Mama One to Three

Please don’t tell my oldest about this.  M is so proud of her plant.  It’s a bean plant from school apparently (that’s what I was told even though it looks like a sad garnish).  I am pretty certain at this point that I’ve done it in.  Send no help.

I thought watering it meant pouring way too much water into its pathetic dixie cup and waiting for it to absorb over the week.  Two inches of dirt cannot absorb 16 ounces of water.  Lesson learned.  M asks about her plant every day.  She watched it grow from a tiny seed in a bag to this long-suffering noble stalk on our window sill.  She shows it to everyone who enters this apartment: delivery men, her brother’s physical therapist, the plumber. Clearly, this poor green bean leaf is at its end of days.  “What fresh hell is this?” it may be asking each morning it sees me enter the kitchen and approach its perch on the window sill.

I would like to state for the record that I bore this plant no ill will.  I did not mean to harm, hurt or otherwise impair this bean plant (a.k.a. garnish).  This was an accident.  And very poor gardening skills.  This is going to be a larger issue for 3.5-year-old M–what happened to her prized plant?  Why is it floating in water and mud?

So as I consider the impending demise of the bean garnish, and my daughter who is filled with pride from this plant, I ask myself: When a plant falls in the kitchen, do I have to tell anyone about it?

The other day I was taking the kids to a park with our babysitter.  My two-year-old son (“H”) had a monumental tantrum on the way there–barely out of our apartment–that went on for what seemed like a week.  He wanted to be carried.  I insisted that H walk or ride somewhere in or on our monster stroller.  I walked; he clung to my leg screaming for a very. long. time.  Our sitter took the girls on to the park while I tried to restrain a clearly out-of-control toddler, declaring to him and downtown Manhattan that he is not a baby and he should be able to walk to the park without a fit: “I shouldn’t have to carry you all the time!”  I had those irrational extreme mommy thoughts like I wish you’d grow up and not bother me all the time! and Why can’t you behave for just once when we are out?  Those feelings are (always) temporary and (usually) kept to myself, but when the frustration builds, I question why my children act like babies!   Note: For any mental health professional, child development expert or grandparent of my children reading this, I do know that it is my response that is immature, and I don’t actually believe my young children should act like anything but unpredictable, maniacal children.

Here’s how this played out: We were frozen in one spot for a while.  I debated taking him home and skipping the park.  I sweated.  H threw himself backwards, sideways and diagonal. Many people stared and I am pretty sure dogs barked at us. We eventually made our way to a school yard where some older boys were practicing lacrosse.  Soon, H calmed down, enjoyed the birds, the busses going by, the kids smashing balls and themselves into the chain link fence dividing us.  With H sitting next to me on a bench, I watched these boys as well.  They were maybe junior high age.  They seemed confident and anxious at the same time, screaming insults to each other one minute and outbursts of support the next.  The boys were completely oblivious to us and everyone else around them.  

It became clear to me that I do not indeed wish for my son to grow up one minute faster than necessary.  This was an uncomfortable scene for me.  Where were the adults chanting “Good job, good job!” to their sons as they do on the playground?  How could these boys be here all alone?  I pictured their mothers at home adjusted to not controlling where their sons are every moment.  Could this be H one day trying to impress other preteen boys with curse words?  No, dear universe, please, as long as is possible (and developmentally normal), let H be a clingy little boy who screams “MOMMY!” as I try to sneak out of the apartment on occasion or into the bathroom.  I was panicked–then suddenly comforted as my son slid off the bench to chase a squirrel; I had a feeling that we were ok for the moment.  H had some water, laughed at the squirrels and pointed out an airplane above us.  Then I carried him the rest of the way to the park.

Here is what I think of Mother’s Day: I worked twice as hard yesterday to earn the right to do two-thirds of what I usually do today.

I am just kidding.

It felt like that a little bit yesterday, but I truly do have a job with no time off.  That’s what I signed up for.  My children are my world, and now, as they sleep quietly, I am happy, content and grateful for their little beings. The morning will bring many laughs and hugs, but also more crying, fighting, whining and tantrums. Please God let me remember how perfect this moment is.

Today I am also thinking about my mother, whom I will call later in the morning.  This year I made a donation to UNICEF in her honor.  My mother thinks this is the greatest mother’s day gift.  She’s not just saying that–I know her.  To avoid a long-winded, silly, Hallmark card post here, I will say that my mother has an inspiring sense of justice.  She feels the hurts of the world and tries hard to change what she can.  She’s my mom.

I wish joy to all women today.

New York City moms of multiples are not a rare sight.  We are a brave, and sometimes comical, but common vision here. In fact, I think it’s weird when people don’t have twins.  Double strollers rule the sidewalks of the city–carrying twins or siblings.  My story is not unique–but my stroller is of the “triple” variety.  I am a New York City stay-at-home mom of a preschooler and two-year-old twins.  I am a wife of a super cool guy who sometimes just doesn’t get it but often does–and he understands my obsession with shoes.  I love wine but I dislike people who pretend to be experts on wine. Mothering three toddlers is the hardest job I’ve ever had, and most days I am not very good at it; the girls on Teen Mom would criticize my parenting techniques.  Years ago, I spent a fortune on an M.F.A. in creative writing and thus believed I’d be famous by now.  Because that’s how poets roll.