The Dry Erase Board

Written in September, 2008.

My obsessive listing started long before I became pregnant. I typed grocery lists, made lists of books I intended to read and other lists for long-term projects I’d someday get around to, and relied on my daily to-do lists. Even my weekends began with a list: Clean the closet. Take the dog to the park. It provided me with a certain degree of comfort, I suppose, because every time someone marveled at my organization skills, I’d swell with pride and recommit to controlling my world, one crossed off to-do item at a time.

Once I found out I was pregnant with twins, I kicked it into even higher gear. There was the Master Registry List, a spreadsheet compiling all the suggested registry items contained in my books, organized by stores and into categories, designed and edited to fit our family-to-be. I mentally matched gifts to certain people, and when they’d casually ask whether there was anything I particularly wanted, I’d practically recite the item number I’d picked out for them. Nevertheless, we ended up with too many car seats and no preemie outfits.

Then there was my list of 57 things to do before the girls’ birth, divided by items to purchase, work responsibilities to complete, and house organization projects to get underway. It ranged from the relatively easy (“get tile in guest bathroom steam cleaned”) to the overwhelming (“get wills done”). Every week I updated the list, deleting the things I’d completed and invariably adding half a dozen new projects. Finally, when I was 37 weeks pregnant, five days away from my scheduled cesarean section, I relented. Not everything on the list would be completed before the girls were born. I was frustrated that my hugely pregnant frame refused to carry me around quickly and easily, prohibiting me from replacing that hideous sconce in the hallway. To make myself feel better, I created a short list of 18 things to do after the girls were born and tried to relax.

By the time Monkey and Turtle were four weeks old, it felt like I’d had about ten hours of sleep in the previous month. The one task I managed to complete during that time was getting to my attorney’s office to sign my will. Thank God for that, since I was sure I’d soon die from the exhaustion of trying to keep up with my new life. I needed to assert some control over the chaos. So I made another list. It included everything that needed to happen each day, in the order it should happen, from running a load of baby laundry to the six-times-a-day breast-pumping routine to a quick shower for myself. Soon the list became a chart, divided by days of the week, complete with neat boxes and columns. I planned to check off each item as I completed it, review my results on Sunday, revise as needed, and print out a new list for the following week. I was determined to restore order to my life. No more missing my daily vitamins; the dog would not go unfed again. Just consult the list every half hour and it would tell me what to do.

The girls, however, had no respect for my list. One would cry and the other would cry, so I could rarely turn my attention away from them. I soothed one for a couple of minutes and then put her down to pick up the other, only to have the first one start to wail again as soon as she was out of my arms. I tried in vain to manage it all, but when Sunday arrived the number of checked boxes was outnumbered by blank ones. I tried to be satisfied that each feeding and breast-pumping box was checked every day. The girls needed to eat, and I was at least providing them breast milk. We were all surviving, and I could always shower next month.

When the girls were old enough that I no longer needed to obsess over every ounce eaten and every minute slept, I created a simple organizational chart on my dry erase board. In my former life, this big white board hung on the wall of my home office, recording the status of numerous real estate transactions. Now it would guide my days at home with the girls. I propped it on the fireplace hearth and created three neatly divided categories: "Signs We’re Learning," "Foods We’re Eating," and "Things We’re Doing." I allowed the dry erase board to showcase all the ways in which I was enriching the girls’ day.

“Do you really need to write ‘practice crawling’ on the board?” Twin Daddy asked. “Isn’t that something they just do?” I ignored the teasing of friends and family. I needed the board. I was convinced that without it I would just stare off into space while Monkey and Turtle chewed on my shoes.

When Monkey learned to crawl, followed shortly thereafter by Turtle, the disregard for my list only grew. No amount of piano playing or Spanish sing-along CDs was as interesting as pulling up on door hinges, banging on windows, and chewing on houseplants. Gone were the days when they would amuse themselves in their play yard while I cleaned up the breakfast dishes or folded laundry. Now they yelled for release after two minutes of confinement. Monkey got a week-long bleeding diaper rash as a result of the abundance of fibrous vegetables I proudly displayed under "Foods We’re Eating." “She’s not ready for all those foods, you need to go back to basics,” the pediatric nurse advised. Turtle wouldn’t even look at me when I made the sign for “cat” when he walked past, opting instead to lunge after him and pull out his hair in clumps.

The fireplace hearth became a favorite area for both girls to practice climbing and standing, so I looked for another place to prop my dry erase board. As I carried it around, I noticed how many of the words on my once meticulous board were faded or half-erased, that the food and schedule categories hadn’t been updated in weeks, and that I’d given up teaching most of the signs on the list long ago. And that’s when I realized that not only was there no place for the board in my house, but that there was no place for it in my life. The girls’ development is so rapid and dramatic that it takes my breath away. All I really need to do is offer them a bite to eat every couple of hours, stay out of their way, and enjoy the beautiful lives unfolding in front of me.

The laundry sits on the dining room table all week. And that’s okay.