Six in the city is back. No, I’m not talking about my blog.
That would be kind of dorky. But literally, my six children are finally back in
the city. The abnormal existence we had for two months, commuting four children
ages 11 and under back and forth from Long Island to Manhattan so we could moderately
expand our living space is over.
The days of feeling like I am waking my girls each morning
to catch a Caribbean flight, to packing them a to-go bag of breakfast (waters,
protein bars, microwave pancakes in a Ziploc, dry cereal, you name it), to
having them all downstairs and dressed at 6:30 am, only to wait for their father
(read: their driver) who somehow always seemed to be the last one ready, to
picking them up at school at 4 or 4:30, racing to the car so we could try to
beat the rush hour traffic—which we never did, since it is always rush hour on
the Van Wyck—to making sure I had the right after school snacks for each child (all
different snacks, of course, sold from four different stores), to getting home
at 6:30 pm to say a quick hello and goodnight to my twins, to then starting dinner, showers, and homework
for everyone else, yes all that fun is over.
So we are now back to our physically normal lives—as New
Yorkers--where it is easier to see how abnormal our life really is. My oldest, who I know can read this blog so I
will be careful, is on the threshold of full blown adolescence. I find that
when she looks at me she often looks like she might have a kidney stone. Pain.
Disgust. Repulsion. These are some of the emotions that seem to come to mind.
(And remember, I am being careful). I remember those years so clearly myself,
which only makes me more fearful of what lies ahead. I went through it, and my
three sisters went through it. I know all too well the female adolescent talk,
the female adolescent mind, the female adolescent mood swings. My husband does
not. It is like she is speaking a foreign language, and he isn’t very good with
other languages. When he tries to talk
to her, he might as well be speaking Mandarin.
Each night we get into bed, and surviving another irrational
dialogue, we each sit in silence thinking the same thing—four more times. Four
more girls who will go down this road too, two of them basically in the on deck
circle. High school should be fun with a freshman, sophomore and senior girl
all at once. I know already how much patience, calmness, understanding, Klonopin
and scotch I will need.
I’m gonna gloss over children 2, 3, and 4 for a minute,
since essentially they get glossed over very frequently. I know, sad but true.
It’ll get better, I tell them and myself. The twins will get older, and the
oldest will be out of the house one day. I’m an oldest child so I can say that.
Besides, the middle children will be better adjusted, I tell
myself, so that I can believe my neglect is doing them a service. For example,
my five year old now climbs up on the kitchen counter, gets herself a plate and
microwaves her own Vitatop for breakfast. Then she fixes herself her morning
cocktail of grape juice and seltzer. Independence is her only hope for
survival, because at that hour I am also trying to deal with my twins, who are now
moving around everywhere. She simply got tired of waiting for me to prepare her
bowl of cereal.
Then there is my nine-year-old. “Mommy, I feel like you’re
not really listening to me,” she says when she is telling me a 20 minute story
about gymnastics or the book she might choose for her reading log (the story is
of course only 2 minutes long but it’s the longest two minutes ever). “What did
you say?” I say. And she says with an uncertain half-smile, “Are you kidding?”
and I just laugh and say, “of course I’m kidding.” Then I ask Rob to find out
the story I didn’t hear later that night, so I am all caught up.
“We’re supposed to do our reading out loud to you,” my
8-year-old tells me when I ask if she’s finished all her homework. “I know you
know it. “ I tell her. Or on a good night I say, “Read it to me while I
shower.”
Then there are my twins. It’s so nice to actually see them
again. During our stint in Long Island I saw them for a half hour in the
morning and fifteen minutes before bedtime. Every time they saw me they said
“bye,” since I was always leaving. Or at
least Eliana did. She is talking. Barry is not. But he is walking and she is
not. I’ve said it before, but it seems to be becoming more and more true every
day, they are the textbook definitions of “boy” and “girl.” When I say he
walks, what I mean is that he runs, crashes into walls, rubs his head like
humpty dumpty, laughs and gets back up to run. When I say she talks, she wakes
up every morning and recites the name of every sister. Then asks for her
“milk,” then asks to read “books” and at the appropriate time asks for
“Cheerios.” He says “uh” for just about everything and “na na” when he knocks
on the wall (I think he’s trying to say “knock knock”) which he loves to do
either with his hand or more often his head. Most recently, we’ve actually had
to remove the plastic crib protectors from his crib, the ones you put on when
your child is biting the crib and eating the paint. Her crib doesn’t even have
them, but his does, or at least did, until we discovered that he was pulling
them off the crib rail and throwing them every morning at Eliana’s head.
But it’s all fun—except maybe for Eliana--and of course
going by way too fast. I can’t believe my oldest is already at the point where
she hates her parents and our presence anywhere she happens to be is social
suicide. I can’t believe that my five year old is wearing a uniform to school
and losing teeth (though she actually believes the school librarian is the
tooth fairy so she’s not that grown up just yet). And I can’t believe that my
twins look like toddlers already and not babies. Barry desperately needs a
haircut. Every daughter I’ve had was bald till age three, but of course my only
son has long curly locks. I don’t want to cut them, despite the many protests
from other family members (and by other family members I of course mean my
mother, who says, “you finally have a boy, and now you want him to look like a
girl?”)
But I am not ready to take him to Cozy Cuts, have him sit
and watch Yo Gabba Gabba, and come out looking like a little boy, (after of
course choosing a toy that is double the price of the haircut.) I guess I want
to hold on to this double babyhood a little longer, since before I know it,
Eliana will be slamming doors in my face and yelling at me that I don’t
understand anything, and Barry, well, everyone says boys are easier when they
get older. We’ll have to see.
I just hope that in 15 years he’ll be the heartthrob of all
of his sister’s friends, and while all of his sisters are complaining about me,
he will be comparing all of the young girls he meets to his perfect mother.
