Book Review: Knock Yourself Up

Just over a month ago, I found out via Tertia that Louise Sloan was looking for bloggers to review her book Knock Yourself Up, "a primer for single women who are considering what it means to be a family and thinking about starting one on their own" (from the Avery press release). I was intrigued. I'm not the type of single mom by choice that is profiled in the book, but I am a single mom. While "choice" is not the word I'd use to describe my situation, at the time that I got pregnant, I did know that ultimately I was going to be caring for Maddie and Riley on my own. So I was curious about the experience of other women, including Louise (I'm going to pretend she's my BFF and call her Louise), who are raising kids as the sole parent. Frankly, I was hoping for some reassurance and some tips because oooooo boy, I could use them.

I'd heard of Knock Yourself Up before e-mailing Louise, and I knew there was some controversy about it. I contemplated reading up on the hubbub, but then I decided that I really didn't care. I can imagine that there are people up in arms about how awful it is for single women to have children. How terrible is is for kids to be without a father. How selfish it is for women to go it alone. (Am I right?) Regular readers of this blog know how I feel about all that. I decided that it was best to just dive in, blinders on, and not filter Louise's content through the lens of media hype.

Knock Yourself Up is part memoir, part girlfriend's guide, and, in small part, literature review. Louise makes the purpose of her book clear in her opening author's note, "Love Makes a Family." Research is cited when relevant, but the feel is not heavy-handed and the book is not meant to be a compendium of studies on single motherhood. For those who want a more academic look at the subject, Louise points the reader to some solid choices throughout the book and in the comprehensive bibliography.

Louise takes the reader from the decision-making process through the first year of single-motherhood and even a bit beyond. Along the way, she talks to 43 women from all walks of life. I admire that Louise made a sincere effort to talk to gay and straight women of all races, although the economic background of almost all of her interviewees are solidly middle class. An ability to laugh at the absurd prevails among Louise and the women she interviewed; anyone who can't laugh about exploding vials of semen is probably not going to relate to the tone. Luckily for me, I find humor in all kinds of unexpected places, and, as a college-educated professional, I was comfortable with the demographic of the women whose stories are featured.

Louise discusses in-depth many things that I did not have to consider due to my own situation. She devotes chapters to choosing a sperm donor, telling people that you're becoming a single mom, and how to get the support you need going through pregnancy and childbirth on your own. I learned quite a bit from those chapters, and laughed quite a bit, too. In the sections that were more relevant to me—those that dealt with fitting in a social life, balancing work and family, and dealing with finances—I found myself nodding my head a lot. Not that I agreed with or could identify with everyone or everything, but the overall experience rang true.

Louise's tone is warm, honest, and funny. She is totally without pretense. I could hear hear talking as I read, and could easily imagine that I was sitting in her kitchen or at a coffeehouse in Brooklyn chit-chatting with her and picking her brain about the ins and outs of parenting. At times, the tone was a little too rah-rah for me, a little too forced. And therein lies the only real issue I had with the book. I find being a single parent incredibly difficult. Most of the women in the book—Louise included—are surprised by how easy it is, or at least how much easier it is than they expected. My own experience has been that it's much harder than I would have guessed. I feel in my heart that I can't be alone in that, but the difficulties of single-parenting are not given deep treatment and the hard stuff feels a bit glossed over by the refrain "yes sometimes it's hard but I love my child so deeply that in the end, it doesn't matter." True. To a certain extent. But I, personally, would have appreciated a more in-depth look at challenges and coping strategies.

Louise acknowledges imbalance towards the positive in the book's final chapter, "Infinity and Beyond."

Yet I couldn't get the majority of the single moms I interviewed to go into any details about trying times. The most I could get from many of them was a chirpy, "It's hard—but it's great!" Even the women who had had experiences that were objectively really hard [ . . .] tended to put a positive spin on it.

The explanation? Positive attitude, gratitude, and a desire to "put a happy spin on their lives." I'd take it one step further. My personal feeling is that, as single mothers by choice, it's hard to say, "Hey, I decided to do this really hard thing—want to listen to me complain about how hard and non-ideal it is?" There is so much criticism directed towards single mothers by choice that discussing the real difficulties that are inherent to the situation can feel like adding fuel to the fire.

That said, there are plenty of books and blogs out there to support overwhelmed mothers, but there aren't that many cheering squads for single moms by choice. Louise does an excellent job of providing encouragement to women who are making or have already made the choice to be single moms. To use a hackneyed word, Knock Yourself Up made me feel empowered. It was breathtaking to me to read about how much these women love being parents, even how much they love being single parents. One woman interviewed even feels that single-parent homes are preferable to two-parent families. As explained by Louise, "for her, single motherhood is, by definition, much better for the kids because they are the number-one priority, and they aren't exposed to the conflict that so often arises in modern marriages when romantic expectations clash with child-rearing realities." That's admittedly extreme, but was definitely food for thought. Other interviewees offered plenty of the reassurance and tips I had been hoping to find.

Ultimately, what's there not to admire about women who have made a difficult decision and found myriad ways to make it work for themselves and their children? Knock Yourself Up made me feel proud and accomplished, as an individual and as a woman. For anyone who is considering single motherhood or who wants to understand what it's all about (at least the good stuff!), Knock Yourself Up is an excellent resource, and just a darn good read. If you're anything like me, by the end, you'll be wishing that Louise and her son Scott really were you and your kids' respective BFFs.

Dating

[I mentioned dating in a post a while back, but someone asked about it recently in comments, so I thought I'd address it again.]

It was about ten months after John died that someone first asked me if I had thought about starting to date.

The question was from a close friend, and I didn't mind. I actually don't mind when anyone asks me this. It strikes me as one of the many instances I encounter of somewhat oddly placed concern for my well-being. I think there's a healthy dose of curiosity mixed in, but I do think that when people ask me about dating, they are saying, "It's not easy—emotionally or physically—to be without a partner in this life, you have a lot to give, and I want that for you. Do you want it?" That's how I choose to interpret it, at least. I'm very generous with my interpretations, otherwise I could be driven quite mad by the things people say to me.

I loved being married, and I had a wonderful partner and partnership. I waited fairly long to find the right person, and once I did, was he ever right. This means that I have very high expectations of what marriage can and should be. I'm not going to get married just so that I have a spouse. I'd love to have someone else to help me out with the kids and the stuff of life, but getting married just to have that seems pretty drastic.

Then there's the time factor. When am I going to date? I don't get enough rest as it is, and I'm running at full-throttle to keep my head above water at home and at work. Not only would dating add something else to my to-do list in terms of time spent out on the dates, but there would be the associated logistics of arranging child care and such. The whole idea makes my head spin.

The bottom line, though, is that I'm not emotionally ready. I love the idea of someone taking me out for a nice dinner, maybe a movie. Sounds fantastic. But the idea of holding hands with someone or any other kind of physical intimacy makes my stomach turn. And I'm really not ready for anyone to want to be a parent of sorts to the twins. Being a dad was so much of John's identity during our time together that I can't bear the thought of someone else stepping into that role.

So for now, I wear my wedding rings and create my own "dates." Last night, I sat on the porch in the balmy, early summer weather and had a glass of wine with my (gay) upstairs neighbor. Next week I'm going to the movies with a fellow twin mom. Sometimes I ignore the laundry and the other chores around the house and have a beer and watch the Red Sox. Any time I take totally for myself—be it by myself, or with friends—suffices for now in place of dating. I'm sure that someday I'll be ready for romance, but for now, it's not like I even miss it. I've realized that it's not being married or romance or dates that I miss, exactly. It's John that I miss. Someday I will miss those other things, but I'm not going to rush it. All in due time. 

"Maddie dressed all by self."

I let Maddie pick out her own clothes a lot. She really enjoys it and has a lot of opinions about what she wears, and it cuts down somewhat on the getting-dressed-related tantrums for her to have control over that element of the dressing process.

I in no means intend for the following photo to be construed as criticism of Maddie's fashion sense, because people who live in glass houses blah blah blah. I just love this picture because the outfit is, to most adult eyes including my own, a bit, shall we say, unusual, but she looks adorable in it and she's clearly so proud of it:

We had a great weekend. There was some freaking out on both the Mama side and the baby side, but there was also a lot more calm and joy than there has been in a while. I just felt different, more aware. That rage post was really cathartic for me, and I think just the act of expressing some of that stuff was helpful in regaining my cool. The couple of times I did lose it—most notably at bathtime tonight when I was actually just really thirsty and vaguely dehydrated and in need of a glass of water and I snapped rather than getting it—I talked about it with the twins and we all moved on.

I also gained some good perspective from other moms this weekend. We met another twin mom at the park this weekend, and she was kind enough to bring bagels and cream cheese for all and coffee for her and me. She brought a tub of cream cheese, and when I got there, I slathered up a bagel for Maddie and Riley to share. Predictably, Maddie just wanted to eat the cream cheese, which was fine when she confined that to eating it off her bagel. But she wanted to eat it out of the tub. With a plastic knife. Eating out of the tub just seemed rude, and the knife seemed borderline dangerous, but our friend was not grossed out by the shared tub and she let her twins use the knives, so . . . I just let Maddie go for it. And she had a great time. And no one got hurt and everything was fine and sometimes I just need to chill out.

Similarly, Maddie wanted to take all of her clothes off at our backyard BBQ today. I was fine down to the diaper, but she wanted that off, too. The daughter of one of my friends was taking her clothes off, too, and let her daughter take off her diaper. So I let Maddie have hers off, too. Guess what? Once again, nothing bad happened and Maddie had a great time. So there. I will now proceed to put that relaxed attitude in my pipe and smoke it.

We tried a really fun thing last night: Stroller Jammies. I put the kids in their PJs on the early side, then loaded them into the jog stroller with their milk. They drank, I power walked. They loved it. They thought it was hilarious to be in the stroller in their pajamas (they insisted on being covered with a blankie, too), and I loved being out on a nice, warm evening. I'm going to try to do this a couple of times a week for either a walk or a jog. Maddie and Riley slept better than they have in a long time, and they just thought it was so much fun. Score!

This is one of those posts that feels like it must only be interesting to me. We had a fun weekend! I didn't freak out too much! I feel calmer and more in control! Maddie and Riley are cute! That pretty much sums it up. It's just a revelation to me to have had a weekend—and a long one at that—that I don't really want to see come to an end. I'm usually so, so ready for a break from being Mama nonstop all weekend, but this weekend, I'd be happy for more of it.

The Rage Within

I spent three years in the Peace Corps in Gabon, Central Africa. I was an English teacher for two years in the remote town of Makokou, the capital of the Ogooué-Ivindo province, then for my third year, I lived in the Gabon's capital, Libreville, and worked with officials at the Ministry of Education to write English books for sixth- and seventh-graders.

Anyone who thinks the Peace Corps is about helping other people is suffering some serious delusions. Sure, I helped a few hundred kids learn some English—a valuable life skill in the heart of the rainforest—and I opened some eyes to what else it out there in the world. I'm not saying I didn't help anyone. But what I really got out of my three years in the Peace Corps was a lot of knowledge about myself. It was a crash course in Hard Life Lessons, and I learned most of them by making a ton of bad decisions. It was an exhilarating, exhausting, difficult time in my life. I'm so glad I had that experience, but man, it was a tough, tough road.

One of the things I learned while I was there was just how angry I am capable of getting. I grew up in a house where we're always fine. Things are always good. We don't do extreme emotions very well, at least not the bad ones. We're fine with extreme happiness, but when it comes to being sad or mad or anything else that's uncomfortable, we tend to do a lot of faking it 'til we make it and hauling ourselves up by the boostraps and Moving On. It's a philosophy that's actually served me pretty well; there are times when I pretend I feel great and all of a sudden I do. Magic! If I'm feeling pissy about something that's actually quite petty, or irritated by something that's really not that big a deal in the grand scheme of things, I am well-served by having been taught that I just need to Get Over It.

But when it comes to anger, I learned in the Peace Corps that you can only push it aside for so long before you Blow the Fuck Up. It all came to a head for me at the post office in Libreville. If ever there was a place designed to piss people off, the Gabonese post office is it. I once went to mail something when I lived in Makokou, and despite the fact that there were at least four workers behind the counter, I was told that "the person in charge of mailing things" was not there. It's the post office. Isn't everyone in charge of mailing things? Pfffttt. Care packages are what keep Peace Corps volunteers sane, and we usually had to pay bribes to get them. Even worse, sometimes Package Guy (yes, there was only one of him, and he worked limited and unpredictable hours) would glibly tell us that there were no packages to be had when we could see them behind the counter. I'm sure he did this just to make us sweat, emotionally, that is, since it was 90°F with 110% humidity and we were already drenched with physical perspiration.

So one day, I battled the heat and humanity of Libreville to go buy stamps. It cost 260 Gabonese francs to send a letter to the U.S. There was no such thing as a 260-franc stamp. You had to cobble together a collection of CFA20 and CFA50 and CFA10 stamps to make the sum total of CFA260. Once I had to put twenty-six ten-franc stamps on my letter, layered so as to show just the value and thus not cover the entire face of the envelope. Crazy. So I go, to buy fifty-thousand stamps that will allow me to mail ten letters, already feeling annoyed just by the idea of the post office. I don't remember for sure, but I'm certain that I was harassed for being white, or a woman, or fat, and someone probably groped my ass or my boobs, and at least a dozen people likely hit me up for money before I even got to the counter. But eventually, I made it to the front of the "line" and asked for enough stamps to mail ten letters to the U.S.

"We're all out of stamps, Madame."

Out of stamps? I repeat: it's the post office. How does the post office run out of stamps? I was livid. LIVID. I'm sure I yelled at the woman behind the counter, and I'm sure she yelled back at me. But what I remember most about that transaction is that for the first time in my life, I felt that if I were able to physically harm the Stampless Woman, I'd feel better. I wanted to punch her right in the face. Multiple times. She was my scapegoat for all that was wrong with the Gabonese postal system, the final straw in my two-and-a-half years of postal frustration.

I had never before felt like physically hurting someone would make me feel better. Of course, I didn't punch her and I'm sure that it wouldn't have made me feel better at all if I had. But the idea was so, so tempting. As I left the post office, I knew that it was time for me to leave Gabon and go home to the States to regain my cool.

That deeply physical feeling of rage was quiet for years after I got home. Sure, I got mad—one of the things I started learning in Peace Corps was how to express anger rather than repress it. But then I became a parent. Kids do all kinds of things that make their parents feel angry. That's part and parcel of parenting. But I find I'm often angry with the twins about things that are my problem, not theirs, and yet I end up unleashing my anger on them even though they don't deserve it.

This morning, for example, I screamed at the twins. SCREAMED. It was gutteral and primal and, shamefully enough, quite satisfying. Their crime? Not wanting to get dressed. A toddler classic that I just didn't feel like dealing with today. So I screamed, they freaked out and got scared, and then they were compliant out of fear. I just said in a post yesterday that I don't like to be ruled by fear, so it hardly seems right that I'm ruling the twins that way. 

So we end up in a disgusting cycle of me blowing up, the twins being scared, me apologizing, and us all having a big snuggle and moving on. Sigh. I'm sick of it. They are sick of it. We have even instituted a house motto: No Freaking Out. It's cute and funny to hear little Maddie and little Riley say, "Mama freaking out. No freaking out, Mama!" 

I'm working on this with my therapist. And it's helping. Slowly. It used to be that I'd be yelling before I even knew what was happening. We'd be going along all fine and dandy and then poof! I was yelling, and I wouldn't have even felt it coming. Now I usually feel it coming, and sometimes I can stop it. I'll say things like, "Mama is feeling angry right now," or "What can we do differently right now?" or "I need to take a break for a minute." Sometimes I still end up yelling, but that awareness is slowly coming. 

I think that part of what's at work here is that being in therapy is bringing up a lot of anger I have about John's illness and death. I have a lot of resentment about what cancer has done to my life (not to mention what it did to John's). I spend more time during my sessions with the therapist talking about how to handle the anger that bubbles (boils) to the surface rather than talking about where it's coming from. I think the combination of keeping the anger at bay for so long combined with devoting more time to thinking about its causes mixed with a couple of two-year-olds is making a lot of uncomfortable things surface. 

I'm OK with that. I'm OK with yelling at the twins occasionally. I would never, ever, EVER hit them, nor have I even come close (although I have thrown a lot of things across the room and nearly broke my toe by kicking a bookcase). But I want to spend a lot of time in the next weeks figuring out how to release my anger in ways other than taking it out on the twins as they have somehow become my primary target. I want them to learn how to handle big emotions appropriately, and I have not been modeling that very well. I also want them to know that when I get angry, I mean it, and that it's not a more-or-less constant state of being.

Related to this is that I want to get more comfortable with just hanging out at home with the twins. I pretty much never get angry or yell when I'm out in public. That would be so shameful! So white trash! The truth is that one of the reasons the twins and I are out and about so much is that I know it's emotionally "safe" for us to be away from home. Home is where I lose my shit. Home is where my buttons get pushed. It's said that the reason a lot of kids cry when their parents pick them up at daycare is that kids feel safe releasing their emotions in the presence of a parent. I have a little bit of that going on with being at home. I feel like I can let it all out there, which is fine, but sometimes I need to redirect it. Maybe I need to start wearing a rubber band on my wrist and snapping it when I start to feel out of control. I've been working on naming my anger (or other feelings), acknowledging that it's OK to have that feeling, then choosing not to invite that feeling to be a part of my present interaction, but I think I need something more physical and immediate for when then a child says, "No, Mama, all by self," for the thousandth time, wanting to do something that is physically impossible for said child to do and refusing all help. Grr.

The weather is supposed to be gorgeous this weekend. We have a few things planned: a playdate at the park, a trip to have dim sum, a very low-key BBQ at our place with friends. We're going to start the weekend with a walk on the bike path after daycare tonight, as I know that exercise is a great way to get out some negative stuff and bring on some endorphins. I want to not expect myself to be perfect, but I do want to work hard. And I want to have fun with my kids. I want them to have fun with me. I want them to love being at home, to love for the three of us to be together. It seems so simple, doesn't it?

[NB: For those of you who (a) made it through this long piece and (b) might have missed another long piece, there is a post below yesterday's Idol post about how and why John and I decided to have kids despite his diagnosis. Due to Blogger weirdness with drafts, I posted it after the Idol post, but it appeared as though I posted it the day before. You can find it here.]

Idol FInale: My Take (It or Leave It)

Yesterday was all kinds of screwed up for me. I wasn't at work most of the day because I had to be at home waiting for National Grid to come install a new gas meter at my house. Their window for when I should be home? Noon to six. Thanks for narrowing that down, guys, thanks a lot. At first I was all annoyed about it, but then it occurred to me that I would have to be at home. By myself. Just waiting around.

Oh, darn.

I haven't had that much alone time at home in a good long while, and I really enjoyed it. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that I neglected to do a few of the things I had meant to do, such as blog about Idol. So here are my belated thoughts.

The Davids were my favorites for most of the season. (Well, them and Hottie McHotterson, Michael Johns, but alas, we had to say goodbye too soon.) I was ultra-excited about the finale because never in my Idol-watching career have my two faves gone head-to-head at the end.

I really enjoyed Tuesday's show. I thought that Clive Davis picked great songs for both contestants and loved both of their first performances. Here's my question, though: why can't the contestants ever pick good songs for themselves? When they are given the choice of anything—anything!—they want to sing, I find that they usually make odd and poor choices. What gives? That's my long-winded, semi-rhetorical way of saying that I thought the second two performances were not as strong for either of the D's, although I did love hearing Little D do "Imagine" again.

So after the show, I was sure that David A. was going to win. I thought he had stronger performances overall and was guaranteed such a slew of teenage girl voters that he had it clinched. I think both contestants were—are—equally talented in different ways, but I thought that Archuleta had it all sewn up.

Last night, I settled in with some friends for lots of food (spinach/artichoke dip, Chinese, cookies, ice cream, Gio's Soon-to-Be-Famous Spiked Strawberry Lemonade) and had a blast watching last night's results show. The highlight was David Cook's Guitar Hero ad. Awesome. Low point: that endless, dirge-like, George Michael song. Good lord that song was BORING. And those glasses! He looked like some kind of fly. Amanda Overmyer was also a lowlight. In all of the group performances, she looked so pissed off about the drudgery of having to appear on the results show. Boo-hoo for her. 

Of course the real highlight was when it was announced that David Cook had won. I was truly surprised, and excited, and he looked so genuinely overwhelmed and happy. I love that his mom and brother came up on stage, and how clearly thrilled he was to see his family. And I love the confetti that comes out of the ceiling! I know that sounds goofy, but it's so fun! 

And now, no more Idol until January. Boo-hoo. Alas, 'twas a great way to end Season 7, I have to say.

The Decision

This is the long story of how John and I decided to have children, knowing that he was going to die and that I was going to end up a single mother.

I was never sure I wanted to have kids. I never liked babysitting. I always felt uncomfortable around infants, unsure of what to do and how to handle them. I never felt that maternal longing, that deep desire to procreate. For me—ever practical—the idea of having kids hinged entirely on who I married. My pragmatic philosophy was that if I ended up with someone who really wanted kids, who was really committed to the idea of being an involved, invested, and devoted father, then I'd be ready to jump into the big unknown of parenting.

My ambivalence around becoming a mother was most certainly grounded in fear. I feared what I'd have to give up: the spontenaety, the sleep, the freedom. Ultimately, I feared that I was too selfish to be a good parent.

Then I met John, one of the most selfless people I have ever known. He wanted to have kids for sure; we talked about it during the heady days when we were quickly realizing that we wanted to spend our lives together. I don't know that I ever mentioned my ambivalence as, faced with his clear longing, my ambivalence faded away. If ever there was a man who would be an involved, invested, loving father, it was John. Knowing I would have that support, I felt that I could face my own fears.

When John got his cancer diagnosis, we had been married for less than a month. At his diagnosis, the doctor gave us a lot of information about prognosis and treatment, but no information about fertility. Frankly, I'm sure no one thought that John would live long enough for the question of fertility to be worth discussing, and John and I were too shell-shocked to ask that day. But when we went in for his first round of chemo, we asked about the drugs' impact on babymaking. No one had any answers for us. To be fair, John's oncologist did everything she could to find the answers we needed. She looked up research and called drug companies, but she came up empty-handed. Pancreatic cancer most often strikes older men who are not likely concerned about their ability to procreate. The long-term effects of the drugs was simply not known, although given their extreme toxicity, the reasonable conclusion was that it was not good.

I remember that day with utter clarity. We waited in an exam room while John's doctor made calls and did research, crying together between updates. The end result was that we decided to delay John's treatment for a week so that he could make some deposits at the sperm bank. A week was not going to change John's prognosis. We knew that John might live only weeks, perhaps months, but we also knew that it could be longer. We had a couple of banks to choose from; I made the calls to get the details about appointments and procedures, and from that, we made our decision as to which bank would get our business.

John went to the bank twice. Clients are actually referred to as "bankers" who conduct "transactions" such as making "deposits" and "withdrawals." The staff member I talked to when I made the appointments told me that I was welcome to come in with John if that would, um . . . help. Both John and I found that creepy, and so he went alone. He told me that it's just like you'd imagine it would be: a small, sterile room, porn available (print and video) if needed or desired, stern warnings that the sample cannot be obtained via blow job or intercourse: jacking off ONLY (I'm sure they had a more delicate way of phrasing it). So the deposit was made, the fee was paid, and off to chemo we went.

We had no idea what to expect from chemo, of course. For all we knew, we'd seen John's best days and it was all going to be downhill. But John was a responder, as they are known, these people who have a quick, positive response to treatment. Not that the treatment was without side effects, but within a month or so, John's tumor marker numbers were down and overall he was feeling better.

We started to talk about the kid option. We wanted to move forward, but it was not as simple as calling the bank and making a withdrawal—as if that in an of itself would have been simple. No, no, I had fibroids. Big ones. Ones that needed to be surgically removed before my OB would clear me to get pregnant. And so in March of 2005, I had a myomectomy. Perhaps oddly, I have fond memories of that time. The surgery went off without a hitch, and my mom came out to Boston to nurse me through my recovery. That's when I became addicted to 24, and acutely aware of how much John hates hospitals. He could not stand to see me in a hospital bed, could not wait to get me home.

My OB recommended waiting at least six months after the fibroid surgery to try to get pregnant. During that time, I focused on getting myself in the best shape I could. I had always been an avid exerciser; once I was able after the surgery, I got back in that routine. I had started doing acupuncture before the surgery; I kept up with that. I ate extremely well. I got a lot of sleep. During this time, John continued to do amazingly well overall, with ups and downs to be sure, but steady improvement.

I made an appointment to see an RE five months after my surgery. (If you are curious about which specific doctor I saw, you'll be able to figure it out from the name. One of my children is named for our RE. I loved him that much.) After undergoing all of the requisite testing and such, we did our first IVF cycle in October, and it was successful.

It's at this point that I started blogging. When I look back on those initial posts, I'm surprised at times by the lack of detail. No mention of the numbers in my beta. No mention of the fact that in our initial ultrasound, one of the twins had a very slow heartbeat and our doc thought that it would fall prey to vanishing twin syndrome. Clearly that did not happen, but it looked like a real possibility. Odd that I didn't mention it, but a testament to how deeply I believed that nothing would go wrong in my pregnancy, that the universe owed us, and owed us big time.

I'm well aware that things don't work that way. Life is not some card game of fairness where a bad hand get karmically balanced out by a good one. O! Were it so simple. But for whatever reason, from our first meeting with our RE, I knew with utter certainty that my pregnancy was going to be OK. Call me crazy, call it denial, call it whatever you want: I knew. I knew I would feel good throughout, go full term, and have an uncomplicated delivery. This was a feeling utterly different than the "power of positive thinking" bullshit that John and I battled during his whole illness. I harbor no illusion that I willed my easy pregnancy and delivery into happening via positive thoughts. I took good care of myself, but so do plenty of people who have difficult gestations and births. I was lucky, and I'm telling you: I knew I would be.

Our families knew that we had done IVF, and we told them the results of my beta, shared with them what we saw in the ultrasounds during those early weeks. I also shared some of that with the Internet, not that many people were reading at that time. We waited the standard twelve weeks before we started sharing our news with friends, coworkers, and the like. Most people were thrilled for us, an unmitigated joy and excitement that helped me feel less terrified about the fact that I was going to have two babies and that their dad was going to die sooner rather than later. Some people expressed joy and concern both, their feelings an empathetic reflection of my own.

And then there were the brave few who said what I'm sure a number of people were thinking behind that joy: How could you? How could you make the decision to bring two children into this world who will functionally never know their dad?

There are a lot of issues to respond to when you get into this line of questioning. I found that people who expressed their doubts fell into two broad categories: (1) In your situation I would not have done the same thing, and (2) Kids need two parents.

I can totally understand the people in category (1). I had my doubts along the way, from my initial doubts about wanting kids at all to my doubts about my ability to raise kids as a single parent (those are ongoing). Most of those doubts, if not all of them, are ruled—as always—by fear. And I do not like to be ruled by fear. And I respect that what we did is not what everyone would have done. For some people, the fear that single parenting while grieving would be too overwhelming would have kept them from going ahead. Totally legitimate. For others, they fall into a combo category where they would not have made the decision because they think kids need two parents. I (obviously) disagree, but expressed as "you did what you did, I'd do what I'd do," I respect that. And that's just it. It's largely semantics. We made our decision. It was our decision, no one else's, and not a decision that everyone else would make. I get that.

The people who seem to think that kids need two parents—a mother and a father, to be precise—baffle me. I can see a lot of reasons that having two parents (mom, dad, two moms, two dads . . . whatever, in my book) is good for all parties. I know there are times I'd be a better parent if I had someone to share the ups and downs with, and it's good for the kids to have more than one adult role model in their lives.

But here's the thing: they do. Maddie and Riley—and the children of single parents everywhere—have a huge community of people looking out for them, honorary aunts and uncles and grandparents galore. They are loved by countless multitudes. And they were loved by their dad for as long as he was able to love them.

Which brings me to another point. Some say it's unfair to Maddie and Riley that John and I brought them into this world knowing that they would barely know their father. Unfair? Unfair? I don't see it. Would it have been fair to deprive John of the experience of being a father, an experience he'd always wanted? While we're at it, what about cancer is fair? What about life is fair?

I would love nothing more than for John to be here, with me and Maddie and Riley. I wish that Maddie and Riley could know their father and benefit from his infinite patience, dry wit, and kind heart. But I also know that Maddie and Riley are not doomed to a life of failure for being raised by a single mom, even with all the faults that this single mom has. And I know that being a father brought a purpose and love to John's life that he would not have traded for anything, even as he got sicker and sicker and became so consumed by that love that it started to hurt, and he had to pull away a bit because he had so much love for me and the kids that the idea of losing that love was what was killing him.

I also know that Maddie and Riley know their dad on some level. Last night, as I was making dinner, the kids were in their high chairs, chatting happily. As I rinsed a dish in the sink, my back to them, I heard Maddie say, "Maddie miss Daddy."

"What was that, Love?"

"Maddie miss Daddy."

"Oh, honey, I do too. I miss Daddy a lot. What do you miss about Daddy?"

[pause; gaze out window]

"Birdie eat that corn."

And so works the toddler mind. But it's not the first time she's done something like that. And both kids are often calmed by seeing pictures of John. We talk about him a lot, and some—most, maybe all, eventually—of their memories of their dad will be ones that I've helped them create. Hardly ideal. But worse than not being born? I don't think so.

Welcome Home

It's always the same with vacations. It's like you never left.

The kids and I had a great reunion. They clearly had so much fun, and so did I.

But they cried when I put them to bed. I was up twice with a screaming Ri-Man in the middle of the night. They were up for the day at 4:30 a.m. When I went in in give screaming Madeleine her ducky back at 4:45 a.m., my loving comment as I tossed it in her crib was a hissed, "Shut. Up. It's time for SLEEPING." I promised the kids oatmeal for breakfast only to discover that we were all out. Maddie threw a hissy fit at the table because one of the crackers I gave her was broken in half. I let Riley sit in the front seat of the car while I buckled Maddie in, and he honked the horn by accident, which scared the holy living crap out of him. A brand-new sippy cup of milk leaked all over the back of the freshly-cleaned car on the way to daycare. I was leaving for work at the time that I normally arrive.

Holy Monday, Batman.

I know the kids are just readjusting to being back at home after a weekend out of the normal swing of things. I'm sure their crying last night was at least partly related to the tease of Mama finally coming home only to sling them into their cribs and leave them again until morning. I'm sure the troubles this morning were related to the kids being tired from having gotten up so early, and having gotten up so early because of wanting to see Mama sooner rather than later. I had tried to mentally prepare myself for this kind of night and start to the week, but I still feel drained, the Zen of vacation already slipping from my grasp, my teeth clenched, my eyes drooping.

There's a thread on my moms of twins listserv right now, a flood of responses to an overwhelmed mom of newborn twins, telling her how great she is doing and how it really will get easier. I replied to the thread, but in regards to things getting easier, I have to disagree. Overall, it's not really easier, it's just different. The challenges have changed. I'm trying to wrap my mind around the fact that this is parenting. Easier? Not so much. Different? All the time.

Chicago, Friday Night

We went out for Korean food in K-town, straight from the airport.

Kalbi, soon doo boo, and another soup, a spicy broth with brisket. More banchan than I've ever seen, at least twenty little dishes covering the table.

Smoke filled the air as we grilled our kalbi. The soon doo boo bubbled in its clay pot. I had to ask for more kochujang; I put it on everything, in great quantity.

I miss this food. We ate all the kalbi, most of the soup and the banchan. I could smell the smoky aroma of kalbi on my hair when I went to bed that night. I ate the bit of leftover soon doo boo for breakfast the next day. When I unpacked on Sunday, the scent of the grill lingered in the shirt I'd been wearing at the restaurant.

Post 625

Tomorrow I am not going to work.

Instead, I'm going to Chicago to spend the weekend with my sister-in-law.

Maddie and Riley will be spending the weekend with some very good, very kind, very brave friends here in greater Boston who have twins of their own, boy/girl twins who are six months older than M&R. Twinapalooza, baby.

While in Chicago, I plan to:

sleep
eat
drink
exercise
wear my pajamas a lot
generally relax

I had thought about seeing if my SIL was up for trying to get tickets to the Cubs game on Saturday afternoon, or maybe going to the Art Institute or blah blah blah, and while those would be fun things to do, I think what I really need is just a break from DOING all the time. Of course, I've had to DO extra to get ready to go, but that's OK.

I remain woefully behind on e-mail, although I'm making inroads. Part of my weekend break includes not touching a computer, though, so I risk falling further behind. I'll get caught up eventually. I'll also eventually start playing Scrabulous again. Anyone waiting for a message from me or a move on the Scrab board: be patient. All in due time.

Have a wonderful weekend. More next week.

Idol Top 3: My Take (It or Leave It)

I took the moral high road and had dinner with my in-laws after the kids went to bed, but I still managed to see the second and third round of performances as they happened last night and to find the first round on YouTube before I went to bed. From the looks of things, Round 1 was the strongest set by far, so I'm bummed that I missed it live, but so be it. Here are my thoughts:

David A.: I thought "And So It Goes" was the best thing you've done since "Imagine." Kudos to Paula for picking such a perfect song for you. (Full disclosure: I absolutely adore that song.) Your song pick? Forgettable. What was it again? See? And the Dan Fogelberg? Before Simon even made his comments, I turned to my friend and said, "Why did they pick a song that makes a seventeen-year-old kid sound like an old fogey?" So one great, two OK, and we'll see you next week for the Battle of the Davids.

Syesha: I actually didn't watch your Round 1 on YouTube because I didn't care. I thought "Fever" was fine. That's what I always say about you: fine. Frankly, I was distracted during "Fever" by how short and transparent  your dress was. There was a lot of backlighting shining through that silvery skirt. The song the producers chose for you was awful, although your performance was . . . fine. Fine is not going to cut it this week. You're gone.

David C.: I liked 'em all. Even if David A. wins it all with the teenybopper vote, you're poised to make a great record. Your creativity didn't come through as much on this round, but your performances were solid and enjoyable. 

Bring on the Battle of the Davids! I can't wait. I will be *pissed* if there is some upset and Syesha is around next week. In fact, I was so worried about that possibility that for the first time ever, I voted last night, twice. Once for Archuleta, once for Cook. I did my part. Let's see what happens tonight. Hopefully I'll be home from book club in time to catch the end of the results show.

"Earth's Last Eden"? Really?

I've never watched Survivor, but I might have to start next season. It was just announced that Survivor: Gabon—Earth's Last Eden will begin filming in late June. Having spent three years there in the Peace Corps, I know from personal experience that Gabon is a gorgeous, lush, tropical country. But Earth's Last Eden? I'm not so sure. Guess the producers need some media hype to get everyone excited about a country virtually no one in the U.S. has ever heard of.

As for Jeff Probst's comment in the EW article that "no one has really hung out there," what the hell is he talking about? He must mean no one from the Survivor crew, because plenty of other people have hung out there and could give him some ideas on what to expect in terms of wildlife. Sheesh, Jeff, do a little research already.

On the subject of reality TV, my in-laws are in town this week for my father-in-law to attend a medical conference. They are coming over tonight to see the kids. And me, I guess. I might have to miss Idol! For the second week in a row! Tragedy.

A Happy Day, Indeed

Had a good Mother's Day last year, had a good one again this year.

We started our day this year by running a 5K with a friend. The weather was perfect—sunny and warm but not hot. The course was great, too—a bit hilly, but with a good downhill to the finish. Who am I kidding, though? Any course would have been a challenge for me since I could count on one hand the number of times I've been out running in the past nine months.

The race is a fundraiser for cancer research. At registration, I filled out a paper flower indicating that I was running in honor of John. That was tough. I filled in my name, and Maddie and Riley's name, then filled in "John Kim/Daddy" for the "In honor of" slot. Hello, crying. Wow.

On a lighter note, I felt seriously famous as I was headed down the home stretch when we passed someone and she called out, "I think I read your blog!"

I called back, "Snickollet? I was just on CNN.com?" (How tacky of me, right?)

"Yes!" she called back. "But I read you before that!"

"Thank you! And you know I'm totally blogging this," I replied as I hauled ass to the finish, motivated by the thought of the goodies that awaited me including beer! Barbecue! Donuts! You'd think I'd run a marathon, not a measly 3.2 miles.

So thanks, Megan, for inflating my already plenty-large ego today.

Back to those snacks. The twins were as into them as I was.

They both had some Greek yogurt.


Maddie actually ate nearly three containers of it.


Riley also enjoyed some donut.


And many huge bites of banana.



Food coma ensued, so we headed home for a two-hour nap. A nap for the twins, that is. I took care of some stuff around the house so that I would have the evening free. One of the things I did during naptime was unload the jog stroller from the car. I have a seriously old jog stroller. I got it for free from another twin mom who had used it as her primary stroller for three years. Every time I take it somewhere, I think, "One day, this thing is just going to crumble into a pile of dust in front of my very eyes." Today was pretty much that day. I pulled it out and the front wheel snapped clean off. Time for a new jogger. If you have recommendations for a double jogger, please leave a comment. I don't need anything fancy—it's not like I'm out running miles and miles every day.

Anyway, after nap, we hit Mayfair at Harvard Square. (Maddie is evidently already embarrassed to be seen with me.)


Our one-track minds were still on snacking, so we bought the biggest bag of Kettle Korn available. It was EIGHT DOLLARS. Yes, I spent eight dollars on a bag of popcorn. Granted, it was as big as one of the twins, but still. Eight dollars? Seriously?

We strolled around, watched a guy make balloon animals, tried to make dent in the popcorn, and headed home after about an hour. We had to get home for dinner, you know. 'Cause we hadn't eaten ALL DAY.

Dinner, baths, bed, and here I am. It was a great day. Great weather, great friends, great kids. Hope you all enjoyed your Mother's Day as much as we did.

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What good is a made-up Hallmark holiday in honor of mothers if not to brag shamelessly about how funny one's kids are?

From Riley at bedtime:

"Ri-Man, who loves you?
"Moo love you. Ba love you. HalmiHatchi love you."
"Who loves you most?"
"Harry Potter."
"Really? What about Mama and Daddy?"
"Harry Potter."
"Um, OK."

From Maddie in the backseat:
"Mama, both hands drive, please."
(Mads, I have to shift sometimes!)

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Final note for the day: I remain woefully behind on e-mail. Bear with me.

I wish it made for a better story.

This is the story of snickollet.

Once upon a time, my name was Stacey Nichols. Back in Ye Olden Dayes of the Internet, all the way back in 1994, I got my first e-mail address, which was snichols@thatcollegeIwentto.edu.

"Snichols!" said my friends. "Ha ha! That rhymes with pickles! I think we'll call you that!"

And so some of them did.

Some number of years after that, I visited one of those friends in his hometown of Minneapolis. Our tour of the city included a stroll down Nicollet Mall. "Nicollet . . . Snichols . . . SNICOLLET!" I proclaimed.

And so it was from then on.

The k was added to the spelling when I married John and became Stacey Nichols Kim. S(tacey)nic(hols)k(im)ollet I have thus remained.

And now you know.

No one needs an editor like an editor.

Many thanks to a good friend who pointed out the (now corrected) egregious typo in yesterday's post welcoming new readers. Nothing like a professional wordsmith greeting thousands of new visitors with a fourth-grade mistake in her first line! It's oh-so-very-true that no one needs an editor like an editor.

I have to say that I have never felt this popular in my life. I was seriously geeky in high school (played oboe in wind ensemble and youth orchestra, presided over the French club, worked at the local candy store/ice cream shop, never drank anything stronger than Diet Coke . . . you know the type). I'm still geeky, but I feel like a popular geek. So many nice people are sending me e-mails and inviting me to be friends on Facebook and leaving me comments. I'm really flattered. And it's also going to take me a while to get back to people. So if you've sent me a message or an friend request or an invitation to play Scrabulous, be patient. I'll respond. But it might not be today or this week.

I have a 20-minute commute to work in greater Boston, mostly on the freeway. Anyone who has driven in greater Boston will appreciate the fact that the drivers on my commute often cause me to question the decency of humanity. All of the amazing support I've gotten over the years I've had my blog and in the past couple of days from the CNN article are a reminder that most people are nice, good folks. It's comforting.

There's got to be a transition here, but I'm not yet caffeinated enough to make it. In the realm of the no-longer-popular, bye-bye Jason Castro on Idol. America got that one right. We're on our way to Battle of the Davids. Will Cook or Archuleta triumph? Vegas-style odds have them in an dead heat.

EDITED TO ADD: Good lord, I am like a caricature of myself. The same eagle-eyed friend alerted me to a typo (now corrected) in today's posting. I'm good at my job, I really am. I promise. I swear!

Welcome, new readers!

A big hello to any readers who have found their way over here from the cnn.com story "Your blog can be group therapy" that went up today in the Living section. I hope you find something here that is meaningful or helpful, and that you decide to stay a while. I welcome comments and e-mail (see address in sidebar).

The article features my real name, so the cat's out of the bag on that. I'd been mulling over revealing my identity, and when I got the call about the interview for the article, that made the decision for me. Feel free to look me up on Facebook and invite me to play Scrabulous. My Facebook profile pic shows me in a black and white striped tank top with Maddie and Riley on either side of me—the same picture that accompanies the CNN article.

Thanks for stopping by—hope you stick around.

Idol Top 4: My Take (It or Leave It)

A friend of mine was visiting from out of town last night, ergo I missed Idol. I really love this friend a lot. So I've spent my morning watching the performances on YouTube. God bless the digital age is all I have to say.

I wasn't super-excited about the theme (legends of rock), but I thought the contestants made some pretty good choices.

Jason: It's true, it wasn't great. But I actually didn't think it was nearly as bad as the judges did. It was the usual college coffee-house sentimental. You're gone this week or next. Should be this week, but the screaming gaggle of girl voters in your fan base might have the numbers to keep you around.

Syesha: You, too, are gone this week or next. You were fine. You were better than fine. But I just can't get really into you.

David C: OMGOMGOMG, you did NOT just do "Hungry Like the Wolf." OMG. I'm ashamed to admit that Duran Duran was pretty much my reason for living in sixth and seventh grades. And in college, I saw them live in Germany in this tiny little club and I was standing on the John Taylor side of the stage and Simon Le Bon was wearing velour stretch pants and OMG WOW. Oh, wait, this is supposed to be about David Cook. Right. Yes. It was fine. It was solid. It was not that different from the original, just more growly. Rar. As for your other song, I'm not a big Who fan, and I actually didn't know the song. I thought you were good, though—definitely Top 2 material, and clearly just plain talented.

David A.: I just love you. Whenever you sing, I am filled with maternal pride even though you are not my kid. "Hot mad vocals" is right. What else is there to say?

I really, really hope we get a Battle of the Davids for the final. Then I can be happy no matter who wins!

Train of Thought

Today's rounds in the blog world led me to Deb's post about dulce de leche ice cream.

Which made me remember that I own an ice cream maker.

And then I looked out the window and was reminded that after a cold, rainy weekend, the weather has turned warm and sunny again.

And now I want ice cream, dulce de leche ice cream.

But the bowl on my ice cream maker needs to freeze.*

And I don't have cream. Or dulce de leche.

So I will put the bowl in the freezer tonight and add cream to my milk delivery order, so that by Wednesday, when the milk is delivered, everything will be in place. Well, except the dulce de leche part, but after I post this I will read about how to make my own.

And if I decide I can't wait until Wednesday, there's always Häagen-Dazs.

Aside: I don't use my ice cream maker much, mostly because I'm dismayed by how much cream is in ice cream. Seems elementary, no? But when I actually make it myself, it's SO DISTURBING. When I buy the ice cream already made, I can pretend all that cream is not really in there. Or I can buy the slow-churned kind that is quite good and not all that high in fat. My own attempts to make low(er)-fat ice cream in my machine have not gone well. It's good right out of the ice cream maker, but gets rock hard and icy when stored in the freezer.

*I have a chest freezer in the basement; why I don't keep the bowl in there is a mystery, and a habit that will change as of tonight. 

Clean Up, Clean Up, Everybody Clean Up

I love it when the twins and I go to someone's house for a playdate and the toys are already strewn about. The kids love it, too. They dive right in and make themselves at home. The cheerfully trip over and step on the bounty, happy to explore and find new treasures.

Here's the problem, though: I cannot deal with Massive Toy Extravaganza at my own house.

Oh, sure, when we have people over to play, I let it go. Usually I'm drinking coffee or wine and eating something tasty while talking with other parents, and that makes it easier to turn a blind eye. But when it's just me and the twins, there are RULES.

1. Only one "messy" toy out at a time. If you want the Legoes out, you have to put away the puzzles. Want to cook in the play kitchen? Clean up the race cars first. You get the idea.
2. The toys have zones. There are playroom toys and kitchen toys and bedroom toys. With few exceptions, toys stay in their zones.
3. We pick up the entire playroom before leaving the house for any outing (daycare, visits with friends, a trip to the store . . . anything), before naps, and before bed. And do you even have to ask? OF COURSE there are very specific places for each item: a special bin for cars, one for all the play food, one for the balls, etc.

This is a big, big struggle for me. I know the twins actually love the freedom and fun of having everything out at once. They love it! But when I try to relax about it, I can feel my blood pressure rising. I just hate all that cluttered mess.

Take tonight as an example. We went to a friend's for dinner. We cleaned up before we headed over. We returned at bedtime, and the twins were already PJ-ed up, but needed a diaper change and some milk before being tucked in. While I was changing Maddie's diaper, Riley pulled out the ball drawer and balls went everywhere! Aaaa! I asked him to pick them up and he ignored me. Who can blame him? Playing with balls is WAY more fun than sitting in the middle of a pristine playroom while Mama changes Maddie. Rather than just letting it go, though, I ended up yelling at him for not listening to me and making him cry right before bed.

Clearly I need to get over myself. Tips? (Other than upping my number of therapy sessions . . . ) And what do others do about the cleaning up? At a playdate this weekend, the subject came up of whether or not we clean up as we go or just once at the end of the day. It was a mixed bag. More data points?

News, Plus Bonus Twin Pics

I can be a a news snob. I used to regularly read The Economist and Le Monde. I refuse to watch any local news, especially FOX. I like to get my daily news from NPR. I like the variety of their programming and the depth of the stories. I've been listening so long that the various hosts and reporters feel like friends.

That said, I often spend ten or fifteen minutes in the morning drinking my latte and watching Today. By 7:00 a.m., I'm done with my shower, the car is loaded, and, with any luck, the kids are either still sleeping (ha ha ha, rarely) or are awake but happy to hang out for a few more minutes. Those few minutes in front of the TV give me a chance to pull myself together at a time when I'm not naturally at my best, and I get a taste of breaking news and the main headlines, albeit often with a bit more sensationalism than I'd really like.

It's "Where in the World Is Matt Lauer?" week on Today. As I've watched Matt jet-set around the globe—The Netherlands yeseterday, Istanbul today—it has occurred to me that he has a seriously cool job. I'm sure it's not all wine and roses and that it involves long hours and a lot of hard work, but I still think it would be a really great job to see all the places he gets to see, meet the people he gets to meet, and be constantly keeping up with the world's happenings. Not too shabby.

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Here are a couple of things that are in the news a lot lately that I just can't seem to get worked up about:

1. Bisphenol A. I'm not seeking it out or anything, but I drink from a Camelback that is a #7, and I don't have any plans to replace it. When I need a new bottle, I'll get a Sigg or something else, but I just don't feel like I need to panic about this. My kids drank out of Avent and Dr. Brown's bottles, and I have no worries about how that is going to affect their future well-being. Were I to have kids now, I'd get some other kind of bottles, or use glass, but what's done is done and I'm not losing sleep about it. Am I alone?

2. The cost of gas. Yeah, it sucks. A lot. From an environmental standpoint, I feel like Americans have been living in low-cost gas fantasyland for a long time now and we need this kick in the pants. Granted, it's easier for me to say this than it is for some; I can walk to many needed services and do so whenever possible, my car gets decent mileage, and while the increased prices hurt, I can still make ends meet.

I can't say that I'm totally blasé about gas prices, but it's not the actual number that is making me hot under the collar. It's the global politics. I heard a story on NPR (and we come full circle) about global petroleum supply, speculative buying, ethanol, and other reasons behind rising costs at the pump that gave me pause. My consolation is that perhaps the high prices will make people think a bit more about how much they drive and what kinds of cars they buy. I'm such an idealist.

In a completely different kind of news, the twins and I met some friends at one of those paint-your-own-pottery places on Saturday morning. I had hoped to make a bowl with the kiddos' handprints on it, but M&R had different design ideas. That's cool. I was not together enough to take pics, but my friends did. Check out my budding artists here.

Bye-bye, Brooke.

No more Brooke White on Idol. I think that Jason should have been the one to go, but he's a cute, young boy, so there you have it. It really is a popularity contest, not so much a singing contest, although it's true that I don't think any of the folks who have been sent home were destined to win. Some of them have just not been sent home in order of talent, or rather, lack thereof. Jason's time draws near, although I think his fan base is bigger than Syesha's, so perhaps he'll make the top three. We'll see.

Legends of Rock next week. I'm not super-excited about that theme, but the upside is that it will give David Cook a chance to really shine and it will challenge David Archuleta, Jason, and Syesha.

Anyone out there (other than What A Card, who I already know is a fan) watch So You Think You Can Dance? I'm already feeling sad about Idol season drawing to a close and I'm considering watching SYTYCD in its place.