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.  

The 26.2 Mile High Club

In the birthing class that I took before having my first child, the nurse—not a pretend baby nurse who bought scrubs from buycostumes.com, but a real nurse from the Mount Sinai labor floor—told us, as I’d heard many times before, that giving birth to a child is like running a marathon. That’s how much energy you exert, that’s how tired you will feel, that’s what physical duress your body experiences.

What became very clear to me last Sunday, November 2, as I crossed the finish line of the New York City Marathon for my first time, was that this nurse clearly never ran a marathon. I’ve given birth five times, last time a double whammy—two sessions of pushing 17 minutes apart—and that was all a piece of cake compared to the pain I experienced running 26.2 miles around our city’s five boroughs.

I knew from the moment I saw that strange wind icon on the weather app of my iphone I was in for a ride. I just didn’t know that I was literally in for a ride, getting blown around a few times crossing the bridges. Spilling Gatorade inside my sneakers before I started was not helpful either. And having my iphone go from 88% battery level to 1% on mile 2 made carrying it in my hand with headphones in my ears, feel awkward to say the least. I had some great marathon playlists I’d prepared, and I was addicted to the app Map My Run, announcing my completion of each mile, my overall pace, my splits, and all this other jargon we psycho marathoners want to know. For 26.2 miles (yes the .2 makes a difference), images of fainting, vomiting, dehydrating, breaking my knee, breaking my hip, maybe even dying flashed through my head, wondering what possibly had possessed me to do this in the first place.  

I had made the decision over the summer. I had always liked running, was very comfortable running four or five miles a few times a week, and said to myself—hey, how hard can this be? I’ve watched the marathon, I’ve seen a lot of these marathoners, and let’s be honest, they’re not all built like Greek gods. If they can do it, I can do it. That, and I got a little tipsy at a wedding and decided to reach out to the director of a wonderful charity organization called Beit Issie Shapiro  (http://en.beitissie.org.il) and ask for one of their guaranteed marathon spots (no, it’s never a good idea to drunk email). By the time I sobered up the next morning, I already had an elated response, taking me through the sign-up process, Staten Island Ferry and baggage arrangements, and telling me how much my fundraising effort will mean to the physically disabled children in Israel that Beit Issie seeks to support. And so, it looked like I was officially running the marathon.

I thought I’d wing it. A few normal jogs, some long runs, no biggie. But everyone told me I needed a program, so I signed up for a New York Road Runners 16-week virtual training program. Yes, as in I never communicated with someone live (I don’t even know for sure that he was alive), only through email, and took his daily schedules, tips, and suggestions as gospel. Hydration and energy strategies (to Gu or not to Gu?), emphasis on stretching, sports massages, the right shorts, how to prevent chafing, the perfect sports bras, you name it. He was a real wealth of information. It’s hard to believe I did this in retrospect but I even reached out several times to my  “virtual coach” with questions—my husband was always convinced my coach was a 500-pound couch potato who’d never run down the block, let alone a marathon—but I believed in him. Even if he seemed to answer most of my questions with brief retorts like “keep it up” or “keep at it” or “don’t worry” or his absolute favorite “let’s see what happens on the next run.”

As the race approached, though, I did start to notice there were some similarities between the marathon, and maybe not labor, but pregnancy. I had to start limiting my alcohol. No drinking Saturday nights since Sunday was always my long run day. I found myself getting very dehydrated all the time. I was hungrier. Knees, hips, and my back started aching all the time. I had trouble sleeping. I was getting muscle spasms. I packed all my gear for race day well in advance just as I packed a hospital bag before having a baby. Multiple layers were laid out in a marathon corner of my bedroom, along with all kinds of foam rollers, stress balls and other, what I can see in retrospect, were somewhat obscene looking objects.

And the excitement only built in those days right before, as they do before one’s due date, nervousness and excitement all bottled into one. I went to the Javitz Center where the 50,000 plus runners go to get their numbers, and shopped at the Expo like a pregnant woman picking out her first layette. I was buying t-shirts for the whole family (matching ones that said “My mommy is faster than yours” for my twins), new socks for me, all different kinds of head warmers, hats, gloves, even an insulated TCS NYC Marathon coffee cup. I had marathon virgin written all over me.

But the fact is I hated every minute of the race. I’d be lying if I said I got that runners’ high, or a high from the crowds, or a high from seeing my kids standing in the cold holding signs. I could barely crack a smile. I was in so much pain and I was so cold. All I could think about was the famous “Seinfeld” when Kramer gives the Kenyan runner a cup of hot tea during the marathon and how much I’d love a hot beverage myself. Perhaps my expectations had been too high. So many people had told me the marathon was the best day of their life.

I finished though. I made it to the end. And at many points I really wasn’t sure that I would. I was immobile that whole night, frigid, faint, tired, nauseous, responding to my day full of texts once my phone was recharged with “never again” or “I’m one and done.” I took a hot bath, a bowl of chicken soup, three Advils, and went to bed.

I spent the next two days walking around like Kevin Spacey in “The Usual Suspects,” but by Wednesday I was back and feeling normal. And then the unthinkable happened. I actually started reminiscing about the fact that I actually ran the New York Marathon—nostalgically recalling the early morning ferry ride, the sounds of Frank Sinatra blasting across the Verrazano, the random people who stood along the whole course watching and screaming “Erica, you can do it” “Erica, you got this” “Erica, you look great” (if you couldn’t tell I had my name on my shirt), the musical bands playing all along 4^th avenue in Brooklyn, the runners who stopped to take selfies on the Queensboro Bridge, the runners who vomited on the side of Fifth Avenue then kept on going, the runners who waited on long lines by the port-a-potties, the clock ticking away, instead of running inside a course-side Brooklyn diner, Queens nail salon, and Harlem White Castle like I did (yes, three bathroom stops for me, the bladder from six natural deliveries has its racing drawbacks), the excitement when you hit First Avenue, the excitement when you turn into Central Park, the letdown when you leave Central Park, the relief when you re-enter Central Park for the final meters. Yes, all of it came back to me.

And, as we so often do in life when we use some revisionist history, I decided that it was actually a great day, one of the best days of my life, and assuming no limb on my body worsens significantly before November 1, 2015, I think I’ve got to do it again.

I guess in that sense the nurse was right. It is a little bit like having a baby.  

Seven in the Sky

Don’t gasp, it’s not what you think. I did not have another child. First of all, there’s no time to make another child. Second of all, there’s no time to take care of another child. And third of all, seven in the city just doesn’t have a good ring.

But we did take a good friend’s child with us on the plane to Florida this year. We were simply his flying companions, responsible for transporting him safely to his camp friend’s family in Miami, and then returning him safely to New York. As if we didn’t get enough looks last year with our six, this year, with an 11-year-old boy in our crew, you can imagine the flood of questions. “Are these all yours?” everyone asked me at the check-in counter, the gate, on the plane, anywhere we went. “No of course not,” I would say and they would smile with relief. Then I’d say, “Only six are mine,” as if seven would be crazy but six is totally normal. And they would nod in what appeared to be a combination of shock and disbelief, clearly wondering if their seats were near ours on the plane.

I am getting used to these looks now and in some ways I kind of enjoy it. It gives me a new identity. I am “the one with the six kids.” Rob and I went out for dinner one night in Miami—my inlaws took the older four to a movie and we hired a babysitter to stay with the twins while they slept—and at the restaurant an older man started staring at me. He got up from his table and came over and said, “you look very familiar.” He did not look familiar to me, and my husband looked a bit suspicious until he said, “wait a minute, you’re the one from the plane. The one with all those kids.”

This trip was harder than last year. Yes, we did have our special “oversized family” easy access through security. We were the ones that as soon as they saw our herd approaching, they immediately opened an additional line for us and for the wheelchair assisted senior travelers. And yes, our double stroller was too big to collapse and fit on the security conveyor belt, so I was permitted to simply walk it through—which is a parents’ dream when traveling with young children, but that’s where the perks ended.

For starters, holding two 18-month-olds on your lap for a flight is not as easy as you might think. As you know, they don’t exactly like to just sit still at this age. We did a lot of walking up and down the aisles. Unfortunately, though, on the flight home, due to stormy conditions they never turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. That was fun. Luckily though we had ipads with every known episode of Yo Gabba Gabba on it. But unluckily we had a stewardess who declared that two babies cannot sit on laps within a row of three seats. Obviously she never had twins and never knew anyone with twins. So Barry and Eliana could not watch a show together, but instead we had to alternate and give the ipad to whomever was screaming louder.  Which, unfortunately for those sitting near us, was often a very tough call. But that’s the good thing about Florida. It’s close.

The other good thing about Florida is that medical care is easily available. The twins were healthy for a full 24 hours and then Barry came down with some pretty high fever, and a bad cold and cough. As all of us parents know, there are two ways to address sick children. We can run to the doctor immediately. Or we can ignore them and wait it out. I am normally someone who goes to the doctor pretty quickly, since my children have a tendency to get strep and so I always want to start the antibiotic asap—so I can send them back to school asap. But in Florida I decided to give it a few days. And yes, ignore it a little. I did that thing where I pretended maybe he was just hot from the temperature in the room not from any ailment. Or that he was teething (the oldest excuse in the book). Besides, Barry had a very wet cold and cough, and so I figured, at the most it’s a virus. And since he was sick he was very fatigued, taking long naps and waking up in the 7’s for the first time in his life--which for us was a good thing.

By day five though I decided it was time to sober up from my poolside “Ginger Mints,” (the hotel’s more alcoholic take on a mojito) and Absolute Pear with an itzy bitzy splash of seltzer and come to terms with the fact that I had a legitimately sick child who should probably be seen by a doctor.

I texted one of my old Harvard friends—whom I was planning on getting together with anyway, since we reconnected on what else? Facebook--who is a practicing rheumatologist in Miami and asked her if she had a pediatrician she recommended I try.   She told me her next door neighbor is a pediatric dermatologist and that she’d be happy to take a look at Barry. At her house. During winter break. With her whole family home. On her own free time. No, I certainly was not in New York.

Rob likes to tease me about the loser school I went to for college—the Michigan of the East as he likes to call it, U of M being his alma mater—but none of his Michigan friends seemed to be practicing medicine in the area, while my old roommate Elana picked me and my twins up at our hotel at 7:30 am (after she was done making rounds) and drove me half an hour away for a quick sick visit, then a drop off back at the hotel. “Don’t sweat it,” she said as if gestures like these were the most normal in the world. “This is how we roll here.”

 It turned out Barry had a double ear infection and some developing bronchitis. So much for my maternal instincts. Eliana, the doctor said, whom I brought along for the ride because she had woken up with fever that morning too—yes, shockingly, sharing sippy cups apparently DOES transfer germs--looked a day or two behind him.

The hardest part of this trip though was not the physical condition of my twins, but their emotional condition. Unfortunately, they got very comfortable spending time with me.  I spent more one on two time with them that week than I probably have since they were born, and so they have been a little clingy since we’ve been back. Who do they think I am? They seem to have forgotten they’re numbers 5 and 6. It hasn’t been so easy to leave them with our babysitter as it was before I left, but don’t worry, I will set things straight.  I plan to spend very little time with them in the coming weeks.

Besides, as we did last year, Rob and I realized that the only way to recover from a vacation with kids is a vacation without kids. We immediately booked my parents to come in two weeks so we can escape for a long weekend together without any minors. My older girls get a little offended when they see how excited I am to go away. But I try to turn it around on them and say something rhetorical like “I know you all need a break from me.” Or “it’s so special to spend alone time with your grandparents.” Or my favorite, “You guys are going to have so much fun without us, you won’t even want us to come back.” Have any young children ever not wanted their parents to come back?

They’ll be ok, I know. I just need to recharge—sleep late, read some adult literature, eat relaxing meals with someone whom I don’t have to take to the bathroom. A few days of this is all I need.

Wisely, though, my parents just asked that before we leave we show them our return ticket.