The Three Popsicle Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another post about how tired I am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes the best friends sneak up on you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My take on making new friends with other moms

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

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

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

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

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...

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.

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

Dear Jen,

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


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

with one another
for hours and days on end

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

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

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

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.

Home is Where We Muddle Through

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Trading one dream for another. But maybe only temporarily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

"So You Had a Third."

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

"Yes," I said. "We did." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Pumping In Style

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

Yup, Em stayed at home today.

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

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

 

And my baby will survive.

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

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

Fair weather parenting

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

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

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

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

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

"But, Mom."

"B. It's time to brush your teeth." 

Silence. Then, "Can I just..."

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

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

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

"But I brushed them this morning."

"BRUSH. YOUR. TEETH."

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

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

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

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

Wipe face. Seek out mom. Give mom hug.

 

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

Hey, you need your cup. Oh yeah, my cups!

So today was all about sunscreen and baseball. In the morning, an Opening Day parade with a sweet High School gal singin' the national anthem in a quavery, somewhat hollow voice. A melee of parents with strollers and high hopes.

Being a Sunday, there were folks in Church get-up following little girls with chin length hair in flowery dresses and white buckled shoes. There were moms who had clearly taken the opportunity to coordinate their summer attire for the first time - tank tops and tiny tees dug out of attics and closets all over Connecticut. Some were just looking to stay cool and others were playing the whole "Look at me, I'm something to look at, aren't I?" But no matter, cause how comfortable can you be be in 80 degrees at 10 am at a high school football field rubbing elbows with a few thousand eager parents?

We waited forEVA as they all lined up and then happily watched the cleated midgets march in on the track and cluster about in uniformed glory as the announcer announced all kinds of perfectly pertinent and boring information. Max picked dandelions and wandered in a field. Found a man dressed as a dinosaur and shrieked with delight. Found a man dressed as an octopus and gave him a high five. Found a man dressed as a soft and lovable dog with floppy ears and cried Mommy!

The festivities subsided and the parents started their stampede to the parking lot. Jamis wandered away from his team and got lost. But as usual, he just kind of stated as such when he ran into me, without a whole lot of concern for actually being LOST - he was worried he'd missed out on some sort of goody bag he'd seen other team members of OTHER teams toting off the field.

We went home and we had lunch and we had down time. 45 minutes later Jamis was called from the basement to gear up for the actual game. And here comes the totally whacked part. I told him to pee, I laced up his cleats, I filled up his water, I directed him to his hat (which Ethan had wedged under the shopping cart in the dining room, of course), and then I remembered about our new addition to the season's wardrobe - the sports cup. Is that what this thing is called?
The picture I would really love to post here is Jamis's little white butt in these little white undies standing in the kitchen with a big fat grin on his face. The big fat grin that says to mom, crouched on the floor in shock and awe, "I'm growing up, lady, and loving every minute of it."

To quote Jamis as he pulled the briefs up and fingered the fabric, "I didn't think it was going to be..."

And I'm thinking..."Hard, big, tight?"

"I didn't think they were going to be shaped like this. Straight across. I thought they would be more curved."

Now, I'm pretty sure this resembles his choice of words. As he's talking he draws a line in his pubic area where he thought the briefs would have been cut. And I'm like, What? You aren't phased by the fact that you've got this hard 3D triangle pressed against your "weenie"?!

I called Jen the minute Jamis left with his dad for the game.

"Well I guess you opted to stay home?"

"Yeah. (Pause) I just helped Jamis get ready for the game. (Pause) He had to wear a cup. (Pause)"

I think it's fair to say that I realized at that moment, in the moment of Jen's reaction, that my boy is so BOY and growing into Man sooner than I'm ever going to be ready. And I've got to do this three times. Learn how to let go and watch them grow.

What I Learned Today

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

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

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

They just want the hay-bale cupcakes.

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

Pinatas are more sturdy than they look.

You can get sunburned in April.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reach the Beach Relay

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

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

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

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

But I finished it.
Slow, but I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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