It's Not About You

     Parenting identical twin daughters is a constant education.  One of the most important lessons I've learned thus far is that what you don't say is just as powerful as what you do say.

     Because of this, I've become very aware of how I praise my daughters.  A simple "I love you, Sydney" might cause Taylor to burst into tears.  Because she only hears, "I don't love you, Taylor."  That's not at all what I meant, and not even close to true.  But, it's the truth that Taylor infers.

     Both girls are equally affected this way with compliments, as well.  For example, it would be risky to tell Taylor she has a beautiful smile.

     "Hey!" Sydney would react, stung by my kindness to Taylor.  "What about my smile, Momma?"

     "I love your smile, Sydney," I used make the effort to reassure her, always shocked by the fact that they forget they have the exact same smiles.

     "Then why did you only say it to Taylor?" she would continue to challenge.

     I used to take the time to coddle them through their negative inferences.  I used to worry that I would damage their self-esteem if I didn't praise them equally.  I used to fall victim to their ploys for attention.

     But then I realized that by placating the twin that was fishing for a second-hand compliment, I was negating the special intent of the original compliment paid to the first twin.  So I have adopted a different approach:

     "Sydney, when I told Taylor I liked her smile, was I talking to you or Taylor?" I now ask.

     "Taylor," she admits, most often with shame because she’s been busted for attempting to steal the spot-light from her sister.

     "That's right, I was talking to Taylor.  So, was I thinking about Taylor's smile or your smile?"

     "Taylor's," she says.

     "That's right.  When I give Taylor a compliment, it's not about you, Sydney.  It's about Taylor.  And you need to learn to be happy for sissy when someone says something nice to her, instead of being sad for yourself."

     It's a tough love approach, that's for sure.  But my daughters will be compared to each other their entire lives, and I don't want one to automatically feel bad every time her sister feels good.  And when they merge in and out of social groups, hopefully this will teach them to be comfortable sharing the spotlight with their friends as well.  Because at the end of the day, it's not all about Sydney or Taylor.  And if they can understand and appreciate this lesson, then all of their relationships will benefit.  Because not only will they learn to decipher a compliment from an insult, but they'll also be aware that there are consequences for what they do say and consequences for what they don't say.

What's Your Button?

     I woke up this morning wishing for a pause button.  I looked forward to today, but wasn't quite ready to start it.  I just wanted a few minutes, so I could wake up at my own pace before the early morning rush resumed.
    On my way home from dropping off the kids, I reminisced about other times in my life when I wished for different buttons:
     When my parents first got divorced, I wished for rewind during the holidays.  It was a pain for my brother and I to dissect our visits home from college, only to be reminded in both places that something was missing.
     When Craig was being treated for cancer while I was pregnant with the the twins, I wished for fast forward on a daily basis.  We both felt like crap and were anxious to learn what the future would bring.
     When the twins were little, there were days when fast forward didn't cut it.  Instead I wished for eject, because they were so naughty that it didn't seem like a battle I'd ever win.
     Then, mixed into all that I mentioned above, there were spontaneous moments that I never wanted to forget.  For those precious moments that reassured me life was worth the struggle, a record button would have been nice.
     But right now, I'm at pause.  And I'm thinking that's a pretty good place to be.  Because who knows what tomorrow will bring?

The Flip-Side

  I grew up a gymnast.  Not to be confused with, "When I grew up, I did gymnastics."  Because that might falsely lead someone to believe that there was more to my identity than flipping and sticking.
     Yes, I dabbled with other sports.  And I was actually quite good.  I was the lead-off hitter for my summer softball team, and even executed a triple play in the field on one occasion.  I was also the starting setter for my high school volleyball team that was one game away from State Championships my senior year.
     But all that was peripheral.  Even though I loved it, I couldn't play softball for my high school because it conflicted with competitive gymnastics season.  And volleyball only worked because it was an off-season sport, and I was willing to play it in addition to gymnastics.  By the end of each volleyball season, my back was a mess from overuse.  So much so that I squatted at the knees to pick up the ball before I served, because it was too painful to bend over.
     Friends didn't invite me to their homes after school during the week, because they knew I'd be at the gym.  While everyone else slept in, I woke to an alarm at weekend sleepovers to make it to practice on time.  The only acceptable excuse for missing practice was if I was puking.  Because broken bones could be taped up.
     There was no quitting.  Believe me, I tried when I was 13.  I wanted to be done.  I was over it.  My mom wouldn't take no for an answer.  My coach wouldn't take no for an answer.  My community wouldn't take no for an answer.  Why?  Because I was a gymnast.
     I trained on a beam that was four inches wide, yet there was no balance in my life.  This irony made me angry after my body finally broke down to end my career in college.  I dwelled on what I missed because of the sport.  I was resentful of all that time wasted in the gym.  I felt as though I had nothing to show for it.
     Eventually, though, I realized I was wrong.  I traded in my bitterness for gratitude because I was able to see the flip-side (no pun intended.)  As a result of my unbalanced past, I now make balance a priority in our home.
     We say no to invitations when we're in need of quiet family time.  We keep our schedule flexible so that we have time for spontaneous fun.  We expect the kids to live up to their academic potential, but don't insist on perfection.  To honor their hard work, we allow them free time that is just that: free.  The kids help determine their sporting schedules, and I factor in ease and convenience when deciding on locations.  When a previous coach of Gabe’s “motivated” his players by screaming negative insults, we yanked him from the team.  Because it doesn't have to be all or nothing, and I wanted my son to learn early that it is healthy to walk away from behavior like that.
     We often refer to ourselves as Team Myers.  Because we all live together, and we all matter.  There has to be give and take, compromise and sacrifice.  Gabe is currently troubled because he has to start choosing between all the sports that he loves.  Because it's not fair to the rest of us when his overabundant athletic schedule dictates our lives.  Sydney and Taylor opted out of soccer this year, which burst their daddy's bubble as he was all set to coach them.  They tried volleyball instead and fell in love.  Now when the weather is nice, we all go outside and play family volleyball.  The kids are thrilled with their father's over exaggerated lack of skills, giggling together and coaching him the whole time.  Craig admits that he's enjoying this time with the girls even more than if they'd played soccer.
     As for me?  I grew up a gymnast terrified to fall off the beam.  As a result, I parent with balance and flexibility.  And I've got a happy family to show for it.    

Different is Good.

     It's Sunday morning.  I'm trying to relax.  But I'm not succeeding.  Craig is out of town hunting, and I've been on full time parenting duty since Thursday.  The kids and I have had a great time so far.  But already I can tell today is going to be different.
     Gabe just made himself some hot chocolate, but forgot to put his cup under the Keurig dispenser.  As my pre-coffee grumpiness was threatening to flare, I noticed there were two cups amongst the mess on the counter.  When I asked him why, he told me he was going to surprise me with a cup of coffee.  Of course he was.  His dad is out of town.  His dad usually delivers my weekend coffee to me.  He was trying to take care of me like Daddy does.  My temper was tamed.
     Until I opened the door to let Tucker out and was nearly deafened by the sound of our house alarm.  I had gotten out of bed to set it the night before as I always do when I remember Craig isn't home to protect us.  But Craig is the person who turns the alarm off in the morning.  It's one of those little jobs he does that I rarely even notice, but appreciate greatly.  So for the second morning in three days, I was on the phone with the alarm company apologizing for my absent-mindedness.
   And now the kids are blaring our favorite band over the house speaker.  Ordinarily, this would delight me.  Their loud, out of tune voices and desecration of the lyrics would usually make me chuckle, not cringe.  But I'm tired and crabby, and it's all my fault.
     When Craig is away, I stay up too late watching movies that I select with the intention of crying.  I'm not sad or depressed, but my favorite kind of movies are the ones that move me deeply.  It's not that Craig won't watch these same movies with me, because he will.  And often times, he's cries earlier and harder than myself.  But he doesn't agree that it feels good.  So when he's away, I take pleasure in my tears because I know no one is going to complain after they've been shed.  
     As I watch my movies, I drink too much wine.  Because without it, I have a hard time falling asleep when my husband isn't lying beside me.  But then I kick myself in the morning when my early birds arise, and I'm the only one home to take care of them.  A cloudy wine headache is not conducive to parenting three perky and energetic young children, that's for sure.
     So today is going to be different.  When I'm tempted to blame my kids, I will remember this blog and blame myself.  And when Craig walks through the door, I'm going to be really happy to see him.

   

If the Shoe Fits...

Parenting is a job. Let's not forget that. For some people, like myself, it is a primary job. For other people, like Craig, it is a secondary job. This is our arrangement. This is how we planned it. This is how we designed it. This is how we set it up. This is not to say that Craig, being the secondary parent, is any less valuable than myself, the primary parent. Both job titles are equally important, as there can be no primary without a secondary and there can be no secondary without a primary.

Craig, the secondary parent, goes to work to his primary job each and every day so that he can provide financial stability for our family. He is a Wealth Manager/Financial Advisor/Retirement Planner (there isn't really one title for what he does.) He is extremely busy and very successful. There is an enormous amount of pressure associated with his job. Not only does he have to ensure the financial stability/growth of his clients, but he also has to continue to accumulate new clients. He and his partner are independent, so they juggle several different companies, often times being forced to spend too much of their valuable time on the phone dealing with silly, internal paperwork errors that their companies have made. Simply put, while his job can be very rewarding, it is can also be very stressful on any given day.

But, it's his primary job. How could he expect it to be anything less than hectic?

His primary job begins every morning at 8:00am. It's hard telling when his primary job ends, as it changes on a daily basis. Three days a week we might get to eat dinner with him. He'll at least tuck the kids in four days a week. But his schedule is up and down, so the kids and I have learned to be flexible. We see it as a good night when Daddy is home, because we get to spend time together as a family. We also make it a good night when Daddy's not home by cooking simpler meals (like hot dogs, mac n' cheese, Spaghettio's, etc.) which makes all 4 of us happy.

When Craig's primary job is over, he comes home to his secondary job of being Daddy. He knows that the kids have certain expectations of him, and he knows that I, the primary parent, have certain expectations of him. It is a job. It is a working relationship. Because when he gets home, he walks into the middle of my primary job, which I take every bit as seriously as he takes his primary job.

Is he tired? Absolutely. Would he love to sit down and unwind? Of course, and I can't blame him for it. But, unfortunately for him, he is not afforded that luxury. In order to keep the peace and order of the house, he must unwind in the small amount of time it takes for him to take off his suit, hang it up, use the bathroom, and change his clothes. When he is done with this, he has no choice but to return to us in Daddy-mode.

Since all three of our children are now in school all day/every day, I start the day with my secondary job as Mom-Maid-Wife. I spend my days in a variety of ways. As a Mom, I spend countless hours volunteering at the school. I love to be present to see the kids in their element, without them necessarily knowing that I'm watching. I see the things they are doing great on their own, and I discover the things that we still need to work on. This is invaluable for their social and academic growth. I also am on-call for the emergency moments, like when I have a sick child at home or when I have to run up to the school because someone has forgotten a lunch, or gotten stuck in the mud and needs new clothes, etc.

As a maid, I spend my time doing the laundry, picking up the house, getting groceries, organizing closets, making phone calls, scheduling appointments, etc. It's the boring stuff, but sometimes it tends to be the key to making it all run smoothly.

As a wife, well...he's pretty easy on me. Except for occasionally having to pick his pj's up off the floor, or run a random errand here or there, he doesn't ask very much of me at all during the day. I am very thankful for this.

Every day at 2:45, my secondary job draws to a close. When I pick the kids up from school at 3 o'clock, my primary job begins. And when it begins, it goes non-stop, 100 miles per hour, in all kinds of different and unexpected directions. The kids, especially my twin, 6 year-old Kindergarten daughters, are always exhausted. And, since they're female, their emotions are usually all over the place for the first 20 minutes after pick-up. So from the get-go, my patience is tested. Gabe, my 8 year-old son, is pretty even keeled by now which is very much appreciated. However, since he is in second grade, his homework load has increased dramatically. On any given school night, he has 2 home-room assignments, 1 Spanish assignment, and an independent reading requirement. We can usually count on at least one hour of homework for him. Since he is also in piano lessons, he has a nightly piano requirement, too. He is also currently part of a traveling soccer team that practices two nights per week, with up to two games per weekend, and on a flag football team. (In the winter, the commitment will be basketball, and in the spring he will have baseball and hip-hop commitments.)

The girls now each have 20 minutes of homework per night, in addition to piano and swimming lessons. (In the winter they will start volleyball, and in the spring they will play baseball and hip-hop.) This is a huge transition year for them, which always requires patience times 2 because they are twins. We have two girls beginning to read (and being frustrated when they can't.) We have two girls learning to write (and not wanting to be told how to do it.) We have two girls beginning piano (and not wanting to focus while practicing with them.) We have 2 girls who want to tie their own shoes every morning (even though it still takes them forever to do so, and often times we are on the verge of running late.) We have 2 girls who are still babies with their blankies in one moment, and big girls learning to blow-dry their own hair in the very next.

The speed of our lives after school is overwhelming. I deal with silly, internal problems of my own with the kids. Maybe Sydney doesn't want to do her homework, or Taylor doesn't want any help with her homework even though she has no clue what she's doing, or Gabe has a project due that requires my full attention even though I have to oversee the girls at the same time. We have to sprint from lesson to practice, which requires getting all three of them to cooperate at the same time in order to get ready to leave somewhere with the adequate equipment packed and the correct clothing, shoes, coats, etc. on. Somehow we have to fit in a healthy dinner, even though they are starving when they come home from school and all they want to do is snack. All 3 must shower, have their hair dried, teeth brushed and outfits for the next day picked out before they go to bed. It's a lot, anyway you look at it.

But, it's my primary job. How can I expect it to be anything less than hectic?

Having said all that, yesterday Craig and I got into an argument. He (the man) said something stupid without thinking, and I (the woman) got defensive and over-reacted.

He said, "Aren't your days more peaceful now that you don't have the kids bugging you all day?"

I said, "Yeah, they are."

He said, "Then how come it seems like you're still uptight when I get home at night?"

(KABOOM.)

We were both sprinting out the door, as I was already working my secondary job of Mom and had to pick up Taylor from school to take her to her eye doctor appointment. And he couldn't be late for his first primary job appointment of the day. So, I suggested that maybe we not finish the conversation at the given moment, because it was going to take longer than either one of us wanted. In other words, I told him I was too mad to talk to him and I would call him after I cooled down.

So when I called him, I asked, "What is your day like around 11:00am on a daily basis?"

He said, "It's usually completely crazy by then."

I said, "Is it a 'let's skip-and-be-merry' kind of crazy, or a 'I wanna pull my hair out' kind of crazy?

He said, "If I'm at the office, I for sure want to pull my hair out. If I'm out on appointments, then it's hit or miss."

I asked, "Would it be safe to say that 11:00am is usually 3 hours into your work day?"

He said, "Yeah..."

I asked, "And, if I walked into your office at 11 when you were in the middle of planning, directing, and putting out fires, do you think it would be fair of me to expect you to drop what you were doing, forget about your problems, and shoot the shit?"

He said, "No."

I asked, "How would that make you feel?"

He said, "Annoyed and frustrated."

I said, "I go to work at 3 o'clock everyday. When you roll in at 6/6:30, best case scenario, that is 3 hours into my workday. I have already been planning, directing, and putting out fires for 3 straight hours. So, I apologize if I don't drop everything or feel like shooting the shit."

He got really quiet.

I finished, "When you come home at night, you are walking in to my office at 11:00am."

He got it. He said it was a good talk. He said he'd never thought about it that way before. And I made the mistake of assuming he had.

So for all of you secondary parents out there, we (the primary parents) don't mean to be uptight. We are not trying to be impatient with you. We are actually very appreciative of you, even if we don't always say it.

We are simply trying to get our jobs done the best way we know how. In a perfect world, we would have an endless supply of patience. But it's not a perfect world, whether you work first or second shift, or whether you are a primary or a secondary.

Some of my favorite smells, in no particular order.

1.) The warm, cuddly smell of the kids when they're sleeping. They smell like heaven. I wonder if they'll ever get tired of me sniffing them awake?

2.) The way a man smells in a suit after a long day at work. Craig smells just like my Dad used to when he came home from teaching. He smells familiar and safe.

3.) Freshly mowed grass. It's like a whiff of contentment.

4.) Burning leaves. The smell makes me feel warm and full inside on an otherwise cool night.

5.) Beautiful, by Estee Lauder. My Mom has worn that perfume for years. Ironically, I never like it when I smell it from the bottle. But when she's wearing it, it smells feminine and comforting.

6.) Freshly baked brownies. It's the smell of breaking the rules and feeling good about it.

7.) Spaghetti and meatballs. Not just any recipe....OUR recipe. The aroma fills the house with generations of love, laughter, and tradition.

8.) Cooked garlic. The smell literally makes my stomach growl.

9.) Babies. They have a most perfect smell of purity and innocense. Every time I smell one, I want one.

10.) Lilacs. My Mom fusses over them every Spring. They always remind me of her and make me smile.

11.) COH. It's the name of the big-girl perfume that we bought for the girls this past Christmas. They wear it every day, and it smells so clean and soft. Every time I smell it, I smile. It smells like little girls who want to be like their Mommy.

12.) The kids' nasty blankets. Only a parent can love this smell. It's the smell of unconditional love.

13.) Craig...when he's not wearing cologne. He's got the best natural scent of a man.

14.) Puppy breath. It smells like giggles. Love it!

15.) My doggies, Tucker and Bella. They smell like loyalty.

16.) Clean sheets, fresh from the linen closet. They smell like serenity.

17.) Anything cooking on the grill. After a long cold winter, it smells like liberation.

18.) Gasoline that has dripped on my hand at the pump. Every time it happens, I take a whiff and then look around to make sure no one was looking! It's the smell of the forbidden!

19.) Bleach. It smells clean and fresh. And, most often, it's a smell of accomplishment.

20.) Wool-lite laundry detergent. It smells like my Grandma. That's the reason I use it.

21.) Apple jack & peel candles. While it's not necessarily the scent I would pick, it's Craig's very favorite smell. Whenever we have them lit in the house, he is instantly in a festive mood. He is so affected by aromatherapy. He notices and appreciates it every time he walks into the house and I have a candle burning for him. It's the smell of a simple act of kindness.

22.) Hot coffee. It smells like time set aside to spoil yourself.

23.) The smell of our house after we've been away for an extended period of time. Simply put, it smells like home.

24.) The halls of the kids' elementary school. It's the smell of wishes, hopes and dreams. It reminds me that anything is possible.

25.) A Perfect World, by Origins. When I was pregnant with the girls, Gabe would rub it on my big belly every night. I still use it every day and it always makes me smile when I picture those chubby little baby hands of his. It's the smell of time flying when you're having fun.

Thinking Back...

I am sitting in the lobby of Gabe's music school with Sydney and Taylor. Gabe has piano for an hour (30 minutes of lab and 30 minutes of lessons) every Monday evening. We only live 5 minutes away so, usually, the girls and I drop him off at 5, and come back to pick him up at 6. But, today, he asked if I would wait inside for him. When I started to object, he looked disappointed.

I asked, "Why do you want me to wait today, Honey?"

"Because, sometimes when I'm there I feel lonely," he answered honestly.

And, even though the idea of entertaining the girls for an entire hour in the teeny-tiny lobby seemed like a headache, my mind flashed back to some 20 years ago. As a kid, I remember being dropped off at the gym every night. Most nights it wasn't a big deal that my Mom didn't stay and watch practice. I got it. I knew 3 hours was an unreasonable amount of time to expect her to sit there and watch me. I knew she had other things to do, like run my big brother to his activities, clean the house, cook dinner, etc. I understood that a three hour practice, each and every night, was just plain boring to sit through.

But, I also remember loving it when she did stay to watch me, even if it was only for 20 or 30 minutes. I remember how excited I got when she happened to get there early before practice let out. I always felt more secure when she was there. Being at gymnastics didn't seem like such a chore when she was there to support me.

As a result of my own childhood, when Gabe told me he felt lonely at practice, I could relate. Therefore, I loaded up the girls, packed their DS's, and we all attended piano together.

So, that's one of my goals as a Mom: to never forget what it felt like to be a kid. Whether it's sitting through piano, finding a failed test in a backpack, respecting their first crush, understanding the impact of that first kiss (among other things,) finding out they took their first drink, nursing that first hang-over, consoling their first heart-break, or enduring public humiliation for a poor, spontaneous choice…I hope to be able to do what I did tonight: Pause long enough to remember what it felt like some 20 years ago, take that into consideration, and then react accordingly and fairly.

I'm not looking to be their best friend. My hope is that if I make a conscious effort to find empathy during their most serious and important moments, rather than dismissing their feelings because "they're just kids," I might have a shot at having an open, honest and trusting relationship with them. And when the big situations arise, I hope to have demonstrated enough compassion along the way for them to seek my guidance and learn to trust my experience.