101 Things About Jen, by Jen

As if I have a choice but to write anything else tonight.

So here I go:

1. I'm not quite 5-feet-10
2. When I was a kid I would fall asleep to my mother playing the piano
3. I am very specific about my pillow. I don't like to share it.
4. I take my earrings off at the end of the day and leave them all over the house
5. I drive 75 minutes to and from work
6. I don't drive a minivan (yet)
7. J and I are the same height and have the same shoe size
8. But we only weighed the same at the end of my last pregnancy
9. My lips are not my real lips
10. I failed my first driving test
11. When I last saw my dad he was wearing a kelly green polo shirt and grey sweatpants with one leg hiked up to his knee (a la Snoop Dog)
12. I've been in love with more women than men
13. I wanted to name my second daughter Piper, but then Sarah Palin's brood hit the media
14. I have a second-place medal from Head of the Charles Regatta
15. I trained at a professional ballet school
16. But was too tall to really consider being professional (see #1)
17. I didn't really ever want to be a professional
18. And I wasn't good enough anyway
19. I love to swim laps
20. My favorite color is pink
21. My favorite movie is Dirty Dancing
22. Is the date of my birthday
23. I never stop thinking (seriously, my brain never shuts down)
24. My son's brain never shuts down
25. He drives me crazy
26. I coached a college novice crew team to an undefeated season
27. J told me he loved me on the morning after our very first date
28. My hair grows fast
29. I developed a white streak (a la Bonnie Raitt) immediately after my dad died
30. I have always wanted to be a mother
31. I worry every day that J will have another heart attack
32. I don't like amusement parks
33. I don't want to turn 37
34. I cry at the Olympics
35. And parades
36. And when I'm really, really tired
37. I love margaritas
38. I wish my brother and his family lived closer
39. I procrastinate
40. I live in a house with two bedrooms
41. I love sleeping beside an infant
42. I miss sleeping beside my sweetie
43. I was a Brownie leader in college
44. I wish I was more patient, with myself and with my children
45. I have never smoked a cigarette (or anything else)
46. I have only been drunk once, or maybe twice
47. I am not married
48. When I read street signs, I automatically put the letters in alphabetical order (OPST)
49. I have a really bad sense of direction
50. I have become a better mother with each additional child
51. I went to an all-women's college
52. My friends called me Jenno in high school
53. I love the feeling of a pen in my hand touching down on a smooth sheet of paper
54. I write obituaries as part of my job
55. In the past five years I have learned more than I thought possible about construction vehicles
56. I am a good baker, especially of banana bread and muffins (all varieties)
57. I am optimistic about my family's future
58. I have completed about 75 pages of a novel
59. I think about it every day
60. I haven't written a word in years
61. I forget how much I love to cook (when no one is asking me "What's for dinner?" or "What is this yucky stuff?")
62. I love to doze in the car at night, when it's dark, and someone else is driving, and there's a long way to go until home
63. I remember the sounds of the change in my dad's pockets jingling and of his knees creaking as he walked up the stairs to say good night
64. I love making pesto out of basil grown in our garden
65. My mom recently taught me how to knit. For the second time.
66. I have used at least five different baby carriers in the past five years
67. And four different breast pumps
68. And a ZILLION different bottles and nipples
69. And none of my babies has been particularly fond of any nipple that isn't mine
70. I am allergic to several different kinds of nuts, shellfish and strawberries
71. I love taking my kids out for ice cream
72. I wish I were stronger—physically and emotionally
73. I don't own an iPod or any other mP3 player (did I format those correctly?)
74. I wash my hands about 12 times per day
75. Sometimes I wonder if I am developing OCD
76. I miss doing the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle
77. I love going out to breakfast
78. I am a vegetarian
79. I went more than 20 years without throwing up. And then, pregnancy. More about that here
80. I crave time to myself
81. I crave time alone with my sweetie
82. I love linen clothes
83. I hate to iron
84. I own a sewing machine that only Sarah has used
85. I have almost no depth perception
86. I clip coupons
87. I hate carrying a purse (but not a diaper bag, strangely enough)
88. I wish Sarah and I could start each day on a run together
89. I keep trying to like olives
90. I'd have another child if age and my body weren't against me (see #79)
91. I can tell Sarah anything
92. I hope to row competitively again someday
93. I love the smell of onions and garlic sauteing in olive oil
94. I struggle with wanting more time for myself and wanting to give my kids everything
95. I love my son's dark brown eyes
96. My older daughter's orange hair
97. And my baby girl's birthmark on her cheekbone
98. I also love cinnamon jelly beans
99. I believe in fate
100. Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner is my favorite book, and it opens in the month and year in which I was born
101. The whole time I have been typing this I have been wrestling with a baby who refuses to stay asleep for more than a few minutes at a time

The Three Popsicle Day

We don't go on too many weekend family outings, because on the days that I am home, J works (and vice versa). So this morning, when I was standing in the center of our little town at 9:56 a.m. and it was clear that the Memorial Day parade was not today (and, probably, in fact would be on Memorial Day) I couldn't just stomp my feet, scream in frustration and run to the nearest bookstore to deal. Nope. It was just me. And three kids. (One of whom I HAD WOKEN FROM HER MORNING NAP TO GET HERE.) In perfect time for a 10:00 a.m. parade. Only we were two days early.

When it said on the T-ball schedule that there wouldn't be games today because of Memorial Day weekend and that the team could march in the parade instead, I assumed that the parade was today. In place of the game. Oh, no no no. There is no causality here. Just, no T-ball. And a parade. That the T-ball players can march in. On Monday.

Well, B might be marching in it now. That wasn't the original plan, since J had to work this am and couldn't march with him, but now, since we missed it ... Well, since we missed it, frankly, things started to work out.

Oh sure, I had an inner temper tantrum on the street in front of the bank (and a partial outer temper tantrum in the form of a phone call to J). And then I had to rally. No way were we walking home. Home these days is a battle zone. It is a battle of patience and wills every minute of the day. Since B turned 5 he's become smarter and meaner. And decidedly unable to listen, hear or otherwise respond to me, unless I let slip the word "popsicle" or the phrase "John Deere." (I am quite serious.)

So, we weren't going home. It was 10 a.m. on a Saturday. I was to have the kids by myself all day. And our plans had evaporated right before our very eyes. Oh, and the kids were in tears because they were really counting on candy from this parade. All I had? Cheddar Bunnies. But we ate those Cheddar Bunnies. Even the baby ate those Cheddar Bunnies. And then we ALL walked to the nearest bookstore. The wonderful neighborhood bookstore, overflowing with treasures in used books. With a children's section in the back complete with old toys and stuffed animals, pillows on the floor, and absolutely no expectation that we will keep our voices down or buy a book. But we always do. Buy a book, I mean. And today, well, today it worked out. Today not only did B find Magic Treehouse books, but S found a book with lots of "doctohs and nuhses," and I found the next book for our book group (Sarah, you can borrow it when I'm finished).

Then we walked home. And we read. Chapters for B and medical dramas for S (a girl after my own heart). And we ate lunch and popsicles. And we read some more. And the baby napped. And it was hot, and the afternoon stretched out before us and I knew this day could turn back to ugly fast, so we went to the park. To the wonderful neighborhood (to us) oasis with playgrounds and open fields and a water spray park. And a popsicle stand. And we went to the spray park. And the popsicle stand. And the playgrounds.

And we got home at 4:00. Perfect. Time for the kids to wind down with a video and me to scrounge up dinner.

And then I checked my e-mail, where I was reminded that our friends, who just bought a house around the corner, were having a party. 4:00 is usually not a good time for a party. Not for my kids. But, well, let's just say this e-mail was very persuasive. And so, swimsuits were traded for shorts, and around the corner we went.

And there were no catastrophes. No tantrums. No bathroom "accidents." No tears. (Not even from me.) We ate, we played. There were more popsicles. And when it was time to go home, the kids were ready.

And now, it is 8:30. My house is quiet. J is still working. All three kids are sleeping, in their own beds. And I am breathing a sigh of relief.

And you probably didn't need to read that play-by-play of my day. But I needed to write it. Just to remind myself how crappy it all started, and how it all ended OK. Not great Not perfect. But OK. Somehow, it all worked out.

Another post about how tired I am

Sleep deprivation. Is seriously. Seriously. Difficult.
And I'm supposed to FUNCTION as a reasonable human being. A parent. A MOTHER.
But my kids. Won't. Let. Me. Sleep.

My mom says this won't last forever. In fact, it will only be a FEW. MORE. YEARS.

But, oh, how am I ever going to make it?

The past few nights, Em, who has been teething and teething and has nothing to show for it, has not slept. That is, not unless she is on top of me. On top of my chest. She is 20 pounds. And very squirmy. With very sharp fingernails that I keep trying to cut but they're not long enough to cut. They're just SHARP. And my face is looking a bit like I got into it with Edward Scissorhands.

This is not the kind of sleeping atmosphere that I find most restful.

Also, the barf bug entered our house earlier in the week. Why, oh WHY, does the barf bug always arrive at THREE O'CLOCK in the MORNING??!!

And my son is having growing pains. Again, why do these pains become unbearable in the middle of the night? Why can't they hit, oh, say, at quiet time? After lunch. When we're all resting, and I can just snuggle up next to him and rub his muscley little calves and enjoy it.

And now it's hot. And I forgot to open the bedroom window during the madness that is the bedtime routine. And the house is old. And the windows are squeaky. And all the children are actually sleeping at this very moment and there is no way in hell that I am going to risk opening a squeaky window and waking up one of them.

And that will be my luck. Tonight they'll sleep. But it's so damn hot in here that I won't.

But I'm going to try. So goodnight, as they say. Here's hoping...

Sometimes the best friends sneak up on you

This is a bit of a complimentary post to two previous posts about making friends with other moms. Back track if you'd like, or just start here.

And then there are those wonderful women I have become friends with since I've had kids.

A few I have met because our kids were in the same preschool class. And the kids became buddies. And so we moms hung out after school while they played. And we clicked. And not only that, we actually liked each other. And each other's kids. And, could it be?, each other's spouses!

Or the friend I met through a mutual friend, even though neither of us sees much of that mutual friend any more. Our kids aren't the best of friends, but they'll be headed to the same school soon. And we're both real enough to talk about both the hardships of life as a parent (of three) and the joys. And talking always makes me feel like there are more good things than bad, even at the most difficult of times.

Or my wonderful neighbor, who I don' t see enough, and who I have to stop describing as my neighbor. I hope we can become better friends, even though my kids outnumber yours three to one, and even though I know you can hear me bark at them from over the fence and you must wonder what in the world is happening over here and why I sound so mean all the time...

There are even a few others. I hope you all know who you are, ladies. I am so grateful for your friendships.

In many cases, these days, I feel like I am the one taking from you, my mommy friends. I find myself hungry for an understanding voice. I know that as my kids grow my friendships will change. My hope is that I can maintain the friendships that can stand separate from their mommy roots. Because I am more than a mother, even if it's what defines me most. And it is through these friendships that I have found calm, gratitude and humility and great respect for all mothers. Even the ones who talk window treatments at the park.

My take on making new friends with other moms

Sarah, I totally hear you. It is HARD to make friends with other moms. And the park scene can be tough. And the women you were friends with before you had kids? Yeah, that's tough, too. Because, let's face it, motherhood is, arguably, the most life-changing transformation for a woman. And if your pre-kid friends haven't had kids yet or if one of you has, oh, say one kid and the other of you has, oh, say THREE, you probably haven't kept up with those girlfriends. Life has just changed too much to be chatting about office gossip or current movies or whatever else we moms used to talk about before kids became our primary topic of conversation.

And what about the women you met in birth class or in a baby group shortly before or after you had your first and were all aglow with eating, sleeping, breathing, talking everything baby? Do you still hang out, now that there's no sore nipples to empathize about? Or poop consistency to compare. Or birth stories to tell. Have your mommy-class friends had their second babies yet? Did they have their second babies at the same time as you did? Doubtful. Did any of them have, gasp, a THIRD.

When you don't have kids you can make friends with people because they like John Cusack and Barbara Kingsolver and Dirty Dancing. (For instance.) You can make friends with people because they like to work out at the same time as you do and you both run at the same pace and like to talk about what happened on ER last week. (Oh, ER how I miss you.) You can make friends and then unmake friends, and it may not be easy, but it's simple. When you have kids, making friends is complicated. Sarah gets it right: "There are too many factors. I have to like you. I have to like your kids. My kids have to like your kids. I have to like the way you parent your kids. You have to like the way I parent my kids."

And that's why it's so hard. Yes, we mothers at the park have that in common. We are all mothers. We all have one child. Many of us have two. A few have three. Fewer still have more. But the roads we have taken to get to where we are now are different. The timing is different. The reasons are different. And now here we are, mothers. And yet that may very well be the only thing we have in common. Even if our kids have the same name and are both entering kindergarten in the fall. That just may not be enough.

My Brain is Like the Surface of My Desk

OK people. I've been writing and writing and writing, and nothing is coming together. Maybe it's because every surface in my house looks like this:




Or maybe it's because my sister and I are actually in the same house today, which means that there are SIX kids surrounding us. Which means: Revolving naps. Constant snacks. Crying kids. Slamming doors. And I am trying to write some post that has a LASTING message. Sorry oh you faithful readers (whom we LOVE), it ain't gonna happen today. I can't get it done. It's too loud and crazy here.

Plus, Sarah's about to open a bottle of wine. So I gotta go.

Why Am I Not Sleeping?

Maybe if I still had a favorite stuffed animal (like B's good friend Theo, here) I would have the discipline to turn off the computer and go to sleep.

And why three is enough, for this body

Just as having a third child was perfect for our family, having a fourth would be selfish. On my part. I would parent more children, welcome them into our family if circumstances led to that, but I will not have another baby. Not through this body. Pregnancy and I are not the best of friends.

One year ago I was four months pregnant and just coming off of months of hyperemesis gravidarum (not unlike my previos two pregnancies). In a word: miserable. I spent every day curled up in bed and curled up on the bathroom floor. HG, for me, is made worse by loud noise, bright light, stress. Needless to say, home was a difficult place to be for everyone living here. B and S were constantly being told to be quiet, to let mommy rest. J was singly parenting our two exhausting children while also having to constantly reassure them that I was indeed going to be OK and in the next breath telling them not to bother me. He did everything for them and for me for more than three full months. And, for the most part, he did it with grace. We didn't tell the kids that their soon-to-be sibling was essentially the reason I was sick. At the time they didn't even know I was pregnant.

On a good day I would stumble downstairs to the couch or futon and collapse in front of the TV, trying to smile at my kids a bit. On a REALLY good day I would read a book or a magazine in bed, maybe try one of the NYTimes crosswords mom brought by. On an EXCEPTIONAL day I would watch a DVD in bed with the kids snuggled up with me. March of the Penguins was a favorite. That, and the first two seasons of Little House on the Prairie (sadly, no wedding episode). Most days I would lie in bed, listening to my family go on without me.

It was a VERY LONG winter and spring last year.

Then, for a few months I was doing OK. Feeling gross most of the time, but gaining weight, eating a bit, drinking a lot of Ocean Spray Ruby Red juice (weird, I know) and making it through most days without spending time with my head in the toilet.

Then July came. I was 29 weeks, feeling tired and fat and uncomfortable. Suffering from heartburn and still not able to eat a lot. But functioning. Until while folding laundry one day (I know, TOTALLY strenuous, right?) I was overcome by excruciating pain. (I had given birth without epidurals twice before. This was worse pain, people.) Hospital visit, morphine & percocet (simultaneously! and people worry about having a glass of wine? but I digress...), transfer to larger hospital, tests, cat scan ... Long story short: Appendicitis? No. Ovarian torsion due to HUGE dermoid cyst? Yes. The baby showed no signs of distress during the four days it took to get me back home, although I did have contractions for most of those four days. And I was given two shots of steroids (in my butt, thank you) to mature the baby's lungs. The thinking was that I would need surgery to untwist the ovary, and pre-term labor was a possible "side effect" of the surgery. When I heard that my baby would be "fine," "3 pounds," "nothing to worry about," I worried. I was adamant that I not have the baby yet. I felt so strongly that my job as a pregnant mommy was not finished yet. As horrible as the pregnancy had been, I did not want it to be over. I did not want my baby to be in a NICU.

The pain was gone by the next morning.

The doctors agreed to send me home, gave me instructions for "pelvic rest" (funny term, right?, considering what they'd all been doing in my pelvis), no exercise, no lifting or twisting. Done, I said.

Em was born exactly on her due date, 11 weeks later. She was nearly 10 pounds. (Which makes me wonder if she would have been larger than 3 in July, but still...)

The pain returned in January. My surgeon discovered that my ovary had DIED, probably back in July. And now, with half of my reproductive organs gone into the hazardous waste of our local hospital, it seems a good idea to end my reproductive activities. I could get pregnant again, even with just one ovary. But when I think of my kids, who would have to live through another period of me incapacitated, it breaks my heart. When I was in bed during my first pregnancy, I just slept and watched Sex and the City DVDs. When I was sick during my pregnancy with S, B was young enough that he didn't know anything was wrong, and he doesn't remember that time. But now, both of them remember when I was in bed. They remember that my "tummy hurt." They will probably forever link Little House with me running to the bathroom to throw up. And mashed potatoes? To this day we can't eat them without S mentioning daddy making them for me when I was sick. I can't do that to them again. And, honestly, with each additional pregnancy to reflect on I remember more of how awful it was for me. It was wonderful and worth it and glorious and miserable and a miracle and a struggle. And I've done it. But I know I shouldn't do it again. For while there's no guarantee a subsequent pregnancy would be as difficult or complicated, for me it's not worth the risk. Besides, who am I kidding? FOUR kids? I'm drowning in three.

Our family has reached its maximum.

Late addendum: Sarah, did I ever properly THANK YOU for getting me through this? And to think, Ethan was only 10 weeks old at the time! My youngest hospital visitor.

Tractor Masterpiece

Try not to focus on the melting frosting.
I am especially proud of the hay bale cupcakes, thank you very much.

Tractor Lust

Because my sister isn't having the most fabulous Mother's Day

Dear Jen,

I put this in an email. A reply to your 5:35 message. I typed it all out and almost hit send, but thought it better to post it here, where we ARE free, where we CAN be. Where I feel our bond most strong, most clear, and most alive.
I love you!
Sarah


omg i wish
i could
steal you away
and the kids
i'd take them too
and we could all go to a retreat
in the woods
with a high energy sitter who happens to drive a tractor
and keeps backhoes and bulldozers handy for serious excavation
and the kids could dig a tunnel
or 200
and create a world of mazes so elaborate
that they would forget that we exist
and we could write
and drink wine
and talk about no men
feel no boredom
or wrath
but only glee
and freedom

with one another
for hours and days on end

no eyes watching
no expectations
the kids can eat with their hands
off the dirt floor of their cave
and we can toss them in a lake with a bar of soap
and cool sitter can tell stories
and they can sleep
soundly
for 12 hours or more

and we can stay up late
hear our laughter echo across the lake
smile
sigh
say sister
sister, i love you

i love you madly and forever
i wish i could steal you away

Home is Where We Muddle Through

We've lived in this house for almost four years; moved in two months before our second was born. In fact, the past two times I've moved I've been seven months pregnant. When I was pregnant with our third, several of our friends asked us if we'd be moving. Uh, no way, not again! But the question was a valid one. This is a small house. The messes are large. The dirt is abundant. Some days I feel like the clutter is endangering our very well-being. But no, we would not be moving.

When we moved in it was summer. The truck was unloaded, and we immediately went on vacation, and then we unpacked. We tried our best to get ready for the new baby (assembled the crib that she NEVER used, for instance). And that left little time and energy for any personal touches around here.

So today. Today I hung curtains. Finally. And I might even hang some more. I realized this spring one of the main reasons for my near-constant crabbiness is that I feel like I never really moved in here. I feel like I'm living in a house where someone else arranged the furniture but didn't hang anything on the walls. A house where my only real contribution has been the arrangement of the countertop appliances in the kitchen (aka my room). And the clarity of not being pregnant and not having to tend to the two older ones every waking minute hit me a few months ago. Hey, this is MY HOUSE. I can hang some art and photos up on the walls. I can put curtains up. I can throw stuff out if I don't want it around (well, if no one else is watching). I can fix the broken toilet paper dispenser (theoretically). But that's just it. I can do all these things because I do live here. But I don't necessarily like to do them. Nor am I very good at it.

Fortunately, my mom came for a weekend, looked at our "artwork" and hung it up. It took her, oh, about 15 minutes. She then laid out all of the curtains that had been taking up too much space in one of our too-few closets, curtains she had given me over the years. She looked at the curtains, walked around the house, and made me a list of what to hang where, what kind of hardware I would need, etc. Thanks, Mom! Phew. I'm finally working on it!

It's silly that I can't do such simple things by myself. I don't have an eye for it. Spatial relations and I don't mix. And yet, as the woman of the house I am expected to add the "homey" (as my partner commented on the curtains) touches. Today I also put some lilacs in three vases and scattered them about downstairs. If the house didn't smell like the mulligatawny soup that's cooking in the Crock Pot right now, I'm sure it would be fragrant with lilacs. But just the fact of having fresh flowers to look at is so ADULT.

I spend so much of my time stepping over toys. Changing peed-on clothes. Filling sippy cups. Wiping down EVERYTHING. Why did it take a veritable AHA moment and nearly four years for me to realize that parts of the house can be mine. Even just a window. The top of ONE surface. I could clean this house daily. The undoing of my work takes minutes. The floor is grimy. Every tabletop is covered in art projects and newspapers and junk mail. Toys have leapt from the bins that I was so happy to acquire, thinking they'd solve the messes. Ha. But if I have a few things to look at on the walls. Flowers in sight. And an idea for what I might do next (fix the TP thingy; change the shower curtain?) I find I feel a little more human and a little less momster.

Trading one dream for another. But maybe only temporarily.

With every milestone I find myself looking back, usually wondering HOW did we ever get HERE. B is FIVE already? Holy moly, as he would say. What happened? Wasn't he just born? Weren't we just nuzzled together on the couch, settled in for one of his marathon nursing sessions?

Nope. It's been five years. And two more kids. And I'm nursing again, but there's not a whole lot of nuzzling this time. More like refereeing from the sidelines, breaking up fights between B and S while trying to get a meal in for E. (As I watch the basketball playoffs I find myself wishing I could call fouls on the kids. Make them go to the bench.)

B was conceived days after I returned from my first (and only) semester of a master's degree program in creative writing. After two failed attempts at different graduate programs and finally admitting to myself what it was I really wanted to do, I got myself into a great fiction writing program. And a few weeks after I'd completed my first semester, I found out I was pregnant. I was thrilled. I had always wanted kids. Always pictured myself as a mother.

I had every intention of continuing the program. It was a distance program, after all. I would need to be away for only two 10-day sessions per year. The rest of the program was done from home, online. Perfect. And yet, I found myself with a few things to learn about pregnancy. Within days of learning I was pregnant and fretting about how to tell J, I developed classic hyperemesis gravidarum. Not familiar? Basically, it's the worst "morning sickness" you can imagine. Go ahead, google it. You wouldn't wish this on your worst enemy. I spent weeks throwing up. Constantly. I spent days in the hospital, being rehydrated and sleeping. I spent a little time at work. I spent no time working toward my degree.

No problem, I thought, when I was out of that phase of the pregnancy. I'll just skip the next semester and get back on track next year. Fast forward to the next year: pregnant again. More HG. Then two kids. Two jobs. A lot of juggling. No writing.

And now there are three. And I am tired. And we are financially struggling. And I would absolutely love to get back into the program. But those two 10-day sessions seem impossible now. Paying for them. Leaving my family for that long. Now I wish there were a more traditional program nearby. One that offered classes, maybe in the evenings. Now I look back and see how simple it was to make decisions before kids. And how simple it was to make mistakes, too. I was the only one who had to live with the outcomes, the consequences. The failed attempts at grad school, for instance. It was such a selfish life. In motherhood I can't afford to be selfish, even though most days I crave some "alone time," as S calls it. Time just for me. Time to do whatever I want with. But that is not to be right now. I am five years in, and it already has gone too fast. I can't say if I will get back to school or when, but I can keep writing. And for now, this is it. It's more than I've been doing for years, and it feels good to be in the practice again. I find myself headed in another direction, yet again, this time by motherhood (and sisterhood), and if I have learned anything since becoming a parent, it's to appreciate the now and to be flexible and optimistic. By becoming a mother I have realized the dream I most wanted. I have to believe that someday I'll have the opportunity, the energy and the motivation to dust off my half-finished novel, submerge myself in it and see it to its completion. And I'm hoping that the practice of raising kids will help me to reach that milestone.

"So You Had a Third."

This statement came to me at B's b'day party, and I can't stop thinking about it. A mom of two, whom I don't know well, just walked right up and said it. What all those other folks seem to be thinking, although with more of a question mark/exclamation mark sound. 

"Yes," I said. "We did." 

Turns out she wants more children. I've only had one other person ask me straight out what it's like to have three. The rest of the time I feel like I'm the anomaly in the town. Even though I can give you plenty of examples of moms of three if you ask, thank you very much. But hey, you asked, so here's what I'll tell you about wanting more kids. About going from having two kids to having three. 

You should consider how much control you like to have in your life. If control is something you need (and perhaps something you already feel as if you are lacking) another kid is probably going to throw you a teensy bit off balance.

Did you say you like to have sex? Well, enjoy it while you're in the "trying" phase, because after that kid comes, it may well be impossible to do the deed. Between the complete exhaustion (see below) and the fact that there are now THREE children who may need you at any point during the day AND night, well, sex just isn't that practical. 

Did I mention the total exhaustion? It is exponentially greater with the second kid, right? With the third you are off the charts. You may find yourself stumbling through the day wondering where you put those children. Not to worry, though, they will let you know with their neverending demands.

Don't worry about three more years of diapers. Really. If this is your only concern, go for it. The poop is so the easy part.

Chaos. Very similar to sleep, although inverted. The more kids, the more chaos. Off the charts. Know this.

Hugs. There is always someone to hug. (And someone who needs one...)

Noise. You will spend much of your time trying to regulate noise. Around nap times for the littlest one. And when no one is sleeping, someone will always be talking. Usually you. 

Your body. OK, folks, here it is. My body made it through two pregnancies, two births and two sessions of breastfeeding (28 months total). And then came the third pregnancy. I have not bounced back. And, it is pretty clear, I'm not going to. If I want that body back, I'm going to have to work for it. 

Longing. Do you long for another child? I did. None of the above had anything to do with it. I just knew I wanted one. I knew immediately after I had my second that I wanted one. I worried that maybe I was going to interrupt the zen of two parents and two kids (who are very sweet together when they're buddies and getting along). I worried that I was being selfish. That I was tempting fate to ask for another healthy child. But I knew in my heart and my gut that if I didn't have another child I would regret it and I would wonder What If for a long, long, long time. 

Em has completed our family. She was meant to be. And, ultimately, all that other stuff doesn't matter. I am lucky because I have a partner who is truly a co-parent. Who is understanding and supportive and funny. Who loves the children and didn't balk when I wanted three. Who knew, in fact, that I wanted a third without me telling him. It's hard sometimes (like, oh, say, EVERY DAY). But I know that we are all in this together. And that's the most important thing you need to know. It has to be the right decision for the whole family. Not just for you. I was lucky.

Pumping In Style

That's me. In the storage room. With my Lansinoh and my bra unhooked and hanging down to where my abs used to be. Twenty minutes holding cones up to my breasts and staring at my soggy middle.

Yup, Em stayed at home today.

I have never been a good pumper. Those little bottles and bags never even come close to filling up. My babies, on the other hand, obviously have reaped the benefits of plenty of breast milk calories. We used to call our oldest "rubber band man" because of the rolls of fat around his wrists (and everywhere else). But the pump yields little more than a brief satisfying SSss-splish a few times, many a drip and then, if I'm lucky, 2 ounces per side. Last night and this morning, when I was trying to leave a supply for Em in my absence, I was very stressed out about this. But now I remember. Now that I'm back to the storage closet, or "the lounge" as we lactating mommies in the office refer to it, I remember, drip drip dribble. 

I imagine those bottles filling with rich, white milk and think of the pride I will feel. During my first pregnancy I read in one of my breastfeeding books that you should imagine a river of milk when pumping. Or look at a photo of your baby. Or nurse on one side and pump on the other. I have tried all of these things with no greater success than if I sit listening to the Medela whir while staring at cartons of overrun publications. If I had a third hand I'd read. That seems the best of both worlds. But I just sit, listen, occasionally wince at my raw nipples and add up the ounces as each session in the closet comes to a draining end.

 

And my baby will survive.

Arrived home this afternoon to three smiling kids and one tired but relaxed daddy, who assessed that day one went as well as any day might. Now the big kids are asleep in their room, and Em is asleep all curled in to me. I can't bear to put her down, even though her cosleeper is only inches from where I am sitting. I am getting very good at typing with one hand.

Parenthood is filled with days like this. Days that you think might be memorable for the utter weight of their consequence. And then they turn out to be just like any other. A day of playing and snacking and reading and phone calls to mom at the office. A day where the baby fits right in to the "usual" schedule, and no one feels like it's ever been any other way. I am grateful for this. I am also a little saddened to know that life with a newborn is over. Em is sitting, playing, eating from a spoon. She is the tiniest of people in our house, but she is not a tiny baby anymore. And she can make it through a day without me. And I a day without her. I strongly believe that perhaps my most important job as a parent is to raise my children to live independently. And I will do my best. But there are some days that it's very, very difficult to loosen my grip. Especially when the letting go means I must form an attachment to the breast pump that has been gathering dust beside my (our) bed.

Fair weather parenting

The sun has been shining. Oh, glorious warm days. And with the rising temperatures have gone the windows. Storms up. Screens down. All of a sudden, the goings on inside my house are public. We live in a neighborhood that is close to ideal. Stop for a minute. Picture "neighborhood." Yup. That's us. Cute little town. Sidewalks. Diner and hardware store within walking distance. Fenced-in yards that kids cut through to get home from school. On a warm spring night like this one I can hear not only the familiar dogs but people grilling in the apartments across the street, the next door neighbors' screen door slam and the clanking of dishes in their kitchen and the unhappy toddler on the other side of us. And, I'm sure everyone can hear me. When I yell. At my kids. 

I can't believe that I yell at my kids. I hate that I yell at my kids. I know that my (nearly nonexistent) patience level is directly correlated to my (dangerously lack of) sleep. And no sleep and no patience leads to a short temper. My poor children. 

On the other hand. What is it about children's wiring that makes it seemingly impossible for them to respond to a parent THE FIRST TIME. 

I feel now, with the windows up and fresh air billowing into my cozy, cluttered house, kind of like the way I feel when I am in the grocery store. With all. three. kids. The entire time I am weaving in and out of the aisles, trying to remember everything on the list, trying to compare prices and get out coupons that aren't yet expired, I am TALKING. Non-stop. Telling someone not to touch something. Or not to open something. Or not to put something in the cart. Or to follow me. Watch out for the other carts. I talk the entire time. Out of necessity. I talk ALL DAY. Out of necessity. And most of it is instructive. And most of that seems negative. Don't. Don't. Don't. I am conscious of this. And I do praise my kids a lot. But then there are the times when nothing works. I'm exhausted. At the end of my rope. With my buttons practically glowing "PUSH ME" to the kids. And sometimes I have to talk in a LOUD voice. 

I try to warn the kids. "Please go brush your teeth now." 

"But, Mom."

"B. It's time to brush your teeth." 

Silence. Then, "Can I just..."

"I will ask you nicely one more time. Please put down the Matchbox cars and brush your teeth. Do you need me to help you with the toothpaste?"

"But, Mom. Can't I just do it in the morning."

"I don't want to have to raise my voice."

"But I brushed them this morning."

"BRUSH. YOUR. TEETH."

Cry. Stomp. Yell. ("This isn't FAIR!") Skulk to the bathroom sink. Brush teeth. 

I hate this. I hate that I do it. I hate that it works. But now that the windows have been open the past few days, I find I am trying even harder to give them warnings. To find other ways to motivate them. I am trying to be a better parent because I am hearing myself loudly through other people's ears. And sometimes I don't like what I'm hearing. 

I used to be such an introvert. Happy to sit alone in my tidy apartment reading all afternoon. Or writing. (About things other than my children.) Now, I feel like a bully half the time. I guess I didn't realize that becoming a mother is like a self appointment to CEO. Uh, I never really wanted to run a business, thank you very much. But that's what I do. I give orders. And I expect them to be obeyed (to a certain extent, anyway). And to do it, I have to talk. But I don't have to yell. And I'm trying to remember that more. 

Oh, and after the teeth are brushed, what happens? 

Wipe face. Seek out mom. Give mom hug.

 

These children and their immense abilities to forgive. To allow their actions to speak volumes more than the millions of words that leave my mouth every day. They understand so much. Just what they are doing. And just how much they can get from it. And on the days when I don't have to hurry them somewhere. On the days that they can have the freedom of setting their own schedule. On the days that I awake in the morning feeling somewhat restored by a few winks, my vocal chords are much less in demand. And with the weather nicer and school winding to a close and Em sleeping a lee-tle better, there is hope for all of us. This business of family. In our house. Our yard. And the neighbors on all sides. Thank you, neighbors.

What I Learned Today

Swiss meringue buttercream frosting and 90-degree weather do not jibe.

Kids don't give a sh*t about the drippy frosting. 

Or the fact that it was too windy to light the candles.

They just want the hay-bale cupcakes.

You can carve a cake with the non-spoon end of a plastic spoon!

Pinatas are more sturdy than they look.

You can get sunburned in April.

When the cooler is empty of drinks, the ice cubes offer great entertainment (and cooling) value.

No matter what, birthday parties are stressful. On the mom, but also on the kid.

But they are also just about the best thing about being a kid. And about being the kid's mom.

We are so lucky to have so many wonderful friends. (OK, I already knew this, but today was a terrific reminder.)

Winding down with pizza and (root)beer apres party with cousins is the perfect way to end a day.

It's important to have all of your treasured birthday gifts beside your bed, all lined up, while you are sleeping. (I remember doing this, too.)

I will not be counting down the days until the next birthday party.

Let's be honest, people

The older I get, the more I appreciate honesty. Just tell me how you feel. Don't sugar-coat it. Don't beat around the bush. And don't tell someone else and hope s/he will tell me. I'm sure a direct correlation can be made between this wish for no-nonsense communication demands and the beat-down, tired-to-the-core daily existence that is motherhood. Folks, I just don't have the energy to figure out what you're trying to tell me. Just spit it out. OK, so I might be a little miffed. I might not like what you have to say. I might not respond. I might stomp away. I might fester. I might. But at least things will be out in the open. And I don't tend to hold grudges forever.

Back to work tomorrow, and I'm bringing Em for what will be one of her last times in the office. She is getting more demanding, is starting to squirm around a bit on her tummy and has gotten herself wedged under her porta-crib and my desk, and she is growing louder. The kid has lungs. She rarely cries loudly, but she does make herself known. I attribute this to the fact that she's the third, and the other two are LOUD. She has learned from them. Already. That, and she knows that if she wants to be heard above their din she's gotta go all out. So. The office that I work in is on the top floor of a four-story building, which also happens to have an open staircase. Sound travels in this building. But let me back up. 

Em is the third baby I have brought to work with me. And I know I am EXTREMELY lucky to have had the ability to have my babies with me at work. I have a supervisor who is generous and understanding and has gone out of her way to allow my babies in our shared office. And all of the other folks who work on my floor have been more than welcoming to my offspring. I am grateful to these colleagues for all of their smiles and baby talk. As I understand it now, there is no formal policy about bringing one's baby to my place of employment. I do know that I am not the only one with such an arrangement. I am one of the lucky ones whose job responsibilities and work environment and great people allow it to be possible. But still, I don't want to take things for granted. And I don't want to take advantage of this generosity. And on the days that the babies have been with me I always feel a teeny tiny rock in the pit of my stomach. A near-queasiness. A bit of a defensive gut. Even though I have received nothing but oohs and ahhs in the babies' presences, I always thought that somewhere someone might wonder what the deal is. And now, I have what I always suspected I might: a disgruntled employee in my midst. 

Someone in the building complained about my loud baby. She is loud. It's true. And I do try to close the door when she starts ramping it up. There have been a few times, though, that I haven't been quick enough. Her bellows have been heard throughout the floors below. It was bound to happen, I suppose. And I do understand that perhaps those baby sounds, ones not expected to be heard in a workplace, could come as a bit of a surprise. Could even be disruptive. I'm pretty reasonable. I really get it! But, alas, the complaint did not come directly to me. The complaint was made to the director of human resources. And then it trickled down the organizational chart until it got to my supervisor, who then had to talk to me. Now I feel like I've put her in an uncomfortable position. Isn't she the one who has encouraged me to bring these babies in? It shouldn't be a big deal, really. Em's days are numbered. She's about the same age the other two were when they stopped coming in anyway. But the more I think about this complaint, the more frustrated I become. I don't know any details at all. I don't know if someone had a hangover and the damn baby on the floor above was aggravating a headache. I don't know if an important meeting or phone call was interrupted by one of Em's occasional outbursts. I don't know if someone just doesn't like the idea that I bring my baby to work. I just don't know. And that is what really gets me. I'm being asked, my supervisor (with whom I get along very well, thank you) is being asked, to remedy the situation, and yet I don't even know what the problem is. I just wish said person would have walked up the stairs and come to me. At least then I would know the scoop. And I would be able to respond without being on the defensive. And I wouldn't feel so buried in a bureaucratic workplace. It just really gets me that this had to become so very complicated. And that I have been up nights worrying about it. And that I DO feel defensive. Like, my baby was on her way out anyway, so don't think it was you who bullied me to this quiet commute to work by myself. OK? 

And then, I wonder. I question myself. I go against my own demand for upfront-ness. Am I being unreasonable? Or, if I was confronted directly would I be as honest as I say I want everyone else to be? Do I really want a chance to respond to the complaint? My answers to these questions tend to change, depending on how much sleep I'm rolling in at the time. And that, my friends, is motherhood. At home. And in the workplace.

The (tired) backstory

Is there a mother out there who isn't tired? It's my day to post here (while Sarah watches Heroes), and I was all set to get into it. But I'm so TIRED I can barely breathe without effort. I was just snippy with my Sweetie, for no particular reason other than the fact that I'm SO TIRED. The baby finally went down, but who knows how long she'll sleep before she needs another slurp from me. I want to be utilizing my intellect and writing skills here, but really I'm just typing for the therapy of the sound of my too-long fingernails on the keys. 

Motherhood is just so damn draining. And I went to WORK today. J was doing the harder part—putting in his time in the trenches, home with the kiddoes. Well, two of them. Which is what I was going to write about in the first place. The fact that I have brought all three of my babies to work with me during the first few months of their lives. And now, baby number three is just about finished up with her early office months, and I will once again be separating my working (out of the home) self from my mommy self. And I have very mixed feelings about this. Like, I am looking forward to actually EXERCISING during lunch. Well, maybe. I guess I should take into account the fact that I will also have to PUMP three times each day, so maybe I actually won't get to take a lunch. Damn. I also won't be worrying about the noise level coming from my office, which apparently has been bothering someone in the building, because I had a complaint filed against me with HUMAN RESOURCES. I am in no state of mind to get into the details of this yet. I also won't be able to see Em's sweet face every minute of every day. And when I look in my rearview mirror on the long drive to and from work on those three days that I go in, I won't see her little round head turned to the side, nestled into her car seat and reflected back at me. And I won't be able to have a hug any time I damn well might want one.

I survived leaving the other two at home after their tenure doing the 9-4 gig. And I remember feeling, with B, my first, that I wasn't going to make it. That leaving him at home would be emotionally impossible for me. It wasn't, of course. We all made it. But that feeling of leaving my child. It just took over every part of me. And now, on the eve of B's FIFTH birthday, I can't believe he was such a tiny, tiny baby. That I ever had the courage to leave him in someone else's care. And I can't believe how much he believes in me. That I, the mother, somehow know what I am doing all of the time. Even when I know I am doing the wrong thing, he doesn't doubt it. This child of mine, who started out his life away from home napping under my desk now goes to school, has his own "gang" of friends and sometimes even plays on his own. I am proud of him. And utterly in awe of him. And I know I will get there with Em, too. But I do wish she could stay at work with me a little longer. Need ME for everything every moment of the day (and night). It doesn't make any sense, I am aware, that in one breath I am telling my oldest child that he doesn't need my help (putting on his shoes, finding his juice cup, straightening out the covers on his bed) and in another I am looking at Em and fervently hoping that she doesn't start crawling away from me just yet. I want to just watch her sleep for a while, knowing that only moments after I give in and turn out the light she will push up off of her tummy and start nursing the air before she can even squirm her way over here. But at least I made it this far. A somewhat coherent stream-of-fatigued-consciousness brain dump that maybe will allow me to sleep. Oh, sleep. How I miss you.

Oh Brother, How Art Thou? and other philosophical ramblings

It seems time to mention that we have a brother. Oh, and, yeah, he has three kids, too. What is this? you're asking yourself. Three siblings each with three children now. Weird. Is it, though? Seems like nice symmetry to me. And we really didn't plan on it. No sirree. 

Our brother is the middle child. I suspect he felt and/or tried to be invisible for much of his childhood. Sarah and I, well, we tended to have the attention. Me being the perfect, overachieving oldest, and Sarah being the rule-breaking, boundary-ignoring, creative genius youngest. There was our brother, smack dab in the middle, quiet, understated and probably embarrassed by one or both of us on any given day. The poor, poor kid. But he sure grew up to be one exceptional dude. I only wish he didn't live so damned FAR AWAY. But I digress. 

So once, about, oh, say three-and-a-half years ago (when I was the only one of the three of us with more than one child), he said, "Anyone who has more than two children is crazy." I remember laughing. Because this is just the sort of seemingly-judgmental, absolute thing that our brother says. He's a bit of a math genius. And I can see that the numbers of two parents and three kids do not add up neatly. But I swear, the moment those words left his mouth, he was just asking for those twins of his to start their lives in utero. Yup. The planner of the family had three kids in 20 months. Sarah and I each have two kids who are less than 18 months apart in age, so we know it's HARD. But this time, it's our brother who got himself right into the spotlight. Just where he never wanted to be. 

But here's the thing: Man oh man, is he a great dad. And the three kids have not really changed him that much. I mean, besides the obvious facts of being a dad, he, more than anyone else I know, has maintained his pre-parent lifestyle. And I don't know how in the WORLD he does it. (Well, I know it has a lot to do with his amazing wife.) He exercises regularly, often training for a crazy-ass bike riding competition through the desert, on which he subsequently medals or achieves some ridiculous feat (our sister-in-law runs marathons; people, she ran one WHILE PREGNANT WITH TWINS. Ooh, this will probably make some of you concerned. She didn't know she was pregnant at the time); goes away on weekends with his friends (and so does said wife); is finishing the basement of his house (for the kids); is always taking a class or studying for some career-enhancing test of some sort; and, when I talk to him (which is never often enough) he always sounds just like my little brother. Reasonable. Relaxed. Happy. 

Me, in comparison? OK. Exercise. Um, I used to be an athlete. Even worse, I used to be a COACH of a very competitive sport. Ugh. Remember the bread-dough middle? Well, I haven't gotten into the damn pool yet. I do go to a book group once a month, which I look forward to for approximately 27 days and 22 hours. These women have become intellectual companions, emotional sounding boards, good friends. But a weekend away? Uh, no. Not with the girls. J and I have gotten away from the kids a few times. Ooh, that sounds bad, "Gotten away from..." And forget about home improvement, I can't even keep on top of the daily maintenance. I have PILES upon piles of stuff--laundry, endless children's "art" projects; seasonal clothes to put away in the closet or finally organize in dressers; bills; broken toys that I keep saying I'll fix ... Every day I tell myself, often out loud (!), that I will confront one of these piles. Just one room, one area of one room. But it doesn't happen often enough. The piles multiply faster than I can conquer them. 

Now even this post feels like it's becoming like one of those piles--lost amongst the midst. Well, that's what life with three kids is. Even if you are more high-functioning than I am. I know that it's not fair to really compare my life with three with our brother's life with three. There's the twin aspect, of course. But, also, he's not the mother. And, Sarah, really, isn't that what we spend all of our mobile minutes talking about? Mothering three. MOTHERING.