My Shop is Closed

(via Ramshackle Glam’s Pinterest Page)

ser·en·dip·i·ty

ˌserənˈdipitē

noun

noun: serendipity; plural noun: serendipities

1. the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

   ***

   Yesterday, I read a post that brought me to tears. My girl Jordan over at Ramshackleglam wrote the most beautiful piece entitled, “Not So Brave“, about the impending (like, this week) birth of her second child, a daughter, “Goldie”.

   In it, she wrote,
   But that’s why I’ve been spending time every day looking at these photos: because seeing them reminds me that there’s something much bigger waiting for me on the other side of the pain and the exhaustion and the everything-that-might-go-wrong, and that’s that no matter what happens, I know this: I get to fall in love. Again. I almost can’t believe it. I know there’s “a baby” coming…but my daughter? That doesn’t feel possible; it feels too big and too forever to be real.

   So maybe being not so brave is okay. I mean, it’s okay to be scared of falling in love. It should be scary, shouldn’t it? Because you can’t control it, and you can’t stop it, and once it’s there it changes everything.

   And she wrote, so eloquently, about the exact sense of overwhelming anticipation and fear and excitement and love that I was trying to describe when I wrote the hardest words, my post about my inability to bear more children. And her post moved me, because it was addressing the exact thing that I mourn the most. The magic.

   I mourn the magic.

   ***

   This week, I had a doctor’s appointment at the hospital. It was the hospital where I gave birth to both of my children. The hospital, for me, is haunted. I drove into the garage and pictured myself, just a year ago, walking through the darkness, cradling my giant belly in my hands.

   I entered the building and right past the outpatient lab. I looked inside and pictured myself 12 weeks pregnant, after having been shocked at my Sequential Screen Ultrasound when the tech told us that he saw “something between the baby’s legs”. It was in that lab that I called my dad and told him that we were having a boy.

   I walked to the East medical office building and took the elevator, the elevator that I rode every month, and then every week, to check on my babies’ heartbeats while they were still inside me.

   And being in the hospital…it hurt.

   ***

   This past week, I experienced two competely different, but equally meaningful experiences:

   I geared up (with true, sincere happiness, mind you) for the impending births of several babies whose gestation I have been following and celebrating.

   I saw photos posted online of newborns. I saw tiny heads in those tiny striped hats. I saw people become parents.

   And simultaneously, I experienced having to tell at least five different people that I would no longer be bearing any children of my own. I had to tell a doctor and a nurse. I told several people who asked me while I was pushing my son in his stroller around town. Sometimes it was met with skepticism. “Oh, well you never know.” with a sly smile.

   But I know.

   ***

   So here’s where serendipity comes into play. I read Jordan’s post with a pang. And I thought about how I could could write about my own, still sad, feelings, while still being so happy for and proud of her. But I was scared. I thought it would be therapeutic, but I was nervous about taking the first step.

   And then, coincidentally, she emailed me. We exchanged notes about her daughter and mine; we talked about some milestones, about trying to get my daughter’s ears pierced (hashtag fail) and how much she has to look forward to; I told her about the black, knee high suede fringe Minnetonka Moccasins that I will be sending her little girl’s way. And that made me happy. And she wrote about feeling “Not So Brave”, and, in turn, she gave me the courage to feel OK about not holding it together. About admitting that I am still in pain.

   And then she posted the Hemingway quote. Not only was it the perfect quote, but it was my guy, Hem.

   And so I am letting go.

   And so I am writing hard. I am writing about what hurts.

   I am definitely still wading through the mire of grief stages. I am still bargaining, thinking of ways for me to add to my family.

   Sometimes I have dreams that the doctor was wrong. That I can, actually, decide to “try” again. I can wait, with a quickened heartbeat, for two lines to appear on a stick. I can see a little teddy bear flickering on an ultrasound. I can find out if the baby is a boy or a girl. I can feel kicks and feel nauseated and feel the baby being pulled from inside of me as I hear the doctor say “I see a hand! I see a foot!”

   But that is not my story.

   My story may, someday, include more children. Probably not, but maybe. But they won’t be coming from my womb.

   Write hard and clear

   The shop is closed.

   So for now I will enjoy my babies and appreciate them more than they will ever know. I will celebrate the births of my friends’ children. And I will try to bust the ghosts when I walk through the hospital halls.

   My shop is closed. But there is great joy ahead. There are memories to be made. Milestones to face. Dance parties to have, hands to hold and heartbeats to listen to, as I rest my head on my babies’ chests at night. There are lullabies to sing and lives to live.

   My shop is closed,

   but so, so many doors have yet to be opened.

    

Aprils.

It seems that time is going by at warp speed. My baby had his half birthday. Things are flying.

And so I decided to take a look back.

On this date in April 2010 I had just become a mother six days prior. It was my third day home from the hospital. I was learning to nurse in the side lying position. My daughter was sleeping in her carseat, buckled up and with straps tightened, next to us in our bedroom (we had no idea what we were doing). I still looked pregnant, I was not yet adjusted to the change and yet I had found tremendous love in that little pink thing they called my daughter.

This is April 2011

This is April 2012

April 2013 was a rough time for me. I was suffering from debilitating morning sickness. I was on prescription medicine so that I would only get sick 10 times a day. I announced my pregnancy, as I was already showing. I swear, I started to show from the moment that the stick turned pink. Everyone told me I was having a boy. Every. Single. Person. Ever. Perhaps it was because I looked like, as someone said, a bowling ball with sticks coming out.

I was starting to deal with some anxiety and depression, but was very focused on teaching my class and loving on my daughter.

I remember a few specific things about April 2013. I remember having coconut cake for dessert  on my birthday (we invited our next door neighbors in to join us, who, at the time, were new friends, and have since become dear, close friends). I remember that my husband had the County declare the day in my name as a tribute. I remember sitting outside on the picnic benches with my class, eating mini cupcakes. I remember that one kid stole 3 of them. I remember that we had a small mosaics party for my daughter. I remember seeing Pippin on Broadway and finding it to be life changing. I also found myself completely out of control of my emotions during the opening song, “Magic to Do” and was laugh-crying as the actors on stage engaged me. It was out of body.

April 2014 has been a ride. My first baby turned four. And she has become such a person. My babysitter just texted me with all of the funny and irreverent things that my daughter said today while I was out. Among them was that she told her brother he as being boring like an old grandpa.

April has tightened my circle. It has given me special times with my dearest friends. Home cooked Shabbat dinners, crazy photobooth pictures, pitchers of sangria and dance parties.

April has brought great emotional changes. It has brought my husband and I closer. Closer than ever.

April has given me some insight, some perspective and some maturity.

April has given me some healing.

I look forward to what the next month brings (I bought a white dress to wear on our May anniversary),

but for now, I’m enjoying this month,

my favorite month,

and I am now realizing how far I’ve come;

not just from April 2010, but from the past few months. As I said, it’s still hard. But April has been brighter.

Thank you, April. Thank you with all of my heart.

The hardest post I’ve ever written.

Since having my second child my world has changed in more ways than I could have imagined. As our triangle turned into a square (quite seamlessly in many ways, I should say), I have experienced love and joy that I had not yet known. And one positive thing that I have done has been starting 511, Ever After, as it has been a wonderful outlet for me, a return to something I’ve loved, and the discovery of a new passion. If you’ve emailed me privately I have shared that with you, but I have also shared something else…

I have always been someone with anxiety. I have written about it countless times on this very site, and that is because my original intention in starting Mommy, Ever After was to write honestly about things that people were not comfortable speaking of. Like how motherhood can be scary. And lonely. And boring. And weird. And yes, I wrote all about how being a mom is magical and enchanting, and I still feel that way completely–actually, probably more so than ever–but something happened to me the second time around that has changed my life forever.

In having my son, my sweet angel of a little boy whom I love with all of my heart, I experienced great depression. During my pregnancy, I suffered severe morning sickness. Let me put it to you this way; during the first go-round I was hesitant to take even a tylenol; during this pregnancy, I had to take a prescription anti-nausea medicine every 4 hours to keep my vomiting down to 10 times a day. That is not fun for anyone. Plus, the hormones. The crushing hormones that sneak up on you and embrace you in their anxiety-producing grasp. So I suffered what I now know is called peri-partum depression. I felt down. Not all of the time, but some of the time. A lot of the time. I couldn’t focus on my family. I had scary thoughts. But I was ok. I was still myself.

And I saw doctors and they were all concerned for me for after the birth. I remember one saying “I am concerned about you having this baby and having a walloping case of postpartum depression.” And I didn’t quite understand it but I knew to fear it. I knew that postpartum depression involved feelings of wanting to hurt oneself, or, much worse, the child. I knew that I did not experience it the first time, despite some moments of blues or intense anxiety. But I also know that my two pregnancies were completely different.

I was talking to my friend Jordan over at Ramshackle Glam about these differences when she announced her second pregnancy. The first time, I felt like I was this enchanted, magical vessel of blooming life. I felt like every single part of those 10 months were filled with magic and wonder. And when I first got pregnant the second time around, I was excited. I peed on that stick, saw two clear lines appear, and I felt that magic again. We were going to be a family of four. I was even able to present it to my husband in a fun way, having my daughter hand him a box with the stick inside. I had my dad come over to “check out my new sconces” and had the stick on my mantle. It was all exciting. But I had anxiety. I had pretty crippling anxiety from the get-go. I felt a strong love for the growing baby instantaneously (perhaps because was already a mother and knew that kind of love) and therefore found myself protective of my midsection. I avoided hard hugs from my students, heavy lifting and anything else dangerous. I loved my baby that was the mere size of a cheerio.

And then, something happened to me that never happened during my first pregnancy; I started to spot at 6 weeks. At this point, I had yet to even see the baby on ultrasound, a different experience than the first. It was St. Patrick’s day. We were eating Chinese Food. And I saw a little bit of blood. We ended up in the ER and after ultrasounds and bloodwork we confirmed that my baby was in my uterus and with a beating heart and growing appropriately. It was an incredibly intense and scary night for me.

And after that night, I went numb.

It it very hard for me to write this; in fact, as I type this, as he sleeps on my bed next to me, I am listening to his breathing, in and out, in and out, and I have tears streaming down my face. I went numb to the baby inside of me. Clearly it was a defense mechanism.  I know that spotting is a very normal occurrence in many healthy pregnancies, but it threw me overboard. So instead of caring more, I cared less. This was not a conscious thing, mind you; it is only something I can recognize in hindsight. But I stopped feeling for the baby.

This numbness only intensified at 12 weeks when the perinatal ultrasound tech told me that he saw a penis. This is very early to find out the baby’s sex (that typically happens at the 20 week anatomy scan. And I was in shock. Not only was I having another baby, not only was I puking all day, not only was I feeling very mixed emotions, if anything at all, but a boy? We are such a  girl family.

And that feeling of incredulity continued.

I stopped being protective. I was responsible in my pregnancy, not eating deli meat or drinking excessively, but I also was not nearly as cautious or loving as I had been to my first. I didn’t sing to my belly every night or read it stories. I loved feeling my son kick and move (he was the biggest mover ever, and because he was transverse I felt EVERYTHING) but I wasn’t sure.

I wasn’t sure I could love another child.

I wasn’t sure I could love a boy.

I even asked my best friend if she would take him if I didn’t love him enough to be his mom. How crazy does that sound? She still asks me if the deal is on because she loves him a whole darn lot.

And then, I went into labor. The baby was born. We sang to him in the OR. And I loved him immediately. And all of those feelings of insecurity and doubt washed away. But what I did not expect was that my C-Section would be complicated; I had a lot of scar tissue, the front of my uterus was very thin and I lost a lot of blood. I was very sick and ended up in the hospital for 5 days. But I was happy. Happier than I had been in months. I was also on Dilaudid, an opiate. But I was happy.

And that happiness actually lasted. It lasted a good two  weeks, just about as long as my Dilaudid consumption. And then, something started to creep in. Anxiety. Fear. Doubt. Sadness.

And I remember a text from my husband from the first week in November. It said, “I want to make sure you’re OK. I see the light starting to go out in your eyes.”

And I sobbed. Because I was so loved. But because he was right. And I fought the demons. But he was right.

The story gets darker from here, so I want to stop now with the promise that I will continue with the same kind of honesty with which I have always written. But I warn you. This has been a bad time in my life. And even though my house is filled with pretty throw pillows, it has been bad.

So here is my story. In the hopes that it will help others.

As I mentioned in Part 1 of this story, my Fall and Winter got very dark. So I warn you to proceed with caution. Because if you know me, you know that I am a happy person. That I’m always smiling, that I love children and that I have dance parties every day. This is a different kind of story.

In the beginning of November, I started to experience Postpartum Depression. Thank the lord, none of my depressed feelings ever had to do with my children; I was never overwhelmed by having two, I was never resentful at them, and I certainly never wanted to do anything but love them. I did not wish to hurt them in any way, which, as crazy as it may sounds, happens to mothers. And some other very crazy things did happen to me, so that’s why I feel the need to be so clear and forthcoming.

I decided that in order to be the best mother I could be, I would begin to seek therapy for my depressed symptoms. They were classic; I was tired, grumpy, sad and weepy, could no longer find joy in the things that once made me happy…and then there were worse things. I thought about my life a lot and why it was worth living. I knew that it was, but it was hard to feel it.

So I found a wonderful therapist, someone who did not judge me, but took me seriously, and was willing to work with me and my family in order to get me out of my funk. At that point, it was a funk. She prescribed medicine for me, which was a first. I have never before experienced any kind of depression, but she put me on an antidepressant that was safe for breastfeeding. I was still very committed to nursing my son, as I nursed my daughter for 18 months. It was something that I was not only consciously proud of, but something that I felt had defined me as a mother. I was a nursing mother. My daughter never once had a bottle. And so it was not an option for me to give that up with my son.

And then I started to face some resistance. My symptoms were getting worse. My bad moments were getting more frequent than my good ones, and stronger medicines were encouraged. But that would mean giving up breastfeeding. I heard the expression “It is better for your son to have a mom without a boob than a boob without a mom” but it was still hard for me. So I kept on nursing and kept on going down a spiral of deep, deep devastation.

People started to notice around Thanksgiving. It was a holiday I have always adored and even written about. This Thanksgiving I spent in the corner of my aunt’s living room, speaking to no one, falling asleep in a the chair at one point, and keeping my month old son in his carseat next to me. It seems surreal.

I was withdrawing from my friends. I was quiet in my online presence. I was slipping away.

And then things got worse. A lot worse.

The feelings that I had been having about my life and it’s meaning started to take over me like a demonic plague. I couldn’t think rationally. I couldn’t feel happiness or love. All that I could feel was pain. So in order to keep me safe, my family members had to stay with me at all times, taking shifts. I was never left alone. The therapist reached out to my husband. She told him I needed to be hospitalized and found a program at Brown in Providence, Rhode Island. She feared for my safety. So did my parents and best friend.

So I made an appointment to check in to a Postpartum treatment center, one in which I could keep my son with me, keep nursing and try to recover before it got worse. This was a very hard decision to come to and I was feeling everything from ashamed to terrified, but I said I would do it. So my husband and I went out to the movies. We saw American Hustle, the day before I was supposed to leave my life and daughter and admit to needing to be admitted. And during the movie, we were in and out of the theatre, taking calls from my therapist and the coordinators at Brown. It was all happening so fast.

And I got home from the movie and kissed my son. And he was hot.

I took his temperature. 100.4. The magic number for a baby 3 days shy of 2 months. We had to go to the hospital.

So at my darkest moment, I had a sick baby to take care of. I thought it could not get any worse.

Life works in amazing ways.

This is hardest part of the hardest post. And though I’ve been so overwhelmingly grateful for the outpouring of support, both publicly and privately, that I have received thus far, it is still hard to put all of these things into plain words.

This has been a life changing experience to me, and writing it makes it real. It also exposes me at my most vulnerable spot. My ability to be a mother. It is admitting to the world that I am not the person who you thought I was. And that is hard. So I started to doubt myself a bit.

But I received a sign.

In rushing to pick up my daughter from school, feed and change my son and tidy the house, I picked up a little jewelry box of my daughter’s. It jingled.

Inside I found this.

A penny from heaven, from the year we lost our matriarch. She is telling me to be brave. And so I shall.

So when I left off, my baby had a fever and we had to take him to the Emergency Room. There, they had to do a full septic work up, including drawing blood, catheterizing him and, worst of all, giving him a spinal tap. He was diagnosed with RSV, which presented itself in my daughter as a cold earlier in the week. While in the ER, out of sheer malnourishment and stress, I passed out. I had to be admitted as well. So my son and I spent a cold night in December in adjoining rooms of the Emergency Room, each hooked up to tubes and tests, each fighting.

My son needed Oxygen, and spent 4 days in the hospital. I needed help.

And that meant weaning my son and giving him formula. So in the hospital that night I gave him his first bottle. And I began to take the medicine I needed. And it began to work.

I am about to type the hardest thing that I have ever typed.

After my complicated C-Section, I was told that it is not safe for me to have any more kids. I can no longer have children. I am just shy of 29 years old.

Perhaps this was a catalyst for the deep depression that would consume me this winter. And perhaps it was a combination of things. But it breaks my heart.

I look at the time after having a baby as the most magical in existence…and I will never again experience that.

And I should be clear: I am so freakin’ lucky. I have two healthy children. I have a boy and a girl. I narrowly avoided a blood transfusion. My son got to come home from the hospital. I was fertile and was able to nurse two babies, one for 18 months, one for ten weeks.

But it is still something very painful for me, to be told that I am not in control of my own future, my own plans, my own body.

I am happy to say that while my story is not yet over, things are looking up. I no longer cringe when I see the container of formula. I look at my strong, moose of a baby and am thankful that he is fed and that we have the resources to feed him. I no longer look at life as hopeless. I have hope.

My days aren’t yet easy, but they are also not so bleak.

And I have seen who my real support system is, my incredibly family and the friends who have become that.

And I love my children. I am able to enjoy them again. There is some light back in my eyes. And I am working, clawing my way back to happy.

A good friend recently told me that his mother always told him that “This too shall pass”. And in my darkest days, I did not, could not believe that. But I believe it. I believe that I can laugh with my friends again. And snuggle my kids and feel that feeling of home and right once more.

So, though I don’t know what the future holds, I do know that, as my friend said,

This too shall pass.

And I am thankful for each day.

The hardest post I’ve ever written, Part 2.

As I mentioned in Part 1 of this story, my Fall and Winter got very dark. So I warn you to proceed with caution. Because if you know me, you know that I am a happy person. That I’m always smiling, that I love children and that I have dance parties every day. This is a different kind of story.

In the beginning of November, I started to experience Postpartum Depression. Thank the lord, none of my depressed feelings ever had to do with my children; I was never overwhelmed by having two, I was never resentful at them, and I certainly never wanted to do anything but love them. I did not wish to hurt them in any way, which, as crazy as it may sounds, happens to mothers. And some other very crazy things did happen to me, so that’s why I feel the need to be so clear and forthcoming.

I decided that in order to be the best mother I could be, I would begin to seek therapy for my depressed symptoms. They were classic; I was tired, grumpy, sad and weepy, could no longer find joy in the things that once made me happy…and then there were worse things. I thought about my life a lot and why it was worth living. I knew that it was, but it was hard to feel it.

So I found a wonderful therapist, someone who did not judge me, but took me seriously, and was willing to work with me and my family in order to get me out of my funk. At that point, it was a funk. She prescribed medicine for me, which was a first. I have never before experienced any kind of depression, but she put me on an antidepressant that was safe for breastfeeding. I was still very committed to nursing my son, as I nursed my daughter for 18 months. It was something that I was not only consciously proud of, but something that I felt had defined me as a mother. I was a nursing mother. My daughter never once had a bottle. And so it was not an option for me to give that up with my son.

And then I started to face some resistance. My symptoms were getting worse. My bad moments were getting more frequent than my good ones, and stronger medicines were encouraged. But that would mean giving up breastfeeding. I heard the expression “It is better for your son to have a mom without a boob than a boob without a mom” but it was still hard for me. So I kept on nursing and kept on going down a spiral of deep, deep devastation.

People started to notice around Thanksgiving. It was a holiday I have always adored and even written about. This Thanksgiving I spent in the corner of my aunt’s living room, speaking to no one, falling asleep in a the chair at one point, and keeping my month old son in his carseat next to me. It seems surreal.

I was withdrawing from my friends. I was quiet in my online presence. I was slipping away.

And then things got worse. A lot worse.

The feelings that I had been having about my life and it’s meaning started to take over me like a demonic plague. I couldn’t thing rationally. I couldn’t feel happiness or love. All that I could feel was pain. So in order to keep me safe, my family members had to stay with me at all times, taking shifts. I was never left alone. The therapist reached out to my husband. She told him I needed to be hospitalized and found a program at Brown in Providence, Rhode Island. She feared for my safety. So did my parents and best friend.

So I made an appointment to check in to a Postpartum treatment center, one in which I could keep my son with me, keep nursing and try to recover before it got worse. This was a very hard decision to come to and I was feeling everything from ashamed to terrified, but I said I would do it. So my husband and I went out to the movies. We saw American Hustle, the day before I was supposed to leave my life and daughter and admit to needing to be admitted. And during the movie, we were in and out of the theatre, taking calls from my therapist and the coordinators at Brown. It was all happening so fast.

And I got home from the movie and kissed my son. And he was hot.

I took his temperature. 100.4. The magic number for a baby 3 days shy of 2 months. We had to go to the hospital.

So at my darkest moment, I had a sick baby to take care of. I thought it could not get any worse.

To be continued…

 

Good Vibrations

In recent weeks, I have had the privilege of watching as my daughter’s obsession with music has soared to new heights.

She sings along to the radio.

She writes her own songs

(“Sunglasses. I want sunglassES on right NOW. Doggie wears sunglassES TOO. Mommy, sunglassES! Wear sunglassES to Zeydie’s offICE!”)

She plays notes on the piano in time

and turns everything into a drum

and asks for dance parties incessantly.

And I cannot express how happy this makes me.

But, I can’t say I’m surprised.

For as I spent this past Saturday night with my original Fab Four (Mom, Dad, Sis, Moi)

at the Beach Boys Concert

I realized, once again, that she has come by this trait honestly.

Because we (the four of us) lost ourselves in that show.

Like that old saying advises, we truly did dance like no one was watching.

When the Boys did their surfing set, I tapped my foot and patted my thigh, (like the good former drummer I am!)

as my sister swayed rhythmically to the melody.

The four of us belted the words to “Don’t Worry Baby” at the top of our lungs

and swayed, arm in arm, to “Good Vibrations”.

We each put in our right hand, clasped them all together, and waved them back and forth, as one unit, to the cover of “Why Do Fools Fall in Love”.

Fools in love, we were.

And we did The Swim. A lot of it.

We each found our own home in the music

and then joined together

in (what I can only describe as, so pardon the cliche,)

harmony.

It was the best concert ever.

So, the next morning, as we danced to “Wouldn’t it be Nice” in our pajamas,

fighting over who would get the chance to hold the baby as she bopped and swayed and spun around,

I realized that music isn’t just in her

it is in all of us. It’s another member of our family.

Good Vibrations, indeed.

Oh Happy (Mother’s) Day.

Oh happy day, indeed.

In the 23 months since I first began keeping this “baby book”, I have worked towards defining what it means to be a mother.

From scary moments to celebration,

dance parties to dress-up dates,

these small snapshots fit together to paint a cubist picture of a concept that is so precious,

so dynamic,

so colorful

that it is impossible to put into plain words.

But, this morning, on mother’s day, I got a bit closer;

You see, as we sat and ate breakfast

on our bouquet-covered table,

my husband asked my daughter what her mommy means to her.

“What does mommy cook for you?” he asked.

“Pizza. And birthday cake. And quesadilla!” exclaimed my daughter.

“And what does mommy do with you?”

“She plays.”

“What does she play?” he continued.

“She plays jungle.”

And that was that. In my daughter’s own words, what it means to be a mother. She was able to,

with her limited vocabulary,

define what “mommy” truly means.

And what that means to me I may never be able to express…

Except that it means everything.

 

Scenes from The Bean/Happy Birthday, Twin!

So, I’ve been keeping a bit of a secret from you.

Actually, it’s kind of big…

(…at least in this land….the Land of Mom, that is.)

2 weeks ago, I spent my first weekend away WOB (without babe).

It’s taken me this long to share because

a) I had to find the right words

b) I had to process all that it meant to me

c) I have been terribly homesick for the weekend, and I was not yet ready to tap into all of the emotions that came along with it

d) I had many missed baby hugs to make up for

So, let’s start with a little question:

You have a baby, you spend every moment with her (save a few 8-10 hour stretches) for 2 weeks shy of 2 years. It’s time to leave her for the very first time. Where do you go?

I know what you’re thinking.

Duh! So obvious! (In the words of my girl, A,) Obviduh! You go see Twin!

So, after months of planning, (with a few moments of agonizing sprinkled in there) and a six hour train ride,

the husband and I arrived in Boston,

and, more specifically, into the arms of Twinny and Go Go.

It was perfection.

It was so us;

Wandering through Harvard Square, arm-in-arm;

Sharing bites of Grape Nuts Ice Cream and Anadama Bread

and sips of sparkling sake and gourmet hot cocoa;

Lingering in the Poetry and Children’s Books sections of the book store, reading about Haiku and Miro and Eric Carle;

Midnight dance parties and morning ebelskivers;

Our weekend meant so much to us. To all of us.

Our weekend made me feel light

and made me feel happy

and made me feel proud.

But, there’s only so much I can say in words.

So, here they are; Some Scenes from The Bean (and by scenes, I mean iPhone pictures of the food we ate…because that’s what you peeps really care about, right?!):

When I say that our weekend was delicious, I am not just referring to all of the sushi and onion rings and burgers and treats we indulged in during our stay. They were all great, yes, but nothing compared to the pure bliss of 3 solid days with my Twin.

And while it was hard for me to be apart from my little girl

(I missed a whole day of her life,

as that Saturday was the very first and only day of her existence that I missed seeing her wake up in the morning. It was weird, I tell you.)

it was also important.

Important for us (relationship us)

important for us (friendship us)

important for us (Twinship us)

and important for me.

Being a mother (for me) has meant giving all of myself to my little mini. But, in doing that,

in living the life of my dreams,

I lost some of my independent self along the way.

From the moment I became pregnant, my life was lo longer my own. Everything about me began to revolve around my daughter.

And so, our trip to Boston was rejuvenating. It was re-me-venating.

It was just what we needed.

And on that note, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the woman who was not only the Hostess with the Mostest,

but who, in the past 7 years of our Twinship,

has taught me what it means to be a sister, a friend and a golden, genuine, top knotch human being.

Happy Birthday, to my girl, way up Nahth.

I hope that you know how much better you’ve made my life

just by being in it.

I love you and am honored today, and always, to call you my twin.

Happy birthday, Happy Everything,

Happiness Always.

 

 

Let it do what it do.

This evening, my daughter had some play time with her very best friend.

The girls play several times a week, and have done so for the past year. They share family dinners, dance parties, sweet toddler kisses, and a language that is their own.

They are so in love.

Yet tonight, they were two. Terribly two. My daughter marched into her little friend’s house and promptly tried to take every toy from her, screaming “Mine!”. And then threw tantrums. My girl was ornery. She was impolite. And once, when her friend grabbed a toy that my daughter had been eying, my kid hit. She hit her best friend.

And I was mortified, horrified, frustrated and sad. But, most of all, I was confused.

Where did she learn to hit?

We certainly don’t hit in our house, and as her teacher I knew that it was not a behavior she was witnessing in school.

My instinct was to protect my daughter’s little friend,

and to admonish my daughter properly.

And then, of course, to feel guilty.

What could I be doing differently?

What have I done wrong?

But, fortunately, a few bounces on the trampoline, a musical blanket ride and several bites of chicken nuggets later, the girls were back to being the tender, caring besties we have come to know and cherish.

But, her behavior continued to haunt me.

And as we walked home, I made sure to snuggle my daughter in my arms, and to show her love and affection; It is my job, after all, to model kindness, love and, most of all, understanding.

And once we were back inside our house, my daughter asked for me to hold her in my arms, and she sang to me.

Looking into my eyes, she sang “Mommy loves the baby”,

the song I sing to her each night as I walk her to her crib and place her down for sleep.

This song signifies our bond; it means love.

So despite all of the stress of the afternoon, the tears and the temper,

and the little things that I may be doing wrong along the way,

at least I know I have done one thing

one very small

yet very meaningful

thing right.

Amazing things.

Lately, it feels as if my daughter is doing new, amazing things every day. Every hour.

Whether it is a new word or expression,

a new number she is able to count to,

a new connection she’s made or memory she has conjured and expressed,

I am finding myself constantly in awe of her and the speed at which she is learning and growing.

And changing.

I have been trying to think of a way to share some of her most recent “moments o’ wonder”, but it would be a really, really long post.

And as much as you love my kid, I don’t think you have two hours to spare, reading about her newest dance move, involving a funny, back-and-forth head bob and right foot stomp.

So, while I have about 80 grillion cutie cutes to share with you, I will instead share with you the most amazing thing that she did…

in the last five minutes.

Let me set the scene:

My little girl has gotten really into music. She loves everything from folk to alternative to Motown and R&B, and so family dance parties have become a part of our daily routine. They are pretty epic. And her new favorite thing is to dance around while holding our “henties”, the Yiddish word for “hands” that we use in our family.

She loves to twist to Brett Dennen holding my henties.

She loves to slow dance to Al Green with her daddy, holding his henties.

She especially loves to rock out to Cee Lo holding Lola’s henties.

We all hold henties, we dance like maniacs until we can’t breathe,

and then we dance a little more.

And so, five minutes ago, as I read my baby her pre-nap bedtime story,

That’s Not My Snowman,

she came to the page where the Snowman held up his hands, covered in mittens that were too fuzzy.

And she put her palms on each of his hands and said,

“Snowman? Henties!” and began to dance with the snowman in the book.

And I keeled over with cuteness overload.

So yeah, my daughter, dancing with the snowman in her book….most amazing moment of the last five minutes.

And, just because you asked

(or, you know, you would if you could…)

I will also be a dear and give you the second most amazing moment of the last five minutes.

This:

HAPPY…

New Year!

I hope that two thousand and twelve brings you peace and love. And dance parties and belly laughs. And glitter. And baby kisses. And more love.

And Happy Anniversary, to me.

To us.

For, on this night, seven years ago,

I was on a plane,

flying across the ocean,

to a far away land,

and to a new place, both literally and figuratively,

after which I would never, ever, evereverever be the same.

For in that place,

I fell in love

with a one of a kind City;

in that place,

I fell in love with a

One of a kind girl.

Twin,

you mean more to me now than you meant to me then,

(and you meant a whole gosh-darn heck of a lot to me then)

and I do not know what my life would be without you.

You have taught me,

you have changed me,

you have accepted me,

you have held me,

you have loved me.

Twin, I love you more than you loved those chocolate churros, or that perfect bite of tapas at cal pep, or the amazing meusli at Mercadona, or the gummies at Bon Jon, or the puppies in the puppy store, or the smell of the Rocafort metro stop…

or the big red couches.

Happy Anniversary, Barca. Happy Anniversary, Twin. Happy New year.

Happiness Always.

(And P.S. because it must be said. Because, well, it just must: “Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that’s just fabulous.”–Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City, Series Finale. Twin, seriously…I love you more.)

My sister, my self.

This weekend, my Twin came to town.

!!!!!!!!!

I got to spend an entire, blissful, loverly 48 hours with the girl who makes me feel more like me,

more like the very best version of me,

than anyone else in the world.

Having Twin and her most wonderful guy, whom we shall call Go Go, in our home,

in our bed,

as we spent the early morning hours all snuggled up in my bedroom, talking, giggling, reminiscing, joking and just being,

made me feel so good; so whole.

Having twin in town meant that I got to watch my daughter fall in love with the same girl whom I fell in love with seven years ago.

It meant that I got to marvel, as she carried my daughter around the park, sang songs to her, pushed her on the swings, held her hand as they walked down the street

and taught her where her knee is.

Having twin in town meant that I got to see my daughter follow Go Go around the house, shouting his name, begging for him to pick her up, asking him to read to her, to hold her, to hug her and just be hers.

Having twin in town meant eating all of our meals family style.

It meant being a family.

Having twin in town meant having an expert to help me pick out my outfits,

a partner for middle of the night dance parties

and a hand to hold, every single time I needed it.

Having a twin in town meant music, and belly laughs and crunching leaves and cupcakes and more kisses than I can count.

Having a twin in town meant everything.

I miss her already.