Friday June 7, 2013: The Sum of Ten Thousand Things

Dear Babies,

The fuzzy yellow duck was hard to part with (he reminds me of one I had when I was little so).

I kept Captain Calamari. Emily, too. Sure you’ve all changed in the past 2 1/2 years. Grown apart. You don’t talk nearly as much as you used to, and you see each other even less. But you’ve been through so much together, you’ll always hold a place in each other’s hearts. And I know that if you needed them, they’d be here in a heartbeat.

All of the other baby toys, gone. (All of those rattling black-and-white Bettlejuice-looking things, happily.) Some at the curb waiting to be picked up by the United War Veterans in this pouring rain. The rest in plastic bins in the closet, not able to go cold turkey yet.

Everything used to be so BIG. And now, it’s so small. (Minuscule.) I remember the jewelry store on 14th store, Ten Thousand Things, from which I never bought anything, but where it was fun to look. I remember contemplating a pendant that was a tiny strawberry equivalent to a week’s pay, remembering a time when I seriously contemplated such things, do I need this? But I really like it! This strawberry speaks to me!

I’m going to rename our family room Ten Thousand Things. My god everything comes apart with these Play mobile people. Their hats. Their little hair. “Fix, Mommy!” What the heck is that? Is that a tie? That comes off, too? Oh gees. I snap the tie back around the tiny man’s neck, realizing I’ve tied a noose around mine, putting together ten thousand lego people…until the next stage.

I recently heard a woman who just had her second baby talk about adjusting to getting two kids out of the car. And, at the pool over the weekend, a friend of ours–with his wife in the water bouncing their one child–said “I”m going to lay down for a bit.” He sprawled himself out on a lounge chair, and your dad and I watched and almost fell on the floor. This is our second summer at the club, we’ve never sat down once. (Not once.) It never even dawns on us to go in and put our bags down on lounge chairs. We throw them in the corner like animals, and he takes you, Baby Boy, and I take the Kraken I mean Baby Girl, and, we’re off. . .

These are moments that pop up and show me: Twins are different. Two kids right out of the gate is tough. There’s no learning curve here. We’re in parenting bootcamp.

In this fast-and-furious twin life, when we’re over a stage, we’re done. As quickly as the storm comes on, as quickly it passes. Which is part good thing–get this giant three-foot wheelie ramp thing you never played with anyway out of here–part not, good-bye, babies, hello, kids. . .

Meanwhile, I held my breath as you came down this morning wondering how you’d react to things being gone, and you didn’t even notice.  

As we speak you are constructing an airplane, Baby Boy. You, Baby Girl, I actually have no idea what you’re doing, but you look very busy.

And here I am looking out the window on this rainy Friday, thinking crap, what are we going to do now. Maybe go to the Gap?





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