The twins super size nursing pillow.

May 2010 – February 2012.

I’ve put old glory out to pasture. Look at that beauty with her faded denim and husky frame. I spent so many nights with that gal. She traveled with me. By car. By plane. She was always up for an adventure. That pillow was Chase and Harlowe’s second home from the time they came home as preemie’s until about 36 hours ago.

Yes, I just stopped nursing my 20-month-old twins. Most people think I stopped nursing months ago. Mostly because when they would say, “Are you still nursing?” -  I’d say, “Heavens no! Do I look INSANE?!”

But it’s hard to stop nursing your last. At least for me. I feel sad. Like a part of my maternal mission has quietly come to an end.

I don’t think of breastfeeding as some grand accomplishment. Well, maybe in the beginning when mastitis, night sweats, and cracked nipples are regular occurrences but then it just becomes this natural, sweet thing. It doesn’t work for everyone. It worked for me.

I nursed them at the same time. Holding each like a football. But by the end, two very gigantic, wiggly footballs.

Because I believe in full disclose, I want to share a snapshot of what my breasts look like after nursing four children over the years…

Okay, now you’re the insane one.

There’s no photo. Stop scrolling down.

I’m serious.

Stop looking for a photo.

The post is done.

Skiing Before Kids:

Get up. Drive to the mountain. Buy lift ticket. Ski all day. Après-ski. Sleep.

Skiing After Kids:

8:46 a.m. Arrive at the mountain!

8:53 a.m. Pay for lift tickets, ski school and rentals for four people. The total cost causes an audible gasp from one of the parents.

9:02 a.m. 7-year-old starts crying because she has to put a ski school jersey over her winter jacket. She can’t imagine why anyone is making her do this.  It’s the most horrific thing that has ever happened.

9:14 a.m. 5-year-old begins sobbing because she doesn’t want her head to be measured for the helmet.

9:15 a.m. Their mother wonders how people don’t get lice from rented helmets.

9:32 a.m. Everyone has their rentals. Let’s go hit the slopes!

9:33 a.m. 5-year-old and 7-year-old refuse to join their ski school class. Various instructors try to convince them. Their parents lovingly try to explain that they need to be brave. They promise it will be fun. Children still refuse to go into their class. Parents get less loving. They threaten to leave the mountain immediately!! Children still don’t budge. The parents are defeated.

9:47 a.m. Parents put children in a semi private lesson.

10:06 a.m. The kids are skiing! Sort of. At least doing some sort of pizza wedge thingy down the mountain. And when I say mountain, I mean, slight incline. Mom is cold. She would be warmer if she was actually skiing, instead of standing at the bottom of the petite bunny slope.

11:01 a.m. Time to ski together as a family. On the bunny slope. This is kind of fun. The kids are enjoying this. The parents are enjoying this.

12:21 p.m. Everyone is hungry. Head to the lodge.

12:40 p.m. 7-year-old begins crying because her ski boots are suddenly suffocating her. And she must get her jacket off immediately. And she is so thirsty. It’s the most horrific thing that has ever happened.

1 p.m. Eat lunch of pizza and hamburgers. The mother pretends it’s organic and wholesome.

1:43 p.m. The children report they are done skiing. Leave the mountain. Children are sad because they forgot to get hot chocolate. They beg to go back. The parents refuse.

There is no Après-ski.

Over the next six hours… attend a birthday party. Prepare dinner. Bathe children. Read books. Put children to bed.

Put ski clothes back in attic.

Sleep.

I just want you to know that if my husband and I go all Heidi Klum and Seal someday, it will totally be because of grapes.

By the way, my daughter Dylan was once in a baby class with Heidi’s daughter Leni in the West Village and I’ll have you know that Heidi is super tall and pretty and seemed quite nice in that “I’m a model but I don’t hate you because you’re not” way and due to our deep connection from that one 40 minute class, I’m obviously devastated over their break-up.

Back to grapes.

I tend to obsess over choking hazards (hot dogs and quarters are also high on my list) and of course, the potential for a shoe lace to get caught in an escalator or the possible dangers of putting plastic in the dishwasher but let’s stay focused.

For the past seven years, I’ve been pleading with Rick (that’s my husband or Seal in this scenario) to cut the grapes the LONG way so that when our kids are babies and toddlers, it doesn’t get lodged in their throats.

He does cut them but not necessarily to my liking. Sometimes he cuts them horizontally which doesn’t meet my specifications or he only cuts them in half which I still deem too large.  There is a lot of critiquing and modifying and disagreement over this.

And he defends himself by saying, “No one ever even cut my grapes!”

Look, my parents threw me in a baby backpack and took me out on their motorcycle but I’m not recommending we do that.

I do allow my 7-year-old to eat whole grapes. Organic if possible.

And I would allow my 5-year-old to eat whole grapes if I could ever convince her to actually put one in her mouth.

And I don’t peel grapes which I know some moms favor.

But I do like to cut them pretty small for Chase and Harlowe, mostly because they are 20 months old and I’ve seen Harlowe shove half of a pizza in her mouth in one sitting. And she’s also a food hoarder.

We were putting her to bed the other night, and she had something shoved in her cheek from breakfast. I haven’t been that committed to breakfast since the S’Mores Pop Tart was invented.  I just don’t want an entire grape hanging out in that cheek of hers for 3 days.

I’m guessing that like many things – Rick will never stress over this. And I always will.

When our twins get older, we will stop cutting their grapes. It won’t be a conscious decision. Just one day, we will realize that we don’t do it anymore. And like so many childhood milestones, it will just suddenly be done.

And then, when all our kids are grown and have gone on to fancy careers in biotechnology or working at Coyote Ugly (whichever) and Rick and I are living in our warm weather gated community, I will turn to him and say, “Remember, when we used to cut our kids’ grapes? Which one of us was totally obsessed with that?”

And I bet we won’t even remember.

mama bird notes:

My focus is definitely on food today because of my wonderful sponsor… Horizon Organic. I love when I get an opportunity to work with a company that I have adored for years. My kids eats tons of Horizon Organic products like milk, cheese and yogurt. The company is running a super cute campaign right now where kids define things like “organic” and “pesticides.” I’m starting to think some kids are really smart. Take a look…

Thanks Horizon!

I used to be a big skier. It was before giving birth, being saddled with preschool costs and when I didn’t get a chill from a 60 degree cross breeze.

My husband (who was my boyfriend at the time) loved to ski too. And I was a little better than him but I never made a big thing over it except for that one time when I ironed a patch on the back of my ski jacket that read, “I’m the Better Skier.”

We once went on a ski trip to Park City, Utah where I learned very little about Mormons but a lot about how to ski for free.  Rick and I decided to attend one of those timeshare presentations in order to get two complimentary lift tickets.

It was really simple enough. We pretended to be married. And pretty much just had to listen to the speil, grab our tickets and hit the mountain. We decided we had a small wedding on Cape Cod and then a lovely two week honeymoon on the gorgeous French Riviera.  It was so romantic. And I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring because we had left it back in New York City for safe keeping. It’s just not safe to travel with jewels.

A very excited timeshare representative spoke to us for 45 minutes on the unparalleled joys of owning a timeshare. We listened patiently and then she said, “I’m going to give you a few minutes to think about it.” And she left the room.

“Wow. That was intense.  I hope she comes back soon. I want to get out of here,” I said.

“Honey, I think we should do it!” Rick responded.

“What?”

“Seriously, ski in, ski out accommodations. Plenty of room for guests. Access to a jacuzzi. We have to do this. It’s a no brainer,” Rick explained.

“You are insane. I’m not buying a timeshare. We aren’t married. Do you even remember that we aren’t married?! We aren’t even engaged!”

“And when we don’t feel like a ski vacation, we can trade it for a warm weather destination. You heard the woman. We are losing money by not doing this.”

“Let’s get engaged someday. Let’s get married someday. THEN we can talk about a time share. I’m not doing this. Seriously. I’m not,” I said in disbelief.

“We’d be right on the mountain! Our kids will love it!”

“What kids?! Oh my god!” (I would have said OMG but no one was saying that yet.)

Thankfully, the energetic time share woman re-emerged and I quickly thanked her for the opportunity, told her we’d be in touch, took the tickets and fled.

We did eventually get engaged. And married. And had kids.

And this weekend, we are taking Dylan and Summer to a small local mountain to ski for the first time. I’m guessing it will just be a very expensive way to make them whine. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they’ll experience that magical feeling of whipping down a mountain.

And a decade after that trip to Park City, Utah, we have never purchased a timeshare.

Or been to the French Riviera.

I recently met a woman whose daughter will turn two in July.

And she’s pregnant.

With twins.

They’re coming in May.

And I had to cover my mouth with imaginary duct tape to prevent myself from belting out, “You’ll have your hands full!”

She had a few questions for me like…

“I’ve been reading some books about multiples and they all insist I can easily nurse the twins in public! Is that true?”

“Hell to the no girlfriend. Maybe in the car. With a giant size nursing pillow. But do not attempt to sit your postpardum self on a park bench and nurse those twins simultaneously. Because you will either drop one or create a crowd of onlookers that would make Lady Ga Ga jealous.”

And then she asked…

“What kind of car do we need?”

“A mini cooper. Definitely the best option! Wait, did I say Mini Cooper? I meant minivan.”

“Everyone tells me it’s going to be horrible having newborn twins and a young toddler. Is it really that bad?”

In my head: “Oh yes, the first year is going to be rough. REALLY rough. The summer after my twins were born, I was so tired, I inadvertently locked my husband in the basement and he was so tired, he was introducing our son as Chad. I would have corrected him but who had the energy?

And I’m pretty sure my older girls were raising themselves. Which would explain the day they almost burned down the kitchen. But now my twins are 20 months-old and except for a little incident today where Chase unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper, sprinkled a bag of grapes throughout the house like confetti and then broke a glass snow globe in the bathtub, it’s smooth sailing!

Outloud: “It’s not bad at all! Sure, there will be a smidgeon of fatigue. And just a hair of guilt. And maybe just a bit of chaos. But no worries! Children are a wonderful blessing. Having one is just like three. You’ll be fabulous! Best of luck to you!!”

Sometimes it’s just better not to know what’s coming.