In the middle of Olympic season, while helping sweep the yard, D declared he’ll never give up. Not ever. Even if he loses. I told him he’s awesome, then I said, “Me, too, Bud. In fact, let’s make it a pact. I’ll never give up either. We’ll seal it with a fist bump.” He told me he was too busy sweeping, and we’d have to fist bump later. Which we did. Thank you, Olympics, for this stellar moment at the end of a busy and bumpy summer. I look back and feel sort of beaten up, like I’m happy to have survived.
Two months have passed since the twins’ sixth birthday, two wild months that included learning to swim, a broken wrist, a road trip from Seattle to San Francisco, boat rides, new movies, new glasses and their first sleepover. The summer culminated with the start of kindergarten, and “It’s The End Of The World As We Know It” looping through my head.
After all that mayhem, to sit in a silent house with my laptop feels erie. This morning, as he was getting his backpack on for his third day of school, L said, “The world is changed forever.” He’s right. The crash echoing through my body is the door that just slammed shut on the years of being home with my kids. Maybe once I get through all the looming tasks and chores that have been pushed aside all summer, the reality will set in. I feel a tremendous pressure to address what’s next. How will I start making money? How will I fill my time? But today is only day three. I have a lot of catching up to do, a house to deep clean, projects to finish, things to take care of. My brain has been holding out for this vacation for so long, there is nothing I can do to make it function. Today, I am starting to miss them. But, the boys are so ready to be in school. They’ve been ready since last Fall. They’ve been splitting the seams of our house and my sanity all summer. A shift happened where they no longer need me in order to function, and instead need me mainly for discipline and judgement calls. I’m pretty happy to pass off the daytime controls.
I swore this summer I’d have them clean up their room every night, start getting up earlier to be ready for the new school schedule, brush their teeth every day in the morning as well as at night, be dressed before breakfast, earn stars for chores, and be more helpful running the household in general. HA-Hahaha-Aah-hahahaHaHaHahee.
The reality is that they slept in, stayed in pajamas unless we had somewhere to be, forgot about the star chart for weeks (my bad,) and generally got a lot of uninterrupted play time. They watched, “The Force Awakens” at least eleven times. It was just so much easier to get chores done without their help. They used this to their advantage with precocious skill. Like, when I was trying to get shit done, and L wanted to watch a video. When I shower, I often let them watch, so he tried to convince me to take a shower by saying, “Mom! You went to yoga, and you’re going to stink if you don’t shower!”
Two weeks before school started, we told them they’d be in two different classes at their new school, and both took the news with consternation, not happy about it, but not trying to refuse it, either. We started telling them about everything we could think of from our own kindergarten days, the school bell, raising your hand to speak, following instructions, making friends… They responded by wanting more cuddles at night, by crawling into bed with us again in the morning (something they haven’t done in a year or so,) and by bickering a whole lot more. Two days before school started, as if in early rebellion, the boys stripped off their clothes, filled the sand pit with water & made a total muddy mess of themselves and the yard. I actually enjoyed this flashback to when they were three. It was also a rare warm day in an otherwise wintery San Francisco summer. 
The mudbath was fun, a release of all that tension, a coming back to the familiar. I let them play and get as muddy as possible. There is no way to cram for the start of school, it’s not like a test. There was nothing to do but enjoy the last moments of summer, the end of life as we knew it. (Picture is of a day at the beach this summer. The black flecks in the sand are scattered bits of charred wood from the many fire pits since the only reason to go to the beach is for a bonfire.)
Four days before school started, we went to the kindergarten orientation, where the principal addressed the crowded auditorium by introducing our kids’ teachers, who stood in a small row on the stage. “THEY LOOK FIFTEEN!” I whispered to Maddy. The first thing the principal did was have all the kids follow their teachers to their new classrooms. Boom. Just like that, our twins were separated. I choked back tears, and looked around at the other parents, who all looked the way I felt: way more concerned than their kids were over this sudden turn of events. The kids filed out of the auditorium behind teachers who looked like kids themselves. Were my kids ready to be alone in a crowd like this?? I watched them in line, trying so hard to be good, following instructions, not looking for me. A few kids cried, and their parents pushed them into line, no doubt feeling the heavy peer pressure of an auditorium full of parents trying to gracefully let go of their kids. L peeked at Maddy and me with a quick wave and a grin, then went back to his serious procession. D stayed focused. I have no idea what the principal said to the crowd after that. Eventually we were released to our kids’ classrooms to get the scoop from their teachers while all the kindergarteners played for the first time together on the playground. I stared out the window while L’s teacher talked about the routine and homework, field trips and classroom supplies we could donate. I glimpsed my kids on the ladder, on the slide, looking fine, having fun, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then the enormity of this change began to set in. It’s the end of an era. I will no longer be the primary structure of my kids lives. Did I teach them enough? Will they thrive? Will they choose friends or be chosen? Will they have the agency to ask when they don’t have answers? Will they speak up for themselves? Will they be agents of peace and belonging, or will they exclude other kids? Will they speak up for others? Will they recognize choices and make good ones?
Maddy came out of D’s classroom looking serious. “It’s too big,” she said. “The school is so big!” We stood on the playground with the heaviness of this huge, life transition, and our kids played like it was just another day at the park.
They let us dress them in button-down shirts and new pants on their first day of school. I think they both even liked dressing up for once. After that orientation, it was almost mundane to take them to school. I didn’t even cry. 
It totally helped that there are several families from our awesome preschool at our new school, so I was never alone to reflect. The kids know two other kindergarteners from preschool as well. They absolutely lit up to see each other on the first day.
I thought I’d come home that first day and clean. Clean and clean and clean and organize and do all the house chores I’ve been wanting to do for months. But it’s day three, and I keep finding other things that need to be done. I feel like I have all the time in the world to clean up, to recalibrate, to start fresh. On day three, I am still so tired. My brain is on vacation. It’s all I can do to stay awake.
After the first day of school, the boys were asked over and over, “How was it? What did you do? Do you like your teacher? Did you make new friends?” At first, neither had anything to say. But with prompting, like, “Did you sing the ABC song?,” they divulged some details. Yes, they sang the ABC song. The traditional way. They did not sing the soul-version. They both also sang “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.” L’s teacher gave out candy (!) at the end of the first school day. D felt very much slighted because his teacher gave out bubbles, which are obviously not nearly as awesome. L sweetly shared his candy with D.
On day two, D began learning the alphabet in sign language. I met his new friend, Matthew, who told me in a concerned voice about a kid in a red shirt who hit another kid. It happened at recess, and the teacher didn’t even see it. D’s class had a birthday party, and D got a cupcake AND ice cream. This time, L felt very much slighted. There was none left for D to share. Leaving school, D pointed out a little girl getting into a car, and said, “IT’S HER BIRTHDAY!” We wished her a happy birthday, and her mom popped out with a tray of leftover cupcakes, offering one to L. What a lucky kid! That night, as L lay in bed, he asked, “How long is it until Christmas?” I told him about five months. He asked how many weeks, then how many days that was. When I told him about 130 days, he exclaimed, “I’ll be DEAD by then!!” I said I certainly hoped NOT! Then he asked if he’d still be six by then. When I told him it was more than twice as long, about 300 days, until he turns seven, he was blown away. “NO WAY!” He exclaimed in disbelief. It was too much to contemplate. Numbers past 10 are simply big, kind of like how there isn’t a difference between the cost of a new house and a really big Lego set. Anything past next week seems impossibly far away. I said goodnight thinking, “that’s how I’ve been feeling for years, Buddy, and ‘next week’ (ie- the next chapter) is finally, impossibly here.”
On their first hump day, I arrived to the pick up the kids, and D’s teacher informed me he spent time in the office because he got kicked in the mouth. D showed me under the play structure where it happened. There had been blood. All he could say for sure was that the kid who did it was wearing a yellow shirt. Why, how, or whether the kid was a boy or girl was not clear, but the office staff were very nice to him. L proudly showed me a folder in his backpack that his teacher will use to communicate with us. While waiting for the kids to get into their bath, I picked up my old Rubik’s Cube, which was sitting in the kids’ room. In glorious, 12-year-old nerd-dom, my friend and I long ago memorized how to solve the cube using sequences from a book. It’s easy to get one side done, and then you work by row. I can still get it half done, but I can’t remember the rest. D was very excited that I got the cube half done, and watched carefully while I messed around, trying to remember the old sequences. After a bit, in defeat, I put the cube down, and he whispered, “Don’t give up, Mama.” OMFG, the fist bump, the Olympics. Now I had to figure out how to do an effing Rubik’s Cube. (I so love the internet for this. So happy I didn’t have to go buy a book!)
By day four, it’s like all the stories & fights & hugs & meals & begging & whining & mayhem of an entire day are compressed into the four or so hours between pickup from school and sleep.
On the way to school on day five, L says,
“Mama, remember when I lost my cuddles last night?”
I answer, “Yep. That was sad. Were you sad?”
“Yea.”
“We’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen tonight.”
Silence.
“If you’re calling out pee-pee face or whatever & I say stop, what are you going to do??”
Silence.
“Are you going to stop??”
Giggling.
We made it to the weekend. Friday night, we went out to celebrate, and in hindsight, it was probably a bit much to ask the kids to behave in a restaurant. But the sushi was so good! Here we are. It’s a new life. With the mental break during the day, I’m so much better at sticking to the night and morning routines during the week. The trick to surviving the first week of school is the same as surviving every other day of this parenting adventure: one moment at a time.
Despite being in a big city public school for a whole week already, the boys are still blissfully innocent. At least D is. Sunday, on a whim, I put on “Free To Be, You And Me.” It’s a wonderful 1970s album that I listened to as a kid with cute songs and stories about making friends and questioning gender roles. The boys worked on Legos and tolerated it. (Their usual requests are “Gangam Style” and JLo’s “On The Floor.”) A snappy poem ended with, “When there’s housework to do, you do it TOGETHER!’ to which I shouted from the kitchen, “HEAR, HEAR!” A minute later, D hollered back, “Who’s here?!”
My father was looking for a utility knife to cut through the paint around the door frame, so as to remove the framing and eventually the door. Maddy was talking about calling 911 or breaking the door down. I climbed on a ladder, and tried to break into the screened and locked window from the outside. Thankfully, with only minutes to spare before the party’s official start time, the window lock gave way, and I was able to crawl through to rescue little L, who actually stayed calmer than most of the adults. 
Two days before, we make cupcakes, 42 big ones and 48 minis. The boys are excited to help. One cracks an egg and misses, and egg drips off the counter onto the floor. Somehow the cup of sugar gets knocked over. The hand-held egg beater must be kept precisely perpendicular or batter sprays all over. They take turns practicing this, after many failed attempts the day before with the frosting. I have to threaten them with banishment to keep their fingers out of the bowl. They last about halfway through the process, then destroy the living room I just cleaned while I finish baking. Just as I finish cleaning the kitchen, 90 muffins cooling on racks, Maddy gets home. Catching the excitement, she launches a cookie-making party. The boys excitedly help, spraying the kitchen with cookie batter and being threatened with banishment for sticking their fingers in the bowl. She warns them against getting their fingers caught in the egg beater. “Would it cut off my finger??” D asks. L says with authority, “I’d get a fake finger!” (a la Luke Skywalker’s hand.) Maddy tries to reason with him, but his brother chimes in, “What if I lost ALL my fingers…” The conversation gets gory, but they are interrupted by D suddenly noticing the cookie dough, “Oooohh!! That looks like peanut butter. It looks like POO!!” That night, the boys are too excited to sleep, or maybe it’s all the stolen cupcake batter & cookie dough. (A week or so later, after the party, we make muffins, and L steals some batter while D is egg-beating. “MOM!” D yells, “Luka almost cut off his finger!!!”)
It’s party day. The morning of their sixth birthday party, the boys are ignored while I run around setting up and sending frantic texts to a few people to try to garner help. I’m terrible at asking for help. I generally won’t ask people with kids… because they have kids! I won’t ask twice. I am understated, like, “If you could come early, that’d be cool.” instead of “OMFG! I NEED HELP!” Maddy is still working on the broken computer, which is indispensable at work. I set up tents and tables outside, decide on a layout, and panic that we forgot to pick up a propane tank for the grill. Thank heaven for the friends who show up and frost cupcakes, bring ice, propane and onions, prep hamburger, blow up balloons, and run around making it all come together. Maddy heads back to work, but comes back before 1:00, even though the computer still isn’t finished. She gets the kids juicing limes for Margaritas. My parents arrive, and are put to work. The bounce house arrives, and it is actually a castle with a Star Wars banner velcroed to the front. I don’t care, not even a little. The party takes flight. Two dear friends work the grill and food for the first few hours of the party, making it so Maddy and I can actually socialize, making it so, instead of appearing totally frazzled and still in my pajamas, I remember to put on the big earrings that turn the house dress into an outfit. Someone hands me a drink. After a while, Maddy informs me the dress is see-thru, and much better suited as a swimsuit cover up. I find a sweater. My mom takes pictures, which is incredibly awesome because I take none. A couple of friends assure me the dress isn’t really see-thru, but one of my mom’s pictures captures a pretty clear shadow of my underwear. I’m sufficiently mortified
. But it’s not my party, and nobody cares. I can’t find my drink. Every few minutes, the kids race past with a gaggle of friends, from the bounce house to their room, from the balloons to the bubbles. They barely acknowledge their grandparents, or any adults for that matter. Kids are everywhere, playing. I don’t hear screaming, all must be well. Bubbles float through the yard. Leanne grills platter after platter of dogs and burgers. Parents sit around with plates of food trying to get their kids to take a bite of hot dog as they fly past. We don’t play organized games. The kids spread themselves out, bouncing, chasing bubbles, picking blackberries from the alley, playing with DnL’s toys… it never feels too crowded. The beauty of attending a cooperative preschool, and the main reason I feel comfortable inviting over 40 children to our home, is that the culture of the school is maintained. Any parent can tell a kid what’s up because all the parents know all the kids, and everyone knows the rules. If I had my way, I would have invited the entire school, but we would have had to rent a hall. In truth, this is a bit of a preschool farewell party. This community has become so familiar to me over the past three year. I will miss it dearly.
d surrounded by a pack of friends, his face lit by the pink light coming through the red tent. I think this may be the only time I see my kids in focus the entire day. The next moment is a crush of children wanting their cookies and cupcakes, parents scooping ice cream, hiding the matches. I guess that’s the pinnacle of a party, the crest of the wave, the moment you give a gaggle of amped-up children sugar.
Here’s what I do care about. The boys are ramping up in the living room & I call from the kitchen a few times to settle down. I finally go in as one of my kids is about to leap from the piano bench to the couch, and I tell him, “No, don’t do that.” He tunes me out, so I stand between him and the couch, saying, “NO! You may NOT jump! Take it outside!” He pauses, then prepares to jump as I step away. I step back in, and it finally clicks for him that the game is over. He gets down, picks up a Lego, and angrily chucks it at me. I show him a shocked and angry face, and tell him he is taking a break. Right now. TIME OUT! I am angry. He THREW something at me! It didn’t hurt… but the gall!!
Kids need us in their world. 
So often, their brilliance is just the fresh perspective of a kid experiencing life. During one of their first soccer practices, the coach addressed a group of three that included four-year-old D,
This picture was taken after L cut his finger. I was holding his hand up to stop the bleeding. (He was totally over it by then.) D saw L with his arm held high, and of course that meant he needed deodorant!
d she went for a run while I played with the kids. We then tra
tole the carton of eggs. (They can reach the counter?! What?) By the time I noticed, every egg was broken. Several eggs were cracked on the floor, and the carton was perched on the edge of a low shelf with a few eggs leaking through the spongy cardboard, dripping down the front of the shelf. With egg dripping through his fingers, D was trying to store a couple more mushed eggs in a tupperware. So I was cleaning up egg while trying to keep the pancakes from burning, when a too-happy noise alerted me that the boys had left the kitchen. (They left my side? What?) With a spatula in one hand, and a dripping sponge in the other, I raced to the living room to find that the boys had opened the sliding screen of the fireplace (new skill!), and were flinging ash around with pieces of wood kindling. There was ash across the carpet, on the couch, chair and coffee table, and both boys were covered in it, especially D, who had the benefit of raw egg acting as glue. I raced to close the fireplace, while the boys raced to the dog’s water dish (a new PR for speed,) where they dumped the water and splashed with huge, wicked, happy grins.
Watching them emerge goes younger of course. There was the morning that five-month-old D pressed his open mouth against my cheek, and I recognized the intent as kisses! He was returning my kisses! A day or two before this, L was fussing, and I finally picked him up in front of my face, and asked, “What is it?” He looked into my eyes, and pointedly babbled back, very much trying to tell me something. He was telling me it was time for his reflux medicine, a medicine that made a very huge difference in this baby’s life. It was exactly time, and I had almost forgotten. His eye contact was so clear and connected, I often called him my beacon. Isn’t it amazing how their personalities are so established from the get go, and just become more so?
I remember how hard it was way back at the beginning, when bed was a co-sleeper, or a little bouncy chair that kept L from projectile vomiting, or even their cozy little car seats. Half the time, it was a pair of arms or a sling. It was months before we used their cribs. Back then, there was no real difference between bed and not-bed, like there was no real difference between night and day. I remember Velcro-ing a huge, flat pillow around my waist in pre-dawn light, and trying to nurse both babies. I was on a hamster wheel of nursing-pumping-supplementing-sleeping with little time for anything else. Someone told me to keep a journal, and I learned it’s the only way to remember anything. There was a rough night around 4 months old, when Lori was out of town. We must have implemented a routine to establish the difference between naps and bedtime because I wrote “bedtime.” Ha. I remember nothing of a bedtime. D had gone to sleep with a bottle in his mouth. He’d just eaten another 2 ounces… after eating 4 ounces of formula and refusing the breast. My world went off-kilter when my baby wouldn’t nurse. Minutes after I’d laid D down, while I was unhappily pumping the milk he refused, he woke screaming. Not fussing, but wailing. His cry was so piercing, it hurt my ears. What life-threatening ailment could have happened in the last 4 minutes?? I ran to pick him up. A small burp came up. Breath. Calm. This cycle repeated 2.. 3.. then 4 times. D did not want to go to bed. He must have had gas from the formula. I was still trying to pump. He yelled so loudly, it woke L, who started to wail. I bent over to turn off the pump, and spilled precious milk on the carpet. “FUCK,” I muttered, and L started to cry with that frantic note that tore my soul. I held two wailing babies while both ears rang. The damage was done. Bedtime was ruined. I was frazzled. Maple (the geriatric dog with 3 legs) was downstairs crying even though I’d helped her upstairs twice already. She had to wait. I sang to cover the sound of her crying while I gave D more milk, rubbed L’s face, gave him a pacifier. Sang to them. Waited. Finally snuck out of the room, soo tired, so spent. It’s so much harder alone.
We made rules: babies sleep in cribs, no more night-nursing, setting a solid bedtime. We all slowly settled into a routine around bedtime and sleep, but there were always wake-ups. We never just let them cry- babies communicate by crying, and we always listen to our kids. (-except during that one desperate period when we resorted to some miserable sessions of cry-it-out.) We split nights in half. I’d go to bed with or shortly after the kids, and Lori would stay up for a few hours. For those hours, and then until 2 or so, she would take care of wake-ups, giving me a solid chunk of sleep. I’d take the early-morning hours, and if there weren’t any wake-ups between 12 and 3, we’d both get a nice, extended stretch of sleep. Funny how that looks so good on paper. I don’t recall ever actually feeling rested. On the occasional night when I’d get a solid 5 hours, especially after several sleepless nights, I’d wake up high on sleep, like I’d had 3 shots of espresso. Here’s a typical bedtime turned magical. D had refused to nurse or take a bottle while L was playing, but once L was in my arms, that was the only place D wanted to be, too. He waited, holding my legs, idly playing, taking the bottle from Lori for a minute, then coming back to me. I put L to bed, and picked up D. L seemed to be sleeping, but rolled over after a minute. He stood up in his crib, crying. D was nursing, so I told L to go to sleep and ignored him. Another rule: never to interrupt a nursing baby. Both kids had to learn to be patient. After a bit, L sat down, played with the pacifier, banged on the wall. At one point, it was quiet. I looked over, thinking he’d gone to sleep. I could barely make out his head in the dark, but he was still sitting up, looking back at me, waiting. Finally D finished, and I laid him down, asleep. L was finally lying down, but stirred as I walked by. He cried, and I tried without success to settle him. I picked him up, and he stared into my eyes with the clearest, happiest, soul-penetrating smile. I stood for a minute with our foreheads touching. I don’t know what “it” is, but he gets it. That was all he wanted. He then went to sleep.
At 18 months old, they both slept for the first time until 7. D learned to crawl into L’s crib, which terrified a sleeping L, and caused him many anxious nights. Then, they both learned to crawl out of their cribs, and my morning wake-up became the sound of pattering feet. There are hormones that happen when you birth and nurse a baby (or two) that help with sleep. Along with a lovely mushiness, they make you able to fall asleep and wake up fully in an instant. When the hormones left, I suddenly needed normal sleep again. A kid crying out, even in his sleep, could then leave me awake for an hour. I wonder when the nighttime cry became, “Mama!” or “Maddy!” That obviously happened at some point. So the story goes, the kids sleep in longer stretches, but the parents need more sleep, and we never quite catch up. At some point, I began saying every night at bedtime, “May your belly be full of happiness, and may your dreams be sweet.” It felt a little strange without comprehension on the other end, but it became habit. Every night, I tell them this.
howing my true feelings. The truth and openness I can give my kids is being present, listening, being open to whatever and wherever they are. Comfy pants it is. Nobody said being real is organized or dressed appropriately or under control. It’s not even love. It’s a doorway. It’s letting go. Being real with them is letting them be who they are. That’s it. It’s not about my truth, it’s about discovering theirs. I can’t keep the baby bubble, but maybe I can keep it real.
eaten I feel at the end of each day. I know that I could be a better parent by making and enforcing a more clear and consistent structure. I try. That doesn’t make me feel better. What does make me feel a lot better is to realize I am asking the wrong question. Instead of finding more ways to get the kids to behave, I must change the expectation. I must redefine my narrative, make the kids the subjects of it instead of objects. It would be nice to be able to say it’s time to go, and to have my kids jump up from what they are doing, find their socks and shoes, put them on, and meet me at the front door. Ha. Pull back the reins, Mama, they’re not in college yet. They aren’t quite ready for this. First, they still need help with the steps, like finding their socks or staying focused. Second, while they bounce around like intoxicated pinballs, they’ve been driving me crazy because I see their behavior as getting in the way of the rest of my plans and chores. The truth is, my job as a stay-at-home-mom is first-and-foremost to be there for them. Having a kid get sick for not eating, and having the other soak up my undivided attention like a sweaty soccer player drinking Gatorade has made me shift back into Mamabear mode. Time to fill the love buckets! Here’s the interesting thing. After spending the last day or two focused on the kids, listening, cuddling, whatever the moment calls for, I don’t think they’ve actually calmed down. Maybe a little. They seem happier, although that could be because I’m not nearly as annoyed as I was. My love bucket is getting filled up, too. I still am not getting shit done, but I’m a lot happier about it because I’m having more fun with my kids. L walks by singing, “Make me an offer, darling” a la Katy Perry. D is building a fort “the size of the living room.”
Mamagrit 