And summer begins...

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

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



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

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

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

For my Littlest Guy

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

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.

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.

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.

Oh Brother, How Art Thou? and other philosophical ramblings

It seems time to mention that we have a brother. Oh, and, yeah, he has three kids, too. What is this? you're asking yourself. Three siblings each with three children now. Weird. Is it, though? Seems like nice symmetry to me. And we really didn't plan on it. No sirree. 

Our brother is the middle child. I suspect he felt and/or tried to be invisible for much of his childhood. Sarah and I, well, we tended to have the attention. Me being the perfect, overachieving oldest, and Sarah being the rule-breaking, boundary-ignoring, creative genius youngest. There was our brother, smack dab in the middle, quiet, understated and probably embarrassed by one or both of us on any given day. The poor, poor kid. But he sure grew up to be one exceptional dude. I only wish he didn't live so damned FAR AWAY. But I digress. 

So once, about, oh, say three-and-a-half years ago (when I was the only one of the three of us with more than one child), he said, "Anyone who has more than two children is crazy." I remember laughing. Because this is just the sort of seemingly-judgmental, absolute thing that our brother says. He's a bit of a math genius. And I can see that the numbers of two parents and three kids do not add up neatly. But I swear, the moment those words left his mouth, he was just asking for those twins of his to start their lives in utero. Yup. The planner of the family had three kids in 20 months. Sarah and I each have two kids who are less than 18 months apart in age, so we know it's HARD. But this time, it's our brother who got himself right into the spotlight. Just where he never wanted to be. 

But here's the thing: Man oh man, is he a great dad. And the three kids have not really changed him that much. I mean, besides the obvious facts of being a dad, he, more than anyone else I know, has maintained his pre-parent lifestyle. And I don't know how in the WORLD he does it. (Well, I know it has a lot to do with his amazing wife.) He exercises regularly, often training for a crazy-ass bike riding competition through the desert, on which he subsequently medals or achieves some ridiculous feat (our sister-in-law runs marathons; people, she ran one WHILE PREGNANT WITH TWINS. Ooh, this will probably make some of you concerned. She didn't know she was pregnant at the time); goes away on weekends with his friends (and so does said wife); is finishing the basement of his house (for the kids); is always taking a class or studying for some career-enhancing test of some sort; and, when I talk to him (which is never often enough) he always sounds just like my little brother. Reasonable. Relaxed. Happy. 

Me, in comparison? OK. Exercise. Um, I used to be an athlete. Even worse, I used to be a COACH of a very competitive sport. Ugh. Remember the bread-dough middle? Well, I haven't gotten into the damn pool yet. I do go to a book group once a month, which I look forward to for approximately 27 days and 22 hours. These women have become intellectual companions, emotional sounding boards, good friends. But a weekend away? Uh, no. Not with the girls. J and I have gotten away from the kids a few times. Ooh, that sounds bad, "Gotten away from..." And forget about home improvement, I can't even keep on top of the daily maintenance. I have PILES upon piles of stuff--laundry, endless children's "art" projects; seasonal clothes to put away in the closet or finally organize in dressers; bills; broken toys that I keep saying I'll fix ... Every day I tell myself, often out loud (!), that I will confront one of these piles. Just one room, one area of one room. But it doesn't happen often enough. The piles multiply faster than I can conquer them. 

Now even this post feels like it's becoming like one of those piles--lost amongst the midst. Well, that's what life with three kids is. Even if you are more high-functioning than I am. I know that it's not fair to really compare my life with three with our brother's life with three. There's the twin aspect, of course. But, also, he's not the mother. And, Sarah, really, isn't that what we spend all of our mobile minutes talking about? Mothering three. MOTHERING.

Thanking my lucky springtime stars

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

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

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

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

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

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

My last baby

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

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

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