Our Story

Two boys and a mom

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I‘m a single mom to identical twin boys and have blogged on and off about our life since they were just two. When I look back at this record — at all of the fits and starts, the milestones met and missed, the catastrophes and unforeseen events that add up to our life — I know that this is just a modest record, and that the best I could do was the best I could do at the time.

My boys are now eleven! and while they have grown taller and made such strides, this blog has been about my growth too — as their mom, as someone who once believed she could control all-of-the-things. While old habits are hard to break, I do better with “good enough”, with breathing and knowing that it’s not all etched in stone.

John with GroverThird graders have since become sixth graders. Middle school. The last time I blogged we had just moved from our old life into our new. Sam still hums and sings ALL of the time but now it is channeled in to musical theater and voice lessons. His most passionate obsessions are 18th century European history and, of late — presidential politics. During one of the recent debates he watched until 11 p.m. while I fell asleep on the couch. He is following the campaigns with a clear understanding of platforms and the lack thereof. He tells me that even if Trump is elected that Congress will keep him in check and I nod, and pray he’s correct. He is both shy and outgoing but most of all private and prone to giving me lectures about social media. I am conscious of making sure I write my story and give him the space he desires.

I have been listening for John’s story every moment of every day, reading his jumping, measuring his anxiety, trying to decipher what he thinks and feels. This morning as I helped him put on his sneakers and he touched my hair I stood and realized that he is now my height exactly and that these moments are finite, that one day he will tower above me, and maybe (hopefully?) push me away because he can do for himself. John’s progress has not been linear, instead it’s been up and down, with valleys so low I’ve felt hopeless. The grace is that he looks at me with those big brown eyes and smiles and I am new again. John is the embodiment of hope for me. He still loves Sesame Street and all DVDs but has recently added (iPad) movie-making to his repertoire of skills — starring finger puppets and beanies.

I miss writing. Getting it down means getting it out of my head and heart where exposed to the air and other eyes it loses some of its gravitas.

“But you can’t get to any of these truths by sitting in a field smiling beatifically, avoiding your anger and damage and grief. Your anger and damage and grief are the way to the truth. We don’t have much truth to express unless we have gone into those rooms and closets and woods and abysses that we were told not go in to. When we have gone in and looked around for a long while, just breathing and finally taking it in – then we will be able to speak in our own voice and to stay in the present moment. And that moment is home.”
―Anne Lamott

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