That's Special

Today was a day that brings new meaning to the word "special." But "special" as in, "Wow, that's... special." Not, "Aww, that's so special."  ...No, definitely not that kind of special.

I'm not sure if the highlight of my day would be the non-parental-sanctioned food fight with cornbread crumbs for ammunition, resulting in all my clean laundry being sprinkled... uh, peppered?... no, inundated with crumbs (if one can inundate with crumbs-- if you saw my laundry, I'm pretty sure you'd agree it's possible), or if that title goes to walking into the kitchen from cleaning up a mess in the bathroom (which has been a frequent occurrence with multiple children dealing with the revenge of someone named Montezuma for the last couple days-- and knowing them, someone seeking revenge on them seems perfectly reasonable, though it doesn't make me a fan of having to clean it all up) only to find a clothes hanger standing straight up in my pancake batter.  As I walked over to remove the hanger, it fell over and sent batter flying, spattering all over everything, myself included.  The morning had gone such that the only thing I could think to mutter out loud when this special chain of events finished was, "Of course.  Of course that just happened."

On Wednesday morning, a little after 1 AM, we returned home from a trip for which I had packed up the majority of our apartment, and for sure the entirety of my kitchen.  Obviously with three small, sick children and all the sleep deprivation that goes along with them, very little had been unpacked as of Thursday morning.  That means 5 people's clothes and shoes of all sorts in various baskets, bags, and containers, an espresso maker, a stand mixer, 6 different kinds of flour, leftover peanut and almond butters, 10 boxes of assorted teas, three onions and two heads of garlic, small kitchen gadgets galore, any other random thing you can think of-- and at least 7 more that you can't, were all sitting in my living room, spread in a fabulously messy and disorganized way as only we can spread them.  It was amazing.  And then my children dug through every box and basket they could reach, climbed over things to boxes and baskets they couldn't reach, absolutely positive they had a completely valid reason for doing so.  (They didn't.  I promise.)

I can't handle that kind of mess and visual chaos.  I really, really can't.  It makes my brain turn off and then I just run around doing one random thing, then another, then another, all of them completely unrelated and unhelpful to each other, and not actually accomplishing anything.  It's a problem.  So I decided to zero-in on the clothes.  In my semi-crazed state, it seemed reasonable enough.  "Just put the clothes away in the drawers and closet, and then half the mess will be gone."  Simple.  Except it's five people's clothes-- dress and casual, and three of those people are small and deeply inclined to spill upon and otherwise render their outfits unwearable and require multiple wardrobe changes daily.  It was a LOT of clothes.   When packing to come home, I had tried to sort the clothes into baskets by person, but when the last couple batches of laundry were finished right before we left, clean clothes were shoved into any available basket within reach no matter whose basket or clothes were involved.   Because I lean towards obsessive compulsive tendencies (and by lean, I mean neatly and in an orderly fashion fall flat on my face smack in the middle of the category of obsessive compulsive), I had to remove every single item of clothing from every single basket, bag, and container, and sort it all by person, item-of-clothing-type, sleeve length, pant type, dress or play sock, and then carefully put it all away in just the right place in everyone's drawers so as not to upset anyone too much by placing their favorite shirt more than three shirts down from the top of the pile. Hopefully Seth will grow out of that need one day.
Seriously though, it took a little while.

My children, ever the helpful ones, were more than happy to keep the baby company and occupied while I was semi-lost in my blissful state of ridiculous pre-putting-away organization.  Finn crawls all over the place now, so while he started out in the bedroom next to the dressers with me, he quickly made his way to the not often explored hallway, just because he could.  He loves it there, since he doesn't get all the way to the hallway frequently, and it makes a really great sound when he slaps the hard floor and squeals repeatedly since there are no rugs or anything else to absorb the sound.  I'm sure the neighbors love it too.
That was fine... I could hear him, and Lila told me she was going to get him a toy or two to play with there.  How sweet, I thought.
The first time I went into the hall to check on things, there were three toys sitting around the baby.  The next time, maybe two minutes later, the number of toys around him had tripled.  I went out to check on him again and noticed the toys had multiplied and spread yet further.  The fourth time I peeked out the doorway of the bedroom, I spotted Lila coming around the corner with an armload of baby toys, happily bouncing on her tiptoes, pleased with herself for taking such great care of her baby brother, I'm sure.  She dumped them at his feet and turned around to head back to the living room.  I figured all the baby toys were in the hallway now, so that would be the end of that.  The next thing I knew, there was a loud roaring of cheap plastic wheels accompanied by the shrill squeals of pure joy and thrill coming around the corner.  The box that normally houses all the baby toys was now full of mostly naked, ornery two year old, unbrushed bedhead and all, being wildly and far too quickly pushed by an equally crazed four year old.  Why they thought coming flying around the corner towards a narrow hallway littered with baby toys AND the baby they belong to is beyond me, but that's what happened.  We wont talk about what happened next.
Everyone is fine, but the stuffed monkey rattle will probably never be the same.


I finally got all the clean clothes put away, except for the really cornbread-y stuff, which needed to be shaken out outside first, and went back to the living room/dining room to see what else needed to be taken care of.  The shocking amount of dirty laundry was obviously next.  The kids had collected and tossed it all into a giant pile in the middle of the living room and were jumping off of it in their unceasing effort to be helpful and drive me to insanity all at the same time.  I managed to shift their focus from jumping off of, to the sorting of the laundry, and soon had four very nice, neatly sorted piles of clothes in the kitchen (because that's where dirty laundry goes, right?  It does if you only have a portable washer that hooks up to the kitchen sink!).
 And then Aidan was hungry.  Starving, actually.  He decided that a placo was the thing for him.  (You know, a placo--what you make when you have all the insides of a taco, but not the tortilla to put it in, so it just goes on a plate.  PLate tACO.  All together now,"ooOOOoo I get it!"  You want one now, don't you?)  I was in the middle of nursing my other starving child, so I couldn't hop up and make Aidan his placo right that second.  He decided to wrap the container of taco meat he'd pulled out of the fridge in a special blanket he'd found, and carry it around like the special food baby that it was while he waited.  I'll admit it, I finished nursing the baby and got distracted doing something else, and Aidan kept on carrying around that taco meat, patiently waiting to unwrap it for me to heat up for him.
After a few minutes, I remembered I still needed to make him his placo.  He took the meat to the kitchen, ready to put it up on the counter so I could put it in a pan and warm it up for him, except that when he went to unwrap it from it's special food baby blanket, it slipped and fell... and glass and ground beef went flying all over the kitchen and into my four neat, sorted piles of laundry.  I immediately found myself wishing for more cornbread in my clean laundry instead of ground beef and glass in my dirty laundry.  Talk about perspective.

It was at that point that I called my super awesome husband and asked if we could just get pizza for dinner because I was officially quitting Thursday.  Unfortunately, once he got home, we realized there aren't any pizza places around here that we like anymore and I was back on the hook for dinner.  And then the baby sneezed a line of snot from the height of my shoulder down to the floor.  To be honest, at that point, I wasn't even upset... I was kind of impressed.

About motherhood, my Mother-in-law always says, tongue-in-cheek, "It's a glamorous business."

Today was one of the more glamorous yet.  Even so, it comes to an end with me still feeling completely thankful for the opportunity to live it and be involved in every moment of it, because I know that tomorrow they'll be one day further away from being my little babies, and one day closer to grown up and on their own.  When those grown up days come, I know some little part of me will miss days like today, but I hope more of me is content and thankful that I lived, loved, and raised my children intentionally and didn't miss any of the good stuff... because really, this is the good stuff.  Getting through the rough days and being thankful for them and wanting more of all of it-- the good, the bad, and the snotty, because I know it teaches all of us as parents more than we realize right this minute when we're in the middle of it.  We have the opportunity to practice love, patience, mercy, understanding, and compassion with each broken jar of taco meat, each mangled monkey rattle, and be reminded of what is really important when it feels like everything is going wrong.  I'd rather be cleaning up broken jars and putting away crazy amounts of laundry in a house full of happy toddler chaos than have a perfectly neat and orderly-- but quiet and empty house.

I guess today was that genuine kind of special after all.

Character

I've been feeling very opinionated lately, so I thought it best for me to avoid public postings where I'd be likely to rant and offend people with my opinions about their offensive opinions.  I think I've accumulated enough self-restraint for the moment, though, to resume posting... as much as the little people in my house allow, at least. And as long as my house doesn't decide to randomly turn back into a waterpark with water dripping, spurting, jetting, pouring, and flowing like a waterfall out of all kinds of places that have no business dripping, spurting, jetting, or pouring water with no warning whatsoever.  I did get a new sink and kitchen faucet out of it all, though, so that was pretty exciting.   If you don't think a new sink and faucet are exciting, it's possible you don't have children... or love to be in your kitchen... or consider Home Depot and Lowes to be two of your favorite stores on the planet.  Or maybe, and more likely, you haven't spent the last six years looking at and despising a 7-year-old scratched and stained beyond repair, used-to-be-white sink.   Throwing that thing out was easily among the happiest moments of home improvement I've experienced here.  It would have been even more exciting if we had removed it from our new house-- the one with three giant bedrooms (gotta have a place to stack the ten kids, all dormitory style.  I mean, nine.  Well, the nine minus four. But maybe plus one.  But maybe not.  We're still seeing.), a huge backyard all full of beautiful, organic produce (including fruit and nut trees), chickens, and goats-- but still with plenty of room for alllll those babies to run around and play, a pink dogwood tree in the front, and a giant kitchen that is perfect, all except for the sink.  I would have liked that more.  But since I'm still waiting on that house to magically appear (though I wouldn't mind a bit if the nasty white sink was removed and replaced before we find it), I'll take what I can get and be thrilled to get rid of the nasty white sink from our one-bedroom apartment first.

Anyone want to buy a giant one bedroom apartment that is nasty-white-sink-less?  Anyone???

So beside my opinions about other people's opinions, I've been thinking a lot about words lately.  I'm very, very careful and particular about my choice of words in speech and writing, and am not one to toss words/phrases/sentences/sentiments about all willy nilly.  I say what I mean, and I mean what I say (yes, I still intensely dislike clichés, but sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do...uhh, I mean, say)-- unless I've offended you, and then I probably didn't mean what you thought I meant. Because I wouldn't mean it that way.  I'm not mean like that.  

Yikes.

Anyway... I've noticed what a difference using specific words and phrases makes when it comes to my kids.  You'll get two completely different results, for example, if you say "How about we try doing that a little differently?" versus "You're doing that wrong."  Or, "Don't do that!  What are you thinking!  Stop that right now!" (because you and I both know they hear "Don't blah blah blah blah" *tuning out now*) in comparison with "Hang on a minute, let's stop and think about what's going on."

 It's not just about reengaging the brain, it's about doing it with a positive point of view.  The difference in my kids, at least, when I make sure to use positive words and say things constructively, rather than accusingly, is night and day. Black and white.  (Let's just accept right now I'm going to cliché it up in here, up in here.  Who's apparently in the mood to be a giant, sassy hypocrite tonight?  This girl!)  So because I try to be very careful about what I say and how I say it, and my brain is incredibly narcissistic and subconsciously assumes that everyone else thinks the same way I do (don't worry, yours probably does too), I automatically assume that when someone says something to me, they've carefully thought about their words and chosen them because they mean them and they think those are the best words to get their point across and goal accomplished (because we always have a goal with our words and actions, whether we're conscious of it or not).

I've been given a plethora of opportunities lately to learn that not everyone is as obsessive/careful/particular about their word usage as I am.  It hasn't been pretty.  Just ask my husband.  Or don't, since I'm pretty sure he's quite done talking about/listening to that topic for a while.  Or forever.  Poor man.

Along those lines though, and as part of an attempt to train my children to be aware of their words so they aren't as likely to be thoughtlessly hurtful, and to think positively no matter what, when Aidan asked me a month or so ago how my day was going (his favorite question to ask, so you'll ask him in return, and he can respond dramatically), I decided to respond with a smile and tell him it had been "character building." (Honestly, it had been horrible.)  He asked what that meant, and we got to have a nice conversation about when things don't go well or the way we want them to, if we make the right decisions and keep a good attitude no matter what, it builds character-- it makes you a better, stronger person.  If you build character, then even the worst day isn't a loss-- it's actually a great day and a great gain... physical things can always be lost or taken away, but your character is yours to keep forever.  No one can take it from you.  They're kind of important, those character building days.  Apparently I have a lot of "building" that needs to be done, because I've been having lots of those kinds of days lately.

Today wasn't an exhaustive character building day though.  Not for me, at least. The day went pretty well, all things considered ("all things" being a growth spurting nearly-4-year-old who has gone full-on boy and comes up with no end of fecal-focused knock-knock jokes that send him and his sister into unending hysterics, a 2 year old cutting multiple molars and not sleeping at night, and a 3 month old who seems to be contemplating doing some teething himself. Plus the whole one-bedroom-apartment-with-no-yard-and-lots-of-smokers-everywhere thing.  Yeah, I'm a little hung up on that apartment part right now, can you tell?).
When Aidan ambled into the kitchen this evening, scanning every countertop for anything he could munch on with each step (because that's what he does now that he can see over them and reach just about anything on them) while I was in the middle of getting dinner ready, I knew his daily "Hey Mama, how has your day been?" inquiry was coming.

He looked up at me with his big, warm chocolatey brown eyes, scratched the back of his head just like his daddy does when he walks into a room and is about to start a conversation with me, and asked, as if he hadn't been here with me all day,

"Hey Mama, how has your day been?"

"It was a good day, baby.  How was yours?"

*Heavy, dramatic sigh, with his head down and cocked slightly to the side,* "Mama, it was character building."

Seriously, the hardest part of parenting is keeping a straight face.

A month ago.  We had that conversation over a month ago!  I did my best not to giggle or smile (because this is serious business, this daily conversation we have, and he was serious about it's character-building-ness), and I enjoyed the opportunity to hear all about the character building experiences of his day as if I hadn't present for them all, discuss what worked and what didn't in different situations he found himself in with his little sister (she's always "just doing stuff" to him, you know), and how he might try to do things next time.  It was great.  And it was a great reminder that kids are little mirrors/parrots/memory banks of alllllll that you say and do.  Even stuff from a month ago.

It's nice to know he listens, though, and that things are capable of sticking somewhere in there between his ears.  Just not things like, "Don't bounce off the couch." Or, "Dirty clothes belong in the laundry basket." Or, "We do not draw buttcracks on our magnadoodles during services." (Or any other time for that matter. And we say "bottom", thank you very much!).  And, most frequently over the past three months, "No, your baby brother doesn't actually want to eat your nose, stop putting it in his mouth."

"It was character building."  Oh, child.

This is why I love what I do.

Big Meanie

Funny, at no point do I remember challenging Monday to "do it's worst."   It sure seems to think that I did, though.  (Boy could I go for a little Jim Caviezel as The Count of Monte Cristo right about now.  And some chocolate.  And a nice adult beverage.  And a babysitter.  Probably best in a different order though.)
I think about that quote frequently-- "Do your worst, for I will do mine!" though admittedly, usually just the first half.  I'm not big on the ideas of revenge being "sweet" or the whole "an eye for an eye" thing.  Okay, so I don't agree with the quote at all.  I'm just pretty sure Monday (and far too often, any other day that ends in "y" lately) seems to live by the quote.  But as a parent, that doesn't work.  You can't do your worst back.  Somehow, you have to manage to do your best, even when everything else (little people included) is throwing it's worst at you.  And mannnn, did they throw some of their worst at me on Monday.

There are few things I've experienced that are quite as intense as three children under the age of four all simultaneously crying -- loudly, while climbing on/clawing at you, all for different reasons, while you try to remain cool and calm and, 1) try to set a good example and not succumb to the insanity that would happily take over your brain in no time flat, 2) try to accurately assess each child's reason for the crying, and 3) come up with a solution for it all that will end things as quickly as possible, and in the best, most loving and effective way possible.   Right, I forgot to mention this happened after one child had already been crying for a solid 60 minutes because he didn't want to get a tissue for himself and then wipe his own nose, both things he is fully capable of doing, and does regularly, for himself.  My nerves were shot.  I'd like to think if we didn't live in a one bedroom apartment, I could send him to his room and have him come out when he was done crying since he was beyond reason at that point and just crying to cry.  But because we have neighbors who are home during the day, and who can hear any tearful child letting their woes be known in the bedroom, that's not really an option.  At least not if I'd like to stay on their good side.

One day our apartment will sell and we'll get to buy a house with a yard where random people can't sit and smoke all day, leaving the nice breeze coming in through the open windows all permeated with cigarette smoke.  One day I'll be able to put things away without having to play Tetris to make five people's things fit into one closet.  And one day, I'll be able to send ridiculous children in the middle of growth-spurt induced temper tantrums to their rooms without having to worry about the neighbors we share a wall with, or the baby who is asleep in the bedroom... because there will be more than one bedroom, and there wont be any shared walls with neighbors.  One day.  But today is not that day.  Today is actually Thursday, and I have a million things I should be doing other than this, but my willpower/self control muscle is still recovering from Monday's exhaustive use, and so here I sit.

Tuesday was better than Monday.  Shockingly better.  I'm pretty sure someone actually switched out the children from Monday with my real children.  It was nice to have them back again.  Wednesday was schizophrenic, cutting back and forth between flashbacks of Monday and then Tuesday, then back to Monday again.  And on Wednesday, I had to acknowledge that with my nearly-4-year-old, we've entered into that stage that lasts through....ohhh, probably age 25.  But hopefully not that long, really.
  He got in trouble for doing something I'd just told him not to do, so he was sent to the bedroom for a timeout to get away from the situation and think about what had just happened.  The baby monitor is always on because there's almost always someone napping or playing in there during the day, so when he started thinking out loud to himself, I got to listen in.  He started talking about how mean I was to him.  Then he said to his sister, when she came into the room (she'll voluntarily put herself in timeout to keep him company or check on him), that I 'made him sad because I was mean to him and I didn't like him and he just keeps getting in trouble (he seemed to think it was my fault he kept getting in trouble) and it makes him so sad because he keeps not obeying and then I'm mean to him.'  I'm mean to him?  He thinks I don't like him? I've made him sad?  Ohhh, how I wanted to rush in there and hug him and hold him and reassure him I love him and adore him and cherish him beyond words... but that would make what he was in trouble for obsolete in his mind, and I'm positive he'd be back to doing it two minutes after he came out of his timeout.  That's not the result I'm looking for, and I certainly don't want to teach him that when he's facing dealing with the consequences of his poor decisions, all he has to do is lay a little emotional guilt on and then he'll be immediately released from the consequences, reassured of his wonderfulness, and left with the unspoken understanding that he doesn't have to take responsibility for his actions, especially if someone else has made him sad.

I know he knows I love him.  He's hugged, snuggled, kissed, patted, read stories to, taught, played with, fed, included, encouraged, and shared with allllll day long.  I don't call him names or say mean things to him, but I do make sure he is aware that he is making decisions when it comes to his actions and his behavior; I make him think through the possible outcomes and consider how he'd feel about those outcomes, and then I make him own the consequences of his decisions. That makes me mean.  That makes him sad.  That makes him think I don't love him or like him.  That makes him ask in prayer, "Please help Mama be nice to me. " (No, I'm not even kidding.  He was in timeout for taking something from his sister and then knocking her over, and he was praying about ME being nice to HIM?  Um, better rethink that one, buddy!)

One day he'll realize that all of this IS me showing love to him-- when he's one of the sadly small percentage of young adults who are aware of the fact that they are responsible for their lives and the state of them, and aren't trapped in the helplessness of thinking that all of their problems are someone else's fault.  When he comes to appreciate how empowering it is to be aware of the concept of cause and effect, and use it to evaluate his options and make the best decisions possible, with the knowledge and concern that they affect everyone around him.  But today, I am mean.  Today, he thinks I don't like him.  Today, I might have to call my husband and have him reassure me that my babies know I love them more than words, and that this is a short-term discomfort while working towards a long-term goal: raising happy, healthy (mentally and physically), well-adjusted, self-aware, kind, compassionate adults.  Man, it's exhausting!

I know most parents want their kids to have it better than they did.  I want that too, but more than that, I want them to be better than I am.  I know that starts with my example, so no matter if Monday, or any other day, vows to do it's worst, I will do my best.

Now then, where's my chocolate and the DVD remote?

Sick Days

Something I always tell friends who are thinking about having kids (once I'm done gushing about all the overwhelming awesomeness, make-you-cry-happy-way-more-often-than-you'll-admit moments, and general feeling of your heart being too big for your chest... mixed in with the most exhausting, most frustrating, most YOU'VE-GOT-TO-BE-KIDDING-ME!! moments-- basically, the most wonderful and rewarding emotional roller coaster you'll ever be blessed to ride) is that you don't get sick days.  Even on non-sick days, you don't get to clock out at 5 and leave your job, go home, put your feet up and leave your work and related concerns 20 miles away on your desk.  Your "work" and "related concerns" are running around your feet, hanging on your legs, or snuggled in your arms until you put them to bed; they're on your mind while you finish picking up the house so it's ready for tomorrow, and while you clean up dinner after they're asleep; then they're back to being snuggled in your arms because they had a bad dream or got too cold and need to cuddle to warm up... and then they're right there again in the morning when you wake up, ready to resume their position as your shadow or hip attachment, depending on their age and level of mobility.

Obviously you don't get sick days in that working environment.  There is no resting and taking it easy so your body can just work on getting better when there are ever-hungry children to feed, a baby to nurse constantly, bottoms to wipe, diapers to change, spills to clean up, dishes to wash, laundry to keep up with, dinner to think about, a house to keep on top of-- or let go, with the knowledge that it'll take a week to recover it if you do, and plants to repot (I know-- only I would do that while coughing my brains out, feeling like I have razors in my throat, and not enjoying a pretty case of pink eye, but my palm tree (anniversary present 2 years ago) was root-bound and so sad, and my orchid (mother's day gift last year) had roots going everywhere that were waayyy too long for the pot it was in...it needed to be done, honest!).

Yesterday, in the middle of one of my three minute long coughing fits, which have been so violent the kids stare at me with terrified and extremely concerned looks on their faces, probably half expecting me to start coughing out internal organs-- or at least some brains, I couldn't help but want to be 7 again, so I could just be all curled up, sick and pathetic in bed and not have to do anything for everyone.  Not only would I not have to do anything for anyone else, my mommy would come and take care of me.  She probably would have even repotted my plants for me.  Ohhh that sounds wonderful.   Hey Mom, want to come visit?

Don't worry, this isn't an extremely wordy invitation to a pity party, it's just a reminder to go thank your mom for all she did to take care of you, no matter how she felt, and, if you don't have kids of your own yet, to revel in your quiet time in bed with no one but yourself to take care of the next time you're sick.

I keep reminding myself of another dear Mama friend, who has... well, a few more kids than I do, and her telling me about one particular time all the kids were sick, throwing up everywhere, and then she came down with it, too.  You can imagine how totally not fun that must have been.  Whenever I don't feel well, or my kids are miserable and pathetic, I think of her and that story and realize it could be worse.  So, soo much worse.

So today, I'm thankful I only have three little ones while feeling like this, I'm thankful I have the best baby ever, who easily goes back to sleep every time I wake the poor little guy up with another coughing fit, and I'm SUPER thankful no one else in our house seems to have caught whatever awfulness I have (and here's hoping they don't decide to make a liar out of me, as they typically like to do, and come down with it immediately after I click "publish").
Three cheers for nursing babies, elderberries, goldenseal, garlic, and echinacea!  And an extra cheer for blanket forts, which allow sick mamas to sneak brief moments of rest while the kids are playing inside the fort and are unaware of the fact that Mama is resting for a second.  That is, of course, until their "!!!Non-busy, stationary Mama!!!  Must pester and need something immediately!!!" Alert goes off.
My mom always told me about that alert system (apparently I had one, too), but I didn't realize just how incredibly accurate and effective it was until I had little ones of my own and tried sitting to do nothing for a minute.

But seriously-- go thank your mom.  Right now.

And then build a blanket fort.  You know you want to.

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.

""Head them off at the pass?" I hate that cliché!"

Mel Brooks movie quotes aside, I really can't stand clichés-- any of them.  So you'll know that it is with great pain that I admit that they really do "grow up so fast."

Yesterday my baby sister turned 11.  The last time I saw her, my oldest was almost one.  He'll be 4 soon.  Even though I saw her three years ago, she is stuck forever in my head as she was when I moved across the country a little shy of 6 years ago after getting married: my sweet little snuggle bug, who would climb into bed with me in the middle of the night when she was two (and three, and four), and keep me up for an hour with kisses on my cheeks, repeatedly whispering, "I love you, Chelle," every time I was about to fall asleep.  I'd wake up with her soft little hands gently wrapped around my fingers and whisper back, "I love you, Tori."
Her crazy, fuzzy curls (okay, it was more of a tangled nest if we're being honest) are thought of every morning and every afternoon when my own little girl wakes up with the exact same hair.  When she climbs into bed with us at night sometimes, she comes over and gives me the same tiny little kisses, and whispers "I love you, Mama" in that same tiny, tired toddler whisper my sister used to.

The face I think of when I think of my sister and all those sweet whispers and kisses

 Tori's morning hair

 Lila's morning hair

Having a baby in the house again has made me realize just how quickly it all does go by...  I look at this little baby in my arms, snuggled under my chin just like his big brother used to like to be, and then across the room and wonder when Aidan went from this same little size in my arms to the boy sitting at his desk practicing writing his name and "reading" (from memory) books to Lila, whom he affectionately calls his "Baby Girl" more often than not.  And she really was our baby girl not that long ago.  She turned two earlier this month, which made me a tad more emotional than I care to admit.  When, in the last few months, did two years manage to go by?  Or the four years Aidan will soon be able to claim as his? OR the 11 years my baby sister just completed? How does it all go by sooo fast?

It's taken baby #3 for me to really see and appreciate how quickly they can grow and change and go from babies to little people... and then they turn 11, and then I'm sure the next thing you know, they're all grown up, getting married, and having babies of their own.  I've got to stop blinking... I'm going to miss something.

Put down the phone, close the computer, turn off the TV, suck up the frustrating parenting moments, ignore all those (honestly) silly things you think you have to do instead of playing with and getting to know your kids, and just cherish every second of all the amazing that is your child.  Twenty years from now, you're more likely to regret not playing with them more or reading enough silly stories while they cuddled contentedly on your lap than you are to regret putting off doing the dishes for 30 more minutes so you could have the opportunity to make some great memories with your babies  Seriously, you don't want to miss it... they really do grow up too fast.

Me and my baby sister, Tori

A little sister silliness

Tori, me, and Aidan, July 2009

   

            

And so it begins...

I've been thinking about doing this for a long time (blogging, that is).  Everyone else is doing it, and clearly that means I should, too.  Uhh, okay, so that's not actually the reason I finally decided to sit down and do it.  Obviously it's because I have oodles of free time that needs to be filled since I have a nearly 4 year old, a just-turned-2 year old, and, as of yesterday, a 7 week old.  Obviously.

Really, it's because I'm a mother of three littles who make me laugh, cry, love more than I thought humanly possible, crazier than I thought humanly possible, smile so much it hurts, and, at the end of every day, leave me completely in awe of this amazing blessing I get to call my family and life.  And I need to share that.  For all the moms out there who feel alone in their bad days, and burst at the seams with joy over the good days and just need to share it all with someone... I'm right there with you.

I can't tell you how many times I've had the urge to post something mushy and insanely proud-mama-ish on facebook, only to stop myself because I don't want to force all my mushy-mama-ish-ness on all my facebook friends.  Sure, they could ignore it or hide me from their newsfeed if they don't want to read that kind of stuff and hear all about my kids and how I will never, ever tire of kissing baby cheeks... or toddler cheeks, for that matter, but those tend to be more mobile, and thus harder to smooch excessively (my considered facebook status this morning.  Aren't you glad I have self control?).  But I don't want to make my facebook friends feel the need or want to hide me and my mama-comments if they aren't into that kind of mama-ish-ness (yes, I like to make up words and use dashes ridiculously, so what?).  I figured with a blog, reading is voluntary-- you can read my mushy-mama-posts only if you want...  all one of you who will actually read this (Hi, Mom!).

I also have those terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days that make me want to move to Australia, and on those days, I feel like the only mom in the world who has children who would dare to behave this way, or who could manage to spill ten different things on the carpet I just cleaned, or drop screws from the disassembled vacuum into the wall heater right as I was ready to put them back into the vacuum while holding the various hoses and plates into place with my various appendages (yes, it happened, and yes, I'll post the story-- you know you're intrigued.  Oh wait, I already sent you that story, huh, Mom?).  But I can't possibly be the only mom who feels that way or has those kinds of days.  In fact, I know I'm not, because I have a couple of great mom-friends who, on the occasions we get to talk, say the most wonderful words to me:  "I understand!  I remember when my kids... (insert awesomely awful "you-can't-help-but-laugh-because-if-you-don't-you'll-have-to-cry" story here)."   It never ceases to amaze me what a difference knowing that someone else has been there too can make.

So, other Mamas, I understand.  I've been there, too.  Well, at least if your children are under the age of four, I do, and I probably have. ;)