Secrets of the Twin Mom

Here’s a secret: I was so afraid that I wouldn’t be able to take care of twins that I actually dreaded the day they would be well enough to come home from the hospital. Terrified to the point of tears. But here’s another secret: twins are awesome. Nothing against the rest of you out there, but if you don’t have twins, you are missing out. And being a twin mom is just about the funnest thing I have ever done (next to performing in Piazza Barberini for Italian television or dancing at McKelligon canyon, but that’s a blog post for another day).

First of all, the bar is set really, really low for twin moms. Wearing two matching shoes? Ate breakfast before 2 p.m.? Bathed yourself and all three kids this week? You are an overachiever!

And twin moms who also have a preschooler are on the short list for sainthood. It’s awesome—because it’s much easier than it looks.

Actually, that’s misleading. It’s not that having twin babies and a three-year-old is so easy, it’s that motherhood—parenthood—is SO hard. On a transition scale, going from no kids to one kid is like going from zero to seventy. Going from one kid to three, however, is not as big a leap as people would think. It’s like a seventy-five.

But because everyone who has kids has at least one kid, (duh!) moms are expected to do all kinds of crazy things. They wake up for every feeding. They drop off and pick up their kids from daycare. They buy baby clothes and wash baby clothes and read bedtime stories. They rock their babies and sing them to sleep. They have jobs. And they do it all themselves.*

* OK OK OK! I KNOW there are Dads out there who step it up—who do dishes and fold clothes and make dinner and drop off at daycare and rock their babies and sing them to sleep. But they also have jobs. Two parents who work in tandem is a better deal than the responsibilities of the single parent, but it’s nothing compared to the help and support that is shown to twin moms (and dads).

It’s like Stone Soup. Maybe it’s just my selective Mommy Memory, but we are getting so much help, that having three kids is easier than when we had just Chiara.

For one, back then I was working thirty hours a week, going to school fulltime, and commuting back and forth to school. Matt was working 40+ hours a week and commuting 80 miles a day. Granted, that’s a lot, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. What’s out of the ordinary is that now I am not working and Matt is working from home more so that he can be around for the morning shift and be here when Chiara gets home from daycare. What’s out of the ordinary is that my mom came and stayed with us for five months out of the last ten. So I never had to get up to do every feeding. On Wednesdays one of the moms at daycare picks up Chiara and brings her home. So we don’t have to do every drop off and pick up. On Saturdays, Matt takes the whole brood to Nutcracker rehearsal and one of the moms babysits. For free.

Speaking of free, aside from diapers and formula, to date we have purchased: one teether, one ball toy, six baby spoons, (thank you, IKEA) and two high chair trays. Everything else was given to us. Six bags of boys clothes, ages newborn to one year. Blankets, bibs, Stokke Tripp Trap high chairs (two), a crib, two carseats, two different double strollers, a Moby wrap, a second Ergo. Baby hats, crib sheets, bottles, you name it. Free stuff is awesome, absolutely. Also awesome is never having to take inventory of what we need and figure out how to get it. That’s a lot of saved time.

People open doors for the twin mom with a stroller. When was the last time someone did that for a single stroller? Neighbors we barely knew dropped off food because they knew we had twins. On my first flight with the boys, the pilot deplaned and carried on Wagner’s carseat himself. We were actually able to get special passes from TSA so that my family could escort us to the gate. Crazy – take one baby on a plane and you get a dirty look. Take on two and people buy you a drink because they think you could use it.

So we’ve gotten more help. We’ve gotten more free stuff. We’re cut more slack. All this helps us be more organized and efficient with our time. Which gives us more energy to give back to others. It’s crazy. We’ve actually hosted more playdates (read: babysat someone else’s kid) and sleepovers in the last six months than we have in the three years before that. (We have three babysit/playdates next week alone). And since we’re twin parents, we get even more credit!

As Matt likes to joke, “Set expectations low. Exceed expectations.” Well, let me tell you, expectations are set pretty low for the twin mom. The punch line is, because expectations are so low, people help you out. You exceed expectations, impress everybody, and actually have the time and energy to help them out. Amazing, this non-zero sum stuff.

Next up: why taking care of twin boys is easier than taking care of one Chiara, OR Dancing in Piazza Barberini.

Fan Appreciation Day

It’s Nutcracker time. I danced my last Nutcracker in 1996, but my husband Matt is still performing. This is his sixteenth year dancing the Sugarplum Fairy cavalier for Pacific Ballet in Mountain View. He has known some of the ballet students since they were soldiers in the Battle Scene.

Every Saturday from September to December, my husband coaches the girls he will dance with. As an extra bonus for me, he takes our children with him. Our daughter Chiara has been attending Nutcracker rehearsals since she was seven months old. She loves it.

By the time she was a year and ten months, she was able to sit through two-hour dress rehearsals without incident. So I thought nothing of taking her to an actual performance to see Daddy dance.

As soon as she saw him jeté onstage at the beginning of the second act she yelled out, “Dadd-deeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!” Not in a “bravo” kind of voice, but with the voice you use to warn someone that they’re about to be hit by a bus. All the dancers onstage smiled a little wider. One of the candy canes suppressed a giggle.

When Matt exited into the wings, Chiara burst into tears.

“Where Daddy? Where Daddy?”

Poor thing. She must have thought that he fell off the face of the earth.

I explained: first there’s the Spanish variation, then Arabian, Chinese, Russian, Merlitons, Mother Ginger, Waltz of the Flowers, and then Daddy dances again.

After the last flower waltzed away, the lights lowered and the soft music of the Sugarplum Fairy pas de deux began to twinkle.

“Dadd-deeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!” Chiara yelled when she saw her father escort the Sugarplum onto the stage.

“Shhhhhh. . .” from the row behind us. It was the ushers. To us.

In my day, the ushers knew their place. They wouldn’t have dared to shush the guest artist’s entourage. In my day, the ushers could separate the insiders who don’t even need backstage passes from the bottom-feeders, the ticket-holding public. But we aren’t in Berlin anymore. And Matt is a great cavalier, but he isn’t much of a diva. He has actually purchased tickets for us. A ticket means that we enter from the front instead of the back. It means we are nobodies, Chiara and I, because no one knows that we are related to the star. That is, until she yelled it out for all to hear:

“Da-dddddddeeeeeee!!!!”

An usher hissed at us again.

Maybe he had a point. She was kind of loud.

I scooped my daughter up into my arms hastily exited the theatre. Wiggling with that toddler ninja move that makes them both slippery and brick-like, Chiara broke free and ran to the doors leading back into the theatre.

“Da-dddddddeeeeeee!!!!” She pounded her tiny fists on the door, doing her best Brando from Streetcar.

She was even more hysterical there in the foyer, so we went back in. Even in the dark I could feel the ushers’ steel glares. Would we be asked to leave? It is a kid’s ballet, after all.

Chiara stopped sobbing, but she continued to call out from time to time. On stage my husband gracefully promenaded his lovely partner. He was beaming. He’s dancing for his little girl. Why should we leave?

Every time Chiara called for him, Matt and the Sugarplum smiled a little broader, sharing this inside joke with everyone else in the theatre who had seen our daughter every Saturday sitting at the front of the rehearsal studio next to the mirrors, eating her morning snack and watching her Daddy dance.

Chiara is a fixture at these weekly rehearsals in Mountain View, but the real fixture is my husband. If you are a parent of a kid in this show, you know him. He entertained your daughter backstage when she was an angel in the prologue. He taught her how to do finger turns and supported lifts during pas de deux class. And if your kid is a boy, my husband taught him fart jokes. If you are remotely involved with your child’s pre-professional ballet career, you adore my husband. And you probably know Chiara as well.

So if a little girl crying for her daddy is ruining the show for you, maybe you should lighten up.

Which is more or less what I told those ushers.

A Teachable Moment

I’m walking the streets around our neighborhood looking for a woman and her dog. I want to reassure her that the scare she had the other day resulted in some invaluable life lessons for my daughter.

Chiara and I were walking with the boys in the bulky double stroller (the double snap-n-go; it’s like pushing a small fleet of shopping carts) and we came upon our neighbor and her dog. I don’t know where she lives, but I see her walking her dog all the time, a little black and white pixie dog. I usually see them on their evening walk when I’m putting out the garbage bins. The dog has this fancy collar that emits a blue light. Very handy in the dark.

We stop and talk and I point out the fancy collar to Chiara. We discuss its uses.

“When it’s nighttime, the collar shines a light and then his mama can see where her dog is.” (I might have called it a “doggy.”)

The owner and I make jokes about the day the twins will be running around and I might need a similar kind of collar for them. We smile and nod see-you-later. My entourage and I turn to left; the owner and her dog keep walking straight ahead.

Halfway down the block, Chiara gets mad about something or other. It doesn’t matter what; something that’s fueled by her empty stomach, in spite of the almonds we brought along to stave off the tantrums. She stomps her foot and takes off running.

Takes off running.

I am 100% sure that she is going to wait for me at the corner. She turns the corner, still running.

Oh no, you didn’t.

I know that even if I could leave the boys and run after her, that would be a mistake. I have to call her bluff and wait for her to come back to me. She’s on the short side of the block right now, the width, not the length. There are no driveways on this part of the block, so I can let her run and still know that she is safe.

I wheel the twins to the corner and stop with my hands on my hips. She is still stomping away. When she sees that I am following her, she turns to me, shakes her fists in the air (this was actually kind of funny) and turns and runs again.

I am 75% sure that she is going to wait for me at the next corner. I am wrong.

Why, you little . . .

Now she is running down the length of the block. I’m hoping to follow as closely as possible without being seen. She stops from time to time to look for me. Then I make a tactical error—I inch forward just enough so that when she turns around, she sees me. She shakes her fists at me some more and takes off running again. Now my heart drops.

Oh my God.

I am 50% certain that she will not try to cross the street by herself, which is to say that I have no idea what she’s going to do next.

The streets in our neighborhood (and this street in particular) are very narrow with speed bumps every 30 feet. We are close to the BART station (subway). It’s the hour before dinner. In other words, this is the time when commuters are walking home from BART, walking to Market Hall, walking their dogs, their strollers. Little people are crossing the street to their ballet class. Big people are trying to fit in a run before dinner. Pedestrians are legion at this hour and the cars creep by to let the walkers have the run of the road. This is probably the safest time of day for a runaway preschooler. I just don’t know where my preschooler is going run.

When I was eight weeks pregnant with Chiara, I thought we were going to lose the baby. I had cramps; there was bleeding. Matt and I were headed on an overseas trip and we stayed up all night worrying about what might happen.

So this is parenthood, I remember thinking. Worrying about another human, knowing that there’s only so much you can do. Trying to find faith and hope in what you can’t control. I’d better get used to this feeling, I thought, because this is my new life.

And so here I am again, worrying about another human, knowing that there’s only so much I can do. I am watching my daughter challenge my authority; she is flaunting her independence in the big wide world of a single city block. From my vantage point, both literally and metaphorically, I can see the world beyond, the other blocks, other possibilities, other dangers. This is my new life: dancing the balance between keeping my daughter safe and close and letting her run free even if it means she falls.

Before Chiara gets to the end of the block, a neighbor I do not know sees her, tries to stop her and ask her where her mommy is. Chiara backs away from the stranger. I’m relieved because it slows her down so I can catch up. Chiara turns the corner AGAIN, but this time the neighbor is keeping an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t run into the street.

The neighbor and I talk. She assumes that Chiara is acting out because of the twins. Chiara is walking very slowly now, watching me, pacing on the sidewalk in front of the corner house. The neighbor and I are on the side of the corner house. We are separated from just enough bushes for Chiara to feel like she’s far away and for me to feel like she’s close.

And then it happens. The woman and her dog are coming back from their walk. The little dog has scampered ahead, very fast. And into the street. A car comes. The woman screams. There are a handful of witnesses in various stages of walking, running, commuting, and chasing children. We all freeze. For a moment I think that Chiara, at the tender age of three, is going to see something that I myself, have never seen.

I try to anticipate what she will see. Will the dog be thrown into the street? Will there be blood?

The car slams on its brakes and the little dog scuttles to safety. The woman runs after her dog. Chiara runs back to me. As fast as she can.

“Mama, Mama! I was so scared!”

Good.

Me, too. I tell her. We talk about what happened to the dog who ran away from his Mama. We talk about fear and trust and how next time that Mama will probably put a leash on her dog. It transitions nicely into a discussion of how I was a scared Mama, too. What I might do next time.

Matt joins us a few minutes later, an opportunity to retell the story.

It is suggested that maybe Chiara shouldn’t be allowed to spend the night at her friend’s house tomorrow night. What if she runs away from her friend’s Mama? How do we know she will stay close so the Mama knows she’s safe?

Nooooooooooooooo! Chiara begs us. She points out that she did not try to cross the street by herself.

We decide to give her a second chance: we will walk to the market and back and Chiara will show us how she can stay close.

“I will walk right behind you the whole time!” she promises.

You'd better.

That’s what supposed to happen. You watch your kids; you teach your kids; you give them the tools to stay safe; you hope they use them. And then you let life happen. I can’t shelter her; I can’t keep her on a leash. I can only prepare her, support her, and dance the balance.

As she pouted and pitter-pattered around the block, several ideas had crossed my mind—from yelling at her to running after her to giving her the beating of a lifetime. I had to keep reminding myself: I know my neighborhood. It’s safe. I know my kid. She’s not going to do anything dangerous. Running after her is not the way to teach her to stay close. Rationally, letting her run was the right thing to do. And yet, it felt like a gamble. An irresponsible gamble on my part.

Today Chiara and I talked about the event. She calls it, “When I got lost.” She said she dreamt about it last night—she’d run away from me, run toward me, run away from me, toward me. Over and over. How’s that for metaphorical?

I’m so happy with how everything unfolded. Chiara tested the waters, misbehaved and in the end, redeemed herself. And best of all, she saw firsthand the real reason you stay close to your Mama—because it’s safe. (On second thought, best of all is probably the fact that the doggy made it safely across the street).

I’m so happy, too. Because I don’t know what I would have done if she had tried to cross the street. I don’t know what I would have done if I had gambled and lost.

© 2010 Janine Kovac

Let Them Fall

Today I am happy because I let my kid fall.  Both boys are rolling, but Wagner’s the one for whom rolling has become a mode of transportation.  Toy out of reach?  He knows he can roll toward it.  Brother’s foot smacking him in the face?  He knows he can roll away from it.  Tired of being on the blanket on the floor?  He knows he can roll off of it onto greener pastures.  He reminds me of that meatball that rolls out the front door.

But sometimes it isn’t greener on the other side of the blanket.  Sometimes it’s hardwood.  The first time he rolled, at breakneck baby speed, off the blanket (toward a particularly angular object, to boot), my foot jutted out to cushion the blow.  But the next time he rolled off the blanket, I just watched.  And, as one would expect, he smacked his head on the floor and cried very hard.*

* I actually did not expect this.  Chiara was (is) famous for smacking her noggin loud and proud and not noticing.  So I thought that was just something my offspring can do: hit their heads and not notice.  I was wrong.

But then an amazing thing happened.  He learned how to protect himself.  He doesn’t do it when he’s rolling on the bed or on the blanket, but when he’s rolling on the hardwood floor, Wagner rolls at normal speed onto his side, stops himself precariously balanced on his baby fat, and then rolls veeeeeeeeeeeeereeeeeeey slowly—he even squeezes his eyes shut—onto his back so that he doesn’t hit his head.  Not bad for not quite six months (adjusted, of course, chronologically he’s nine months).

It’s amazing to watch.  Even better, it’s intentional.  This morning I watched Wagner roll to the left from back to tummy and then back to the right from back to his tummy over and over and over for about fifteen minutes.  Each time he stopped himself just before his head was going to bang on the floor and eased himself down.  And then he giggled hysterically. 

The urge to protect our children is primal (and that’s good) but sometimes we take it too far and in preventing them for getting hurt, we actually keep them from learning.

And we keep ourselves from learning, too.  Today my child taught me that he knows a little something about cause and effect and intentional action.  He demonstrated that he knows he can control his destiny.  Today—rolling!  Tomorrow—Harvard!**

I can’t wait to let him fall again tomorrow.

** I’m still a little chaffed about this so I will remind everyone that one of the first doctors we saw when we found out we were pregnant with mono-mono twins insinuated that preemies born before twenty-seven weeks would likely be retarded.  Twenty-seven weeks was, in her estimation, the cut-off point to expect that the preemie might be smart enough to get into Harvard.  (Leaving no lee-way between genius and irretrievably stupid)  Our boys were born at twenty-five weeks, which puts them in the “wool-cap-delivering-for-the-florist” category”*** I know I’m supposed to be in this gratitude phase, but I still have it out for this doctor. 

*** name the movie.  I’ll give you hints if you want them

Three Months Old

The boys are now three months old adjusted* (today, July 11^th).  They are HUGE.  Weighing in at 13 pounds 6 ounces, Michael is seven times his birth weight.  Wagner weighs 13 pounds, or eight times his birth weight.  They are both 24 inches, or twice as long as they were the day they were born (six and a half months ago).  They are doing great.  And we’re still doing a lot of work to make sure it stays that way. 

We see the pediatrician once a month (she took the babies off of preemie formula and gave us the green light to travel—C-O-R here we come!), a county nurse makes monthly home visits (she thinks that Michael is babbling on a six month level**) and every Tuesday we have an Infant Development playgroup organized by the NICU (which the twins have slept through 6 out of 8 weeks). 

One week there’s the physical therapist.  Another week there’s a speech therapist.  Week 3 is mediated by specialist who helps organize play and I can’t remember what happens in Week 4 because I had to take Chiara to her first ballet class.  (She enjoys it, but she’s much more excited about the “Princess Ballet Workshop” that starts tomorrow because the dancers learn tap.  And they get snacks).

Then the cycle starts again: physical therapy, speech therapy, play therapy and mystery therapy.  The twins will go for a full year.  It’s really a way to facilitate their development and catch the snags before they turn into delays. 

I know what you’re thinking, speech therapy for an infant?  At this age, speech therapy consists of listening for “social sounds” in their noises and looking at their breathing patterns.  The boys are doing just great—Michael is a little conversationalist—but if they weren’t, we’d get some clues from how they breathe and then do some exercises to help them breathe better.

Our big thing to work on now is grabbing toys, but the twins don’t really care about that.  They are far more interested in faces, particularly Mama’s, Daddy’s and Chiara’s.  They are transfixed by Chiara’s face. 

And why shouldn’t they be? 

She shows them her princess collection. (Inspired by Cousin Maria’s princess collection.  Also inspired by Cousin Maria—sleeping in underwear instead of pull-ups and sleeping without a shirt on.) 

She shows them photographs.  (“This is me with my Mommy and Daddy.”)

She reads them books and makes up stories. (“This is the story of when Pooh Bear died.”)***

She gives them advice.  (“Don’t worry.  You aren’t going to die for a really long time.”)

She helps with baths.  She picks out their clothes.  She puts IKEA bowls on their heads.

For awhile every time one of the twins would cry, she’d come running, “Mama!  Mama!  They’re starving!  My brudders are starving!”

Another time we had them in their respective rockers and every time one would make a noise, Chiara would get up from her chair at the table and pull the electronic dangly toy that sings “If You’re Happy and You Know It” in odd tones.  Each time she’d run to the rocker, pull the toy and run back to her chair just in time to hear the other twin whimper.  After running back and forth several times, she finally exclaimed, “I’m doing all the work around here!”

And she LOVES to help with the diaper change.  It gives her an excuse to check out all the bits and pieces that she doesn’t have in her own underpants ([giggle] “It looks like a chicken!”)

But the best was the other day—both boys were LYING (that one’s for you, Mom!) on our bed.  It was right before the late afternoon nap and they hadn’t quite settled in yet, so they were making those non-committal cries that make you think, “Should I pick them up or what?” 

Chiara climbed onto the bed and sat between them.  She put a hand on the chest of each baby.

“It’s O.K.  You’re O.K.” she said in a soothing voice, “I’m right here.”

It’s good to be a parent. 

There’s other good stuff—my mom was here for two and a half months, pulling truly heroic shifts, back when there were six night feedings between midnight and 6 a.m.  My sister, Jackie has been here the last month, playing taxi and reading books, changing diapers and washing chickens. 

And now my stepmom is here helping us hold down the fort.  The night shift has gotten markedly easier (now the 6 feedings span between 6 p.m. and 6 a.m.)  This week a million cousins and grandparents are coming in for next Saturday’s baptism (well, five grandparents, two aunts, two uncles, and three cousins).

We’ll check in sometime after our whirlwind tour ’10: Fresno, Santa Monica, El Paso, Austin, St Paul, Chicago, and COUSIN-O-RAMA! 

*adjusted

** She’s wrong.  She has mistaken Michael’s babbling (“ah-goo”) for multisyllabic babbling, but real multisyllabic babbling has two characteristics.  1) Anyone can babble in vowels, so they don’t count.  It has to be two different consonants, like ba-da or doo-ba.  2) Developmentally, it has to happen after reduplicated babbling, like ma-ma, ba-ba, da-da, you get the idea.  If it happens before then, it’s just an accident; it’s not a milestone.  

*** In case you’re wondering, in this story—a Chiara Original, as far as I know—Christopher Robin finds Pooh Bear drowned in a pool of water. 

Until next time, enjoy these pictures!

* * * Twins are doing really great.  Mike the Cow, not so much * * *

A Night at the Ballet

“How is your daughter handling this?” I am often asked.

Great, I say.  I reply that she’s at the perfect age, old enough that we can explain [some] things to her, but not old enough to be worried.  For all she knows, it’s perfectly normal to have a baby and leave him at the hospital.  And for all we know, it’s perfectly normal for all her dolls to be sick and need medical attention.  This morning she was lining them up for vaccines.

“And how did she do with you in the hospital for so long?” (I was in Ante-partum for eight days before the twins were born and in post-partum for five).

She did great.  Just great.  Don’t all three year olds scream, “DON’T LEAVE ME, MAMA!!!” when their mommies go take a shower?

But just in case, I thought we’d have a little mother-daughter time.  We went to see the ballet, Coppelia last Friday night.

“It’s like a night adventure, Mama!”  “Adventures” are what we do on non-daycare days.  Some people run errands.  We have “adventures.”

Coppelia is a full-length ballet from the late 19^th century.  Like Giselle, it’s one of those “My man done me wrong” ballets.  You know, boy and girl are engaged.  Boy falls for someone else.  Girl gets upset.  In Giselle, the other woman is a rich aristocrat.  Girl goes crazy and dies.  Boy is wracked with guilt and tormented for all eternity by a herd of undead jilted ladies.  I’m not kidding.  In Coppelia, the other woman is a doll.  So Girl triumphs, Boy feels dumb that he fell for a doll.  They get married and she probably holds it over his head for the rest of his natural born life.

Coppelia does have an additional creep factor—Dr. Coppelius, the eccentric old maker of life size dolls, has been studying magic in hopes that he can bring his doll, Coppelia, to life.  When Boy (“Franz”) sneaks into the toy factory to make overtures to this hot doll, Dr. C gets him drunk and tries to steal his life essence for his doll.   “Swanhilda,” the Girl (again, not kidding) is dressed in the doll’s clothing (oh!  What would 19^th century comedy be without the ol’ dress up in someone else’s clothes bit), and pretends to come to life.  Franz sobers up and Swanhilda says, “Ha!  I tricked both y’all!”  To which Franz says, “Oh, you!  I guess we might as well get married, then,” all in ballet pantomime, of course.  Then Dr. C. crumples to the floor, broken hearted.  

I thought it would be a good ballet to see because I thought I could explain the story to Chiara.  (Turns out I was wrong; it’s harder than you think.  “See, the girl pretends to be a doll who pretends not to be a doll anymore.”)

She loved it anyway. 

And now we get to the part of the story that makes it blog worthy.  Apologies for sounding trite, but I learned something on Friday night.  Not only is the whole greater than the sum of its parts, but you get to cherry pick your parts and that makes it even better. 

For example, this was not a convenient show to see.  There was one show only: Friday night at 8 p.m. in Marin County, 45 to 60 minutes away when there’s traffic.  On a Friday night before a three-day weekend, there’s traffic.  It was raining to boot.  I knew beforehand that the quality of the dancing would not match the price of the tickets.  Lastly, I have a lot of negative memories associated with performing Coppelia. 

In the end, none of these details mattered.  Chiara and I shared a magical night at the ballet in a way I would have never anticipated.  Here are details that made it memorable.

Chiara insisted on wearing her “fancy dress” (blue velvet with a layer of tulle underneath), her hair in a bun, and sequined Mary Jane’s (thanks to Cousin Maria).  Chiara was by far the smallest audience member and several people commented on her get-up.

“Are you a dancer?” she was asked over and over.

“Sometimes,” she would shyly answer.

I had gotten seats on the far edge of house right, in case we needed to beat a hasty retreat.  In the row in front of us sat a white haired couple.  Judging from her cane and his agility, I think it was a son accompanying his elderly mother to the ballet.  It was hard to say who was more excited, his mother or my daughter.

“We aren’t going to have a sing-along, now, are we?” he preemptively reprimanded her.  She didn’t answer, hands clasped at her chest, watching the curtain in anxious anticipation.

The lights dimmed and the overture played over the loudspeakers.  The old woman’s head bobbled in time with the music and her hand involuntarily waved to and fro as if she was conducting an imaginary orchestra.

The score to Coppelia was composed by Leo Deliebes specifically for ballet.  If this woman knows the music, chances are she danced this ballet.  How beautifully poetic it is.  Here we are, three generations of dancers.  Past, present and future.  Will I one day be like this old woman, escorted by Chiara to a B-list production, with nothing to hint at my past life but knowledge of the music?

The performance was pretty much what I expected it to be: the occasional dancer out of line, a sickled foot here and there but what I will remember is Chiara, sinking into my lap, leaning against me, occasionally whispering, What happens next?

I had planned to leave after the second act (the third act is the wedding—always a bore), but Chiara wouldn’t let me.  “NO!  We have to stay for the next act!”  (How did she know there was another act?).  She bargained with me: “Let’s stay for one more dance.”

So we did.  We stayed for the opening of the third act—the pas de trois—the part I danced in Iceland.  And this is what makes life so extraordinary.  I haven’t heard this music in seventeen years.  But as I listened to it, I felt a surge of joy.  “Wow.”  I thought.  “I must have really enjoyed dancing this.”

It may sound silly, but this was a surprise to me.  Unlike other parts of the ballet that evoked memories of the choreography or the political back story that unfolded behind the scenes (literally!), the music to the pas de trois just brought back blissful feelings of pure joy, one of those moments where you feel that to live life is to soar above it.  And now I was simultaneously remembering, experiencing and sharing that feeling with my daughter. 

We stayed for one more dance, the doll dance (the Russians had taken liberty with the story) after which Chiara whispered, “Now we can go.”

© 2010 Janine Kovac 

Survivor Mom

Survivor Mom

This post is dedicated to Amy and all my other baseball fan friends

As I was saying last time, this time is different.  This time, the thought of the unexpected is exciting.  It’ll be like the urban version of Survivor Man, the show where they drop this guy into some ferocious wilderness with nothing but a videocamera and a bottle cap and he has to survive the week. 

If you’ve ever seen the show, you know what happens. The guy takes his bottle cap and carves out a teepee from wet bark and then uses it (pick your antecedent—either the bottle cap or the wet bark—they both work) to trap quail, rabbit and small fish.  The teepee blows over on Day 2 and none of the food he catches turns out to be edible.  On Day 4, sweating and shivering and cross-eyed from delirium, he looks into the camera and admits defeat.  He’s going to call on the emergency phone.  (Wait!  He has an emergency phone?  Isn’t that cheating?)  And then he passes out from dehydration.

But on Day 5, the sun comes out.  And Survivor Man realizes that the maggots feeding on the flesh of the small and dead woodland creatures are chock full of protein.  And then he sees that he can dry out the animal carcasses in the sun and build a new teepee.  Survivor Man does it again!

This is how I picture the next five to seven months.  Like Survivor Man, who just has to last out the week, I just have to last long enough to make it to Cousin-O-Rama on Labor Day weekend.  Even if it means that Matt has lost most of his hair and mine has all turned grey.  I call it Survivor Mom. 

Except that I won’t go at it alone.  Matt will be there.  Chiara will be there (granted, she is limited in her abilities but she will be able to say things like, “Mama!  Quick!  Chester’s rolling down the stairs!”).  And we will get help.  Lots and lots of live-in help. 

Pretty soon I will start shamelessly recruiting 5 months’ worth of family and friends to come stay with us and be part of the madness.  (email me if you have some dates in mind)

Can’t you hear it?  “If you build it, they will come.”

What have we built?  We bring you twin boys.  Not just any twin boys, but the fruit of Matt’s loins.  They will be big.  They will be strong.  They will eat wallpaper.  Come witness the madness for yourself.

Will they have the same cry?  Will they have the same eating schedules?  Will they sleep most soundly sucking on each other’s toes? 

Will you be able to tell them apart?

Most importantly, will you be able to last the week?

Will you fly in on Monday, brightly armed with a videocamera and a bottle warmer prepared to make a meal and do the occasional 2 a.m. feeding only to find yourself in inhospitable territory-- there's me, walking around in a daze in a nightgown (someone else’s nightgown, you realize).  Inside the boys’ room BPA-free teethers and organic cotton burp clothes fly around like that scene from Poltergeist.  Meanwhile, Chiara is at the top of the stairs swaying back and forth: “They’re heeeeeeeeeer-eeeeer.” 

You open the fridge and realize that the Kovacs have been eating recyclable cardboard and lead-free Melissa and Doug wooden picnic food.  All the furniture is covered in spit up and baby snot.

"What’s that smell?" you ask.

Fenugreek.

Matt is nowhere to be found.  Later you discover that he’s passed out (again) in the diaper aisle of a Whole Foods somewhere in the Bay Area.  In one hand he’s clutching a carton of Luna bars.  In the other, compostable baby wipes.  They found him (again) by following the trail of leaked Pedialyte.

Will your inner Mary Poppins come out and save the day?  Or will you call home on Day 4, shivering and sweating, covered in projectile baby fluids and admitting defeat?

You don’t know.  But I know you.  You HAVE to come and see.  At least long enough to find out what happens on Day 5. 

  

Can’t you hear it?  It’s Darth Vader’s voice from Field of Dreams : “Ray, people will come Ray.  They'll come to Oakland for reasons they can't even fathom.  They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it.  They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past.  Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say.  People will come, Ray. . .  The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been babies.  America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers.  It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again.  But babies have marked the time.  This nursery, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray.  It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.  Oh... people will come Ray.  People will most definitely come.” 

© 2010 Janine Kovac