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By Jodi, September 3, 2010 11:04 AM

[Special note:  I just wanted to say thanks to all my people for the suggestions on my last post!  I received great ideas and advice, and couldn't be more grateful for your help.  XO - Jodi]

Since I’m having twins, my pregnancy is automatically considered “High Risk”.  Bullocks.  I mean, all that’s meant to me thus far is that I’m treated to many many ultrasounds, which are essentially Pregnant Lady Gold.  Pregnant women, the ones I’ve met anyway, (and the one that I am) we love to watch our babies kicking and punching, and trying to match up these creatures with the constant pummeling we are feeling.  My doctor’s office is fancy pants enough to have  4D imaging (and I have no idea how that’s different from 3D but whatever).  So when I get a look at these little weirdos I’m building, I get to see more than the customary black and white representation.  It’s a sepia-toned freakfest, what with all the organs and liquid and imperfections of the technology which sometimes makes it look like a giant hole is opening up and then closing on my baby’s head.

But at yesterday’s appointment, Anson went with me.  I have to say these doctors and ultrasound technicians really know what they’re doing when the father comes around.  Typically, it’s all business – the head is this big, the heart rate is this many BPM’s, your cervix is AWESOME (thank you very much) blah blah blah.  But when dad is in the room, things get very, very cute.  The girl running images of our baby took 4D picture after picture of our baby (Baby A as he’s known – Baby B wasn’t having it and kept his head strategically placed towards my spine so we couldn’t see anything but his bum.  But that was cute too.  I’m his mom – whaddyawant?)  The tech kept commenting on how “chubby” Baby A is, how cute he is, what a great nose he has – and Anson and I were eating it up like the hungry parents we are.  We sat there and watched the baby sleep in real-time video, saw him swinging at my body in real-time, and marveled at his contortionists abilities.  This is only the second time Anson’s been able to come around to an appointment, and the second time he’s been able to look at these kids.

And my husband, the hotshot?  A total sap.  Anyone who knows Anson well knows that he’s a little weepy –  a sentimental kid with a heart so big that the smallest thing can trigger some teary eyes.  But when his “Dad” button is triggered, forget it.  No he didn’t wail and sob, but he was wide-eyed with the happiness of a kid who’s just been told he can stay up until midnight.  In a candy shop.  With no adult supervision.

I think I buzz-kill him just the slightest bit though because he cracks me up and I can’t exactly arrive at the same sentimental wonderland that he lives in.  I love seeing him there, but there is a little mockery on my part – not cool, I know – but true!  I have to admit, however that underneath my giggles and eye-rolls, I’m probably feeling the same things as he is.  Afterall – here I am, gushing about it online.  Totally goofy.

So the word, as of yesterday: all is well.  These guys are big and fat, just like babies should be.  I’m healthy and still able to (almost) keep up with Roan.  All my vitals are what they should be, and this “High Risk” thingy is going just as normally as can be.  I’m just wondering if it is actually possible for my belly to stretch further.  I’m assured that it will, and that it is indeed possible.  What a strange thing.  Strange and fascinating and cool.

Comments (20)

By Jodi, August 31, 2010 10:28 AM

Summer is so tough to find time to write.  I’ve got a lot to say believe me I mean c’mon who am I?  But Roan and I are committed to staying busy by remaining in our PJ’s until at least 11:00 am in honor of the Summer Relaxation Code, Version 2.  And during that time we are committed, as in, religiously committed to  watching Anime together.  I’ve found in my extensive experience that a parent simply cannot assume that any Anime series is going to be appropriate for their kid to watch just because a few episodes were appropriate.  They sneak stuff in, suddenly and without notice that totally blows my mind because could a group of animators and story tellers really really really think it was ok to introduce a pedophile doctor as a “ha ha ha that’s pretty funny that he likes young girls and let’s set him up in a school environment and….” well….I’m just saying, I’ve ben left with a “huh?” feeling many times as I’ve had to turn an otherwise awesome series off.  So I watch with him, every minute of every episode. Luckily I love Anime.  Otherwise I would just have to do the smart thing and say it’s all off-limits.

But I digress.

I have a bunch of things I’ve wanted to write about.  But no time.  So I’m just going to have to expedite things here, and give the bullet points of the hamsters going round in my head:

1. Pregnant with twins.  Everything is right as rain, all my vitals are great except I am “anemic in the extreme” so says my doctor.  I’ve been put on iron, mega dose level.  I’m taking three doses a day.  This could leave a person somewhat…how do you say…constipated.  I’ve been told Metamucil daily will hep regulate me, but I’m wondering how many pills/supplements/ gross tasting powders I should really be taking.  Any advice readers?
2. Pregnant with twins.  I’m going to need things.  I know the basics, but am wondering if there’s anyone out there who found a chair they could nurse two babies at once in?  I’m supposing at night when I get up (not that any baby of mine would dare wake me up at night…) I’ll want a place to plant my keister to nurse these guys.  Bed?  Floor?  Upstairs to the couch (I’ll just answer that.  No way am I going up and down stairs in the night multiple times.  No way Jose.)  What’s the answer people?
3. Pregnant with twins.  Our new home has two big bedrooms.  Roan gets one, and the rest of us get the other.  I think I’d like to divide it up a little, but we’re not allowed to put up walls.  The space is big (especially by Brooklyn standards), easily big enough to divide up into two spaces.  How would you do that?  Curtains?  Bookshelves? Robots?  If anyone – especially NYC people –  have great ideas about separating spaces – let me know!
4. Pregnant with twins.  New place has NO dishwasher.  Am I crazy to think I’ll be cool hand washing all our dishes?  Should I get a portable dishwasher?  We’re going to have a lot of bottles, methinks.  Should I just leave everything in the sink until Anson gets home?  Could the lack of  a dishwasher end my marriage?

Ok, I know I’m asking a lot from my readers today, but this is what monkey-brain looks like.  I have it.  You are witnessing it.  Enjoy the spectacle!

Comments (16)

By Jodi, August 26, 2010 9:56 AM

When I found out I was pregnant this past March, and that not one but two lives were in my hands, er….womb, it sent me into a labyrinthian crazy space in my head.  For those readers who aren’t familiar with the previous year of my life, you can read about my previous pregnancy here and here, but essentially, when I was twenty weeks pregnant last September, one year ago, I got to enjoy the words “It’s a boy!” at the ultrasound for about 30 seconds before it was followed by news that led my husband and me down the worst path we could have ever had to go down, resulting in a diagnosis for our son that was “incompatible with life”, and ending that pregnancy at 24 weeks.  The English language has been around since 450 AD, and there still isn’t a word that describes that time accurately for me.

So I spent the first part of this new pregnancy, this re-do, with hand wringing, brow furrowing, lots of self-doubting in my decision to give it another go, and an overall feeling of negativity and cynicism.  It was a pretty dark time.  Then that lifted a little, when the genetic testing and pictures started coming through with nothing but good news.  Normal results, positive affirmations from the doctor, and optimism from my husband who asserted that he had a “good feeling” about this time.

But I can’t honestly say that I was happy yet.  I was feeling ambivalent – not quite trusting enough to dig my toes in and enjoy being a mother-to-be.  I spent a lot of time shaking my head at my changing body, rolling my eyes at my stupid lack of energy and still possibly punishing myself for my last failure.  While I wouldn’t actually admit that I was waiting for the new reveal of what was going to be wrong this time, I also wasn’t too forthcoming with any excitement about the future of these babies.

And now, things have shifted again.  My ambivalence is gone, and replaced with happiness.  I’m finding my body less annoying and more entertaining – and actually love it when my friends, my son, and my husband get to feel these two boys doing what they do, with the rolling around and kicking and punching (one of them seems particularly adept at kicking my ribs).  When people offer me compliments, I’ve stopped assuming they just feel sorry for me and actually take in the kindness and let it swim around in my belly.  I am going to have these two boys, and it is going to be ok.

I don’t know what’s changed, but I can only guess that me getting out of the shadow of my last experience, and into the light of this new one had to take its own time.  It had its own timeline, one that I couldn’t think myself out of or talk myself into.  I passed the landmark (landmine?) of the ending of my last pregnancy, 24 weeks, a while ago.  But emerging out of its darkness just took me a bit longer.  And here I am, now finally a new experience, with the only precedent set being that of my pregnancy with Roan, which went beautifully.

And this all leads me to a point where I think I can write about these guys now.  Somehow, my fingers haven’t been able to type anything out up until now – I’ve tried.  And then I’ve deleted.  But look at me now!  Five whole paragraphs and they haven’t disappeared!  Who says progress is impossible for weirdos like me?  (Um, I think it’s me who said that).  Anyway – here are some answers to questions I’ve been asked , and some things I’m just putting out there:

1. I’m due in mid-November.  Roan is convinced his brothers are coming on Halloween, though. And he could very well be correct.  And I think that’d be a super dope birthday.
2. Yes, I’m freaked out just the tiniest bit by the concept of breast-feeding two kids.  Not only does it seem a little sci-fi and weird, it just seems well…ok, let’s leave it at weird.
3. I don’t know how they’re going to be delivered.  My priorities to my doc were expressed basically this way: get them out of me in the safest way possible, for them.  AND I don’t mind at all, even a bit, being as comfortable as possible.  So, though it could be an unpopular sentiment – I love drugs, bring them on.
4. Can you feel them kicking?  Sure – lay your hands on me, somehow I don’t really mind.  Just don’t comment on my wonky belly button.  I know it’s absurd.  I will look into belly button plastic surgery if it remains so wonky.

There’s more to say, but let me finally address this text message from my good friend Laura, who lives in a distant magical land called St. Louis:

OK.  No more of this waitin’ around.  I need a belly shot like yesterday. Pretty please?!?

And part of my reluctance to wrap my head around having twin babies on the way has been a definite and deliberate refusal to have pictures of my belly taken.  So in the interest of self-torture and progress, I give this gorgeous photo to the world, with hopefully a better one on the way….

The Paul Frank jacket is a fake by the way, picked out by Ro in China Town. I only buy fakes. Policy.

Comments (4)

By Jodi, August 23, 2010 9:50 AM

Magic Night Coney

I am famous for setting the bar low.  With restaurants.  With entertainment.  With starry-eye celebrity gazing (I recently came down with an increased heart rate because I saw Michael Richards (Cosmo Kramer) in Whole Foods).  I like this about myself.  It is the trait in me that allows me to take Roan to the Coney Island boardwalk and beach, getting a big eyeful of big Russian men in their Speedos and tourists Shooting the Freak  - with nothing but glee that I live near the ocean.  I mean, I’m not blind – I see the occasional syringe, broken glass, and gasping crab – but still.  The ocean!  The horizon!  The sand!  I cannot help myself.

Laser? Check. Blinking Lights? Check. All wrapped up in a sword package? Awesome.

This past Friday night, though – I had a brilliant idea.  Brilliant!  By my standards – which as we have established, are low.  But this one actually – brilliant!  Coney Island has fireworks every Friday night and by golly I was going to let Roan stay up late and watch them.  Seemed like a perfect summer night memory begging to be made.  We rode the F train and arrived right at sunset, which was beautiful.  The boardwalk was full of people dancing, as a DJ played soulful New York House from the Dreamland Pavillion.  A goofy grin crept onto my face and stayed there the night.  The amusement parks cranked on their lights, and the magic night had officially begun.

My boys.

We rode a few rides at Luna Park, then grabbed some pizza from a boardwalk vendor and found our place on the beach.  The fireworks were literally right above us, and so loud and so bright that it was almost too much.  Almost.  There was no huge crowd to combat, and with toes buried in the sand and a cool summer night’s breeze keeping us happy, it felt like the perfect night.  Roan picked up on my drunken happy buzz (no, not really drunken – these twin babies I’m making have really put the kabosh on any drunken times I would have, or probably will ever have in the near future which is fine and dandy really but now I have to get high/drunk on life, as John Denver suggested in his song, “Rocky Mountain High” and by admitting that I know/love John Denver lyrics and have applied them to my life I expect to lose a few readers.  Goodbye, I’ll miss you.)  SO, Roan saw my (naturally) inebriated state and asked if we could ride the Wonder Wheel after the fireworks show, and being totally unable to end the magical night I had to say yes.  It was not a mistake.

Working the wheels of steel. Like a time machine for me.

Coney Island, with all of your trash and weirdness and old Carny folk, at night you are maybe the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.  Nothing but lights and music and magic.  When Anson asked why we hadn’t been doing this every Friday night of the summer I couldn’t come up with a reason.  So that’s where we’ll be every Friday night remaining in the summer – listening to the sounds of the Coney Island Dancers, disco and house music in the tradition of the Paradise Garage, taking me back to my old(er) roots.  And bringing up my son with magical beach, sound, light and ride memories.

Dancing on the boardwalk. Seriously, what could be more fun?

Comments (10)

By Jodi, August 18, 2010 1:17 PM

Ok, I’ll admit the timing is suspicious.  You may think that I caved, that I conformed, that I couldn’t take the societal pressure.  But you’re wrong, sucker.  It’s just that I ran across an old picture of my boy, when he was young and angelic (and not old and devilish) and you could see his face and I thought, “Geeeeez, I’d love to see his face again…” so I got out the scissors….and started cutting….

Just a Little Off the Top....I Swear....

I mean, I do love those long blonde locks, I do, but all summer I’ve been brushing them behind his ears with my hands and then immediately being served an eye roll and a head shake lather rinse repeat.  It’s become like a tick.  So, as I said….I began cutting….

Not Sure About This....

And I started worrying that Roan was going to feel unhappy about this change, and resent me for talking him into it… but I kept cutting…

You Did Wha.....???

And cutting anyway because there was really no going back and forgiveness is a valuable lesson and cutting….

No Way You Could Stay Mad at your Mother, Riiiight.....?

But maybe this trade of getting to see his face more often wasn’t actually going to be worth it because it was just going to be an angry heart-breaking accusing mean face…and cutting….

Awwwww.....We Still Have the Love

And when I finished, he ran, bare naked into my room to the full-length mirror and said “I love it!”  And then he began to vogue right then and there, striking poses with his new ‘do that would have made Her Majesty Madonna drop her jaw at this stellar exhibition of (naked) talent.

And while I miss slipping my fingers through his silky long pieces of hair, I do very much enjoy seeing his goofy smile and starry eyes when I look his way.  So the hair is shorter…but the toenails are still painted, so we’re still living on the edge here at Pistols.

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By Jodi, August 16, 2010 10:13 AM

The moment I brought my boy Roan into the world, this primal love rose to the surface and surprised me with its ferocity.  As this new, previously unexperienced intense love was taking me over, it high-fived its counterpart, “Super-Unmanageable-and-Unreasonable-in-the-Extreme Mother’s Guilt” , also rooting itself in my psyche.  This thing is an epidemic, and what I blame for those awful children we all see, and their awful behavior that we take note of (no, I’m not talking to you – I’m addressing the mother next to you).

Mother’s Guilt looks like this: the morning is busy.  Breakfast needs to be served, a kid need to be dressed, teeth need to be brushed, hair needs to at least be glanced at, lunch needs to be packed, and coffee must be delivered to my body before it’s cold (the coffee, not my body).  It’s not all that hard, really because so far I’ve had just the one boy to contend with.  I’m guessing mornings get incrementally more difficult with more children.  Not that I’ll be experiencing that soon or anything.  (Listen closely to hear my subconscious screaming “TWINS!!!” right now….)

So sometimes the way it goes down is that Roan would rather get a laugh by putting his underwear on his head and his legs through the t-shirt arm-holes and not getting dressed properly.  If the stars are aligned correctly, I laugh because that is some funny stuff.  If not, it makes me super frustrated and I’ll bark at him to work with me, baby.  Or else.  Something.  Awful.  (My threats are actually not very ominous, and usually are based on Roan’s clock-watching at the end of the day, and subtracting one minute from his bedtime usually delivers enough motivation for him.  Hahahah – sucker.)

But after I deliver Roan to the loving arms of his public school and I walk home, I will always, always feel sorry for not laughing.  And then I feel sorry for threatening.  And then I put my mother’s voice on and tell myself well hell’s bells sister, this is what being a mother is all about, so suck it up buttercup.  The boy’s got to learn lessons and such.  Then I pour a nice stiff drink at 9:00 AM, and feel much better about my sub-par mothering skillz.  The end.

It’s not just mornings.  At the end of the day, I wonder if we should have done more together.  Did I allow too much TV?  Did I insist on veggies?  Should I have actually taken that 20 minute nap because what if that was the exact 20 minute period that Roan had a developmental growth spurt and he spent it with Fred on YouTube??  You know???

I’m betting most of you are mid-eye-roll here, and I don’t blame you.  But if there is just even one other wack-job out there, who like me feels that despite out best efforts, we are not the mothers our children deserve, well then….ummmm…..yay!  I’m not alone in being consumed in guilt.  And that actually doesn’t help me all that much but still – let’s share.  What do you secretly feel bad about?  Please.  Don’t tell me I’m the only weirdo out in this world.

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By Jodi, August 13, 2010 10:20 AM

Photo from ultra-talented Auntie Kellene

Roan’s heard this question often in his six-year stint on planet Earth: “Is that a girl or a boy….?”, in reference to his gender.  It doesn’t bug him, or at least he doesn’t act like it does.  The thing is, I don’t really get it.  I understand his hair is a little long.  It is a dreamy mix of white blonde and ash blonde and dark blonde and would probably cost one million dollars to replicate but that doesn’t really seem like the thing.  His standard outfit is a pair of track shorts and a t-shirt.  He has the requisite amount of bruises and scratches on his legs to totally assert his boyishness, and he’s quite a big kid – no one would really call him “delicate”.

Find me a colorist to replicate this. This kind of blonde is totally wasted on the young.

But it happens all the time.  On the subway yesterday, “Is that a boy or a girl?”

“He’s my son.  He’s a boy.”

“Well he’s gorgeous.”  And that is a really really nice and kind thing to say and thank you! But really really wha?  Where’s the confusion?

My gender-bending son.

One may point to the painted toenails.  I was really surprised at a pretty extreme rejection of Roan’s pedicure by one of my sister’s husbands – a totally cool and sweet and utterly kind man – but he was appalled that Ro was rocking the colors.  Well, Roan has taken a shine to getting pedicures with me (and last week with his Aunts and cousin – great bonding time!).  But he always goes with the gothic, punk rock, or hair metal favorites – black/blue and neon orange on this last go.  It seems to be a pretty normal thing – I mean, who doesn’t love relaxing, having your feet scrubbed while you lose your mind giggling and trying not to kick the pedicurist in the face because it tickles so much, and walking out with a custom-color combo on your toes?  Why is that a “girl” thing?

Ro with his Aunt Lori, Kellene and cousin Kasey.

Gender-bending feet.

So it’s not a problem, not yet anyway.  But I’m guessing if a stranger refers to him as a girl in front of one of his friends, it may become a problem.  At this age, Roan probably can’t look to David Bowie for comfort, gorgeous in his androgynous glory, married to the most beautiful woman on the planet.  Nope.  Instead, Roan’s just going to have to be confident and comfortable in his own summertime sticky skin.  Which is probably not a terrible thing to learn, as soon as possible, in life.

Comments (13)

By Jodi, August 11, 2010 9:55 AM

What's wrong with this?

New Yorkers are usually portrayed as these salty-mouthed, side-eye giving, fast walking, quick talking bozos who won’t really go out of their way for anyone if there isn’t anything in it for them.  NOT TRUE, I say in my most indignant voice (this voice actually sounds a lot like my impersonation of Carol Channing but I cannot help that.)  Again, I say NOT TRUE!

But then, I’ve begun questioning my set of rules of etiquette.  I’m not one to care about elbows on the table or a cleverly placed burp by a child (although I do not have the same appreciation for burps by adults, or dogs.)  But I think I mostly adhere to the rules of the day.  But I found myself giving the salty-mouthed side eye middle finger (in my imagination, of course.  I’m not a fighter) to a few people over the past few days and wonder if I have anyone doing the same to me.

So I’m posing a few questions – some situations I’m guilty (?) of perpetrating, others which I’ve observed.  Break me off some knowledge, please:

1. Is it ok to refill a water bottle from an establishment’s bottled water dispenser?  Or only from water fountains?
2. On mass transit, what’s the protocol for giving a seat up to a child?  At what age do they seem old enough to not be offered your seat?
3. What about the pregnant ladies of the world?  Do you always have to offer a seat to them?  (That rotten bunch….)
4. If you offer your seat to a pregnant lady, and she thanks you but then gives it to her 6-year-old son (ummm…..yeh….totally hypothetical), is that ok?
5. How acceptable is it to ask people to scoot over, then mash your big huge honking oversized keister in a place that it obviously doesn’t fit?
6. Mothers and strollers and stairs: should you always offer to help them up/down?
7. Children and their electronic devices – ok for restaurants?  What if they leave the sound on?
8. When you greet someone – a handshake?  A kiss on the cheek?  A double kiss? (I must say I’ve  planted more accidental kisses on the mouth with the double kiss so I just cannot go there.  Or if I do, just know I probably want to kiss you on the mouth.)

I can’t wait to see what the consensus is.  Please leave your etiquette questions in the comments, too!  I love to give my opinion!  I shouldn’t be yelling now so I’ll nix the exclamation points.  See?  I’m an etiquette queen!  Ooops….

Comments (12)

By Jodi, August 9, 2010 10:08 AM

I’m having this lucky streak now.  Seriously I don’t know how it’s coming to me but it is, without a doubt here.  Last year was easily one of the worst years ever – for almost everyone in my family.  It was so incredibly stupidly awful.  Death, tragedy, loss, more death, babies lost, jobs lost, kidneys failed.  And now?  This year seems really awesome.  My mom fell in love and just got remarried.  My brother fell in love and got remarried.  A kidney transplant just went down and both my sister and my nephew are recovering nicely.  My little sister, as well as my niece are joining me as preg-natos, which if you didn’t know – my belly is full with not one but two boys wrestling for space, which feels like a punchline to a joke which I cannot figure out.

And there are little things.  Out of the blue, the perfect new apartment fell into my world last week.  It didn’t so much fall as have an assisted glide from the Mayor of the neighborhood, Robey.  This place has space for my family, it has an upstairs and a downstairs, it has a back yard, it is conveniently located next door and across the street from my two part-time nannies super-duper great friends who I will not abuse with requests for help.  No really I won’t.  (Unless I do. In which case I’ll blame the lapse of judgement on postpartum whatever.) And best of all – the place is only $150 more per month than we are paying now.  This was more than we ever even dared to hope for.  And here it is, lease signed, moving date set.  Roan has picked out what color he wants his new (bigger!) room painted.  Black, of course.

Then last week I met up with some amazing women at a BlogHer conference I went to.  Lots of these women were writers whose work I already admired (The Madonna of the Blogging World, Ree from Pioneer Woman enjoyed feeling this giant belly, and couldn’t have been sweeter and oh by the way, mind if I brag, boast, and twitter-drop a teeny bit? Check it out:)

Let’s just hope me posting this little *ahem* name-drop doesn’t ruin our brand new budding friendship.  I want to take the relationship just a bit further so I can help her choose proper shoes to wear while navigating the NYC streets because I hear her toes are suffering from this last trip.

BlogHer also allowed me to hang with my friends from Thursday Night Smackdown, Mamaista, Momtrends, In Jennies Kitchen and then meet and became fast friends with some kindred spirits from Mommy With Tattoos (who is also at The Stir), and The Urban Suburban Mom.  I also fell in love with a stroller from iCandy but it’s too soon for me to actually be lusting after a stroller, isn’t it?  But it is beautiful.  Ok.  (Seriously it’s beautiful.  And built for twins!)

And finally – Roan and Anson arrived home safely, and happy – and that is the luckiest thing yet.  These guys being gone made me realize that no matter how many awesome things are happening, they’re only 1/3 as awesome when I don’t have them around to tell.

I’m happy, readers.  I’ve found out that things do get really bad.  And then they get really good.  And will probably get bad again one day.  But then will probably get really good again!  I cannot control these things, but I can name them, recognize them, and hang on to them.

And since I want to share my luck, I’m posting your lucky lotto numbers.  Try these! (Give me half of the $ you win though please).  4, 26, 35, 42, 43, 59.  Disclaimer:  I’ve never played Lotto so I don’t actually know how many numbers to choose.  But I’m feeling lucky, punk.

Comments (7)

By Jodi, August 4, 2010 11:59 AM

Anson clearly feeling confident about this situation

So at exactly 7:28 this morning things got weird.  Anson and Roan stepped into a big black sedan, after throwing a few bags into it, and sped away, airline tickets in hand.  Without me.  I stood on my Brooklyn stoop and wondered if I should go back inside, or if I should just sit down and wait the five days until they get back.  And here I am, still stuck on the steps, five hours later.

No no no I kid. I actually ran back inside because I was barefoot and morning-faced and there was a still-hot coffee waiting for me on the counter.  I mean, c’mon.  My life doesn’t revolve around these guys, it just includes them.  I’m totally fine on my own, yesiree, and please ignore the twelve times I reminded Anson to make sure to brush Roan’s teeth at night, the thirty-six times I mentioned that he needs to make an effort to get fruit and veggies in front of the kid, the one or two (or let’s be honest, eighteen) times I reminded Anson that Roan has to wear a helmet while on a bicycle even during dad/son vacay, and the tears that poured out of my eyes even before I took the thirteen steps to our apartment door from the stoop.  Yup.  Totally relishing that I am free from the binding constraints of motherhood and wifehood for five days.  Wahooooooo!  Those guys were only really slowing me down anyway.  Cramping my style.  Sucking out my mojo.  I am already restored to the tigress I was pre-marriage and pre-motherhood.  Bring it on!  Of course, they did leave me with the twins.  So I’m maybe not totally a tigress.  Or maybe I am totally a tigress, but just a knocked-up one.  Ok.  Rar.  Watchout.

Three Generations of Calls, and Some Jellyfish

I’m also so happy for my son to be able to share this time with his pops.  Under my large voice and dark shadow, I wonder sometimes if Anson gets enough of his own light to shine on Roan.  Anson is so devoted to him, so fascinated by him, and gets only a few hours a day with him.  Roan eats up every second with his dad, and often quotes him to me.  In the not-too-distant-future, I imagine despite my best efforts Roan will feel a little sad when my attention needs to be shared with Baby A and Baby B (working titles).  I believe that Anson will be the one to fix this impending sadness, and I am so grateful that they’re getting this time, now, to learn to rely on each other.  Without me.

*Ahem*  Without me.

Yeh, well, I can’t be selfless for too terribly long. Afterall – this is my “me” time.  For the next five days.  That’s a lot of “me”.  If you don’t hear from me in a few days, I’ve probably overdosed on “me”.  Call an interventionist and send some ice-cream.