had been through, I couldn't (and wouldn't) contain my excitement. Nothing was bringing me down; not even tired, stressed-out, grumpy holiday shoppers.

I went to the mall about a week before Christmas last year. I was having some difficulty with my maternity pants, and by that I mean I was having trouble keeping them up for some reason. A pregnant acquaintance at work told me about "belly bands," which are basically like tube tops that fit over your pants to keep them up. I was braving the holiday crowds and making my way to the maternity store in the mall to buy one.

First of all, the maternity store in the mall is literally the size of a postage stamp. Whoever drew up the plans to this store was obviously male, because there is no room for pregnant ladies to maneuver without bumping into the racks and/or each other. Forget strollers. And a double stroller would have been downright comical. Anyway, immediately after entering this store, I knew something was very, very wrong. There was a man in there who was clearly mentally ill. He was rambling and wandering around the racks, and I could tell the cashier was nervous. I don't remember the details of the conversation exactly, but for some reason the cashier was requesting his address and typing it into the computer. I'm not sure if he was charging clothing on some sort of store credit, but he wasn't making much sense. He was telling the cashier that he lived in California, and his !#$&! ex-wife took the house, and he was homeless, etc... She couldn't get a straight answer out of him. Adding to the tension was the fact that his sentences were completely peppered with expletives. And I mean the dirty ones; the kind I can't type here now for fear that my 10-year-old nephew is reading this blog. At one point he even asked the cashier for scissors. (Which, to my horror, she gave him, and he proceeded to cut some tags off of his shirt. That's probably a whole other story.) So needless to say, I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable in that confined space, and the cashier was as well. She was the only employee in the store.

After a while the man turned his attention to me. He wanted to know what I was buying (and I wasn't about to tell him a belly band and maternity tights!) and also wanted to know if he could buy some things for me. Ew. I ignored him as best as I could, and tried to avoid eye contact while smiling politely. He seemed to be getting more and more upset and agitated, and I didn't want to do anything else to set him off.

I found what I was looking for as quickly as possible, and was already completing my transaction at the register when he grabbed my hand. I was shocked, and rendered completely immobile for the moment. And I was scared. At first I thought he was searching for a wedding ring, but after a second or two it became apparent that he was reading my palm. "What are you having?" he asked. "Twins," I replied. "A boy and a girl." Now, in hindsight, I probably should have told this guy where to go, or at least have told him to let go of my hand or I would call the authorities. But I was scared. So I answered his question. "They're not going to be born," he told me. "Neither one will make it."

Alright, I'm a rational person, and I know this guy was crazy. But I cannot tell you how much that encounter unnerved me. As someone who struggled with infertility for 2+ years, that was precisely the opposite of what I needed to hear. I was visibly upset. The cashier was whispering that he was crazy, that he didn't know what he was talking about, and not to worry. But the damage had been done. I left the store, sat on a bench in the middle of the mall, and sobbed. Talk about putting a damper on my holiday spirit.

Obviously, the story ended well. Charlotte and Gavin are here, and are perfectly healthy. But I think about that day often; not about the man (I'd like to forget him), but about the cashier. I regret that when I left the store I was too shaken to have the common sense to go get a security guard, and she was left alone with him. I hope she is okay as well.

Post Script: I have been sitting here for upwards of 20 minutes, precious time for any mother, trying to think of how to wrap up this post in a way that will tell you the moral of the story. I can't think of anything. I'm not sure there is one. If any of you can think of one for me, help me out and comment. And incase you were wondering, the belly band worked out well. Kept my pants in place on most days.

What Does Your Christmas Tree Say About You?

Swistle's post about Christmas Tree Toppers got me thinkin' about Christmas trees in general. Everyone has such strong opinions about what constitutes the perfect tree. Colored lights vs. white lights; real tree vs. artificial tree; star tree topper vs. angel tree topper... These are serious decisions, people! Many of you have a tree with a theme. This can be a color theme, as in: "We only decorate with red and gold ornaments," or an ornament theme, as in: "We only use glass balls." (Even as I typed that, it sounded dirty. Stop snickering.)

One of my sisters decorates her tree with snowmen. Okay, one or two other ornaments may have snuck in there undetected, but for the most part, it's snowmen as far as the eye can see. Another sister's tree has a "Robot Theme." I have yet to see it, but from what I understand, it's decorated with white lights and robot ornaments. (You are probably asking the same question I asked: Where would one purchase an assortment of robot ornaments? Why, Old Navy, of course. Who knew?) When I think about those sisters and their respective personalities, those trees happen to suit them perfectly.

So what does my tree say about me? Observe:

I have lots of things around the house that say "Believe," including ornaments. These things spoke to me during my days of infertility, I think, because it reminded me to remain hopeful:

I'm also a fairly patriotic person, and I love the Fourth of July, which would explain these beauties:

So what's this one doing on my decidedly American tree? (I received it from a student who visited Canada and thought of me. Adorable!)

Which brings me to the, um, lovely ornaments from students....and there are many....

And I have some Noah's Ark ornaments, which I find quite amusing. I had a thing for Noah's Ark ornaments long before I had twins. A sign, the whole two-by-two thing, don't you think?

And then there was the year I tried to go all vintage (or reproduction vintage)....

And the year I tried to go all rustic...

And then there are some ornaments that are just plain puzzling, like "The Green Pickle" and the one I like to call "The Double-Eyed Cowboy":

So, in summary, what does my tree say about me? That I'm a patriotic-teachery-strangely telepathic-vintage-rustic-pickle loving (again, sounds dirty)-cowgirl? Or perhaps it just says that I'm eclectic. Yeah, we'll say that. Eclectic. At any rate, I think it turned out just beautifully; the perfect Christmas tree. And it personifies me to a T.

Bittersweet

I stopped breastfeeding.

I feel surprisingly emotional about it; I'm much more emotional than I thought I would be. In the beginning, I hated it. But now that I'm able to step back from my experience with a little perspective, step back from pumping every three hours while they were in the NICU, and from pumping for the first three months that they were home, and from the frustration I felt from having to use the nipple shields, I realize that my experience was not exactly typical. I'll bet most people don't hate it as much as I did at first. Once the babies grew (and more importantly, their little mouths grew) everything just sort of fell into place. At first, I was all, "You have got to be some kind of masochist to enjoy this. Who are these women? It's the worst kind of torture I can imagine!" And then I was more, "Hey! I can do this! This is easy! This is nice. I get it!" I've learned some things from this experience; to give myself a little credit when I deserve it, and also to be kind to myself. I allowed myself to hate it in the beginning, and I allowed myself to supplement with formula, too, without feeling guilty about any of it (on most days). I muddled through the postpartum and managed to nurse premature twins for 8 1/2 months. That's something!

Which is why I'm so sad that I had to stop. Those first few months of pumping really gave the babies a *taste* of how easy it is to drink from a bottle. Charlotte never really loved nursing. From the start, she would only want to nurse on occasion, when she was in the mood and when I really had a good supply to offer. (This has given me a little insight as to what she's going to be like as a teenager). Gavin was a little more willing, but now that he has four teeth, he thinks it's really a lot of fun to bite. I've tried all the tricks: pulling him off, sternly saying "NO!", not allowing him to nurse for a few minutes. He thinks it's all funny. Like: "Look at Mommy! She's trying Tough Love! Isn't she hysterical? I'm going to bite her again to see what she'll do next!"

So, between Charlotte arching her back and screaming almost every time I try to nurse (which does nothing for my milk supply, causing her to want to nurse even less) and Gavin using me as a teething ring (ditto on the milk supply) I realized that I would either have to quit or pump every few hours to rebuild my supply. And quite honestly, the thought of pumping again after doing it for four months solid was, well, less than appealing.

So I stopped.

But I really wasn't ready. I wanted to continue at least through the winter, and I honestly thought I'd nurse them for even longer. It just wasn't in the cards.

Times they are a-changin'.

Heavy

When I was a teenager (from about age 14 to 16), I danced on a television show called Dance Party USA. Every Saturday, for two years, I made my way to Philly and danced my little heart out on camera. Yes, it is a source of embarrassment, and not something I talk about a whole lot...mostly to avoid the good-natured teasing I get from my husband and family. But the fact is, it was a huge part of my formative years, especially because it was just good, clean fun. Oh, there were relationship dramas --who was dating who, and such -- but that was really the extent of it. Nobody fought, nobody said an unkind word to one another; we all just danced off some of that teenage angst we were feeling and occasionally made out behind the set. Good times.

Because it was a national show, those of us who danced every week were considered "regulars" and got fan mail. I'm sure you can imagine what this did for my self-image, since I was a skinny, lanky teenager, and definitely in my "awkward phase." (Never mind that some of the mail was from convicted felons in prison...) Since we were young, the producers of the show would screen any mail that came in, and weed out anything that was inappropriate, lewd, or hurtful. And they usually did a fine job of it. But one day, I opened an anonymous letter and was shocked by the things that a female viewer had written to me. She opened the letter by telling me, in her eloquent 14-year-old vocabulary, how unattractive I was. She also quipped that "my mother must be blind because she dresses me funny" and that I "smile too much." (I didn't know there was such a thing!) She closed the letter by telling me that she was my "#1 Hater." Now, my ego was bruised a little, but mostly I just couldn't believe that someone took the time out of their day to actually write this letter and send it off somewhere. In my sheltered, suburban existence, it was a foreign idea to me that someone could harbor so much hate over something so innocuous, something that had so little impact on their own life. I remember this event not because it hurt my feelings, but because it was my first experience with someone who hated just for hate's sake, and who felt the need to direct that hatred at someone, someone they didn't even know.

I'm glad I grew up in a time and a home where that letter was the most malicious thing I could imagine. I'm sure my parents sheltered me from a lot of the ugliness going on in the world. Now that I'm a parent, I'm thinking a lot more about the things I'm going to have to shelter Charlotte and Gavin from: nooses hanging from trees in Jena, kids egging on classmates in schoolyard fights, filming the fights with their cell phones, and posting the footage on You-Tube. Right down the road from us, in the school district where my sister teaches, a 14-year-old boy was just caught plotting an attack reminiscent of Columbine, and his mother was charged with buying her son the weapons. Can you even imagine?

To steal a quote from "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert...."Why is life all crazy like this?"

Guilty Pleasures, Take 2

This list was so much fun, I actually thought of more:

Dr. Phil
So pompous, I love it.

Kohr's Brothers Vanilla and Chocolate Twist Ice Cream Cone with Rainbow Jimmies
Worth the weight.

Blogging
Perhaps the time would be better spent folding onesies, but this definitely centers me.

Reading Old Love Letters
When I spend my day with spit-up and mashed banana on my shirt, it's nice to know that someone once thought I was sexy.

Way-Too-Expensive Beauty Products
When I spend my day with spit-up and mashed banana on my shirt, it's nice to know that I might one day be sexy again.

Give and Take

You know how life is supposed to be about give-and-take? Lately, I feel like I'm all "give." The babies are little, so they can't help how needy they are right now. I'm sure I'll get my share of "take" from them later when they are able to reciprocate more than a smile. But boy, at this stage, I couldn't be giving any more of myself...and since I'm nursing, I mean that in the most literal sense.

When the twins finally go to sleep, I just want to be alone. A-L-O-N-E. With a good book. But there's a husband that I need to give some of my attention to, since the only quality time we've spent together during the day included diaper-changing. And then there's my cats, who might be the world's neediest. They want to be petted, and cuddled, and they want to lay all over me. Trying to ignore them makes matters worse - they head-butt me and lay on top of the book I'm reading or the computer keyboard. So I give in, and they get their share of attention too. And then there's the laundry that needs to be folded, the dishes that need to be washed, the toilets that deperately need to be scrubbed because I can't seem to find the time to clean....

Becoming a mother definitely means giving up "me" time. But I'm so busy tending to everyone else's needs, who's left to tend to mine?

Can you tell it's been an exhausting day? I'm off to go read a little of "Eat, Pray, Love."

National Nurse Out

Today, there are "Nurse-Outs" being held around the country at Applebee's Restaurants. Have you heard about the incident that occurred recently at Applebee's in Kentucky?

"The dispute with Applebee's began June 14. Ryan chose a booth in the back of the restaurant away from other customers. When her baby, Michael, got hungry, she began to nurse him discreetly, she said.But a waitress came over and said that if she wanted to breast-feed, she had to cover the baby with a blanket. Ryan said it was so hot that she didn't have a blanket. The waitress then repeated her request. Ryan said she then asked to see the manager and handed him a copy of the 2006 Kentucky law that prohibits interference with a woman breast-feeding her baby in public.The manager said he knew about the law but a customer had complained about indecent exposure, so she had to cover the baby with a blanket."

Now, many of you know about my love-hate relationship with breastfeeding. I do it because my babies are the most important people in the world to me, and breastmilk is the ideal, optimal food for them...but I don't claim to love it all the time. In fact, some days I downright hate it. There are times when it's nice to be rocking in my glider, feeding a baby, and amazed at how my body is able to perfectly nourish these two little beings. And there are other days, days when the babies seem constantly hungry, and I feel like I have parasites attached to me 24-7; and so I pull them off of me and announce, "You're weaned!" But inevitably, within 20 minutes I'm nursing one or the other again.

What I just do not understand is how some people are so offended by breastfeeding mothers. You are providing nourishment for a child, for Pete's sake. There's nothing indecent about that. ANY doctor will tell you how beneficial it is to breastfeed, and every bit of research proves it. But there is still this taboo about nursing in public that I just don't get, despite the fact that we live in a nation of fairly educated, informed people.

I had my first encounter with this taboo last weekend. Charlotte was exceptionally cranky, and we were out at a restaurant, in a private room, for a 30th birthday party. I went to the corner of the room, where there were maybe five people, and sat down to nurse Charlotte. I was discreet, and used my sling to cover up, but I got an incredibly nasty glance. No one said anything directly to me, but that was perhaps because Charlotte didn't want to nurse right then. If I had actually sat there and nursed her, there might have been a few comments. I'm not sure how I would have reacted, but I'd like to think I'd be both intelligent and poised.

I respect a mother's right NOT to breastfeed. I would expect nursing mothers to receive the same courtesy.

First Day of School, Minus One

Today is the first day of school in my district. It's the first time in 10 years that I haven't been there to greet a new class. I'm feeling a little melancholy. I'm grateful for the opportunity to be home with the babies for a year, but I sure do miss all the newness of the First Day of School. Freshly sharpened pencils, crisp clean handwriting paper, shiny waxed floors, first-day-of-school outfits, and the endless possibilities that lie ahead for the year...

Everyone likes to feel irreplacable. When I was little, I used to think that when I was home sick, that school just didn't happen that day. I thought because I wasn't there, no one else was there either. I kind of feel that way now, too. Like, how can there be a school year without me? I'm sure I'll get over it quickly, though, when I hear my colleagues talk about how much work they have to do, all the report card conferences and the planning curriculum to align with state standards. I sure won't miss that part of it.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Anxiety runs in my family, to some degree. (Thanks, Nana G.) Fortunately, I am able to manage it pretty well during most daily activities (I think...my friends and family might argue otherwise). You'll see it running rampant in certain situations, though, like if I'm late for work or an appointment. I literally get hives. But for the most part, my anxiety level is usually low. Present, but low.

Except when I go to sleep.

When I sleep, all bets are off. My anxiety is completely unbridled and manifests itself in my dreams. Honestly, I must have 8-10 dreams a night, which I think is why I never feel completely rested. Ever. I have three anxiety-driven recurring dreams, and let me tell you, they are beauties. I wake up in a cold sweat every time.

The first is always some variation of the following scenario: I'm in high school or college and I have to get to class. Only I can't remember what class it is. It's the middle of the semester; surely I've been to this class before...but I have no recollection of the location of the room or the identity of the professor. I wind up wandering all around campus, searching for a schedule of my courses, and never make it to class.

The second is simple: My teeth fall out. I dream this one at least every other week, and always wake up frantically rubbing my finger along my gums to see if I still have teeth. Sometimes I lose one at time, sometimes they all fall out at once.

The third is that I need to get somewhere, usually work, but I'm hopelessly lost and can't get to where I need to be. I try to call someone for directions, but I keep misdialing the number. I'll almost have the number dialed until I get to the last digit, and then I hit the wrong button and have to start all over.

The other night I had all three dreams in a row. Didn't get much sleep that night.

I wonder what all of this means? Especially considering that, despite the fact that I have 4- month-old twins and other mundane stuff, my life is relatively stress-free at the moment? I think Freud would have a field day with me....

The Grass is Always Greener

Before I had children, I had a few acquaintances who would frequently use a variation of the following phrase in conversations with me: You'll understand when you have children. For example:

Oh, you're in a book club? The only thing I read these days are children's books. You'll understand when you have children.

You and your husband are going away for the weekend? Must be nice. You'll understand when you have children.

Your house is decorated beautifully. You can kiss that goodbye when you have children.

You're having another glass of wine? I'd have another glass if I didn't have to go home and take care of my children.

You're taking more graduate courses? If I didn't have children, I could do that, too.

You get the idea.

The comments were always innocent enough, and I don't believe they were intended to hurt my feelings in any way. It was more of a Mother's Lament, a longing for the way things once were, a desire for the freedom of days past...and believe me, I can relate. Most of these people didn't know about my struggles with infertility, so had no idea how much these comments stung. I vowed that I would never, ever, say this to anyone, no matter how wistful I became for my child-free days.

I think it's incredibly important that your children don't become the sole definition of who you are. It's likely that this was the issue with the acquaintances to whom I'm referring; that they were no longer willing or able to partake in some of the activities they once enjoyed. I am a Mother, yes, and perhaps most importantly. But I am so many other things, too. And I can't let those other things get buried under my day-to-day motherly duties just because I have children now.

To date, I don't believe I have uttered that phrase, or any variation of it, to anyone. Largely because I am still a member of said Book Club (even though I haven't read the last few books), and I still collect and display antiques that I love, and I am three courses shy of my second Master's Degree (bedrest got in the way of the final three courses, but I will be taking them in the Spring with any luck!). The weekend get-away has yet to be realized, but I hope it's not far off. And if I want another glass of wine, darn it, I deserve it.

Details, Details

I have a horrible memory, especially when it comes to my childhood. I know I had a wonderful, happy upbringing, but sometimes I can only grasp the fuzzy edges of a family vacation or a funny moment from my past. My sisters will say, "Remember the time when we...", and sometimes I only have a vague recollection of the event. It's as if I wasn't really there, as if I only witnessed the event as an onlooker instead of being an active participant. I think it's because I'm often not fully present in the moment; I always seem to have something else on my mind. I can't imagine what that "something else" was when I was little (Did I get my homework done? Does so-and-so like me?), but I know that it can still be an issue with me now.

The vivid memories that I do have must really have made an impact on me, for one reason or another. I can clearly remember the first time I was scolded in school. It was 5th grade, and we were cleaning the classroom at the end of the school year. My job was to straighten the library books. I wasn't quite sure what was expected of me, and I needed some clarification, so I called out for my teacher. "Mrs. Green?" No answer. "Mrs. Green? Mrs. Green?" Now, my teacher must have been pretty frazzled, and I'm sure she had a ton of report cards to finish, because she snapped. "I HEARD YOU, AMY! NOW WAIT UNTIL I'M READY TO ANSWER!" It took all the strength I could muster not to cry, and I don't think I was ever yelled at in school again after that.

The things that I remember most clearly are the events that conjured up an extreme emotion. The incident with Mrs. Green made me feel extremely ashamed. I have other memories of times that I was extremely happy, or extremely sad, or extremely nervous, or extremely embarrassed, etc... It's those smaller moments, the ones that didn't have quite the impact or importance, that aren't as forthcoming. It makes me sad, because although life has its fair share of bigger moments, I think it's the smaller ones that really define who you are. It's the smaller moments I want to remember most: picking blackberries with my grandmother at her cabin, climbing into my parents bed with my sisters when there was a thunderstorm.

There is so much I want to remember about Charlotte and Gavin at this age, but none of the things are momentous. The way Gavin presses his face against mine when I hold him over my shoulder, the noises he makes when he has to burp, how he curls his toes when I am feeding him. I want to remember how Charlotte squeaks when she is trying to wake up, how she turns her head up and to the left when she is sleeping, and how she lets her leg hang over the tub when I'm giving her a bath. I'm trying to be fully present with them, so I don't miss a moment. So when they are older and say, "Tell me about when I was little," I'll be able to describe some little detail about who they were, and why it meant so much to me.

pajancky and other Goodyear-isms

My family is big on making up our own words. At least, I think we make them up. We have been using these words for so long, they have actually become a part of our vocabulary, and the line blurs between what is a real word and what is a "Goodyear-ism." For example, the gook that gets stuck in the folds of a baby's neck? That's pajancky*. When a baby spits ups during feedings, that's a blickey. And when a baby is agitated, kicking his or her legs and fussing, we say that baby is rutchy.

I hesitate to use these words in front of strangers because I'm not clear anymore if they are actual words or not. My hesitation stems from an incident that occured when I was in sixth grade. A friend and I went to Woolworth's, where I was looking for pom-pom socks, and smugly asked the cashier where the "mum-mums" were. The cashier, of course, looked at me like I had three heads, and I couldn't understand why this person had no idea what mum-mums were. It was only then I realized that a significant portion of my vocabulary was purely made-up.

Have you ever read the children's book, Frindle? It's about a boy who is interested in the way that words are created, and he decides to conduct a little experiment. He begins calling his pen a "frindle," much to the dismay of his English teacher. The word catches on, and before long the entire country is using "frindle." Several years later, the word becomes official, and is included in the dictionary.

The other day, my husband mentioned that Charlotte had pajancky in her neck and needed a bath. I think that word has some potential. Who knows?

* Spelling is best-guess. I've never seen it written.