Life in Siberia

I check the clock again. It’s fifty after. Just 10 more minutes now. Today it’s Music and Movement for Toddlers. I check myself: am I still smiling? Am I even still watching? They’re playing with scarves and dancing. The other mothers are shaking maracas. Some have tambourines. The other mothers are dancing do-si-do style with their children. Maracas are out of the question today, but I take a cue. I clap along to the music and fix a gaze that I’m sure shows pride and adoration. I do my best to look lovingly between Owen and Dylan; I even snap a picture. I look at the frozen image captured in time on my cell phone screen--it's blurry. They were moving too fast.

My eyes notice the clock. Just 8 more minutes now.

In the car, I let down the smile. I think I hear Owen talk about spiders, or is it race cars? He says something about wanting pretzels. Dylan does not want pretzels. No pretzels. No pretzels! Cookies! Cookies! Without looking from the road, I flip past the pages of Tool in the CD collection to retrieve the now ubiquitous compilation of children’s music. We’ve heard three versions of The Wheels on the Bus by the time we turn into Publix.

“You’ve certainly got your hands full,” a voice remarks as I’m loading the twins into a gigantic grocery cart complete with steering wheel distractions. F off, you unoriginal simpleton. I smile and nod.

Inside the freezing store, Owen and Dylan delight in their free cookie; I concentrate hard on my meticulously organized grocery list. We pass another customer. Dylan waves to them, grabs me by the arms and explain to them, “my pretty mommy! Owie’s pretty mommy too!” At this Owen smiles and nods emphatically in agreement. The stranger must find this endearing. She looks at me, puts a hand to her heart and smiles broadly.

"They grow up so fast. Enjoy this time with them." The stranger remarks. Another refrain I've heard countless times. And while I know I should relish these moments of childhood innocence, right now, standing in this grocery store—I’m just far too cold.

Back at home I’m endlessly busy and always on. I cook. They eat. I clean. They clutter. I work. They sleep. We play. They love our shared time, and I love it too, though for almost all the wrong reasons. A game of chase, a bike ride, a trip to the park, piggy back rides: how many calories have I burned? And what can I do to rid myself of more? After all, I don’t want to “waste” this time. All the while, I wear my saccharine smile, sing cheery songs, and smother them with hugs and kisses so plentiful that I almost convince myself.

We snuggle and read books before bed. I know they love me--and the naivety of this fact is almost painful-- but not nearly as much as I do truly love them. It should be so simple.

They fold their hands, close their eyes softly, and smile easily as I turn out the light. I hear my voice recite the Lord's Prayer. I close my eyes too, but my mind wanders instead, to my real prayers for them. It’s the same the every night: Please God, let my boys grow up healthy. Dear God, may these boys always feel loved. Please God, please: let them always know their worth. Let them come to experience joy in this lifetime. And please, God, please…as they grow, make them nothing like me.