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Siblings

The Happiest Mother On The Block

happy mom

 

I am not particularly proud of the mother I am from seven to eight o’clock in the morning.

 

Well, I am rather proud of what I manage to accomplish — getting the children up, getting them dressed, making their lunches, seeing that their teeth are brushed, packing their bags, walking the dog… you know the drill. I just can’t say that I do it all with much ease or grace. Any ease or grace, for that matter. Nine times out of ten, I am barking at all three of them by the time we make it into the car. Ten times out of ten, the car ride to school is pure hell.

 

“He’s repeating me!”

 

“She’s kicking me!”

 

“He’s looking out of my window!”

 

“She called me stupid!”

 

“Well, he is stupid!”

 

“Well, he is stupid!”

 

“Stop repeating meeeeee!!”

 

“Why couldn’t I be an only child?”

 

“STOP KICKING MY SEAT!!!”

 

“STOP KICKING MY SEAT!!!”

 

“He’s repeating me again!”

 

Every single morning, day after day, it’s the same. Our own little Groundhog Day.

 

“Just be quiet!!!” I holler, glaring in the rear view mirror. I can feel my blood pressure rising and the beginnings of a killer headache setting in.

 

“No more talking until we get there. Everyone just STOP!!”

 

I sigh audibly for effect. Just once I would like to get to drop off without a sore throat from yelling and without beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Is it really necessary for me to play referee before I’ve even had my coffee? Can’t they just sit in the car and mind their own business for the 15 minutes it takes to get to school? Do mornings really have to be like this? And,  just then, I see her walking by like clockwork and my question in answered. No, they don’t. For some people, mornings are a breeze.

 

Every single school day, The Happy Mother walks her dog and two children along our route to the neighborhood school. Her kids are typical kids, not particularly spotless or notable, and I’m pretty sure I once saw the brother knock over his sister and laugh about it. They’re kids, just like mine. But, it’s the mom that strikes me day after day after day after day as I ride by hissing at my own offspring. And, why? Because she’s smiling, ear to ear, every damn time I see her.

 

I look at her laughing with the kids, holding the dog leash in one hand and a coffee cup in another and wonder how she manages not only to bear that uphill walk, but to actually seemingly enjoy it. I wonder if she notices me at the same intersection every day, with the exhausted look in my eyes and the sulking kids in the backseats. Does she wonder why I have to yell at them? Why we’re not happily playing word games or discussing world peace like they probably are? Does she think she’s better than me? Does she even see us? No, I’m sure. Most likely she doesn’t even notice me because she’s too busy being… happy.

 

Now, before you go thinking that I’m all depressed and should start dealing with my feelings, I’m not unhappy. I laugh and smile and enjoy my kids throughout the day, the morning just never happens to be one of those times. My daily run-ins with her make me wonder what she could possibly be doing that I’m not. Is she filling her coffee cup with vodka? Is she meditating for an hour at four in the morning to ground herself? Does she pop pills and peak in the morning and then suck for the rest of the day? Or, does she really just enjoy her children and parent them effortlessly all day, each and every day?

 

I’m going with the vodka. Or the meditation. Or the pills. The alternative is simply unthinkable.

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The Jerk and The Wonder

(Inspired by Judy Blume’s The Pain and The Great One which applies to my two older children just as much as it did myself and my brother, almost 30 years ago.)

 

DSC_0174

 

THE JERK

 

My brother is a jerk.

He sleeps on Mommy’s couch every night even though
he has his very own room with a big bunk bed all to himself.
I have to sleep in my own bed just because I am older
which isn’t fair at all, since I slept in my own
room when I was his age.

In the morning, he wakes up first
which means that he gets to pick the show
so I am forced to watch things like Batman
and Star Wars even though I don’t like them much at all.
Plus, he hogs the blanket so that my legs are cold
even though I wear a nightgown and he wears pajamas
that have bottoms so his legs are really never cold anyway.

He should have to pick out his own clothes like I do.
He’s five.
He’s going into kindergarten.
He’s old enough to pick out an outfit just like me.
But he’s so pokey
that Mommy has to do it for him,
or he’d never get ready in time.

He cries when I pinch him even if he hit me first.
Then Mommy gets mad and yells at me
even though I was just getting back at him in the first place.
So what if my pinching was much harder?
I’m just stronger.

At dinner, I have to eat seven bites of new food
because I am seven but he only has to eat one or
two even though he is five, which doesn’t make any sense at all.

He always blows bubbles in his milk, but I’m the one who gets
in trouble just because my milk is the one to spill over
since my bubbles are bigger. It’s not my fault I can
fit more air in my cheeks.

When he plays tennis or baseball,
Mommy and Daddy are always so impressed
when he hits the ball the way he does,
which really isn’t all that impressive, anyway.
I’m just saving my arm strength for when
I really need it. Like hitting him.

His bear smells like dirty feet and Mommy
is always saying how he’s the best stuffed
animal in the house, even though I love
my stuffed animals just as much as he
loves his stupid bear. And I know he’s
not really alive, anyway.

I don’t understand
How Mommy can say that
The Jerk is sweet and adorable.
She’s always kissing him
And hugging him
And doing disgusting things
Like that.
And Daddy says
The Jerk is so cool.

Yuck.

I think they love him better
than me.

 

————————————————————

 

THE WONDER

My sister thinks she’s
so wonderful just because
she’s older
Which makes Daddy
and Mommy think
She’s really special.
But I know the truth.
My sister’s a brat.

She thinks she’s so wonderful
Just because she can
read stories all by herself
And the words she reads are the real ones
and not made up ones like I say when I read a book.
But, I like my words better,
even if they only make sense to me.

My sister thinks she’s so wonderful
Just because she can draw pictures
that actually look like people and buildings and pets.
My pictures are just as good even if nobody knows
what they are supposed to be.

Mommy is always ooohing and ahhing
over her pictures and framing them in real frames
while mine just get thumb-tacked onto the cork-board
in the kitchen where nobody can see them.
So, sometimes, I scribble on hers.
It’s only fair.

My sister thinks she’s so wonderful
Just because she can ride her bike up and down
the street all by herself without falling
and Mommy doesn’t go running after her
yelling “look both ways!” and “pay attention!”

It’s not fair that my sister gets to play teacher
when we play school and zoo-keeper when we play zoo
and counselor when we play camp. Just because she thinks
of the games doesn’t mean she should be allowed to make up
all the rules herself. She’s so bossy.

And, why does she get to have play-dates
every single day, just because she has friends
who live right next door? It’s not fair that all
of my friends live a half hour away and
I hardly ever get to see them outside of
school and camp.

And, it’s not fair that Mommy and Daddy
always do things alone with her, but I get
stuck doing things with my little brother, too,
just because we’re both boys.

Then Mom kisses my sister
And tickles her neck
And does other disgusting things
Like that.
And Daddy says
my sister is the one
who made them a family.

YUCK!

I think they love her better than me.

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Moms of Multiples

Despite feeling like I have the most impossible children in the world sometimes, I recognize that I have it pretty easy. I face no special challenges or particular obstacles. My kids can be enormous pains the the asses, but as kids go, they are really pretty easy. I have the utmost respect for my friends who parent gracefully when faced with challenges like special needs, severe allergies or single parenthood. I really just can’t imagine what it would be like to have that added stress.

My friends who have multiples, however, ignite an entirely different reaction in me. I can imagine what it would be like to have multiples of any of my children and honestly… the thought fucking terrifies me.

When Evan is having a tantrum, it takes all of my might not to get in his face and scream at him just as ridiculously as he is screaming at me. If there were two of him? God help me. The sound of Ben whining trumps any other annoying sound I have ever heard in my entire life. If I were to hear a similar sound coming out of two mouths at once? I’m not sure I would make it. And, just flashing forward to more than one Lily suffering through adolescence is one of the more horrifying thoughts I’ve ever had.

Now, I know that twins and triplets and all multiples have entirely different personalities and you aren’t merely cloning one child. Of course. But, it’s still the same age and stage times two. Or, three. Or, God forbid, four. Pairs of newborns up all night screaming. Multiple terrible twos. Numerous fresh fours. Teenage years on steroids. I probably ended up with singletons because the forces that be knew it was all I could handle. It’s definitely all I can handle.

Seriously, moms of multiples, I don’t know how you all do it. I suppose along with the double drama and double tantrums and double sleeping trouble, come double the first smiles and laughs and kisses and that makes it all worth it. Of course, it makes it all worth it.

I just hope you’re having double the drinks at cocktail time. You’ve certainly earned them.

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My Favorite Child

To my favorite child, Lily: I love you the most. You introduced me to the world of motherhood and made us a family. I love how genuinely kind and sweet you are. I love how you consider any alone time with me now a special date, even if we just go to the market. I love how nurturing and compassionate you are to animals and people, alike. I love watching you draw and the pride you take in your art. I love how you hug like you’re never going to let go. I love how thoughtful you are, always. I love your tan lines and the tiny birthmark on your cheek. I love hearing from teachers and neighbors how wonderful you are, even though I already know. I love talking to you on the phone, on the rare occasion when I’m not at home. I love reading the little notes you leave around the house and hearing you read to your brothers. You are my absolute favorite.

 

To my favorite child, Ben: I love you the most. You were the sweetest baby in the world and I literally didn’t put you down for over a year. I love your exuberance and enthusiasm. I love how you wake up every morning in a fantastic mood, no matter how you went to bed the night before. I love how easy to please you can be. I love the smell of your neck and the color of your magic eyes, whether they are green, gray or blue that day. I love holding your hand and the face you make when you spot me at school. I love the way your voice gets really high when you’re excited and that you actually squeal with delight. I love that you “remember being born.” I love how much you worship your sister and the way you watch her when she’s not looking. I love your favorite teddy bear and how cool you look in sunglasses. You are my absolute favorite.
To my favorite child, Evan: I love you the most. You will always be my baby, even though you insist that you are a big boy. I love your husky voice and the way your repeat everything you hear even though half the time, you have no idea what you’re saying. I love watching you try to keep up with your siblings and their friends. I love the humming sound you make when you really like what you’re eating. I love watching you play and how you can make a game of pretty much anything. I love how much you love making people laugh. I love the way you say my name. I love your pudgy thighs and your knees and the way you look in your pajamas. I love the way you hold my face with two hands when you give me a kiss. I love hearing you thump down the stairs in the morning. You round out our family, completely. You are my absolute favorite.

{For the record, you each got the exact same number of words. It’s even.}

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Between Siblings

It was a familiar scene: The children were playing upstairs and Jeff and I were sitting on the couch having a late night treat. Suddenly, Evan bounded in the room. I wanna a bite, he announced and pouted his bottom lip out so far that I had no choice but to oblige. Shhhhh, I whispered spoon feeding my little bird. Swallow it quickly and go back upstairs. Pronto.

But before he could even swallow, he darted back to the hallway. Lily! Ben! Mommy gave me ice cream, he hollered gleefully. It’s yummy! In lightning fast speed, I suddenly had three tongues wagging in my face. We heard there was ice cream, they said in unison. We want some, too!

The contents of my Styrofoam cup quickly disappeared (graham cracker ice cream from the newly discovered ice cream place near our house, if you were wondering,) and I sent my little monsters back upstairs to pretend to re-brush their teeth.

Perplexed, I sat trying to analyze my youngest son’s behavior: Would the ice cream not have tasted as good to him had he not announced it to his siblings? He’s smart enough to know that the more they get, the less there is for him. Was half of the joy rubbing it in their faces, on the off chance that I wouldn’t give them a spoonful as well? Or, was it purely altruistic of him, in which case I can’t really relate at all. I have no idea.

I do want to point out something to my little brother: That ice cream was really good. And you didn’t get to have any. Just so you know.

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