everythingtimestwodotcom

I’ve noticed lately that we are really obsessed with lists. Like really really obsessed with them. I imagine it has something to do with our need to quantify everything-to put it in neat little boxes. As if knowing that there is a penultimate list of the “25 things 90’s babies remember” somehow makes us feel safe and in control of an otherwise out of control world. As long as we KNOW there are legitimately 25 things that only 90’s babies remember, then we can accept that. We can understand that.

Don’t get me wrong, I like these lists a lot and always get a good laugh out of them. Buzzfeed, you are a genius my friend. Anyway, in thinking about lists, and having seen a bevy of “You know you’re a mother when” and “39 things I wish I knew about babies before I had them”, I felt compelled to write my own, well, list. Here’s the thing I want to say first: It drives me nuts when people with kids act like they are on this different level than those who don’t. They aren’t. Chances are, they’re poorer and fatter and have less fun and go to bed earlier than  you. That’s all.  This list is meant to show the real picture and to not hide anything-the good the bad and the very very ugly. Have kids or don’t, but read my list and feel immediately better about yourself.

The 6 (because I’m too lazy to come up with more than 6) signs you are a woman with a baby:

1. The razor in your shower has been there for more than a year and you know this because it’s dull and filled with leg hair and cuts your shin and makes you bleed each time you use it. You ask yourself why you don’t replace it. You know there is another disposable one in the bathroom console. You could get it. But you don’t because you’re lazy and your shower feels good and you aren’t going to wear a sleeveless shirt the next day anyway and even if you do, you’re ok with a little armpit hair. So you proceed. You shave your legs and you cut your shin and it bleeds and so for the next two days your sexiness level hits an all-time high with little, kind of red from blood, toilet paper tissues stuck to your shin.

2. Your bras are the same bras you bought when you were pregnant even though two of them are nursing bras (you are no longer nursing) and they’re definitely too big but not in the good way too big which would indicate you had bigger, better boobs, but bigger in the circumference but smaller in the actual boob part which really means not long enough in the actual boob part (see former posts on nursing boobs). You tried to buy new ones. You attempted to buy the crappy ripoff ones at Marshall’s but instead opted for Victoria’s Secret thinking “yep, you deserve this”. The sales person showed you a variety of styles each sexier (and not for you) than the next. You repeatedly told her “No padding. Just push-up. I repeat PUSH. UP. UP” and she looked at you and judged you and thought to herself that she will never have unprotected sex again. Then she brought in a giant bra with an unsexy name. Instead of “Lacy Love Lacies” or “Va Va Voom Cleavage” she brought in “Good god how will I ever lift these things up?!” You read the price tag ($50) and think of all the diapers and baby food you could buy with that and instead go home in your stretched out Playtex brand giant bra. Nursing clasps and all.

3. Your car looks like an episode of hoarders and smells like actual rotting garbage. Your car was never that nice and you aren’t into fancy rides. However, it would be nice to take your “ride” somewhere and not feel like a disgusting shame to society. You get in each morning, with our without the babies, and breathe in what can only be described as sour milk, dried spit-up, an old diaper you know is in their somewhere and long ago purchased maple apple baby crisps. You look behind you into the disaster that is the backseat. In addition to the spaceship sized car seats blocking your vision completely, you spy that onesie that you used several weeks ago to wipe up vomit your son projected in the Target parking lot. It looks back at you, stained and hardened by weeks of unwash and you hate it silently. On the floor you see various colored socks-pulled off your children’s feet after you spend almost thirty minutes shoving them on. You see a chick-fil-a cup from a milkshake you ate on Monday and it reminds you, with that smug chicken asshole smile, that you need to stop eating crap and should go to the gym because it’s past the appropriate time in which people still carry post-baby weight.

4. The amount of alcohol you drink is becoming alarming. Each morning you get up and you feel somewhat refreshed and like you might just stand a chance against the day. And then the day starts happening and as each minute of each hour rolls by, you start to feel more and more like wine is the only answer. Around 3:30pm you know for sure that wine is the only answer and then and only then do you begin debating how early is too early. If the sun is still up but it’s a Thursday and I’ve had a hard week and I probably won’t drink much this weekend because, well at least I’m telling myself that, and I know it’s not 5pm yet but that’s a stupid rule and I deserve that wine. I’ll only have one glass. 2.5 glasses later, there you sit in front of “Kim and Khloe take on Bruce in Miami with Kris observing” or “Kourtney, Kim, Kanye and Kendall take NYC while Bruce stays home and plays golf” and your eyes begin to glass over a little and you feel the warm and fuzzies come on and you head upstairs around 10:15 (let’s be honest, more like 8:45) and you climb into bed and BOOM you are out and snoring with only a mild headache in the morning.

5. Clothes. Let’s talk about clothes. You used to have some and they used to be cute. Hell, you once considered yourself a fashionista. You read fashion magazines and dog eared catalogs with skinny jeans and bad ass, yet slightly feminine vests and you spent hours getting ready perfecting make-up and hair and accessories. And now? You aren’t horrible looking. You’ve passed the infant stage where all you wore was elastic pants and shirts stained with breast milk. You’ve blown dry your hair a couple of times, hell maybe you got it cut. You are starting to look like yourself again. But let’s be real here-your clothes? They have changed forever. Your pants are practical and functional. They have a stretchy waist so that you don’t feel them squishing your baby belly or post c-section mush. Your shoes? They aren’t high heels anymore. You’re lucky if they’re boots. More likely, they are flats or some sort of running shoe/leisure shoe hybrid. Your make-up, while nice, doesn’t quite cover it anymore. The lines on your face are new and even though clinique promises to erase your age, it just so doesn’t. Your hair? Still falling out? Sort of ashy/gray? Thinning a bit? This makes for one incredible presentation. Between the stretchy pants, the shirt and sweater that are kind of cute, but if you just put a bit more effort in, could be VERY cute, the hair (see above)…added together you are a frumpy, hair loosing mamma.

6. Let’s move on to your music taste. Do you like Katy Perry’s “Roar”? Do you ask your girlfriends or people at the gym or, if you ever go out again, the DJ to play this song? DING DING DING! You are a mom. This song isn’t cool anymore. There’s a pretty good chance it was never cool, and yet you not only like it but are excited about the fact that you know it and that it makes you feel a little jumpy. You play the radio at the gym, or peruse iTunes before going for a run to try and find out what “all the kids are listening to”. This is a statement people say ironically when they aren’t actually old but acting like they are to make this joke (see: 25-28 year olds). Problem is, you are old and “all the kids” are listening to music that you’ve never heard of and that kind of creeps you out and definitely, definitely makes you tired. You play songs from your past-songs that remind you of a concert you attended where you got wasted or that remind you of a “crazy past relationship” and you think back on that time longingly (simultaneously realizing it will never happen again) and tell anyone around you about how “wild you used to be”. They don’t care. They don’t believe you. They don’t care. Yet somehow telling these stories allows you to be the old you for a minute. To taste the old life before you snap out of it and remember it’s your hoarders car, your stretchy mom jeans and your Katy Perry’s “Roar” on repeat.

What does it mean to be 30? Well, first off, I should note that I am sitting here typing this (as a 30 and change year old ) at GSU where I am studying for a masters degree. I should also add that I am studying for this masters degree among what feels like preschoolers. Next to the woman in class (you know the one) who is obviously older than everyone else there and people look at her and think “oh that’s nice. She came back to school. at this age.”, I am the second oldest person in the school. The whole school. Need proof? Try and find the modestly dressed mom among teeny tiny ripped jean shorts, ironic “ACDC” tee shirts (I can promise you this girl does not know who ACDC is, much less listen to them), untied, dirty doc martens (when did these come back in btw?) with earphones in her ear, a marked up back-pack on and a general look of disinterest, boredom and apathetic suffering on her face. Trust me. I won’t be hard to find.

Going back to school coincided almost perfectly with my turning 30. So did having my babies. And the whole thing only causes me to feel older and more out of it than ever before. I mean this when I say, I look at my clothes in the morning and think “Can I wear this now? Am I too old?” I worry about things I never thought of before: death, old age, wrinkles and gray hairs. I’m now in the section of the glamour magazine that instructs “30-40 year old” on proper skin maintenance, “How to dress your age lists” and “make sex good into old age” suggestions. When I tell people I’m 30 they don’t look surprisingly at me and say things like “wow, you are so young! I can’t believe you are so young”. Now I say “I’m 30” and they give me this look like “yeah. 30. Pretty bleak.”

It means that my drinking tolerance is nill. Pathetically nill. A group of well-dressed cool girls at school (apparently the Mean Girls scenario continues well past adolescence for some) were talking about their past weekend activities (activities I was noticeably not invited to) and one girl was like “Shit, I cannot believe we left the bar at 2:30, you guys we are so old and lame. I didn’t even throw up the next day”. From the other side of the room, sitting alone and creepily watching these young girls you would find me, in appropriate school pants, with an even more appropriate blazer, pencil in hand, glasses on, listening awkwardly to these girls and imagining what it would be like to be awake, let alone out in public at 2:30am. What would throwing up from drinking feel like now? I remember it well from my youth but these days? Are you kidding? I think I’d rather die. I thought about my own weekend and where I was at 2:30am. Asleep. Filled with 2.5 glasses of sauvignon blanc. Two advils in my stomach to prevent inevitable hangover from tiny glasses of wine. Stretch pants and husband’s tee-shirt on. Anti-aging cream applied to face. Sexy.

People always say things like “I’m so old” or “I can’t believe I’m so old and lame” and even I have said these things when I was like 23 or 26 or 28. But now? Now when I say those things, I kind of realize they are true. Like really true. I am in a different category now, a new section of the magazine, a new block to check at the doctor’s office upon signing in. I read one time in a magazine that Cameron Diaz said “I feel great turning 40. I’ve never felt more beautiful and fit and confident”. I can acknowledge that Cameron Diaz is a total idiot and shouldn’t be looked at for guidance and advice. I can also accept that I am 30. Not 40. It’s different. That said, I do NOT feel more beautiful than ever; I definitely do NOT have more energy than I used to and confidence? I just stopped and looked down at my mom belly and general physique and thought-yea not so much. You probably think I’m being hard on myself and that would be correct. I don’t think I’m a hideous loser or anything and at the end of the day I do not want to throw up from drinking or sit at a smoky bar with some pedophilloic frat brother asking me what I do for a living and if I’ve ever been camping in North Georgia. However, this change happened so overnight-so suddenly that it would have been nice to get a warning. Like a letter or article in the mail saying “Hey Anna, get ready girl. You’re old. Fun over. Sexy clothes out. Music taste? Old fashioned”. Some sort of heads up. But no, that didn’t happen. Instead I woke up one day and looked around and realized the world I lived in before I turned 30, before I had the babies, was gone. Foreign to me now. I don’t understand this new world yet and I’m sure as I get deeper into it, I will navigate my way into Cameron Diaz confidence but right now, it ain’t there. I feel older and wrinklier and more tired and out of style and my knees hurt and my feet ache and I wear sensible shoes when walking on campus and I make sure to take an advil if I drink more than one glass of wine, and I take Asprin at night to ward off heart attacks. That is me. 30 year old me. Oh and I just realized, I’m technically almost 31. Technically.

Life is really strange. People say stuff like that a lot and when I hear it or read it, I usually roll my eyes at the cliche. And yet, as I sit here typing this, the only statement that feels entirely true is that. Life is strange.

In five days, my twins will turn one year old. When I typed that just now, it felt sort of like someone punched me in my chest-right where the heart is. I’ve known this was coming. Actually scratch that. I genuinely feel lucky that this day is coming. That we have made it this far. Lots of life is tragedy and I am sincerely and completely grateful for what I’ve been given. But I also need to comment on this occasion. Why is life strange? As I said, the babies are almost 365 days old. 365 days of diapers. 365 days of crying for no reason. 365 days of giggles and funny baby toots and milestones like crawling or rolling over. 365 days of my heart growing and breaking and growing again. 365 days of challenges that I am fucking thrilled to be able to have experienced. And tonight, just 360 days after their birth, I am sleeping in our downstairs bedroom alone because my husband is upstairs with a violent stomach bug. And in ten days, it will be 370 days since I came home from the hospital, to this room. Alone. Without my babies. And at the time, I felt like my heart was going to fall out of my body. I sat on the bed. This bed. And I looked around for my babies and I listened for the all night crying I had been warned about and I saw and I heard nothing. Because I was home from a surprise c-section almost two months early and my babies were in the NICU with tubes down their noses and iv’s in their arms without me. Without their mother.

In this room, I felt the joy of my milk coming in and the prospect of breast feeding my two beautiful babies, something I worried about doing for personal health reasons, become a reality. I felt the pain of abdominal surgery as I tried to get up on my own in the night and use the bathroom. In this room I came home from my twice daily visits to the hospital to visit the babies and in this room I felt the first pangs of post-partum depression set in. I can remember sitting on the bed, this bed, and weeping and feeling so incredibly guilty because of it that I almost couldn’t stand it. I hated myself for feeling this way. No, I was physically repulsed by myself for feeling what I had read about secretly in doctor’s offices in the months leading up to the delivery. In this room I felt it. Sitting here now, I can feel so much of it again. I can smell it in the air (frankly it’s mixed with the diaper genie across the room that is filled to the brim with diapers). I can smell Fall coming and with it is a flood of memories of that time. In this room.

But here I am-all this time later-and I am struggling so profoundly with their turning one year old. I want to go back. I want to do it all over again. I want the surprise hospital visit and the IV and the nurse who told me “you’re having those babies tonight darling” and the doctor and the epidural and the c-section and the sound my baby boy made when he breathed air for the first time and the way our baby girl wiggled and squirmed in my arms the first time I held her. I want it all again because even as hard as it was, I loved it. Even when I thought it would never be right again and that I had made a mistake and should have never become a mother, I still loved it somewhere inside me.

Somehow them turning one closes this door and moves us out of a place we’ve been into a place that sounds scary. Toddlers. Pre-school. On the other hand, I am so proud of them for turning one and for being such badass, one of a kind little ones. I love them so much. Every way I try to describe my love for them comes out as a cliche-something that has been said a million times before. I will say this in an attempt to capture it. My love feels like a bruise. Something that is so present and physical and throbbing. And the love you have for your child can be painful which is a strange thing to say when you consider how amazing it makes you feel. But it’s painful because it is so raw and harsh and real that it scares the living shit out of me. I have never felt more vulnerable and more open than I do now.

I know in my heart that I am lucky to have my beautiful children turning one. And I know more than it seems how life can change in one breath of an instant. So I know that I need to shut the hell up and to enjoy this beautiful leg of the journey as I prepare for the next one. So as I sit in this room (smelling their diapers), I am going to allow myself to mourn the moments that are no longer here but to also honor how much I’ve accomplished-we have accomplished in the last 360 days. I became a mother. My husband became a father. My parents and in-laws became grandparents and my sister an aunt. Our lives were changed forever by these two perfect beings and while this room reminds me of the past and what happened 360 days ago, it also reminds me of how far I’ve come. How far we’ve come. And for that I feel proud and brave and strong. In this room.

I have incredible parents. People say that a lot but the truth is, I really really do. I am lucky to have grown up in a two parent home and today, as a 30 year old, I live ten miles away from my mom and dad and the house I grew up in. We have had our problems-boy have we ever-but at the end of the day, my parents mean everything to me. Becoming a parent in the presence of my own parents, therefore, has been a profound experience. I remember being wheeled down the hall immediately after delivering my two babies and looking up at my worried mom and dad and seeing such love and concern in their eyes. Eyes that I have looked into pretty much every day for 30 years. Eyes that have been angry; eyes that have been proud and eyes that have watched me grow up. And in that moment, almost a year ago now, their eyes were watching me transform from their child into someone else’s (in our case, two someone else’s) mother. What a feeling.

Since the babies were born, however, I have felt more and more like my time as a “child” should be over. The truth though, is that I have never felt more like a child than I do now. I don’t know what I’m doing. I was thrown into this new role-this new place in my life-with no formal training and with no handbook. The person who sits here typing this instant feels less like “me” than ever before. I need my mom and dad to hug me and to remind me where I come from and what makes me, well, me. Moreover, and I’m not particularly proud to say this, I need to be coddled and comforted and treated like a baby. I got a bad cold two months after the babies were born and I remember telling my mom that I just felt terrible. She was concerned but I remember realizing in that moment that it didn’t really matter how I felt anymore. What mattered was that the babies were here and that they were ok. I was secondary. I wasn’t their number one baby anymore.

There is such fundamental transformation that occurs post-partum and so much of it isn’t addressed in baby books or on websites. The only way I can really explain it is that in an instant, everything you were and everything you felt and everything you cared about disappears and you wake up a new person with new feelings and new priorities. I know the old me is somewhere deep down in the back of my mind, but this new self is who stands at the forefront. In fact, when your old self tries to rear its head-perhaps at a bachelorette party or a wedding-your new self reminds you that you are somebody’s mother. You have to take care of living beings. You are responsible. You are in charge. Furthermore, when I look at clothes that I wore before the babies were born-clothes that highlighted parts of my body or were somewhat sexy-I think about wearing them now and think, you are somebody’s mother-you are no longer viewed in that light. When I am sad, or need the comfort only my mom and dad can provide, I remember that I am somebody’s mother and what is hurting me or upsetting me doesn’t really matter anymore. What matters is them. And everything else is less important.

I don’t have some grand conclusion or answer to this problem. All I know is it exists and it’s been difficult for me to deal with. I am self-centered and I enjoy being coddled and comforted and protected by my parents. It is a harsh reality that I no longer occupy that role anymore. There is a new role for me and while it’s one I love and feel unbelievably lucky to get to fill, there are moments where I resent it and long for my mother’s eyes and her touch. If you’re reading this now mom, please come over and hug me :-).

I know you’ve seen what I’ve seen. Facebook post after Facebook post linking to articles entitled “It will be over before you know it: enjoy every second with your kids” or “Time flies: the journey will be over soon so enjoy it!” (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julianna-w-miner/the-sweet-spot_b_3617506.html?ncid=edlinkusaolp00000009)

My well-intentioned friends usually preface the article with something like “I wish I had realized this then. I would give anything to have my little ones be babies again.” I understand that the authors of these articles are trying desperately to impart a wisdom only gained with age and perspective upon those who are still “in the thick of it” but they must also realize the pressure they are putting on us. The fear and the constant marination on this unrefuted fact: Time moves. Babies grow up. We will die.

I guess I can say one thing. When I am up to my neck in sweet potato spit-up and drool and diaper remnants, it does help to remind myself that these times are fleeting and that before I know it, my beautiful drool boxes will be toddlers with the ability to use napkins and toilets and that I won’t be as needed as I am this very instant. It does help. I take a deep breath and somehow I view this stressful, frankly gross situation, with a different lens-one that lets me see it as fascinating, life-affirming and honestly, really really funny.

That said, most self-reflective people will tell you that they already think about death and finality on their own-without the constant reminder from Facebook moms. I am profoundly aware of the fact that time is racing by and that the days and the weeks feel like minutes or even seconds. The twins will turn one in two months and that statement-that fact-pulsates and aches through my body daily. This isn’t my first reflection on this-I’ve written about this at length before. It breaks my heart to accept that almost a year has gone by since I was pregnant with them. I stare obsessively at pictures from their birth and videos from those first few days home. Point is, I will venture to say that we don’t need the constant reminder that it will “all be over soon”. We are painfully aware of that fact every minute of every day of each fleeting week that flies by. And it hurts us just as much now-as it is actually happening-as it will when our babies go to college, or get married, or have kids of their own.

What If we collectively chose to change our mindset? Instead of lamenting and stressing over the passage of time, we all tried to simply be in the moment? In yoga practice you conclude the practice with “Shavasana” (Corpse Pose). Yoginis say it is the single hardest pose in a practice because it requires you to lie very still and to let go of all control and all thought. You are encouraged to simple Be. Of course that’s hard as hell and just as you begin to relax you remember you have to go to the grocery store and you forgot to pay the cell phone bill and that you need to set the DVR to record the “Real Housewives of Wherever” and then you’re gone-on a whirlwind of thoughts and worries and you’re annoyed and mad at yourself that you are wasting this special meditative time and then BOOM! Class is over. The yoginis tell you to see those thoughts (grocery, housewives etc.) and imagine that they are a wave rolling into the shore. They instruct you to watch the wave and to just let it go. Don’t watch it and contemplate it as it goes away and worry about whether you really are watching it roll away or not, but to simply allow it to hit the beach and leave your consciousness. I wonder if that technique translates to what I’m talking about above.

When I start to hurt over the passage of time-I wonder what would happen if I let that fact be a wave headed towards the shore and I allowed it to leave me and my consciousness and crash gently into the sand. And I’m not saying it will be easy or that it will work every time but I’m sure willing to try it. I imagine it is a welcome break to the other. It suggests a potential peace with something mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and people have struggled with for all of time.

If this worked, and we all could stop trying unsuccessfully to control and press pause on time, perhaps the Facebook articles would say something different moving forward. Perhaps they would say something like “Life is hard and challenging and there are a million ups and downs but in the end it is utterly incredible and full and long and I am so fucking thankful to be in it“. I would read that.

This precious little baby in the picture above is honestly driving me crazy. She screams. Pretty much non stop. I mean she isn’t even crying it’s just intermittent screaming at the top of her lungs. Out of nowhere it strikes. We went to the grocery store today and she wasn’t even mad about anything but she kept.on.screaming. Nothing I do makes her happy either. I thought it was her teeth? I gave her tylenol, rubbed them, gave her an ice cold popsicle. Nope. I thought it was a wet diaper. I changed her time and again. I thought she might be bored of her toys so I brought in new ones. I thought she might be hungry so I fed her baby food and followed it with a bottle. Nope. I tried carrying her around and showing her things in the house (did I mention she’s a twin so it’s not like I don’t have another baby demanding my attention) Nope. Nothing I do impresses her. I feel like this pathetic entertainer dressed as a loser clown or something-pulling various magic tricks out of my bag only to get a scream as a response. She also makes this horrible face when it happens that looks like a full fledged adult having a temper tantrum. She’s nine months.

It makes me so so so mad. I know that’s wrong and as mothers we are supposed to have endless patience for these beautiful perfect creatures we brought into the world. But the truth is, she is pissing me off like nothing else. I want to scream back at her and say “what the hell do you want?!” I want to slam the door to my room and refuse to come down until she has cleaned up her behavior. I want to give her the silent treatment. But I can’t do that because she is utterly dependent on me. Don’t get me wrong, underneath this annoyance and anger is real sadness that I can’t alleviate her problematic situation. I, her mother, can’t figure out what is wrong. I know she doesn’t want to be mad or sad. I know she wants to giggle and be the little delicious bundle she usually is. But these past two weeks she has just been downright angry about something. How can that be if she’s only nine months? Her brother, on the other hand, is relatively chill right now. He kind of does his own thing and ignores her. I can’t tell you how many times people have told me not to compare the two-as twins that often happens-but it’s so hard not to. I’m looking at two babies the exact same age and yet they are completely different people. I know that seems obvious to readers, but the thing is, I can’t believe they have so much personality-and such different personalities-this young.

I’m sitting in the other room having just about lost my mind with her. I put both babies in their jumpy things and they are bouncing around and talking to each other (little gurbly garbly sounds) and I can hear her giggling every so often. It hit me the other day that she likes her brother more than me. That she will probably always love him in some ways more than me. As a pretty egotistical person, that hurts. But, and I really mean but, it also provides me with such enormous comfort. They will always have a teammate; a protector; a confidant and a friend. That gives me such a warm feeling to consider. I was telling my mom the other day that having children has been such a strange experience in terms of how my heart feels. I am overwhelmed-breath knocked out of my, mind blown in love with them. It’s all encompassing. There is no separation with this love between what I think and process in my brain and what I viscerally feel. It is one experience-one wave of love that has taken over every single part of what makes me, me. Remember the movie “Titanic”? Remember when one of the characters is standing in the hallway in the basement of the boat? And all of a sudden out of nowhere this HUGE flood of water just hits him and barrels him over? That’s what this has been like. Life was one way before I had them, and everything in this world is different after.

It’s also the scariest love you can feel. My sister in law shared a proverb with me when I had my babies that to have a child means a mother’s heart will forever exist outside her body. That is such a perfect description of what this is like. I feel so incredibly vulnerable. As though my armor could be punctured at any minute. I feel like I have an open flesh wound pulsating and throbbing and it’s unprotected and completely susceptible to hurt or invasion. That’s how I feel about loving them. I usually end these things with some nice, cleaned up lesson that I’ve learned (whether true or not) about perspective and handling my babies. Truth is? I don’t have one right now. Today’s been hard. Tomorrow will hopefully be better. I love them so completely it’s astounding. And yet right now, she’s driving me crazy 🙂

So. Long time no write. I wish I had a better excuse but truth is, I haven’t felt inspired to write anything. Not to imply that things haven’t happened-changes haven’t developed-just I haven’t felt the itch to write. The babies are 8 months. They are eating lots of baby food and we are trying to phase out bottles. Typing that rips at my heart a little bit-makes me feel a dull ache in my belly. But at the same time, I’m proud of how far we’ve come as a little team. The farther I get from their birth, however, the harder and harder it is to get a focused, clear picture of it.

I told my sister just a few weeks ago that as time with the babies elapses, I find myself straining to remember each little detail about their birth-details that the first three months of their lives, I marinated on and tasted on the tip of my tongue as I fell asleep at night. Now I feel like I’m looking in the rear view mirror of a car as it speeds away from a beautiful structure and I am straining and squinting to see what was so crystal clear just months before. I’m afraid with each month that passes, each milestone we cross, that image will become less and less visible until one day it’s gone completely. Practically speaking of course, I know that time has to move on and that I can’t go back to the day they were born but somehow losing that time, moving completely away from that image solidifies the fact that it really is over. That I am not pregnant with twins anymore. That I’m not at the hospital holding their tiny hands or nursing them behind curtains or calling family members to update them on each little development anymore. That I’m a mother not an expectant mother.

This blog seems very morose.

You should know that as I’m typing this very instant, both babies are inside in their pack and play screaming bloody murder. I, on the other hand, am sitting on the porch with our two dogs enjoying this brief moment of silence. Mom of the year? Doubtful.

These babies have such different, distinct personalities. Our girl is such a pistol ball. She is intense and curious and confident and takes over a room when in it. She refuses to fall asleep when there is action around here and you get the feeling she loves, absolutely loves life.

Our boy is different. He is sweeter and more snuggly and while incredibly curious about his world around him, he seems to observe it and reflect upon it with peace and serenity. His big blue eyes grow bigger when he watched the wind play with the summer leaves on the porch. He giggles at funny sounds and silly noises. Sometimes he gets so happy in a moment that his whole body erupts and it’s like the happiness in his mind is taking over his physical being-he pumps his legs and waves his arms and smiles. He reminds me of his dad that way.

And what’s best? They seem to genuinely love each other. Our boy is a bit of a mamma’s boy-something I’m not totally upset about-and the one other person he looks at with that amount of love is his sister. When he sees her, he just grins and reaches out to touch her hand or her hair or to chew on a toe. And the feeling is mutual. She sees him and this sweet sort of shy little smile takes over her face. She almost looks nervous as though she would do anything in the world to impress this baby. And they watch each other and coo and caa and giggle and it’s just utterly perfect.

The image in that rear view mirror is one I never want to lose and will try everyday not to. But instead of always focusing on what’s behind me, I am going to try and remember to look what is next to me. Because that’s pretty damn perfect as well.

Today’s a rough one. I found myself multiple times today asking the forbidden, unspeakable question: Was this worth it?

I feel guilty thinking it, I feel guilty asking it. Hell, I feel guilty typing it. Because I know how lucky I am to have my two babies. I understand how lucky I am that they are here. Today. But I think it’s natural to think occasionally about your old life-your old self. I think it’s rather unhealthy, in fact, to pretend we are happy all the time as mothers and that we know with 100% certainty that this was “the life we were meant to lead”. I don’t know how certain I am of that today. Yesterday? Yesterday while sitting on the porch with my own mother enjoying a Spring breeze while watching my two babies play with one another’s hands and eyes and noses? Yes, that moment I was certain. This is the life I was meant to lead.

But today? Today has been challenging. Today I dealt with two babies that wouldn’t nap. Today I changed multiple poop diapers that ruined freshly washed sheets and outfits. Today my dogs, dogs that used to be the receivers of all of my love, howled at a group of pre-schoolers walking by the house and scared the kids and the babies. Today I put on a pair of pre-pregnancy jean shorts that only recently fit again and yet when I looked in the mirror, all I could see was my saggy tummy, my hollow, tired eyes and wrinkles. I look older. I feel older. I feel exhausted and empty and drained and it shows on my face and body and in my spirit. Was it worth it?

Today I found myself dreaming of a day when I took a 3 hour nap without anyone noticing-when I could take a book and a blanket to the park and read for as long as I wanted-when I bought an outfit that made me feel like a million bucks. When I felt good about myself. That’s not today.

Today I put the babies in a stroller and took the whole crew (dogs as well) for a walk. A walk that I thought might calm me down-might calm them down. And it didn’t. They cried and kicked and squirmed and screamed and the dogs whined and howled and tugged and pulled. And I was sweating and cursing and my lip was quivering and everyone I passed by just looked and stared apologetically. I wondered for a minute what would happen if I let go of the leashes; if I put the brake on the stroller and simply…walked…away. Gone would be the screaming and the whining and the howling and the pulling. Gone would be the constat, never stopping need for me to do something. Gone would be the responsibility and the finality of it all. I would be free.

I’m not going to lie and say that soon thereafter I came to a cathartic realization that my babies were my real home and that the thought of leaving them reminded me how much I love this life. Because I didn’t. And I really think that’s ok. I know that I am a good mother. A damn good mother. I work my ass off to take care of them, to make them happy and healthy and I know that I am a fantastic dog owner who cares for my pups and walks them when it’s raining or cold. I know that I am a good wife who is doing everything in her power to lose the weight, to get out of stretchy pants, to clean the house, to be supportive and loving-to be everything I was or that I see in magazines or on tv shows. I am trying and I don’t think I could try any harder.

I am going to be honest here and I feel guilty saying it and those who are reading it may judge me and say I don’t deserve to have these babies. But the truth is, today it doesn’t feel worth it. It just doesn’t.

Everything changes with a little time. A few minutes standing in the driveway with the door closed to the crying and whining and wanting rejuvenates my soul and reboots my system. I come inside feeling like a new person and those things that made me struggle before-that made me question this huge, life-changing decision-somehow are the same things that confirm it.  Until then I will take a deep breath and wait.

Hi there. I feel like a total jerk for not blogging in so long. I’m not sure what’s kept me from this site. I just haven’t felt inspired I guess. And I’m lazy. Very very lazy.

So this weekend was different. I attended a Bachelorette party on Saturday that made me feel 87 years old. I mean seriously, why do people go out? It’s so horrible I don’t get it. And it’s not because I’m somehow above it now that I have kids. Hell, I wish I still went out-I wish I did anything cool-but the truth is, I’m tired and grouchy and the last thing I want to do is put on ill-fitting clothes and uncomfortable shoes and stand in a crowded bar holding a 9$ vodka soda that is already giving me a headache while a group of size 2 blonds next to me scream loudly into their iphones “wait WHAT? Where are you guys?! I’m by the bar. BY THE BAR”.

What do I want to do? I’d like to eat a nice meal and drink 2-maybe 3-glasses of Sauvignon Blanc while wearing my target yoga pants and one of my husbands large tee-shirts, watch “Kim and Khloe Take Miami” (or any other combination of K’s taking various cities) feel a little buzzed and head to bed around 10:15. Yep. I’m old.

So the Bachelorette party was in fact quite fun. The girs I was with were awesome and we all enjoyed laughing at the drunken messes around us. I noticed that a lot of people at the bar shoved me unapologetically. I felt like I had a giant arrow dangling above my head with a sign reading “Somebody’s mother. Definitely not any fun”. To make matters worse, I kept remembering that in just a few hours I would have to get up with two screaming babies who did not care if I was hungover and tired. I pushed through however and downed several vodka drinks in hopes that I would miraculously become more fun. Around midnight (god help me) we headed to a club around the corner. While waiting in line politely, a handful of skinny blondes pushes past us and the bouncer and walked towards the door. This pathetic, nerdy bouncer sheepishly said “no. wait. stop girls. no.” to which they laughed and kept walking. I felt exactly like Leslie Mann’s character in “Knocked Up” when she gets rejected by the bouncer for being too old. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FmiVlyAfTnw)

Not to be super annoying and if I read this in someone else’s blog I would definitely roll my eyes, but I looked at these girls-not women-and thought to myself “they have no idea what it is to be a real woman”. I know that’s super lame and maybe I’m just saying it to make myself feel better for not wearing adorable sequined shorts with sky-high heels and a skin tight tank top, but the truth is, I thought it. Here were these girls with pre-puberty looking bodies-bellies that had never grown a child-breasts that had never fed a baby-and all I thought to myself was that I was happy to be me. Me in my out-of-style mom dress, comfortable and practical “going out” shoes, cell phone in-hand in case of emergency, me.

I took a cab home around 2am and watched out the window as a generation-one that was no longer mine-flirted and danced and smoked-and I couldn’t have been happier to go home to my new world, one that was a good bit calmer and absolutely less cool-but one I’m in now. At least until the next Bachelorette party 😉

I’ve wanted to write this post since the day the babies were born. Maybe even before that frankly. I’ve always struggled with living in the moment-experiencing the present. I either dwell upon what could or should have been or worry over what might be. I practice yoga regularly and one of the best parts of the practice for me is the focus on the now. Right now. In fact, written on the floor in front of the studio it reads “Be here now”. I love that and I am committed to living a life that follows this mantra.

It’s been really hard with babies because every second feels like it’s flying by. I cannot tell you how many people have said something along the lines of “Before you know it, they’ll be grown” or “Enjoy every second it flies by” or “Just wait, in a flash you will be watching them get married”. I told my husband that I felt like I should never use the bathroom, or sleep or go for a run for fear I may miss these precious, apparently short lived moments. Of course the truth is, time is time. One minute is one minute. The four years after college stretch the same length as the four years out of high school, or when I was first born. Time is relative-sure I know that. One hour working out at my boot camp feels like a lifetime while an hour spent with a friend in town feels like only a second. Regardless, I have a hard time with the constant influx of commentary from obviously well-intentioned friends. I don’t know how to solve this issue and I’m sure as these babies grow older, people will continue to remind me of that fact. My mom, who is my role model in all shapes and forms, told me that I should counter these comments with “Well, before you know it, we’ll all be dead”. It reminds me so much of the movie “The Departed” when someone, speaking of his sick mother, says to the Jack Nicholson character, “Oh she’s not well, I fear she’s on the way out” and he says “We all are, act accordingly”. Is that a little rough to hear? Sure, but hell it’s that truth right?

Someone said the other day that the days with the babies feel like years and the years like days. In a lot of ways, that’s very true. Our daughter had a stomach bug this week and the days felt long and never ending and incredibly challenging. And yet, to think that my babies are six months old! Half of a year has passed since I delivered them?!

Which brings me to my last point. I have touched on this before and if you know me, and knew me while pregnant, you can confirm that I was not a happy camper. I complained pretty much non-stop. And yet, I long to be pregnant with these babies again with almost all of my heart. It feels good to have my body back and to be able to workout and build a sweat again, but I ache to rub my hands over my stomach and feel these little lives moving around. But then I look up and see them here. Actually here in this world in front of me. And I can’t believe that what I’m wishing for is to have them back inside. I hate to sound cliche, but of course hindsight is 20/20. I don’t think I took time while pregnant to really reflect upon the profound thing that was happening inside of me. I never had that moment of clarity and awe. I was too busy being sweaty and annoying and eating cheeseburgers. Why do I wish for the past? Why do I fear the future? Why oh why don’t I focus on breathing in and out of this moment and enjoy what is right this very second? This is a common human struggle and one that pisses me off to no end.

My maternal grandmother, one of the biggest badass women I’ve ever known, used to say to my mother “Never look back”. While she stopped there, I believe she also meant to “Never look forward” either. Look at what is here right now and dwell in each second that makes up the present. Delivering these babies and becoming a mother has made me so aware of the shortness of life and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t scare me-didn’t keep me up at night. But we have no ability to stop time or to press pause. Just as we have no ability to fast forward and skip ahead past the really tough times or rewind to an easier time. All that we can do is to live in the moment we are in. The choice we have is how we choose to experience the moment. So while our daughter continues to scream and our son continues to projectile vomit, I will aim not to dwell upon what is in front of me or miss what is behind me, but celebrate what is right that very second. Here’s to today.