Age Disorder

Four of my children each experienced something new and significant over the past two weeks. As parents, it’s not easy to make sure overlapping events each get the proper attention they deserve and that no one child’s life takes over the entire family system. So we don’t. We divvy up our time and focus as best we can, but the division is not always equal, the demands of oldest and youngest children seeming to grab the lion’s share of the family space. At least this is what happened in my house recently.

Below are four major events in the lives of four of my children. They appear in descending order of impact on the family as a unit, that is, from the event that turned the whole house upside down to one that affected no one but the patient herself.

Milestone 1: My oldest took her first SAT 2.

This exam claimed first place by a landslide. I’m still trying to learn the lingo of today’s college prep generation. In my day we called them Achievements. That’s probably not PC anymore—we need to be sensitive to those children who might not be able to achieve. I also learned that these tests don’t really count the way they did when I took them. Today you can just show colleges the ones that you want to send, and most colleges don’t even require them at all.  Sounds a little bit like a Facebook profile—only show your best stuff—but then again, I’m told college is harder than ever to get into today, so these leniencies must not be all they’re cracked up to be. In any case, as parents, we’re new to all this. We are still trying to distinguish SAT from ACT. 

But she’s our firstborn, and we’re both firstborns so of course we had to take it seriously.  Proper tutoring. Mock test preparations. Rush scoring for the results. The week before the exam all siblings were instructed to treat the apartment like a library, whispering so as not to disturb Gabby’s studying. The night before the test, Gabby felt she needed her own room for the night, insisting that her other sisters triple up. “Obviously I’m not letting anyone sleep with me,” is how she put it. It was very nice she allowed them to sleep in the room next door and not down the hall. And even nicer that the twins were permitted to remain at home for the night. Then, she had to be at school to take the test at 7:45 am. She asked if it would be too much for us to wake up with her at 6, and give her a nice breakfast and keep her company while she reviews a few last minute charts and bullet points. Actually I think she said, “you’ll wake me and give me breakfast right?” And of course we did. In retrospect this was a rookie mistake. How will we do this for five more children? Answer: we won’t.

The night before the exam she actually had a bit of trouble printing out her admission ticket. We were out for dinner. I had to excuse myself to go home—and by go, I mean sprint since Gabby texted me to hurry since she wanted to be in bed by 11—and help her print it out. I was convinced there was a serious glitch in the college board electronic system, since never has Gabby or any of my children needed the help of someone from my generation to figure out something on the computer. She has never needed any assistance shopping online, discovering new apps, setting up a Spotify account. But this admission ticket really threw her. My dinner was over. We printed it out together and I tucked her in. “Oh can you set your alarm for 6,” she asked, “come wake me and let me snooze a little? I’d rather not set my alarm.”

“Sure Gabby.”

Milestone 2: Our youngest lost her first tooth.

This was a big deal. I mean, not as big a deal as a Bio SAT 2, but this was biology in real life, the first tooth to come out for our not even five-year-old twin. Her twin brother didn’t take it well. I’m starting to see these rites of passage will be tough with twins. He started crying his teeth are never going to come out as she stood there, with tooth in hand and a wide smile across her face, asking him if he wants to “watch” her put it under her pillow. Like a little puppy he went to watch. Then ensued a whole tooth fairy discussion. When their older sister, Lily, lost a tooth a few weeks ago, Eliana and Barry were petrified of the tooth fairy. “What if it’s a mean fairy?” What if the fairy kidnaps us?” “What if the fairy tries to kill us?” I tried as best as I could to explain the tooth fairy is a good fairy, succeeding to reassure Barry but unable to convince Eliana. She refused to go to sleep, convinced the tooth fairy was going to come into her room and take her away. In a moment of desperation to get her to go to sleep, I said, “ok there is no tooth fairy. I am the tooth fairy. I go into your room and take your tooth and put money under your pillow.” I know, pathetic of me, but we all know the desperation of wanting to get your kids out of your face and into their beds. Truth is I never had a child who was scared of the tooth fairy. The others caught on pretty quickly, although Lily actually believed until quite recently that the tooth fairy was her school librarian.

So now Eliana loses her tooth and when I tell her to put it under her pillow for the tooth fairy—she looks at me with the derogatory glance of a teenager disguised in a four year old’s body, “Mom, there is no tooth fairy, I know it’s you.” 

“No, I told her. That was what I told you when Lily lost her tooth since you were scared. I was kidding. There really is a tooth fairy.”

Now that she knew the tooth fairy was actually bringing her money, she was more amenable to giving it a go, though the questions ensued—does the tooth fairy take the elevator? Will she fly through the window? Should they leave their window open? With sweaty palms, Barry quivered with worry that the tooth fairy would close the door on her way out, leaving him in total darkness which he fears. We told him we’d be sure to tell her to leave it open. In any case, they went to sleep. We used to give silver dollars to our kids for each tooth. Then we realized that amount doesn’t really fly on the Upper East Side. Teeth go for a lot. I overheard one mother in the school elevator saying she gives $20/tooth. But this is our youngest kid, and she doesn’t know money just yet. Rob wanted to actually put some leftover Israeli shekels under her pillow, or some Zlotys I had from a Poland trip a few years ago. Luckily, we found a $2 bill, which Eliana delightedly discovered in the morning and waved across her brother’s face.  Meanwhile he is working hard to loosen his own teeth by eating large quantities of very crunchy, solid food.

Milestone 3: Barry learned how to stand up without using his hands.

Yes, a very big deal and his five mothers—I mean sisters—all applauded as if instead of conquering OT 101, he’d returned from climbing Everest. He felt like a champ.

Milestone 4: Lily chopped off her hair and had a tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy

Last and I guess least, our fourth daughter Lily had a momentous two weeks. First, she donated 8 inches of her hair, transforming her look completely. Inspired by a bar mitzvah boy’s project to collect 613 inches of hair to donate, Lily and many other students in her school went to the David Groshen Salon where David provided free haircuts and styling for this great cause. Her other sisters commented that with shorter hair Lily looked cuter and was less annoying. Lily took it all in stride, having very little time to fend off their comments. The following day she had a full tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. General anesthesia. Tons of pain. Knocked out on painkillers. Could barely eat or drink for days. As we were discharged from the hospital the nurse said to Lily—

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” Lily nodded yes.

“How many?” She asked. Voiceless Lily held up one hand.

“Five?” The nurse said aghast. ‘Well, make sure none of them asks you to do them any favors this weekend. It’s your turn to rest. Let everyone take care of you for a change.”

Lily just smiled politely.

Did she get her own room? Nope. Was the house kept quiet so she could rest? Nope. What’s worse, Gabby drank all the fruit punch boxes I had bought especially for Lily. Caroline finished her chocolate puddings. Barry polished off her yogurt smoothies. But Lily didn’t say a word—then again she couldn’t speak. She pointed to the Oxycodone or Tylenol when she needed it, but other than that, she refilled her own Gatorade, ran her own baths, played with the twins, and made sure to tell me that if anyone calls I should explain that she feels badly but she can’t speak yet on the phone. Thank God she was finally feeling better the night before the SAT 2 so she could sleep on the floor and give Gabby her private beauty sleep.

It’s not easy being in the middle, that’s for sure.

Are You My Mother?

When a child is born, everyone around seems to spend the first few months and years analyzing whom the child looks like. Friends, family everyone asks, examines and deliberates over various features, oohing and ahhing as they identify resemblances between a child and a parent.

When it came to my kids, there was never much deliberation. “Oh my God, she looks exactly like your husband. It’s scary.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that. It’s almost like I didn’t participate. Each time I had another baby, my mother would say “I love Rob, but I mean, how many versions of him can there be? Is anyone going to look like you?” We all know how babies are made, and as I’m reminded of as my oldest daughter is studying Punnett Squares in 9^th grade biology, aren’t genes supposed to COMBINE? OK my oldest has red hair. That’s where it starts and ends. My husband’s genes are so strong that some of my friends think that even if I had married someone else, my children would still look like Rob. Five girls, one boy, and they’re all clones of him, each one passing through my system, inviting in fifty pounds of baby weight and emerging as if she (and one little he) had been conceived by Rob and several other males in his family. Alright, well maybe the 7^th will look like me. Just kidding mom.

But I’m over the looks. There are lots of people out there with six kids who look nothing like them, I just don’t know any of them. 

What about personality traits, character, mannerisms, all of that? Well, here’s apparently where I hit the jackpot. All of my neuroses seem to have been transmitted effortlessly to all six, my older girls already exhibiting the nervousness and stress the night before an exam that I always did. Nail biting. Munchies. Sleeplessness. Wake me early to finish studying in the morning. Nerves are not in Rob’s DNA. Is it a girl thing? Apparently not. Barry might look like Rob’s twin on the outside—even down to body language and build, he walks the exact same way Rob does, does not run very fast like Rob (he’ll probably be a Soul Cycler)--but on the inside he’s well endowed with everything a growing boy dreams of being endowed with: strong Schacter anxiety. He’s afraid of the dark, afraid of a door closing, afraid of elevators. I’ve also given him a little bit of my OCD—he will not go to sleep until each and every one of his legos and cars are in a certain position on his dresser.

I’ve also done an incredible job ensuring that sensitivity and insecurity were passed on to the next generation. I always say Rob is a bit like Jan Brady. Do you remember in the Brady Bunch movie, where Jan decides not to wear her eyeglasses because she doesn’t like the way she looks? On her walk to school, as she crosses the street unable to see moving traffic, a car almost hits her, slams on its brakes, and the driver gives her the finger. Jan just smilingly waves back. That’s Rob--criticisms, insults, teasing, all of them roll off his back. He wouldn’t notice someone giving him the finger and if they did he’d probably say, “hey what’s up” and tell me how much he loves that guy. He’s not easily offended.

No Jan Brady genes in our kids. They’re more like high maintenance Marcia. They see it all, hear it all, and they care.  A lot. And for a long time. Nothing is rolling off anyone’s back. It sits on their back, piles up on their back, and stays there for days, weeks, even months. And it’s hard because Rob doesn’t really get it yet since as I’ve said he’s not genetically programmed this way. He hasn’t figured out that when adolescent girls break out with a few pimples, they don’t appreciate their father asking if he can play connect the dots. He hasn’t figured out that they don’t like when he says “let’s paint the town red” once a month. He hasn’t figured out that they don’t love comments about how much they’re eating—“girl’s gotta eat” he cheers them on when they’ve perhaps indulged a little more than usual. You’d think 15 years into raising a house of almost all girls, and being married to me, he’d start to learn from his mistakes and incorporate some of his daughters’ feedback but alas that hasn’t happened.

He also hasn’t learned that girls don’t want to be grilled about every conversation they had with every friend, and every comment every teacher made, and a literal play by play of every sports game or bar mitzvah party. Because what inevitably happens is that what starts off as innocent curiosity, and genuine fatherly interest becomes a runaway train of questions that eventually lead to answers that leave the interrogated daughter in a really bad mood.  And that’s something we try desperately to avoid.

I’ll give you an example:

It’s Saturday night and a daughter has just returned from a party or get-together:

Rob: How was the party?

Daughter: Fine.

Me: Great, cutie, good night. (short and sweet is how I play it)

Rob: Who did you hang out with?

Daughter: I don’t know, a bunch of people.

Me: Ok good night, get some sleep (I try again to get them out fast)

Rob: Were you included?

Daughter: Yeah, I guess.

Rob: Was someone mean to you?

Daughter: No

[note: daughter’s calm, happy mood is starting to fade]

[note: Rob does not notice and continues]

Rob: What did you eat?

Daughter: I don’t know I didn’t really eat.

Rob: Why didn’t you eat?

Rob: Did someone upset you?

Daughter [now with a combination of sadness and frustration on her face]: I don’t know Dad. Goodnight.

But unfortunately this is not good night. Now thanks to Rob, a distraught daughter returns to our room in tears convinced her social life is a mess and we then spend the next hour trying to console her while getting yelled at. Like Leslie Nielsen in the Naked Gun unknowingly leaving a trail of damage behind him everywhere he goes, Rob has not put it together that his line of questioning has brought about this turn of events. We’re dealing with girls I always have to remind him, girls wired like me.

But is it just a girl thing? Not in our house. When Barry did not find himself a winner at his sister’s recent “Cake Wars” birthday party, he spent the next hour crying hysterically to the 10 year old judge that she’s mean, and he’s so sad, and this was the worst day of his life. Sensitive? Yes. But Barry is not all Schacter. He might be overly nervous and sensitive, but he is remarkably unself-conscious as I saw last week at a school block party. Seeing a DJ and being too afraid to go on the bouncy slide with his twin sister, Barry opted instead to jump onstage.

Looks like Barry might be Schwartz inside and out.  

Spring Fever

There are several times of year where I feel the impact of my oversized family. Where my stress level rises beyond my new normal. Back to school season. Packing up the 8 of us for a trip. And right now. It’s this pre-Passover or Spring Break time—the time when before we know it the school year is over, camp is around the corner, and everyone needs new clothes and shoes, checkups, haircuts, visits to the dentist, orthodontist, dermatologist, and ophthalmologist (yes, apparently glasses are in because several of my children have declared sudden blindness and subjected me to endless pupil dilation sessions all to discover that miraculously they can see quite well).

Scheduling all of these appointments is not easy. Between school, afterschool activities, teams, speech therapists and occupational therapists, it is hard to find time in their day and mine—and some things will just have to wait another year. Like the allergist. I’m way overdue to bring Barry back for scratch tests for mustard and eggs, but he likes ketchup and Bendaryl has done the trick so far. And Lily’s around-the-clock Allegra is keeping her hives at bay. There just is no time.

The other nightmare is clothing this six-pack for the new season. I have to meet with each separately, fighting with them to try on last year’s summer clothing, so that I can then separate their wardrobes into three categories: still good, too small, and don’t like anymore (and probably never liked). In this last category I occasionally discover clothing with a price tag still on, one that l then raise in my hand and shove in the guilty child’s face like a wife who discovers some other woman’s underwear in her husband’s workbag. How could you? I am saying without words. I thought you liked it. Like the exposed adulterer, the child sheepishly apologizes, swears it was just this one time and it won’t ever happen again.

Having so many girls, people always ask me if I have so many hand-me-downs. And yes that’s worked with some things, which inspires me every year to neatly put away some clothing in clear comforter storage bags (like my mother used to) carefully marked with the size and the intended recipient to inherit the bag a year or two down the line. Waste not want not was my childhood mantra. But then that well-organized bag of clothing gets placed someplace out of my way and out of my sight, and I usually discover it just in time for it to no longer fit the child it was saved for.

Styles change too. Four-year-old Eliana wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress with smocking.  It would be pre-K social suicide. Lengths have also changed in the decade between my oldest daughter and youngest daughter.  If a skirt or dress even approaches the knee it is considered WAY too long. Also, as parents we know, not every one of our children is built the same. Growth spurts happen in ways we can’t anticipate. In my house in fact we have hand me ups. Four-year-old Barry hands his size 8 pants that no longer close and his dress shirts that no longer button to his seven-year-old cousin.

Upon completing my rounds, room by room, child by child, and jotting down lists and sizes of what each needs for the coming season, I then head to the computer to browse the various free shipping free return online retailers. Then begins my back and forth with UPS. They drop off. We ship back. They drop off. We ship back. Boxes come up, boxes come down. I feel like I work for a moving company. With rolls of Scotch packaging tape resting in my pocket, I spend most evenings printing out UPS labels, packing up boxes full of returns and preparing them for shipping.

Every night Rob walks in the door with a stack of five or six boxes, drops them on the floor and asks, as only a concerned father can: “what the hell is going on here? He’s a numbers guy so then he asks more calmly, “what percentage of what you order do you actually keep? Wouldn’t it be easier to just go to a store? Are you monitoring all of the returns and making sure they go back on our card?”

“Of course I am,” I say back to him, shaking my head and wondering what really happens to all those boxes I obviously never track and ship back to Zappoland.

And finally, there are the deadlines to be met, the dreaded forms that must be completed, child by child. Six tuition forms for next year. Six camp forms. Luckily, in today’s age, most of these forms are now completed online, but there are always those hard-copy medical forms that need to be brought in to the doctor and then sent off to school and camp. I currently have more medical forms printed out on my desk than some school nurse offices. 

Filling out camp forms this year was a little tricky with my twins. You see, their birthday is July 9^th. But in the course of planning a getaway last summer with my husband, and dodging the start of sleepaway camp, the end of sleepaway camp, the first day of day camp, visiting day at sleepaway camp, visiting day in day camp (yes, can you believe I have to visit my twins in day camp? Why do I have to visit someone whom I saw a few hours ago and will see again in a few hours?)

Anyway, in the course of planning an ideally timed trip, I avoided those conflicts and realized a few weeks before leaving that I was to be away on my twins’ birthday.  I felt horrible. No honestly I really did. I was never away on one of my children’s birthdays. I asked Rob if we should cancel and he looked at me like I had just asked him if he likes going for a colonoscopy.

“They don’t know calendar dates,” he said. “They won’t know it’s their birthday. We’ll wait and pretend it’s their birthday three days later, the day we get home.”

You know what they say about lies—one lie leads to another, which leads to another. The day camp where my twins go have a custom to call birthday children up to the flagpole during morning lineup. They give them a special birthday crown, and later in the day, their group enjoys a fun ice cream celebration. I couldn’t allow the camp to blow my cover. I had to call and speak to the office.  I started explaining that I’m not a crazy mom or anything (usually the giveaway that I am exactly just that) but I’m going to be away on my twins birthday by accident of course, blah, blah, blah and could they not call the twins up to the flagpole or acknowledge their birthday till I get back.

Silence on the other end of the phone. 

Then finally, “I think you should speak to one of the camp directors.”

So I re-told my story. Something got lost in translation and the director thought I was asking if the camp could wait till I came back from my trip so I could come to the flagpole for lineup with the twins. “I’m sorry Mrs. Schwartz parents are not invited to come to the flagpole or the ice cream celebration. It is just for the kids.” Omg I was thinking. Did they really think I wanted to come to camp? I barely survive the stupid visiting day. “No, you misunderstood,” I said. “I have no interest in coming or being there [I mean, I’m missing their birthday for God’s sake I was thinking] I just don’t want them to celebrate their birthday till I am home.”

A longer silence from the director. And some whispering in the background.

Finally, she came back on the line and said, “OK, I think the best way to do this is to just change their birthday in the system. This way there’s no confusion. No chance they will mistakenly be wished a happy birthday or anything.”

“When would you like their birthday to be?” She then asked me.

“How about the 12^th?” I said as if choosing a new birthday for them was completely normal.

“OK she said, I am changing it online right now. Their birthday according to our camp records is now July 12th.”

“Just remember,” she added, “to change it back next year to their real birthday date.”

And like that, they and we celebrated Barry and Eliana’s birthday of 2016 on July 12^th.

I remembered this as I reviewed the online forms for any incorrect information and saw the date 7/12/12 listed as their birthday. Some parents need to enter a change of address. Others need to enter a change of birthday. No one’s perfect. But at least those forms are complete.