Small talk and pickled grapes

I was at a party this weekend where I only knew one other person.  One-and-a-half people really — I knew my friend’s husband — a little bit — by sight, anyway.  It was a small party and I was late so I had to walk into a room of established relationships (even if some of those relationships had only been established in the past hour).  So I dithered in the kitchen over the food (homemade barbeque (North Carolina style), fresh corn salad, spring onions with rice, roasted vegetables, coleslaw and guacamole — all the more delicious since I didn’t make any of it myself!).  Then I went in and sat down.

After the introductions, extreme self-consciousness set in.  I remembered (too late) how shy I get in groups.  Most of the guests were younger than me and were talking about things that were only peripheral to my life these days — cafes to visit (I only go to those within walking distance — with the twins in their stroller), meals to make (I spend most of my time in the kitchen cutting bananas into slices then quarters for tiny hands and half-toothed mouths), classes to take (I’m lucky to watch something educational on PBS before nodding off), grapes to pickle (see banana slicing above) …

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Small talk and pickled grapes

I was at a party this weekend where I only knew one other person.  One-and-a-half people really — I knew my friend’s husband — a little bit — by sight, anyway.  It was a small party and I was late so I had to walk into a room of established relationships (even if some of those relationships had only been established in the past hour).  So I dithered in the kitchen over the food (homemade barbeque (North Carolina style), fresh corn salad, spring onions with rice, roasted vegetables, coleslaw and guacamole — all the more delicious since I didn’t make any of it myself!).  Then I went in and sat down.

After the introductions, extreme self-consciousness set in.  I remembered (too late) how shy I get in groups.  Most of the guests were younger than me and were talking about things that were only peripheral to my life these days — cafes to visit (I only go to those within walking distance — with the twins in their stroller), meals to make (I spend most of my time in the kitchen cutting bananas into slices then quarters for tiny hands and half-toothed mouths), classes to take (I’m lucky to watch something educational on PBS before nodding off), grapes to pickle (see banana slicing above) …

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Escape with Cindy Sherman

For Mother’s Day my beloved spouse got me the book Cindy Sherman: The Complete Untitled Film Stills.

In many ways this is a completely normal gift — I’ve always loved Cindy Sherman (well, except maybe her vomit-scapes, but overall: very much).  But in one way it feels odd.  Cindy Sherman — for Mother’s Day.  It’s not that Cindy Sherman was or wasn’t a mother — it’s that she embodies so many different people.

The bulk of Sherman’s work is

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Yes, you are MOM ENOUGH

I’m writing this in response to Time magazine’s latest cover:

And I’m going to take a gamble and claim that anyone who is reading this blog and who is also a mother is indeed MOM ENOUGH.

The woman is Jamie Lynne Grumet (26) and the boy is her son Aram (3+).  It’s unfortunate that Time chose such a provocative (in pretty much all senses of the word) cover shot.  Grumet is young and attractive; her blog title is “I Am Not the Babysitter,” which can’t help but call attention to her to her youth and attractiveness, but her blog is about her “transracial family by way of birth and adoption,” so I’m sure she’s been asked).  And Grumet can’t help but be young and attractive.  But did she have to be styled in such a way that her hip is cocked and her chest thrust out (breast-feeding mechanics aside)?  I fear the humor folks who make half the things you see on Pinterest are going to have a field day with this.

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Morning as a 14-month-old twin

A few posts ago (Schedules) I wrote about my day as a mother.  This morning I’ve been wondering what my twins’ day is like.

Wake up a little confused — how is it you were just running on a sidewalk and now you’re in your crib?  No matter — there’s your partner in crime just a few feet away, also waking up.  Start making what Mom calls “happy baby sounds.”  Then — just for fun — start screaming in a super-high happy squealy way until Dad staggers in.  Grab the top of the crib rail and bounce up and down with joy.  Surrender pacifier willingly.  Submit to a diaper change reluctantly.  Suck down eight ounces of bottle and feel a vague reminisce of what it was like to be a little little baby.  Point to toes on request.

Into the Kingdom!  Spend a long trance-like session stacking rings.  Run back and forth laughing.  Knock over anything that’s stacked.  Crash into beanbag chair.  Laugh.  Crash into fellow twin.  Cry.  Drag toy frog around.  Look under crib for missing ball.  Chew on stuffed bear.  Chew on block.  Chew on ring-stacking spindle.

Someone’s at the door. 

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Must be nice … or not

Ah, New York Times Sunday Styles — you often surprise me, and that’s part of the pleasure of reading you.  But this Sunday your front page featured “The Baby Bump,” which claims, “For celebrities whose film and TV careers have stalled, motherhood is proving a lucrative Plan B.”  Really?

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Must be nice … or not

Ah, New York Times Sunday Styles — you often surprise me, and that’s part of the pleasure of reading you.  But this Sunday your front page featured “The Baby Bump,” which claims, “For celebrities whose film and TV careers have stalled, motherhood is proving a lucrative Plan B.”  Really?

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Schedules

All this past weekend I couldn’t stop thinking about schedules.  The word schedule comes from the Latin schedula or “slip of paper,” a diminutive of scheda, from the Greek skhedē, meaning “papyrus leaf.”  I like that its origins have to do with plants and paper — and writing.

If you read my last post (Take your twins to work — every day) you know that I’ve been struggling with balancing writing and twin-care.  The twins are on a pretty set schedule — wake up, bottle, play, nap, breakfast, play, walk, lunch, nap, play, dinner, walk, play, bottle, bed.  Could I sum up my day in the same simple way?

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Take your twins to work — every day

So April 26th was Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day.  I missed it, but it doesn’t matter.  I never take my twins to work — they’re already there.  My twins and my work live in the same place: home.

I’m a writer.  Less than twenty yards separate my workspace from their play-space.  Sometimes they break out of their room, run up to my desk, stand on their tippy toes, their chins perched on the edge, their tiny hands reaching for the corner of a piece of paper, a pen, a paperclip, the coaster under a mug of tea.  They love to grab things and run away, waving their contraband like a pirate flag.  But this is not conducive to writing.

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Mom insomnia

Way back in November I read a New York Times article called Sleep Medication: Mother’s New Little Helper.  In November the twins were around six months old.  They were sleeping though the night and so was I.

Dear reader, forgive me, but I thought the whole sleepless mom thing was kind of BS.  Not if they were sleepless because they were dealing with 2am feedings, but sleepless they couldn’t stop thinking about things?  Really?

Note to self (and others): when you’re very new to a large and long-established group — like moms  — do not judge them until you have been a member of said group for longer than six months — or six years, or sixteen — or even then!  You have little idea what you’re in for, so stay open to what might be around the corner.

What was around the corner for me was — surprise! — insomnia.

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