Doot and Bing turned three years old today! THREE. YEARS. OLD! But alas, we’ve all been stricken with whatever stomach virus has been going around lately, and had to cancel birthday plans, the most devastating of which was the rescheduling of the birthday cake that Alex had promised to make. But the boys are being real troopers about it. Maybe because they’re too wiped out to put up all that much fuss.
We will, of course, reschedule the party. Can’t turn three without a party–that just wouldn’t be right. There will be no need to reschedule Mommy’s tears, because those are happening anyway.
Myg and Mr. Myg play Maxwell's in Hoboken NJ, 3/12/11 Photo by our pal Jesse Sheppard
This is what it feels like to be 42.
That photo is me, with Alex (aka Mr. Myg) playing set at Maxwell’s the Saturday before my birthday, which was Monday. I chose this photo because it’s the only one taken of me that night that I can look at and not cringe. All the other photos of me (and there are far too many) don’t hide the extra 30 pounds I’ve been carrying since the kids were born. I wish I could tell you I no longer care – that I’m okay in my body as it is, but it’s not true. Silly at it is, I still want to look like I did when I was in my 20s. Problem is I can’t seem to stop eating like I’m a teenager.
I wasn’t going to dedicate this post to my constant battle with my deteriorating self-image, something that is so familiar to me I almost want to name it, like Helga or Cadbury or something. I was just going to reflect on what it feels like to be the age I am, which feels nothing like I expected it would feel twenty or even ten years ago.
Self-esteem issues and all, I still feel very much like me, only better. Meaning, there’s some hard-won prize I feel like I’ve won at this point in my life. I’m still young enough to be able to dream big dreams and believe I can make them come true, and old enough to feel like the world beneath my feet is solid enough to support them. It’s like you get to a certain age and you learn to stop fretting about all the bad shit that can happen to you, because you know bad shit is going to happen to you. There’s no real escaping it. But somehow you learn to live with it, and you learn to appreciate the periods in life that are calm. And you also figure out that you’re not going to live forever, so if it’s playing in a loud rock band that makes your heart happy, then it doesn’t matter that you have a job and two kids and that you’re now 42 with a mortgage. You have to find a way to make it happen.
I’m waiting for your Second Birthday slideshow to export and thinking, wow, could it really be two whole years, already? Really? No… really?
I won’t ever forget this night in 2009. Right about now, Dad and I were trying to get a little rest before waiting for you guys to arrive. We were really excited since we knew you were on your way. Okay, terrified too, but mostly excited.
The day you were born I was so sleep deprived and on so many different meds I felt a lot like I was on Mars. So I don’t remember a whole lot about it except that you were so wonderful and you smelled so good and you were so beautiful and so tiny and so perfect. And so very, very mine.
I guess growing up is about you guys gradually becoming less mine and more your own and I’ve decided that’s okay, which is good I think since I have no choice. Every day you learn something new, like how to draw a circle or what yellow is and how it’s different from scratchy or tiny, or that you like puffed rice more than Kix, or how to operate the remote control helicopter. Well, not quite, but impressively close for boys your age. And each new little thing like this stacks up on all those other little things you know and remember and pretty soon, you’re saying things like, “miss Mommy,” when I come home from work and haven’t played with you all day or doing things like sneaking the masking tape out of the junk drawer when I’m around the corner and proudly pronouncing it, “Circle.”
All these little feats of magic add up to one incredible, continuous transformation over time, from being that spark in my heart to that zygote in the petri dish to that fetus in my belly, to those helpless little newborns Dad and I held in our arms, so shakily but so proudly that day two years ago, and now in only two years all the way to this–my big, beautiful boys.
Some tell me I can call you my babies forever, and I probably will. In my heart, I’ll always hang onto the tiny, helpless memory of what you came from, the one that will forever need me, will always be mine. But know too that at the same time, I’ll hold the deepest, most profound gratitude in my heart as I watch you become the boys and in time, the men you were born to be.
Today you’ve officially ended your first turn around the sun. Good for you! That wasn’t so hard, was it?
Every time I think of you two being “one” and your time on this rock measured in the length of years, I just choke up. I know deep down that the next twelve years will sneak by me as fast as the last twelve months did and all I’ll be able to say is, well, heck. That was fast, wasn’t it?
I wonder sometimes how it all looks from your perspective, this being born thing, this growing up business. For months you were tucked safely away inside me, then one day, BLAM! You were thrust into the blaring light of day amidst screaming and crying and adoration and elation. And then swept up in this constant rhythm of doing, first breathing, eating, pooing, sleeping, crying then cooing, smiling, laughing, rolling over, holding your bottle, sitting up, and then babbling, crawling, eating finger foods, standing, using a cup, climbing, talking. It’s all happened so fast, it seems to me. But probably not to you. Nor will the next 12 years. They’ll feel like a lifetime to you and you will do so much in those years. And it will be a breath, a blink, to me.
Guys, I really don’t even know what I’m trying to say here. All I know is that last night, nearly all day yesterday, I cried at the thought of this day. I know, I know, you’re probably wondering what’s wrong with your mother, and I don’t have a simple answer for that. Everyone tells me it’s normal for mothers to cry when their babies have a birthday. I guess it’s just part of being a mom.
I want you to know that the tears don’t mean anything bad, though. Nothing is wrong. Everything, in fact, is just as it ought to be. You’re here. We all survived the first year of your twindom, and I’m sorry but there were days during those first months of your life when I just didn’t know how we were going to make it. But we did, and here you are – growing, doing, becoming the people you were born to be, right in front of my very eyes. At least, when I can get the tears out of them I can see that. And that is as it should be. I wouldn’t, couldn’t ask for anything else.
Except maybe this.
As you continue to grow and explore this crazy rock on which we dwell, never forget that no matter what you do or who you become, I love you. You won’t always be my babies. In fact, you’re almost not that now. But you will always be the center of my everything, my hope for humanity projected forward into time.
I’m not sure if my ass would feel so righteously kicked if it weren’t for the DeQuervain’s tendinitis in both wrists. Seriously. I am tired, yeah. I have had my moments of sitting on the couch between two wailing 5 week old babies at 1 am, sobbing (last night, actually) in defeat, yes. But it’s the PAIN that is killing me more than trickiness of meeting the boys’ needs when they rear themselves simultaneously.
I don’t think it’s going to get better until I stop nursing. And I don’t want to stop nursing. But. The. Pain. And this is coming from a woman who just gave birth to twins, so when I tell you that the pain in my wrists far outweighs the birth recovery pain, you know it’s a real issue. Mostly because it greatly interferes with my ability to lift my kids. Every time I pick them up it’s excruciating. And they’re still each under 7 pounds.
BAH.
Sorry to blog this of all things. I have so much to tell you. I love being a mom. I turn 40 in two weeks. I haven’t slept in the same bed as my husband in almost 7 weeks. I have quite the dramatic labor story. All that. I will do it, honest. But my WRISTS HURT.
Here, look at my monkeys instead of listening to me bitch:
Because it really does go that fast.
