in a week

I have determined that the protocol for nursing triplets is vastly different than nursing a singleton. Taking large doses of Fenugreek and pumping after every nursing session, will not just insure that you have a sufficient milk supply ... it will also insure that you gain 20 pounds in each boob. And you will quickly resemble a maple tree oozing sap - unless you sport little coasters in your brassiere.

I have noticed that maternity style bikini cut undergarments, however comfortable during pregnancy, are the absolute worst thing imaginable when you are recovering from a c-section. I have devoted several hours over the past two days to searching the internet for underwear that come up to my arm pits. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

I have learned that if you are going to pop Vicodin like candy, to dull the pain of your surgery, it is wise to also pop prunes like candy. Unless feeling your insides turn to concrete ranks high on your list of enjoyable activities.

Following closely on the heels of the learning above, I have discovered that if you are going to pop prunes like candy, you might also want to ingest a few Gas-X. Otherwise, it will feel like your gut is going to explode.

I was tricked in to believing that a newborn who sleeps four hours one night and six hours the next night is not on track to sleep eight hours the third night. Rather, they will most likely wake up every single hour, on the hour, for the next two nights in a row.

I was equally tricked in to believing that Elizabeth who went poop on the potty and William who went pee-pee on the potty were successfully potty trained. Rather today, when I noticed that one of the kids had gone poop in their diaper, instead of wanting the pomp and circumstance that surrounds flushing a poop down the toilet, everyone started pointing fingers at each other. When William tried to blame our house for going poo-poo, I gave up on the dream that this task would be accomplished before my mother flies home in early August.

I have woken up, in a cold sweat with the chattering chills, every night for the past five nights thinking that I am going to die. Alas, I am not dying, I am just going through the hormonal "realignment" that follows child birth. This is the exact same reason watching the nightly news makes me weep uncontrollably and realizing that we are out of beer and pastrami - two apparent necessities for a lactating mother - sends me into a sobbing abyss.

I have come to expect that the A&E repairman who showed up at our door today to "fix" our crappy dishwasher, is not really going to fix it. Instead, he is going to tell us that the part that he was suppose to have in his truck must have been removed by an extra terrestrial being and he'll need to order another part. And just maybe, he might be able to come back out and fix the dishwasher tomorrow. But most likely, it won't be until the end of next week. Unless he gets sucked up in a space ship before then.

Right now, I'm betting our toddlers will be potty trained before the damn thing gets fixed.

I have witnessed, first hand, how adorable toddlers can turn in to hell on wheels around their grandparents. Particularly when they know that their grandparents will cave and feed them ice cream cones at mid day. Maybe a few days in the hospital made me forget just how challenging three 2.5-year olds can be. It's a toss-up what I've been repeating more of ... "If you bite, Mommy will bite you!!" ... or ... "Don't drink Mommy's beer!!" SHE NEEDS IT FOR HER SANITY!!!

Of all the things I have seen, heard and learned this week, the best part was having our children meet their baby brother for the first time. Once the novelty of that experience wore off (in about five minutes, give or take two) I discovered that the hospital had expanded cable.

And the Wiggles were on.