Mama Skills

I hadn't realized how much I've missed writing until I started again, and then had to stop for a couple days because, you know, the whole "three little ones + a home to take care of + a family of bottomless pits to feed + an awesome weekend away with more happy than I could process in the moment" thing.

Thankfully, I have a happy-storage-center somewhere in my blonde, sleep deprived, mother-of-3-under-four, mushy-mass-of-something-that-might-have-resembled-a-brain-at-some-point brain.  And because I am a wife and mom, I have that incredible ability to find things that wives/mothers have, whether they be happy memories tucked away in some folds of my formerly functioning brain, a pacifier the children have "looked everywhere for!!!" (except for the everywhere that includes half under the little blanket immediately next to their left foot), the leftovers meant to be taken for lunch (behind the almond butter jar, next to the sour cream, second shelf from the top), or any number of other things that might otherwise never be seen again, or at least not until something gets moved, because they have so masterfully hidden themselves in mostly plain sight.

I remember hating looking all over the place for something, completely unable to find it, only to finally give up and ask my mom if she knew where it was and have her know exactly where whatever it was, was.  She always knew.  If she couldn't give me directions to it ("It's in the living room, under the far left cushion of the couch on the right, about four inches from the back, under the polka-dotted sock you've been looking for for a month, duh." Okay, maybe she wasn't that good, but it sure felt like it most of the time.  And for the record, she didn't say "duh" to me... at least, not out loud where I could hear), she could walk into the room where the missing item was, and I'm pretty sure it would immediately pop out from it's invisible hiding place, turn on a flashing red light, put it's right foot in, take it's right foot out, put it's right foot in and shake it all about, do the hokey-pokey, and turn itself around ('cause that's what it's all about), then calmly lay itself back down wherever it was hiding so she could raise an eyebrow to it's "Really?!" position, put her hands on her hips, then remove one hand to point to the item that was now sitting in the middle of the floor, feet away from anything, and completely obvious.
I'm telling you, my missing things conspired with my mom, grew feet, and did their best to make me feel like a blind fool every chance they got.

But now-- now it's my turn.  I seem to have gotten a good dose of the "know where everything is" and "can find anything within 5 seconds of entering a room" skills when I said "I do" (though in all fairness, I did rearrange pretty much everything when we got married-- actually, on a visit shortly before we got married, so things would be ready for me when I took over the kitchen/house... I still like to tease him about having to call to ask me where the spoons were once I went home from that visit, though.  But really, that excuse will only work for so long-- we've been married almost 6 years now.  (We wont talk about my need to reorganize everything on a regular basis, leaving the poor man continuously lost and hopeless, though.  It's really just that I have awesome knowing and finding skills, honest.  Ask my kids!))  Annnnyway, I think you get a booster of those skills with the birth of each child.  Imagine how great my finding and knowing skills will be when I have ten!  I bet at that point, I could negotiate with the lost items to do the Macarena instead of the Hokey Pokey, just for a little change of pace. (I'M KIDDING!  We're stopping at nine.  Minus four.  But maybe plus one.  But maybe not.  We'll see.  You better believe I'm serious about the Macarena thing, though.)

So back to all that happiness I was talking about at the beginning.  Can you even find the beginning at this point?  It's been so long!  I told you I missed writing.  Okay, but really, back to it: one of my favorite memories from this past weekend, which I'll pull out for a smile repeatedly over the next few years, I'm sure, is from talking to a dear, wonderful, amazing friend and mother of four equally awesome boys... uhh, guys? Somewhere in between?  Both.  Both works with the age range.  Whatever you want to call them, the four of them are great, and I'd love to see my boys grow up to be like them.  Seth asked if one of them had a free hand to help us carry out all the hundreds of tons of STUFF that we seem to think we need for our three littles, and all four of the boys... uh, guys... uh...well, all four of them came over, grabbed stuff, and took it out to the van.  And they did it happily!
One time we got to have them over for dinner, and as soon as they entered the house, they were offering to help with dishes or food prep or just, you know, anything.  I'm still kind of in awe of it all, and it's been a couple years since the dinner.  Okay, honest, this time I'm going to get to the point.  Their awesome mama and I had a great time trading stories about all the fun you have figuring out how to do everything that needs to be done when you have more children than you have hands.  And oohhh, the fun you can have.  If you want to call it that.  I'll call it that.

I think until you have more than one child, you wont fully appreciate all that your feet and toes are capable of.  You might get a tiny idea with one baby in your arms, but until you have at least two, you just don't really get the opportunity to find out all that your feet can do, simply because you don't have to.  Like turning door knobs and opening doors.  Or turning the handles of the faucet so one child can wash their hands while you hold the other two, trying to keep the smearing of yogurt and oatmeal onto more surfaces at a minimum (it helps to be flexible and have good balance for that one... especially if the two being held are squirmy, which, of course, mine are).  Or keeping a "vrooming" car from running into a neighbor's foot while you're holding the two smallest dudes and chatting, then picking up said vrooming car to hand-- uh, foot? it to the 2-year-old (in your arms) because they're 20 minutes past nap time and on the verge of a meltdown if they can't have the car right that second... and bending over to pick it up with a hand isn't an option with a sleeping, floppy newborn on the other shoulder.  I'm telling you, feet are a vastly undervalued parental tool.  Remove those shoes and make use of them, people!


On a semi-related, this-is-what-happens-when-you-don't-have-enough-hands note...
I let my kids watch Go, Diego, Go sometimes because they love anything to do with animals, and because it cracks me up to hear their little voices shouting "Ayudame!" from the bathroom when they need some assistance.
(I promise Diego will become relevant in a minute.)  The other day I had all three kids in the bathroom at PepBoys, and after helping the older two balance on the toilet that they could have easily taken a dip in, while keeping a bobble-headed baby from flailing himself off my shoulder, catching the middle one playing in a puddle on the floor (!!!WHY?!!! SoGross! ) and changing the baby's diaper on a fold-out changing table that seemed intent on swallowing him into the wall, it was time for hand washing.
Aidan (oldest) can reach the water and soap on his own, so he was fine.  Lila (middle) cannot.  Finn (baby) is way too squirmy to leave on the changing table, just in case I was oblivious to all the signs telling me not to do that and the table wasn't trying to fold up with him on it anyways.  So with Finn in one arm and Lila in the other, I balanced on one foot, holding my other knee up so Lila could sit on it to reach the faucet and gleefully clap her hands and watch foamy soap bubbles fly all over the place, while Aidan stood a few feet away, looking the scene over with his head cocked to the side.  He then matter-of-factly declared, "Mama, you'd be a good flamingo, because you can stand just like one.  I learned that on Diego."
At that point, a gob of foamy soap landed in my mouth, and I got the most random itch on my calf on the leg I was balancing on, so I wiped the soap on my shoulder, dropped my flip flop off my foot at the end of my leg holding Lila up, scratched the itch with those oh-so-handy toes, and considered how much I love feathers and the color pink.
I bet flamingos use their toes for a lot of things.  They probably don't call them toes, though.  Claws, maybe?  Aidan likely knows... he probably learned that on Diego, too.