I might be mellowing

We left the house with Dov folded inside my son’s coat pocket. Just in case we decided to stay late at the kiddush and wanted B.A. to take a nap in his stroller. He won’t fall asleep without that bear.

After the kiddush, we decided to take the kids to the park. “Do we have the notorious D-O-V?” I murmured to my husband. I didn’t want to mention his name in case B.A. started asking for him. My husband confirmed that Dov was still on board.

Where's my medal?

Nobody’s handed me a parenting medal in a long time.

Actually, no one has ever handed me a parenting medal at all. But back in the days when I used to traipse about with baby twins in tow, I got a lot of nice feedback.

The girls slept and nursed on a two-hour cycle for at least the first six months of their life. We had relocated to the suburbs from Manhattan, and I was stir-crazy. So, while they napped in their car seats, I would pack up all our stuff and get ready to GO—running errands, visiting friends, anywhere.

Sometimes our adventures were ill-conceived. One of my readers will probably remember a spontaneous trip to a Chinese restaurant that went south when we couldn’t get the hang of breastfeeding our infants in public, and discovered that we hadn’t brought any bottles or pacifiers. In retrospect, what’s the big deal about three crying babies? At the time, OH MY SWEET GRIEF.

Playing favorites

I love the morning, but only if I can spend the first hour of it all alone in total silence with a cup of coffee. My children get up an hour after I do. If they happen to wake up earlier, they know the rule: “We don’t talk to Ima until she’s finished her coffee.”

But on this particular morning, A.N. had woken up before her siblings, dressed herself and was now padding around the apartment, thinking aloud.

“Some people just keep being outside and they don't go home,” she observed.

I was interested. “Where do they go?” I asked.