“I want to go home,” you said, ignoring social conventions that adults know too well.
“William, that’s rude,” I said and smiled apologetically at our hosts while helping myself to more wine.
You paused and tried again . “May I please have some go-home-now?”
You simultaneously broke my heart and made it stronger.
And then there’s your delightful sneakiness. You’ve always been our night owl, staying awake long after Vivian (and sometimes Daddy) falls asleep. You read, sing, and sigh, twist in your blankets to find that magical spot. Lately, you’ve added escape artist to this nightly ritual.
On several occasions, you’ve grabbed your duvet, commando crawled past the bedroom where Daddy was, tiptoed down the stairs, and hid around the corner from where I sat under lamplight. I usually spotted your bare toes first.
“William?” I’d say.
“Mommy,” you’d answer, stepping forward with your head down, pulling your duvet like Linus. “Can’t sleep.”
I’d look at you, trying to decide if I should send you back to your room or invite you to stay.
Usually, you’d make the decision for me.
“May I please have some up?” you’d ask. You knew that I could turn down neither good manners nor an extended hug. You were indeed an old soul, something my friend’s mom noted about you when you were just months old.
I closed my laptop, placed it on the footstool, and made room for you, your blanket, and the finite number of cuddles I knew lay ahead.
Heart you always.
Much love,
Mommy
PART FOUR
PRESCHOOL, OR WHO TAUGHT
YOU THAT?
EATING KIDS’ HALLOWEEN CANDY IS A
COMMUNITY SERVICE
For the first thirteen months of their Bangkok lives, Vivian and William wore socks once: for their Christmas trip home to winter wonderland. Living in a tropical country conditioned them to despise socks. Having sock-ist kids seems harmless. And it is, providing their toes don’t turn black and fall off when they endure Canadian winters.
Failing to pick up discarded socks, however, is not harmless. My body knows this, because one moment I’m picking up sock number nine for the day, and the next moment I’m doing an octogenarian shuffle, one hand planted in the small of my back.
Vivian and William have an addiction to shedding socks. They start with a single pair, and end the day with multiple socks, passed out all over the house, strewn about, some in pairs, some alone, some in groups. By dinnertime, it looks like we’ve hosted a frat party.
Chris does laundry loads of socks, and he bribes the kids to put their clothes away. One day I did some math and calculated that 112 percent of the socks belong to William.
“Now that Will’s in preschool, we need to help him kick his six-socks-a-day habit,” I said.
Chris looked up from his iPhone and asked, “Do you think there’s an app for that?”
Chris rarely criticizes me. I think he’s learned it’s pointless. Even when I leave twelve pairs of my shoes in our small entry or a knee-deep pile of clothes beside my bed, he lets it be. You can learn a lot from the way a person handles criticism. When he does dis me, I employ what he calls the Foghorn Leghorn approach. I ditch my rational brain and go into cartoon rooster mode. Disputes are settled with “You can’t tell ME what to do. I’m gonna DO what I wants to DO.”
Parenting Tip: When you’re arguing with your spouse over parenting issues, imitate a cartoon character to defuse the situation.
When Chris is criticized, he becomes silent, like a ticking bomb that needs to be defused.
Vivian goes into full-on, freak-out mode, eyes bulging like she stepped out of an episode of The Simpsons.
William reacts in his own way. He becomes Saving-Face Boy.
One day, William got tired of his sister stealing his favorite toy car, so he kicked her. Had her leg been a football, he would’ve scored a field goal.
“William!” I yelled. “No kicking your sister. Say you’re sorry.”
“No.”
“William?” I growled.
“No.”
“Then sit on the time-out chair until you’re ready to say you’re sorry.”
He climbed into the armchair. Choosing the coziest chair as the time-out corner wasn’t our smartest decision, but it does explain why I put myself in time out on a daily basis.
I comforted a crying Vivian, reprimanded her for stealing her brother’s toys, and sent her upstairs to see Chris.
Parenting Tip: Putting yourself in time-out is brilliant. Shackling yourself to the liquor cabinet is extra brilliant
I went back to the kitchen to work my way through my least favorite Sisyphean task: unloading and loading the dishwasher. I was cursing at a knife stuck in the cutlery rack when someone tapped me. I turned around and saw William with a gigantic grin on his face. He was dressed upside down. In the place of his pants was his shirt; he’d stepped his legs into the shirtsleeves and was holding the shirt’s waistband up to his belly button. On his head was his underwear.
“William,” I said, “take the underwear off your head and put it back on your butt.”
Saving-Face Boy smiled.
“And then go say sorry to your sister, OK?”
I picked up his pants and watched him waddle up the stairs in search of his sister.
Days later, after Vivian had taken a few tours of duty in the time-out chair, it was William’s turn again. He sat there stoically while I prepared dinner, which involved measuring the water to boil macaroni in. When I had finished pouring in eight cups, I looked into the living room. William was nowhere to be found. Vivian, however, was relaxing in the time-out chair in an interesting outfit.
“William?” I called. “Come finish your time out.”
Vivian answered. “It’s OK, Mom. I sent him upstairs. I’m finishing his time out for him.”
“You’re finishing it? Did you volunteer for this job?”
“Yes,” she said smiling.
“Interesting,” I said, my automatic reply when I’m speechless or not listening.
Chris looked up from the newspaper, enjoying his night off from cooking. “Look out,” he said, “they’re starting to band together.”
“I know,” I said.
Then I turned my eyes to Vivian and the outfit she had changed into since arriving home from preschool. She was sashaying around the kitchen in black sparkly tights, a red sleeveless shirt she thought was a dress, and more bling than a rapper at a jewelry show.
She paraded towards the table, where I was trying to enjoy a late afternoon cup of tea before the Kraft Dinner water boiled. Vivian executed several catwalk turns but all I could notice was her lack of pants.
I must not have imbibed enough caffeine that day. I blurted, “You are not wearing that. My number one job is to keep you off the pole.” I had burst her bubble.
“Don’t I look beautiful?”
“You do, sweetie. You’d look beautiful in a paper bag. But you’re not wearing that either. Not even for dinner.”
Vivian paused. “What do you mean I can’t go on the pole?”
At this point, Chris put down his newspaper. He smiled.
“Not only did you steal that line from Chris Rock,” he said, “but you have to explain yourself.”
“Well, Vivian,” I said, “if you wear clothes like that, you can’t climb up the poles on the monkey bars because people will see your underwear. Please go change.”
I got up, poured the Kraft Dinner out of the box into the eight cups of boiling water, and persuaded her to wear something less Gaga-ish. I could multitask when I had to.
“See?” I said to Chris. “I can steal and adapt.”
The one time it’s acceptable to dress like a skank is Halloween, God’s gift to wannabe prostitutes. I suck at Halloween. I also suck at birthdays, Thanksgiving, and Easter. I do a half-arsed job with Christmas.
I approach most ma
jor holidays with a two-step strategy: (1) procrastinate, then (2) cram. Why shop ahead when stores are open December 23? Why buy a birthday gift when your husband purchased six Rubbermaid containers filled with LEGO at a garage sale last year? Why ask your children what they want to be for Halloween when you have twenty costumes in a trunk in the basement?
It’s worked so far. What we save in money, we’ll pay for in therapy.
Vivian and William were born under the Gemini sign, which makes them twins born under the sign of twins. How freaking unoriginal. According to the high science of astrology, my children display the following traits: they are versatile, lively, and responsive. Although these characteristics describe every child who isn’t comatose, they are still fairly accurate descriptors of William and Vivian. Lively? Yes, just drop by my house at 6:00 AM any day, especially weekends. Versatile? Yes, if five-minute Jekyll to Hyde transformations can be evidence of that. They aren’t usually responsive, unless they’ve consumed chocolate, and then they turn into Tasmanian Devils on Speed.
Tasmanian Devils on Speed are the mascots of Halloween, the holiday that lasts longer than merited. From picking up candy wrappers under the couch to refereeing wrestling matches over who owns the last bag of Doritos, Halloween creeps into November like a zombie elf.
Every year on October 30, I tell Vivian and William, “Go downstairs and find a costume.” They get bonus candy if they choose an outfit that fits them and another if they choose one that accommodates a snowsuit.
William would be happy enough to trick-or-treat in his underwear with a towel around his neck: Super Boxer Boy. Vivian is a bit more work. But she gets bonus candy for creativity.
That particular Halloween, she went as an elephant ballerina. Yes, she added a pink tutu over the gray elephant costume. Before we ventured out into the near-winter temps, she danced for us.
“That is the best pirouette by a pachyderm I’ve ever seen,” I said.
And it was.
The best part of Halloween is not the costumes, but the candy you can steal from children, preferably your own.
The day after Halloween, I placed the candy bowls on top of the fridge in the interests of controlling chocolate-induced misbehavior. This way, I could be the Queen of Candy Dispersal. This worked until my subjects staged a rebellion.
The Saturday following Halloween, while I attempted to sleep until seven, William and Vivian went downstairs for a snack. Normally, they’d grab an apple or a bagel but not this time.
When I awoke to silence, I trudged downstairs to find this scene: William stood on the cupboard, passed chocolates to Vivian who used scissors to remove the packaging. It was a streamlined assembly line that, if copied on a larger scale by North American automakers, would boost their productivity tenfold.
Judging by William and Vivian’s chocolate-covered clown faces, they were enjoying the unionized coffee breaks.
I shut down that workplace fun and relished my role as foreman.
Later that night, after Vivian and William were passed out in a sugar coma, I revisited my plan. I saw my favorite, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
“Are you eating the kids’ candy?” Chris asked.
“Hm-hmmm,” I replied.
I chewed and then added, “Eating kids’ Halloween candy is a community service.”
He looked unconvinced so I continued.
“Seriously, they’ll have fewer cavities and fewer fights.
The community wins.”
“No,” he said. “You win.”
“Of course I do. I am the community.”
Parenting Tip: To ensure your kids don’t get cavities, eat as much of their Halloween candy as possible.
WE CAN USE THE MONEY FROM THE KIDS’ ACCOUNT
TO PAY THE CREDIT CARD BILL
Chris’s parents volunteered to look after William and Vivian at our house that fall so Chris and I could jet off to Virginia where my close friend was getting married. It was our first time away from our kids, who were now four years old. We stayed in an old plantation mansion bed and breakfast, in the James Madison room. I remember because the portrait of President Madison was so lifelike, his eyes following me around the room, especially when I undressed. A hand towel covered the picture for the remainder of our stay.
While I was being ogled by President Madison in Orange County, Grandma and Grandpa were entertaining William and Vivian in suburbia. Chris’s parents had come bearing their usual gifts: ten pounds of organic beef, homemade pierogi, and bags of loose change. This time they brought something else: a Snakes and Ladders game.
This was a problem.
I’d tried to introduce board games before. Checkers weren’t successful, even with coaching. Vivian had a first-rate meltdown when her dad crowned his third king. This was the girl who felt slighted that her brother won the out-ofthe-womb race. Since that day in 2004, she had to win. After she kicked the entire checker board, causing a black and white hailstorm, Chris remarked, “Now I know how Michael Jordan’s parents felt.”
When Chris’s parents babysat so their son could shoot AK-47s in rural Virginia and so I could help the bride with wedding preparations by drinking margaritas, Grandpa decided to introduce his grandchildren to the timeless Snakes and Ladders game. I know because he recounted it to us several times when we returned. Usually through fits of laughter.
Grandpa took William into the living room with the game board and pieces. Grandpa explained the game, trying to get William to focus on the rules rather than classifying the venomous snakes. Grandpa started the game, listening to William spout a myriad of snake facts.
“Come on, William,” he said. “Now it’s your turn to throw the dice. Go on.”
When Grandpa told this story, he always paused at this point.
With an invitation to throw the dice, William did just that. He launched the dice across the room with a fastball throw.
It took them fifteen minutes to find both dice. I was onto my second margarita in that same time frame.
I had, however, experienced dice throwing on my own. During a weak moment when I decided to try to parent we tried Clue Junior. This is the script from our first game:
Vivian: “I made a mistake, I get to go again, it’s not fair, I didn’t mean to!” Tears welled up in her eyes.
William: “If she goes again, she’s cheating.” He threw the die.
Me: “Let’s stop and call it a tie.” I pick up the game pieces, including the die in the adjacent room.
William: “I never win. No one loves me.” He exited to weep on the staircase.
Vivian: “Let’s sell this game.” She stepped over her brother, stomped upstairs, slammed the bedroom door.
Vivian’s idea was one possibility: sell all the games. Another one was to hire a babysitter and go out without the kids.
Going to Virginia was a one-off trip. Chris and I had hired babysitters for a couple hours, but that was infrequent. This disappointed our twins. They’d always loved the scant time they’d had with babysitters, even if Vivian and William didn’t always understand the job description.
When Vivian was a toddler, she asked, “Mom, do babysitters sit on babies?”
I asked her to repeat herself. I tended to tune out my children until I sensed there was some substance in their comment.
Parenting Tip: Develop selective listening skills. Practice on your spouse.
Vivian repeated herself.
“No,” I said, “babysitters don’t actually sit on babies.” I paused. “Has your babysitter ever sat on you?”
Vivian laughed. “No,” she said. “But why are they called babysitters?”
I gave her a nine-minute lecture on etymology and root words. She left after the second minute.
I was confident that Vivian and William’s babysitter not only never sat on them, but also never lectured them. Because they adored her. I had a few theories on why they loved having other people look after them.
Theory One had to do with the fact that Wi
lliam and Vivian are twins. There was comfort in numbers, especially when your partner-in-crime had been with you since the womb. It also couldn’t hurt when you outnumbered your babysitter 2:1. Odds like this increased the chance that you were running the family enterprise, especially when the CEO and CFO were AWOL.
Theory Two as to why our kids loved babysitters was because William and Vivian spent their first year in Thailand. It all went back to the Coca-Cola deliveryman, waitresses, and drunken women cuddling our twins.
Theory Three as to why our kids adored babysitters was that we were lousy parents. We no longer read parenting books bettering ourselves nor had we ever carved pumpkins with them. We were just kind of there. We once took Vivian and William sledding on New Year’s Day, and that was pretty much the Event of Their Lives. I figured if you set the bar low, it was easy to maintain the standard. Needless to say, when they had a babysitter, the endless games of hide and seek and make-believe fueled their love for their babysitter and provided a foil for our lackluster parenting.
Parenting Tip: Dare to be lousy parents; your children will love having babysitters, which means you’ll go out more frequently.
One Saturday morning, my twins plotted in a corner, eventually sending Vivian to me as an envoy.
“Mom,” she said, “we haven’t seen our babysitter in a while.”
“That’s because Daddy and I haven’t gone out in a while.”
Vivian paused, looking back to William who was eavesdropping. “Can you guys go out?” she asked.
I took her hint, called our babysitter, and informed Chris of our evening plans.
The rest of the day passed slowly, as it often does when you have children.
William broke the silence that didn’t exist. “How long until she comes?”
I looked at my watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” William repeated. He gazed out our picture window, eyes big. “But, Mom, it’s really dark outside.”
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