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.

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.

Thanking my lucky springtime stars

My sweetie always says, "You don't have to look far to find someone who is worse off than yourself." Lately, this statement has been proven correct almost daily. 

It's spring. Finally. The season of birth. Renewal. My brain even feels it. I am more relaxed. The messy house no longer seems like it's doomed to forever be covered in hats, mittens, coats, boots. The kids can go outside to dig in the dirt, play with their trucks, ride their bikes. There are sidewalk chalk "drawings" on the house siding. Phew. It's been a long time coming, this kid-friendly season.

And yet for weeks I have not had to look far to learn of someone else's suffering. Illness. Loss. Grief. And the extreme emotional stress that comes with it all. What is happening? As the vernal pools literally spring with new life, my friends all seem to be drowning in life's fleeting reality. 

All of this makes me want to hug my kids a little tighter as I shoo them out the door to play. 

Maybe we all need a reality check sometimes. And we, the lucky ones, catch it through someone else's hardship. It's not a graceful way to be grateful. 

In our house, this spring season coincides with all of us coming out of a very tough year. Illness. Hospitalizations. Financial strain. And yet, ironically, all of the hardship came to us while E was on her way and made her debut. So here we are, awaiting the flower buds, surrounded by the circle of life and celebrating our own three little miracles. Life goes on. And I am so grateful.

Why is today ANY different?

I've been awake for 12 minutes and discovered that I entirely missed the Easter morning Egg Hunt and Jelly Bean search. The boys have apparently searched and searched again and had their fun. And now it's done. Jamis is downloading skeeball on to my iPhone, oh joy. My mother and her partner, D, are reading the paper. Dan is on his computer and when I talk to him he doesn't even look away to face me - seems the sun is shining right in his eyes when he does, so why bother? Max is watching Tom & Jerry, but at least he is still his animated self. MA-MA, he screams from the next room. For no reason. He's just prone to belt out my name at random - a kid thing, right? Usually you would expect that they need or want something from you, but no, not always.

14 minutes now that I've been awake and not one Happy Birthday from the crowd. Ethan gets a free pass, as he's sleeping, and not yet one. And I suppose Max should get a free pass as well, but I'm sure he could be coaxed to say SOMETHING. I'm not bitter. It really doesn't matter one little bit. And I guess that's the point. It's my birthday. I'm thirty-one today, and it just doesn't matter - not one little bit.

We quasi-celebrated last night with dinner at my mom's and a birthday cake that was wolfed down before Jamis had a special outing with the grandparents. They left and Dan and I cleaned up the dishes and the house and dealt with the coughing, whining, tossing and turning infant. Oh wait, I dealt with the coughing, whining, tossing and turning infant. I ran up and down the stairs 22 times getting cough medicine and bottles and water and diapers and such. After finally falling asleep on the couch in front of Working Girl, I tripped up the stairs and slept in the room with him. Dan was lucky or unlucky enough to have to sleep with Max in another room because Max woke at 11:30 for WHO KNOWS WHAT? Apparently he was awake watching tv in bed with Dan until 2:30. I'm not sure which scenario is worse, mine or his, but I'm pretty sure either BOTH of NONE of us should be whining about it.

I can tell it's going to be a trying day. Sleepy, sugared-up kids. I just coughed so hard my upper back seized up and now I'm sitting here with my head at a VERY SPECIFIC angle, pointed slightly downward, and my shoulders so tense that it would take a REALLY GOOD MASSEUSE talk them down from he edge of forever being ROCK hard. And maybe, in fact, that is what I need. A good massage for my birthday.

What is there to celebrate about me today? I can think of 50 things to celebrate in general: my kids, my husband, my house, our health, and so on. When I think about it in a more personal way I find it's still all related to others. I think I am a good mom. My kids are happy. I know that it gets rough, and I get rough, but if we are generalizing, I am a good mom. Dammit, I'm better than good. It's a natural part of who I am, for better or for worse. No, for better. For sure. I'm a good partner in a great marriage. It could always be better, and I could always be more but....(oh these disclaimers are becoming a nuisance).

When I think about my own greatness aside from what I mean to, and what I do for, the people I love, it is difficult to really distinguish. Are we ever really anything so personal anyway? I don't read enough anymore. I don't take care of my body and my mind and my soul the way that I know that I can, and the way I know that I should, to nurture an inner peace.

This mom business takes you completely outside of yourself at all times, and yet asks you to constantly question yourself and your values and your morals while acting out the role.

I'm 31. This isn't what I imagined my life to be. I never really imagined anything actually. I was just living it and it happened. My days are filled with so many small tasks and so many many words like stop and please and no and FINE! Although I left my twenties last year I didn't feel as though I had entered my thirties. I guess it was a chosen year of LIMBO. A feeling of youth has washed away as I accept that this IS my life. I AM in my thirties. I LOVE my boys. I CAN make changes to find my spirit, my peace, within all this. But to remember that with kids, with THREE kids, everything takes really nine times as long as you would like, well, that's important! So maybe when I'm writing my 41st birthday post I'll have something tremendous to say. I won't be digging in the trenches anymore, or something like that. And maybe it won't be Easter and the first thing on everyone's mind won't be jelly beans and chocolate eggs. I've been awake for something like 56 minutes. No Happy Birthdays yet.

The only thing different about today is that we woke up in my mother's house.

The Easter Bunny has come and has since been forgotten.

And now I have to establish and live with the CANDY ALLOWANCE ORDINANCE until I accidentally throw the rest of the sweets OUT with the rotten vegetables.

My Complete Inability to Make a Commitment to My Job: How Busy Does This Little Bee Want to Be???

I took a day off work two days ago to BE. Just to be. With my sister. To talk and eat and laugh and BE. It was fantastic, even though my mind was muddy and felt quite separate from my body. It is absolutely amazing in every way that the body can produce so much mucus. I've decided that I would much rather wipe my kids' noses and coax them to blow OUT than to be inconvenienced by my own cold. That's just awful, isn't it? Am I wishing sickness upon my kids? Well, no, of course not. It's just that as the mom there is so much to be done and any illness or ache just SO impedes my ability to function. And the kids hardly seem bothered by snot dripping down their faces. Of course when there's a fever or and ear ache or... then it's a different story. But this isn't even what I wanted to say. So there - I'm not required to explain that story.

So I will myself to work the next morning. No, I didn't show up until 10, but I showed up dammit. And here it all goes again. Sarah, we need to know when you are going to be here. Whenever it is, it doesn't really matter, whether 3 days or 5 days. We just need to know so we can know what to expect, etc etc etc. And it's only fair, right? So why do I have such a problem making a commitment. A commitment to the amount of days, to which days, to in-times and out-times.

And then there's the whole question of full-time work, and going on salary, and making the biggest work commitment of all. I swear his eyes lit up and twinkled for a split-second when I told my boss that I was wondering, just for the hell of it, if he'd want me full-time. "I'd love you full-time." No, No, I mean he said something like, "I'd love you to WORK full-time." Gosh, that first one just sounded creepy. Let me be CERTAIN to add that there are NO OFFICE ROMANCES INVOLVED HERE. Oh my, that's just too creepy to fathom, especially if you knew my boss, and my workplace. Let's just say it's bizarre. Can't go into it any more than that, I suppose.

So then I go on to say that Dan's contemplating leaving his job, and if I work full-time my current hourly rate translated to salary @ 40 hours isn't enough to support and would he consider giving me a raise??? (Jen, I know what you're thinking. Okay, no I don't but I know enough to say, "I know, right? Can you even believe I had this conversation with the big man? And what am I even doing or thinking HAVING such a conversation? Let's just say it is wasn't planned or anything, just one of those things.... and yes, yes, we'll talk. :Oh my goodness, that was so Mom-ish with the YES,YES:)

So he looks at me rather uncomfortably, my boss, the big man, and then his eyes turn away almost embarrassingly as he says, "Yea, we'll work it out."

And then I'm sitting in my office furiously typing Dan trying to figure out what he thinks about this crazy idea I've had, trying to figure out what the hell I think of it all. I mean, work is so awful sometimes. Then there are other times that I look forward to the distraction it brings me from the kids. OH, the kids! They are SO messy and SO loud and SO damn infuriating at times that I imagine tossing them one at a time from the second story bathroom window instead of plunking them in the bath at night; BUT, they are also SO terrifically cute that my fantasy has them landing happily on Mr Bouncity Bounce and hip hop bouncing with all their cousins to the funky musical selections of their favorite babysitter (hear Hip Hop beats and Pop Tunes).

------------Sidenote: What's a girl gotta do to get these little ppl to take care of themselves for 10 minutes so I can finish this?! I understand it's morning and breakfast time and all, but EAT little ppl, EAT, and leave Mommy to Momalom for 10 more minutes. Five? Two? Currently there is a little bee eraser dropping in on my keyboard over and over again as I say Sit DOWN, Sit DOWN, Get OFF The Table. (And yes, I am clearly speaking of Max)------------------------

So now I've just totally confused myself. I mean, it's not as if I haven't thought of this before, and what life would really be like if I were to work full-time. Where would the kids go between end of school day and Mommy arrival time? Who would watch them? Do I really really want to put myself in a position where I HAVE to be there every day, all day?? I have to carefully schedule all appointments and activities. I never have the afternoon just to take the kids to the park and loll. (Oh yeah right? Loll? That's a laugh.) Anyway. I gripe about the three hours or so between picking the kids up every day and either Dan's arrival home or the start of the bath/bed routine. That magical hour when I know it will all come to an end for another day and I'll get a little peace ALONE until it all starts again in the morning. So I gripe about it till kingdom come, but would I really have it any other way? I mean, the weather is perking up, finally! And summer is on the way. And don't I want to be able to take the kids to the pool and the lake? To do away with all my worries on those perfect days that I don't have to go in to work and it's not the weekend and just watch them in the yard with popsicle juice dripping down their faces for the third time that day?

I just don't know. I'm struggling with these thoughts. Everything I've said is just so romantic. The truth is that I really can't take them all to the pool. We could venture the baby pool, but then Jamis will be bored. He's finally swimming and it's just not fair to have to ask him to compromise YET AGAIN FOR THE LITTLE ONES. But we can't go to the big pool either. A 2 year old and a 1 year old and me. It's just not safe. (I should take the "and me" out of there. I'm rather safe, but with those two hanging on me I think we'd all go under.)

And days spent wiping sticky popsicle hands? Well, I could have two of those on the weekends alone. The routine of work would get tiring, I know. But the alternative of staying with the boys is exhausting just to think about. It's not even 7:30 am here in our house and I've already left this computer like 35 times to break up fights, change diapers and re-fold an entire load of laundry that Max decided to massacre and throw at his brother, Ethan. I mean, 7:30! If I'm already anxiously awaiting Dan's arrival after two or three hours of being with the kids ALONE in the afternoons, then what the hell kind of pressure am I going to put on him when it's summer.

And then, I guess I should give a little back story - mostly to remind myself - that I truly didn't want to work full-time. I wanted days off with my kids. Days to hang out and days to get stuff done. Days to actually do laundry and keep the kitchen clean and go to the grocery store. But I've found that those days can be just as difficult as the days I go to work. It's not "staying home with you kid or your kids." It's being a MOTHER OF THREE! I Swear To You, It's Jaw-Dropping, Head-Spinning what happens when you go from Two to Three!

So I negotiated from 5 days (part-time) to three days, or four days, or whatever I felt like that week. And that's how it's been for a while. And like he said, my boss doesn't care how many days I come in cause he just loves me so damn much, but he just wants to know WHAT days. If I can't commit to picking the days then how on earth would I commit to working full-time?

The whole OTHER SIDE of this story is the fact that Dan could leave his job and focus on his own business, which he's very good at and has already developed quite well indeed! We've texted and emailed and briefly talked about this subject. He's gone through the logistics somewhat, the Figuring Out What This Would Mean thing that Men Truly Love To Do - at least my man - and we've come to no conclusions. But we're not really trying for conclusion at this point, it's all conversation. But what he HASN'T talked or texted or emailed is how he FEELS about this. Of Course. Damn if he should engage in that whole phenomenon. Feelings.

So I suppose this is all TO BE CONTINUED. What shall be decided? I don't know. I really don't know. On the one hand, I wouldn't have to be so stressed at work because I would actually have the time to accomplish all the work that I have. My boss and my husband would probably be rather happy. But what about me and the kids? Would we? We are at an optimal time for testing this all out - mostly because we have our fabulous babysitter back from college for the summer. I love her, the kids love her, and she's part of the family. But then, it's summer. And again, even if I'm wiping sticky popsicle hands for the third time, who cares? Wasn't I the one who gave them the third popsicle anyway? Because it's summer, and because they're kids, and because all I want to do is let them feel the freedom that is a kid in summer. I want to be that kid again.

Letter to my sister

Dear Sarah,

I feel I already have failed you. Wasn't I the one who volunteered to write the next post? Yesterday. After we agreed to a daily presence? Allow me to explain.

Well, I arrived home to a sick kid and the fallout of a SICK KID. And it was dinner time. Need I say more? The night promised to be a long one.

And then, today. It is not yet 10:00 a.m. Here is what I have done—in no particular order. (That would be too much to ask of my fatigued brain.) Three loads of laundry (one hanging on the line already). Fed the baby breakfast (man, can she EAT). Ate my own breakfast. Nursed the baby. Twice. Drank some coffee. Lost my coffee. Found my coffee. Drank some more (cold) coffee. Put the baby down. Picked the baby up. Answered the phone. RSVP for B's party. Phew. At least somebody isn't going away vacation week and can make it. Made a phone call to cancel a playdate for today (See SICK KID, above). Administered medication. Twice. Made tea with honey (for SICKO). Wiped a few noses. Got dressed. Got baby dressed. Skimmed newspaper. Learned, incidentally, that breastfeeding is now legal in Massachusetts. (Good to know I can't be arrested in the park for indecent exposure while feeding my infant now.) Wiped down the table. Did a few dishes. Washed my face (a BANNER day!) Did I mention the LAUNDRY?

And yet, my house is a mess. But the big kids are on the couch with dad, reading. The baby is asleep. Maybe I'll brush my teeth. 

I promise to do better next time.

LOVE you,

Jen

Body Image

So Dan and I were watching something on tv about this incredibly IN-SHAPE woman who is training for yet another crazy event - the Ironman, I believe - and coincidentally I have a friend training for the same thing. Go friend! It was a motivating story about one woman's accomplishments, dreams, ambitions and drive. Most of all her drive, I guess. What drive! To put not only your body through the rigors of exercise, the tiresome schedule of double and triple workouts in a day, but even more so your mind. The resolve - that your brain must (MUST) tell your body to KEEP GOING. Run 15 miles, Bike 75 miles, swim countless laps.
A few years ago I happened to be in Lake Placid, NY during the Ironman and sat with awe on the bleachers at the finish line as old and young, thick and thin crossed the line and sank into smiles and tears. I was crying too. It was so powerful to witness such an accomplishment. 12, 13, 14, 15 hours of grueling physical exercise. There's a part of me that longs for that kind of achievement; it is ALL YOURS! No one else can claim it. No one can ever take it away, and yet it doesn't have to define you. It's just something you've done. But a damn fine something.
So the next morning, Dan's ironing in his undies and says, "I have just one question about that woman on tv last night, does she do anything else but workout???" He proceeds to tell me how, while he was impressed about this and that and goals and achievements, and how the lady is obviously in primo good shape, he was distracted and somewhat disgusted by her mus-kuls. (yes, muscles) Too much working out, he thought, and she doesn't seem to have anything else going for her. One-dimensional?
And here's me, just out of the shower picking up and putting down various pants and shirts that don't fit, too tight, not right. Trying to hide the jagged lines of pregnancy marks that overtake my entire mid-section. The lovely thing is that right after a hot shower, those stretch marks are bright fucking red. Oh I envy the ladies who survive pregnancy unscarred. Because that's what it is: huge, thick scars across my belly and even above my naval. I had a belly ring in my teens and early twenties, which made that site susceptible to even more stretching, as if the hips and belly weren't enough!
Dan proceeds to comment most fully on this woman's chest. No, not her boobs, of which there was little, but her chest muscles. Too much, too masculine, too alarming. Kinda gross. And of course, while my first instinct is to defend women for their right to develop their bodies the same as men, lifting weights and getting strong and definining muscles (sexy muscle tone and all that), I had to agree. It made this woman look like a skeleton in her sleeveless, low-neck top. The bones and muscles popped out at you in such an alarming way.
We proceeded to banter about the facts. She had school-age kids and no job, so she had the day to with as pleased. Motherhood was like this second obligation. I mean, she was caught talking about her physical self, so what do I know about her life behind the camera, but Motherhood just seemed so secondary. In fact, everything seemed secondary. When asked about other interests, she provided a comprehensive list of all things PHYSICAL - hiking, biking, swimming, kayaking, etc. Family was an inner world she visited, or something. There wasn't one intellectual idea anywhere in her dialogue. One-dimensional, Dan said. Yes, I thought.

And then I thought, "oh honey, it's little bitty conversations like these which help me see you DO appreciate the me that is the crazy me." Cause there is no way in hell you could call me one-dimensional. If anything, I am infinity-dimensional. Most of the time I would consider that a bad thing. But in this instance, I was elated. The stretch marks and the 10 extra pounds felt okay in that moment. Valid annoyances for one busy, tired, working mom. If all I had to do all day was work out my body, I would hope that I'd fit back in those jeans I have stored in the attic. Those tiny tees. But I don't. I have spare time that gets squandered online and eaten up by bill-paying and list-making. Time to rebuild my body should indeed be MORE of a priority, but it just can't be the only priority. I just don't have that luxury so I need to work on BALANCE more than anything.

For an instant I was comforted by my saggy tummy. If nothing else, it's some kind of stupid mark of all that I get done in a day and a week and a month. The stretch marks, however, I could do without. It's probably the single most embarrassing thing about my body, and when I get out of the shower I still cringe when I take sight of myself in the mirror, feeling poorly that I will forever see myself so scarred and tracked upon.

Inner Dialogue GET OUT

I don't really talk to myself that often but I think I should start.

Like I just walked in the house and said SHOWER. Yes, Sarah. Take a fucking shower. Your sinuses are blocked and your fingers are tingling cuz you're freezing and a shower will do you good. Forgo those fucking dishes in the sink, the grocery list, and the laundry.

I turned the corner to head upstairs and then I said EAT SOMETHING. (there's a muffin in the toaster right now)

So it's like this - instead of talking out loud to make a list or directing your comments at someone all the time, why don't I just blab out loud to myself when I'm alone?

I went to a private, all-girls, boarding and day school for high school (before I was kicked out - but that's another story entirely - one that I should probably talk out loud too so I can clear it up in my mind). At said school there was this one teacher renowned for the fact that he was always talking to himself. You'd be in line for lunch and there he'd be, right behind, you mumbling to himself. I don't think I ever really distinguished what he was saying. I always wondered. Was he resolving issues, was he making lists, was he contemplating his classes or his students? Was he just nuts? Thing is, the man was clearly one of the most bright - if the most intimidating among all the intimidatingly smart teachers there. But he also seemed at peace. Was it because he voiced that inner dialogue we all have? Instead of trying to work through everything all solo in the mind, he allowed himself to declare it, make it more audible, and allow another part of the brain to process it or something?

Voicing things brings about conviction, doesn't it? I mean, when I talk I am most certain about what I am thinking. When it swims around and around in my mind I am just so damn cloudy. I'm tired of the clouds. Just tired.

So now, SHOWER Sarah, SHOWER!

From Two to Three

Sinus backup. I've got a cluster in my sinus - but it's worked its way into my brain and I feel completely inept right now. I'm supposed to be working and then cleaning up the house and then heading to the grocery store. Instead I am an absolute lump. Maybe I should just let my body fold into sleep and give up until the afternoon - when I will be forced back into motherhood and household duties.

But I keep thinking about three kids. I dropped the little ones off at the sitter's this morning and reveled in the candor that ensues when I hang around for a few minutes to chat. She's just so refreshing in her outlook on parenting, discipline, and little kids. She KNOWS little kids, as she's been doing the nanny/sitter thing for like 20 years, not to mention she has 2 kids of her own. She also knows how to kick the nonsense out the door - both when she is dealing directly with the children and when she's reflecting on the role of an adult in a kid's world. She says things like "knock it off" a lot and "No touch" and makes this ehn, ehn, ehn sound that perks up the little ears in the house and warns them to back away from the lamp, the box of tissues, the picture frames. It's an honest relationship with the kids. This is my world, and you are in it, and this is what you have to learn to get by until you are big enough to join me here.

There's truth in that we are different people when we are around different people. I can be most honest with my sister - yes you, my dear sister. We chat endlessly about the trials of motherhood: how we yelled so loud yesterday that the kids were stunned to stillness; how we are so exhausted by the very idea of heading to the store with three kids because we are fully aware of the stares we'll get and the spectacle that is a mother with three kids. I can't put it into one sentence what happens when you go from two kids to three, and I so totally wish that I could. Three kids wallops you! It just takes you to a different dimension.

Jamis had an overnite this weekend, and although I don't have to change his diapers and he can get his own juice, I felt a great sense of freedom at only having to manage two! It was this crazy release. Two kids. Only two. It felt like a vacation. I say that we are more accustomed to thinking in pairs. We've got two arms, two hands, two feet, two sides of the brain. Once you throw a third kid in the mix, you spin like batter in the mixing bowl. Yes, that third kid makes me feel just tossed - this way and that and I can't get my bearings. I'm just trying to keep it together. It's ridiculous that I start counting the kids to make sure they are all okay, accounted for. It's only one more person. Three isn't a large number. There are families with 4 and 14 kids. I wonder what happens after three kids. Are you just accustomed to the madness, the shattered-brain syndrome that I've come to know? Oh, what's one more? I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever know. I don't know if I should even imagine it.

Late Night Snacking

I'm not sure if a bowl of leftover pinwheels dripping with smart balance, sprinkled with parmesan, is what you'd call a "late night snack" but that's what I just wolfed down as I casually read through some blogs. That and the piece of hearty bread slathered with same smart balance. Shit, where's the booze to go with it? Oh yeah, red wine season is out. Margaritas coming back in style again soon, I hope.

So what's with the eating, I say? I ask myself. I say, self, what's with the damn eating. What void are you trying to fill. What body fat percentage are you willing to accept tomorrow when you slap your big, cold feet on the scale and knowingly prepare for a wince? Hmm? Hmm, self?

I'll be satisfied to lose 5 more pounds, but 10+ is truly the goal. However, I have absolutely zero discipline for most things in my life, so what would be the difference with the weight thing. I love to eat. Unfortunately, the food doesn't exactly have to be all that tasty for me to just eat it - it's not like I'm snacking on the gourmet. It's like the act of chewing and the change in flavors in my mouth is most satisfying - from something stale that could probably just benefit from a toothbrush, to the juice from a single grape, or the creamy coolness of a little smart balance. (At least I'm balancing "smart" with buttery goodness.)

So I'm now considering if it's even worth my time to come up with a new schedule or diet or REGIMEN (ick, what a manly word). I know I most likely won't stick to it. But in deciding NOT to make a plan or LIST about this I'm admitting self-defeat or something. No, I'm copping to the fact that I'm a loser. Shit! I'm not a loser, am I? I mean, we all lose. And that's what I intend to do, dammit. 10 more stupid post-baby pounds. He's ONE next month, I think I can do a little sacrificing for my own personal happiness here. Thing is, I have to sacrifice eating for regained svelteness.

(And then there's the whole next train of thought.... svelte again? I don't think so dear. Not with that bread-ball tummy (thanks, Jen) to those little saggy sacks called boobs, to the strange weave of stretch marks across my ENTIRE mid-section.....)

Profundity

I have come to the realization that I don't have anything really profound to say. Life, in itself, is profound; my thoughts about living it are more dirt and grit, mundane, absolute in their necessity.

My achievement today is making dinner out of nothing much. I haven't been to the grocery store for anything more than the bare necessities in nearly a month. A month. I can't even get to the grocery store. I can't remember to brush my teeth on a Sunday Morning, or change the laundry, or pick up a friend's kid at school. There's so much I don't do and feel guilty about not doing and feel stressed out about having to do --- that I thought I should make a list of all the things I did today (or yesterday, as it were, because I never actually got around to writing this last night... didn't do that either).


(Amendment: didn't finish the post on Monday either. The irony is uncanny. It's now Thursday and this is all about Sunday....)

I woke up at 5:45 am.

fed the baby.
fed the toddler.
got the juice, wiped the noses, changed the diapers.

balanced the checking account, and the business account, and the savings account
(hmmph, that didn't take long).

took stock of the pile of debt that never dissolves.
started a preliminary budget for April (scary).


checked my email,
researched 5ks,
10ks
and Half-Marathons for
this summer,
as well as
Duathlons and
Triathlons
(for those truly inspired weekends).

I put the baby down for a nap.

Now it's 9 am.
You could say the first few hours were spent on my butt, except for the repositioning of the baby, the kitchen runs for juice and bottles and snacks and anything to appease the early morning Sunday chirps of the children.

9:30
I make eggs and bacon and toast for the whole gang. Dan is now up. He slept in. Isn't he lucky? Then I do the dishes. Soak the egg pan (what a mess).

10:30 I take a peek at Ethan's room. We painted Saturday. Horizontal stripes on one wall. Varying colors. But because we are so lucky there was something wrong with the red paint. It was thick and goopy and globbed all over the wall and now we have even more work to clean it up and sand it down and paint over it. Ugh.

Try to sand it and it's still wet. Bigger mess to fix. Great, another thing added to my head, almost as exhausting as weeding the flowerbeds.

We install new Ikea lights and shelves next to both bunks in the boys' room. With a level and a drill and a lot of whining from a very tired 2 year old, it's completed - but the shelves keep popping off the screws when bumped or nudged a little too hard. Great, have to fix that too.

It's Thursday now and pretty much I can't remember the rest of that day. The whole idea of the accomplishments I had made seemed so important at the time because often I feel so powerless over the great amount of work that IS the mothering of three, the housekeeping, the patience-stretching, sanity-keeping world that I've learned to breath in.

But I can pretty much gather that the rest of it went like this:

Lunch:made
Dishes:done again
Naptime:conquered
Toys:gathered
Laundry:done
Dinner:made (out of NOTHING, remember, that was the whole inspiration for this mess)
and again:dishes:done
Toys:re-gathered
Baths:swum in
Bedtime:FINALLY

I remember two things specifically-

1. that we installed the giant mirror over my dresser so I don't have to hover in the teeny bathroom with bright blue toothpaste staring back at me from the 1970s sink, smelling that diaper smell, feeling soggy from all the showertime accumulated in one morning.

and

2. that Dan finally re-tackled the job of connecting the automatic water and ice thingie in the fridge door to the pipe. It worked again! Yay! And then it leaked. All over the floor and into the basement and we had to shut water off to the whole house. Of course. NOTHING is easy enough to be completed on the first try. Ethan's paint, the boys' lights and shelves, the damn water thingie.

And what's my point and purpose?
I got some stuff done. Should feel good. But there's always more stuff. And the stuff that was done ultimately created more stuff to be done. So why do anything again? Oh yeah, because it's Spring and I'm reborn. Yes yes, I'm remembering now. But it's hard to write from Sunday's perspective when I was only just reborn about Spring yesterday while on my iPhone and didn't post that Spring thing till today, Thursday, which is when I am trying to relive the moments of Sunday.

Okay, see, why try saying profound things when a brain with chatter like this just breaks it all to mush anyway. And life is really just one inexplicable realm we walk in.

Ugh.

Connections

I've been making all of our family's bread now for several months. I try new recipes as I continue to abide by the old favorites. And recently I've become hooked on the "no knead" method. Which basically means that you let time do the work of kneading. Which means that for a day or so you have a mushy lump of wet dough hanging out in a bowl on your kitchen counter. It's covered in plastic wrap, but still, every time I see it I think, "That looks like my post-pregnancy stomach." ICK. 

Unfortunately, I cannot adopt the wait-it-out method for gaining my body back. It's clear, after this third pregnancy, that I'm going to have to put a little more work into reestablishing abdominal strength and cardiovascular fortitude than I did for the first two. Why is that? I'm older? I wasn't in as good shape to begin with this time around? A body can only take so much? Whatever the reason, it hardly matters. If I want to get rid of my rising-dough middle, I'm going to have to start doing a little time in the workout room of my soul to get my body back to a more acceptable (to me) presentation. Stay tuned. This adventure might produce some blog-worthy vignettes.

The bread is delicious, by the way.

In sickness and in ...

With five in the family, I am learning, someone always is sick (or injured). Since December members of my family have logged two ear infections; a jaw infection; a round of the stomach bug that included every single combination of typical symptoms that you can think of and took more than two weeks to make the full rounds of the family; endless colds; back strain due to work injury; and neck strain due to sleeping beside an infant (guess who on that one). Oh, and surgery (and it's preceding symptoms and recovery time), the heart patient living amongst us and the necessary doctor's appointments and trips to the pharmacy.

Is it the season? Was it this particular winter that seemed longer than EVER and carried with it more germs? It just seems impossible that we all are healthy and able-bodied at the same time for more than about six hours. 

I love my children and John more than I can begin to articulate, and when one of them is sick I turn into worst-case-scenario Jen, imagining all of the complications and terrible diagnoses that can be drawn from a runny nose, stiff neck, headache and fatigue. And when I'm sick, it's so difficult to take the time to recover, because there is always someone who needs me or (more likely) I have a difficult time removing myself from the family. I want to be with them, even when I shouldn't be. 

I don't know what all this means, really, or what inspired me to even get all of this down on a busy Sunday afternoon. I guess it's just one more scenario that points to the "enjoy every moment" that I keep striving toward. The snuggles that come with a low-grade fever are comforting not only to my kids. Sometimes settled cozily under a comforter, reading books all afternoon and ignoring the dishes is a nice reminder of what's really important. 

But that doesn't mean I don't hope spring brings with it lots of good health, ruddy complexions and afternoons where the kids are playing outside on their own.

Jury Duty

So I had jury duty today. No comment.
I'm home now and just got off the treadmill. Trying to reacclimate my body to lunges and crunches and the whomp whomp foot pattern of the treadmill is like another full-time job. I feel invigorated by my run and grateful for the new TV in the basement which allowed me to distract myself from heavy breathing and sticky lips and head straight into the overly dramatic lives of the girls on The L Word. I have nothing and everything to say, and all at once, or not at all. I think I need my own jury to make some decisions around here - up in my brain. What comes out, to whom, how often, and when.

Our father was an attorney. Taught me most of everything I know about weighing two sides, walking in another man's shoes, and yet I tend to decide everything like my mother would - impulsively. I love to make plans and yet find it so hard to stick to them. I need momentum. That word keeps ringing in my ears. I think I heard or saw a saying recently about how motivation is what gets you started and momentum is what keeps you going. In motherhood, I suppose you could say that the birth of the child is the commencement of a momentum you just can't stop even if you wanted to. But there are lulls. Yes, yes, the ebb and flow of life. All has it's ups and downs. But what do we choose to focus on at any given time? There is just too much.

Sitting here, in my unmade bed, the down comforter in a big, jumbled ball from Max playing underneath it this morning, knowing that there are toys and dishes strewn all about, bills to pay, and a sweaty bod to wash, I feel paralyzed by all that needs doing. So often I feel just paralyzed. It's hard to stay focused because it just never ends. Mountains of laundry, stacks of dishes, scattered toys, incoming bills and a little time to yourself. It all needs doing.

I suppose it often feels there are 12 tiny heads inside this one brain and they are trying to weigh all the options and figure out the best solution. Thing is, there isn't one solution. There are so many. But now I choose to wash my workout bod and everything else can wait. I mean, cleanliness of self just HAS to be a priority. :)