Who Are These Boys, And What Have You Done With My Babies?

A few days ago, I picked up D to carry him to the bathroom. He had a cold, and said he couldn’t walk because his “legs are breaking down.” He tucked his head into my neck, and I felt the totally familiar coming home of my baby, the cuddling up of an entire being in the space between my arms and chest. We passed by a mirror in the hall, and instead of a baby in my arms, I saw legs hanging down almost to my knees, a broad back that eclipsed me in the mirror, and a head almost the same size as mine reaching around to the back of my neck. It was disconcerting. Who is this giant?? And I realized with a jolt that the hours I used to spend with a baby in my arms, in my lap, or sleeping on my chest have waned to a tiny fraction of what they once were. Nothing filled my soul like a baby sleeping on my chest. Those hours are not coming back. It’s just not as comfortable anymore. They sit on my lap for books, and I can’t see the pages for their heads. In fact, when I carry my kids, my legs are the ones breaking down now.

Today is about change. And loss. And mourning. It’s about the day that these babies, magnificent star beings, wide-eyed wonders, cuddly little nuggets, became… kids. Again and again, I find myself saying, “Who are these BOYS (or men, or monsters) and what have you done with my babies?!”

Then, in the dark of his room last night, D said quietly, “I wish I was a baby.”

He feels it too. Everything is different. I wrap my arms around him, and tell him he’ll always be my baby. He’s not fooled. He says he wants to be a real baby. Nor does he appreciate Madeleine L’Engle’s wisdom that “the great thing about getting older is you never lose the ages you’ve been.” I lay on his bed in the dark, and we mourn the loss of babydom together.

It slays me that the boys won’t remember those first years when we fell madly in love with them. I tell myself that they will know what it feels like to be enveloped in love, to be held, to be cherished, and that experience will carry forward. My cousin once talked about how the secret to raising great kids is keeping their attention bucket, or love bucket, full. When kids act out, or withdraw, or do pretty much anything that catches your attention, it’s probably because their bucket needs filling. It’s a parent’s job to notice and keep that bucket full. When they were babies, every moment was spent filling their buckets, every act was an act of love. Now, it’s hard to feel the love when doling out discipline or trying to get everyone out the door. The acts of love require a little more intention, a conscious effort to pull away from the other things on my mind in order to really focus on them. There was nothing else on my mind when they were little. That was part of the bliss.

It’s as if our family membership to the baby bubble club has expired, and we’re all out in the cold wondering what to do. Is it possible that being nostalgic over a lost childhood kicks in with consciousness around 4-years-old?

I asked the twins what they remember about being babies. They both got little grins, and wouldn’t answer. Then they took turns curling up in my lap, with a head pressed against my heart, while the other crawled up onto my shoulders from behind. The conversation quickly turned to all the things that are different. They can pour their own water. They use the potty. They are SO TALL and SO STRONG, and can PLAY so much better. So, yea, I think they miss being able to fit in my arms the same way my arms miss having them there. But, there are a whole lot of cool, fun new abilities to think about and look forward to. Looking forward is way more exciting. May this never, ever change.

The Spirit of New Beginnings

In the spirit of starting something new, I pulled out the journal from 2010, the year of pregnancy and birth! I think its amazing how much more we remember joy than pain. Certainly the magical transformation into a family of 4, and the deep, consuming experience over time of watching new beings become, then falling in love with them is worth every bit of suffering. Here is a snapshot from June 13, 2010.

38 weeks. Nobody thought I’d make it this far! Fat, fat edema makes my legs twice their normal size. They don’t bend. Skin is stretched like an over-full water balloon. Hips last 20-60 minutes lying down before they wake me with an ache or spasm. Can’t really lift my legs- getting dressed, putting my feet up – slow & painful. Skin over my belly has finally rebelled in a mesh of red welts, another growth spurt which feels like an angry army of biting ants crawling across my stomach. Babies are stronger & bigger- bones are calcified. Now their pressure hurts. And, finally, I caught a cold. Total faucet face. Coughing. No, wait. There’s more. A heat wave that has left me limp with wet towels draped on my lobster-skin. …what a lesson in being a vessel. I have so little control.

The boys were born the next day. From the moment they were born, they were distinct. It’s true, they are who they are from that moment on. They just become more so. Baby A was lanky and flexible, curled up in a ball. Baby B was stocky, stretched out like a star. We came up with their names on the fourth day in the hospital, at sunrise, because none of the names we’d picked during the last year fit. Baby B exuded strength and solidness, and had a flair for drama. The name Dylan comes from the ocean, from Bob Dylan (and therefore Dylan Thomas,) and Johnny Drama on the TV show, Entourage, played by Kevin Dillon. Luka was named for how he lit up the room, even then, he was a beacon. He brought the starlight with him. We bought our wedding rings in Lucca, Italy, but we liked the latin spelling better, and it means, “of the light.” We totally agreed on names. It felt serendipitous.

I didn’t write much for a few months except how magical they were, and hard everything else was. “Too tired to eat, to hungry to sleep” was a theme, as was the utter, consuming joy of a baby asleep on your chest. I cried a lot, both happy and not. We were on a 2-hour hamster wheel of nursing, supplementing, pumping, diapers, and sleeping with a 15-minute break to eat, sleep, bathe, and anything else. There was no difference between night and day. And, oh, how I hated that breast pump. I still hate it. I feel a solidarity with cows that gives me the resolve to never, ever eat dairy again. When the babies were about three months old, things started getting more fun with smiles, giggles and those beautiful eyes making contact. I called it starlight. I wrote about doing stretching baby exercises, where “L stretches easily every which way. D is like a stuffed sausage.”

Here’s a bit from when they were 5 months:

When the boys nurse, they lay on a side, snuggled in with an arm tucked under my arm, and one arm free. I rock them to sleep in the same position with a pacifier, face pressed in under my arm. Their free hand sometimes absently rubs my skin, my collarbone, my throat. Sometimes their fingers twine in my hair or rest on my breast. Sometimes the free hand hangs limp, and sometimes it flails around, batting my chest, my face, themselves. I hold that free hand, but they wiggle it free. I’ve learned to offer my thumb without grasping. They find it, and wrap their tiny fingers around it, finding a place to rest. Like a butterfly.

Then, in a different pen, I added:

D is less like a butterfly. More like a June bug.

One thing I would like to capture and keep from those months after giving birth is the hormones. I could sleep on a dime, and I could cry. I felt this incredible openness and connection to my babies that was survival for them, but felt like an abundance of love, love, love to me. I’ve never felt so secure that I was exactly where I needed to be. There is also a rawness to a baby’s gaze, an utter truth and vulnerability that is unknown to itself, and I found myself promising over and over to honor and protect it.

Well, I’ve lost the easy sleep and access to emotions, and I’m not so utterly confident now. But I’m happy to report the love keeps growing. I’m still inspired by that open, honest gaze. I strive to always be able to look into my kids’ eyes with that openness, to be real with them, no matter what. When they’re infants, its easy. When my 4-year-old argues with the guile of a practiced attorney, it’s less so. I can only guess what it will be like when they’re 10. Or 16. Or 20. But it’s a practice, and it’s making me a more open person across the board. Thanks, kids!

Mamagrit: An Introduction

Mamagrit is an act of desperation, a spilling over, a claim that I have something to give other than a clean house, a cooked meal, or my shit together. Somebody has to chronicle this amazing experience of being a 45-year-old, stay-at-home, lesbian mom with twin toddler boys living in the city. It’s 10:32 PM, and one kid is lying in bed singing, “I LOVE ROCK AND ROLL.” That’s funny. He can’t contain himself. It’s fun to share. Besides, my house isn’t clean, we went out to dinner, and I don’t even know what it means to have my shit together.

(Picture by Tina Bolling Photography, 2010)

Mamagrit is also about being tough enough to raise kids. It is a quest for the wisdom to know what to do, to get through the obstacle course of my own doubt and pain to earn that Mama Medal of Honor. It’s being able to stop in the midst of day-to-day madness, and see the world through a kid’s eyes. It’s a quest for something transcendent rising up from the ashes of that same madness. Also, I can quest in a bathrobe with a glass of wine, and nobody cares if I’ve showered.

Mostly, Mamagrit is about love. It’s true. I bet you will end up loving my kids as much as I do. They are awesome.