Posts from — August 2011

Last night after Steve Jobs announced his retirement, I found myself in the rocking chair at 10:30 pm holding a sobbing boy.  The Wolvog cried when I told him the news earlier in the evening, but he had bounced back nicely as small children often do since they have minds like squirrels and was soon distracted by the next metaphorical acorn.  But after a bath and tuck-in, his twin sister informed us that her brother was making it very difficult to sleep because he was keeping her awake, worried about something.

I asked him what was wrong and he first gave me this long story about an invention that went wrong at his fictional computer company (many children have imaginary friends; my child not only has an imaginary friend, but he has an imaginary company, imaginary planet divided into imaginary countries, and two imaginary baseball teams — a minor and major league alternative).  He cried hard over the imaginary botched invention and wasn’t placated when I offered to raise some imaginary capital so his imaginary employees could work on the imaginary invention again.

Finally, I asked him if this was about something else; a stand-in issue holding the spot of something truly upsetting him, and the tears started choking all the oxygen out of his throat and he sobbed until he couldn’t breathe over the idea that Steve Jobs would no longer be the CEO.  I think it was partly about Steve himself — a fear of how Apple will change — and it was partly about the Wolvog as the CEO of an imaginary company.

The Wolvog was standing right at the mental edge, thinking about himself one day leaving his post as CEO of the imaginary company and it was terrifying to think of himself floating jobless without his company to anchor him.  The Wolvog couldn’t imagine himself without his imaginary company, and he transferred that to Steve leaving his real company.  I think most of us both covet and fear retirement simultaneously.  We want to think that we are vital, that the world will stop spinning without us.  But I think even the Wolvog sensed in that moment that he could stop thinking about his imaginary company, let it float into the ether like an unmoored balloon until it was no longer visible, and the world would still continue.  And that is a terrifying thought: that the world can give or take on your creation; on your position.  It makes one feel wholly insignificant; a hard thought to swallow.

I took him into the rocking chair and explained how boards worked, and how Steve Jobs would still be involved with the board.  We talked about reasons why people would want to retire and how a company is more than just one person.  That Apple would still continue and if he feared that, I would happily take him to the store tomorrow where employees will inform him that they will still eagerly take our money for years to come.  I will still go forward with the plan to upgrade my iPod and pass along my old one to him.

The reality is that Steve Jobs is his idol.  The email he sent him earlier this year means the world to him, and it is currently being framed to go in his new room this week (along with a letter he received from his other idol, President Obama.  Seriously, the kid is in first grade and he has had more cool things happen to him than I have at 37).

Steve Jobs is a magician to the Wolvog; he’s his Albus Dumbledore.  And just as Hogwarts students couldn’t imagine the world without Dumbledore, the Wolvog is incapable of imagining Apple without Steve.

And yet, as adults, we know that while the world was different, magic still continued after Dumbledore.  Dumbledore’s parting didn’t suck all the magic out of the world.  Magic will still continue after Harry Potter too.   It will exist after JK Rowling stops writing about Harry Potter.  Those people are just the receptacles of something amazing.  But that wonder still exists even without a receptacle to make it feel tangible.

Retirements are bittersweet and change is always difficult.  I am sure Steve Jobs feels similarly — that mixture of fear and sadness that is coursing through the Wolvog’s body at this moment.  But Steve is also privy to a whole host of other emotions: perhaps relief, excitement, peace, frustration, anger.  I can’t imagine what it would be like to build something that touches so many people and then come to the point where you need to step away from it.  I don’t know how you ever say goodbye.

And, of course, he won’t truly say goodbye.  He will remain chairman of the board.  The seeds of ideas he planted in the company will continue to grow.  His mere presence on earth will continue to inspire a little boy in Maryland to grow up and make his imaginary company a reality.

And in the meantime, will I please just update my iPod already so he can have my old one?

I finally told the Wolvog that he had to go to sleep after a long cuddle in the rocking chair, and I walked him back to bed.  I can’t really explain how his tiny face looked against his sleeping bag (we still haven’t gotten his new bed).  I hope I get to think about that expression on his face twenty years from now as I sit and listen to him hold a press conference about his own computer company.  I will still be thanking Steve Jobs when that happens.  Because without dreamers like him today, there would be no inspiration for the dreamers of tomorrow.

Since mid-July, I have spent 12 days at home.  During those 12 days, we have had guests. We’ve gutted the house of unused items, trying to get rid of clutter.  We’ve dismantled the twins’ room and prepared their new rooms (okay, so this last one is still in-process).

I haven’t practiced guitar.  I haven’t written.  I did my normal amount of work in an abnormally small amount of time.

And I had to declare Google bankruptcy.  I’ve had to do this maybe two or three times in the last five years — mark all posts in my Reader as read and start from scratch.  I caught posts here and there: at least six a day during IComLeavWe and scattered ones throughout the month.  But I’ve missed the vast majority of what has happened in the past month.

So take pity on me (and whoever else has been off-schedule this summer) and fill us in on what has happened in your life this past month.

As always, it has been about a month since we met, bitched, cried, comforted, and caught up each other on our cycles and lives. Pull up a seat and I’ll pour you a drink. Let everyone know what is happening in your life. The good, the bad, the ugly. My only request is that if a story catches your eye, you follow it back to the person’s blog and start reading their posts. Give some love, give some support, or laugh with someone until your drink comes out of your nose.

I have a ton of assvice in my back pocket and as a virtual bartender, I will give it to you unless you specifically tell me that this is simply a vent and you do not want to receive anything more than a hug.

So if you have been a lurker for a while (or if this is your first open bar), sit down and tell us about yourself. Remember to provide a link or a way for people to continue reading your story (or if you don’t have a blog — gasp! — you can always leave an email address if you’re looking for advice or support. If not, people can leave messages for that person here in the comments section too). If you’re a regular at the bar, I’ll get out your engraved martini glass while you make yourself comfortable. And anyone new, welcome. I’m glad you found this virtual bar.

For those who have no clue what I’m talking about when I say that the bar is open, click here to catch up and then jump into the conversation back on this current post.

So have an imaginary cocktail and tell us what is up with your life.

Let’s start by saying we are all fine.

The Wolvog and I were in a port-a-potty when the earthquake happened.  I had my back to him, facing the wall, to give him privacy.  It felt as if someone was jiggling the door handle awfully hard, as if they had a urinary tract infection and had! to! get! in! the! bathroom.

“This bathroom is very wobbly,” the Wolvog commented nervously.

“That is not an excuse for not aiming,” I called over my shoulder to him, always the mother of the year.  “We’re in here,” I told the person outside.

The port-a-potty stopped rocking.

When we got out of the bathroom, the only people nearby were this elderly couple who wouldn’t have had the strength to rock the port-a-potty in that manner, so I chalked it up to a rock-and-dash, and the person had moved on down the road to a different potty.

Then we rejoined our group and learned about the earthquake.  Then we gaily laughed for accusing the world of having a urinary tract infection.  And I told the Wolvog that even an earthquake was not an excuse not to aim well.

The space between the twins’ beds is called the “We.”  They named it that when they were around two.  They would drop things in the space — binkies, stuffed animals, lovies — and ask us to fetch it.  “In the We!” they’d inform us, as we stretched our arms into painful angles to grab the binkies/stuffed animals/lovies.  There was “I” and there was “he” or “she,” and between their two beds was a space called “We.”

The twins are splitting into two rooms.

They have shared a room since the first day of their life.  First they shared a room at the hospital, and then they moved to a single crib in our house.  Later on, they moved to two cribs, side-by-side.  Finally, it became two toddler beds that ran the length of their wall.

Every time we broached the topic of separating, they would beg us to let them stay together, and there was always a reason that we let it go; some other current stressor or looming situation that would make us shrug our shoulders and let life go on as is.

I knew all summer that they needed new beds, and we told them that by the end of August, we’d need to split into two rooms.  There were a lot of tears when we talked about it, but they knew it was coming.  When I told them that it was time to go bed shopping, they came willingly.

While the activity was bouncing on beds and testing out pillows, they were all smiles.  But when the time came for me to sign the delivery slip with the saleswoman, they started crying, the reality of the situation hitting them hard.  I took the Wolvog into the corner of the store and sat on a random bed, stroking his head and telling him that we could fall apart at home, but we needed to hold it together in the store.  I sent them down to another store with my mother and niece, and I signed the credit card receipt in relief, happy to have the task accomplished.

Afterwards, I chose an armchair in a random part of the store and called Josh, my hand over my face, like I was trying to hold my grief against my skin, keep it from spilling out into the ether.  I wanted us to be past this moment.  I don’t want this moment to come at all.

By the end of the week, we will step into two separate rooms.  I have taken down the nursery decorations and packed them.  I have gutted the drawers, throwing out baby items.  We have bought new sheets, blankets, curtains.  They are slowly making their rooms their own.  If we try to talk about it with them, they cry.  If we don’t talk about it but rather look at the reality out of the corner of our eyes, they’re fine.  They will get through the transition; we will get through the transition.  There will come a day when being in two rooms feels more right than wrong.

“If I had been a singleton, this wouldn’t be so scary,” the ChickieNob told me.  “I think singletons must like being alone.  But I’m not a singleton; I’m a twin.”

Well, no, singletons don’t really love being alone.  Some do, some don’t; just as some twins love being with their sibling and some would rather be apart.  But I think what she is trying to ask of us is to not treat them as we would singletons.  To recognize that there is a different relationship there.

Just as she can’t imagine life as a singleton, I think only those who are multiples know what life is like as a twin.  The decisions that affect them should be made by them, since the adults in their life make decisions from a singleton point-of-view.  So I really struggled with taking this choice away from them simply due to logistics.  It happens all the time — that life gets in the way of letting them lead their own life.  But just because it happens all the time doesn’t mean this situation hurts any less.

It feels like one more end to babyhood; a letting go.  A moving forward, which also means by default moving apart.  It’s a step away from Josh and myself as well.  The ChickieNob is taking over the room that has always been held for our not-yet child.  There is a brother or sister-who-isn’t who was supposed to take that space.  If that comes to be, we’ll shuffle things around.  Until then, it feels silly to hold the room for someone who isn’t here when we have such little space.

Josh and I need to mourn.  And the twins need to mourn.  I’m really grateful to the people who saw we needed the support and stepped in with kind words or distractions for the twins or help in getting the rooms ready.  I’m less grateful to the people who shrug their shoulders and say, “what’s the big deal?”

I guess the big deal is that it’s a big deal to us.  And with that as an answer, it sort of doesn’t matter if the other person doesn’t see it as such; which is true for so many places in life.  It’s a big deal to our family and that is all the listener needs to know.  And if they don’t understand why, I’m not certain I can explain it.  The truth is that the twins and I spend more time not talking about it but simply rocking back and forth in the glider, my hand stroking their back or their hair.  Sometimes it’s less about words and more about acknowledgment.

Isn’t that true for so many areas of life?  Don’t we just need someone to stroke our head for a moment and acknowledge that we’re struggling, even if they can do nothing to remove the problem?

As I tucked them in on Thursday night, I slipped my hand into the space between their two beds; only a few centimeters of width.  “What do you call this space?” I asked, knowing the answer even though it has been many years since they’ve dropped something in it and asked us to fetch it.

“The We,” the Wolvog called out.

For each of them: there is an “I” and there is a “he” or “she.”  And there is also a space between them which is owned by neither of them but invisibly attached to both of them.  And even slipping into two separate rooms can’t take that away.

Consistently, whenever I get around ovulation, I have an enormous dip in self-esteem.  I feel like I’m literally the opposite of all of those studies that have found that women believe they are more desirable around ovulation, an evolutionary trick to make humans have sex when they’ll be successful.  Instead of revealing clothing, I am more likely to wear sweatpants and bemoan all the ways I’m just not good enough.  I know, it’s attractive.  Girls in mustard-coloured sweatpants with low self-esteem get the boys hot.

I’m assuming it’s a learned behaviour because it seems to have started in the last few years.  Get enough hints from your body that you suck at family building and you will get the message that you suck at family building.

I was having one of these low self-esteem sessions last cycle when Josh said something profound when I cried that I didn’t feel successful in many facets of life:

“You are not a success in the comparative sense, but you are a success in the objective sense.”

I’ve been mulling this over, rationally aware at this point in life that it never stops.  You can be the most popular girl in school and still perceive that someone is more popular.  You can arguably be one of the most successful writers — your characters beloved by millions of people — and still lament that you haven’t won a Nobel Prize in Literature.  Someone else’s stomach is always flatter, hair is always shinier, boobs are always perkier.  Other people don’t seem to have your money problems: they can afford a single family home and vacations, and they don’t have a job dissimilar to your own.

I have always compared myself to others and used that as the barometer of my success.  I wasn’t as smart as my sister in school nor as pretty, therefore I labeled myself pedestrian and homely.  Looking back, if I consider myself objectively, was I really that mediocre?  Probably not.  I was in AP classes, had been told I had great hair on numerous occasions, even won awards from time to time.  Objectively, I was smart and pretty.  Comparatively, I was not.

Writers will always have the JK Rowlings of the world to make themselves feel like shit about their own writing success.  Infertile women will always have the Michelle Duggars of the world to make themselves feel like shit about their family building success.  Bloggers will always have the Heather Armstrongs of the world to make themselves feel like shit about their blogging success.  It doesn’t matter if you have a published book or a child or have gathered three great friends due to your blog, your achievements only look like a success to the person on the outside who is using your life as a comparison to their own success levels.  In your own eyes, you can never measure up.

Unless you stop comparing.  Unless you can look at yourself objectively.

What do you think of Josh’s statement?