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

Another post about how tired I am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My take on making new friends with other moms

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

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

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

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

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...

Why Am I Not Sleeping?

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

And why three is enough, for this body

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

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

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

It was a VERY LONG winter and spring last year.

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

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

The pain was gone by the next morning.

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

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

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

Our family has reached its maximum.

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

Tractor Masterpiece

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

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.

Tired, No More - A post by our Mom

Happy Mother's Day, everyone! In honor of the day we asked our mom to write for us. You can call her Gail, or GG, or Geege. She's famous in our homes and in our hearts. This weekend she is celebrating Mother's Day with her amazing mom and two charismatic sisters on Cape Cod and, undoubtedly, laughing hard enough and loud enough to keep many of the neighbors awake. I hope you are having a good time, Mom! We love you. We are so happy for your contribution. And Happy Mother's Day!


Last week I met a woman whose daughter I had taught 15 years ago. She didn’t know me. I reintroduced myself, and watched her eyes widen.

“But you look fabulous,” she blurted with ill-concealed surprise. “I didn’t recognize you.”

No, I haven’t had a face-lift, gone blond, or had a boob job. I’m just not so tired any more. When she knew me fifteen years ago, I was teaching full time, had three children, a husband, a large house, and an ever-shedding dog. And then it all changed, seemingly in a heartbeat. The children grew up and moved on into their own lives, the husband (and dog) died, the house was sold, I moved in with a new partner, and I retired. Seems impossible when put so baldly. But that’s what happened. And, I’m not tired any more. I can sleep when I want, and for how long I want. I have time to read and do the New York Times crossword puzzle and garden and travel and socialize – and take a nap. I have time for my nine gloriously perfect grandchildren. And I just plain have time for me. But I’m still a mom.

I went to hear the Dalai Lama speak yesterday, and one of the principle themes of his lecture was the importance of mother-love, how it is a proven scientific fact that people who receive loving care at the very beginning of their lives thrive and grow far better than those who do not. That all babies need to be held and stroked, sung to and soothed, and mothers are most usually the ones who do it. While I agree with him wholeheartedly, I also know that it was just not possible for me to supply all of that every day to each of my children. OK, with just one child, it was doable. With two it was a bit of a challenge, but still doable. But with the addition of number three, we were quite simply outnumbered. Some days it seemed like we were living in a state of siege. Some days I lost my mind. And I always seemed to be waiting for something to happen… a baby to sit up, a child to learn to read, a young adult to get a job. Waiting for a time when they didn’t need me, were independent, when I could sleep, and “have a life of my own”.

The Dalai Lama counseled us to enjoy the journey, and that is what I didn’t understand when I was in the middle of it all - that there is no point of arrival, that we all, children and parents alike, are constantly in a state of change. That you may have had a beast of a day, been crabby, ignored your precious third child, but tomorrow gives you another chance. That perfection isn’t reality. All we can do is forgive ourselves and move forward, and try to live in the moment, to see the moments for what they are.

I have lots of time now to do all of the things I thought I was missing out on. I do have a life of my own, and that life is good. But I miss the richness of daily family life; bathing three kids in the same tub and listening to them bicker, reading picture books snuggled on the couch together, watching three mostly naked bodies run through the sprinkler. I miss it - the upheaval, the hubbub, the fun.

At 62, it’s nice to hear I “look fabulous." But nicer yet is to hear, “Your kids are fabulous.” Which they are, of course.

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.

The (tired) backstory

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

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

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

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

The risks we take with kids - more kids, more risks? The risks less risky?

I take so many risks. I'm not sure if the risks I take now as a parent of three are greater or more severe than the risks I took as a parent of one (or two) OR if it just appears that way because the things I thought were risky back then are part of my very very every day now. Some things just are not safe, like leaving a kid alone with the knife set, the hair clippers, the nail clippers, or the play-doh. Other things are not so simple. Seemingly mundane decisions can be the riskiest of all.

I take so many risks.

The baby alone with the toddler.

The toddler alone with the 6 year old.

Myself alone with three kids.
The kids are safe from me; I'm just not sure if I'm safe from the kids.

Risks can be as small as forgetting to cut Max's nails: the baby has a scratch from chin to cheek the next day - it's not catastrophic, it'll certainly heal.

Risks can be as large as dashing away from bath time for a split second at the sound of another child screeching: it could very well be catastrophic. But to whom do you attend? Are you always able to assess the greater risk at any moment?

And then there are the other risks, less obvious. Like deciding who naps and when. Who gets which wishes granted, and why? It's all risky. There are countless decisions to make everyday. Starting at 5 am and rolling through to not only their bedtime, but mine. Because this mind doesn't truly stop when mama says night-night. It gets to rest for a while, and I'm thankful for that, but it's a chalkboard that gets erased and re-written ever hour, all the time.

I have more to say on this. Tomorrow, perhaps?
The risky business of parenting. Of three boys under one roof. Of motherhood. Of fatherhood. Of knowing nothing and being in charge of everything.

But it's April 15th and taxes are due in T-3h:55m. We've procrastinated long enough and now it's down to the wire. Another risky decision - at least this time we've left the kids out of it.

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.

My last baby

My youngest is six months old. She is my calmest baby. And she will be my last. Saying this brings with it much relief and a strange sadness. I so desperately wanted a third child. Within minutes of the birth of my second I knew I didn't want to be finished just yet. And I wondered and worried for more than two years until J and I decided we were meant to have another. Deciding to have a child is such a powerful and yet naive action. 

Now I know that I cannot go through another pregnancy. The longing for a baby, another baby, is not so acute, and besides, my body couldn't handle another pregnancy. (Many long stories here.) Maybe this is why I feel I am enjoying Em so much--dare I say it--more than the first two? I never had PPD or even the baby blues, but I feel nothing but joy with this last blessing. With B, my first, he was, well, my first. So even though I really wasn't all that worried about being in charge of a newborn, he was in fact new and so was I--a new mom. He was also very difficult. Gassy. Sleepless. Demanding. And he continues to be my most challenging. S came so quickly after B and I remember so little of her babyhood that I can't even tell you when she first sat up or rolled over or... But with Em, I am so thrilled and COMFORTABLE with her very existence that I just let her be. She is easy to attend to. Doesn't get too ruffled when I can't get there fast enough. And I don't worry about much. Is there a natural progression that leads to the changes in mothering one's last child? A kind of necessary relaxation of control?

With Em's every achievement, from discovering her hands to "crawling" backwards and getting her diapered behind wedged under the couch, I find myself smiling. And not worrying about when, or what's next, or what it all means, or even what she will be when she gets bigger. I know she will get there. I have watched her two older siblings go from baby to toddler to preschooler and beyond. It all happens, this growing up and developing into unique individuals, and it doesn't much seem to matter how I feel about it. So this time, I'm hoping to continue to be a little more at ease with the whole process. To enjoy it as it's happening. To step back a little more and observe. Because I know Em is the last of my babies. And I don't want to miss anything.

How many nights can I go without real sleep?

J is upstairs putting the big kids to bed. Em is lying on the couch beside me, playing. I am as tired as I ever have been. Too tired to be writing this post with any hope of making a point. The past four or five nights (I have lost track) have been very long and not very full of sleep. As a result, I have slowed down. Internally. It is as if I can feel my heart beating slower. As if my blood is thicker. And my brain. My brain is just barely functioning at all. It is, in fact, on auto pilot. Doing just enough to get by. And I'm not the only one. This morning J looked for his coffee mug in the refrigerator instead of the dishwasher. Yesterday he came a handful of Barbasol away from applying shaving cream to his hair. Does this level of fatigue have a clinical term, I wonder? Is it like being a doctor on call for 72 hours straight? Or a soldier on the front lines? Does it matter? 

The fact is, I have been sleep deprived since B was born, five years ago next week. Some years, months, weeks have been worse than others. But I haven't had more than a handful of solid nights of sleep since his birth. And though I openly admit that I have a tendency to exaggerate, this is no exaggeration. Here's the rest of that fact: There's no immediate end in sight. Parenthood is, as they say, 24/7. When B is up coughing, one of us has be up with him. When the baby can't breathe out of her nose to nurse, I have to wake up enough not just to pull her over to me in bed but to suck out the goo in her nose. When S has a bad dream or falls out of bed, she wants her daddy to "come suggle with me." And these moments, though exhausting, come at a time of night when will isn't a factor. As parents, we do what we need to. Especially at night. There's no time or energy or daylight to consider an alternative. And, there's the FEAR that one awake child will wake another one (or, now, two). There is an urgency to nighttime parenting that is unlike any scenario in daytime, no matter how late we are to preschool or the pediatrician's. No matter if someone is napping and the other two are playing emergency vehicles. (Daytime sleep is a luxury, even for the baby.) At night, instincts take over without any help from intellect. Just the way sleep should be. Just the way sleeping used to be. Auto pilot.