Monday, June 4, 2012

Dear Babies,

I’ve decided, it’s not when are things going to stop being crazy, it’s when am I going to stop expecting things to go as planned and be simple.

“Good morning, Angels,” I said this morning, as I sometimes say like Charlie from “Charlie’s Angel’s.” I drew back your curtains and saw the gray sky. Rain. 7:00 a.m. on a rainy Monday morning, belch. “We’ll have an easy day, you guys. We’ll keep it simple! We’ll go in the basement, we’ll have a chill rainy day…”

And then you ran your face into the corner of our ottoman, Baby Boy, and your nose started bleeding.

He’s fine, was my gut instinct, because you should always listen to your gut. (Especially when it comes to strangers. You have a bad feeling, you RUN. This is what life will be like with a mother so deeply affected by the 2005 Lifetime movie “Human Trafficking.”) I may not have experience as a parent, but I do know what it’s like to be a child. I’ve had bruises and bumps and bangs galore. Broken toes. A shattered right elbow. Black and blues the size of Texas. I know that kids fall and get hurt. I’m learning, especially boys. I know I’ve had nosebleeds before, too. I’ve had paper towels rolled up my nose. I’ve been fine.

I turned back to the sink and started to rinse off your breakfast dishes, and then the “what ifs” stormed in.

What if he’s not fine, though? What if this is the one time I say “he’s fine” and I miss something and he’s really not? What if it’s not his nose, but his brain? 

I called the doctor.

They squeezed us in.

We got in the car and after so much noise, the running through the garage, the tantrums being buckled into the car seats, suddenly, it was quiet. I put on jazz, because it was rainy Monday. I drive and nobody talked, or should I say babbled. You guys looked out your respective windows. It was as if we were all mad at each other, cooling off…

At the doctor we had to wait. We were confined in an office waiting room for about a half hour where I pushed you around and around in your stroller, avoiding letting you guys out and unleashing the Genie from the bottle (the energetic Robin Williams kind) as long as I could. I kept pointing to the same five pictures painted by kids taped to the walls. Look! Look at that one! That’s a bird! We waved and blew kisses at a monkey no less than 27 times.

Just as you were about to lose it, FINALLY, we were called…

Only to wait in the teeny tiny examining room for another half hour.

I did everything I could to entertain you guys. I sang everything from Bob Marley to Heads, Shoulders Knees and Toes. I was a one-woman bar mitzvah. I did “Hands Up.” I made raspberries. I touched my tongue to my nose. I blew farts on my arm. I tap danced. I went through an alphabet book and made up stories about each letter a good seven times. I did the same with a book of animals, making up all of their noises. (A giraffe says “I’m tall!” in a really high pitched voice, by the way. A fox says “foxy lady,” like the song.)

A baby wailed in the room next door.

Just as you were really about to lose it again, the doctor came in…

You are fine.

We came home. You ate chicken nuggets and carrots and applesauce. I finally cleaned up those breakfast dishes. At one o’clock, you went down for your naps. And I, with hair that looked wet even though it wasn’t, took a shower.

That was six hours of our day, so much, so nothing, gone.

And the god of mischief smiles, the only one who gets anything done.



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