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.

Let it Snow

Ah, the excitement I used to feel as a child when the forecast said snow.  No snowflake icons on our iphones, just a trusted forecast by a mustachioed TV weatherman.  Schools rarely canceled the day before. Instead, in the era before email—‘olden times’ as my daughter Caroline calls them—the announcement of school closings came with an early morning ding-a-ling-a-ling ring on a non-cordless, now choking hazardous landline, where some member of the PTA had been given my family’s name in her to-call list. Of course we didn’t even call them landlines then. We didn’t have non-landlines.

Now the news is delivered much differently. We certainly don’t need to wait and hear what Al Roker has to say. With the iphone, we are all meteorologists. We all see the weather alerts, blizzard warnings, and storm trackings. And, more often than not, our kids are quicker than we are to spread the news. My oldest texted me from school on Monday in all caps ‘NO SCHOOL TOM’.  She’s very busy, there’s no time in a high schooler’s life for the full word ‘tomorrow.’ I’m starting to get better at textish, a language of today’s generation that saves valuable time by abbreviating and acronyming whenever possible and has no standardized form of spelling. In fact, fully and correctly spelled out words seem to often cause confusion among young readers today.

Within another hour or two I received the email from school sharing the unfortunate news that in anticipation of the blizzard expected to hit the area on Tuesday, there would be no sessions. We were told to “stay safe and warm.” Yeah right. More like “stay sane and warm.”

My kids came running home from school elated. Knowing the night before that they could sleep as late as they would like, stay in pajamas all day, watch as many episodes of “Gilmore Girls” or “Grey’s” as they could ingest at once—they were in heaven. For a parent, I made the emergency runs to the supermarket, drug store and liquor store, the gloom settling in as I realized it was going to be me in a house alone with my six kids for a whole day. Unluckily for me, my babysitter’s train runs aboveground and was shutting down at 4 a.m. 

I can’t remember the last time I was alone with all six of my children for an entire day. I’m honestly not sure it has ever happened. My husband and I have done it together once or twice, but on Tuesday, my husband ran off to work suspiciously earlier than usual, with a gusto and determination to uber, walk, crawl if he had to, anything to get out of this house. Can’t say I blame him. “Good luck,” he waved as he ran for the hills.

I decided that if I stood any chance of being responsible, kind and loving towards my children, I needed to somehow find a way to squeeze in some exercise. Obviously, I’ve been living on the Upper East Side for a while. But let’s admit it, just as the school’s email came out and the dermatologist and orthodontist offices called to reschedule my Tuesday appointments, and every form of business, commercial life and city transportation shut down for the day, the emails came flooding in from Manhattan’s plethora of workout franchises. My preferred exercise, SLT (Strengthen, Lengthen, Tone to those who are not in the know) sent out an urgent avant-snow blast “NYC Studios: Open During Snowstorm!”

The good thing about a snow day and every bureaucratic office being closed is that I assumed most children’s services agencies must also be closed and that it would be perfectly acceptable for my eight year old to watch my twins while I indulged in some body conditioning. No of course I did not leave my children alone and go to SLT. That would be reckless. I ran down to the gym of my building. I had my phone with me, and my older girls, who are of appropriate babysitting age, but unwilling to babysit gratis for me, were technically there, they were just still sleeping.

With a good sweat and my head cleared I went back upstairs, just in time to hear a loud crash. No one was hurt, but a glass shelf in a medicine cabinet had shattered into a million pieces all over one of my children’s bathrooms. And several lotions, toothpastes and eye drops that had been sitting on that shelf had fallen into the toilet. Yay! Of course it was no one’s fault, but that never stops a mother from screaming at the top of her lungs and nonsensically placing blame on someone nearby who had nothing to do with it. I blamed both Gabby and Caroline for sleeping so late and keeping so many creams and toners that are expired and that they don’t even use. That, I told them, is why the shelf broke. It had nothing to do with the loosening pegs that were technically supposed to hold it in place. It was carelessness over their skincare. That made me feel better. Then I gave them the “what do you think this is, a hotel?” line. “Do you think someone is going to come and make your beds for you”? This is another thing a mother does when she is alone with six children for a day. Random rants.

I then decided that spending quality time with my kids on this cozy day was not in their best interest, so I threw myself into a project—cleaning, organizing and purging my kids rooms of toys, papers and junk that was cluttering up our apartment. I threw out or gave away half of what was sitting in my twins’ room. I might have overdone it. Barry has been looking for his plant he brought home from school last week. I told him it grew so tall I had to move it to the park. Eliana is looking for a candy bracelet, a set of stamps, and the rest of her glitter tattoos. I’m stalling with the “I’m sure they’re here somewhere. We will find them,” knowing full well they are now safely sitting in one of NYC’s landfills.

But I emerged from my household cleanse with a sense of accomplishment. Problem was it was only 1 pm. The rest of the afternoon went by about as fast as an MRI. By 4 pm, I decided it was time to make dinner and that everyone was helping. It’s rare that I allow my third grader to chop romaine lettuce with a Santoku knife, but anything becomes possible in a snowstorm. She did a good job too. 

The other girls helped set the table, roast vegetables, wash dishes, and Barry helped by staying out of the kitchen. Half a bottle of wine later, James Taylor Radio playing on Pandora (“what IS this bad music” they all wanted to know), Rob walked through the door at 6:34.

The truth is it ended up being a feel good day. It’s nice to know every once in a while that I can actually take care of my own children, get to know them a little better, have lunch with all of them at once, watch them bond with each other—thank you Gabby for building a Lego ship for Barry for one hour (she’s an oldest, she needs me to say that publicly). It feels good to know that I can do it. I just never want to do it again.

Well, at least not until the next snow day.

Au Revoir Les Enfants

My husband and I just got back from a 5-day vacation without our kids.  This was not the first time we left them. Otherwise we’d be dead by now. We try to do it as often as we can. Or as often as any couple with six kids can try to find a few free days to just slip away—no major work conflicts, no important school or extracurricular events we would miss, and of course the availability of grandparents to come and see what our insane life is really like.

The stars didn’t line up perfectly this time. Work was hectic for my husband. We missed our daughter’s ice skating performance. I know, bad, but it was only 45 seconds, and my mother videoed it, and I’d spent almost every Wednesday this year taking her to Wolman Rink which as every New Yorker knows is the worst, since no form of transportation can actually bring you anywhere near the entrance. I know, excuses, excuses. Our neglected Caroline was so nice about it too, but I’m no fool, she has my genes, grudges last, and the next time she gets angry at us we are sure to hear “and you didn’t even come to my ice skating show. You never would have missed something like that for Gabby.” I’ll be ready with the appropriate don’t be mad at me gift.

The babysitting situation wasn’t perfect either. We are blessed with two sets of parents willing and able to relieve us once or twice a year—and we do not take that for granted. And they don’t take it for granted that we will leave them in the hands of several wonderful round the clock babysitters to help them. But my father was away for a few days for a friend’s birthday trip. He threatened to cancel his trip if we canceled ours, and my mother was adamant that he really didn’t help her so much anyway—sorry dad—and that we should still go. So we did.

I remember the first time we left just one child. Gabby, my oldest, was eight months old and we had a friend’s wedding in a midtown hotel. We gave Gabby to my inlaws for the weekend and stayed in the hotel to turn the wedding into a pseudo minication. The weekend went by so slowly, I was literally counting the minutes until I would see my precious little Gabby again. I will never forget that Sunday morning waiting for her to be returned her to us. The excitement I felt, my heart pounding, we were literally standing on the street waiting for the car to pull up so we could grab her out of the car seat and squeeze her into our arms.

Oh how the times have changed. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when. But at some point I went from taking a sedative on the plane to ease my separation anxiety and needing to call home to check on the kids several times a day, to someone who now spends the time away praying for a major snowstorm to hit NYC the day before my return (it actually happened to us once, and it was amazing), and downing a few bloody mary’s on the way home to ease my togetherness anxiety. On this latest trip, I also found myself hoping that my older girls’ phones might somehow fall into a toilet and the iphone 7 would sadly not be available anywhere for another week.  I know, a little sick, but the fact is there was no need for me to call home, home called me, and texted me multiple times a day with what didn’t quite feel like time sensitive material.

“Mom, I’m tired.”

“My eyes hurt”

“Can we discuss my birthday?”

“Do I have to go to dance today?”

“I’m going to fail math.”

“I think I have a cold”

 “The test was fine”

“Can I leave school early today?”

“I’m in the mood for a juice generation smoothie.”

Going away used to mean a break from diapers and bath time and tantrums and early wakeups. It’s different now as my kids get older.  

But then there are the twins. I’m still not sure whether our son Barry even noticed we were away. Is this how men become so clueless? He was too busy on his sister’s iPad. seeing himself as part superhero television critic part AV guy, alternating Justice League viewings with constant charging of his handheld. He was measuring battery life, not our days of absence, as opposed to his twin sister Eliana who was monitoring our every move by the minute. She took control of my mother’s phone constantly asking how much longer we’d be away, where we were, what we were doing, and most importantly how many presents had we bought for her so far.

The only thing worse than the presents we have to bring back when we are away, are the presents we must send to sleep away camp when they are away. Normally my husband and I argue over the coming home gifts. He might indulge on where we are staying, and what kind of wine we are drinking, but the idea of purchasing our kids something from the hotel gift shop gives him heart trouble. He also does not want to spend any of our vacation time shopping for gifts. He is constantly telling me to wait, we’ll find something in the airport. I’ve listened to him in the past, each year finding ourselves scrambling around some airport choosing between shot glasses, coffee mugs, baseball hats and t-shirts that say “Ya’ Man” or “we be jammin.” or “grouper therapy.” Needless to say, these were never big hits.

This year, we decided to kick it up a notch. We went to St. Barths and the older girls had requested “Free in St. Barths” apparel, which, as we discovered, are anything but free. We even splurged on some cute bikinis and coverups for Eliana and a fancy French bathing suit for Barry, a matching one for him and his dad. All the Schwartz girls were thrilled. We made sure to bring home every hotel giveaway for Eliana since she was literally counting her gifts—she was puzzled by the sewing kit and shower cap, but we told her it was just for her. Unfortunately, four-year-old Barry took a look at his skimpy French bathing suit—which as a well-fed Jewish boy we had to size up to a 10—and threw it on the ground screaming his present is “so bad.” We scrambled to come up with something quick and told him we also got him something extra special, handing him our unopened Pop Corners they had given out on our Jet blue flight. He was elated, starting jumping up and down screaming “Wahoo” and ran back to his iPad. He was happy.

As for the rest of the gang, by the end of the night, I think we got tears from nearly every adolescent daughter—no, not tears of joy. Tears of payback. Tears that say, you went away, and now we’re all going to unload every bit of stress we’ve accumulated over these days without you and spare you none of it.  We are going to catch you up on all the dramas, meltdowns and irrational arguments you missed so that by the end of the night the peaceful sound of the waves, the taste of the rose wine, those double digit hours of sleep, and those beautiful novels you read will be a very distant memory.

As they say, there’s no place like home.