I Didn't Choose the Mom Life...

I didn't choose the Mom Life, the Mom Life chose me.

Well, let me clarify:
I DID choose to be a mom. In fact, I spent a considerable amount of time, money, and energy trying to convince my eggs to get on board with the plan (which they were none too thrilled to be a part of, let me tell you)

What I did not choose was this lifestyle.

Rest assured, I was not one of those people who claimed that they would continue to travel/work towards career goals/exercise/otherwise continue life as normal despite the birth of a child or two. I wasn't naive enough to believe that the before and after picture would be mostly the same, save for some mussed hair and a trendy baby-wearing gadget.

I was naive enough, however, to believe that women who spent their days being their kids' personal assistant had somehow made a deliberate choice to live that way. I truly believed that they had overbooked their kids' lives to compensate for some emotional shortcoming. As if they were throwing themselves and their yoga pants at soccer games and preschool aid duties because they honestly had nothing better to do (besides face their own personal failures or whatever).

Babies: The best way to ignore your failing marriage and crippling debt since...uh...whenever babies and credit cards were invented. Like the 1950s? Yes. Since the 1950s.

So in that sense, I didn't so much choose the mom life as I walked in to it like a a mountaineer blindly walks off a cliff in the middle of a blizzard.

And here I am. Up to my elbows in preschool registration paperwork and physicals and IEP meetings. I have two children in two entirely different schools, each coming with their own class schedules and drop-off times and sign-up sheets and individual days where your children should be dressed in the color yellow because it's "Yellow Day" and IF YOU FORGET TO PUT A YELLOW SHIRT ON YOUR CHILD HE WILL BE ISOLATED AND RIDICULED AND SCARRED FOR LIFE AND HE WILL END UP BEING A SERIAL KILLER (If Dexter has taught us anything. Not that I plan on abandoning my children in a pool of blood but...red paint? Could happen.)

And the birthdays.
My god, the birthdays.

Three kids, three birthdays, three days. Truly, does it not sound like the pitch line of some reality TV show?

Oh, and my mother-in-law's birthday, which is conveniently sandwiched between the twins and the baby, destined to be hastily celebrated in the few moments we can scrape together between the festivities, eating left-over cake on Dora the Explorer plates, gathered under rumpled, sagging streamers, giving the same line year after year: "we didn't buy you a present this year, but what better gift could you receive than grandchildren? ENJOY YOUR STALE CAKE AND BE GRATEFUL FOR THE LITTLE MIRACLES THAT STAND BEFORE YOU."

The poor, poor woman.

So I'm party planning like a Mo Fo. And my inner Martha Stewart is all, "The centerpieces for the kids' party are charmingly home-made. Its obvious that you tried really hard to recreate the minions from Despicable Me" (because she is a passive-aggressive C-word). And suddenly I find myself standing in my living room, surrounded by shreds of ripped-up centerpieces, unable to recall the last 2 hours of my life, wearing rubber gloves and holding a mop and an extra-large jug of bleach.

At which point I realize that I might have overbooked myself, let alone the kids, and maybe attempting to create six intricate centerpieces for a kids party was not the best of ideas.

And then it's Wine O'Clock.
Because PRIORITIES.

Which is proof that this so-called Mom Life will inevitably end in substance abuse and fugue states.
Which I would normally be down for, but someone has to get the kids to and from their individual preschools every day.

In conclusion:
- I might have perhaps misjudged soccer moms a teeny weeny bit. Yet again.
- Having all of my children in the first week of October was not ideal.
- My mother in law is a birthday saint/martyr.
- Centerpieces area bad idea. Always
- Fugue states should  be followed by wine. Always.

Cash, Credit, or Waffles?

Omg, you guys. What a day.

Right now, my expression is pretty much a dead ringer for the right-most Easter chick. Brian looks more like the chick on the far left, only because he's been screaming at managing the kids all evening while I shovel ice-cream into my face and mentally retreat into my happy place.

FYI, my happy place is clean, uncluttered, and doesn't reek of farts. Not even a little. It's like a padded cell that smells like cinnamon buns.
Heaven.

It was one of those days where the high point of my parenting was when I managed a smile and praised one of my children instead of just sort of glazing over. The low point? We don't talk about the low points.

And of course, as is par for course on those days where the kids are hell-bent on making me regret my life choices, we always run out of milk.

GAME OVER.
The boys get about 90% of their calories from milk (the rest being from chicken nuggets and sandbox sand, of course). So without milk, I'm pretty sure they'll start withering away and by lunchtime someone will have called CPS on me.

So off to ShopRite we went, which is a lot harder than it sounds. Just getting my herd out of the car, across the parking lot, and into the store is a feat worthy of some sort of medal (or at least a solid high-five). The closest analogy I can come up with is putting several territorial, poorly socialized Saint Bernards in a canoe and telling you to paddle across a lake with them.

Tricky is an understatement.

And then when we're in the store.
Oye...the comments.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I enjoy a lot of the feedback that I get when I take my three-ring circus on the road. I love when people tell me that my children are beautiful and that I'm so lucky because occasionally (okay, like 99% of the time), I forget that they are and I am. Which is sad but I'm sorry, sometimes that message gets lost while I'm pulling raisins out of their noses.

And I love when people give me a sympathetic look and comment on how tired I must be. Because then I'm all "OMG, how did you know? You are a mind reader. You get me. We are totally connected. We are like soul sisters. Do you babysit? I can pay you in waffles..."

But I often get comments that fall into this third category. I call it the Do You Hear The Words That Are Coming Out Of Your Face?? category. These are the questions that are either two dumb to warrant answers or just so bizarre that I have no answers. For example:

1. Are they twins??
No. I can see how you'd be easily fooled into thinking they are twins, what with the similar features, identical height, and obvious equivalent age. But no, we just had two kids in quick succession and decided not to feed the first one until the other caught up. It sure has saved us a lot of money on groceries! We've already decided not to feed the baby until we get our fourth child!

2. Are they identical??
Depends on how you define identical. I personally define identical as originating from the same egg and therefore looking like carbon copies of each other. But if you define identical as having the same color and texture of hair and a similar wash of jean shorts....then yes. Yes, they are identical. Pay no attention to their faces. It'll only confuse you.

3. Aren't you glad you got your girl??
This could go either way. I could respond, Yes, thank god she was a girl, or we would have had to wrap her in a blanket and abandon her in the woods to be raised by badgers. Or I could say: No. I wanted a boy. I cried for days when I had her. Do you want her? Either way, I bet they'd regret asking.

4. Wow you must be busy. How do you do it??
There is no answer to this one. I want to say Well, get woken up at 6:00 am by children who need to be fed and clothed and played with and changed and supervised and fed again and changed again and entertained and kept safe and changed again and fed again and stimulated and bathed and changed again and fed again and put to sleep, but I'm pretty sure I'd lose them by the third changed again. And on bad days, I want to pour my heart out to them and tell them that I DON'T KNOW HOW I DO IT and I often worry that I'M NOT DOING IT RIGHT and I don't know how on earth I'll find the fortitude to WAKE UP AND DO IT AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN. I want to tell them that I need encouragement and support from them, even though we're strangers. That I'm so tired that I could lean on them and cry, even though we're strangers. That I'm so frazzled, I'd let them help me get the bags in the car and the kids in their seats, even though we're strangers. That, hell, I'd even let them come home with me and cook me dinner, even though we are complete and total strangers.
Of course, if you catch me on a good day and ask me that question, I'll just tell you it's easy and strut myself and my three angelic children back to the car as if we're walking on air. Because those days are so awesome I don't even mind getting asked stupid questions.

You'd think I'd be used to the dumb questions. They started when people, staring at my pregnant belly, found out I was having twins.
Oh, are they natural?
Well, why don't you pour yourself a glass of wine and sit back while I tell you the romantic story of how they were conceived with just me, my husband, my IVF doc, and a surgical staff of about 15.

I do understand, at least on some level, that I'm being persnickety and even...dare I say... a curmudgeon. OBVIOUSLY these people aren't as dumb as their questions would have you believe. After all, they're not walking around with their underwear on over their clothes, so clearly they have an IQ over 70 and therefore must understand the basics of reproduction and child rearing.
I guess I'm just tired and cranky.
Understandably so, after dedicating my life to raising my non-identical twins and the girl baby that I may or may not wish I had.

But a word to the wise. If you're going to ask stupid questions, be prepared for a stupid response. Or better yet, skip the questions alltogether and help that tired mamma get her three screaming banshee children into the van.

(I hear she pays in waffles)

Creep Show

Q: What's worse than having a creeper for a kid?
A: Having two creepers for kids

So we all know how weird, gross, sometimes dangerous, and always insane kids are. I'm sure everyone among us has witnessed their over-the-top bizarre behavior, from public nudity to brutally honest conversation starters (or...enders, as the case may be. Nothing produces a recording-scratching, cricket-chirping silence like a child asking why you have an ugly mole on your face or pointing out how you like to pick your nose in the car).

My kids are no exception.
They're weird. Like, lets put some sand down our diapers and then pelvic thrust for a while just for fun weird.
So it didn't really phase me when Isaac dubbed himself Chancellor of Body Parts and decided to take a survey of what was under every shirt and skirt he encountered.
I mean, I get it.
He's a curious little monkey who wants to know what's up in there and who am I to squelch his inquisitiveness just because it breaks a few social rules?

So he's out there, exploring the nethers of close friends and family. He's looking up my sister's dress and I'm all, Awwww, he thinks he's people, and she's all could you please come over here and handle this?!?! And yeah, sometimes I'm holding him while talking to the UPS guy, not even registering that he has his hand down my shirt and is sort of waving it around (Isaac, not the UPS guy. This isn't Desperate Housewives, people).

But on a humiliation scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is Isaac sitting in a corner being neither seen nor heard, and 10 is him whipping out his little boy weenie in public and urinating on the closest pair of shoes, taking a peek at the female anatomy barely registers a 3. So I've been channeling my inner hippie and letting him have a looksee here and there.

But then I walk in on this scene:

 

And I'm all, THIS IS NOT OKAY, because he's checking out his sister's goods and she's smiling to beat the band, and last time I checked it is not 1932 and we are not living in Southern Appalachia, and GAAAAHHHH COULD YOU GUYS TAKE THE WEIRD LEVEL DOWN ABOUT SIX NOTCHES?!?!?

 

(but not before I grabbed my phone to take a pic because...yanno...precious memories are being made)

 

So I finally decide that maybe we should have the talk in which I explain how it's not okay to look up people's dresses. And he replies by pointing out how Milo is eating and Daddy wears shoes, and I realized the futility of the situation.

And then I look at Avery, knowing there is nothing I can do to prevent her from taking delight in being "aired out" as it were, and I just sigh and save the photo to my hard drive in the folder entitled PHOTOS TO SHOW FUTURE BOYFRIENDS AND GIRLFRIENDS.

 

Because if I can't prevent this creep show from happening, I can at least use it to embarrass the CRAP out of them later.

How To Poop In The Tub

So, you've decided to poop in the tub.
Congratulations!
Pooping in the tub is an excellent way to further explore the weird stuff that comes out of your body that your parents never let you play with. With careful timing and execution, pooping in the tub can be a rewarding experience that can both educate and entertain the whole family. To maximize your tub-pooping experience, we've put together an easy, step-by-step guide that will have you  defecating mid-bath and reaping the benefits in no time!

Step 1: Hell No, We Won't Go (pt.1)
If you're lucky, your parents have not yet attempted to introduce you to the Nightmare Hole they call a "Potty." Count your blessings; a Potty is actually a wormhole that will vacuum suck you into an alternate universe full of sharks and strangers. For those less fortunate, your parents may be trying to convince you to sit on the Devil Pot to rid yourself of bodily fluids and solids. Don't be fooled by promises of candy or high fives in return for this act. There is a limited amount of poop in your body and if you release it into this Terrible Void it will be gone forever and there will be none left for the tub. Simply refuse the potty as per usual.

Step 2: Lights, Camera...
Your parents hate you and want to send you to Shark and Stranger Hell so they can stay up late and not share any of their dessert and jump on the bed in peace. They therefore are highly attuned to indicators that you are about to poop so they can put you on the Potty Suckage Device as soon as possible. It is important that you respond in the negative if they ask you if you have to poop. This can be in the form of a head shake, a verbal "no," or, when all else fails, a spontaneous conversation about trains. At this point, do not squirm, flex your abdominals, or do anything else outside your normal routine. Be aware that even staring off into space can be interpreted as poop readiness, and can prompt the initiation of a speedy Poop Action Plan, or PAP, from your parents. The PAP often involves the Potty and rarely involves the tub, so this action is not advised. Carry on as normal until you are placed in the tub

Step 3: Action
You are in the tub. Huzzah! Let 'er rip.

Step 4: There Is No I in TEAM
Once your parents have discovered that you have pooped the tub, they most likely responded with something akin to "IIIEEEEEEE!!" and removed you from the water post-haste. They are now faced with the task of managing you in all your wet, naked, glory, as well as disposing of the waste and scrubbing affected surfaces. At this point, it is a good idea to help with the clean up process. This can be achieved by attempts to touch and/or smear the wastematter with a toy, a square of toilet paper, or even your hand. Obtaining a bleach-based cleaner from the cabinet while your parents aren't looking is also useful. Just be sure to demonstrate utmost concern for the situation regardless of your clean-up tactic.

Step 5: Hell No, We Won't Go (pt.2)
At some point your parents, undoubtedly thanks to your efforts, will have removed all traces of poop from the tub and have refilled it with water. They will have muttered a dozen or more obscenities (take a mental note; these can be shouted the next time you're in a public space) and if you're lucky, they've ignored you long enough for you to make the most of Naked Time by peeing on the bathroom mat (an action they likely won't discover for days or weeks). They will now attempt to place you back in the tub for final sanitation. This is the perfect time and place to remember that you are actually terrified of your bodily waste and are therefore now terrified of the bathtub. Although you will most likely lose in the end, it is still important to fight your parents with all your strength as they struggle to reintroduce you to water. Screaming, kicking, and even biting are appropriate as long as your parents, who are frazzled and exhausted, are brought to tears.

At this point you have won, and you will probably be left to your own devices for a length of time while your parents, having now been pushed to their breaking point, either argue about some unrelated incident for the remainder of the evening or split a bottle of wine. You can rest easy tonight knowing that your parents are broken creatures who will never fully recover from this experience...which as well all know is your primary directive.

Avery the Asshole Baby

I called the baby an asshole today.
 It wasn't my proudest moment.

But I had just gotten the boys down for their nap, and just arranged my comfy down pillow on the couch, and was just about to enjoy a much earned snooze - which is essentially the eye in the category 5 hurricane that is my daily life...and she started crying.

#IHateMyChildren
#NotReally
#ButSortOf

So I sighed the weariest of sighs, dragged myself off the couch as if I had three times the mass of Neptune, childishly stomped into her room, and told her exactly what I thought of her.

Of course, she didn't seem to care, which is nice. And I don't think she'll remember my calling her an asshole, which is doubly nice. But it just goes to show that long-term sleep deprivation will cause even the most well-intentioned of mothers to resort to obscenities and name-calling once in a while.

It has been roughly 300 days since I've enjoyed an uninterrupted nights' sleep. Okay, I've had the occasional night when the planets aligned and The Divine Being, in all his glory, smiled upon us and granted us respite in the form of overnight babysitting. But in general, I haven't slept for more than a few hours in a row since October of last year.
Ten months, people.
Ten long months waking up to the baby crying.
Or the silhouette of Simon standing in our darkened hallway at 3:00 am like something out of a horror movie (and taking every ounce of effort in my body not to instinctively scream in fear and roundhouse kick him in the face as he slowly walks towards me like a devil child).

And speaking of horror movies coming to life...forgetting to close the kids' door (and subsequently not hearing it open in the middle of the night), and feeling the cat brush against my back as I lay sleeping, and going to swat her and feeling fingers instead.

ANEURYSM-INDUCING PANIC

Isaac almost lost his head that night.
And I almost lost my bowels.

(JK, guys, I totally lost my bowels)

But aside from those super fun Exorcist-meets-Children-of-the-Corn moments, nine times out of ten, its Avery the asshole baby who's waking me up.
Because she's hungry.
Or hot.
Or has a poopy diaper.
Or, I dunno, upset about systematic dissolution of the middle class or something.
And sometimes she goes back to sleep and that's it, but sometimes she wakes up every half hour for the entire night until I finally feed her face-hole because GOD FORBID she go four hours without eating.

I thought Simon was bad, because it took him 7 months to sleep through the night (between you and me, he's a bit of an asshole too). And the problem with that is once you get a non-sleeper (aka asshole) child, you hedge your bets and assume that the next child is guaranteed to sleep through the night at 3 weeks because you've earned it.

We humans are a ridiculous and illogical species.

If there was such a thing as Karma, my ex husband would be in jail and married to an inmate named "Big Jim"...which, last I checked, he is not.  And if there was such a thing as God, I'm pretty sure he's too tied up in the most recent round of Israel vs. Palestine Missile Toss to play SandMan to my asshole baby.

So, lacking Karma and the attention of a very busy God who may or may not be out of his depth in the middle east, I'm left to endure my own little white, middle-class, suburban struggle of sleep deprivation.

All I'm saying is, if I have to deal with first-world problems, can I at least get a Keurig up in here?!?

And somewhere out there, there's a jerk-face person (who was probably an asshole baby too) who's saying "But Lily, you wanted children more than anything. You made your bed, NOW LAY IN IT"

And to them, I want to say:
1. Excellent, if not exceedingly cruel, pun. My hat off to you sir. ...and
2. Go pound sand.
It is an honor and a privilege to be a mother and an honor and privilege to complain about my asshole kids. If you gave me the choice right now, as I'm dropping a mixture of espresso and Red Bull into my eye sockets, to go back and not have kids, I would refuse.
They are my light and my life. They are my world.
They just happen, at the moment, to be assholes.

I'm just calling it like I see it.

So I will continue to wake up every night until they all sleep soundly. Partially because it's an honor and privilege to be a mother, but mostly because I'm required by law to see to their needs.

And also, because I'm already preparing a series of blistering one-liners for when they call me, as parents, and complain about how sleep deprived they are because their asshole babies keep waking up.

#Revenge

Lost in Translation

You know what's making me tired lately?

Well...let me rephrase that.

You know what's making me tired lately, BEYOND THE FACT that I've usually changed 6 diapers by 10:00 am, and we use an average of 4 dishwasher loads of utensils and dinnerware per meal, and I spend the majority of my days breaking up spontaneous mosh pits while lugging around an 18-lb hunk of drooling, cranky, teething baby?

This "sort of talking but not really" nonsense.

I know, I know.
Every parent on the planet is happy to volunteer the ole' "you want them to talk, and then they start talking, and all you want them to do is shut up" gem. (and most of them think they're they ONLY person to come up with this bit of wisdom, god bless their overly-helpful souls). And I am fully aware that clear communication between children and their parents is generally an awful and terrible thing - full of "why??"s and, later, uncomfortable "birds and bees" talks, and what have you.

I am fully aware that there is a lot going on in those overly active brains, and I honestly want nothing to do with 99% of it.

But here's the thing:

When they're just babbling, you can ignore them.
And when they're talking, you can have discussions (or ignore them, depending on your parenting style).
But when they're sort of talking, you spend your days translating seemingly nonsensical terms into coherent requests and observations, mostly based on context rather than the actual noises coming out of their adorable little faces.

It's like traveling to a foreign country, where nothing anybody says is recognizable, and  you struggle to pull out words amongst the jibberish. Problem is, when one of these locals asks you a question that you don't understand, and you try to communicate your confusion, instead of nodding and walking away, they usually start screaming and attempt to slap you in the face. I've never been to France, but I can only imagine it's a lot like that. But with less cigarette smoking and more goldfish crackers.

By the end of the day, my brain is a puddle of mush from trying to distinguish between "car" and "air" and "careful"  and "cat" and lord knows what else. The consequences of misinterpretation range from mild frustration to full on body assaults and tantrums. Mistaking "drink" for "dish" is an act of war. Thinking they want peanut butter when they really want to tell you that they just went Pee Pee (thanks for the info, btw) could result in a roundhouse kick to the shin.

Sidenote: I have so many bruises that for a moment I was scared I was developing some sort of hematologic malignancy before I came to my senses and realized that I've essentially become the Wiley Coyote to their Road Runner.

Dear Boys:
I AM TIRED. Taking care of you and your sister takes a phenomenal amount of physical, mental, and emotional strength. I feed you. I comfort you. I kiss your boo-boos and I retrieve your binkeys and toys from the depths of the crusty, gritty, utterly disgusting couch. I clean your privates and cut your nails and watch horribly predictable and one dimensional cartoon shows over and over again because you love them. I do a lot for you. And all I ask is that you speak coherent words. Talking isn't that hard. I have over-enunciated until I'm blue in the face. Next time, pay attention. Figure out the difference between "M" and "N" and "Sh" and for the love of god, SPEAK ENGLISH. Or Spanish. I will learn Spanish for you if that's what you want to speak. Just speak already. I guarantee you, we will all get along a lot better (and mommy won't fantasize about buckling you into the minivan, putting on a DVD, and walking away for at least an hour).

Love,
The Articulate Pacifist...your mother.

New Look, Same Ridiculousness

As you may have noticed, I've tweaked the blog.

I selected the Easter chicks with the wonkey eyes as a background picture, because I can only imagine that I look pretty much exactly the same after a hectic day with the kids. It was hard to decide between that and the picture of the very serious stack of dusty, worldy books and the other picture of the woman blowing dandelion tufts into a field at sunset.
And by hard, I mean ridiculously easy.
In the 3,000 some odd pictures that Google Blogger provided to encapsulate my entire existence, only a single picture - the chick with the wonky eyes - came close to hitting the mark.

I'm not sure if that's a loss for Google Blogger or for me, but there you have it.

I am once again attempting to become a regular blogger, after years of disasterously boring and infrequent posts. In a world where luxury is defined as the number of seconds (or dare I dream - minutes) where my personal space isn't being grossly invaded by dirty, screaming household natives, I don't exactly know where I'll find the time and energy to devote myself to anything other than crying and defensive maneuvers.

And I know you guys are all like, "Lily...seriously...c'mon" and rolling your eyes, because I've attempted this before, and it was always kind of a wash, and you're thinking, "well, she USED to be funny, but now it's getting sad." And I couldn't agree more.

Trust me. I'll be the first one to admit that my blog is a sad, sad thing.

But the children are always here, and growing vegetables is getting old, and honestly, if I don't find another way to express myself other than through butternut squash and dinosaur T-shirts, I might actually lose my mind.

So here we go.
Attempt nuber 3895730327 at breathing life into this sad, dusty blog.

Shall we do a status update?
Lets.

Name: Mom, although I also go by "Mommy" and "Milk, Please"
Occupation: Safety and Nourishment officer. (I'm essentially a walking egg white)
Marital status: Married, although I have no idea how he's put up with me for this long
Number of children: Still 3. I'm sure it doesn't surprise you all, but somehow, on some level, I'm surprised. Like, really? You're still here? Okay, I suppose you want breakfast...
Pets: Two dogs, neither of which are particularly bright. And a Goddamn Cat.
General Physical Health: Malnourished, yet consistently 5-10 lbs heavier than before I had the third child. It boggles the mind.
General Mental Health: Pass.
Hobbies: Unloading the dishwasher. Growing weeds vegetables. Yoga! Mental disassociation from my physical state. Blogging?
Favorite Quote: Bob the Builder. Can we fix it? Bob the Builder. YES WE CAN!!
Household Status: Barely hanging on by a thread. The floor hasn't been swept in a week and swiffer wet-jetted in a month, the boys room smells like pee, and a huge branch came down in a storm three weeks ago and is still on our roof. Our house looks abandoned, inside and out. I've been wearing the same jeans for 5 days in a row, and my husband can't bend his head to the right because he has a stress knot the size of Long Island. I haven't seen the surface of my dining room table or changed my bed sheets since Memorial Day. I've prepared and consumed dinner exactly 8 times this year.  Our floor is a minefield of spit-up, toys, and hungry animals, and the baby's nails are so long they could probably cut glass.

THINGS ARE INTENSE.
But they are also wonderful.

The kids are - my life IS - intense and wonderful. (And dirty. And loud. And chaotic. And slightly cheesy-smelling)

I don't want you to think I'm unhappy.
Well, not big picture unhappy (although the small picture is giving me a run for my money). There are days when I laugh more than I cry, and those days are better than anything I could have ever imagined. They're 100% worth the days where I wake up to screaming and kicking and poop and demands for cookies and temper tantrums in the middle of ShopRite.
I promise, they are.
But I'm thinking, Hey, maybe blogging will help me work through those violent, poop-filled days a little better, so, like, maybe I won't lose my mind and my husband doesn't leave me for a woman who doesn't have Cheerios in her hair and wears matching outfits and make-up and adorable ballet flats.

Yes?
Yes.

Hooray for a fresh blog.
Hooray for wonky eyes.

The grass is never greener...

I met my husband for lunch today at [insert generic restaurant here]. The boys were away and I was having a girls day with the youngest, so we thought it would be fun to get together. For once, I was wearing make-up, because I had a reason to look quasi-presentable. I was also wearing a smile, because I was out and about, interacting with people and getting to spend some quality time with my best friend and best girl-baby.

He was a few minutes late, so I plopped the baby on a table, sat down and pulled out my iphone. Yanno...because god forbid we have a SECOND of idle time that is not spent in front of a screen.

But that's another blog post for another day.

As I sat there, swiping through my email (which is code for perusing facebook), I felt eyes on me. I looked up and saw a youngish woman, dressed in business-casual clothing and sporting a fancy pocketbook, staring at me.

And my stomach dropped.
Because I knew exactly what she was thinking of me, and it wasn't pretty.

How did I know?
I'm not a mind reader, but I didn't have to be.
I knew because I had been her.

SHE WAS ME just a few short years ago.


********************************
Rewind about 5 years.


I was living a 9-5 lifestyle. I would wake up, put on slacks and a blouse, do my hair and make-up, and drive to a cubicle where I would work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week.

In short...I was miserable. I wanted out. My job was almost as boring and repetative as my coworkers (thank god for the few who also moved to their own drum beat, or I would have probably committed suicide in the supply closet). My downtime was minimal and I felt more like a hamster in a wheel than a human.The grey walls of my cubicle were essentially sucking the life force out of me, and I was convinced that I was turning into a robot. Some days, I would attempt to break the monotony (and my wallet) by eating lunch at [insert generic restaurant here]. I would take my precious hour of freedom and flee into the sunshhine, briefly, and then into my car to drive to this establishmennt. I would arrive, park, and walk in.

And THEY would be there.

Those stay-at-home-moms I hated so much.

Those women, in their tight yoga pants and sporty sneakers, hair pulled back from the gym, gabbing with their friends while sipping a coffee, their babes parked next to them, sleeping soundly in their expensive "travel systems." (because mismatched car seats and strollers are for peasants).
They just looked so...happy.
So comfortably dressed, so content, so free...
Their lifestyle infuriated me because I was jealous. Not just jealous....GREEN with envy.  Because they could choose their own wardrobe and spend their time how they pleased. They probably had rich husbands supporting their households, so they were left to spend the days going to the gym. And having lunch dates with friends. And shopping. And getting pedicures. And pretty much doing whatever they pleased. And well yeah, they had a baby in tow, but seriously, those things slept like 20 hours a day (or so I had heard), and honestly, it still seemed like a pretty sweet deal.

I'm embarassed to admit how ugly I was towards them. I seethed and hated and threw nasty glances. I looked down on them because they had no idea what it was like to struggle. To work and essentially sell your soul to something and get almost no life back in return.
My resentment was palpable.
I'm sure my crazy eyes scared off more than one woman.

*****************************************

So.

Fast forward 5 years.

Here I am, in [insert generic restaurant here], wearing my stylish jeans, hair done, face made up, smiling, waiting for my husband, with my sleeping baby in tow.

And SHE walks in. Miss 9-5, in her slacks and blouse, staring daggers at me.

Ouch.
I'm pretty sure she wants me to die.



Although she looked away quickly, I couldn't stop staring. My eyes were pleading with her.
Don't judge me! You have no idea!
Because she truly has no idea who I am or what my life is like.
She has no idea that I'm wearing my trendy jeans because these are the ONLY pair of pants that I have that don't have snot and yogurt on them, because I ONLY wear them when I'm "going out."

For that matter, she has no idea that the ONLY reason I don't have greasy, unwashed hair and a greasy, unwashed face is because having lunch at [insert generic restaurant here] IS MY BIG EVENT OF THE WEEK that I plan my entire life around, and that it can take me hours or even DAYS to prepare for, thanks to the endless needs of the children that I must place in front of my own.

She has no idea that I look so happy because for this is the first time in three weeks that I've left my house, and that I'd probably be wearing the same smile if I was panhandling for change, just because I was so grateful for a change of scene.

She has no idea that my job, while 1% amazing, is 99% boring and repetative, and that my downtime is minimal and that I feel more like a hamster on a wheel than a human. That my coworkers (ie, children) are essentially sucking the life force out of me, and I'm convinced that I'm turning into a robot. That some days, I attempt to break the monotony (and my wallet) by eating lunch at [insert generic restaurant here]. So I take my precious day of freedom (even though I still have the baby, so it's not REALLY freedom) to flee into the sunshine, briefly, and then into my car to drive to this establishment.

Do you see what I'm going for here?
This woman has no idea that we have the same struggle. And the thing that sucks most is that she'll never know unless she decides to pop out a few kids and become a stay-at-home-mom.

Being a stay-at-home-mom, I constantly have a war going on inside of me. The "old" me tells me that I should be grateful for my lavish lifestyle and feel fortunate for being able to stay home and care for my children. Meanwhile, the "new" me is all bitch, PLEASE, you call this lavish?!? And she's right, because most days I work 10 times harder than I ever did in my corporate job, while feeling 100 times more defeated, all the while looking like I crawled out of some dumpster in Bayonne.

And when I go out, I know that a certain percentage of the population is judging me. They think I have a sweet deal because I'm "taking time off of work" to raise the kids. Which implies that I'm not working, but rather doing the post-collage equivalent of backpacking through Europe. (which couldn't be farther from the truth. I CANNOT EMPHASIZE ENOUGH how far I am to anything resembling a backpacking vacation. Or any vacation, for that matter.)

And I can't blame them, because I used to judge too.
But their judgement is nothing compared to the judgement I place on myself, and that kind of blows big time.
To this day, I have to constantly remind myself that I'm actually working and contributing. EVEN WHEN I'm exhausted and aching and broken and haven't slept in days, part of me is telling me that I"m living a "lavish" lifestyle for which I should be grateful.

And you know what? I don't think I'm alone.
I think many stay-at-home-moms fight similar deamons. Because we know what society is thinking, and even if society is REGRETABLY MISINFORMED, we buy into it on some level.

Stay-at-home-mom = non-worker.
Am I right?

There's no real moral to this story. No great way to wrap it up in a tidy little bundle, because life is messy, and humans have a tendancy to forego empathy and jump right to nasty, inappropriate conclusions about other people. Hey, I'm as guilty as anyone for that.

So I guess it really goes back to those old sayings...
What are they?
Something like:

Be kind to everyone, for they're fighting a great battle

or

Before you judge someone, walk a mile in their shoes

or

If you're going to eat, wait 30 minutes before jumping into the judgement pool

or something like that.

Long story short...next time see a mom in yoga pants with greasy hair, just assume she's in yoga pants because all her other pants are dirty/too tight and her hair is greasy because she hasn't showered in 3 days.

Then tell her that her job  - and her struggles - are legitimate. She would appreciate it.

And then buy her a coffee.
Because chances are she hasn't slept in days.

A note to myself, when I had infertility

Valentine's Day is kind of a loaded holiday for me. (yeah, says every woman on the planet)
But not for the typical reasons -  the unrequited romantic love and the like.

It only became a loaded holiday very recently, when my husband and I tried to conceive - and failed miserably, multiple years in a row.

The first Valentine's Day was right around the time when we started trying. We were full of hope. Not yet married, but that was only a technicality. We were in love and committed and ready to start a family. That Valentine's Day, the world was ours for the taking, and our lives were about to begin. It was an amazing and empowering feeling.

By the time the next Valentine's Day rolled around, it was clear that something was wrong. We were married but not pregnant. Despite all the tracking and all the planning and the scouring of the internet, there was no baby. We had been referred to an infertility specialist.

Infertility.

The word infertility penetrated every waking hour of every day. Our fairy tale had come to a crashing halt. The life we imagined was slipping through our fingers with every month that went by. With every period that I got, our sense of failure grew. We celebrated that Valentine's day wondering if it was always going to be just us. Forever a table of 2. It was a dark time.

The Valentine's Day after that? Hooo boy. It was a doozy. I was in the middle of our second IVF treatment (the first, around Halloween, had failed. It was a blow that I have yet to recover from). I was up to my elbows in injections and bloodwork and invasive, humiliating procedures. It was all or nothing. We had every reason to think this one would fail too, but for some reason we refused to give up hope.

That hope paid off. We were pregnant with twins by the end of the month.

We now have two absolutely incredible two-year-olds PLUS a surprise 4 month old who beat all the odds and insisted on BEING when we were told that we probably couldn't have kids on our own.

These kids are the light of my life.

And now, five years from our first attempts to start a family and three years out from that second IVF, there is so, SO MUCH that I would say to person I was then. Much more than can be put into this blog (or even put into words), but it would include some of the following:

1. This is going to suck. Big time.
Every person handles stress differently. I, for one, handle stress like an overdramatic EMO teenager with a serious case of PMS. I have actually built my life around this fact, and have minimized stress wherever possible, mostly because at any given time, I'm one late credit card payment or plumbing leak away from a nervous breakdown. But when I am FORCED to manage my stress, I find that knowing I'm in for a difficult time before it happens can be what gets me through. I'm all about being prepared (like a manic boyscout with OCD).
Unfortunately, with pregnancy, you never know when the universe could align and you could just be pregnant. Despite all the infertility talk and tests and whatnot, I always held out that I could be pregnant, like, next week, and then I wouldn't have to keep going on with this medical intervention. I honestly didn't have a clue that my infertility would culminate in a two-year battle of awfulness, both physical and emotional, that I can't really put into words. Had I known that I was in for such a rough time, I could have gathered my strenght and prepared for battle. But I was blindsided, and it made it that much more difficult to endure.

2. Leave your dignity at the door.
The first time I went in to be monitored, the ultrasound tech held up this long, turkey-baster-looking object, told me to spread my legs, and warned me that this might feel a little cold.  Holy cow. The amont of people who knew my ovulation schedule or had seen my vagine by the time a year had gone by was astronomical. From the receptionist to the ultrasound crew to my doctor, everyone knew my estrogen level at any given time, and that I had an anatomical curviture that made IUI difficult. During  every IVF, I laid there, spread eagle, while a surgical staff of at least 10 ambled around, discussing the weather while fiddling with equipment. It was humiliating. But honey, if that's what it takes, then you might as well slap a smile on your face and embrace it. The good news is that it completely prepared me for birth, because if you have even a SHRED of dignity left after IVF, it's violently ripped from your sweaty hands during  and after the delivery of your children.
Seriously.
Say goodbye to your modesty or any sexual appeal that you might have to your spouse. Becasue shit is about to get real.

3. The shots are not a big deal.
 It's amazing how quickly out-of-the-ordinary things can become ordinary. Everybody talks about the injections, and how horrible it must be. And sure, it's no picnic. Nobody WANTS to penetrate their skin with needles 3 times a day. But compared to the emotional pain you're enduring during infertility, the physical pain of those needles is nothing. And if those needles can be a path to END your emotional pain, so much the better. Wake up, pee, shower, shot, and you're on your way. Don't stress.

4. Keep your expectations realistic.
While I was undergoing infertility treatment, I told myself, my husband, and the universe that if I could just have a child, I'd never be unhappy again.
Ridiculous.
OF COURSE I'm glad to have my children but am I happy 100% of the time? No way, jose. You know what? Kids are hard. Yes, they are wonderful and amazing little creatures, but they can also break you. They will wreck you like a hurricane and leave nothing in their wake but destruction and tears. They are LIFE-ALTERING events, and you sacrifice A LOT to have them. And then there's...yanno...LIFE, which can also bring it's share of misery and challenges. So to think that I only needed kids to be happy was unrealistic, and I'm now dealing with the added guilt of hating myself for being unhappy when I PROMISED the universe that I would have a smile on my face every day that I was a mom. It's taking a therapist and a lot of introspection to work through, and I should have never put that pressure on myself. Lesson learned. At $40 an hour.

5. Have fun while you can.
Easier said than done. It's nearly impossible to have fun when the threat of a meaningless, barren existance is hanging over your head 24/7. But I was so preoccupied being miserable, I didn't really take advantage of my childless situation. The silver lining of infertility (as long as it's temporary) is that it buys you the time and freedom to enjoy all the things that childless couples enjoy. Like traveling and sleeping in and drinking beer for dinner because nobody is relying on you to keep them alive (except maybe the dog, and it's easy to be a dog-mommy while drunk. just don't forget to lock the back door before you go to bed). I should have done more of those things instead of wallowing in self pity. Because now I'm looking back from a weary, sleep-deprived, and isolated state and KICKING myself for not fully exploiting that freedom. To those of you who are currently struggling with infertility: PLEASE take some time for yourselves. Because eventually you WILL have children (I pinky swear times infinity) and you will deeply miss those extra hours of sleep and a change of scenery.

And finally,
6. You will get through this. And it will be worth everything.
Dear former self:
You are stronger than you ever imagined (and no, crying does not mean you're weak). You are a rockstar and a warrior. You will fight for your children, and you will have EARNED them. You will be a million times tougher for going through this experience. You will know that you and your husband can handle adversity because you have seen each other through the darkest of times and come through with an unbreakable bond. When you're struggling as a mom, on your knees, ready to break, you will remember this time of sacrifice and pain and GET UP OFF THE FLOOR and be a better mom for your kids.
YOU CAN DO THIS.
Lean on your partner, let him lean on you, and keep going. Because the reward is worth a million years of suffering.

YOU ARE A MOM.
You just don't know it yet.

 
 

Panic and Pepto Bismol

You'd be surprised how many times I've thought about writing a blog or actually sat down to write a blog, only to be deterred by one of a million distractions (both physical and mental). I honestly thought that without my horse and without my ability to exercise comfortably and without my ability to pretty much do anything I enjoy doing, I'd be blogging my socks off. But it hasn't been the case, and I'll tell you why:

There is nothing funny about raising twin toddlers while thirty-something weeks pregnant.

Trust me.

There is NOTHING funny about chasing around two miniature crackheads while waddling around with something akin to an extra-large bag of dog food strapped to your midsection.

There is NOTHING funny about having your giant, freakish belly treated like a beanbag chair/punching bag/table top by two sets of hands, elbows, knees, and teeth (no, I'm not kidding - they're biters).

And there is certainly NOTHING funny about trying to reel in your emotions as your children's antics stretch each and every one of them (good AND bad) to the breaking point...all before you've had your morning cup of decaf.

Talk about depressing...

I vaguely remember being pregnant with the boys, and wondering at how any woman managed to maintain a full-time job and/or watch their other children while being pregnant. I also vaguely remember wondering this while I was taking a break from my cushy freelance writing work to sit out on the deck, put my feet up, and sip iced tea. And if there was EVER a point where I wanted to invent a time machine, go back in time, and punch myself in the face, NOW IS THAT TIME.

Because I'm LIVING the nightmare that I once saw other women trapped in, and let me tell ya, it smells like panic and pepto bismol.

I wake up uncomfortable, with an aching back, sausage fingers, and heartburn, and it's all down-hill from there. I get stepped on, kicked, elbowed, beaten, screamed at, poked, wacked...you name it ...all the while trying desperately to protect my protruding belly with the grace of of a constipated hippo. Oh, you dropped a toy? You want me to pick it up? Awesome. I love the feeling of all the oxygen being squished out of my body like an accordian when I bend over. Oh, you want to step on my feet to get 2 inches closer to the counter top? Why not? It's not like my feet aren't already swollen, disfigured lumps of flesh anyway. Let's add some indian burn to the mix.

I'm exhausted. Like, nonstop. It's the exhaustion that I used to experience after backpacking in the mountains all day, except at the end of the day I feel defeated rather than accomplished, and instead of achieving inner peace from communing with nature, I've tapped into every nut-house emotion that my hormones can serve up. Because why WOULDN'T you break down in tears when your son throws a handful of raisins on the floor. Seems totally legit, right? RIGHT?!?!

I'm also angry. And a little suicidal. Because I can't drink coffee. And I can't drink wine. And I can't eat soft cheeses. And a world devoid of caffeine, alcohol, and brie is not a world that I care to live in, but I HAVE to, otherwise the kid will be born with three eyes or something, and it'll be all my fault.

My advanced state of desperation is really a shame, because the boys are just amazing. Every day they're doing something I've never seen them do before. They're full of life and learning to manage things like utensils and emotions and all in all just simply wonderful. And I'm missing it, mostly because I'm at my wits end and I truly believe that I will keel over and DIE if I have to pick them up just one more time.

I know in the back of my head that they are growing up so, SO QUICKLY and my time to hold them and just breathe them in is short-lived and coming to a close (they're already wriggling out of many of my hugs). I know that I need to cherish these moments and not let a little back pain and fatigue get in the way of this wonderful time in their lives.

I know this. I really do.

But for realz, pregnancy is not a comfortable process, and it's hard to put the aches and pains in perspective. I only wish the boys understood and could maybe go a little easy on me when they want to use me as playground equipment.

Fortunately, the pregnancy is wrapping up. The baby is still in the less-than-fifth-percentile (surprise, surprise), so we're looking at delivery around 37 weeks, unless he or she suddenly pulls an A-Rod and bulks up. At 33 weeks now, that gives us precious little time to finish preparing our lives for this new stranger to enter.

It's exciting. And scary. And WEIRD, you guys, to know that I'm about to meet another person who will become one of the most important people in my life forever and always.

So I'm counting the days and hugging the boys (when I don't feel like strangling them) and reminding myself that this is the LAST TIME I will ever experience a living thing growing inside me (unless I get a tapeworm), so maybe I should just chill the F out and try to enjoy my last weeks of pregnancy - and life as I know it - before it's gone forever.

It's a bittersweet process.

So I have a lot to reflect on and a heck of a lot to look forward to.
Like a baby.
And goat cheese.
And a glass of pinot noir.
And fall, which is my favorite season of all time ever.

It's all about keeping my eye on the prize(s) and working through the discomforts.
But mostly? It's remembering how good things are, even when they seem like crap.

In other words: Perspective.
It's all about perspective.

Normal-Risk Pregnancies Are For Suckers

It's always dicey deciding how much personal information to give on this blog. I want to be honest and discuss the matters that are important to me and foremost on my mind. But on the other hand, there's that whole "airing dirity laundry out in public" concept. I could be all like, "Yo, my  butt be itchin' like CRAZY," and you could all be like, "ummmm...ew. TMI" and things between us might be weird. Well, weirder than they already are.

It's difficult for me to identify the line between sharing and going there, and even harder to make sure I don't cross it. I'm kind of an open book. Like, to a fault. And then there's my husband, who was either a ninja or a high-raking official in the CIA in a past life, and would just as soon be tortured to death than divulge what he ate for breakfast.

We're different like that.

He's a Secret Sammy and I'm an Honest Oliver [yes, I just made those names up], and those two personality types do NOT mesh when the Honest Oliver has a sensitive and poignant yet hysterically funny blog.
...I've heard.

So I kind of stewed over talking about potential problems in this pregnancy. But at the end of the day, my need to vent overrules my (or my husband's) need for privacy. Plus, I've already divulged how this child was concieved, so honestly, I think we've already gone to Weirdsville.

We went in for a routine ultrasound a few days ago and this child, who was already petite at 20 weeks, is now in the less-than-fifth percentile for size at 26 weeks. What seemed adorably compact (and easy on the vajayjay to deliver) is now starting to become a situation. The baby has been diagnosed with IUGR - intrauterine growth restriction - and while she or he seems very active and to have good blood flow, the size is definitely a concern. My pregnancy has gone from normal to high-risk, and my monitoring has been bumped up from every 4-6 weeks to every week. The doctor, while optimiztic due to the health of the baby, blood flow, and placenta, has nevertheless discussed the potential for early delivery if he/she doesn't get back on track.

And I'm like, for cryin' out loud, AGAIN with this high-risk crap?!? Doesn't a due date mean anything around here??

The boys were delivered at 34 weeks due to IUGR. They were 3 and 3.5 lbs, respectively. They have been miraculously healthy, but I've already discussed the challenges with preemies here, and I am seriously overwhelmed and frustrated at my inability to grow a normal-sized kid.

And I'm scared.

I'm in no way a worrier, but I am fully aware of the risks of IUGR and early delivery. Risks that could seriously affect the physical, emotional, and cognitive development of my child. Risk that could have life-long consequences, even with the best care. I got lucky with the boys, but I'm in no mood to run that gauntlet again.

Not to mention, the term "bed rest" takes a new and ominous tone for someone who has twin toddlers to wrangle.

And on top of this, I feel horribly guilty.
Because I haven't been eating nearly as well during this pregnancy and rest?? What IS that word??
So has my inability to eat healthy and rest caused a diagnosis of IUGR?
The medical community is still out on this subject, but it's definitely a possibility. Not just anecdotally, but, like, from the actual research, which I've read thoroughly (and I have a background in medical research). Potential maternal treatments for IUGR include bedrest and aspirin therapy, which theoretically translate into increased blood flow to the uterus. A high-protein diet may be helpful as well, but no statistic difference has been proven (yet).

In other words, there is a chance that my high activity level and subadequate diet as been negatively affecting this baby by reducing blood flow and nutrient transfer. While I was chasing the twins, I was using all my resources and not giving a fair share to the fetus.

You want to feel like a bad parent?? Try THAT on for size.

So.
I've taken the incentive to make rest and nutrition (especially, protein) a priority. Which is no easy feat when sitting on the couch amounts to "tapping in" a WWF match. For realz, I get a flying elbow to the eye socket or a bite to the achilles tendon every time I try to put my feet up. Not to mention the challenges associated with endless trips to the grocery store to stock up on fresh foods that my boys (and now I) are flying through. I saw a documentary on the San Diego Zoo on Animal Planet once and the keeper was like, "We go through 65 lbs of fruits and vegetables a day per hippo" and now I'm kind of like, yeah, us too.

I'm trying (and succeeding) to manage my stress level and I'm trying (and mostly failing) to manage my guilt level as my house falls apart around me and my already overburdened husband takes on yet more of the household chores. I'm trying my best to be a good mom, both to the twins and this fetus, and a good wife, despite our new "you go clean up the dishes while I watch Millionaire Matchmaker" dynamic. There is a lot of trying going on around here. Only time will tell if I'm succeeding.

Fortunately, I have a lot of support. I have a mother and mother-in-law nearby to help with the kids, and my husband 110% agrees with this plan of action. And last night, when I caught Isaac mid-air as he was about to sandbag my ass and explained to him that mommy needs to rest...well, he turned around and hit his brother instead. Awwwwwww!
Like I said, I'm getting a lot of support.

In the meantime, if you come to visit, please excuse the chaos. Please excuse the dirty dishes and the piles of laundry and the toys, toys, toys toys and the frazzled husband who will likely only grunt at you as he throws a kid over his shoulder and trudges off to mow the front lawn. My house is a mess. My life is kind of a mess too. But I'm being forced to choose between an orderly existance and a full-term (or near-full-term) baby right now, and as obvious as that choice sounds, it amounts to a series of small choices to NOT swiffer the floor and to NOT cook dinner and that, my friends,...is a lot harder than it sounds.

Wish me luck. We go back for another growth ultrasound in 3 weeks and I'm confident that rest + nutrition will get my little one back on track. But in the meantime, if anybody has any healthy, protein-rich recipes or babysitting services to offer, hit me up.

I, and my little baby-to-be, will be eternally grateful.

Outside The 50th Percentile, Looking In

The boys had their 20-month pediatrician appointments last week.
I'm happy to say that things look great.
Isaac, for the first time in his life, weighs more than Simon, and although they're still in the 15th-ish percentile for size, they're growing, which is all that matters at this point. After some pokes and prods and looks into various orafices, we got "all clear" and were instructed to return at 24 months for a check up.

This appointment, front to back, probably seems totally normal to you moms and dads out there. But for us, it was a Victory-With-A-Capital-V. Because for the first time ever, their development was (grossly) assessed to be "right on track," and for the first time in the history of their little lives, they were given a whole 4-month recess from the office.

In other words, for the first time since becoming a parent, I wasn't facing a frowining pediatrician who was telling me in so many words that there is something wrong with my kids.

You would not BELIEVE how long-lasting the effects of being a preemie are.
I swear to god, guys, I was working on a preemie ulcer this past year from all the stress of being responsible for two little guys who - horror of horrors - were/are behind in their mental and physical development.

Some days, I want to hunt down the people who developed the whole aggregate curve system for pediatric assessment and kick in their teeth.

It's not that I don't think curves are good, or that it's not important to be able to compare the development of a child against the average. But the alarmist nature of pediatricians these days (mostly in order to avoid a malpractice suit) causes them to think worst-case scenario as soon as a child changes momentum in their track. There is no forgiveness for being human, which we all are, and which I think pediatricians sometimes forget.
We are not statistics.
We are more than our points on a graph.
We all follow our own path and yanno what? That's okay too.

Since the boys were born, I've heard the following from various pediatricians:

"Well, we won't worry YET, but if they're not walking by the next appointment, we're going to have to get some tests done."

"They're not really growing as much as they should. It's a sign of malnutrition"

"He's still crawling? He might need to be assessed for hip problems"

And the doozie:

"Your son has what's called 'microcephaly.' I'm going to order an MRI and send you to a neurologist at du Pont."

Did I mention that that last statement was made as the result of an inaccurate head measurement?
Christ.
Nothing like accidentally diagnosing a child with mental retardation because the tape measure slipped.

Not surprisingly, my experience with pediatricians has been extraordinarily negative. In every appointment, it's been the same:
They're little.
They're behind.
They're not doing what other kids their age are doing, and therefore either A) I'm not feeding/stimulating/playing with them enough, or B) They're probably suffering from some kind of syndrome and are handicapped. Switching pediatricians has helped somewhat, but I find that no matter who I talk to, the negativity is there, even if it's sugar-coated.

And whats worse is that I haven't been able to hold this negativity at arm's reach. I, a person who knows FULL WELL the ability of doctors to make mistakes, and the importance of being your own (or your childrens') advocate...I was often sucked into this mind-set that my children different,w hich is bad. I started watching their every little movement. I started comparing them to kids at the playground. I revved up my interactions with them and turned every moment into a STIMULATION-SPREE (consequently taking ALL the fun of hanging out with my kids).

Hell, I even spent a tearful afternoon believing that Isaac had mental retardation after the pediatrician inaccurately measured his head size. Like, seriously? I believed that bullshit??

But on the bright side, it's been extremely eye-opening.

If you blindly trust the "expert" opinion and ignore your own gut instincts about your kids, you end up with a lot of heartache.

Lesson learned.

I know that my kids are fine, and I know that they'll eventually catch up with their peers. This last appointment was only a reinforcement of those facts.

But no joke, I hope this next kid of mine is completely and totally average in every way. I want 50th percentiles down the board. I want him/her to be a poster child for developmental milestones. Because it's taken a lot of energy and a lot of mindfulness to stand up to all the negativity surrounding the developmental pace of my boys, and I honestly never, ever want to be in that place again where I look at my kid and second-guess myself.

It's hard enough being a parent.
There's no need to make it any harder.

So for those of you with "average" children out there, count your blessings. You've been spared boatloads of worry, anxiety, and an ongoing sense of inadequacy.

And for those of you with children who fall outside the average, hang in there.
Trust yourself.
Love your kids.
Have FUN with them, and stop comparing them to everyone else.
Diversity is natural, and the less you worry, the more you can see your children for the beautiful creatures that they are.

20 Weeks and Already Keeping Score

I had my 20 week ultrasound yesterday. Everything looks good, and based on the distinctive profile + excessive amount of kicking and general squirmyness of meatloaf #3, I'd say we have another Ike on our hands.

Whoo boy.

For those of you who don't know, my two boys, Isaac (Ike) and Simon, have very different personalities: Simon is like a sloth. A whiny, drooly sloth who likes to be carried and generally fussed over. Ike, on the other hand, is Godzilla driving a wrecking ball drinking a Red Bull. He's a spastic, wild, beast with lightning-fast reflexes and a complete disregard for the safety of himself or others.

I tend to hold Ike at arms length.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Because chances are his fists are swinging and his legs are kicking and he's holding a toy like a mace, waiting to give you a death-blow to the nose.

Not that he's not a sweet kid. He's actually more affectionate than his brother. But where Simon will give you a hug, Ike gives you what we've come to refer to as love maulings. Any interaction between you and him, good or bad, will usually end up hurting you.

It's kind of his thing.

But other than a cold sensation of dread that this child may be the reincarnation of his fearless, fist-throwing brother, everything is fine, and the baby is healthy.

We're not finding out the sex this time.
I wanted to wait to find out with the twins but...yanno... twins. They tend to require a bit of planning. Fortunately, this singleton not only requires less planning, but I barely have time to BE pregnant, let alone agonize over what the sex is. So we're going old school and waiting for the big day to find out.

In the meantime, of course, there's the nursery. I went a little overboard with the Boys' room. Like, spent months painting an intricate mural of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak on all four walls. Apparently I have this inner Martha Steward who is DYING to come out at first chance. But you know what? If painting a life-sized room mural to show your kids you love them is wrong, then I don't want to be right.

Of course, we now have a dilemma:
The NEW nursery.
I'm convinced that child #3 will inevitably weigh my love for him or her against his/her brothers based entirely on the quality of his/her mural. I can hear the screaming accusations of my future 7-year-old now and it ain't pretty. This would normally be no problem...like I said, my inner Martha Stewart has her mom jeans pulled up, her lavendar-scented rubber gloves on, and is ready to get to work. Except I'm lacking the one resource I had in abundance when I was painting the first nursery:

Time

I am baffled about how I'm going to find the 37+ hours (yes I counted) it took me to create the first nursery.
Hell, most days I can barely find the time to pee.

I'm starting to develop a plan. I won't divulge too much now lest I spoil the nursery reveal post which will happen sometime in the far, FAR future. But I'm pretty sure I've found a way to steep this new nursery in child literary excellence WITHOUT  having to hire a nanny with the money we don't have. I think it'll be awesome. And EASY, which is pretty clutch right now.

So that's our 20 week status.
We have a healthy kid thus far who may or may not be composed entirely of my husband's "deamon energizer bunny" genes, AND I've found a way to stave off one of the MANY future arguments we're destined to have with him/her.

If I was keeping score (which I already am), I'd say I just scored a point for team Mom.
Now, somebody please come clean out my office/future nursery so I can get started, because I already used up my allotted pee break this morning and I just don't have the time.

I'm Back. Or Not. Is That A Corn Chip In My Hair? Oh Yeah, I'm Pregnant

So I've been getting the itch to blog again.

Maybe its because the boys, who are all of 20 months old now, are pretty hysterical these days, which minimizes my need for finding funny blog material.

Maybe its because I'm not working quite as much, so I'm not all zombied out from staring at a computer screen every evening.

Or maybe it's because, being pregnant again, all my active hobbies have been violently ripped from my life and I have NOTHING ELSE TO DO to retain my sanity, other than water my petunias and bake banana bread.

Did I mention that I was pregnant again? No? You look surprised. And confused. And a little wild-eyed. Never mind. Have some banana bread and we'll get back to that in a second.

So, I guess I'm blogging again.
Or maybe I'm writing A blog (singular), and will dissappear into the parenting ether for another 6 months.
The future is hard to predict when you have multiple parasites sucking the life-force out of you on a daily basis, so we'll leave this one in the "who knows?" category.

But, yeah, I'm pregnant again.
Au naturale, this time, meaning no embryologist was involved in the making of this kid, which is refreshing and a little odd for us, considering our last pregnancy was the result of a massive effort from a team of health care professionals and involved much poking, prodding, and stripping of dignity.

When your last pregnancy required about 294365348923012 trips to the doctor, it's hard to imagine just "waking up" pregnant. It's like just "waking up" with a boob job. A pleasant finding, but a baffling one, nonetheless.

But that's what happened.

I woke up pregnant one day and it seems to have stuck.

And then people inevitably ask if it was planned, because many cannot imagine that we would willingly add another child to the mix. Plus, the inability of people to mind their own business and NOT ask extremely personal questions regarding your reproductive processes truly boggles the mind.

The answer is that it was planned and it wasn't planned.
Did we want another child? Yes.
Did we think it would actually happen on our own? Hellz to the no.

So this baby may be a surprise, but it certainly isn't an accident. More like a miracle, which is okay with me.

I think we could all use a few more miracles in our lives.

So we're at 20 weeks and counting. If the birth of twins was the equivalent of the baby apocalypse, then the birth of a third one can only be interpreted as the coming of Jesus.

Or Satan.

Not sure, I guess I should brush up on my Old Testament.

But what I'm finding to be true, is that a life of apocalyptic chaos is FAR more rewarding than a life of quite control. My house is dirty and my hair is a mess, but I've smiled and laughed more in the past year and a half than I probably have in the past 10 years.

People tend to be pretty negative when it comes to children. Oh sure, they coo and beam at the miracle of life that is growing inside you...."but," they warn you, "enjoy yourselves now, because your life is OVER when he/she is born."

Your life is over.
Again and again, I hear that phrase in regards to children.

Ridiculous.

I'm here to tell you that if you're in a solid relationship with a loving partner and your shit is mostly together (mostly...because NOBODY has their shit completely together), and you're ready to throw yourself into a pretty intense and time-consuming hobby, then having children is the START of your life.
Not the end of it.

So we're adding another little person to our family.
Sure, it'll be hard. My house will be dirtier and my hair will be messier (if that's humanly possible).
And sure, I'll complain because it's WONDERFULLY CATHARTIC to complain about your children.

But at the end of the day, another child means a hundred times more smiles and laughs are ahead of us.

And there ain't NOTHIN' wrong with that, folks.

Apparently They Were Just Getting Warmed Up

Oh heyyyy there blog.
I remember you.

I remember the days where I had the time and energy to tap out a witty commentary on the magic of motherhood whilst sipping my Merlot after the kids went down for  their 8th nap of the day.

I remember the days where the boys would just hang out, all strapped in to their bouncers, happily batting at a colorful, suspended whatnot while I bantered on about the "challenges" of being a parent which, at the time, measured up to me having to switch them from the swing to the playmat every few hours, lest they get bored and start to whimper in their teeny, tiny baby voices

I vaguely remember that there was a time when I had to mix up two bottles every 4 hours and, horror of horrors, plug the aforementioned bottles into their pie-holes for about 10 minutes while they sucked it down without a word.

Yanno...because they had no opinions about what they ate, as long as it was liquid and formula-y tasting.

In other words, I remember a time where I thought I had it rough.

pssshhhht.
Whatever.
Don't make me laugh.
Somewhere, the world's smallest violin is playing a sad, sad tune.

If you'll excuse my french, those days weren't shit compared to the screaming, eye poking, hair pulling, electrical cord yanking, curtain swinging, sock losing, toy stealing, "I'll do whatever I damn well please and if you try to feed me that carrot again, I'll SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS" days I have now.

HO-LEE GOD, people, I had no idea what was in store for me.

There I was, all motherhood is certainly a little challenging, but I love every minute of it and oh, I think the timer went off on the meatloaf I'm cooking for dinner. My how time flies when your kids sleep for 3 hours at a time and you're just SO BUSY getting the household chores done.

Little did I know, the things I was complaining about...the chores and the dinner preparing?
...turns out, they were LUXURIES.

That WHOLE TIME I was complaining about having to fit parenting and housework into a single day, I had no idea that it I was lucky to be able to do both. That one day I'd have to decide between getting a shower and making sure the children wear actual clothes and not pajamas all day. That I'd have to choose between feeding the children and feeding myself. That I'd go to bed and dream about having time to sort the mountain of clean laundry in our bedroom like teenage girls go to bed and dream about meeting some swarthy, misunderstood boy who reads poetry and smokes cloves.

*sigh
Until tomorrow night, balled up underwear and random socks...
Mi Amore...

But I've digressed.

Life, while still wonderful, is full of little people who express themselves through a series of howls, shrieks, screams, and (during my more successful parenting moments) laughs. Occasional laughs, mind you. I haven't exactly received my "Parent Of The Year" plaque, although they ARE still alive, which is rewarding in it's own way.
In any given day, there is much rolling of eyes and gnashing of teeth (all 8 of them). Mostly because I won't give them my iPhone or I insist on feeding them fruits and vegetables instead of cheerios and chocolate grahm crackers.
These kids usually know what they want, and when they don't get it...they cry.

Also, they cry when they don't know what they want. (You'd be surprised how often that happens).

Aaannd, they cry when they know what they want, get it, and then change their mind.

In other words, they cry. A lot.

But it's all part of the process of becoming people, I guess. You figure out what you DON'T want, and the rest sort of works itself out (especially if one is eating a chocolage graham cracker while this process occurs).

But.
I still wouldn't give it up for anything.
Not only because I love them and think they're possibly the coolest little people on the planet, but also because it gives me an excuse to let the house to go pot.

I kid.
Sort of.

It's just that it's so WILD to go from this little meatloaf, which just laid there and blinked at you from it's nest of swaddling, to this individual who has preferences and tastes and habits. Isaac loves grapes. Simon loves to clap. Isaac's scared of the dark, and Simon can't keep a sock on his left foot to save his life. Sure, it seems obvious, but watching your newborn turn in to a toddler is the equivalent of finding out your sofa and coffee table have been caught up in a scandalous love affair.

For realz, observing anything morph from a stationary, emotionless object to a multi-dimentional being is crazy-with-a-K.
And baffling.
And super entertaining (it helps if you don't get out much)

So that's my 12 month summary.
It's like 80% craziness and 20% suicidal and 100% wonderful in every way.

I'll try to check back in more frequently, but let's be honest, it probably aint gonna happen.
Stay tuned for another report...when the boys go off to college. Which is in all likelihood the next time I'll have a shower and a hot meal in the same day.

Game Over

Fuck, you guys.
Isaac is now crawling.
And it's not that I don't want him crawling, but yeah, he kind of called my bluff on the whole "parenting" thing. Upped the ante, if you will. He was all, oh yeah? You think you have this shit locked down? We'll see about that.

And yeah, I'm cursing again, because having a crawling 9-month-old is alot of stress, and it's either cursing or drinking, and I think we can all agree that dropping a few F bombs is preferable to throwing back a few scotches and taking the family on a Sunday drive.

Holla, 1950s

So my mom was all, well, what's your plan, and I was all, what plan? and she was all your plan for safeguarding the house and I was all I dunno, I guess I'll just follow him around and see what he gets in to and take it away from him before he electrocutes/burns/chokes himself.

And then I got that "I'm concerned about your parenting" look again, which is quite frankly getting a little old, but you know how it is with family: Up in arms every time your kid chews on an extension cord. Sheesh.

So Ike is crawling. Not totally crawling, but enough so when I put him down and go check the laundry, he's not there when I get back. Which is disconcerting, to say the least.

And then there's Simon....
Poor Simon, who would rather lay around than move, and sleep rather than be awake...
This kid is all about energy conservation.
The thing is, I get Simon.
He and I, we're on the same page.
We're like two very lazy peas in a pod. He lays on the floor and smiles at me, and I sit on the couch and smile back, and we're all very happy with this arrangement.
But then this other one comes crawling by, grabing Simon's toy and assaulting my coffee cup, wanting to do things and, between you and me, being a total buzz-kill. And I'm all like, Isaac, maybe you should just chill the fuck out for a second and he's all like either you let me go or I'll scream till the rafters come down, so I have no choice but to release him, and seconds later I've lost him under the couch.
Again.

It's quite a problem.

Playpens help to contain him.
Barely:

Like, woah, right?

This kid is nuts.

He totally takes after his father.
Brian is what us "low-energy" folks like to call...a spazz. He can work a 24 hour shift at the firehouse and then come home and BBQ up some mean dinner. WITH appetizers and cheesecake dessert. And while I fully appreciate his ability to be productive for DAYS on end, it totally mystifies me.

Because I'm the person equivalent of a sloth:
I'd be completely happy spending the rest of my life wedged into the crotch of a tree, chewing on a bamboo shoot.

So you'd think that a high-energy person like him and a low-energy person like me would make moderate-energy babies. Like the energizer bunny mating with a vacuum to create the Roomba.

What?
Whatever.

But no.
We have one kid who lays around like a lump on a log, and another kid who gets meth-eyes every time he's still for more than 30 seconds.

It's more than a little ridic.

I'm sure it'll work out in the end.
Simon and I will sit in the house and watch paint dry while Isaac and Brian go outside and do whatever it is that spazzes do...like run around in circles with their hands in the air or whatever.

But for now, I'm left watching this little crazy person, completely baffled by his desire to move around, and trying my best to keep up with him while he log-rolls down the basement steps.

Oy.

Nine Months. Introduce Choking Hazards Now.

9 months.
9 crazy, ridiculous, insane months.
It's been 9 months (well, 9.5 months) since the meatloaves were born.
In that time, I've seen heaven and met the devil himself (mostly in the form of explosive diarrhea).
I've been spit up on more times than the camel caretaker at the Philadelphia zoo, and I've spent more money on formula than I care to discuss.

In other words, it's been wild.

The boys had their 9 month check-up this past week. Thankfully, they're healthy, happy, and growing reasonably.
They're 16.5 and 17 lbs, which totally surprised me, because I figured, based on how tired my arms are at the end of the day, that they weighed about a metric ton each, give or take a few pounds. Isaac is still taller than Simon, and Simon still wins in the BMI department, mostly because he lays around like a lazy starfish while Ike bounces in his bouncer until he develops callouses on his toes (no joke, that kid is a crackhead).

At 9 months, suddenly, I'm supposed to give them food. Not baby food. Like, people food.

Awww, they think they're people!!

The pediatrician was rattling off all these foods to give them, and I'm all like, woah, wait a minute, I'm supposed to just stick that crap in their mouth? They don't even have TEEFS!! and the Pediatrician was like, it's fine, they always figure it out. They'll just gum stuff until it dissolves and they can swallow it. And I was all, what if they DON'T figure it out and she was like, its fine. Don't worry.
And I just kind of looked at her in awe and wondered about her malpractice insurance. Because up until this point, I'm pretty sure that anything that could fit in their mouth was considered a choaking hazard, but now suddenly it's just considered nutrition??

When the F* did that happen??

(yes, I said F* instead of the real deal, because I'm trying my hardest to curb the cursing now that the meatloaves are absorbing language. But rest assured, a small part of me dies every time I can't drop the F bomb. Being a parent is all about sacrifices, I guess)

So I went home and broke out this thing of toddler puffs that someone had given me, and I put one in each of their mouths...and then I hovered, waiting to sweep in and begin child CPR the minute they showed the least sign of distress.

But instead, they gave me a weird look, and worked the thing around in their toothless mouths, and then suddenly it was swallowed and they were smiling at me and grabbing for more.

WHAT?!?

The little dudes are becoming more like toddlers and less like babies every day. And while I'm supremely excited that they're on the verge of feeding themselves, a little part of me is sad, I guess, that they're growing up.
...not sad enough, though, to keep me from doing a victory dance that I will soon be able to slap a plate of food down in front of them and then go watch an episode of Ghost Hunters while they eat lunch.

Awesome-sauce.

So, while 9 months ago, my life exploded into a chaotic malestrom of vomit and diapers, today, I'm piecing it back together again. But now it's way better than it was before. Sure, there's still vomit and diapers. But there's also baby talk and curly hair and jack-o-lantern smiles that melt my heart. There's communication and a little bit of independence on all accounts. And sleep. I cannot stress enough how a full night's sleep has helped me reclaim my life.

So I guess this post wasn't very funny.
But that's okay, because being a parent often isn't very funny.
There are days when I'm too proud, too thankful, and too blessed to crack a joke. Because these little miracles of mine are not only surviving, but thriving.
And sure, I could try to make that funny.
But sometimes, I'd rather just be grateful.

So let's end it on that note.

Beer, Rollercoasters, and the Ravages of Time

Well, we had quite a weekend here at Slapstick Motherhood.

Because Brian and I love a good challenge, we decided to take the whole family (retarded dog included) out to Lancaster PA to see my In-Law's newly purchased house. The itinerary included such awesomeness as Beer Tasting! and Rollercoaster Riding! and Sleeping In The Same Room As Your Twin 9-month-olds!, which wasn't awesome so much as completely annoying and included much farting.

It was a (mostly) successful trip.

The beer tasting was fun. Sort of. Well, the beer was good. I particularly liked this one porter that Brian had procured for me. However, I'll never know how to get it, because when I asked who brewed it, my Father-In-Law (FIL) replied, "this is a pretty good ham sandwich" (there was food too), and Brian followed up with, "I sing way better than this dude; I should start a band" ...at which point I suspected that I'd be driving home.

I also learned that while beer makes most things supremely interesting, there are just some subjects that are beyond boring, even while slightly inebriated.

Read: Clocks.

The beer tasting was at a clock museum. In other words, a building full of rooms and rooms of clocks. Like, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling clocks. And while Brian and my FIL spent the better part of an hour fully absorbed in learning about the complete history of the clock, I considered the practicality of suicide.

Dude

I'm not saying that clocks aren't marvels of technology and completely vital to our society, but if I never see another grandfather clock again, it'll be too soon.

But then it was time to go (hooray!).
And the next day was Hershey Park Day.
And it was everything I hoped it would be.
(But not for Brian, who had partook in a little too much merriment at the beer tasting, and spent most of the day as a living coat rack for purses and what-have-you)

Especially since everyone warned me that since I am now considerably older than the last time I rode roller coasters, I might be unpleasantly surprised what the ravages of time might do to my 1) ability to withstand and 2) enjoyment of loop-de-loops and other such fun. 

But the warnings were (more or less) for naught, and I was (more or less) unscathed.

Well...
Except for this one rollercoaster that happened to be the second steepest drop in America and might have made me crap my pants a little. But in my defense, we must have watched 100+ cars go down that drop while waiting in line and not one...NOT ONE person screamed. Because it was THAT SCARY.
All you heard was the sound of nightmares coming to life and the ping of loose change as it fell out of the pockets of sweating, panicked riders.

And there was this other rollercoaster, which we happened to ride after the aforementioned rollercoaster, so our adrenaline was kind of tapped out, and we figured we had survived the worst, and then we were in the seats, considering how we were about to be rocketed to some ridiculously high MPH over some ridiculously short period of time, and then we were gonna shoot up some ridiculously steep and high track, and maybe we should have prepared ourselves a little.

And then I almost died.
For serious.

And after we staggered through the Exit, we though maybe we'd slow jam the park for a bit, which was not how I used to roll, but well, I'm 30, and apparently these things happen.

The next day, voices hoarse and backs stiff from the jostling, we headed home. But not before a stop in Amish Country, my homeland, where I rocked out Pennsylvania Dutch style and enjoyed some of the dishes of my childhood, and took pictures of horses...
Because I may have worked in a barn since the age of 8, but I CANNOT let a cart and buggy go without taking a picture, petting the horse, and daydreaming that the horse suddenly freaks out and I jump in and save the day, and everyone's all wow, what are the odds that a horse expert would be here to save us?? and I'm all yeah, I'm a trainer. I deal with crazy horses all the time, and everyone cheers and offers me pie.

(still waiting on that last part to happen. One day...)

So it was great to get out with the family.
And it was an excellent test run for when we drive down to South Carolina in a few weeks to visit my Brother-In-Law

And if you're thinking that A) an 11-hour drive down to SC with 9-month-olds is going to suck like nothing has ever sucked before, and B) that is A LOT of In-Law Family Time for a one-month period, I would say that I agree wholeheartedly, but you have to pick your battles, and once your husband allows you to purchase a $*ahemcough* horse, you don't have much of a leg to stand on.

In conclusion:
Beer is great.
Pennsylvania Dutch cooking is great.
Rollercoasters are also great, but as you get older, they also hurt.
Clocks are not great.
Ever.
Neither is sharing a room with your kids.

I hope you all have learned from my experiences.