Who is that woman?

Grandparents day. A made up holiday, sure, but there it was. Mom asked that I bring the kids to her assisted living facility so her friends could see them in person. I had no excuse not to. Truthfully, it turned out alright anyway. I thought the kids would cower behind my legs and not smile at anyone but instead they decided the activity room chairs were fun to climb on and chased each other around the room. Having the fat one along (R is now 27 lbs at less than 7 months of age) helped. He sat and provided the smiles and personality while the triplets burned off steam running people in walkers down.

But here's the thing, I heard it again. That refrain I have heard time and again and sort of sat in disbelief about for so long. The phrase "we just love your mother here, she's so great."

Who?

My mom? Enjoyable company? Loved? Easy to get along with? Um. Huh?

I don't mean to be mean, but I grew up with this person. I personally witnessed her getting enraged at cashiers at the grocery store when the computer had the wrong price for her item, accusing them of personally trying to cheat her, (thanks to growing up in Russia where they might just have been.) I personally have felt the impact of a poorly chosen tease of the woman with no ability to laugh at herself. I have doused the flames of her anger over slights that no one might have imagined they committed.

Where is this person I knew? Who is this person they know? Which one is the real her? Because I'm aware that my parents never saw the way I was to everyone else, I know we are all different with family than with others but I don't see how the ugly never shows through to her 'friends.' I guess she has a winning personality in there somewhere, and I'd love to be a fly on the wall to see how it appears. I'd love to find a way to think my mom's 'great' or find a way to love some part of her personality. I admire her will to survive that she used to have, I respect that she has every right to be as crazy as she is due to the circumstances of her upbringing, but like or love her personally? No. We would not be friends if we met on the street.

So I will remain clueless to this part of her. This person people want to spend time with. This person who already has a man wanting her company to restaurants and even the opera after moving in only a half a year ago. This woman who people 'love' and find endearing. And I will always wish I could see it too.

Bridesmaid to be

How exciting. My best friend has gotten herself all engaged and stuff! Not that I knew ANYTHING about it ahead of time, what with being consulted about the ring and all. But the lucky lady got proposed to in, of all places, Tuscany.

Tuscany people. How cool is that? Who gets to sit on a balcony in Tuscany with a gigantic rock on their hand and know they've found the man they're going to spend their life with? Not many people I tell ya.

But the stranger thing? She wants me to be a bridesmaid. I never thought I'd be all old and crap before I was her bridesmaid (this is not a comment on how long it took her to get engaged, but a condemnation of how fast I got old.) I mean I'm old, decrepit, fat, tired and pathetic at most times of day. I'm supposed to pull myself together and get cute and look like I belong with a gaggle of lovely young ladies, none of whom have any pity for the likes of me. I'm preeeeeetty darned sure I don't get to wear flip flops down the aisle.

And good lord, I never even thought of this when I planned my wedding. Did my bridesmaids think they had a long way to go to get ready to be in my wedding? I hope not. After all, it was me I wanted people to look at, not my bridesmaids. And theoretically, everyone will be looking at my gorgeous friend, not me, but still. Her pictures forever will have me in them. I will theoretically have to look at those pictures with me in them. Ugh.

The good news is I have year. In that year I get to give birth and hopefully breastfeed my way back to a more normal size for me. THIS time I plan not to squander post partum weight loss by eating my way back up 30 pounds just months later. Oh such a shame. I have such plans this time. I want to walk that baby around the whole neighborhood daily. I want to choose differently this time. But who knows how I'll feel? I got overwhelmed with the triplets. So I ate. Do I have a better coping mechanism this time around when I feel overwhelmed? No. Will a single baby not overwhelm me? Unlikely. I will be overwhelmed. I will reach for the chocolate bar. Oh yes I will.

I need a book that can tell me how not to reach for the chocolate. Because my friend's wedding is worth it. Oh yeah yeah, I'm worth it too. I know. Don't preach to me about self love, but I was worth it last year too and I ballooned my way back up to my highest non pregnant weight ever. And then I got pregnant. Not helpful.

By next October I need to be HAWT. Or presentable. I'll take presentable but I'll shoot for hawt. I can not be the old ugly chick next to the hawt bride and her other two young cute bridesmaids. I just can't. My kids will see these pictures and while I love having guilt ammunition to use against them (as in see how you ruined me?) I do not want it to be in my friend's pictures. She has to still love me when it's all over and I'm quite sure the wedding planning may give enough reasons for us to pass evil looks amongst ourselves. I will not give her something to point at in photos for the rest of our lives. So there.

A Small Success

It's funny how proud of yourself you can be when you succeed in entertaining your triplets for a whole day, including a grand adventure to a new location, especially when you're not used to doing so. So here I sit, exhausted as heck, but pleased. I was able to start the day with my kids, dress them, feed them breakfast, pack them up in the car, take them to a fantastic museum, keep them from running off or being carried off by someone else while they ran loose in a crowded place, feed them lunch, bring them home and kick their butts into nap, which was only the first half of the day. Lord I needed that nap.

But I made it. And it's pathetic that I'm so proud because there are triplet moms out there who do every single stinking day by themselves. I still had grandma for most of the day. Some moms have no help so they can't go to crowded places where triplets can run away from them. Some moms are run into the ground beyond my imagining and here I am with one day under my belt.

Damn the economy and all that. Losing half my nanny hours and having to finally take responsibility for caring for my children for several whole days each week sucks eggs. Wah, I cry like a baby about it all but let's get real. Isn't it about time for me to figure out how to do it myself? These are my kids after all. But it doesn't help to go to a triplet mom dinner last night and sit next to a woman who has 5, yes FIVE caretakers for her children. An au pair, a night nanny and three other nannies. She says that during the day there is never less than 2 people other than herself caring for her kids. She was unapologetic because it means her interactions with her kids were all positive and she is rested and can enjoy them more.

Oh lord people. I had to sit next to this woman for more than TWO HOURS. The day after I had to face the reality that I can't afford my morning nannies. And she's all complaining that they don't always place the stroller in the right spot and how she only feels like the upstairs has to be completely OCD her way because it's her sanctuary, the kids area can get messy as long as it gets all cleaned up at the end of the day. It's not too much to ask since she has FIVE people. What else do they have to do?

I have never left a dinner more depressed in my lifetime. So today is a triumph. What that lady missed today? Was the joy of understanding my children better. The joy of figuring out that even when you want to drop dead by 4 pm, you can push through and make it to the end of the day with your kids. My sense of accomplishment is deserved. And I will have many more successful days in the future. Sure, I'd love to win the lottery, sell my house at or above what we paid for it and find the best, cheapest, most perfect house to buy and move into, but until then? I will keep chugging and finding new reserves of energy from somewhere. Legally.

Trapped.

Today I feel trapped. Trapped in this house for one. It seems that the idea I had to blow this town for a bigger better but cheaper house is at a stalling point. To get out of this dreary foggy city for some suburbs with more sun and the critical part, a house where the kids can play in and outside all at once instead of having to make a decision to either play in the back yard or inside because we all have to relocate in order for it to happen.

I'm mad. I suppose I'm mad at the economy. First, finding a house in a price range that matches our borrowing ability? And let's talk about that borrowing ability. We could borrow fully 1/3 more 3 years ago. 3 years ago! Thanks market. So now we need more house for waaaay less money, because we happen to live in the kind of place where a 4 br house is a million dollars. Were we still living in Maryland? I could get a house for 400k. Back in Illinois where we grew up? 100k, maybe 200k. This sucks. And naturally, since we're mortgaged up to our eyeballs currently, we need this house to sell to get the downpayment. Only selling it at what we paid for it? Unlikely. Have we managed to pay down the principal even a wee bit? No.

So mad. So trapped. All I wanted was a house more functional for 4 kids and me to survive in. And being a little closer to the grandparents would be nice. And, all the things I dreamed about while sitting in their house where the weather is warmer and the outside is right outside instead of down a steep set of stairs that the kids can't be trusted on alone.

I also sometimes feel trapped in this life. I wake up and the reality of having 3 kids and being pregnant with another? Overwhelming. It's not like I can give them back. I'm going to be tired for YEARS. I think about the nice condo downtown that we used to rent, the freedom, the views, the ease of life, walking to the farmer's market and walking to any of a dozen restaurants in the area. Ugh. I know I didn't appreciate it at the time because there were no trees, no grass, no kids laughing in the next room. But sometimes I really do wish I could ditch it all and go back to then. When I could have a full uninterrupted day of peace, reading or doing whatever. Unless the husband wanted attention. Which was usual, so let's say a half day of uninterrupted peace at least. But so little to do! So much me time!

Hard to not wish one's self back there sometimes. I know it wasn't necessarily a happier time, but its almost like now I'd appreciate it more. Kind of like your teen years, or maybe even college years. Oh how we didn't appreciate the freedom, the fun, the closeness, the lack of responsibilities, until it was all over.

So, today the word is trapped. Not happy obviously. But not morbidly depressed. Just bleah. Someone win the lottery dammit. In my family that is. Me in particular. I want a new home!

deviant defiance

Defiance. It's amazing how young this process begins. I apparently have one very defiant child in my threesome and I'm still hoping it's just a phase, but really? It seems pretty serious. This young man will look right at me while I'm screaming all red in the face for him NOT TO THROW THAT TOY OVER THE BALCONY and smile and drop it. Right over the edge. Right over the edge of my sanity.

Two days ago at dinner I watched as he picked up a piece of watermelon, dangled it over the edge of his tray, and stared me down while I repeated the warning not to drop his food at least 88 times. After I stopped wasting my breath we remained locked in a stare down. Him, with his arm still straight out over the edge of the tray, ready to drop the watermelon, me, slowly growing in amazement over his defiance. The main problem is? It's kinda funny too. Staring contests are apparently not mine to win with this kid. I think I lasted a whole minute, but it was the longest minute I've ever lasted and then I had to laugh. I mean really? You're going to look right at me and do it anyway? Who are you?

I guess I figured I had a few more months before the brain process that leads to defiance of mom was going to develop. I certainly didn't realize 18 month olds already possessed the ability to tune me out when they don't want to hear me telling them not to rip the toy out of their sister's hands, don't take the toy, B I'm talking to you, WHAT ARE YOU DEAF?

I'm still praying it's a phase and this is not just me discovering which of my three children are going to drive me the craziest from here on out. I mean he's cute and all but my blood pressure is supposed to remain steady while pregnant. Deliberately defying me and ignoring my hollering? Not a good prescription for calmness. Not that he cares about the alien in my belly. At 18 months, triplet or no, I think it's pretty much all about you. And being a tripet? Isn't terribly fair because nothing is just yours is it? All toys get shared all the time. And why is it that the one toy you always want is the one your sister or brother is playing with? Sucks doesn't it? Ah well.

So I am trying to maintain the positive attitude that this is a temporary curse. Although by the 18th fight over a toy that I break up in one single day I am no longer able to follow the sane advice given by childhood development experts that says I'm not even supposed to scold them for not sharing because it's not an intentional thing that they could understand anyways. I'm just supposed to catch them sharing and praise them. For goodness' sake. When they're quiet and happily sharing? I'm resting! For 30 seconds! I'm not going to keep vigilant when I could be sitting down for a moment just so I can catch them behaving well! Give me a break!

Oh, being a triplet must suck. Even mommy can't do the right things. There's just too many of you. Sorry kids.

You feel calm, veeeery calm..

"They" say that when a kid is defying you by not listening or even reacting to the fact that words are coming out of your face that the worst thing you can do is yell. They list a bunch of other things you shouldn't do, but they actually said yelling was the worst. Because, of course, the little bugger is trying to get a reaction out of you. And yelling? Doesn't scare him yet. He doesn't know that in a few months, when he's emotionally ready to understand punishment? Yelling will be the warning that its comin' on and you'd better get ready for some pain. Emotional pain that is of course. You know, the suffering that comes from sitting on the naughty step and all.

But, really? How am I not supposed to yell? J is grabbing B by the collar of his shirt and pulling pulling yanking dragging him down to the ground because he feels like it and I'm all "J....J.........J.......J.... GODDAMIT J I'M TALKING TO YOU!!!

Because I know he can hear me. He passed his hearing test just fine. He hears the call to dinner just fine. He hears me tiptoeing through his room at night just fine. That boy just wants to kick his brother's butt and there will be no stopping other than physically prying his tight little fists finger by finger from his brother's shirt. This sibling rivalry starts early and it ain't pretty.

I'm just kind of concerned about how it's going to go down when they're 8. Because they'll know judo and ninja moves by then. How many trips to the hospital am I in for between the two of them fighting over stuff? Not to mention the usual silly boy antics that crack open skulls on a regular basis.

But not yelling? That might send me to the hospital. The mental ward. I am a yelly person. If I have to maintain some sort of weird unnatural calm in order to have control over these kids? I'm doomed. And I'd rather screw them up a bit than end up in the padded cell.

I'm just sayin'. Listen to your mother. It's better for your health.

The Tao of caring

Careless:

1. not paying enough attention to what one does

2. not exact, accurate, or thorough

3. done or said heedlessly or negligently; unconsidered

4. not caring or troubling; having no care or concern; unconcerned

My husband and I had a 'discussion' last night about carelessness. We didn't agree what it meant and so I'm still thinking about it today. I refuse to be called careless. Sure, I'm a klutz, distractible, a multi-tasker who sometimes needs to slow down, but not careless. Because my definition is #4 up there and some of #3. I think it's a pretty negative thing to not care. It sounds like I'd be running through life kicking over vases and smashing my car into the car in the parking space in front of me who took up 1 and 1/2 spots with his tiny Yugo while I try to fit into what remains of my parking space.

That's so not me. I spend endless hours of the day caring 'too much.' I agonize over peoples opinions, try to anticipate their needs, smooth the wrinkles out, clear the pathways and hope that no one ever has to ask me to do something for them that I haven't already done. When someone is waiting for my parking space? I haul arse to get out of that spot, even if it means spilling coffee on myself in the rush to stick it in the holder. If I knock into someone while passing them in a store? You can bet I apologize, even if it's their fault. (And can I ask why people don't care to move out of MY way once in a freakin' while? I mean, I am not large in diameter by any means. My purse is of average size. Give me a few inches!)

But the endless bruises on my thighs, shoulders and sometimes head gives my klutziness away. I consider it an inherited trait as my mom couldn't ride a bike without wiping out at least once every time. And it was always when she borrowed my bike. Not that she'd tell me she'd fallen on my bike again, I'd just walk out the next day to ride it to school and the handle brake would be knocked over to the inside of the handlebar. Hmm. Wonder how that happened? Anyway, I consider the klutz also to be due to my multitasking mind. I'm usually off to do something rather quickly when I do run into the baby gate/doorknob/doorframe/nothing or trip over the steps/doorjamb/completely flat floor. Does multitasking make me careless? I don't think so.

My husband, on the other hand, has cultivated a personality characteristic that I think took him years. I'm not sure you are necessarily born 'careful.' I think he chose, early on in life, to carry himself so carefully through the world that he is not only highly unlikely to ever trip or run into anything, but he is also preternaturally quiet when moving through a 1914 house where every floorboard squeaks. I respect this talent. But I think it takes a lot of effort. By now it's second nature to him, but I imagine at the beginning he had to think all the time about where he put his feet, where his arms and hands were as he walked, how to navigate tight spaces and whether every hair on his head was in place or not. (Just kidding!) Just thinking about that exhausts me.

I won't do that and in a way I respect my life choice. I run through life talking a bit too loud, feeling free, laughing at my bruises, arms flying in whatever direction. It doesn't mean that when I break something or dent the minivan for the 715th time on the stupid narrow garage door opening I don't feel bad. I do feel bad. It sucks to have dents. If I break something truly important like an family heirloom I do agonize. But I can tell you that if it's a hole in the wall that can be repaired, a glass that can be replaced or heck, even a nice object that can't be replaced, I will not be beating myself up for days. Life is to be enjoyed. Houses are to be lived in. Things are to be used and sometimes broken. And apparently, minivans are mine to destroy. Life goes on. Does that sound careless?

Not a Top Chef I

Cooking. This is the bane of my guilt stricken existence. When am I going to start cooking for my kids? Right now their meals consist of lots of pasta and noodles and sandwiches, soup, fruits, applesauce and yogurt, and some oatmeal and smoothies too. All of which requires perhaps a 10 minute boil on the stove max. Most of which is microwaveable. How pathetic.

I keep meaning to whip out the casserole recipes thinking I could logically make them and me dinner at the same time and have leftovers. However, I haven't really cooked in years. My husband always worked later than I eat dinner, so when I first moved to SF I used to work hard and make him dinners and require him to be home 3 days a week to eat them. Well, that just stressed him out. Then I'd make dinners that did well in the reheat, but that was less than satisfying because essentially I was cooking for just myself. I find that a thankless and unnecessary act. I'm perfectly happy eating take out and frozen dinners by myself. Why cook?

When the babies were just starting to eat I was willing to steam up and puree a bunch of stuff, because, again, that's pretty stinking easy. A lot of machines to do the job for me pretty much. But I sure thought that by now I'd be cooking. I've had several false starts, shopped and bought chicken and ground beef and turkey, as well as herbs and veggies and cans of creamed soups. All sits and rots. Where am I supposed to find the energy? If they're happy with pasta and soup and I'm happy with take out, who cares?

Me. I feel like a failure of a mom on this one. I don't expect to make everything they eat from scratch, I'm no earth mother. I just expect to, maybe 4 times a week, turn on the oven and use a pan and throw at least 5 ingredients together in it and bake it. Good lord it doesn't sound that hard does it?

My name is Mira and I'm an addict

I know I know, I deserve to be beaten with a wet noodle, as Dear Abby always said. Here I go off whining about comments or the lack thereof on my blog and what do I do next? Not post. How could I? Just when people were ready to pity comment for me for at least a couple of days. Well this is how it happened: I got a book? And I read it.

Yes, this rare phenomenon in a triplet mom's life is quite a sight indeed. Not only having the time to read at all but actually using it for reading. The problem all started when I decided to pick up a couple of books for the trip with the kids in a few weeks. I ostensibly will not spend my time at a lovely 'beach house' on the Russian River glued to the tv watching reruns after the kids go to sleep. I hope. So I will have time for some lovely sitting on a deck and reading. I have no deck at home, and it's unbelievably cold in summer in SF (thanks fog and no thanks to global warming as of yet.) So once I sit on the couch the tv clicks itself on (no really!) and that's it. So I picked up 3 books for the trip. But then I thought maybe it would be ok if I just peeked. I picked the lightest one (content wise) a chick lit book kind of. I'm not ashamed to admit that I don't read high quality literature right now. I don't have the brain power.

But that peek? Turned into a read-a-thon. I could not put the thing down. I spent the day running errands and playing with the kids dreaming of where I could find a few minutes to read. I even, and this is nuts, DIDN'T GET THE DAILY PAPER READ. I read the paper every day. I know I'm a throwback. Who reads papers these days? Me. But I always read the paper, and I always read my friendly blogs and comment and I always write my blog at some point. But kids, I couldn't help it. I GOT TO READ A BOOK!!

Ok, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. I am a lame-o but take pity on me once more. I owe my friend JennyMac over at lets have a cocktail a post acknowledging the lovely award she gave me and all that goes with it, but she will wait another day for me I am sure. I finished the book and am now back in the world. I will not make that mistake again for at least another few weeks.

Although I have to admit, now that the addiction has had a taste it's unbelievably hard not to pick up another book. But I see now the ravages of the addiction for what it is: a time sucking, happiness inducing, brain expanding, daily life stopping, only for the young and childless, unbelievably tempting disease. God save me from the books.

catastrophic diaper failure

Dear Huggies,

I have been a fan of your overnight diapers for probably about a year now. My three gigantic triplets have worn them every night with much success, even though I had to use a size larger than recommended on your package to comply with their needs. Even my son, B, who holds all of his urine during the day just so he can fill up one of your diapers until they weigh at least 8 lbs in the morning, has been a success story. I mean we could probably squeeze his diaper out in the morning and find 5 gallons of pee. Seriously. I don't know why he pees so much at night, perhaps he dreams of waterfalls a lot.

However, recently we have been having problems. I consider the fact that I have had to wake up 8 of the last 10 mornings during the 4-5 am hour because one or more of my children is soaking wet a problem. I do not mean a little spot of leakage. I mean these children are usually wet from just under their ribcage to their knees or lower. I consider this an CATASTROPHIC. DIAPER. FAILURE. The fact that it is happening to a boy and a girl means that this is not a gender specific design problem. The fact that we are using a diaper a size larger than you would recommend means that we should have covered our bases. But, the mere fact that I am writing this missive at 4 am tells me and you that there is a problem. This morning I had the joy of changing two children in the dark. Whether the diaper replacement ended up properly applied or the region in question got properly cleaned has yet to be determined in daylight hours.

This, my friends, is unacceptable. I am a tired mom. I have had sick or disobedient children for about 8 weeks now, which, due to the level of complaining I've been doing, you may have already heard about through the grapevine. What is more unacceptable is that there is no overnight diaper one size larger than we use. That's right. Perhaps it never occurred to you that anyone should need an overnight diaper larger than a 6, which according to your package (which I might add, I might have to sue you for as it is false advertising at it's worst) is for children 35+ lbs. Now admittedly, my children are only hovering around the 30 lb mark but what am I supposed to do? Put rubber pants on over your diapers? Double diaper them with your already bulky overnight diapers? Wrap their entire lower halves in cellophane?

Because I am telling you right now that 4 am is a time I do not like to see. I do not like even more to have to change diapers and pajamas at this hour on one of more children. You must find me a solution. Immediately. While my in the dark diapering skills are improving, this is not a useful skill outside of raising toddler triplets. Seeing as how we, with our gigantic triplets, use approximately 1894 diapers a month, we are quite a valuable customer to you. So let's hear some brainstorming, or perhaps you could just make a freaking size 7 for me. Please?

Your crabby mamma,

Mira

oooh that little....

So there I am, 2am wake up again. Kids are getting sick. The boys are coughing their lungs out, noses running at a fast pace and we begin. The least sick kid, A, is waking every 20 min. At first I am sympathetic. I mean her brothers are coughing, so how can she sleep? I go in, I pat her, tuck her in, stroke her head. Worry a little because she usually cries the most the night before she gets sick so I know what's coming right?

Meanwhile, because my children are annoying, B has decided that every time I come into the room it must be for him. Even though his sister is the one screaming, it's him I must have come running to pat, right? So since I dare to go to her first he starts in. Whining, standing up, rattling his cage, fussing, and eventually, screaming. Sigh. So I get her settled and step over to settle him down. No sooner do I step away but her head pops up. I step back over to her crib and gently (or maybe not so gently) place her head back onto the mattress. B pops up and starts fussing again. I mean really? Am I supposed to stay calm and rational at this moment? Do you two really not realize that you are one of three yet? I will pat whichever of you needs it most at whatever time and you are to keep your little head down on your mattress and zip it!

So it carries on like this until I leave the room, hoping I've settled each somewhat enough. 20 minutes later, I'm back on it. A starts screaming her fool head off and I return. I check her all over for leaky diaper, poop, broken parts, scorpions, you name it. Nothing. Wrong. Fine, I still feel sorry for her because seemingly, even though when I stand over B he does not cough, the minute I leave the room his coughing starts up again. I'd venture to guess 'someone' is sitting up when I leave the room but since I'm not allowed to tie him to his mattress, so it will be.

From 2-4am I play this every 20 minutes game. I am patient, no? But you know what? I'm done. At 4 I am physically done, mentally finished and overall going to kill a child if I step back in that nursery again before morning officially begins so I hear her screaming like she's being skinned alive but I wait. She calms down on her own, I begin to drift off thinking maybe it's all over. Oh, there she goes again. She's winding up for the scream when B says 'da' to her. That's triplet speak for "I'm awake too, wanna play?" Or so I think I've translated. So here's what it sounds like:

"Aaaaaaahhh..." "da" "Aaaahhh, DA DA, Auuuuuggghhhaaaaauughghwahaaaaaahhh!"

I kid you not. She paused in her scream to respond to B happily and calmly, "da da" being triplet speak for "I'm up for playing!" only to return to her screaming now that that business was out of the way. I can not repeat here the words that came out of my mouth when I heard this. If that girl thinks I'm stupid enough to hear her talking with her brother about playing and still think she's dying of some unknown condition at 4am? That little girl is wrong. That little girl is such a faker! I can tell you, however, that I did NOT get out of bed again. And you know what? She was alive in the morning. Probably a better result than she deserved.

Free me!

There are so many triplet moms out there who do so much more with their kids than I do. I feel like I've been trapped inside my house for years since it started when I was an 800 lb pregnant woman. I mean, sure, we go to the park in the mornings and we've been to the zoo and the Discovery Museum in Sausalito (which rocks) but being on Facebook puts my life in a sad perspective. These women are off to lakeside cabins, barbecues, trips to mountains and beaches, playdates and relatives' houses far away.

What am I doing sitting on my arse? I thought it was a triplet thing that had me so homebound. You know, my usual shtick about how you all with the one baby can miss a nap and only have one crabby baby but I am NOT having three missed naps and crabby children. NOT. I mean I'm not insane right? Kids who have missed naps are miserable. Nightmarish even. They look like this:

Actually I have no pics of angry children because we never. miss. naps.

The one time I took a 'vacation' with the triplets about 3 hours north to a beach like area it felt like more work. I mean, I do have a nanny to help most mornings and on vacation? Not. So how is it a vacation when it's more work and harder than my 'regular' life? How would a lakeside cabin be any fun if I can't actually sit still on the porch and look at the lake? Except after bedtime? It just doesn't work for me. And as for barbecues, I'd have to run after children in someone's possibly unfenced backyard or a crowded beach area constantly. How do I enjoy that? I suppose friends would chip in and watch one or more kids for me while I stuff a little ribs in my face?

I mean I go to weddings where people get to bring their one beautiful moody baby but the couple can take turns. We can't! I couldn't get an appetizer down, much less a whole wedding dinner if I brought the triplets. So I guess I have to take my hat off to you much more adventuresome moms. You're amazing. You're fantastic! You're....out of your freaking minds! Or is there a trick? Tell me please? Because I have been counting the days until I can take the kids to carnivals and fairs and go on a freaking vacation and they still seem years away.

Oh but I AM going on a Disney cruise when I win the lottery. SO. AM.

Nurse...nurse?

Someone tell me, what is the point of putting one's elderly parent in a facility with nurses on staff if they don't do, well, nursing? I understand that what we are paying for is an assisted living facility, not a nursing home. I understand that my mom is there because she can care for herself. Mostly. However, I know there are sicker people there than her (at least physically) and I know the nurses must check up on them occasionally, I know the nurses are actual medical nurses too. So how can they be fine when a woman is descending into her 80th round of pneumonia just faxing a request to her doctor for some cough syrup and then forgetting about it?

I don't mean they waited a few hours. I mean they forgot about it. They faxed the doctor Friday morning. They're afraid to give her any cough syrup without his approval, which makes sense since she's on a cocktail of drugs that is hard to imagine already. However, she's had cough syrup before, so can't they just look that one up? Secondly, I understand also that Saturday and Sunday they could or would not be able to do anything because doctor offices close on the weekends. Fine. That still leaves the time between 4 and 5pm Friday to re-check why we haven't heard from anyone and be concerned that my mom will be there all weekend with nothing to assist her and THE. ENTIRE. DAY. OF. MONDAY.

Nothing happened Monday. Different nurse apparently, and apparently they don't talk to one another. Or leave post its. I mean is it real that the Monday nurse has to walk in knowing nothing from the Friday or Saturday before and figure it all out herself? And meanwhile, my mom, who is not entirely blameless herself, is slowly filling up with mucous while acting like she's fine all day. She's going to exercise class for the first time in weeks, heading over here to my house to cough all over my children and so on and doesn't think to herself, 'hmm, maybe I should call the nurse this morning to make sure they're still on the case.' No, that would be like asking for help. Which is against her personal bible of how to live life.

But I mean really! Nurse? You have a sick patient. Do you care? She is in your facility. What is your duty exactly? What are you there for? To distribute pills only? Because while you may count them out, I'm aware that you have actual assistants who carry the pills to rooms. So in between pill countings? What do you do? Read magazines? Because to fax and forget is very pharmacy of you. I fully expect a pharmacist not to care, although that pisses me off too. But you? You are supposed to act like you care about the people in the building. My mom is one of them. One of the more annoying ones perhaps, but still. Most people seem to like her. Why don't you take 5 minutes to go listen to her lungs? Call the doctor one more time. Fax them even for chrissake? Is it really too much to ask?

Birthed child pains

The pain of children doesn't end at childbirth. Sure, it was more direct during that pregnancy thing. Bladder kicks, stretching muscles and tendons, hemorrhoids, and the usual discomforts, not to mention the actual birthing process, I don't care how the baby or babies come out. It all hurts and it hurts a. lot. For some reason we choose to subject ourselves to it more than once quite frequently but we don't realize what we're in for in the long haul do we? The whole stinking process of raising kids is painful, and I'm not talking about the mental stuff!

First, there's the back breaking lifting and carrying and toting and rocking and walking of the baby or babies. My back hurt like hell during the first few months! I still don't now how women wear those baby carrier things, my shoulders would ache for days after. Sure, I had huge babies but people wear those with their babies all kinds of sizes and I just don't see how.

Next, at some point you baby proof and baby gates are in half the doors in the house. Baby gates are not for keeping kids in or out of a room, they're for torturing parents! Every time I walk in or out of a door I get a new bruise from knocking my thigh against the frame. I can't even open the things fast enough to keep from kicking the stupid gate on the way through. Unbelievable. Where's the stupid remote control that opens the door and slides the frame into the wall?

Then, inevitably, the kids decide you're a trampoline, punching bag, gym mat or whatever and start jumping on you, pounding on you, crawling all over you and generally treating you like a great big stuffed animal. Try telling them to be gentle when they realize that when they pound on your belly it jiggles in a very amusing way. Try getting them to stop jumping on you when they realize it's such a soft place to land. It just doesn't work.

Not to mention the endless round of unintentional head butts, book corner to cheek hits, plastic hammer whacks and random full on kicks by children not entirely sure how to coordinate their body parts yet. I have bruises all over, especially on my face, but that's probably because I'm stupid enough to lean in again and again while making smoochy smoochy noises to kiss bellies and faces and feet of flailing children. I suppose I'll never be able to resist. The learning curve is defeated by sheer hormonal attraction to baby belly. Ach.

I'm sure I've missed a few, but you get the general idea. Raising children is cause for many injuries, bruises, strains, headaches and general malaise. And I'm not even talking about the illnesses they give you. Cold after cold after flu after cold. Good gracious. I need a vacation.

On sleep

Speaking of evolutionary principles, what is the point of fighting one's bedtime till all hours when you know perfectly well you will be up at 6 am no matter when you fell asleep? It seems mighty counterintuitive seeing as how doctors have shown that inadequate sleep will affect you negatively in many ways. So why do toddlers fight their parents, sometimes for hours each night, about falling asleep in their beds and then spend the next day all bleary eyed and crabby for all to enjoy?

Of course it's not just the toddlers is it? How many of you adults out there fight your bedtime constantly? I say almost every day 'today I'm going to go to bed early because I feel like crap.' Does it happen? Oh no. Despite the fact that I know that my impatient, tired toddlers will be rattling their cages loudly and screaming starting as early as 6, I watch one more crappy show, read one more magazine, send one more email. I know I feel like my justification these days is that once the kids finally go to sleep I need a couple of hours to decompress but really? I'd feel better in the morning with less decompression and more sleep. And honestly? I didn't go to bed on time before I had kids.

So what is this about human nature? I'm a morning person and I still can't get into bed on time. So I spend my days dragging around trying to find the energy to play with three wildcats and rueing the lack of sleep I got last night, because in addition to my stupidity one or more babies may have had a bad night and awakened me 3 or 4 times for comforting, and I think to myself that there must be a reason we do this to ourselves? Perhaps the saber toothed tiger was on the prowl in early evening and we needed to be up to watch for it?

Indentured servitude

Independence day means so much to so many people but independence is such a flighty thing. Once you have kids you are just never independent again, are you? It's a weighty thought, that once you give birth to this living organism you will never (if you're lucky) be without them again. Yes, they'll grow up and move away (18 long years from now) but they're still with you.

Not being alone is a positive reason for having kids, because who wants to be old and alone at the nursing home with no visitors and having at least one kid does increase your chances of having someone visit, at least on holidays. Now, having three simultaneously like me also increases your chances of having a next generation too, who might forgive you much more easily for your parental transgressions (seeing as how they were not visited upon them) and might therefore be more likely to visit you in your stinky urine smelling cubicle of hell. So it's definitely advantageous to decide to have children even if it means losing your independence.

Because what are the advantages of independence after all? Freedom to go anywhere you want, whenever you want. Well that's pretty appealing. But what if you have no one to go with? No one to tell about your adventures once you return? So, can you wait on that until they go to college? Perhaps. Freedom to sleep in, stay up late, watch what you want, answer the phone or not, walk around naked in the house. Well that's appealing too, but for how many years? We all stayed up late and slept in during college and some after. Was it really that great? Or was half the day gone before you got up and you were kind of groggy and out of place all day because your schedule is all off and it's hard to go to bed the next night and so on. So, perhaps we can sleep in on mother's day and when the kids are at camp and make it through 18 years that way?

Freedom to go out to dinner without hiring a babysitter, see a movie at the spur of a moment, run away for the weekend together and keep your marriage in good repair. Well, there's a lot of pull to that one. But what would it all feel like with no one to come home to who was missing you? No one who idolizes you, thinks you rock (well for now at least, leave me in my fantasy) wants to throw themselves upon you physically so they can slime you with snot and drool but make you feel like a million bucks? I don't know, it makes marriage hard, but it adds something too. You see a part of your partner you never would have seen otherwise. The nurturing father, the gentle caregiver, the guy who knows how to make them laugh while they're crying. The guy who took care of you while you were recovering from the worst c-section ever and never let on he was concerned. How would you have known about that part of him? You never would have fallen that much more in love with him without kids.

So maybe independence is overblown. I'm pretty sure when I sit and dream about what life was like before kids I might be rosying things up a bit. I'm pretty sure it wasn't all escapes to Napa B&Bs and moonlight beach walks. I'm also sure that I'm going to forget what it was like without kids soon and imagine that life without them would be pretty empty, just hubby and me. Sure I still fight for a few hours here and there alone, I will never not be independent in my soul. But every time I find my quiet time interrupted by these amazing, smiling, laughing, loving, hugging crazies I call my triplets, I forget I was annoyed by the interruption. Bah, independence. Let the revolution happen somewhere else. I'm fine with my servitude.

Compare and contrast

How my children are like my mom, or vice versa:

1. They use a walker occasionally, to practice walking.

2. They are very picky eaters and usually don't like what's being served by 'the house.'

3. They usually have to be told something 8 times and very sternly before they follow the instruction. Sometimes they still don't follow it.

4. They pretty much do what they want when they want to despite my best efforts.

5. They rarely consult me before invading my space or life.

6. They always get what they want.

7. They are always a mystery when trying to figure out what is wrong with them physically or mentally.

8. They don't like being taken care of but still cry/ask for it to be done and then act all stubbornly independent regardless.

9. They cry for me at inappropriate times of the night and day.

10. They don't listen to me, although I think I've already covered that above.

11. They constantly need to be entertained.

12. They require tons of shopping, paperwork, management, and general time sucking energy.

13. You have to love them anyways.

Thankfully, the kids are cheerful, pleasant, playful, fun and relaxed most of the time. I really do have great kids.

She's got legs...

Its amazing that day after day my brain continues to think I'm 25. I will be walking down the street on any average day, well not an average day because I usually dress and feel like some kind of schlumpf, but on a day when I've actually gotten dressed and feel somewhat 'together,' and I will see some young hot dude approaching or a set of them sitting on a wall that I will have to pass and I will girly up and get ready to suck in the gut and walk past feeling kinda cute.

But then it hits me. That voice of reality, which seems to be a young black girl for some reason, says "Giiiirrrrrlll, you ain't 25 no more. You are 37, post triplets, and in clothes with cat hair and toddler snot on your shoulders." Ugh. Might as well punch me in the stomach. I deflate, I try to manage the mess a little bit, stomach still sucked in, pull hair across face, put purse on mucus covered shoulder to disguise. But it's amazing how easily I forget! And the funny thing is that when I was 25 I couldn't wait to be 30. Apparently my brain got stuck back there though. I'm continually amazed to find lines on my face and, when the hair dye starts to fade, grey hairs prolific in my scalp!

I know that a lot of women love their 50s, at least according to Oprah, and I'm wondering does one's brain finally catch on to the age you are at that point? Because as long as my brain keeps thinking I'm 25 I'm going to keep being disappointed when I look down at the truth as I'm walking down the street. Or in the windows of the shops I'm passing. Which used to be a fun thing to do, see how cute I look walking by in my new miniskirt outfit and heels. Good gracious, no miniskirts now. No sirree. If I happen to turn into one of those ladies who tries to dress 25 despite my age? Please, I admonish you all to slap me. I know it might make me cry, but it's better than looking like an ass.

Bad, Bad Babies

Why do children make the scariest sounds all the time and think it's hilarious? Right now I'm sitting in my living room watching CNN's all Michael Jackson all the time tv and listening to the baby monitors whereupon my daughter (A) is making choking and gasping noises while B laughs hysterically. I had to mute my friendly MJ tributes to listen closer. What if she had started choking on an eye from a stuffed animal that she gnawed off in typical animalistic fashion? How would I know?

But the bigger question is, how many more months will they think that gasping/choking noises are funny? I mean they have the attention span of gnats, how do they remember this same 'joke' for months? And why doesn't it hurt their throats like it does mine if I try to emulate them? I suppose when one's vocalizations are limited to non-word utterances, one finds unusual ways to make jokes? Perhaps I should relish this time as the inevitable endless knock knock jokes are on their way and fart and poop jokes will follow shortly after. Three times. But when you're driving up the highway to grandma's house and almost drive off the road while whipping your head around to verify that your child (C) is not, in fact, choking on his spit, it is just not acceptable! Someone is going to get hurt. And I'm not talking about spanking.

This old house

Oh my poor house. First it has to suffer the indignities of three cats. Peeing in closets, barfing on stairs and under beds, pooping just slightly out of the litter box on the bathroom floor. What a life. This beautiful 1914 sophisticated house with original wood floors and doors and plaster walls. It was not built for a cat loving woman who lets animals be animals and presumes that if a cat is misbehaving it is the human's fault. How horribly unfitting for a grande dame of a house to have furballs ruling the roost.

But then it gets worse. Babies arrive. Not just one cute manageable tug with some misplaced drooling and smelly diapers but three. Three drooling, running, pooping, eating, food throwing, tissue scattering, cat chasing, garbage eating, sticky fingered children. Unmanageable. Except by the rule of gates and bars on the windows and locks and catches screwed into the original wood work on each door. Plaster drilled into and abused for the cause of children not falling down stairs, climbing up stairs, sticking fingers into kitchen appliances, touching breakables, opening windows, cracking open heads or generally not getting into places they are not allowed.

So here I sit in the prison that has been made out of a beautiful home. Gate after gate in door after door and stairwells as well. Latches made for smarter people than I, window gates, doorknob protectors and so on wondering, how the heck am I ever going to sell this house to anyone else with all these holes in it?