Play 'Gether

This post is for the parents of multiples whose kids are still under two. This is for the mom who sent this link to the twins club. Excerpt:

Things will never get back to “normal”—as you defined normal when you were single—when you were childless. Never.

This is true. We're deluding ourselves if we think that we can add any other human being to our family lives and still be the same person, the same normal that we were before. Never mind adding two at once! The thing to do, then, is to focus not on how you've lost your true self, but to see what's still the same, what's left at the core. And to nurture that. So maybe you don't go to yoga five days a week anymore. Maybe you have to redefine what "doing yoga" means—a deep breath is yoga.

But I digress. Let us back on track:

It changes. You get better. You grow. Learn. And that little squealer—that awesome toddler—that slightly evil three-year-old—he grows. Learns. Changes. It gets better. When you learn and change and grow and all that—it all gets better.

It does get better: now when the boys are fighting over a toy, I often hear one of them declare "play 'gether!" And they do.

This is what change, what better looks like: I spent an hour bored on the couch while my boys played a trashcan game. Pictured above: clearing out the bins in order to dump more trash.

More better: An outing to the park during which I spent 40 minutes "punching tickets" with my phone while the boys went for a "train ride."

This is a train. I believe they're dismounting...

D is collecting more tickets to punch. N seems to be meditating.

Not everything is photo-worthy, but also nice are the small daily kindnesses I see these two bestow on each other. Almost every skirmish over a toy ends with a "Here, Dashie!" or "Nicky's turn!"—unprompted by me. The ones that don't end that way end with words like "Dashie sad. Dashie cry." (often followed by "Here, Dashie!").

Most better: I was too tired to carry anyone from car to house, so I suggested that they find another way. Dash tried to get Nick to pick him up; Nick had a different idea.

Good idea, Nick!

How can we make holding hands even more fun?

Well, we could climb stairs while holding hands.

Almost two-and-a-half is tiring and frustrating in many, many ways. But it's still much easier than  juggling two newborns.

Talking to Kids

I'm thinking a lot today about how we speak to people, and even more, how we speak to kids. Now, I'm certainly no saint in this regard—my whole life, I've been told (mostly by my parents) that my tone of voice gives away my true feelings. But I'm working hard especially with my kids to be aware of what I say, why, and how I say it. The book Simplicity Parenting offers a lovely set of guidelines to consider before speaking:

Is it true?
Is it necessary?
Is it kind?

Not everything I say in my children's presence meets all three of these criteria (and certainly not when I'm eye-rolling to a friend about the woman I saw telling her 2.5 year-old to "use your core!" when lifting a heavy toy). But I do try to keep them in mind when I'm speaking to my kids. Why? In my experience, our kids understand everything we say, and internalize the messages we send with our tone and our body language, even if they don't actually know what all the words mean. 

Here's the gist of what it means to communicate with your kids (from Janet Lansbury's lovely post explaining the basics of RIE):

Be clear. Be honest. That's what our kids really need.

There's a world of difference between being frustrated and taking out your frustration on your kids. And learning to be kind and clear is hard, especially when you're trying to help your two toddlers brush their teeth and go to bed. Sometimes, you catch yourself turning into the Monster Mommy (you know, growly and cranky), and you have to stop and go in another room and take a breath. Or five breaths. And then you sit down with that toddler and listen, really listen to what he has to say (even if all he has to say is screaming).

Every day is another chance to practice.

Have you not lived?

"'He has spent his life in idleness,' we say; 'I have done nothing today.' What, have you not lived? That is not only the fundamental but the most illustrious of your occupations...To compose our character is our duty, not to compose books, and to win, not battles and provinces, but order and tranquility in our conduct. Our great an glorious masterpiece is to live appropriately. All other things, ruling, hoarding, building, are only little appendages and props, at most.
--Michel de Montaigne, "Of Experience"

I am writing this as I sit in a seminar full of Urban parents—it's a class called "Urban 101" in which we share a taste of what our students get in the classroom. We've read Montaigne's "Of Experience" and are convening on a warm April night to write and talk about the essay. I love this essay. I love reading it, and re-reading it.

Here's the prompt I gave the  parents (and myself): What's the story in your life that makes a passage from the text resonate with you? Write/ramble in Montaignian fashion.

I think of my yoga teacher, and her lessons on the tantric way of thinking about things. Montaigne is a tantric master, it seems. "When I dance, I dance; when I sleep, I sleep; yes, and when I walk alone in a beautiful orchard, if my thoughts have been dwelling on extraneous incidents for some part of the time, I bring them bak to the walk, to the orchard, to the sweetness of this solitutde and to me." Montaigne's urgent message to focus on the moment is tremendously appealing in a world that has too many distractions, so much of the time. (And of course, he's hardly the first to come up with this idea!) How many times can you cycle through website after website? How many times can you check your email? Why not go for a walk in the orchard? Why not pause to savor your morning coffee? Why not just stop and listen to the crying child instead of trying to shut off his emotions? (And can we talk about reasonsmysoniscrying.tumblr.com and how that kid is not being listened to? Even if it's really cute and funny, it's sad, too.)

My commute is long. What can I enjoy about it? The sunrise in my rearview mirror, the constant shifting of the clouds, the way the light gleams on the water and the sky shines cerulean.

The nights are long again. What can I enjoy about lying in the boys' room listening to them snore, when they wake up if I try to leave? The trickle of water on their sound machine, the blue glow of the night light? They are so small. This time is so short.

I made a two-minute video of Dash narrating his block-play to himself. Who will watch that? I will, when he's twenty and gone. And I will cry, missing his younger self.

This ramp. Car go up ramp see puppet show. (Yes, that blue thing is a puppet show.)

This is the thing about toddlers. Everything they do is done to the fullest—talking, sleeping, laughing, turning in circles, thinking about trains. They don't know about Facebook. They don't know about bills, or career changes, or moving across the country. This is what they know: snails. Grass. Trees. Looking at the bay. The wind! The sun is bright. Mommy is great, or frustrating, or going to work in the blue car. Daddy is amazing. Life is a neverending adventure. Savor it.