And summer begins...

This is Maximus.
He's two and a little bit.
Wildly beautiful. Remarkably infuriating.
He bites, he claws, he screams.
Even the cousins distinguish him as the crazy one.
As in, "Watch out for crazy Max."
He cries "Hug, hug," each time he gets in trouble.
He repeats the last two words of every sentence he hears.
He says "Wake up" to Dan and me at 5 am.
He consumes 40 sippy cups a day.
He's the only boy we actually planned on conceiving.
He has a special blue blanket, and a special stuffed doggie.

He likes to do this to his little brother, Ethan.



It won't be long before my littlest man knows what's what.
And shuts down his abuser.
Oh Max. Just a sensitive surfer-dude in the making,
already planning his first trip out West
where everyone is all chillax.

The boys are 15 months apart.
They exhaust me. Good thing they love me.
Soon enough they will be cohorts plotting against me.
Sneaking out in the night.
Meeting girls, chugging beers.

And then I will be sad that it has all ended.
This time of onesies and diapered butts.
Buckets of water and a bottle cap.

When a bad mood slips away

Last Saturday was a really shitty day. I can't even tell you why.

I'm sure that it had something to do with a stupid comment from Dan. And I'm sure that three hours into my total turned-down mouth grumpiness, I forgot what it was he said in the first place, but the mood persisted. I was mad at the world and at the day - for not being perfect, again.

Early in the afternoon our babysitter texted to ask what time to get to our house so Dan and I could go out. I wanted to reply "Don't Bother," because I was in such a shitty mood, but I knew better. So I sat on it, hoping I'd feel better, knowing that I shouldn't give up the opportunity to welcome the sitter into our house and give us a break.

In the meantime, I left the house alone and went to the grocery store. I have a love/HATE relationship with grocery shopping. But we desperately needed the food. It had been a good 4 weeks since my last real shop.

I rushed out the door in a huff - Dan had said another stupid something, I'm sure - but I had at least made a list. Ripped a bunch of recipes out of Real Simple, and jotted down the ingredients. We planned on having friends over for a Cookout on Sunday, so there were lots of extras to get. I started checking off my list and by the time I got out of produce and deli, I was already running up quite a bill and starting to feel better as the food piled on top. My mood and my cart coincided, filling up. All about Aisle 12 someone stopped me and remarked on my brimming shopping cart. She offered me a 5% off coupon on my entire purchase. I smiled big - BIG - and told her that was the very coupon I wasn't able to find when I left the house. And then I turned the corner and passed through the pasta aisle, where an older gentleman joked with me and told me I better "take out some insurance on that cart." I grew lighter and happier still. When I turned down the next aisle I met with the coupon angel again and she said, "Give me that coupon back, I'm gonna switch that for my 10% off. I'd rather see someone save a lot of money instead of the few bucks that it's gonna give me." I was amazed. When does this happen? It doesn't.

But apparently, it does. And of course I couldn't thank her enough. But I tried. I was tickled by the kindness of a stranger, and already nourished by simply buying food for my family - a thing that is a necessity, and should be just another thing that we do. But for me, it never is. It is always difficult. With three kids, it'll never be easy. But I was never good at it when there was just one kid.

So while the early part of Saturday was really shitty, and I still can't tell you why, I can tell you that it didn't last through the night. I reigned in my bad mood at the store, and when the babysitter arrived I could happily chat with her, and feel the relief of another pair of eyes to watch, arms to hug, hands to help in my home.

I have to write a bit about our babysitter, whom I'm not sure I really like calling a babysitter, because it seems so trivial. Sure, my kids are my babies, and she sits with them, but she does so much more than *watch* them. She laughs and laughs and laughs and I hope it's okay that I use her name here, because Kelsey, you are so damn terrific and have become a part of this family and I am so thrilled that you are back from college and with us for another summer. (deep breath) I wish I could pay her more and more and more, because she gives my kids something that I can't give them on a lot of days, on most days: her attention, her smile, and her bright, shining light.

When Kelsey arrived the funny banter between me and Dan started, as it often does with others around. We playfully mock one another, saying things out loud that make other people open their eyes wide with a little bit of shock and a little bit of embarrassment. Everyone laughs. We somehow show our love for one another through this catty banter, stomping on and then lifting up our relationship with each little detail we reveal, like it's a game. Which it is. Marriage. A part of it has to be playful or we won't get through it. I have to remember to keep a sense of humor; it's so easy to take offense. But when Kelsey is around, everything feels light and funny and Dan and I do this playful thing. Maybe it's because Kelsey is young and we want to feel young around her, so we do this. But I think it's probably just who she is - light and bright and full of sun.

It's the kindness of others that brings me around to the now.

I saved $38 dollars at the grocery store.
Kelsey came and dropped glitter on everything around her.

I'm positive my family was grateful for the kindness of others as well.
I got happy again.
Everybody smiled, because it never fails that mom's mood sets the tone.
Dan and I went out for Margaritas.
And then for a too-pricey, totally yummy Italian Dinner.
And talked and talked as we do when we sit and eat at the bar and drink and remember that we can do this, we can be free again, of spills and wrestling boys.

101 Things about Sarah, by Sarah

I'm not sure I like the idea of doing this, but I always enjoy reading the 100 Things About Me list on other blogs. So, in the interest of sharing some information that probably wouldn't otherwise come forward in an ordinary blog post about my life with three kids, I am attempting this not-so-unique idea of blabbing 100 things you're not so sure you wanted to know and I'm pretty sure I don't need to say.

1. I'm 5'6"
2. I cut my hair maybe twice a year
3. I've had 2 pedicures in my whole life
4. I drive a black minivan
5. I went to a private, all-girls boarding school, until...
6. I got kicked out in my junior year
7. I shaved my head once and it looked damn good - for a while
8. I ran away to Iowa with a boyfriend at 17
9. I got my GED
10. I never finished college
11. I always thought I'd have a PhD someday
12. I drink wine, and beer, and booze
13. My favorite shot is called a "Sex with an Alligator"
    
14. I ran a marathon in 4 hours
15. I forget how much I love music
    
16. I forget to pluck my eyebrows
17. I used to identify with the color red, and now I'm not so sure
18. I've had more girlfriends than boyfriends in my life
19. I'm not so great at meeting new people (I tell myself)
20. I have an armband tattoo
21. I first kissed my husband while laying on his kitchen floor
22. My first son weighed 10lbs 3oz at birth - yes, vaginal delivery
23. I love to bartend, but don't anymore
24. I like to find out about others' lives; I crave their facts
25. I miss dancing, in clubs, late at night, with total freedom
    
26. I want to learn to really dance someday
27. I'd love to travel East - India, Nepal, Japan
28. I don't practice a specific religion, but study them all
29. I miss my dad
    
30. I don't tan
31. I love to sing
32. I used to play the piano
33. I have horrible self-discipline
34. I wasted nearly 5 years of my life battling a serious drug addiction...
35. I recovered and it does not define me at all
36. I have a hard time with very opinionated people
37. I am okay with change, and newness
    
38. My mother calls me Shortcake, and Little Peach, Sally, Sal and *Shaggy...
    
39. A good friend of mine died at 13 of an asthma attack
40. I have only a handful of friends, but they are true and real
41. I don't do well with fake, and talking about the weather
42. I definitely have an inferiority complex that sometimes shows up as quite the opposite
43. I smoked cigarettes for many years
44. I think going to a sex workshop for couples would be cool
45. I wish I had a cabin on a lake - right next to my sister
46. I work part-time for the health insurance
47. I played soccer, lacrosse and ran track as a kid
48. I've never met my own expectations
49. I dream big
50. I bought my first house last year
51. I've always wanted to live in Manhattan
52. I'm about 15 pounds overweight (see No. 33)
53. I love bread, in all forms
54. I grew up in the suburbs of Upstate New York
55. I was never truly a part of the in-crowd, but rather just on the edge
    
56. I saw doctors and nurses try to resuscitate my father
57. I was never a morning person and now I have no choice
58. I like being awake when it seems everyone else must be sleeping
59. My husband tells me I make too much noise when I swallow
60. I believe there is nothing more important than family
61. I always do better one-on-one
62. I'm not afraid to share my life, but...
63. I have learned better what to share and with whom
64. I never felt as feminine as I do at this point in my life
65. I had braces
    
66. I've pierced many parts of my body - they are all gone
67. I like silver, not gold
68. Sometimes it's really hard to believe I am an adult
69. I don't like shaving my legs (but I do, not to worry)
70. I don't like baths
71. I'd like to get to a place where I could meditate every day
72. Every now and then I do a juice fast
73. I love to write letters but...
74. I'm really bad at getting to thank you notes and birthday cards
75. I don't do enough for the people I love
76. I don't have enough clothes, or shoes
77. If you saw me yesterday, I was wearing the same thing I'm wearing today
78. I have fabric for curtains and pillows I've been meaning to sew for months
79. I often feel like a total failure - to myself and everyone else
    
80. I like sorbet more than ice cream
81. I love movies - any kind, any time
82. I think 100 things is entirely too much to do in one sitting
83. I was married in a courthouse, and then, more formally, on Cape Cod (same guy!)
    
84. My first son was a total accident
85. My marriage was completely coincidental, but it's brilliant
    
86. My third son was a total accident
87. My second son, the planned one, is a complete maniac
88. I desperately want a daughter (actually two) but fear it'll just never happen
89. I used to lay in the green, green grass and write for hours
90. I've never lived for more than a couple of weeks by myself
91. I like to look in the windows of other houses at night
92. I handle all the bill-paying
93. I have a head for numbers which makes me feel dull
94. I did my first triathlon 2 years ago
95. I sleep on a king-size bed
96. I hate paper towels
97. There are always spiders in my house
98. I am happy with who I am
99. I want to be more than who I am
100. I have a hard time shutting up
101. I am so totally thrilled with starting this blog

Hmm, I'm not so sure I should have done that all at once.
I can imagine coming back to amend that someday.
But there it is.
A little about me.
Sarah

Mommy needs a clone - or an extra appendage might help

I am
so tired tired
trying my best to look forward to
a weekend at home with my kids
and my husband
and the sun

I am
trying real hard
to approach all these must-do's and have-to's
and just knock them off my lists

those lists that float around my house and inside my purse
those lists that help me organize my thoughts in the morning
and then confirm I am a total failure at night

There is so much to be done
it's overwhelming
the list is overwhelming
it runs on without stopping
I can't jump over it or around it
cannot tackle it in any kind of productive manner

Whenever I start a project
I am interrupted
Whenever I dedicate my mind to completion
someone needs something

Well, I need someone
To just replace me
To do all the things that need doing just to get by
so that I can do all the things that need doing
so that I can live a life
that isn't just
about just getting by

I want to soar
to take flight
to have a clean surface to eat at
to write at

I want to dream
to hear music
to dance again

but the lists get in the way
and I don't have the time
and am too tired
and can't abandon all that needs to be done to exist
which is all I can do
and so we just get by

For my Littlest Guy

Oh my baby, my baby, my baby. He takes So.Much.Abuse from his big brother, and yet he keeps on smiling and laughing and treating us all to the fresh air of optimism that is often so desperately needed when you're stuck in an endless cycle of diaper changes and naptime coordination. I vow to take more pictures of you, Ethan, and to start reading to you - one of these days - and to protect you from the pushing, kicking, tyrant that is your brother, Max.

A Mother's Guilt

It started yesterday morning when I dropped my kid off at school and suddenly took notice of his walk. Not his hips or his legs, but his feet. He has this light and bouncy step, and in the 10 seconds I waited for the crossing guard, and watched Jamis reach line-up, I mourned the fact that I hadn't noticed this before. He's 6. Had his gait suddenly changed? When had I stopped scrutinizing the little details of my children, not just to keep track, but for the enjoyment of it?

What I was most guilty about was the fact that Jamis was in a particularly grumpy mood when he hopped out of the van, but he was still naturally inclined to a springy step. His attitude surely would have matched his footing if I hadn't snapped at him for no reason just moments earlier. He had asked a simple answer, one requiring either a *yes* or a *no* with no extraneous explaining required. A rarity, really, a question like that. But I was too bothered to even answer nicely. NO! I barked.

And he probably would have been more vivacious if we hadn't walked him through a thousand instructions since the moment he woke up, my husband and I just exhausted from the repetition and growing continually irritated and curt with every inhale, exhale, inhale.....exhale....

So the guilt was there. The anger was rising.

And then I arrived at work to a bunch of technical glitches and shit that really wasn't my problem. But I'm the only one with the wherewithal to figure it out and fix it. Two hours later I finally sit at my own desk to do my OWN work. Not that I'm jumping for joy over that, but my blood was just boiling from having to reconfigure computers and network issues and shit THAT I SO DON'T GET PAID TO DO. Call the tech guy people. Call the tech guy.

(I actually had a dream that my incredibly wealthy boss left a crinkled 5 spot on my desk - compensation for being the in-house techie. Thanks Mr. Millionaire. Not sure if that's better or worse than a simple *thank you*)

And now I've just really got the grumps and I'm flooded with negative thoughts and emotions from every angle. I'm feeling so guilty. And with this guilt comes an overwhelming anger. Rage that is not directed at anyone, (as it was here) but just is. Almost worse, sometimes, to be that way. To have no focus.

And this is what happened in my brain (in no particular order) during that very long moment between yesterday's drop-off and my consumption just moments ago of a fire-roasted veggie sandwich:

• Guilt: About Jamis and the silly question he asked
• Guilt: About forgetting to notice the little things
• Guilt: About Dan, and my bad mood/attitude toward him for No GOOD Reason
• Anger: That I'm giving my husband a reason to bitch that women are impossible sometimes, cuz really? all I ever want to say to that is *f-you* But I can't today
• Guilt: That I don't do enough for the kids. Don't take them out enough. They watch too much TV. I don't honestly enjoy enough of the time I spend with them.
• Guilt and Sadness: FOR SELF: I have an attic full of clothes I could wear if I just had some discipline to lose these last pounds. But I don't. I finish the kids' Mac N Cheese, I eat the M&M cookies with them, I skip breakfast and lunch and snack every afternoon right alongside the boys. I never make time to run. I used to run, really run. It was beautiful and made me feel beautiful. My present inertia is just so, so ugly.
• Guilt: Over the anger. Over the sadness. Because things are really pretty good overall and I should really just consider shutting the fuck up.
  
• Guilt: Over not just trying to find solutions = find happiness.
• Guilt: Over my job. I have so much work and I don't do enough and I can't make a commitment to save my life even though my boss has been nothing but lenient about my often-occurrence of just Not Showing Up.
• Anger: Over paying the bills, always having to turn off the lights, lock the doors, and get the nighttime bottle. Or at the very least, asking *other half* to take care of all these things. But I swear I exert just as much energy in the instructing as the doing, so why bother?
• Anger: Over knowing that I'm the only one who knows what's for dinner and I DON'T EVEN KNOW. Right now it's only 2 people asking, but soon enough it will be 4, and I think I just may be making dinner plans with window treatment lady if we happen to ever speak. She seems like a gal who'd like to go out - often.

And while I feel that's not a good resting spot, it's where I stop. I ate my veggie sandwich, drank my raspberry tea, and I feel revived. The food? The time away from little people and big messes? Not sure. Don't care. At least the greater part of the anger has dissipated. I'll forever feel pangs of guilt, but I hope it never becomes me.

I know that I will never be everything, but I hope I can always be enough. For myself. For my husband. For our kids. It is for this family that I breathe and eat and sleep. But it certainly doesn't mean I'm always smiling, and that's just okay.

I know that I will never be everything, but I'm sure that I can always be enough. For all of us.

A hug is where the heart is

I can't stop thinking about this face.




And how it's lips can charm me and

scorch me all in a matter of minutes.

_______________________________________

Scenario:

Jamis asks for a hug.
I'm bein' a lil' bit goofy and flop on top of him. Arrrrrrg! "There's your huggy hug."

"No, a real hug."

So I sit up properly on the couch and he folds into my arms. Actually, I think we're at the point where I fold into him, because the hugs are less frequent and he tends to offer them not only when he needs one, but when he knows I need one.

In this instance it is he who wants a moment of love, though. The little guys are asleep and we are preparing for another hilarious chapter of Double Fudge.

The hug:

"Thanks mom. I love you. I do."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Even though you have such a hard time listening and following directions?"

"Yeah. It's just my ears.
They need to be pipe cleaned."

We laugh.
We laugh honestly.

And then.
The inevitable.
This comes about each time we share a moment of great humor.
Each time Jamis does or says something funny, impressive or surprising.

"Tell Daddy."




And I almost had the moment all to myself.

Daddy, mind you, is in Virginia for 4 days. Not even around. If he were, Jamis would run to the office and tell him the remarkably funny thing that he just said. Dan would smile and half-heartedly laugh - nothing like my swirl of giggles beside him on the couch.

But it's not my reaction that counts. He knows I love him. He knows I always will. And beyond that, he knows I think he is just GREAT!

It is his father's reaction that warrants all the attention around here. It is so much more important that Daddy think he's GREAT! And he looks for that in every word that's spoken between them. And I tell Dan, "You know, what he thinks you think about him is much more important than what he thinks I think about him." And sadly, I'm sure it always will be.

It's just another reason my heart bleeds for having three boys. Three boys that are always looking toward their father for acceptance and guidance.

I will be the pillar of love and strength, I suppose. But that's an awfully tall order. Maybe I'll just make a point to always give hugs. In quiet times. With no one near. That's when the good stuff comes out.

Making new friends with other moms

Oh it is So not the first time this has subject has been pondered. And it So won't be the last: The well-documented problem of moms seeking out other moms for friendship. And why is it always moms seeking out other moms? Why aren't moms seeking out dads, or single gals, or newlyweds too? Um, do I have to go there? I think we are all aware of that crazy brain thing that happens after you've given birth, and often times long before: There's a life inside of me. Wait, it's going to come out. Thank Gooooodness, it's out. Damn, it's beautiful. Let's call him Jamis. Let's love him forever. Let's vow to never ever talk about the person I was before I had him, because Sayonara Baby! She's a goner.

There I am, sitting on the playground. (Wait, ok, our premise is total honesty on this blog, let me rephrase myself there.) There I am at the playground, wishing I was sitting, wondering what it'd be like to happily push my first child on the swing again and breathe in all the newness that was our day to day relationship - the good and the bad. I am, however, just wishing I could sit and instead finding myself at the swing, at the bottom of the slide, at the edge of the sandbox. Things are quiet a moment and I realize I'm that woman, looking at all the other women, and I've totally lost track of my kids. One, Two, Three...where's three? Hey One, Where's Three?

Okay, kids accounted for. Let me hear a little more about this conversation over here. Let me figure out what kind of mom we got over there. I'm not judging; it's like research. Research for all that I am and all that I am not. You see, I find myself - I listen in on these conversations and I figure out who I am: part memory, part re-invention. I realize that the woman to the right of me might look all put together but she's sitting there talking about when her window treatments are going to be installed and I think to myself, Seriously? Window Treatments? (No really, this is what I was thinking today) ...what are window treatments? You mean curtains, or shades or something? And why is someone coming to install them? I don't get it. Can't you just hang them up? Get a damn drill or a rock or something and nail the bitches up there. And by the way, what are they treating? Stains, depression or some kind of rash?

Then there are the women on either side of me at the baby swing. Both are older than me and nursing every joyful push with their one year olds as if they've waited their whole lives for this moment and they are going to enjoy it DAMMIT. And maybe they have waited a long time. And it probably wasn't an outright accident like Jamis was. And it looks like they truly are enjoying it. The nice woman to the right of me looked downright confused when I walked away from the swing, left Ethan dangling with a grin, and marched to the big kid playground to look for my little middle kid who, in the nick of time, I stopped from falling head first off the twisty slide. He was climbing up. When Jamis was smaller, climbing UP the slide was reason to LEAVE the playground. And now? Now I just don't have the energy. And I don't have the energy to walk back to the swing and make some small comment to this woman-on-right about what it's like to have more than one, "Someone's always getting in trouble," or "Can't stay still for a minute when you've got three." Barf! A comment that would only be meant to excuse my behavior that shouldn't really need excusing. She doesn't know; this is how it is with three, with more than one; I used to be her.

I find out who I am when I look around the playground at the other kids and the so other-than-me moms. I am a woman who's let go. I am a woman who strongly believes that my kids should play happily without me. I am woman who knows I should protect them from falling, and protect them from themselves, but that falls are a part of understanding their limits. Their little bodies can do so much and they have no idea how much trouble that can get them into when they're too young to know the sometimes consequences of high-climbing, fast-sliding bliss. Wipe-outs are inevitable, and necessary.

I am the mom who has found it's easier and somehow more fulfilling to blog than to start a conversation with window treatment lady, or even cool tattoo lady, at the park. I get something back from my blog. Tattoo lady probably wouldn't call even if I offered my phone number. Just as I'd have a hard time calling if she offered up her own. 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 other variations of the same.

I'm not looking for someone who does it like I do, who's the same mom with the same kids. That's boring. That's impossible. I just want someone with an open mind, and an open heart, to walk into my house and look around and say, "Yeah, I get it." I want someone to sit down next to me on the turtle sculpture at the playground and say, "You seem cool and I could use a new friend. Let's do coffee on Thursday." Because anyone that would walk up to me and say that is someone that DOES get it.

It saddens me not that it's easier to blog and to tweet, because I understand we can look grimy and smell funky and nobody knows, but because I have more fun doing it. I'm not anti-social, I'm just anti-facade. You want to talk to me, bring your real self, the one that you are when nobody's looking. I like that person so much more even before I've ever met her.



I think this is the first in a series I'll have to start on Making New Friends. This post could go on and on...

I grant thee...a Lovely Award

So we're a little new at this BLOG ABOUT MY LIFE thing. It's completely reassuring if we get even one comment a day or two new visits. It's unbelievably therapeutic to have a place to vent and reflect and dream OUT LOUD.

To our surprise, a fellow blogger has found something worthwhile in the mess that is us just trying to get away from the chaos that is our every day life with three kids. And thus we were granted an award by Amy at ThoughtfulParent.com. Thank you Thoughtful Parent, Thoughtful Friend. We kindly accept the One Lovely Blog Award.

Per the rules of the Award, and for the sake of enlightening us all, we pass this award on to others making it happen in the blogosphere.

Now head on out of here - after a comment or two - and check out these Lovely Ladies:

• On Three Kids
• Mumologic
• Naptime Writing
• Bad Mommy Moments
• So The Thing Is...Blog
• ...But Then I Had Kids
• 20 Fingers, 20 Toes
• Making Things Up
• The Mouthy Housewives
• Faemom
• 12 Pair
• Barefoot Foodie

Some of these ladies are new, and some have been around a while. Some may be thrilled for the recognition, some may have seen it before. Oh well. This is all new to us, and we love checking in on the same people every day, or week, or whatever. It's amazing how a relationship can be formed with a person or persons you can't see and can't hear except for through words. Ahh, words. Be still my heart, I love words. Keep writing bloggers. Keep reading. We aren't going anywhere either!

Okay, so rules and regulations of the Award, if you choose to accept...

1. Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person who has granted the award, and his or her blog ink.
2. Pass the award to 15 other blogs (0r 12, like us - or 5, if that's all you got) that you've newly discovered. Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award.
   

A great way to share blogs and find new ones.

Thanks.
Now Read On...

And this...

There are no words

Post Mother's Day Post

I know, enough about Mother's Day already. I just have some things to say and I think that if I don't, I'll forget. And I can't. I can't forget; I need to have a place to come back to when it's time to remember.

I've been lucky enough to celebrate six Mother's Days. None has ever been as special as this one. We did not go out for brunch. I did not wear a hat. It was just a day.

My kids woke up. My husband asked if I'd like to sleep in and he'd bring me coffee. I said 30 minutes, no 20, no 5. I said, nah, forget it, right now. I wanted to maximize the time I'd have alone in my bedroom without little, dirty feet stomping about me and all my stuff.

Dan brought me coffee and a paper, and later a new movie he thought I'd like, and I could watch, all by my quiet self at 8:00 on a Sunday Morning. But I declined and so he offered pancakes and I said sure and 30 minutes later a little man appeared in my doorway with a funny rendition of "pancakes reddy mamma."

And then the day went on...

More than once Dan offered me time - he suggested a bike ride, which I should have accepted since it's been a year since my ass has hit that teensy little seat.

I was lucky enough to have all three boys take an afternoon nap, even the 6 year old. And even though they were all a little grouchy when they woke up I found myself covered in a honey-colored glow of mothership. I carried the little boys down the stairs and out to the yard, one in each arm. They cuddled against me as their still-warm, just-woken bodies hit the cool, Spring breeze. I was shelter. It was such dear sweetness.

The big kid playing with the zip line we finally installed.

The baby toddling over to the sandbox to play.

The toddler somehow charming me with his melodramatic demands.

There's lots of words for reflection about all the little parts and pieces of my day. I've written them and erased them a few times now. Not wanting to appear overly sentimental I have chosen to leave them out. And I think it's better that way. I tend to let things go too easily and leave little for myself to hold on to.

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

Sweaty dish-balls...

Okay, I know it's petty but I've got to talk about it for a minute. Just a minute.

Dishes.

First of all, it's ridiculously difficult to wash the dishes, wash A dish, when there's a one year old climbing in and out of the dishwasher. We are always on a backward schedule of dish cycles, where I have to unload to reload to make room in the kitchen to even make dinner.

Second of all, what exactly does my husband DO when he runs the dishwasher? I have yet to spy on his setting choices, and the amount of soap he uses, but every time I open the dishwasher after he's run the cycle the dishes are sweaty. Not like dripping wet cause the wash just finished and they haven't had a chance to dry BUT RATHER cold sweat I just puked up my breakfast, my lunch, and then my dinner and I'm clammy all over. This doesn't truly describe it though. You have to imagine a dirty sweat, with bits of food all over you. Does he not rinse appropriately before loading the dishes? Does he forget to actually USE the detergent (this has been my theory for a while, but I keep giving him credit - can you really forget the soap EVERY time?). Is the dishwasher just playing tricks on me, trying to irk me? I mean, it's not hard to send my mood into acid-reflux, but COME ON!

I literally have to remove half of the dishes and rinse them off and leave them on the drying rack. The other half I just put away and hope I forget what they ever looked and smelled like the next time I pull them out of the cabinets for the kids to use. Yes, I eat out of the dog's bowl because I imagine it much cleaner. I mean, I know where my dog's mouth has been. My kids? That's totally different.

Let me be clear. These dishes make me think of sweaty balls after a hike in the woods during a camping trip where the only semblance of bathing is the murky pond at the end of the trail. Okay, now who wants to think about that?

Somehow nothing's perfect, even when everything is as it's supposed to be

I've been so indecisive about my emotions this week. The weather's been rainy, and so have I. I feel a sour melting of my heart with every wish for bedtime, for alone time, for peace and quiet. I love my kids, I do. But it takes a special lens to find joy in the every day, the every need, the feeding, cleaning, teaching that is my every moment when I am at home. There is solace in work, even if I often loathe the tasks that are stacked before me, or the sheer volume of space it takes in my mind to contemplate numbers and compute balances the way that I do. (I'm a bookkeeper of sorts.) I wish I could access my positive streak more readily, and consistently. I wish I could stop more frequently and take joy in the moments of simply existing. In this place. That is motherhood. That is three kids. Three effortlessly beautiful boys.

In this small moment I understand my friend Jenna's desire to move to a warmer place, where living outside in the free and open is more attainable. When it's wet and cold outside I feel stuck. And it's not a cozy feeling like a snowfall or a howling wind. It's damp and seems to mute everything inside of me. I know it will not last, and for that reason I still love living in New England. But I can imagine a year full of warm enough days, in a house with 10 acres of canopied land and a stream running through - my boys running through their lives muddy from dawn to dusk, and my mood always lifted by time and sun and circumstance. By stepping into that dream I feel free and clear from all these negative emotions.

And I think about our real summers full of long, bright days of funny, squinted smiles and too-cold sprinklers that make you squeal. I look toward a range of perfect days when I remark five hundred times on how nice the weather is, and isn't it just perfect, and it couldn't be a better day.

But no matter how dreamy the weather may be, I still have to feed my kids and clean them up, I still have to work, I still have to pay bills. I still have to figure out how to balance all this and remember to take time to feed my soul, and clean it up.

Cobwebs and old tears: wipe them all away.
Forgiveness: learn to give, and to receive.
Love: share freely with others, and with myself.

Okay wait, tone change here (is this allowed?)

I don't need anybody getting the wrong impression, least of all myself. It's not as though I don't relish in the little delights of character that come from my children. Of course I do, and I'm usually saying, "Dan, Dan, look at this, look at Max, look at Ethan....DAN!" Okay, so eventually he may turn his head, but the moment has usually passed, and I'm sad because I know I'm the only witness to that miraculous/hilarious/silly/fun moment, and the truth is, my memory is steadily failing me. There's only so much room up there for all of their quirks and accomplishments and I don't have the time or motivation to write it all down. I can barely manage a grocery list. Okay, I can't. I can't even manage a grocery list.

So the first, and heavier, half of this contribution to Momalom is not untruthful. It's about the big picture, I guess you could say. When I look at a day from start to finish I feel like I've already been drowned in the dirty dishwater. So I can't look at it that way. I can't wait for bedtime to come. I can't think like that because it makes the part from when I open my eyes in the morning to when the kids close theirs seem too long and too lost. And really? It's neither. A day: so short. One day, one moment in time really. It shouldn't find itself lost in the mix of weeks and months and years that pass us by in a flash. It is, somehow, quite different from yesterday, and tomorrow. But damn if it isn't just so hard to really FEEL that way when you are in it, and all alone, the only parent in the room, or the house, or the yard. When you call your sister because it's the only way you know you'll be able to laugh, and turn your mood around.

And finding a balance between the weight that is the responsibility in my life and the dream that is a nourished soul is most difficult. I don't believe that we have to give everything up. That just because this time with our kids goes so quickly, and that soon we'll be crying at graduations and weddings, we should put other parts of our happiness on hold.

Parenting the Third Child: Yeah, it's definitely different but don't beat yourself up

Two nights ago Jamis suggested that I read Ethan a book before bed. Ethan is one. I can recall only 5 nights that my husband or I have read to him at bedtime.

Flashback to 2002. Jamis is four months old and Dan and I have fallen into a routine of dinner, bath, books, bottle, bed. We alternate nights. We glide in the rocker, happy baby tucked into our laps. We read 1o books, sing 3 songs and crush him with kisses. He smiles. He drifts off to sleep. We walk through a clean and orderly house. Fall on the couch and enjoy our time together. Talk about the small accomplishments that day - Jamis's small accomplishments. We look through the daily photo reel. We listen to music. We read books. We have sex.

Wait, we had sex? I'm not sure I can even remember that. But, oh yeah, right, we did have two more kids so somewhere in there we definitely had sex. But before there were more kids than parents we really enjoyed the intimate moments. It had yet to become just a part of survival. The truth is that now, although my mind can really imagine... No, that's not true, my mind can't even imagine how great it would be if I just got my butt of the couch and jumped on top of him. What I mean to say is that I intellectually know that it's something that will, more than anything, help the mood of the house. But finding the energy is often impossible.

And so it is with reading books to infants whose sole interest is what they'll taste like and how easily they can eat them up. Poor Ethan. For books I just don't have the energy. Directly after he's finished shoveling down three times the amount of food as his 2 year old brother, he's at the bottom gate of the stairs whining for his bath. Then he's writhing and screaming as you put on his jammies. And then he's yawning, and sleep is the only answer. And I swear, if he weren't writhing or screaming or yawning, I would be, if not for the other two children I'm holding constant conversation with while performing said tasks for Ethan.

There's this running joke in my family that as the third of three siblings, I have one photo album of my entire childhood, compared to fifteen for my sister. While Jen had to go to bed promptly at 7 pm when she was young, I didn't even know that a bed time could exist. She should tell you the story of how my mother wouldn't allow her to stay up for the season finale of Little House on the Prarie because it was past her bedtime. She was devestated. Remembers it clearly to this day.

Maybe it's because I was also a third child that I am sensitive to all that Ethan misses of his parents. It boils down to one word, I suppose: time. I just don't have enough time, enough me, to give him all that I could give Jamis. And I look at Jamis now. He's at the end of first grade and so smart, so charismatic, so confident. I can see all the time that I had with him has molded his view of the world, and of himself. It's as difficult as it is joyful for me to think about the fact that Ethan will always have older brothers around. I will never know him without four hands and feet surrounding us. He will have very little time, if ever, with me alone. I will not be able to nourish him the way I did Jamis. His eyes will always be watching his siblings and learning and morphing his behaviors to fit in with them.

"Yeah. Maybe tomorrow night, honey. I have a lot of work to do tonight."

I lied. I had no work. I had no headache. No kinky sex plans. No cleaning, no laundry, no dishes. It's my policy that whatever doesn't get finished before bedtime can just as easily be done tomorrow. Bedtime is for me, not for them. It's the commencement of my time. It is very rare that I push back the start time I've been reaching toward like the finish line of my first marathon.

And for a moment I felt such guilt. I could have read to him. I could have squeezed in a board book or two. If I don't start now, when do I start? And then I realized that Jamis's impact on Ethan will, in many ways, be far greater than my own. He is the oldest. And they are all boys. The little guys already look to him for cues and characteristics. So instead of feeling guilt I guess I should give myself some love. Jamis is amazing. Really, truly, something quite amazing. And if it has anything to do with all the time we had together - before work, and brothers - then I'm expecting him to pass that on to his brothers and make me proud. When they see him curled up with a book in the comfy surroundings of mom's big bed, I hope they'll follow suit and jump on in.

Reminder: I blog to stay balanced aka Introduction to the Family Series

I think I might get a little mushy this morning. I'm not privy to mush and goo and all things cutesy and sweet; however, many of my posts thus far have hinted that I am not happy with my life, with my role as the mother of three, as the keeper of chaos. That is not the case at all and I need to remind myself of that on days like these when I wake up and everything seems just right. The baby slept through the night. The middle (problem) child is happy and positive. The oldest child is entertained, and not at my side or in my face, in fact, not even in the same room. My husband is playing Sunday morning tunes and recklessly singing along. The light outside is a bit dim, but the rain has not started yet, so good news all around.

The job of motherhood is often overwhelming. In the land of mom bloggers, this is an obvious theme, and one which brings us back day after day to share our world and our minds with people sitting miles away at their own computers, people we don't know, and we'll never know. It is also somewhat obvious that we feel guilty sharing our feelings of how overwhelming it can be, and thus we throw in ooeygooey material about our kids and their beauty, their accomplishments, the awe they strike without hesitation, every day. It's hard to find the balance of being real that is caught between mentioning all that is hard and makes us want to quit, and all that is good and compels us to keep going. Ultimately we have no choice to quit of course, but we could certainly withdraw, even while performing the daily mundane chores of parenting, and keeping the family safe. In coming back to the written word everyday we show signs of a refusal to quit. To find meaning in what we do everyday is like a mission in motherhood. I know my purpose is to raise strong, healthy boys. To keep them safe. To teach them well; to see them grow. But that is too vague to justify my life some days. I need small accomplishments, less meaning, shallow depths to feel I'm surviving this and, moreover, my kids are surviving this. This me. That is. A mother.

I shouldn't speak "we" or "us" or "our." I apologize. I should only speak "me" - of me, of mine. But it's nice, that feeling of generalizing. It makes me feel less alone in the every day. During the moments when it's just me and the kids: a mountain of laundry, dinner plans undone, bedtime too far away to look forward to, yet.

But I do intend to speak of me, of mine. This family of boys. Where I am the only mother, the only female in the house. The only one who will write about all that is little and all that is big about the hearts that beat here in this house. And for whom my heart beats: loud, rhythmic and strong.

I'll start at the beginning.

In response to Dr. Sears, Mommy Burnout, and the fight I had with my husband this morning

I am so terrifically mad at my husband right now that I want to spit. I shouldn't even be writing about this here. It's not a place to give people the wrong impression that I live with a terrible person or something. That's not the case, so please take it as only a moment in time, a moment in my mind that I absolutely must purge before it throws me down under where I can't think of anything else, where I breathe anger, eat anger and cry anger. And please be kind enough to deal with the run-on sentences, as that is how my mind thinks at a time like this - there is no rhyme or reason, just that crazy stream of consciousness that IS getting your thoughts out as quick as you can before they vanish and you move on to trying to be reasonable. I don't want to be reasonable right now. I want to scream. And it's not PMS, dammit, it's just me. Sometimes it's like this. Sometimes I'm mad. At people other than my children. At my husband. And at myself.

I no longer keep any kind of a diary or journal. It's always been my tendency to write in one when I was mad anyway, leaving the times of joy and satisfaction to speak for themselves. Using the pen and the paper to work through the madness and rage that come when you are truly in despair, or just need to vent. So I suppose this land of blog is the closest thing I have to an open book and an inky pen. The only difference being that I no longer write only when disturbed, and not only about the disturbing. Although I must say that an awful lot of what has come out so far is about how difficult and seemingly tortuous it is on most days to parent three children, while working, while wife-ing, while housekeeping... But it's not all tortuous. I realize I must be giving off the wrong impression. Oh well. It's one post at a time and this time it's about how it's just so easy to burn the fuck out.

I recently searched online for the identity of someone's mysterious rash, or the reason for their fever, or what it means when poop is yellow, or what will happen to me if I don't start getting a full night's sleep SOON (I'm starting to think my synapses will stop firing and I'll no longer be able to retain new information let alone access the facts I thought I already knew or the memories I told myself I'd never forget. Oh wait, that's already happening. Shit!) I found an article relating to my current problem at Dr. Sears and now I get a monthly newsletter. Monthly Shmonthly, who has the time to read more mommy tips? Not me. So I usually pause my finger on the delete button just long enough to read three or four words and then send the thing off to the land of Junk E-mails and Advertisements. On Monday I read the words, Avoiding Mommy Burnout. Hmm, I thought. What does Dr. Sears have to say about Avoiding Mommy Burnout? I truly imagined the article to be a compilation of all the things that other mothers would love to tell you when you were pregnant with your first babe: sleep when he sleeps and take lots of walks, etc. etc. etc. Read it for yourself if you like. It's not so bad, but I think it mostly applies to infancy, and ONE child!

Today I have my own special segment on what it takes to Avoid Mommy Burnout:

Part I

• Be honest with yourself and with your partner
• Resolve arguments with your partner
• Have more sex with your partner

Now, I know this excludes all single parents out there, and I apologize. And obviously these first three tips are directly related to the fact that everything I do and say right now is tainted with anger for my husband and our argument this morning. An argument, mind you, that was merely about whether it should be a rule or not that my oldest son always wear a t-shirt under his long-sleeved shirt. Yes, I know, you had to be there. How can I be so alarmingly upset over something so seemingly trivial? But with every argument there is a backstory, right? The feelings of stress and anger that rise up during one of these fights brings forth a flood of annoying moments that I never worked through. Reasons to be mad. Even more mad. Words that were spoken and hurt; words that were never spoken and should have been. And it all relates to feelings of overall burnout or, as I think more appropriately termed, burn UP, cause that's how I feel when it all becomes too much: over-fueled, breathing heavy, ashen.

There is an overwhelming responsibility in being the mother of a family. As Jen said, the appointed CEO. And no, I never wanted my own business either. But this business of family is quite serious. You are responsible for the lives and well-being of these little people. It's a good thing they make you laugh along the way because otherwise it might seem like a burden. (Okay, Nah!) So, tips to avoid Mommy Burnout? I'm gonna give it another go but would love to hear from others out there.

Part II

• Try not to stay mad - at anyone, including yourself
• Get exercise - mostly the kids so they're worn out by sunset, but you should get off your ass too and increase those endorphins!
  
• Have plenty of sex - again with the endorphins and, uh, the other parts of your body you can't always see
• Don't take any advice you wouldn't give
• Have plenty of popsicles on hand
  
• Speak freely and at great length with someone you feel most connected to - that's you, Jen
• Forget about perfection - use the word only to describe your children (on a good day)
  
• Remember that you are what you eat - if you eat junk, you'll feel like junk
• Let your mother feel guilt, fear and remorse, you don't have time for it
• Hire someone to clean your house if you can (thanks, ME, I think I might!)
• Breathe and believe - in yourself, in time, and in your kids

So I look at this list and I think that I should start taking my own advice. I'm worn out, you see, from this morning's argument. It has permeated every action thus far today - my angry driving, the extra cup of coffee, ignoring my growling stomach, buckling down at work and accomplishing the I HATE TO DO IT pile that I'm always accumulating. But I sit now and breathe out loud once, now twice, and feel, for a calm moment, that the whistling down the hall won't bother me, the ringing phones and the intercom will no longer jar me, that this anger I feel toward my husband for all the things he is and for all the things he is not will surely fade. And I will feel, once again, lucky for my life.

I think I'll tack this list to my cork board in the office.
I think I'll tack this list to my mirror by the bed, and by the kitchen sink.
I think I'll make it a point to add a similar list to our site, and continue to add to it.

Because I need a hundred reminders in a day just how to make it through with grace instead of by the skin of my teeth. And that I'm lucky. I'm oh so lucky to have a man and three boys share my world. Even if they make me spit flames from time to time.

Reach the Beach Relay

I'm stuffing my face with a favorite concoction stolen from my sistah: Pita smothered with hummus, packed with pear, muenster and tabouli. Thanks, sis! I'm rehashing my week thus far - pretending that it's farther along than it is, I suppose. And now I'm harping on my coffee with Kim on Monday. We've barely been in touch since I got pregnant with my second baby - when my attendance at the gym faded to once a month, once every other and then none. We managed to talk enough to maintain contact, but since I've had my THIRD I'm barely able to maintain contact with some members of my family, let alone my workout buddies. Difficult to chat it up during a run or after a spin when you aren't doing any of EITHER. For a while I missed it, and then I grew resentful, I think, that other mothers could somehow maintain the same social lifestyle they had before kids, or when they had just one kid. Yeah, well, all those conflicted feelings were during my second pregnancy and for the short time I had but two boys - aka, Before there were Three. Honestly, I just don't have room in my brain to be worried about the thoughts of others, or preoccupied with HOW they do it, WHY they do it, and why I CAN'T. We all have a different life story going on. For instance, Kim has two kids, no job, available childcare, and financial freedom. We just don't have the same stressors. Uh, yeah... I have THREE kids (obviously), a part-time job that gives me a full-time headache, childcare that allows me to work said job and totally takes away from all that financial freedom we Wouldn't have anyway. Okay, so I'm not saying she doesn't have any worries or challenges, of course she does. Of COURSE she does. But because they aren't apparent, or don't stack up to mine, or something, I'm like "Why would I even worry or dwell on HOW she does what she does?" I can't even get my ass to the gym if I have a day by myself, let alone with kids in tow, errands to run, everyone with runny noses.

So, a little detail is in order, I think. Kim is a major athlete. Work-out fiend is more like it, I suppose. Anyway, she is training for an Ironman right now, briefly mentioned that here. You know, swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run a marathon. She's estimating it takes her somewhere between 13 and 15 hours. Grrrrreat! Three years ago I ran the 26.2 miles of a marathon with my sister-in-law - noted by Jen here - without ever having run any more than 200m in track during high school. I mean, I'd run more than that, but never entered any kind of other race. I figured, why start with a 5k? The marathon sounds like fun. I'm adventurous, in pretty good shape (one baby!) and so I trained, I ran, I won. Won some pride, that is, and a golden finisher's medal that became my son's toy on the flight home. I did it in four hours and felt pretty good about it. Would love to do it again. Probably will someday.

During this time of training I was a regular at the gym, as you can imagine, gearing up for the marathon, making sure I was prepared. I formed a great bond with Kim during our spins, swims and runs. We scheduled our meeting times for the next day and the next week, made plans for races and event, bonded over sweat, got giddy when we were most out of breath. About a week after we pledged to train together for a Half-Ironman, I found out I was pregnant with Max. Anything's possible, I thought. No, not that anything. Sick as a dog I did finish a sprint triathlon during my first trimester - dragged my ass to the finish line and then slept it off like a bad hangover. After that I wandered in and out of my workout clothes, never really pulling them on with the same conviction I had before.

After Max was born I didn't even have enough time to flex my abs again before I found out I was pregnant with Ethan. Problem was, I had committed to this crazy Reach the Beach run with Kim and 10 others. A team of 12 run 200 miles in 24 hours. I had one of the shortest legs of the trip at 15 miles. That's broken into 3 separate runs which totally seems doable, HOWEVER you are stuck in a van with 5 other people, driving to the next checkpoint, cramped and sweaty. You run in the afternoon, the dead black of night (in the rain, as it were), and next morning. There is little time or comfort for sleep, ergo you are a running zombie by the time you reach your third run. Plus, I was newly pregnant, which is a state of mind and body that doesn't totally agree with me, and being shoved between stinky sneakers and a giant Ziploc bag of super salty roasted red potatoes (aka "running fuel") wasn't calming my queasy stomach.

But I finished it.
Slow, but I did.

So fast-forward two years. Now three kids. And I'm doing it all over again. Except for the newly pregnant part. All in all it was a blast. Lots of laughs, wicked sarcasm and dirty jokes. And, more importantly, a perfectly wholesome excuse to skip town for a day or two. Who can blame me for leaving my kids with the neighbors I hardly know if I'm out there running 20 miles? And yes, it's 20 miles this year, as I'm no longer a newbie and a preggo. And no, not the neighbors; I'm pretty sure it will be my mother-in-law watching the kids this year. If not, I'll be dumping them on you, Jen. :)

So here's the thing. Dan and I are doing it together. Have I run much in the past year? Nah. Do I wish that I did? Yup, yes sirree. But let's not harp on the past, I have over 4 months to prepare myself for this event, which is pleeeeeenty of time to get my ass, I mean my act, together. Plenty. More than enough. Problem is...time! With work and kids and dishes I am a little short on time. But I can no longer make these excuses so...instead of locking the kids in the basement when I need some time to breathe in peace (well, muffled peace), I will have to start locking myself in the basement to run on the open treadmill (wish I could put ROAD there, but then I'd have to lock my kids in the house and that's just too much disaster to have to clean up when I get back). Or maybe since it's Spring, by gosh by golly, I can lock them outside instead. Oh yes, outside. Otherwise I have to run at 5 am or 8 pm, just not ideal. My body doesn't particularly like to move at those times of day. Hmmm. Whatever course of action I take I'm sure it will be considered endangering the welfare of a minor somehow. Even if I were to ditch work and run at 11 am so I didn't have to lock anyone in or out of my life, I'm still in the novice stage of exercise where one's legs turn to jelly while the brain is happily hyped up on endorphins before it takes a serious nose dive into "what did you do to me?!" By the time I pick the kids up again I'm not sure what state of mind I'll be in - at least until I adjust to this whole exercise thing again, if that's possible.

Stay tuned, oh 4 readers of the Momalom blog. Wait, one of them is me, I guess that makes it three. I am hoping that publishin this to the almighty and totally anonymous Internet I will be encouraged to get and keep my ass moving long enough to even sustain the thought of running 20 miles again.

OH! And the reason I even mentioned Ironman Kim? Well, it's hard to sit and have coffee and chat about the logistics of Reach the Beach when you damn well know you've barely moved more than is absolutely required to take care of your kids and your house. I looked at her and told her the whole "time" spiel - the "I have to wake at 5 to run or else do it after bedtime, you know..." Except, she DOESN'T know, and I just ended up feeling like an ass. So then I tried to justify it with: "I can't even describe to you what happens when you go from two to three kids, Kim, I just can't even describe, I... I....I... It's crazy." How profound, "crazy"? Ooooh, great description. But really. It IS crazy. And I guess I felt as if I needed to validate myself somehow. Validate my flab. Part of me thinks that being a dress size or two bigger is totally acceptable given the demands of my life and my job. And part of me thinks that if I want anything badly enough I will make time for it. Find a way. Live the way.

And then reality hits when the baby wakes in the middle of the night AGAIN. Which wakes the toddler because he's sick AGAIN. Which leaves me laying in bed listening to Al Rescate and Say Click, Take a Pic over and over again, taking kicks in the small of my back. When we finally get back to sleep at 3 am I am not about to wake up in 2 hours for a grueling 3 miles on the treadmill even if I get to watch In Treatment on the new tv. The 2 hours between Max closing and opening his eyes again could barely be considered sleep (to me) anyway. Every 1o minutes I am kicked again, punched again, as Max twirls around the king-sized bed like a little curly helicopter.

There is no profound ending here, nor realization. It's hard to make choices, to be decisive, to set goals, have plans, stick to them. And even though I know that there is a deadline for this Reach the Beach relay, and that it isn't until September, my life is so hectic that I can make no guarantees I will be as ready as I ought to be. All I know is that I will show up. Happy to be free from wakeup duties, breakfast duties, and changing doodies.

Anyone who makes me get the mop out before 8 am is officially in TIME-OUT!

People are messy. Kids are messier. In the course of cleaning a child up, another large mess is made. Example: bath time - in my house - every night! It's inevitable that there will be spills and falls, sticky messes, muddy messes, bloody messes. The very thought of all the cleaning is exhausting. You clean the sink - 10 minutes later someone leaves a glob of toothpaste or a big, green boog smack dab in the middle of your cloroxed beauty. You mop the floor - a dog and three boys pounce through with muddy feet, only to turn around and head back outside. Why did you come inside in the FIRST PLACE! You do the dishes - the dishes get used, you DO THEM AGAIN! You do the laundry (you even FOLD the laundry) - the kids decide they want to play race car in the basket and dump the laundry, and then the dog throws up on it. It's terrible that I could go on and on forever. It's so damn tired it's just aggravating. And yet, it just needs to be done. It's just part of life. Life is messy. My life is messy. My boys are messy (4 of em including Dan the Man). Shit, I'm messy too. I try to be neat, but only really on days when I think anyone would care, or if I'm trying to rein in that chaotic feeling that comes on when I realize that this rhino ride I'm on isn't ending ANY TIME SOON. In fact, as the boys get older I'm afraid it will just get harder. And busier. Louder. And messier!

So I clean the floors and do the laundry. Get to the bathrooms when I can or if my mother is coming to visit. I do the dishes and scrub behind their ears - or at the very least I throw them in the shower for a hose down. We do what needs to be done because there is no one else to do it. No one else who keeps it all catalogued in their brain as the Things That Need To Get Done. I've mentioned this list before, if briefly - the running list.

All the generalizations aside, anyone who makes me get the mop out before 8 am is officially in time out, and has started the day on mommy's shit list. Max was that man this morning. Threw his full-to-the-brim cup of apple juice onto the kitchen floor SO INTENTIONALLY. And... I was not amused. Nor upset, really. I calmly picked him up and brought him to the dining room so I could put him on lock down in the booster seat. He screamed NO BUCKLE as I quietly struggled with him TO BUCKLE. Finally I wedge my foot between his legs and pushed down as hard as I had to in order for him to sit back and stay back while I clipped the buckle.

And then I walked away and I mopped. 7:28 am. Barf!

He screamed. I mopped. Not a stitch of anger in me at that moment. It was just so clear to me that there are some things, some messes, some problems that are just NOT Acceptable. And if YOU CHILDREN do them and cross that line, Mommy will NOT be upset, will NOT scream, will NOT shake her head and say things like, "I'm so disappointed in you." No, No, it will be worse. You will see me completely unaffected. No change in tone or decibel. No outward signs of dismay. Instead, I will punish you as you ought to be punished for the crime you have committed. And then I will gladly go about my business, not for one minute feeling a shred of guilt or sadness at your glum faces and drippy eyes. Sorry, Charlie. Momma don't play that game. Some rules CAN'T be broken. And forcing the mop into my hand at 7:28 am is one of those times Momma Ain't Got No Sympathy!

A letter to a friend

Meg,

I am absolutely thrilled in every way to find out that you are, by golly, finally pregnant!!! Yay! Wahoo! Skideedle Dat! (that sounded cool in my head)

I have to say that I was kind of stunned and amazed to hear the news last night. I certainly wasn't expecting it. It was so nonchalant how you offered up the information. We'd been talking about my three boys and the craziness here, about work and schedules and springtime and then you just quietly dropped it in. Even now, I'm making my "long face" with my jaw dropped, my eyes first closed shut and then WIDE OPEN, like WHAAAT? REEEALLY?

I don't want you to waste any time feeling bad or guilty about the fact that you kept it to yourself for so long. You'll have plenty of time to perfect guilt once you become a parent. Was I sad to find out that I missed your first trimester? Yes. Am I sad that you didn't have a great urge to share the news with an old friend? Of course. But do I understand? Yes, Margie, I totally understand. This is you and who you are. You have very clear ideas, goals, concerns and an amazing sense of REASON and PATIENCE.

I have known you for 18 years. 17? 19? A lifetime. In that time I have not always been the best friend that a best friend is supposed to be. Money Laundering and Lying - Cheating, Stealing and Vegas have brought out the worst of me. No, really, all kidding aside, I've been crazy. It's been a long road we've traveled together. Through break-ups and make-ups, addiction and drama, dishonesty and brutal honesty. At times I'm a clam shell that won't break open for anybody, and then I'm blabbing all those things you wish I wouldn't, about me AND about you. (i'm working on that, i swear)

What I'm getting at here is that I hope more than anything that the birth of a child will only give us more cause to stay close and get closer. For nearly 7 years now I have played this role of motherhood without you, and often times it's been quite difficult. I feel badly that every chance we have to get together you've been surrounded by one, then two, now three boys! My boys are great, I know that, and I don't feel bad because of them. I feel bad because we've rarely had the opportunity to just BE, as friends, as GREAT, old friends. And connecting has been hard. Through every phone call I'm shouting directions at someone, breaking up fights, giving baths, comforting falls. When it's actually calm in my house and we can hear each other clearly, it's still hard to relate to one another sometimes because our lives are just so different. Sometimes it makes me sad. But then I remember that that is truly the way it has always been. We've always been so different, and yet we've maintained an amazing relationship through all our differences and our unique challenges.

I am so thrilled for you - in every way - ecstatic and joyous and thrilled!

(jen, can you believe this, she's pregnant!)

I can hardly remember now the thoughts, the voices in my head, the dreams, the urges and the questions I had throughout my first pregnancy. What I can remember is the overwhelming anticipation.

First baby -
an awesome idea, grand in every way.

Talking to you last night about the physical and emotional changes that you have been going through brought me back to the nine months I carried Jamis. I was an eating, farting, baby-making machine. It was absolute BLISS! (well, until the last month, but who's counting that?)

I know you are scared - I know you'll always worry - I know you want everything to be perfect - I know you think I think you want it to be too perfect (but remember that I know you better than that, and please understand that when I say you want it to be perfect, it's no different from admitting that I wanted it to be perfect too.)

A perfect baby. Perfect feet, perfect toes, perfect cries. A perfect impression of YOU (and your handsome man, of course)!

I'm scrambling here and just really want to say that I am here.

I AM HERE.

To listen.
To talk.

To shut up and hug you
...and watch you get bigger
...and scoop you some ice cream
...and take you through baby stores, oohing and aahing, at all that is cute.

I want you to know that I want to hear all about it and you and the baby. I may have been through this before but you haven't! It's important to me that you know you can always call me - the kids can wait, the laundry, the groceries, the job, it all can wait. Any question or worry or little excitement. I am here if you want to share it, and I hope you'll share it all!

Congratulations isn't quite the right word.

Rock on? Go baby? Go mama?

None of them work.

So how about just

I love you

and

I love that little baby too!

Sarah