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.

Pumping In Style

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

Yup, Em stayed at home today.

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

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

 

And my baby will survive.

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

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

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.

Let's be honest, people

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

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

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

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

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

The (tired) backstory

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

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

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

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.

A Spoonful of Sugar

Dan and I sat on the couch researching double bike trailers for a bit and then he drifted to the office to do some work. Ugh, work, even the word makes me feel like drooling and shutting down. But he's not as tied to the need to completely veg after the kids are asleep as I am. So he plops down into the leather office chair, and I can hear the air being forced from the cushion and the familiar settling sound his body makes before the computer, the wheels rolling about to get into work position. Ugh. Work. And then... I hear... Mary Poppins. Yup, she's belting out A Spoonful of Sugar. Here's Dan, sitting down to reconcile bank accounts and analyze sales figures, and the cheerful singing of Mary Poppins is by his side on the second monitor. I just smiled, sidled into the doorway and asked him if he was looking for something to keep him motivated and awake. He chuckled and...

I walked away chuckling...

And then I grabbed a thought from my brain. It wasn't a conscious decision that I made when I set out on my day today, but I found myself trying to smile more often than I have been lately. It's not too hard to smile MORE than I have been, as my face feels droopy most of the time like I forgot how to so easily do so, and for no given reason. Jamis does that funny dance with hands grazing the air aimlessly and his :look at me: face and yeah, I smile. Max rushes into the room and screams mama and yeah, I smile. Ethan starts flapping his hands and throwing his body into a backdive over and over again when he's on my lap and yeah, I smile. Dan tunes into Mary Poppins while making business decisions and crunching numbers, yeah yeah, smile smile.

But do I ever just smile in response to feeling good in any given moment. As a response that is all my own, and not directed toward someone else? Not so much anymore. I feel like I used to feel happier. And yet, I wouldn't have life any other way (except for time and money). It's like how you can tell when that person on the other end of the phone is really doing well cuz you can hear the smile in their voice, over the phone. It makes you feel good to know that they are smiling, and makes you smile too.

I need a little sugar in my life. I keep thinking vacation vacation vacation and that's just damn impossible. Three boys and work, I can't get away, I can't send the boys away. So it's me and them and this life all at once, all the time, all crazy and messy and candid. I need some resolve that it's life and it's all mine and it's the only one I'm living. If the sweet idea of relaxing on the beach or even in my own bedroom isn't possible on this day, the least I can TRY to do is smile sweetly for no one else but for me - to make it easier to get through.

And the thing is, my sugar makes all the smiles sweeter in this house. Happy breeds happy. Optimism changes all of us. And I'm supposed to be this big, shining example. So shine on!

Hopefully I remember this all tomorrow when I wake up and it's still cold out and it's too early to think and someone bumps me with my hot coffee cup and the baby refuses to stay still while I change his poopy pants and I have to remind Jamis twelve times to brush his teeth and pack his snack and.......

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. :)