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 Clio with picture of a “Squeezy Bug,” a rare insect species created/discovered by Elsa.

It’s kind of amazing to see what they come up with, and to watch the rapid progress they’ve made over the past few months, going from rudimentary, torso-less people to much more life-like (relatively speaking, of course) figures complete with fingers, hair, ears, eyelashes, torsos and even the occasional neck.

 Family portrait by Elsa – note necks on two of subjects

For awhile, Elsa was seriously ahead of Clio in the representational art category, but Clio seems to have moved out of her abstract period, into more traditional portraiture. In fact, a few days ago she drew a really, really great picture of our family. She even seemed to have done the faces at three-quarter view. Very advanced. (OK, maybe it was an accident, but either way, it was pretty cool.) She did, however, take a little artistic license: First of all, she gave me a mohawk. (As if.) Second–and more significantly– she decided draw a baby in my tummy.

In spite of this serious inaccuracy (and partly because of it), I wanted to save this picture for the scrapbook, and labeled it with Clio’s name, the date, and a description, but Clio swiped it off the kitchen table, where I’d put it, and said she wanted to give it to her preschool teacher. I reluctantly agreed. (It was so good!)

Then yesterday, when Alastair when to pick the girls up from school, he was greeted by the teacher with “Congratulations, Dad!”

Alastair was confused; he thought maybe somehow (thought he had no idea, exactly, how) she’d heard that his kids album, A Cow Says Moock, had just won a Nappa Gold Award. (See how I got that little plug in there like that? Heh heh.)

The teacher went on: “I heard Jane is expecting! That’s wonderful!”

Alastair was bewildered. And then the teacher told him about the picture Clio had given her. Much laughter ensued. But jeez. I really hope Clio doesn’t know something I don’t….

No baby in here….

* * *

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Clio chose cowgirl. We’re not sure where this came from, but when I was showing the girls a bunch of costumes online (yeah, yeah, I’m the lame, over-busy mom who doesn’t make her kids costumes. Sue me) she immediately gravitated toward the “girlier” costumes: fairy, witch (cute, not sexy), and cowgirl. Cowgirl won.

Last year, Clio refused to wear her costume to the preschool Halloween thing. She spent the entire assembly in her teacher’s arms, tearful, while the rest of the class went up on stage to sing. This year, she was completely psyched. Hootin’ and a hollerin’ happy. She sang, she did the gestures, the whole nine yards. Elsa did, too. They were beautiful.

Last year I wasn’t there. I had to be at work, so I only heard about the whole thing secondhand. I saw the pictures. This year, I was the one who brought the girls to school, who sat there in the auditorium grinning at them and all the other costumed kiddos — the superheros and dinosaurs and princesses and witches — as they fidgeted and sang and shuffled around.

Last year at this time, I was deeply depressed. I was dragging myself out of bed in the mornings, considering taking medical leave from work, wondering when or how I would ever feel better. I hated that I wasn’t the one taking the girls to their preschool Halloween party. I hated how awful I felt. I hated what my life looked like. I felt so damned stuck, so lost. It was like Groundhog Day (the movie, not the dumb holiday).

A year later, and I am unabashedly content. I’ve found the right medication cocktail to keep my depression in check, and have been stable for almost a year. My new work life as a freelancer affords me the flexibility to be a bigger part of my girls’ daily lives, to do my work on my own terms, and make time for my creative writing. It’s not always easy. In fact, there are times when I am practically overwhelmed by everything I’ve got on my plate. But I’ll take it.

This morning, as I was driving the girls to school, I found myself reflecting on all of this. We were stopped at a light, with a view of a park on our left. There was a flock of Canada Geese nosing (beaking?) around on the grass, and the trees were orange and golden. The girls were chattering away in the back seat while a couple of folksy kids’ musicians sang “Going on a Bear Hunt” on the stereo. I was suddenly, keenly aware of how painful it was back then, and how blessedly pain-free it was now. How good it felt not
have a pit permanently carved into the middle of my chest or be
constantly on the verge of tears. How glad I was for the changes I’d made in my life — I was taking the girls to preschool! — and how good it was to feel like myself.

I am not a religious person. I’m not even sure I believe in God. But the word that occurred to me, for some reason, as I was looking out at this scene — geese, leaves, etc. — and feeling all these things was ‘grace.’ What does grace mean, exactly? Good fortune? Mercy? Thanks? The thing Jackie O. had, that Elaine Benes didn’t? Just something generally amazing? I’ve never been quite sure. But that’s my word for today — for this whole Fall, maybe — and I’m sticking with it.

 We’ve come a long way, baby.

* * *

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Scenario #1: The Morning Rush

It’s a hectic
morning in the Jones household, and Mrs. Jones is trying to get her
three-year-old son, Little Jimmy, ready for preschool.

“Come on, Jimmy,” she says. “Time to get your shoes on!”

But Little Jimmy is busy playing with his new toy dinosaur. “But I wanna keep playing!” he whines.

“Come on,
now, little Jimmy, you don’t want to be late for school!” She says,
starting to get tense. They’re already running late, and she is hoping
to get in a trip to the grocery store after dropping Jimmy off.

“No!” says Jimmy, and flings his dinosaur across the room. “I don’t wanna go to school!”

Mrs. Jones
goes over to Jimmy and yanks him up by the arm. “Now listen to me, young
man, you will not talk to me in that tone! And you will not throw
dinosaurs, ever! Go and pick that up right now and then go get your
shoes on!”

Now Little Jimmy goes into full tantrum mode, lying on the floor, kicking and screaming.

Mrs. Jones is
at her wits’ end. “Fine!” she says, “Scream all you want! I’m leaving!”
She goes to the liquor cabinet and grabs a bottle of tequila, gets her
keys off the hall table, heads out the door and drives to Vegas. When
she comes back, twenty years later, Little Jimmy is serving a life
sentence for drug possession and armed robbery.

We’ve all been there, right??! Now, see what this scenario might look like if you use Jane Roper’s Foolproof Parenting Method!

It’s
a hectic morning in the Jones household, and Mrs. Jones is trying to
get her three-year-old son, little Jimmy, ready for preschool. She
crouches down next to him, at a nurturing but independence-enabling
distance, puts a hand on his shoulder, and says, “Wow, Jimmy, looks like
you’re having a great time playing with that dinosaur!”

Jimmy beams up at her. “I am, Mommy!” he says. “I love how you notice
and care about my likes and interests! It makes me feel so safe!”

Mrs. Jones smiles. “It’s eight o’clock. You know what that means, Jimmy?”

Jimmy’s face lights up–he knows the answer to this question, and
that makes him feel so good! “It’s time for school!” he replies.

“That’s right!” Mrs. Jones says. “Yay, school! You seem really
excited to go! And we’ll go as soon as you put your toys away and put
your shoes on, OK?”

“OK!” says Jimmy, scrambling to his feet, dropping his dinosaur.

“Uh oh, Jimmy,” says Mrs. Jones. “Toys don’t go on the floor.”

“But I wanna go to school!” Jimmy cries, his face turning red. He’s gearing up for a tantrum now. “I don’t wanna clean up!”

Mrs. Jones snaps her fingers three times, spits over her left shoulder and says “Cochise!”

A sweet, slightly deranged smile breaks over Jimmy’s face. “OK,
Mommy. I’ll put my dinosaur away so no one will step on it. Safety is
important!”

One minute later, Jimmy’s shoes and coat are on, and they’re out the
door. They’re so ahead of schedule that even have time to pull the car
over on the way to preschool and pet a little bunny they see on the side
of the road.

And Mrs. Jones is so happy and relaxed that instead of going to the
grocery store after dropping Jimmy off, as planned, she goes out and
buys a sexy lingerie set and surprises Mr. Jones at work.

“Wow, what inspired this?” Mr. Jones asks, incredulous, as he and
Mrs. Jones fumble to take each other’s clothes off in the dark of the
supply closet. “Wait, let me guess….” And they say it together,
laughing: “Jane Roper’s Foolproof Parenting Method!!”

* * *

I’m still looking for a publisher for Jane Roper’s Foolproof
Parenting Method, the book + DVD with bonus scenes of Mr. & Mrs.
Jones in the supply closet. But apparently you need one of those “PhD”
things to be taken seriously as a parenting “expert.” So, for the moment
you — and I — are stuck with the other parenting books out there, if
we care to read them.

And this is where my ambivalence comes in. I think that a lot of the
tips and methods and strategies in these books are useful (even if the
writing is often almost unbearably corny and condescending). There are
some excellent reminders about how kids’ minds work, and what they need
in terms of structure, limits, understanding, etc. But so much of it
breaks down in practice. And — to make matters even more confusing —
much of it is self-contradictory, between and even within different
“methods.”

Threaten your child with consequences and give them a chance to
self-correct! No, don’t threaten or give them a chance to self-correct,
just show them the consequences! That’s how real life works! No, no,
consequences are irrelevant if you show your children enough respect,
compassion and empathy!

I mean, jeez, like I don’t have enough contradiction, chaos, and
uncertainty in my life trying to parent two three year-olds? Like I need
to feel even more insecure about my mothering than I already do?

So I try to remind myself to take these books with a large grain — a
shaker, actually — of salt. Take what I can from them, give some of
the methods a spin (we had a week of “1-2-3 Magic” in our house before
we decided we really didn’t like the dynamic it was setting up, but we
still trot it out when we get desperate), but above all, try to stay
tuned in to what works for our kids, our family. Not what works for the Joneses. (Except maybe the supply closet thing….)

It may be too late for us….

* * *

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Now, five months later, the girls’ table manners have markedly
improved, and they love to “help” set the table. (Who says napkins
should be folded? Or that four is the proper number of placemats for
four people? Why not line them all up — all eight of them — so that they cover nearly the entire table?)

Best of all, the girls have gotten much better about trying new
foods. We’re not militant about it, but we do encourage them to take a bite of
whatever’s unfamiliar or appears to be “yucky stuff” as Clio calls it. Before we remind her that no food is yucky; there are foods you like
and foods you don’t care for. Of course, if I ever served, say, liver,
and she called it “yucky” I’d think she was completely justified. Which
is why I would never serve liver. Or monkey brains.

Quinoa, black beans, tuna casserole, chicken stir fry, and even
pork chops have been successfully added to the menu. (Although Clio
insists that the pork is chicken. Hey, whatever.) Elsa has been known to
be even more adventurous in her culinary exploits, going so far as to
sample asparagus, shrimp, and mushrooms. And we now know to add extra
tomatoes to the salad on her behalf.

We’ve got a good dessert system down now, too: school days (Mon-Wed-Fri) are non-dessert days, because we usually put a Fig Newton or handful or Teddy Grahams or something in the girls’ lunch. On non-dessert nights, they can have fruit. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, they can have a popsicle or cookie or whatever “special” dessert we may have available. It works for us.

In fact — and I’m sort of marveling at this even as I write it —
our family dinner has become one of my favorite parts of the day. I
always like to ask the girls what their favorite part of the day
was. Usually the answer is something concerning food — the snack they
had at school, or the waffles they ate for breakfast. But occasionally
it’s something juicier — how they got to be the line leader at school,
or how they made cookies with the babysitter. Oh, wait. That’s food
again.

They’ve also been telling a lot of jokes lately at dinner — and in
general — and this is pure awesomeness, even if the term “joke” is a
bit of  stretch. Sometimes they’re more like Zen koans: “Why does the witch go to Halloween? Because she’s a real witch!” (child cracks up at own comic genius) or, a recent fave that I posted on the Baby Squared Facebook page, from Clio, “Why did the giraffe go to college? Because he’s a silly giraffe!” Too true.

But neither top my all-time favorite, from Elsa: “Knock knock. Who’s there? Cinderalla’s butt!” Technically,
this is potty talk, and technically we have a rule against potty talk
at the table. But sometimes you just gotta let it slide.

* * *

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I had hoped, before I had kids, that I would say the same thing (albeit without the same, slightly lunatic smile on my face). But the fact is, I don’t totally love being a mom all the time. I love my children. The depth of my love for them is astounding to me. But there are times when I find “being a mom” to be a real drag —  times when I really would rather keep working / writing / sleeping / etc. than be with my children.

And there are times when the little buggers wear me down and try my patience and make me dislike not only them, but myself. I don’t like it about myself that I am capable of thinking that one of my daughters – my innocent, three-year-old daughters — is being an absolute bitch. And that I seriously feel like smacking her.
 
So when my friend Steve Almond told me that his mother had written a book, The Monster Within: The Hidden Side of Motherhood, about maternal ambivalence, and asked if I’d like to read it, I was like “YES! I mean, maybe. I mean, not that I’m ambivalent about being a mother or anything. But sure, yeah, I guess I’ll read it.”

And so I did. It’s a thoughtful, in-depth exploration of the mixed feelings women often have about motherhood, based on Almond’s research and her years of experience as a psychotherapist.

Then I said to Steve, hey, now that I’m a big literary interviewer now, do you think maybe I could ask your mom a few questions about the book? And he was all “maybe” and I’m all “please” and he’s all, “yeah, OK.”

And here is the conversation with Barbara Almond that followed.

Me: I’ve always tried to be fairly open about my ambivalence about being a mother, to some extent here on my blog, and to a much greater extent with my close friends who are mothers. It seems to me that women are talking more about the fact that motherhood is often a mixed blessing—that they find it unexpectedly challenging, or they miss being able to focus on themselves or their marriages or careers. And that, to put it bluntly, kids can be real jerks sometimes.

But as you discuss in your book, this ambivalence can lead to a sense of guilt; many women feel that if we have mixed feelings about being mothers, then we’re probably not very good mothers. Or at least not as good as we could be. I certainly experience it, despite my best efforts to cut myself slack. 

It was, therefore, something of a relief to read your book and discover that this kind of ambivalence is fairly widespread, and that not addressing it openly can have some serious consequences. Was your main purpose in writing this book to let women know that it’s OK—even healthy—to be ambivalent? Going a step further, what do you think is the best way for women to deal with and process that ambivalence?

Barbara Almond: It’s good to be reminded that women do speak frankly about the whole range of their maternal feelings, especially with close friends. At least there is that outlet available. But it is coupled with the idea that if one is a really good mother, one probably doesn’t struggle with negative feelings. Guilt, shame, anxiety and depression in various mixtures plague more mothers than we know, as many will not admit to it. Or they admit it kiddingly, or in an offhand manner, so as to diminish their tension and the impact of what they are saying.

And, yes, it was certainly my purpose to let women know that it is normal to experience ambivalence. It is normal and healthy in the sense that ambivalence develops from the differing needs of mothers and their children. Out of these differing needs, mothers can become more “creative” in their mothering, as they think about what it is their child needs and what they, as the mothers they are, can do about it.  There are many ways to deal with the negative side of ambivalence, too many to summarize easily, but it must be obvious that the more intense the negative part of ambivalence is, the more help the mother needs. If a woman is afraid she may murder a child, she needs professional help and fast. If the feelings she struggles with are milder, but still troubling, she needs to understand them, talk them out, not brood and defend herself while her ambivalence deepens.

Me: You point out that there seems to be increasing pressure on mothers to be, as you call it, “maternally correct.” From breastfeeding to providing developmentally appropriate activities to using the latest parenting techniques. Which can lead to even more guilt: if I don’t want to put every ounce of my waking time and energy into doing everything just right, what does it say about me as a mother?

Where do you think our culture’s current obsession with being “maternally correct” is coming from? Especially since so many mothers these days work part or full time, making it virtually impossible for them to be “super moms”?

B.A.:  Well, I think [it] comes from mothers, but is exploited by the powers that be –- manufacturers, politicians, educators, for example. Because so many mothers work, it is impossible for them to be super-moms, whatever a super-mom is.  (I am suspicious of the whole category!)  In the late 60’s and 70’s when feminism became a strong force, women were supported in their efforts to work.  Work was seen as a fulfillment, as much as motherhood. At that time, many women, myself included, could find good part-time work. 

But things have changed. Part-time work is less available (as is work, period) and women are stressed to the limit, trying to do both.  Some women give up work and others don’t have children.  The birth rate for highly industrialized countries is going down. When highly motivated women give up working for motherhood, they don’t give up the kind of perfectionistic standards they apply everywhere else, nor the competitive underside of their ambitions. It’s a very tough situation.

Me: I have one specific question for you as a fellow mother of twins. Actually, it starts with an admission: when I found out I was pregnant with twins, I was not happy about it. In fact, I spent a good portion of my pregnancy “psyching myself up” to feel good about the fact that I was having twins.

Now of course, I love my girls to death, and can’t imagine not having twins. But I do sometimes wonder I’d feel less conflicted about my role as a mother if I’d had just one child, or had them one at a time. You admit in the book that you experienced ambivalence about motherhood yourself. Was any of it, for you, wrapped up in being a mother of twins?

B.A.:  I, too, was dismayed when I discovered I was going to have twins. I already had a two year-old son. I found this news out late in my pregnancy – no ultrasounds in those days – and had to scramble to get ready for this event. I was working very part-time, and continued to do that until the twins were almost a year old. I wanted very much to have fraternal twins, a boy and a girl, so they would feel their own individuality more.  I got fraternal twins, two delightful boys, who have grown up into two very nice men. Still, I think this was hard on everyone, particularly my two-year -old. The twins had each other, and furthermore, they were not my first, so I could bend the rules to make it easier for all of us.  But, it wasn’t easy.

When you say you love your girls to death and can’t imagine not having twins, I have two reactions.  Loving someone to death seems to me to be an admission of ambivalence, in fact, a definition of its essence. (Sorry!)  And of course you can’t imagine not having twins. They are what you have.  BUT, I also know what you mean in a positive sense. Twins are fun, cute, good company for each other. They don’t get lonely and demanding as easily as single children. And they are at the same developmental stage as they grow up, so you are not dealing with an infant and a toddler at one time, but rather two toddlers!  Keep on enjoying them. They grow up so quickly.  
 

Before I pillory them for crimes, however, I should confess that I was also prone to taking my parents’ stuff without asking when I was a kid, for use in various recipes / craft projects / experiments / etc. Once, for example, a friend and I picked my parents’ vegetable garden clean to make “soup,” in the form of a giant pot of water, filled from the hose out back, filled up with tomatoes, carrots, beans and other produce, and heated up on the stove. (Since we moved away from the house with the garden when I was a mere nine years old, this means that I was attempting unsupervised cooking at a fairly tender age.) And yes, the soup was terrible. (We couldn’t understand why….) And yes, my mom was pissed.

The girls have not committed quite so grievous an offense yet. But Elsa, in particular, is getting awfully bold about swiping the Scotch tape for her various projects — the rage of the moment is taping several pieces of paper together to make “maps” and “books” — as well as pens, post-it notes, and other supplies. We are, of course, happy to provide these things, in limited quanitities, if they ask. It’s the “limited” part that they’re not fans of. I’m thinking we should give them each with their own roll of tape, post-it note pad, etc. and let them use those, with the stipulation that they won’t get a new one for X weeks. And when they run out, well, that’s it. (They would run out in approximately 1.4 days.)

They’re also starting to help themselves to food. (You know, I’m writing ‘they’ but really, three out of four times, it’s Elsa.) I’ll be getting dinner ready, chopping vegetables or grating cheese or something, and if I turn away for a minute to do something else, I’ll turn back around to find a little hand reaching up to take a taste of whatever’s on the cutting board. Not a huge deal, usually. And sometimes they get what they deserve, ending up with a mouthful of onion or the unpleasant surprise of potato when they were expecting apple. The time Elsa ate garlic was fun, too. (Is it wrong that I take pleasure in my children’s food-tasting capers? But, really, the faces kids make when they end up with something ‘yucky’ in their mouths are truly priceless.)

And then there was the afternoon I came home from work to find the girls’ fingernails and toenails painted a very…maturely…dark hue. It seems the girls showed the babysitter where my nail polish was and requested manicures and pedicures. Really, though, the sitter is equally to blame here. Going through my makeup on the advice and direction of two three year olds? And then choosing Luscious Burgundy (or whatever….) for their nails, when something more along the lines of Cotton Candy Pink was available? And putting on TWO coats? For shame.

Anyway, we’re starting to be more emphatic about what the girls can and can’t help themselves to; what things they need to ask for, and what things they can take or do all by themselves. Still, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they borrow my $1,000 white suede ensemble while I’m out of town, wear it to a party, spill red wine all over it, then have to date Dr. McDreamy to pay me back. I just hope their careers are more successful than Amanda Peterson’s.

 Sorry, where was I?

 * * *

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Press.

If this is true, then it’s seriously sad. I’m all for kids learning well and striving for success and alla that. But if that success requires pushing kids to read before they’re ready and steering them away from the joys (and other educational virtues) of picture books before they even lose their first tooth, then it doesn’t seem right.

I hate that so many parents these days start to think (and stress) about what college their kids are going to get into before they’re even out of diapers. A mom I chatted with on the playground not too long ago was telling me how their older daughter had just started kindergarten at a charter school and how great it was: super-rigorous and strict, with homework and exercises and the whole nine yards. “They start them on track for college right from the start,” she said. And I’m thinking: this is good? You’re happy about this? 

I mean, sure, I’d like for my girls to go to college. We’ve got the 529 accounts set up and save what we can. But I’m not convinced that their lives will be measurably less fulfilling — or even, necessarily, less prosperous — if they go to so-so colleges or even don’t go at all. I was lucky enough to go to a cushy, competitive private college, and it was great, but I think the things my parents taught me and the experiences I had — particularly the organic, non-organized ones — before college were just as important in shaping my character, my career, and my life’s path.

Moreover, I have plenty of friends — very smart ones — who went to middle-tier state schools and now lead perfectly happy and interesting lives and, in some cases, make an extremely good living. (Making, in fact, far more money than me. But I’ve chosen the path I’m on. I suppose I could have chosen to be a lawyer or a business consultant, like many of my classmates did.)

I think part of what’s behind my skepticism of this whole hyper-achievement push — in addition to feeling like it robs children of the time and space to simply play, experience and discover the world on their own — is that I feel like our world, particularly America, is in the midst of huge economic, environmental and technological changes. We could be living in a very different society twenty, twenty-five years from now. Who is to say that the key to success (or even survival) in that world will be having a degree from a top college? It could be that the kids who grew up less programmed are, in fact, more prepared to thrive. Maybe instead of getting them SAT tutors and signing them up for tuba lessons we should be taking them camping and teaching them how to grow their own food.

I’ve always felt a little fringe-y in this belief. A bit of a Cassandra. So I was very excited (relieved?) to read an “Armageddon Mama,” an excellent piece in Brain, Child, by Tracy Mayor which articulates exactly these fears, and, at the same time, comments on why the uncertainty of our world today may, in fact, be responsible for the hyper-achieving and hyper-enrichment pressure that parents — in particular college-educated, professional-class ones — put on their kids: we don’t know what the world of the future will look like, so we don’t quite know how to prepare them for success in it.

Quoting Margaret Nelson, author of Parenting Out of Control: Anxious Parents in Uncertain Times (2010), Mayor writes:

 “With the hollowing out of the middle class in this country, it’s no
longer clear what kinds of skills will lead to a good occupation and to
financial success,” (Nelson) writes… As a result, that class of parents strives to raise children
who are both highly skilled and highly flexible. “They want them to be
good athletes, to be good students, good friends, to demonstrate a wide
range of skills. So if a child shows even a bit of interest in art, they
sign them up for art class,” Nelson says. “The fear is that if their
children settle too soon, if they settle on the wrong thing, they’ll be
out of luck.”

 

The goal is not just entry into a top college, or success in a
financially stable career, it’s to raise kids who are able to compete in
the kind of world that New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman laid out in his best-seller, The World Is Flat (2005),
where Americans must be well-educated, hard-selling, fast-moving
entrepreneurs of their own careers in a fully wired, completely
interconnected, always-on global marketplace of ideas and innovation.”

But, Mayor says, “What if that isn’t at all what the near future will look like? What if
we’re raising our kids to succeed in a George Jetson kind of world, but
they wind up living more like Fred Flintstone?”

Great question! Exactly the one I ponder when I think about Elsa and Clio’s future. How, exactly do I prepare my children for happiness and success in an uncertain world? I’m not exactly sure. But my gut tells me it’s not putting chapter books in their hands when they’re in kindergarten and signing them up for ten thousand extracurricular activities. 

We were recently talking with some good friends of ours, who have a daughter the same age as Elsa and Clio, about what good parenting means to all of us — specifically in terms of how we want to prepare our children for their adult lives. I don’t know if these friends share my slightly looney doubts about the health and stability of our country, the global economy, and our planet, but they came out in much the same place as I did in terms of  long-term goals for our children.

We want them to be kind, thoughtful, and conscientious people. We want them to challenge themselves. We want them to be economically self-sufficient. We want them to find fulfillment in their work — either the wage earning kind and/or the not-so-profitable, pursuing your passion kind (writing, anyone?). And, yes, we want them to have choices in life, which a college education will most likely help provide. But we’re not going to drive ourselves or our children crazy trying to make sure they get into ivy league schools, unless that’s what they decide they want to do. (And in that case, they’d better get some hefty scholarships and/or be prepared to take on some debt!)

Maybe I’m being naive. Maybe my views are colored by the fact that I come from a relatively privileged background. And maybe my views will change when the girls get into the dog-eat-dog world of…er….elementary school.

What are your hopes (or fears) for your children over the long term? What are or aren’t you willing to do to prepare your children for the future? 

* * *

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news about my writing elsewhere — including my novel, EDEN LAKE, to be
published in 2011 by Last Light Studio, and my memoir, BABY SQUARED,
about the
first three years of parenting twins, to be published in 2012 by St.
Martin’s
Press.

Raise your hand if this has happened to you. Or just, you know, pretend raise it. Because I know there are ladies out there who get what I’m talking about. What is it with the lose-your-shit-as-soon-as-mom-gets-home thing? 

When I got back from my writing retreat on Friday it was like all of a sudden the girls let out a week’s worth of pent up emotion and just…slipped and slid around in it, like a couple of not particularly happy pigs in mud. They whined, they fought, they tested.

Actually, rewind a little: my initial greeting was very sweet. I got back to the house a few minutes before Alastair came home with the girls from preschool, and when they got out of the car, Elsa ran to me with outspread arms and gave me a big, huge bear hug. That was awesome.

Clio, meanwhile, rushed toward and past me yelling: “Hey Mommy! I’m going to tell you a big suprise about what I did at school but not right now but right after I go inside and take my shoes off and then I’m going to tell you!” I said, OK, sure, and as she was pulling her shoes off in the front hall, I said, “Hey, Clio, can I get a hug?” but she just raced off to the living room, to sit in her little chair, all excited to tell me her news.

“Sit on the floor in front of me!” she said. (I got the feeling she’d pictured this whole thing in her little head.) And she proceeded to tell me, beaming, that she’d played with another little boy in her class by asking.

We’d talked about this a couple of times in the previous weeks, in response to her telling us that the other kids in her class didn’t want to play with her — about how, if she ever wanted to play with kids, she could just ask them to play. So, she had. And she was very proud of herself. I asked her what she played, and she said they’d played with the fire engines. “Was it fun?” I asked. “Yeah,” she said, looking almost a little bashful. “It was fun.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I’m really proud of you. And I missed you, you know. How about a hug?” And then, finally, she seemed to remember that I’d been gone, and gave me a big ole hug.

So, that was nice. But it wasn’t long after that that all hell broke loose. The girls did not want to stay in their room for “quiet time” (no huge surprise, there, seeing as I’d just gotten home), the afternoon was one battle after the next, and bedtime — ugh. Let’s not even go there. In short, my sweet homecoming quickly turned into an intense and guilty longing for the days of peace and quiet I’d just left behind.

This same thing used to happen when they were babies and toddlers: I’d come home from work, they’d see me, and start wailing. As if the previous hours had been pure torture, and how could I have possibly left them alone with this terrible person? (Whoever that person might have been.) And more recently, there have been times when we’ve left the girls with my parents or Alastair’s, and received glowing reports of how happy and well-behaved they were, only to watch them melt down completely minute we walked in the door.

Why does it happen? Well, my best guess is that it’s not unlike the way you can put on a good face around other people when you’re going through something difficult, but when you’re around your spouse or parents or other people closest to you, you let it out — you give in to your sadness or anger or whatever else you’re feeling because you know, on a subconscious level, that they will forgive you, or support you or comfort you in a way other people won’t.

And mothers? Well, we’re the ultimate source of comfort and solace to our kids. And — usually — the most familiar to them, connected in some deeply biological way that even the most hands-on fathers can’t quite be. When we go away, when we come back, it’s probably a much bigger deal to them than we quite realize. That’s my theory, anyway.

I’m glad to say that after the intial 24 hours, the girls pulled themsleves together and got back on track. They didn’t become suddenly angelic, of course — that only happens with babysitters, teachers, and grandparents — but let’s just say I felt a whole lot happier to be home than I had the day before.

Being angelic (and cute) at my parents’ house, over the summer.

* * *

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news about my writing elsewhere — including my novel, EDEN LAKE, to be
published in 2011 by Last Light Studio, and my memoir, BABY SQUARED,
about the
first three years of parenting twins, to be published in 2012 by St.
Martin’s
Press.

Really, it’s been heavenly. It’s been really productive to step out of ordinary life, into a zone where there’s nothing expected of me except to work on my project. I’ve written about forty pages of my book while I’ve been here, give or take, which brings me about two-thirds of the way through my rough draft. Not too shabby!

I’ve spent a lot of time going back through old blog posts to remind me of what the girls were like and what the various challenges and delights of parenting were when they were babies and  toddlers, and to pull out anecdotes and passages here and there that seem worth including. Of course, it’s very different writing about things in the moment, as one does in a blog, than writing about them with hindsight, as I’m doing now. I could go back and tell my mom-dealing-with-19-month-old-twins self a thing or two now, honey. (And I’d call myself–I mean, my other, in the past self–”honey,” like I’m an old, wise aunt or something. You know, just to piss myself off.) 

It’s been fun, revisiting that time. But it’s definitely also made me feel a little misty, looking back at stories about and pictures of those sweet, toddling baby girls that were Elsa and Clio. It made me realize: wow, I don’t have two little babies anymore. I’ve got two little kids — no more diapers, no more cribs, no more pacifiers. They can talk about just about anything now, with pretty damned good grammar in most cases. They can put their own shoes on! And 50% of the time, they get them on the right feet!

I won’t lie to you, I like this phase much better, in most ways. I find it more rewarding, more fun and a little less crazy making than the 18-36 month period, which, admittedly, was a pretty rough time in my life, too, on account of my struggles with depression in that timeframe. 

But damn, those little babies were lovely. It’s been nice tripping down memory lane. And country lanes. Back to our regular, three-year-old twins program soon. And back home for me, in about fifteen minutes. I’ve missed them, I’ve missed you, and sometimes, I really miss this:

 * * *

Become
a

fan of Baby Squared on Facebook for updates when new posts are
published, fun status updates and more. All the cool kids are doing it!

Join my mailing list for very

occasional
news about my writing elsewhere — including my novel, EDEN LAKE, to be
published in 2011 by Last Light Studio, and my memoir, BABY SQUARED,
about the
first three years of parenting twins, to be published in 2012 by St.
Martin’s
Press.