Angie Kinghorn

Watch out world, she’s on twitter.

Oh, dear sweet Lord.  What have I done?

I’ve opened a Twitter account, that’s what.

Forgive me in advance for breaches of twitter etiquette, technical screw-ups, etc.  And any words of advice for this newbie would be welcome.

In the meantime, if you want to follow me, my twitter ID is angiekinghorn.

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Writer’s Workshop: Where were my shoes? Who knows, they wouldn’t have fit, anyway.

2.) Where were your shoes?  Write about an interesting time when you happened to be barefoot.  Begin and end your writing with a description of your feet.


At the end of my pregnancy, I couldn’t see my feet.
Before this, whenever I’d heard pregnant women say they couldn’t see their feet, I’d laughed.  Just lean over, or look to the side around the belly.  How hard could it be?
And then I found myself in the third trimester of a twin pregnancy and found out exactly how hard it could be.  Impossible.  My belly measured 10 weeks ahead, so I was the size of someone who was roughly 2 ½ months further along.  At 30 weeks, I looked full term.  At 35 weeks and 6 days, which is when this little incident occurred, I looked like an over-inflated balloon meant for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Like the rest of me, my feet swelled during my pregnancy.  By the time I got to borderline preeclampsia, my cankles went all the way up past my knees.  I gained 20 pounds of fluid in one week.  No bones were visible pretty much anywhere on my body, but especially not in my feet.  When my husband tried to massage them to give me some relief, I could actually feel the fluid move around.  His hands left indentations on the tops of my feet like dimples in rising bread dough.
But I was focused on the truly important things in life, and at 35 weeks and 6 days into my pregnancy, I knew that my OB appointment the next day was likely to lead to a delivery or at the very least, another hospital stay.
Clearly, my toes had to be painted.
Any sane person would have simply removed her old polish (or left it) and been done with it, but am I sane?  Hell, no.  My toenails have sported red polish for most of my adult life.  Having red toenails and blonde hair makes me feel better about the state of the world.
It’s only in retrospect I can see how addled my brain must have been.  There I was, roughly the size of a young killer whale, swollen so much that if I sat down on the floor I had to have help getting up, having foregone such niceties as leg-shaving and bikini line maintenance months prior, worried about what the doctors and nurses would think of my freaking toenails, when my feet were too swollen to fit in any of my shoes.
A pedicure was out of the question because I was on bed rest, therefore I took it upon myself the day before my appointment to remove my old polish and paint my toes.
Unfortunately, I neglected to consider that not only could I not see my toes, I couldn’t even reach my toes.
But it didn’t stop me.  It took several hours and many rest breaks and some really amazingly stupid contortion and bolstering of various body parts with pillows, but those toes got painted.
Good thing, too, because the next day my doc sent me straight over to the hospital to have the twins.  At 36 weeks on the nose.
Hours and many doses of morphine later, flat on my back in the recovery room after my c-section, I noticed that I could actually see my toes.  This hadn’t happened in months.  I started chirping to everyone who would listen, “Look, I’m thin!  I can see my feet!  I’m skinny!  I’m positively svelte!”  To his credit, my husband didn’t laugh, but the nurses sure did.
It wasn’t until the next day that I got a clear picture of what I’d done.  At first, without my glasses, I glanced down and thought my feet were covered in blood.  Which honestly would not have surprised me all that much at that point.  But after donning my specs, I got the picture.  There were my feet, even more swollen than before the birth.  And there was smeared, dark red polish, splashed all over my toes, nails, cuticles and all.  I can’t remember the actual name of the polish I used (“I’m not really a waitress,” perhaps?), but I’ve got a few suggestions for OPI the next time they go naming a dark red polish: “I’m not really a manicurist.”  Or “Texas chainsaw massacre.”  Or “Shot with a hospistol.”  Or “You give blood a bad name.”

Reflections on motherhood

Today is Mother’s Day, and as I’ve enjoyed my day off, I’ve been ruminating over how three and a half years of motherhood has changed me.
There’s the obvious: my body is now the shape of a mother.  I bear scars and stretch marks, and yes, at first, I resented them bitterly.  As bathing suit season approaches, part of me still resents them bitterly.  I see new moms looking like Kate Moss and my subconscious wonders what deal with the devil they struck.  But outside of dressing rooms with their evil lighting and three-way mirrors, in a world where more women look like me than like Gisele, I mostly see these changes as God’s tattoos, branding “mommy” on my skin as clearly as if he’d spelled out the word.  I have soft places that will likely never be buff and toned, but when my children lay their heads in my lap and sigh with pleasure, it pleases me that Mommy is a comfort and a soft place to land.
Motherhood has made me stronger in ways I never fathomed.  Law school didn’t teach me how long I could go without sleep, but two infants sure as hell did.  Several shoulder reconstructions didn’t teach me how much physical pain I could endure, but my pregnancy and complicated c-section definitely did.  For these babies, I’m stronger than I thought, and far stronger than if it were just for me.  In a true miracle, I have acquired some small amount of patience.  Three months of bed rest will do that for you.  As will three years of twins, approximately 542 ear infections, 689 middle-of-the-night fevers, and 301 cases of croup.  Not to mention countless trips to the pediatrician, one memorable visit to the pediatric dentist, one year of speech therapy, and two visits to the pediatric ER.
Yet while motherhood has made me stronger, it has also made me vulnerable in a way only other mothers can understand.  When the doctor plucked my little babies from my womb, pieces of my heart splintered off and went with them.  Gone from the confines of my chest to the brutal environment outside, my heart was no longer safe and sheltered.  My children are pieces of me, and when they hurt, their pain stabs at me, too.  Then there’s the constant worry, knowing they are out in the world and subject to hurt, loss, and pain, and that they will eventually meet all these things.  This is the world in which we live, and nothing can protect them from it, especially if they are to go out and enjoy all it has to offer.  It’s a bittersweet pain, a constant anxiety that feels as much a permanent part of me as they are.
This Type A girl has yet to become Type B, but I have learned to let go of some things.  My house will never look like a museum, but that’s ok.  It looks like a home.  There will always be laundry waiting, and my children will never allow themselves to be dressed and coiffed to smocked perfection.  They prefer Target play clothes to boutique clothing, and that’s ok.  They’re happy, and I don’t have to iron.
Motherhood has deepened my connection to God, at least, when I don’t fall asleep in the middle of my prayers.  It has made me conscious of the things I do, because those little eyes and ears don’t miss anything, and they imitate everything.  So I find myself trying to be the best person I can be so that my children will follow suit.  Some days the best person I can be is a mommy in her pajamas who parks her kids in front of Nick Jr. and begs them to be quiet because mommy has a migraine.  They don’t know what a migraine is, and I pray they never do.  But it’s the best I can do, and I’ve learned that the best you can do is absolutely enough.
However, there remains a lot for me to learn.
For instance, my son is potty trained, yet I still find myself mopping up puddles on the bathroom floor on a regular basis.  This, I do not understand.  The penis simply does not look that complicated.  Point and shoot. Look down at what you’re doing.  Voila!  (Or so one would think.)  I’ve learned never to talk to him while he’s going, because he’ll turn around, mid-pee, and soak the bathroom.
And what am I supposed to do about my children’s honesty?  Last week I asked my son, “Did you hit your sister?” and he looked at me and said, looking slightly offended, “No.  I not hit her.”  Pause.  “I push her.”
Two cheers for honesty, but really, should I have punished him for telling the truth?  I think I said (while trying not to bray like a donkey) something along the lines of, “Thank you for telling me the truth, but we do not hit.  Do not hit your sister again.”
Since she’s been sporting a mysterious black eye this week, I’m not convinced he got the message.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the wonderful women out there who make it their work to raise children.  May your children grow up with all the best parts of you.

Open letter to new moms (of twins)

Dear new moms of twins,

I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  And my twins are three and a half.
I would like to tell you that after all the night feedings and spit-up cease, things become a cinch, but I promised my readers that I would give them things straight up.
So, straight up it is.  You may want to sit down.
Motherhood is hard.  And for me, it is not getting easier as the kids get older.  It’s just morphing into a different type of hard.
Before you brand me a wimp, let me tell you that I am actually quite capable, intelligent, up for a challenge, and resilient.  I made it through law school, passed the bar exam, practiced corporate law, jumped out of an airplane, scuba dived on the wreck of an iron-side steamer in 100 feet of water, went parasailing, endured the loss of both my grandfathers and my father to prostate cancer, got through the medical scare of a lifetime after finding out that my brain harbors a small tumor, then weathered a traumatic pregnancy and birth only to end up with postpartum depression.  (Full disclosure: I got through all this, but with the help of my good friend Sam the pharmacist.  Better living through chemistry, I always say.)
There’s no way to be ready for parenthood.  It’s not an experience for which you could adequately prepare, no matter how much time you had.  I hope you’re one of those new moms who exists in a blissful state of pink-tinged cloudy happiness, and if you are, I’m thrilled for you.  But if you’re not, know that you’re not alone.  Even if your friends don’t talk about it, they have days where they sit and cry for no reason.  Some of them hate nursing but feel like they can’t stop without being branded a bad mother.  Some of them hate nursing but feel like they can’t stop because it’s the only reason they’ve lost weight.  They panic and think they’re pregnant again, rushing out to the drugstore to buy a test, then berate themselves when, after peeing all over their hands, they remember that they may not have actually had sex since their last period.  How do I know this?  I’ve talked to a LOT of new moms.  When you ask how they’re doing and take the trouble to get past “fine,” you realize that the experience is hard for everyone.
You’re not the only one who:
  • Wonders at the end of the day whether you remembered to brush your teeth.
  • Goes out in public with Desitin smeared on your shirt.
  • Needs a shower but would rather nap.
  • Looks at your cracked, bleeding nipples and wonders if it’s worth it.
  • Sees your preemie newborns and thinks, “Ugh.  My babies look like aliens!”
  • Stood up in the hospital and had a gush of blood ruin your slippers.
  • Wonders, while holding your screaming, feverish child in a tepid bath at 2:30 in the morning, why you decided to procreate.
  • Falls asleep pumping.
  • Feels like a dairy cow.
Some tips and general things to know:
  • Crying is ok.  If they’re crying, they’re not dying of SIDS.
  • If you don’t already drink alcohol, consider starting.  If you already enjoy the good grape, consider moving up to hard liquor.
  • Understand that you’re going to feel incredibly isolated for the first year or so.  Not only is it hard to get around with twins, but most of your friends will not have twins.  Every time you relate a particularly horrible parenting experience, they’ll sigh and say, “But you had twins!”  As if you didn’t know.
  • Learn to accept help, even when that help is doing your laundry and making fun of the condition of your delicates.  Accept help even when the help is doubled over laughing at your husband’s boxer shorts.
  • With help comes less privacy (see above).  Best to get used to it now.  You won’t be able to go to the bathroom alone for several years.
  • You do NOT have to breastfeed.  If you have to supplement with formula, or for some reason cannot, or choose not to nurse, it’s ok.  Don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re letting your children down.
  • More than likely, you’re not going to see your “old” body again.  And it will take about a year to feel remotely normal.
  • Any time you have an option, go for what makes life easier, even if it isn’t what you’d envisioned pre-twins.  For example, if you always pictured yourself as the cool mom in the SUV, consider that a minivan, while less cool, will make your life significantly easier, and thus happier.
  • If you don’t already have a dog, get one, if for no other reason than to avoid having to sweep and mop under the kitchen table three times a day.  But also because your dog is infinitely more likely to obey you, unconditionally love you, and greet you with enthusiasm than are your own offspring.
  • But don’t take the easy way out.  Take the kids to church, even if they do get sick every time they’re in the nursery.  They need it, and so do you.
  • Pray with your kids, even when it’s the last thing you feel like doing.  Introduce them to God so he’ll know who they are when you complain about them.
  • Don’t avoid discipline because it’s inconvenient.  Someone once told me, with kids, “it’s pay now or pay later.”  Truer words were never spoken.
  • Remember that your job is not to be their friend, but their mother.
And yes, it is worth it.  Even on a day like today, when my kids have pestered me with the same questions time and time again, when they’ve thrown tantrums, screamed and refused to go down for a nap without a fight, even on the days when someone vomits on my shoes and pees on the bathroom floor.
It’s worth it.  Someday you’re going to find yourself engulfed in a huge toddler hug, and a little voice will whisper, “Mommy, I love you.”  And you’ll know what I mean.
Love,
Angie