Waiting for you, babe

We never thought she’d get here.

This wasn’t labor for 8 hours, like when I was there for my friend Kristin.

This was 24 hours of labor.

Actually 24 hours in the hospital, in a bed, hooked up to monitors, waiting around.

I was there with her husband, Daniel, the whole time, waiting.

Waiting for my first niece.

The niece from my identical twin sister, Joy.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

For nine months, I wondered if she’d look like me.

For a month straight, I waited with my phone NOT on silent, waiting for the call that Joy was in labor.

We waited as her due date crept up.

Once we were at the hospital, we were all ready.

And then she made us wait an entire extra day.

It was really fitting, I suppose, all this waiting because there hasn’t been a baby in our close-knit family for 35 years, since when Joy and I were born.

No one had ever changed a diaper.

This baby was significant.

Especially to me, because it’s my first time being an aunt.

(Well, OK, I suppose it was significant to Daniel, too.)

But she was also significant to Daniel’s family, because it was the only girl in that family for years.

A tribe of boys all on that side.

We waited.

We waited for our whole lives to be different.

From midnight to 5 a.m., things were slow and uneventful. 

Then after on-and-off naps from 6-9 a.m., it remained...slow and uneventful.

At 10 a.m., we got news that she was halfway to the point of delivery.

We put out the word to friends and family.

And then we all waited.

“I feel like she’s never going to get here,” Joy said at 1:22 p.m.

We talked and chatted. We told jokes and watched bad television. We perked up whenever the nurse came in, hoping she’d magically birth the baby.

Everything was ready and in place at 7:30 p.m.

But still, she didn’t want to come out.

COME ON, BABY! I wanted to scream. DON’T YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE WAITING FOR YOU, WAITING TO LOVE YOU??

The candles that were distributed to close girlfriends to light during Joy’s labor had long gone out. (Haha...HIPPIES.)

It was now 20 hours in labor.

At 8 p.m., the nurse said we were done waiting for the baby and told Joy that she had to push this baby out on her own, with no help from the baby who was apparently allergic to the birth canal.

Joy had to make it happen.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever spent 20 hours in labor, but imagine competing in a Strongman competition that you didn’t at all train for.

And then once you’re done, they tell you there’s a last-minute event. Now it’s time to climb a mountain.

“I would quit!” I announced, mainly to make Joy laugh.

“Wait, do people quit?” I asked the nurse.

She replied, “I’ve seen…lots of things.”

Ha

But Joy wasn’t quitting.

No hesitation, she took every single ounce of her energy both mentally and physically to get the baby that we had all been waiting for into the world.

It was more pride than I’ve ever had for Joy that instead of breaking down and giving up about this situation, or deciding to quit pushing, or even being bratty (which happens when someone doesn’t eat or sleep for 20 hours) 

She didn’t give up once. 

Not even for a second.

I didn’t know that I was waiting to see Joy be so strong and so brave.

AND SHE PUSHED (think sit-ups with a 20-pound dumbbell on your stomach that is also thoughtfully pushing into a nerve in your back) for three entire hours.

THREE HOURS.

...coming off of 20 hours.

With each push we tried to make her laugh, tried to calm her breathing in between.

Daniel and I tried to muster even a fraction of the energy Joy was displaying.

And then, in a very dramatic fashion, she was born in the last hour of May 10, 2018.

And we all cried.

SHE HAD DARK HAIR!

(That’s not why we were crying.)

Elise Rose Farrae was the tiniest and cutest thing I had ever seen and I instantly fell in love with her.

“WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU!” we cried. “ALREADY MAKING AN ENTRANCE, THIS ONE!”

The announcement went out to everyone waiting across multiple time zones.

Joy made the assessment that the labor was long and arduous because she had an easy pregnancy.

NO, JOY, IT’S BECAUSE WE WERE ALL WAITING FOR HER AND SHE KNEW IT.

Also, maybe because she’s a Taurus, who are known for their stubbornness. (Aunt Jenny has jokes!)

“Thanks for keeping us on our toes, precious one,” one friend wrote back.

The birth was beautiful and long and stressful, because when you wait for something so long, you want her to be born as soon as possible.

And now that she’s been in the world for exactly two weeks, I’m learning that waiting for her to be born was just the beginning.

I didn’t know that I was waiting to stare at her every second I was around her. 

I didn’t know I was waiting for this odd, unusual feeling like warm water being poured into my heart every time I see her.

I didn’t know I was waiting to see Daniel be the most doting dad in the world, connecting with his dark-haired mini-me daughter so immediately and profoundly.

This is just the beginning!

Now there’s another little person to carry on our family lineage, the first baby in 35 years.

A baby I’ve waited my entire life to meet.

And, I can't wait to see what life has in store for us, Elise.

-Jenny

I'VE MOVED!!!

Hi.

Sorry I've been gone from here.

My twin sister, Joy, bought me a domain name for Christmas (OMG it's almost this Christmas) and I've been posting Toolbag Tuesday there since February.

I haven't ghosted you!

Check me out at www.toolbagtuesday.com.

Also, how 2016 a gift was that??!?!?

XOXO

I'll post non-toolbag stories again soon. Maybe.

-Jenny

A December to remember

My twin sister Joy said a co-worker came into her office recently and asked how to pronounce her last name.

“That’s weird,” I said. “Our last name is, like, one of the top five most common names in America. What an idiot!” (Actually Census says it's number 65)

Joy paused.

Then I paused.

"OH DUH!!!!!!"

“Of course…your ‘married’ name.” 

(For the record, her new last name isn't even in the top 1,000 most common last names in the U.S.)

(I guess that coworker wasn't an idiot haha)

It feels like only yesterday that a such a major life-changing event occurred, but in fact, it was a year ago.

One year ago EXACTLY, in fact.

A YEAR AGO THAT MY TWIN SISTER GOT MARRIED!!!!!!!!

I know it’s hard for most people to remember what they were doing a year ago.

(I’m not real clear about what I was doing a week ago.)

But on this day exactly a year ago, I know exactly what I was doing—getting scolded by my mom for my makeup.

“YOUR FACE LOOKS TOO ORANGE!” my mom said, across the large, airy room at a rented beach house on Folly Beach, South Carolina. “IT NEEDS TO BE BLENDED MORE!”

I took a sip of champagne (also met with displeasure by our mom haha) and apologized to the makeup artist for my whiteness.

Seven bridesmaids were all lined up to get our hair and makeup done and I felt like I was getting ready for the Academy Awards.

We all wore gorgeous matching silky robes Joy bought us and the day could have just ended right there and I would have been happy.

But then, we looked out the window and saw the group of men approaching.

All wearing matching charcoal gray suits walking up the wooden dock to the beach house, sticking out like sore thumbs against the sand and the shore.

“OMG there he is!” Joy said, seeing her soon-to-be-husband for the first time that day. 

And then she teared up.

THE MAKEUP ARTISTS SHOULD HAVE KNOWN NOT TO APPLY THE MASCARA YET.

“Well of course there he is!” I said, confused. “There they all are!” 

(Some of the men included the husband/significant others of bridesmaids.)

But the married bridesmaids knew the importance of this moment. The moment you think about when you agree to say YES to someone.

And just for a second you forget about the wedding planning you've been stressing about for months and months.

Because all that matters is that there he is.

And there you are.

And there we ALL were.



(...errr some more orange than others.)

From that moment at the beach house, everything that happened on December 5, 2015 has been etched permanently into my brain.

The limo bus to the chapel, where I filled everyone glass with exactly two sips of champagne. 

Posing for every possible combination of photos for the photographer. Waiting in the “bridal suite,” at the chapel, peeking out to see all the guests arriving.

Even walking down the aisle, which felt like it was twice as long as it was the night before.

Tearing up as Joy walked down the aisle with our dad.



...And then holding her very heavy bouquet and realizing the terrible logistics of having to wipe tears from your eyes while holding a bouquet of flowers in each hand.

The entire thing was just perfect.

And then, if the day couldn’t have gotten any better, I had every single person I know and love, to hang out with for the rest of the night.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing all 130(ish) people at a party, but it’s amazing. You’re never in a corner, never at a table alone. No one turns you down for a dance. 

Everybody tells you how great you look (Lol). It was remarkable how many people I was able to catch up with in four very short hours. 

My maid of honor speech went over VERY well (thanks for asking) and after an insane amount of BEAMING from everyone on both sides of the new family, tons and tons of eating and dancing, memories and jokes, photos and singing, pans and pans of shrimp and grits later, it was time for the send-off.

I arranged a boat charter captain to meet at the dock right outside the venue so Joy and Daniel could leave the wedding on a boat. (Who needs wheels?)

We added battery-operated holiday lights on both sides of the boat, just like Cinderella’s carriage, only with…uhhh…different kind of horsepower.

And the saxophone played “When the Saints Go Marching In” and the boat puttered away into the distance, capping off the best December 5th I’ve ever had in my entire life. 

And then, just like that, everything went back to normal.

Well, except Joy’s new last name.

(Duh)

#hurrayFarrae

12.5.15

-Jenny

(Priscilla Thomas photography)

Contract sports

Last name redacted; nobody LinkedIN me

My mom emailed me this bizarre typed “contract” I signed in high school that she found buried in a file cabinet, in which I agreed to be in bed by 10 p.m. every night or else I couldn’t go to the next morning’s 5 a.m. swim practice.

My parents were constantly making me and my twin sister Joy sign “contracts” all throughout childhood about all kinds of things—about being home for dinner at 7 p.m., about drinking milk, not smoking, doing chores.

One time we had to sign a contract that Joy and I wouldn’t laugh at the dinner table because it was “disruptive” and no one could hear how our brother Franklin’s day was.

HAHAHAHAHAHA

F.Y.I. Franklin never had to sign any contracts.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Anyway.

After I was done scratching my head about why my parents still have this piece of paper, it got me thinking about sacrificing things for sports.

It’s good timing, because I’ve been obsessively watching the 2016 Olympics in Rio.

Since I grew up in New Orleans, many of the high school sports I played were “Summer Olympics” sports: Swimming, track and field, soccer. Even gymnastics, from elementary school through high school.

I was never good enough at any sport to play at a high competitive level (outside the Catholic all-girls high school competitive level, in which I RULED), but I still gave every sport all I had, 100 percent.

And I still remember the feeling of competition like it wasn’t 15 years ago (UGGGHHH).

The starting line of an early morning cross-country race, on the starting block at a Saturday morning swim meet, a 3 p.m. track meet after school, green aluminum relay baton in hand, already gathering sweat from my palm before I even start.

Maybe that’s why I’m so hooked on watching the Olympics. I think I’m in it for the start of the race.

Remembering the jittery stomach flips as I waited painfully for the 400 meter starting gun to go off, knowing that any second my relaxed state of being was going to fall to heavy breathing, fatigued legs, LOWERING MY SHOULDERS AWAY FROM MY DAMN EARS, COACH, darting eyeballs to my peripheral vision to see if any runners were coming up on either side.

Controlled stress building up in my chest as I concentrated on nothing but the starting gun and the patch of red rubber track five feet in front of me.

And let's not forget the icy cold pool water hitting my face and I dove in at the start of a race, enveloping me like a body bag.

Concentrating on the black lines painted on the bottom of the pool, fuzzy through my goggles, as I got closer and closer towards the end of the lane designated by a “T” horizontal line. Watching the top of the T get closer and closer.

There was a time in high school where I went to swim practice every morning at 5 a.m., went to school and then went to track practice after school. And I loved it.

Maybe that’s why I’ve played so much kickball in my adult life; I've been trying to re-create the feeling of success in an athletic event.

The feeling of catching a fly ball. Sticking a landing. Reaching the wall of the pool first. It’s immensely satisfying. 

It can not be duplicated, except with more athletic endeavors.

Even watching Olympics commercials about “early morning practices” “late nights on the field” and “unwavering commitment” makes me tear up.

Hearing what the athletes give up, what they sacrifice to be at the Olympic Games.

(Hint: It’s way worse than being forced to go to bed every night at 10 p.m. when you’re almost 18 years old.)

If you’re like me and can’t fast-forward Olympics commercials because you’re cheap and have an antenna, you’ve probably seen or heard the commercial where athletes say thank you to their parents.

Images of athletes being dropped off at practice by their parents (in a Toyota), picked up from practice by their parents (in a Toyota), waving to mom on the rain-soaked bleachers from the field.

They strangely don’t include the situation where the athlete is old enough to drive herself, but still needs her mom’s good sense to convey the importance of taking your sport seriously enough to get at least seven hours of sleep.

Or the sense of commitment that once you sign up for something, or, in our case, sign your name on the dotted line for something, you better take pride in it.  

So thanks mom.

(Uh you can throw that contract away now.)

Signed,

Jenny 

In favor of my working mom

I listen to Dr. Laura, this on-air therapist, on my way home from work every day and I'm on board with most of her advice except one: about how "stay-at-home moms" are better for their children than working moms.

Because I had a "working mom" and I appreciated every single panty-hosed visit to our school growing up.

Peeking out from behind the thick, velvety curtain on stage at various elementary school plays, I felt it was extra important that she was able to squeeze a visit on her lunch break.

...A leather bound file folder balanced in the crook of one arm clapping as we got presidential medals, first grade graduation certificates, etc.

The other stay-at-home moms were always the ones in jeans and Keds sneakers looking way too calm in the front row, arriving early, smelling like cookies.

I remember my friends who had stay-at-home moms, which I now understand to be a job in itself, but their presence at school functions, gymnastics meets and soccer games seemed less meaningful since they weren't doing anything else.

LOL

DON'T SHOOT ME MOM BLOGS.

I admired having such a hard-working mom. 

Someone who was so important she got work calls at 8 o'clock at night after dinner, or after a particularly seething ten o'clock news segment about the New Orleans Public School system, where she worked.

I also remember how important we found it that our mom took two weeks off for vacation every summer to be with us, no leather folder to be seen.

"What about your meetings?"

"This is more important."

We beamed.

That role model hard-working attitude has been duplicated in the 12 or so years us children have worked full-time.

My twin sister Joy once flew back to Charleston, where we live, ON MARDI GRAS day to finish a project that suddenly had a last-minute deadline.

I had five jobs simultaneously in the three years I lived in New Orleans. 

I don't think we even saw our brother Franklin from 2007-2010 due to his workload. 

Last year at Jazz Fest, I had to leave the set of my favorite band, Johnny Sketch and the Dirty Notes, because I had a work emergency that I needed to solve.

I sat in the back row of the children's tent, by myself, furiously checking my work email.

"One year I had a work emergency, when your grandfather was in town visiting for Jazz Fest," my mom said to me. 

"But back then, we didn't have smartphones and I had to leave and go home to get on the computer. And you have to buy a whole new ticket to re-enter."

Other people might have ignored it, feigned bad reception at Jazz Fest. But there I was, typing away. 

Mamma raised me right.

Of all the great qualities I've inherited from my mom—brains, compassion, a really cute nose—one of the least acknowledged is how us children inherited her desire to work hard for your passion. 

Such as...cold-call walk into the office of a community weekly newspaper fresh off of college graduation and pitch being a freelancer and do so well that they hire you full-time three months later.

In New Orleans, it was learning how to create my own job. I had just gotten laid off and thanks to my mom's connection at an arts nonprofit, I was hired as a lowly receptionist.

Spoiler alert: I'm a terrible receptionist.

That's when my mom told me to "grow where you're planted," which is code for make the job you want, not the job you have.

(Kind of like "dress for the job you want, not the one you have," only less sexist.)

During my stint as a "receptionist" I forced my way into being the organization's email blaster, grant writer and, at my mom's recommendation, I started teaching newspaper to kids after school, which still today, was the most rewarding job I've ever had.

Thanks mom.

When I decided to move back to Charleston and miraculously got a job interview for a business magazine, my mom drove 12 hours with me to take the interview. 

Taking time off of her own job to do it.

Now that I understand how hard it is to juggle a full-time job with a needy DOG, I am even more impressed that mom was able to juggle so much, so successfully, with three needy kids. (Well, two needy kids and Franklin.)

And I'm that much more appreciative of the time she made for us. 

She still continues to be a role model.

My new life goal is to be immortalized with a surprise half-hour long tribute when I retire. 

Yes, in the middle of a work luncheon for something unrelated, my mom was surprise honored by an entire room of people for all her years of hard work and all the lives she changed.

New life goal: To have co-workers BEG me not to leave when I stop working.

Oh and have a dedication in a book:

 

#LifeGoals

  

Certainly, that beats staying home in Keds, baking cookies.

DON'T SHOOT ME MOM BLOGS.

Today it's fitting that I’m exhausted because I stayed up until after midnight several nights this week to write a complicated article for the business magazine where I still work. 

But I don’t mind one bit.

Because I was taught to work hard for my passion.

Besides...that’s what my mom would have done.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY MOM!!!

-Jenny

Preparing my presidential candidacy on my birthday

Today I am 33. Which on one hand (well not entirely one hand….more like 6.2 hands…uhhh nerd) sounds really OLD and then on the other hand, I still can’t run for president so I’m not old enough to officially be responsible for a nation.

So, I’m still young.

It’s also my twin sister, Joy’s birthday…her first birthday as a MARRIED woman, which is exciting and all, but she’s also not responsible enough to run a nation, ring or no ring.

Looking back, 32 was the year I noticed that my body was no longer Superhuman and there are repercussions for my constant gallivanting around town.

Hangovers started becoming crippling, for one thing. Trips out of town for vacation took longer to recover from. (I know, life is so hard.)

JESUS, WHERE IS MY CANE.

I can’t just work out at the gym for a week and see results immediately anymore.

I have to wear glasses almost exclusively now.

I turn down complimentary bread at restaurants with the excuse “older people” use about how “no thanks, I’m already ordering pasta and I don’t need any more carbs to go to my THIGHS!”

Ya'll...I SAW AN OLD DVD OF MY SO-CALLED LIFE AND IDENTIFIED WITH THE PARENTS.

(I will turn in my cool pass now.)

But 32 was a bitchin’ year all the same and I did a lot. More than some people do in a lifetime.

I traveled to Austin, Texas, Suwannee, Florida, Los Angeles, the Dominican Republic, New Orleans FIVE times, Edisto Beach, SC and Washington D.C. These were not work-related trips.

And yes, it took me a week to recover from each. 

(Especially Austin, I searched Twitter a week after my flight to see if anyone had posted a picture of a passed out blonde girl in cowboy boots sprawled on the floor of Concourse B.)

I was in three weddings at age 32.

Simultaneously, I joined, and then quit, Match.com. 

LOL

I got a dog! (No I did mean to non-sequitor DOG after mentioning Match.com, but it’s fitting, and it stays.)

I quickly learned that dogs get up at 7 a.m. every day to eat.

I’d like to think that even if my body is getting DUMBER each year (since when is it OK to just start rejecting my nightly bottle-of-wine-and-Netflix life choices, body???) 

...My brain is getting smarter.

I am realizing the financial benefits of staying in sometimes. (seriously, take away my cool card.)

I’m trying to be a better cook. 

Joy and I are finally selling the house we bought 8 years ago. These are all "smart choices," or so says Money Magazine.

Also, I’m reading Money Magazine.

In fact, currently, I am hobbling around because I pulled something in my leg while painting the ceiling of the bathroom last night.

(At least I didn’t try and balance on a bar stool in the tub this time. See? Getting SMARTER.)

At midnight last night, when it was officially my 33^rd birthday, I was scrubbing the sh*t out of my oven, head completely inside of it, like the witch from Hansel and Gretel.

…Not out with friends taking a tequila shot.

OH GOD, I’M OLD.

But even so, I’m hopeful and excited about what 33 has in store.

Because say what you will about my life choices, they aren’t boring. 

(Or cheap! –Citibank)

(BITE ME CITIBANK)

I'm going to try and write more. I am currently writing a pilot for a TV show, a mystery novel, a children's book and a young adult novel in which I hope to include a vampire. (#NeverStopHustling)

That should keep me busy for the next 365 days.

But if somehow, SOME WAY I find myself bored, it's good to know that in two years, I’ll be able to run for president.

:)

I think my dog will enjoy the White House lawn.

Oh, and, obviously...Joy for Vice-President. 

Here's to the BEST 33rd year ever.

-Jenny

VOTE FOR ME!