February 16, 2012

Dear Babies,

It’s not a good time, you’ll hear people say, to buy a dog, to start a new project, even in regards to having a baby. It’s not a good time.

We leave for vacation tomorrow, and it’s not a good time. We have a lot going on, as I am told. As I am often told which makes me wonder is my life really that crazy compared to other people’s or is it that I’m the one writing about it?


Probably, a little of both.

In the corporate world, the day before you leave for vacation will inevitably be the worst. You’ll be so busy. You’ll be working late. You’ll be in a mind frame where you think the world will absolutely fall apart without your emails for four days.

In this world, mom-world, things are not much better. I have packed and unpacked three (3) times, in touch with my inner schizophrenic flying from laid-back bohemian (“oh, they’ll be fine, we don’t even need clothes, they’ll just be in diapers!”) to doomsday prepper (“FOUR BOTTLES OF ADVIL! SHOULD I BRING FIVE?).

You fully figured out how to escape from our gates, Baby Boy. Our meek attempts at baby proofing have become a joke. I turned my back for one (1) second in the kitchen and when I turned around I only saw one little head. You were already in the dining room corner exploring the wine fridge. How did you get there so fast? You must have blinked like I Dream of Jeanie (look it up).

As I ran to grab you, Baby Girl you saw an opening and took it. You crawled furiously like a bull with your head down and started to fly up the stairs. Carrying your brother basically in a headlock, I ran and got to you by the time you were midway.

I’m having a heart attack, I was thinking as the phone rang.

It was your father telling me that his father had had a heart attack.

“WHAT?”

His cell phone was breaking up.

“{Something} DAD {something} HEART {something} ACK”

It was one of those phone calls that makes you realize that everything else is garbage. That the world will go on without your emails.

“WHO?” I cried. I thought he said my dad.

My dad.”

Not that that was any better, but, you know. You’ll see.

As it turns out, it thankfully was not a heart attack but a reaction to a bad combination of prescription pills.

“Oh,” I said frankly to your father on the phone. “Do you remember Jack Nicholson in ‘Something’s Gotta Give?’ They tell him he can’t take any male performance enhancers with his heart medication?”

Silence.

“What?”

“–Nothing!”

As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. It was my Italian grandmother telling me to have a good time on our trip. And in her calm, rational tone: “DON’T LET NOBODY TOUCH THOSE BABIES! PEOPLE ARE GONNA GO WILD WHEN THEY SEE THEM!” “Okay…” “AND YOU DON’T GO NOWHERE AND LEAVE THEM WITH NOBODY! THEY WILL STEAL THEM!” “Okay, got it, thanks.”

Hanging up the phone, you guys broke free from my double stranglehold and both starting bolting up the steps.

With one hand on each of your backs, I hurried to keep up behind.

Right near the top, suddenly you stopped, Baby Girl. You turned to look back down and out the front door that was open where you could see the bare tree tops and the silvery rain.

Losing hold on your brother, I tried to turn you around so we could all keep moving. “Now’s not a good time, Baby Girl, it’s not a good time!”

But then I realized you were stopping to take in the view.

What better time for us all to stop and get away than now.

Bon Voyage.

Love,

Mom

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