It’s Jacks special morning away with mommy. I decided to do this last night; this week has been the hardest, deepest, most raw emotions and feelings I’ve ever had to deal with as a mother. The most primitive, instinctual, uncomfortable. The dynamic between Jack, Fiona, and I is shifting, I attribute this transition to sibling rivalry and rapprochement. Today as I sat at the duck pond with Jack, feeding ducks, walking from spot to spot, going on adventures around the Marin Civic Center, a Frank Lloyd Wright building; Jack responded to the architecture and sense of exterior space created by lamp posts, benches, the curved building, the tall narrow windows, the large size of everything. There were moments of silence, an ease of togetherness, cohesiveness. Qualities of moments in parenting that don’t come often while raising twins. Jack was a different person to me, an independent little boy. I was a different person too, I ceased being the stressed out bitch, exasperated by saying “No”, or “don’t hit”. The constant trouble Jack and Fiona get into, and me trying to stop them from getting mortally wounded. Even now, as I sit here and type Jack is watching a classic episode of Sesame Street; he woke up from his nap earlier than Fiona. I’m saying “oh my god” all day long listening to tiff after annoying tiff. Did my mom have to listen to me and Danny fight every five minutes over who’s cup is whose? It’s makes it difficult to have quality time with them when it’s a constant stressed out situation. There’s not enough of me. Last night Jack hit me and kicked me in the face, I finally broke and slapped his leg. It didn’t feel right. He looked at me and started laughing and tried to hit me again. He thought it was funny, some kind of game. I hit you, you hit me back harder, like fight club. For a quick second I wondered if my two-and-a-half-year-old was demented? Then I came to the conclusion, that possibly he has been hitting more often because of the rapprochement and I am not able to give either baby enough attention at one time to re-fuel their tanks. So I decided to combat this stressful situation we find ourselves in with more one on one time with the babies and separating them during nap time. They’ve been getting up to no good during naptime, taking off diapers, peeing on the floor, ripping books, spitting water on the floor, driving me crazy. Fiona’s turn is next, maybe the library. Jack is an angel when it’s just me and him, I know Fiona will be just as well behaved. It’s very emotional raising kids. I was so mad at them several times this week. They were bad. I can’t make them happy all the time, they are learning to be human. I am learning more about being human every day. Learning about myself. My heart is beating faster now, it’s time to go get Fiona up, the push and pull about to unleash.
Category: being a mom and an artist
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I hear a thump and a cry. Heart racing: too much food in Billy’s bowl, “good job Fiona, I’m just going to put a little back”. Open lid of dog food container, putting back food, THUMP. That’s when I hear it. Four feet away, look: Jack’s on floor prone, crying. “Fuck, are you O.K.?” Examine. Feel lump on back of head. I’m scared. I’m not scared. Read lots of books. There are lots of blood vessels in toddler heads. Causes lump to rise quickly, produce large amounts of blood. It’s O.K. and not a big deal unless your kids loses consciousness. He cries. I hold. I rock. I apply ice. Fiona cries. Holds Blue Blue sucking her thumb on the couch. “No, we can’t meet you at the park today. Uggh, tomorrow” Play the excavator song. Sit on chair with Jack, apply ice. Give Jack and Fiona each a cookie. Paint my body orange and blue. Put a picture of my painted breast on facebook. Worry I’ll never get a job as a teacher. Worried I’ll have a breakdown. Babies go to nap. Go straight to studio. Paint. Feeling better. Can’t help it if I’m an artist. Can’t help it if I value art. Can’t help it if I don’t give a fuck. Can’t help if I express. Can’t help it if I’m sensitive, tender hearted and cry. Don’t wanna help it. Don’t wanna change it. I show Jack and Fiona the pictures of me in Mexico with horses and alligators and turtles in the ocean. With little tiny dogs in mens pockets. At the beach, at the beach, at the beach.I think how they are looking at me, smiling on the sand, in the dunes, in the dessert, by the ocean bright red hair and a smile. The East Bay. There is a point at which we break. A point in a moment, in a day, in a lifetime when we need to rest our minds, escape from the mouse trap. But there are those who sit and laugh at the dumbest stuff. They take importance of material things, not on deep emotions and empathy. Dogs require empathy, even though they only live a short time I think we need to understand they run on instinct, not material attachments. Impulse. Destruction. I’m emotional about my dog. And Jacks head and Fiona’s cough. I’m acting out by painting my boobs orange and blue and putting pictures on facebook. My dog fucked up again. My kids have had their own emotional struggles I’ve had to give myself, my gut, my heart, my reserves to be there for, to consul, to love, to feel. And I have. Every minute of every day, and I’m grateful and proud and know I’ve done the right thing 100% as a mother and a wife. It takes every morsel of strength I have to raise twins. It’s all right at the center of my chest, like pain and love. It carries from inside out and as it comes in and out I take in the world and all it’s pain too and sometimes it’s too much. Then I realize I’ve been away from my studio for too long. I go in and release the accident, the cough, the outburst. I paint my body blue and orange and take pictures and post it on facebook, I paint on four canvases I’ve been working on, I write. And as naptime starts to wind down and come to an end I feel a bit better, a bit more relaxed, and ready to jump into the mess. To start little by little picking up the cheerios, tomatoes, plastic spoons; which reminds me of the RaceTrack beach we ventured to the other day. We brought buckets to collect shells. Red, yellow, blue, tiny little pieces of plastic, caps and tops and plastic strings, plastic flossers, we collected them as I wondered, did they come from that giant garbage pile of trash in the ocean? And now here, at home as I raise my family and my garbage pail fills with plastic every day, every day. I feel ashamed. I must change.
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“Momma, momma, lets go look at the fig tree” Jack says. I’m following him out to the backyard as he tells me this. “O.K. Jack I’ll be right back, wait for me”. I run into the house to tell my dinner guests, Alan, and Fiona I’m going with Jack to look at the fig tree. “O.K. Jack, here I am”. We walk out the gate and Jack says “sit here”, so we sit down on the first step that leads to the fig tree. He looks at me, “Shhh, hear that?” with a twinkle in his eye. It’s the crickets, “we can’t see them, but now we can imagine what they look like, remember we saw one on our picnic blanket when we went hiking?” I say. I’ve been using that terminology a lot lately, imagination. I appreciate this break with Jack, this moment when I can follow him, I am not telling him “no, it’s dangerous”. It’s been a particularly hard week, exhausting, a few days I wasn’t sure I could make it till the end. I was intensely fatigued, yesterday at naptime I even fell asleep with Jack and Fiona. I haven’t been in my studio since Monday, or written. The first naptime this week I watched a movie, the next day the babies fell asleep in the car and I just drove. It was surreal, I’m usually being bombarded with questions from the back seat, but I found myself just driving in quiet, it was suddenly easy to drive. I drove until they woke up and we went to a second park! That night I fell asleep in their room putting them to bed. “Come on, lets keep moving” Jack says. We get up and he leads me the opposite way of the fig tree, we walk over the little bridge, along the path at the very top of the yard. My feet walking on the steps after his little feet, both of us barefoot. I realize this doesn’t have to do with the fig tree, Jack just wanted to spend time with me alone, I am grateful. It feels good, I am relaxed, I am following. We climb down the rope I strung between two trees on the steep hillside. Jack loves this. Alan comes out and I ask where are guests are, he tells me they left, “did you expect them to wait around?” I run out front to say goodbye and luckily catch them before they leave.
This week everyday felt intense, everyone needed my attention all at once. When I didn’t have enough to give, the baby who felt they weren’t getting enough attention from me would “act out”. I didn’t have a chance, or the energy to study for my CSET. I started questioning if I could even do it, take the test, have the energy, have the energy for a “real job”. It’s hard raising twins. That doesn’t mean it’s not wonderful and filled with the gift of self-knowledge and discovery. Jack and Fiona fill my life with love that is so big, so pure, so solid, but it’s grueling work, it’s not just physical or mundane, it’s extremely intellectual, brain fatigue, especially now, now that they can talk and ask questions, their quest for knowledge in insatiable. Their quest to push the limits physically keeps me on my toes, keeps me in fight or flight mode with my heart racing, worried they will crack their heads open. Woven into the intense moments are the quiet, sweet, moments like walking in the yard with Jack or reading a book with them snuggled up beside me, or hearing their breathing change as they go from awake to sleeping at bedtimes. The thought of Jack and Fiona going to school, being apart from them for any extended period of time scares me. I will miss them so much. The thought of them growing up and not being little kids anymore makes me so sad, even with this being the hardest, most challenging job I’ve ever had.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 