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: motherhood
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August 29, 2016, as quickly as summer came, she leaves me now, my body feeling the change of seasons, waking up early again as if it is some biological, instinctual, transition that is out of my control. The babies are going through the same transition, waking up earlier, taking earlier naps. It’s strange and beautiful. Yesterday morning two blue jays landed on our deck. “Shhh, turn around, but be quiet” I tell Jack and Fiona, we’re sitting at the table having breakfast. “You might get to see the blue jay break open the acorn with his beak.” They turn and look, excited. One blue jay hops away and Jack says “My blue jay” Then Fiona says, “That’s my blue jay!” Then Jack says, “No, that’s my blue jay, that’s your blue jay!” pointing to the other blue jay. “Stop, you guys!” I yell. They keep it up, escalating into hitting and pushing, Fiona loses her balance and falls face first, luckily catching herself before hitting her face on the wall. “Stop it, NOW! Blue Jays belong to no one, they are free!” Oh my god, we’re in the “mine” stage. It’s incredible. And when the child development books say, “To a toddler, everything is about fairness” they aren’t exaggerating. I made a conscious decision last night before I went to bed to make sure this week everything is exactly the same when I give it to Jack and Fiona, down to the number of pretzels on the plate. It’s gotten that serious.
We lost another hearing aid. Saturday we went on a walk, I call it the “Target walk” because you can walk on a path along the bay to Target. There’s a beach and a great view of the Richmond bridge. There’s sea birds and rocks and humming birds and dragon flies. Billy was super excited and running on the beach, Fiona started to walk in her path, I tried to stop her but the whole thing got jumbled up and in the mess of dog running into baby, Fiona’s hearing aid got knocked off. I noticed it right away and found it. It was all sandy so Alan put it in his pocket, unfortunately the pocket had a hole in it. We noticed the hearing aid was gone when we got home. Alan went back and looked that same day, and yesterday we went back and retraced our steps, told walkers and runners what we were looking for and put up signs. In the process of looking for the hearing aid a little shift happened inside me, I was walking slow, scanning the ground, noticing things I normally don’t notice. Jack and Fiona wanted out of the stroller, they wanted to explore too. I start walking faster and Jack starts crying and sits down. At first I want to put him back in the stroller, I’m frustrated by this, another annoying toddler behavior. I walk back, “What’s wrong Jack?” He gets up and says, “come here”, I follow and so does Fiona. We are at the little Duck pond, Jacks happy now. He wanted to explore this, he wanted me to explore this with him. There are a pair of ducks resting, beaks tucked in their feathers, there are ducks swimming on the other side of the pond. We look through the fence; I rub both babies backs. It’s a sweet and precious moment. I continue to follow their lead for the rest of the walk, until both babies start breaking down, whining, at one point I yelled at Fiona, “Shut up!” because she kept saying “I want my raisins” over and over again in this horrible high pitched whining! I thought people must think I’m an abusive parent. Sometimes I say “FUCK” when the babies are driving me crazy getting into everything, Alan says I shouldn’t say that word around the babies, I said “Yes I should”.
It’s a constant shift between smooth sailing and stormy seas being a parent. It’s so important to be able to shift back into the moment, change things up, or just ride it out until bedtime. I still don’t believe it’s true that it gets easier. Things change but there’s always difficult moments, times you think there’s no way I can get through this day. But you do and bits of magical moments shine through the fucks and shut ups! As long as I remember the most important moments come in small packages and to be grateful for the pit stops at the duck pond, or the bedtime routine when everything goes calm, stories are read and breathing slows then the light goes out. A kiss on each babies forehead, “I love you, goodnight”
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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.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 