When They Leave

Shelby came home Thursday evening because she needed to have her wisdom teeth extracted. She and Jordan were home the week before for her consult, and they took the train home so that Jordan could begin her semester and Shelby could get some stuff settled for her semester in Germany.

So, when they leave, it is one of the worst few hours for me. Usually, I'm a bit of a bitch the hours or so before they head back to Philadelphia (still can't call that home for them) because it means that my limited time with them is at an end. It means that things are once again out of my control. They will have to be the responsible ones, and I'll be reduced to text messages, Facebook postings, and the occasional phone call. I'll trust that everything I've said has registered some place in their brains and that they will make the right choices again and again.

 Truly, it means that I won't get to see them. When I talked to Erika before Shelby's surgery, I told her I was a little freaked out over the whole thing. The last time Shelby had anesthesia, she was 18 months old and having tubes put in her ears. Getting your wisdom teeth removed is pretty routine, and it scared the shit out of me. What if? Add to that Shelby leaving for Germany in about seven weeks, the Girls being separated for the first time in their lives, and Jordan talking about grad school in Los Angeles. See what I mean? What if . . . I can't even fill in the blanks.

Dave is driving Shelby to the train station as I type this. I have a crap ton of grading to get done, so I have iTunes cranked and am working my way through a pile of essays and pop quizzes. I was making good headway, but then a sappy song came on, and I lost it. Guess I should be used to it by now, but the what ifs are multiplying.

- Jill

Dear 21-Year-Old Self

How's it going, you know, now that you've had the rug pulled out from under you? Seriously, though, were you really doing okay before that epiphany of an appointment? Shitty economy. Job prospects for your boyfriend not that hot. A kid on the way. And you still have college to finish, correct? So today was just icing on the cake because "twins" was exactly what you wanted to hear.

Guess what . . . you'll be fine. That boyfriend of yours will turn out great. And those twins? They will be the most amazing women you've ever met. Sure, you'll struggle. You'll wonder if living in your car is an option. Food stamps will look like a luxury at some point in time. And the two of you will do just about anything to make a go of it. You'll finish college - and just a semester late - but not without some sacrifice. Turns out working third shift will be the only way to avoid the cost of daycare (plus it's awesome birth control). And you'll put off work for about eight years. But being a stay-at-home-mom is something that you'll enjoy and excel at. Sure you won't be the crunchy "I'm going to make my own paint and paper and never let my kids watch t.v." SAHM, but you'll figure out a way to encourage those girls to find their own answers to just about everything.

Baby A and Baby B

So, buck up, little camper, because you're going to need it real soon. You're going to gain about 60 more pounds. You'll go into early labor in about six weeks, and you'll end up in the hospital. Your boyfriend will miss his National Teaching Exam because he won't leave your bedside. And your father? He's going to need open heart surgery, and your mom won't tell you because she's too worried about how you will react (then again, she won't tell your father that she told you . . . and hilarity ensues). After early labor, you're going to wind up on bedrest for 10 weeks . . . and owe your sisters more than you can ever repay. But eventually, on April 15, you'll start to understand what life is really all about.

And you'll never be the same,
Your 42-year-old self

PS - Last year's post here

Sleeping In On Christmas Morning

Seriously, it's 9:49 AM, and the Girls are still in bed. I have a cup of coffee in hand, the ice cream is churning for dessert, the pets are getting restless, and they are still asleep. There are days that I really yearn for the pre-teen years.

Don't get me wrong . . . I don't mind the whole "what the hell do they want for Christmas and how am I going to wrap this when they are asleep and get it under the tree" facade of years past. I do kinda miss Santa (and if you are one of those, "Santa is a lie, and we're not going to raise our children lying to them," folks . . . more power to you, but I don't get that) and all the trappings that go with it.

The presents were stacked on the chair with care . . . is that how it goes?

But I'm not sure I was aware that once you get to be a certain age, the presents that were once carefully arranged under the tree get stacked by two unknown individuals who are still asleep and are getting bras and jeans this Christmas on their father's chair. Must have missed that tradition . . . but I'm pretty sure that it will make a reappearance next year.

Merry Christmas . . . enjoy the moments!

-J

Another Good Book

Since the last post, I finished three more books: Hush, Hush and Crescendo by Becca Fitzpatrick and 13 Reasons Why by Jay Asher. The first two were pretty quick forbidden romance novels aimed at my core group of middle school students. The student who read The Mortal Instruments series recommended this book series to me, and I couldn't return to school without having read it. For some reason, if a kid is kind enough to recommend a book to me, I'll take a swing at it. After all, I give them suggestions all the time, and I hope that they listen every now and then.

But then there was 13 Reasons Why. I bought it before we took our anniversary trip, but I didn't read it then. I have read six books since I bought it, all of which were purchased after I bought this rather slim novel. What was holding me back? It's about a girl who commits suicide and 13 reasons why she chose to do it. I'm not giving away any secrets here. If you read the back of the cover, it clearly states that she kills herself. But it's the reasons why - her encounters with those around her - that prevented me from cracking it open. I was afraid that it would be sad (it was). I was afraid that it would be maudlin (it wasn't). I was afraid that the author wouldn't have an authentic voice for a girl (he did). Turns out I should have read it a lot sooner than I did . . . but definitely not on vacation.

The story is told by two different people: Hannah, the girl who decides to commit suicide, and Clay, one of 13 people to receive a box of audio tapes from Hannah. On the tapes she narrates the different reasons that brought her to her ultimate decision, not indicting the people to whom she devotes one side of a tape to, but clearly making the case that their actions or lack thereof caused her pain. While the final act is an extremely drastic measure, the acts from all the characters leading up to it are all too common.

It's a young adult book, but it's a quick read . . . go ahead and crack it open

I teach in a middle school. Hardly a day goes by when you don't see a student who is upset with someone else. It ranges from pencil tapping that drives a person to the point of madness to insensitive comments about looks, clothing, body odor . . . anything. Bullying is a constant topic in society partially because it's everywhere. And you know what? It should be discussed. Parents need to talk to their kids about it and get them to understand that it's perfectly fine to tell someone when they think they are being bullied. And keep telling them that. If you think your child is being bullied and they tell you they've talked to a teacher or a guidance counselor about it, take that extra step and call the teacher. Trust me on this one . . . kids often don't tell us a thing. They might say that they had a bad day, and we ask what happened. "Oh, I forgot my lunch, and I had to call my mom to bring it to school, but she left for work already, so now I'll have to charge it at lunch." This, to a teacher, translates to: not much. But what the student really meant to say was, "I was so worried about riding to school on the bus with students X, Y, and Z, and I forgot my lunch, and now I'll have to charge at lunch, which means getting up in front of students X, Y, and Z at lunch, and they'll whisper behind their hands at me." See? Same stories . . . clearly. When in doubt, call you child's teacher and ask. We'd rather know so that we can look out for it.

A huge source of bullying comes online. Teachers can't control that. But you can. Your child has a Facebook? Fine. But they need to understand that you as the parent have the right to review every single thing on that. Who they have as friends. What they like. Who they are chatting with. What the comments are. What the pictures look like. Investigate. You would be shocked at what is posted on there. One of my former students, who was a darling, sweet, innocent girl, had a profile pic of her doing her best "fuck you" pose, complete with the middle finger. She popped up as a person I might know*. You're right I know her . . . and promptly told her to remove that photo. "Would your mother be okay with that?" I asked. "No . . . she'd scream and yell," she replied. "Then why do you want the first thing that new friends see to be that photo?" I asked. There was no reply. Investigate what their online profile is like, and keep doing it.

We also can't control what they text to one another. In school, our students are supposed to leave their cell phones in their lockers turned off, and we do everything we can to prevent texting. But it happens. Girls keep their phones in their bras or boots. Boys keep them in baggy pants or in hoodie pockets. Again, you're the one paying the bills . . . so check the texts and picture messages. And investigate. Talk about what the language means. About how those pictures never, ever, ever go away. And when all else fails, don't ever let them forget that you love them unconditionally.

I've been at school all week, working on getting the last bits of our online curriculum done. I have a feeling that this is going to be a labor of love and something that is never quite finished. And the whole time I've been working on it, I wonder what my new group of students will be like. Hopefully they take my suggestions.

- Jill


* For the record, I don't have any students or former students as friends on social media sites. When they graduate, I'll happily accept them.

A Certain Amount of Apathy

I picked the Girls up from school on Friday; finals are over, there's a week between now and graduation, and they needed a small break from the campus. Some how, on the way back on the Turnpike, we got on the topic of the Magic Bullet. Jordan commented that she wanted one for next year so that they could make sauces (cough, cough - mixed drinks) and such.

"You know, they make that now specifically marketed to people who want to make their own baby food," I said. "I kind of think making your own baby food is the way to go," Jordan said (at least I think it was Jordan . . . it's kind of hard to get the players right when you are going 75 mph on a road designed for cars in the 1950s). "I made most of your baby food because it was easier and cheaper than buying it," I added. "I think I'm too apathetic to ever have a baby," Shelby said.

When I thought about it a little bit later, I think I probably had a certain amount of apathy when they were little. Not that I ever looked at them and thought, "Whatevs . . . just sit there and do something with each other. I can't be bothered." But the whole baby-proof-your-house-within-an-inch-of-sanity was catching on, and truth be told, I couldn't be bothered with that. Outlet covers - that's about it. I've been in bathrooms before where I've had to ask people how to get their toilet seat up because it was either figure out how to use the baby-proofed lock or pee in the sink, which might have been easier.

A couple of weeks ago, their friend's mom had her second child, and that still takes me aback a little. First child: in college with them; second child: newborn. When I think about how much things have changed since the Girls were born as far as the gadgets and gizmos, I'd like to think that I wouldn't really alter how I approached motherhood . . . but I'm not sure if that would be true. Would I still sleep them on their stomachs? Yup. Would I still use an Infa-feeder? Probably not. No baby gate? Maybe. How about limiting television? Oh, my god, yes. A lot of what I did with the Girls I based on what my mom did with us. Is that pan hot? Here's a novel concept . . . teach your child that the pan is hot and will burn you. Don't want your kid to touch the shit on your table? Use the word no over and over and over again. Want your kid to read? Read to them and have books every where even if you don't like to read or consider yourself to be a reader. I know this might not work for every kid, but being slightly apathetic sure was a lot cheaper than buying the monitors that had video screens and heat sensors or covering every corner with foam rubber.

Even if your mom isn't a teacher as a profession, she was your first teacher. You probably learned all sorts of stuff that she never intended: how to let you win without making it appear so, how to cheat at cards, how to make something very mundane look incredible, how to stretch a dollar to an inch of breaking, how to make trips in a car fun, how to do a lot with a little. How do I know all this? I had a fucking brilliant teacher. If the Girls ever decide to have children, I hope they feel the same way.

Happy Mother's Day . . . to all the moms out there,
- Jill

So I Got a Compliment From My Girls

Been a while, right? Let's run down the list of usual suspects: February sucks (raise your hands if you agree), the weather sucks (keep 'em up), the news sucks even harder (can I get an "Amen"), and sickness has been rampant (what ever companies make Puffs, Tylenol Cold & Sinus, and Ny-Quil ought to be in double digit profits by now). Tie all this up in a shiny little bow called "life," and you get a pretty big dose of blog silence (there's always Flickr, don't forget).

It's been about six weeks since Dave and I dropped the Girls off in Philly for the second semester. In that time, we've chatted on a phone a bit, texted a lot, and sent numerous Facebook messages - most of which either dissected the location of Vietnam Restaurant in Chinatown and why their father should have his own Facebook site. We bought them Cheez-Its for Valentine's Day and some other goofy crap . . . but then they surprised us with news that they were coming home for President's Day weekend. Awesome! But only for the evening. Now so awesome!

It was a quick trip, one that enabled them to head to Target and pick up all the things that would cost double at a Rite-Aid near school. But during that trip, they paid us a pretty big compliment: we had raised competent adults. They know how to: pay bills on time, recycle appropriately, wash dishes, cook for themselves, care for an animal, write papers that get As, budget their time, save their money (or at least know that saving their money is a good idea), know when to leave when people are drinking, treat other people the way that they would like to be treated, talk to other people politely.

At first, I wasn't sure it was a compliment . . . but then I thought about it, and figured that they were right: we had, in fact, raised competent adults. Jordan is currently a student coordinator for the Honor's department's alternative Spring Break. So when we see her sister over Spring Break, Jordan will be working with different faith communities in Philly on outreach projects. Shelby finished her study abroad application for Heidelberg and will most likely be celebrating her 21st birthday nine hours before Jordan. There are plans already for grad school in California or Vermont and the studying of the Icelandic language and heading off for different countries.

But no matter where they go, they'll still be Other Baby and Other Baby, carefully scripting what they wanted the other one to say.

- Jill

Call It What You Will

epiphany (noun) - 1. the manifestation of a supernatural or divine reality; 2. any moment of great or sudden revelation; 3. Oh, crap.

Shelby and Jordan, Christmas 2010, who posed like that

So, you're 20, pregnant, and the Christmas holidays have just passed. You didn't have any money to buy both presents for your family and presents for the other half of your "dynamic duo." The holidays were kind of crappy because, well, you're pregnant and apparently huge according to anyone with an opinion. So you eat a few more cookies.

At your next doctor's visit on January 6, a nurse filled in all the information and told you that your weight gain was a whopping seven pounds. She even congratulates you on taking it easy on the cookies during a stressful eating period. But you know better . . . she subtracted wrong. It won't be long until she realizes her mistake; that was 17 pounds. So much for taking it easy

Seventeen pounds turns out to be a lot when you are pregnant. It sets off all sorts of warning bells and worried looks. And in twenty minutes, your life takes an even more bizarre turn. Seventeen pounds was an epiphany in every sense of the word. Twins: the manifestation of a divine reality; a moment of great revelation; oh, crap.

I count very few days during the year as truly special, but January 6 is one of those days. We never really celebrated the Epiphany in our house, but usually, it signified the end of the Christmas season. Mom had us take down the lights and the decorations, and we gave the Christmas carols one last hurrah before they were packed away for a ten months. Now, it reminds me all over again that sometimes things do work out but not without a lot of hard work and risk on your part. It makes me sit up and take notice about the world around me, especially how proud I am of my daughters because they were worth a lot of hard work and risk on my part. It puts a smile on my face knowing that I got something right.

- Jill

Why Toy Story 3 Kind of Sucked For Me

This summer has been weird, just plain weird. We got out of school a little on the late side of June (apparently, snow and ice are uncommon in northeastern Pennsylvania), but that's not very weird. I made a list of what to do for the summer, but that is not very weird either. However, it's been weird having the Girls home for the summer. When you see Erika's photos, they inevitably have images of the Boys playing or doing something fun or learning about life. My photos? Pretty much devoid of such cuteness because I have 19-year-olds. Getting them to pose for a photo or let me take a quick snapshot is an exercise in negotiation skills that any union boss in the 1950s would be proud of.

So, that weird summer, the one in which I am in a new phase of motherhood - and one that I don't know if I completely grasp as of yet - is about to come to an end. We have been all consumed by apartment shopping as of late. What do you need? What have we got in the attic? Where can we find a cheap dresser? Who's bringing the pots and pans? Remember that list I created? Fuck it . . . half of it won't get done now.

On August 14th, the Girls will be moving into their first apartment in Philadelphia. They are living in a converted warehouse that is full of modern amenities, ones that make a slightly paranoid mother feel good about her children living in the middle of one of the countries largest cities. They will be taking our couch, their Mimi's silverware, some Salvation Army pots and pans, a rescued kitten (who really, really has been kind of fun to have), and a whole assortment of "things necessary for modern life" with them. But they are leaving Bun-Bun and Sara at home. And that makes me a little sad.

Bun-Bun and Sara were their constant companions when they were little. Jordan couldn't get to sleep without rubbing Bun-Bun's ear on her cheek. Sara and Shelby snuggled tightly in bed every night. If we left Bun-Bun and Sara at a grandparent's house, then we turned around to get them. Once after I washed Bun-Bun, the dryer was set too high, and the rattle inside melted a little. It didn't sound right, and Jordan was distraught . . . so Bun-Bun had an "emergency rattle transplant" with Shelby's Mousie (clearly not the preferred stuffie). At our mom's house, we had her stitch up Bun-Bun's ear, and she thought she would "help" by adding some stuffing to Bun-Bun's middle . . . mistake. Jordan shrieked that Mimi had "ruined" Bun-Bun, so Mom had to remove the stuffing and make things right. Shelby named Sara when she was about 15-months and spent hours talking to her. Sara has that plastic-rubber face that is impossible to clean . . . but her five-o'clock shadow never got in the way of being snuggle worthy.

So, come August 14, the U-Haul will be loaded with all sorts of crap, but I'm pretty sure that Bun-Bun and Sara will be staying put. They will eventually make their way to the attic with the other toys that were cherished a long, long time ago. And that's alright. We all go through it eventually. Cooper will lose interest in his train blanket, Erika. He'll put it aside for something else like a skateboard, which he can't exactly cuddle . . . but if you don't wash it, you can occasionally still snuggle with it and remember when you were actually relevant in your children's lives.

- Jill