Sunday, November 7, 2010

Mommy Firsts

The first trip away from the babies is cause for both pain and celebration.

Okay, so there are Baby’s First Steps, Baby’s First Solid Food, and Baby’s First Poop, but what about Mommy’s Firsts? How about Mommy’s First Attempt at Putting on a Diaper? Or, Mommy’s First Time Breastfeeding While Typing? What about Mommy’s First Time Outside Alone with Newborn and Toddler? Now that’s scary.

But even scarier is Mommy’s First Time Away from the Babies. I’m not referring to that first two-hour break between nursings when you literally run to the store to buy yourself a new nursing bra. Nor am I thinking of the three brief hours of pre-school during which you exhaust yourself with the plethora of possibilities only to find that all you’ve accomplished between drop-off and pick-up is throwing together lunch and throwing yourself in the shower. What I am talking about is that first 7-day trip you take alone, sans enfants…

…first to your mother’s house to clean out the attic (is it really necessary?), where you hope to find your childhood Barbies, plastic horses and Smurfs to pass on to your daughters,

…and then on to a work-related conference in New York City (will it be worth it?), where you hope to collect pearls of wisdom from seminars with all your favorite industry gurus, and if not, then at least to collect some cool paraphernalia, in this case, photography-related tote bags, note cards and lens cleaners.

As my capacity for empathy has grown to unbearable proportions post-double-partum, I think I have mostly my own hormones to blame. I cry at everything now, being a Mom. Any emotional moment, whether in a movie, cartoon, or real life, my eyes tear up. So, to calm down before bedtime the night before my first solo Mom Voyage, I tried doing yoga.

It didn’t help that I was experiencing what the French might call le PMS, and I discovered that my tears were stronger in downward dog and child’s poses than upward dog and cobra. I guess there is something to be said for literally keeping your chin up. I also discovered that doing yoga without breathing somehow made stretching more difficult. Who knew?

At just about every juncture the morning I had to leave, tears came to my eyes. The already hectic, short amount of time I usually have in the morning with the girls had seemed to have been chopped to mere moments. I spent a few moments with them eating breakfast at the table, then a few minutes as they sang and danced to the Disney Cinderella song , “Once Upon a Dream” (a tear-jerker just when you don’t want it to be), then it was time to leave. I was so surprised at how much room I still had left in my suitcase and carry-on, usually stuffed with diapers, extra baby clothing, wipes, and snacks, that I briefly considered asking my four year old if I could pack her in my bag.

Feeling sick, torn, and anxious, I left my children at the top of the stairs, tears in my eyes, and stepped into the sedan taking me to the airport. After wishing him a good morning, I asked the driver about the traffic. He said today it should be light. Moscow traffic is particularly unpredictable, and I spent the extra hour built in for the car trip to the airport stuck, not moving, in traffic. The ride to the airport became an excruciating mix of emotion, handwringing and inescapable sadness. All I wanted to do was kiss the gummy cheeks of my babies.

The compassionate driver took every turn possible to avoid being stuck in traffic on the big roads, only to be stuck in traffic on the small roads. He could see my furrowed brow in his rearview mirror as I spoke on my cell phone with my two year old, who said, “I love you” to me for the first time ever (visualize Mommy’s heart melting). The “baby’s” favorite song is “A Foggy Day,” by Frank Sinatra. She requests it at every meal, and as it plays now, the tears well up again. It’s a peppy tune, it puts us all in a good mood. It’s always followed by “Let’s Fall in Love,” which my older daughter likes best. Thanks, Frankie, we love you!

“We’ve never missed a flight!” the driver chirped, as we arrived ninety minutes before takeoff. He graciously led me to customs with my bag and wished me well. He will be receiving a large bar of chocolate from me when I get back. Passing through Russian customs, there was, miraculously, no line, nor at the security check for bags, nor at the check-in counter, nor at passport control. Where was everyone? Arriving this late turned out to mean that I had missed the crowd I remember from previous years flying with Delta out of Moscow, when they would check each bag, meticulously opening every wrapped gift and every bottle of nail polish you’d wrapped in a sock.

I even had time to buy some water before boarding, but realized that in my tearful morning haze at home, I hadn’t thought to pack a single ruble. Luckily, Moscow airports still accept “hard currency,” albeit only in the overly lit, heavily perfumed Duty Free stores, where I bought two tiny bottles of water for four dollars and twenty-eight cents (they even accepted pennies!)

As we flew over Northern Europe, I wondered how I would bear each of the following seven days without my children. Would I be in my element once I get over these few hours of transition? Or would I be racked with longing and sadness for the entire trip? Would I make it back to them safely? Would I ever leave them again willingly? The nanny thinks I’m crazy because I miss my children even when they’re just outside on the playground. I had thought I would feel unending guilt, instead, I felt the deepest sense of sadness, longing to be with them, hug them, kiss them.

It was not as if anyone was hurt, sick, or dying, God forbid, knock on wood, etc. We were all okay, I was just going on my trip, the one I’d been planning for months (years, actually). Nevertheless, I counted the hours as the distance between us grew. What will the baby feel this evening and the next and the next, when I am not there to nurse her before bedtime? Had last night felt like the last time I’d ever nurse my child again? Actually, no. It was really no different than other nights of recent months. I was exhausted at the end of the day, as usual, ready to finish up, but nevertheless, cradling my little one in this unbreakable, sometimes unbearable, close bond, that keeps a mother from leaving and draws her back to the nest again, and again, from whatever the distance, from whatever ambitious thing she may be doing.

Not being able to communicate with my babies, or with anyone I knew was what made that flight so alienating and painful, such that with every trip to the bathroom, in the solitude of those narrow, claustrophobic lavatories, I sobbed. I realized that I had been operating under the false assumption that I would feel a freedom I hadn’t felt before. Instead, what I felt was a beshackling lack of purpose and an unquenchable longing, wondering every half hour, what were they doing right now? It’s twelve o’clock, they’re going to school. It’s 2:30pm, the baby must still be napping. It’s 4:30pm, they’re on the playground. I hoped that I was feeling my own absence more than they were, but achingly I knew they would notice it more at the end of the day, at dinnertime, bedtime.

My hours of desperation during that flight, dotted by moments of numbness, were temporarily quelled only by the act of writing about it, as if this would either hasten my reunion with my babies or erase the pain of this voyage altogether. And I’d like to think that it was more love than just hormones that was giving me this pain in the first place.

As it turned out, shortly after the flight I was able to contact my husband, who reassured me that they all had a good day but missed me, of course. I called several times daily, was able to hear their voices when they felt like coming to the phone, and felt relieved, that each day, each hour, that passed meant that I was that much closer to returning to the nest, to cuddle my babies once more. But not before enriching my life in other ways first – Mom Voyage!

Sunday, October 10, 2010

The Momminator


It was a perfect storm of events: My husband was away on business, the baby hadn’t napped or eaten dinner, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was coming to the US Embassy in Moscow to speak. Like almost everyone else I know, I have been a fan of his since childhood, more for his bodybuilding than his gunslinging, I dare say.

I had been asked to take photographs for the event and then not to and then again to and then not to, until I figured I might as well have my camera and the girls with me, in case I could either shoot the event or have them both be in the shot. In the end, neither of these things happened. Well, they sort of didn’t happen.

Thanks to Moscow traffic, the Governor’s motorcade was delayed and the dinnertime hour came and went while we waited for him. Everyone was waiting and practicing for a group shot of California constituents. I even had time to run home from the event and grab some crackers and milk for the girls, while an equally anxious Mom watched them.

By the time the Governor arrived, the baby was loopy, had wet her pants (I still don’t know if it was milk or urine, but it looked to everyone else like the latter), and was being laughed at by all the kids, including my toddler, who, nevertheless, thankfully stayed seated with the rest of the group for the photo.

Seconds after the Governor’s handler told me I should join the group shot instead of take the picture myself (the Governor had his own photographer with him), the Governor strode up and took his place among the group of California constituents. I was, perhaps, on the edge of the shot, on the floor, actually, grabbing the flailing arms and legs of my screaming two year old and thereby giving up the millisecond opportunity of being in a photo with Arnold Schwarzenegger. As a Mom, these are the choices you make. The photographer took two or three shots and then the Governor and his handlers moved on to the stairs and stage below. I was wearing the true colors of motherhood of milk and urine on my dress, as I gathered up our sippy cups, stuffed bear and my camera to join the rest of the awaiting crowd below.

The Governor made kind remarks, thanking us all for our service to the Government and noting how much he enjoyed the fact that most of us remember him as The Terminator, as opposed to The Predator, or other such titles given him over his career. A resounding cheer came from the crowd when he said the words, “I’ll be back!”

In the end, I got to shake Arnold Schwarzenegger’s hand, or rather, he shook mine. I said to him in a barely audible voice, “Gutentag!”

And to think that just an hour or two before, I had been at home, scooping cat litter, chasing down a diaperless baby, and wiping the baby’s urine off the carpet. All in a Mom’s day’s work. Mom Voyage!

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Speed Dating for Married Couples

For better or worse, I have never attended a “speed dating” session, which I believe is a setup in which you have, say, ten minutes to chat with someone and get to know them just a bit before moving on to the next victim – I mean, individual, and so rotating amongst several potential datable candidates. What happens after that, I don’t know, since I’ve never done it. My guess is that you pick the one you like best, who is surely the favorite of at least one other person in the group, at which point you begin a conversational tug-of-war over the chosen favorite and try to win him or her over with your charms, looks, or whatever.

Not so for married couples! Or more specifically, for married couples with children. Small children, to be exact. We have two of these (under the age of five), who require, as most young children aged 19 months to 4 years, more attention and care than you ever thought possible to give during your simple and quaint dating years many, many, many years ago.

We are on vacation in beautiful Cannes, France – the Cote d’Azur, a romantic, lovely place in this month of April. Just today, my husband, Toby, and I found ourselves sitting next to each other at breakfast time at a beach cafĂ©, after having each provided our daughters with various things such as sand toys, sunscreen, cookies, juice boxes, sun hats, books, crayons and paper. Toby turned to me and introduced himself, “Hi! I’m Toby. Who are you?” -- a natural pick-up line for a guy you’ve been married to for eight years, and “dating” for thirteen.

We realized that we were close enough that he could put his arm around my shoulder and we could talk while the girls occupied themselves with the above list of items for precisely 2.5 minutes, until one of them cried.

Ten minutes – ha! That is NOT speedy. Speed dating for married couples is much more expeditious and truly “speedy.” At 10-second intervals over the course of a day, a week, a month, a year, a decade, those are the glimpses of the dating life we relish. And rather than rotate from candidate to candidate, you get to rediscover who this person, your spouse, is over and over again!

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Wringing in the New Year

When it comes to holiday greetings, most people say, “Better late than never,” even when that holiday greeting arrives in March. So I suppose, at the end of January it’s not too late to give one’s blog the above title. Plus, today is my birthday. I’m 39. Glad to be here. I have to write something!

This is a story of Mom (me) on a Voyage…

Feeling both nostalgic and adventurous, my husband and I decided to fly from Moscow to Berlin this New Year’s for a week, with our two children, of course. We borrowed a Berlin guidebook, arranged to stay with friends who graciously offered their apartment in their absence, and began dreaming up a list of “must-see” sights. Note the word, dreaming, here.

We had friends on tight deadlines to meet, so we saw them first on Days 1 and 2 and forwent famous sights and certain hip parts of town prone to premature fireworks, which would scare or hurt the babies’ eardrums. Day 3 was New Year’s Eve. My evening’s little black dress was actually a little black long-sleeved shirt, which ultimately was vomited on by our 15-month-old. She proceeded to vomit that evening, much to our chagrin, while visiting other friends, until it was baby bedtime and we went back to our friends’ apartment for the remainder of the evening. And the year. Things took another turn for the worse when the baby began having diarrhea and our friends’ washing machine would only fill with water, but wouldn’t “agitate” (as I subsequently learned the term back in Moscow) or spin.

So there we were, my husband and I, after the kids were tucked away in beds and travel cribs, on the 20th New Year’s after the coming down of the Berlin Wall, wringing out sopping wet, vomitty and poopy clothes. The dryer was one of those European ones that, if you let it, will churn your clothes for 12 hours and possibly shrink them to the size of your child’s teddy bear. So, after squeezing as much water out of the clothes as we could, we opted to string the clothes around the apartment, mostly on the radiators, which were cranked thanks to the low temperatures and snowstorms that happened to be blanketing Berlin that week, matching its temperatures with those of Moscow.

On New Year’s Day we decided we needed to take the baby to the doctor, but no German Pediatrician in his right Weihnachtsmind would be working on New Year’s Day. To make a long story less long, the rest of our trip included a visit to the ER, denting our gracious friends’ Mercedes, more vomit and diarrhea, no famous sights, and coming home in Moscow to a broken washing machine.

Happy New Year, and Mom Voyage!