eating at one

I'm working on a rather lengthy 12 (and 13) month in review post for Henry, but because my goal is to be off the computer every night by no later than 10:30 and the in review post that I'm working on will never be finished in 25 minutes, this is a little something I thought I'd share, in the meantime.

One thing is for sure about one-year-olds: they know what they like and what they don't like. Take for instance, Henry.

Henry likes watermelon.

Henry likes watermelon a lot.


Notice, Mom, all that seems to remain is the rind. Surely we have more.

Henry doesn't like when we run out of watermelon.

It tends to make him a little unhappy.

OK, it tends to make him a lot unhappy.

Henry doesn't like when chocolate chip is out of his reach.

Henry doesn't like when brownies are out of his reach, either.

Henry is always happy when he's eating ice cream.


Until it's all gone.

But wait one minute, I'm certain there were TWO cartons in the freezer!!

better than a pep rally

We went to church today.

It's been several months since we've attended church because the children get sick (almost) every time we go. But it was a good decision to attend this morning, because I don't think we've ever been in need of a church sermon as much as we were today.

Without going in to all the gory details, this morning - before 9:00 AM - Charlie and I both declared that our marriage had suddenly morphed in to something hardly recognizable anymore. We couldn't pinpoint the exact reason we were short with each other, and why we felt so frustrated with everything at that particular moment, but the weight of our responsibilities was suddenly too much.

We were angry.

We were vocal.

I noticed that the windows were open and we were speaking IN LOUD TONES but it didn't matter. Who in our neighborhood wouldn't understand that the family with lots and lots of small children and a hacking dog needs to have a good shoutfest every so often?

We have issues. Most of them (if not all) surrounding the offspring that we wanted and prayed for since the start of our marriage. You know, those little things we call children.

Children that don't sleep well. Children that don't nap well. Children that don't poop well. Children that wake up in the middle of the night and decide to wake up their siblings and they all jump out of bed and unload their chest of drawers and try on new clothes and then come wake up their parents to start the day and the parents crawl out of bed before seeing the clock and realizing that it is only 3:45 AM.

Children that destroy things. Children that make new messes faster than we can clean the last one up. Children that grow fast and need new beds and new clothes and new shoes. Children that don't eat. Children that talk back. Children that tease. Children that whine. Children that scream and scream and scream. Children that run away in the parking lot. Children that open the deadbolt on the front door and wander out in to the yard. Children that overflow the bathroom sink. Children that wash their dishes and have a teaparty with water from the toilet.

Children that generate 20 loads of laundry a week because they like to change their own clothes five times a day - and throw their barely worn clothes in a hamper with dirty bar mops. Children that take up almost all of our free time as a couple. Children that take up almost all of our free time for ourselves. Children that take up almost all of our expendable income. Children that have firmly planted themselves in our home and are here to stay.

Children.

When Charlie told me that all he wanted was for the weekend to be over so that he could get back to work, it struck me. That's not the way it should be. Heaven knows, I don't want the weekend to be over because then it will just be me and the CHILDREN.

I didn't know where we were going this morning when I got the children dressed and put on my tevas. I didn't know where we would end up when I grabbed the diaper bag and ordered every one to get in to the car. I didn't know where we spend the morning as we pulled out of the driveway and left our neighborhood.

But as soon as we saw the church and realized that it was Sunday, we knew.

We arrived more than an hour before the sermon was scheduled to begin, but since the nursery school was staffed, we dropped off our children and headed for the sanctuary. Because we were early and there were people setting up the stage for the service, we felt a little awkward sitting in the back, or inconspicously off to the side, as we normally do. But once we made eye contact with the singers who were doing sound-checks, we moved down to the front and sat in the center of the row.

For what seemed like a long while, we sat and talked. We watched people file in and take up the chairs around us. We listened to the prerecorded music that is piped in until the band takes the stage. And during this time, we both came to the conclusion that our marriage is sinking fast.

If we don't do something to stay afloat, we are both going to drown.

Finally, our church's praise band took the stage. They are such an awesome band every time I hear them, I feel the worries of the world that I carry around in my heart, slough away. And because their talent is so powerful, and the slideshows that they flash on the screen to accompany their music are so beautiful, every time I hear them, I am moved to tears.

So there I was, sitting in the third row - center - bawling. Thinking about my family, thinking about all the things that I wish were different. Looking at the photographs on the big screens of waves crashing on the beach and thunderclouds moving through the desert. Thinking about my sisters and my father and my dog. Thinking about my role as a friend, mother, daughter and wife. Thinking that although people might think that I'm amazing or inspirational, on the inside I feel like I am failing colossally.

Within five minutes of the minister taking the podium, I knew that God had led us to church today. We didn't know where we were going to end up when we pulled out of our driveway, but as soon as the sermon began, we knew that this is where we supposed to be.

I've always been a somewhat spiritual person, but ever since we've had children, I have become even more so. I hang on to spirituality and prayer like a life line. I've never been one to quote Bible verses and have always felt awkward when someone does. But I think that's because I grew up in a Catholic family and that wasn't something that anyone in my family ever did.

I don't think we even owned a Bible.

But today, when our pastor was reading verses from the Bible, it struck me. Today, when I felt like my marriage was on the verge of collapse and my children were running me in to an early grave, what I heard was exactly what I needed to hear.

All I kept thinking was "Wow, that sounds like a pretty accurate description of what I'm going through right now. And that, too. And that. And that. And ... hey ... how in the world ... this is pretty damn good ... who wrote this book, anyway?"

These are just some of the notes that I was able to furiously jot down, through my tears.

Parents lead and children follow.

Children, obey your parents in the Lord for this is right. Ephesians 6:1

Children grow, then they go. Prioritize your family. A healthy relationship between the parents must be the first priority.

For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and will be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh. Genesis 2:24

Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her. (Even when they are being totally bitchy and you wish they'd just GO away). Ephesians 5:25 (& Jen 8/3/08.)

Practice loving discipline because otherwise, children can morph in to little sinners that will divide and conquer.

A refusal to correct is a refusal to love; love your children by discipling them. Proverbs 13:24

Children are not wired to be in charge. If they were, we would eat cupcakes every night for dinner and candy every morning for breakfast.

God had made these children, they are made in His image, not yours.

Train a child in the way he should go. Proverbs 22:6

Discipline is for the future, not punishment for the past.

Prepare for the journey and know that you might get lost a time or two. Or twenty two hundred. Children are on loan from the Lord.

Children are a gift from the Lord. Psalm 127:3

As soon as you figure it out, it changes. There are seasons in life. The house. The kids. The marriage. The career. It isn't all going to be perfect. Let go and relax. And enjoy.

There were nods and murmurings throughout the congregation. I looked at my husband and it struck me that all of these challenges that we are facing with juggling our lives and marriage and career and family - we are not alone.

We are not alone in trying to be the best parent and spouses that we can be.

We are not alone in feeling that everything is too much for us to handle at times.

We are not alone in feeling that we could be better.

We are not alone in feeling that the responsibility of raising children that make a positive contribution to society is entirely upon our shoulders.

We are not alone when we shrug off the credit paid for the things our children do right, and severely blame ourselves for the things that they do wrong.

With very rare exception, every couple that we know who have gone through a divorce have done so once they have had children. Of course the parents will tell the children as they grow older that it was not "their" fault that mommy and daddy split up.

But quite often, I believe it is.

Not the actual child's fault perhaps, but the introduction of children in to a marriage and the subsequent inability of the parents to successfully manage the change. They are unable to keep the focus, the priority, on the marriage. Because there are only so many hours in a day and so much laundry to do and bills to pay and blogs to read and shows to watch - the marriage is put on the backburner, indefinitely.

Romance fades away.

Communication begins to falter.

And before you know it, you are talking two different languages and unable to get along.

To me, that's what it's about. It's about knowing how to manage your married life once you have children. It's about keeping the focus on your marriage, regardless of what obstacles or challenges your offspring - or life - may throw in your way.

Charlie and I: We are on the same team. But we have got to work harder on our zone defense. We have got to work better on our communication skills and treating each other with respect (that applies to me, mostly).

It may not be easy to be tactful with your spouse when they give your baby a sippy cup full of whole milk just before bedtime when it feels like you've got ripe cantaloupes on your chest, but it's important that you are. It's especially important that you don't say something like "How 'bout I knee you in the crotch so that you have a good understanding of what this feels like?"

For us, we are making the commitment to spend some time together, every night. We are going to read the book, The Five Love Languages together, and we are going to be more in love than we were when we united in marriage, 14 years ago, this week.

I predict there will be a lot of kissing.

confessions of a triplet mother

Charlie took the children out to lunch and then to a matinée to see the new Pixar film Wall-E, today. Henry and I had three hours together.

Three hours.

In the middle of the day.

Instead of taking a leisurely stroll on the beach, or completing the grocery shopping, or taking a nap, or painting the exterior ... I cleaned the house from top to bottom while Henry crawled around after me.

The whole time, all 180 minutes of it, I was absolutely giddy with happiness.

I can't effectively express the sense of satisfaction it gave me to tidy up a room, leave that room, and walk back in to that room 10 minutes later and it was still neat. For three full hours, I had nothing to do but whatever my heart desired. Which, today, it was all about cleaning the house.

I was so obsessed excited that I pulled out the Q-tips and scoured the tracks for our closet doors. Where does all this goop come from?


The moment I finished cleaning and was putting away all of my supplies and preparing to sit down and read Henry a book ... the front door burst open and in came Charlie with the wrecking crew children in tow.

Sure, it was good to see that they all arrived home safely ... but try as I might, I couldn't suppress the "Oh damn!" that slipped out as soon as I heard them arrive.

As suspected, within 30 minutes, the house was a disaster.

I was breaking up fights, sending children in to time out, and my ear drums started to bleed from all the whining. The only thing that kept me from going ABSOLUTELY NUTS is that I caught a glimpse of the calendar and remembered that Montessori starts next month.

Thirty-one days from now. 732 hours. Not like I'm counting, or anything. Because I'm sure I'll miss them terribly for those three hours a day. (Although probably not the first or second day.) (Or anytime within the first month).


But ... for three hours a day, I'll be free.

FREE!

Thank God Almighty, I'll be free!

Am I the only one that can hear "Gloria! Gloria in Excelsis Deo!"?

favorite thing friday

Every so often, Charlie will come home from the store with "something" that he thinks is so absolutely cool that he just had to have it. Two and a half out of ten times, he's right on the mark and whatever purchase he made is so great ... we'll look at each other and ask "How did we live with out this item in our lives, before?" A few months ago, my husband made one of those 2.5 out of 10 purchases.

It's a Nordicware two-burner reversible griddle.


You can buy one online, or pick one up at Costco for $25.00.

Although we have an electric griddle that works fine, what I love about this griddle is that it is very easy to clean, it neatly stores with our cookie sheets, it has a perfectly flat cooking surface for a variety of foods that makes it a million times better than a frying pan, we can cook large quantities, and we use it all the time.

As, in ... DAILY.

Our kitchen is instantly transformed in to a bistro when we bring this thing out.

We make french toast...


Grilled cheese, quesadillas and tuna melts...


And if we flip it over, we could use the opposite side for burgers, chicken, or fish.


Mostly though, we use it to make pancakes.


We eat a lot of pancakes at our house.


Yesterday, my friend Jessica sent me an e-mail asking if I knew how to make pancakes that weren't black on the outside and raw on the inside. And because I am married to such a phenomenal, outgoing, peace-loving cook, Charlie jumped at the chance to share his pancake recipe and cooking technique. Right after he ingested a couple cups of coffee.


To make Charlie's pancakes, you will need:

1½ cups flour (we use whole wheat or All Purpose)
3½ teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1¼ cups milk
1 teaspoon of vanilla
1 egg
Butter for greasing the griddle.

(Notice I've discovered more than one use for the butter crock.)

Mix everything together.


To add a twist to the recipe, you can either mash a banana and add that to the batter ... throw in a cup of blueberries ... or add a dash of cinnamon before cooking. As far as I'm concerned, cinnamon makes everything a little better.

If we could infuse cinnamon in to the global drinking water supply, I'm convinced the world would be a happier place.


If you wanted to make waffles (you'd need a waffle iron, of course), just add 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil to the batter recipe, above.

We use a laddle and pour approximately ¼ cup of batter for each pancake on to the griddle, which has been greased with butter. Sometimes we'll make "silver-dollar" sized pancakes for the children which require ~ two tablespoons worth of batter.

Now, Jessica.

The key to cooking pancakes that are not burned on the outside and raw on the inside is to cook them on medium to low heat. Whatever you do, don't rush the pancakes.


Once the pancakes start to bubble, they are ready to be flipped.


Bubbles. You are looking for an even distribution of bubbles. And then ... FLIP.

They should be golden brown on the side you flipped. You'll only need to cook them, once flipped for another three or so minutes and BAM, they're done.


Although we will serve our pancakes with maple syrup (or it's derivative that is mixed with high fructose corn syrup, cellulose gum, caramel color, salt, sodium benzoate, sorbic acid, artificial flavors and sodium hexametaphosphate and comes under the label of AUNT JEMIMA) one of my favorite ways to "finish" a pancake is something we picked up from our good friends Paul and Jill 10 years ago while we were on a camping trip in Death Valley.

It was a real turning point for us to see people cooking GOOD food in the wilderness. Because whenever our friends broke out a griddle and whipped cream, we pledged to ourselves and the Universe that we would never eat dried out granola bars and dehydrated meatloaf and mashed potatoes around the campfire, again. The very next time we ventured in to the great outdoors and slept in a tent, we made ice cream and flaming organic peach crêpes.

Now I never thought that peanut butter would taste good on pancakes ... but this concoction is heavenly. Just smother the top of your pancake with peanut butter ...


And then, break out a can of whipped cream.


Spray the whipped cream generously on the top of the pancakes, add a dash of cinnamon (unless it's in the batter because although cinnamon is divine, too much of a good thing ain't so good) and a fresh sprig of flowers.


Our children love peanut butter and whipped cream pancakes. They can't eat them fast enough.


And I love fresh flowers.

In a world that is often filled with toddler chaos, a little dash of color on a plate makes it seem so ... so ... classy.


And you know we're all about class around here.

wednesday weigh in

This has been a tough week.

I've been thinking a lot about our dog Molly, who will be 14 in December.


One day I think that she is on her last legs and we need to put her down, the next day, she is bouncing around like a puppy. Still, she is losing control of her bladder and our garage absolutely reeks. Every time I to outside to see her - or get something from the refrigerator - I have to hold my nose. My life will be a whole lot easier when she is gone, but just thinking about her being gone makes me sad.

It's weak, but I cannot get myself to take my dog in to the vet as she is wagging her tail and looking up at me with her big gentle brown eyes with the intention of saying "Goodbye." But yet, I also don't want her health to deteriorate to the point where she is laying in her own waste and unable to move. I'm worried because I know this is something I should probably do, but I can't.

Then there's my father.

When I talked to him today, he sounded awful, probably the worst I've ever heard him. He is going through a difficult time in life and is very upset that his new friend, Mary, is not being accepted by the family. There is no doubt that he - and those that have helped him - have been through a lot. He has Parkinson's and his divorce, in which he lost a large chunk of his estate, is not yet finalized.

Within the past few months, Mary has begun to spend more and more time with my father. She is with him every day (and every night) and the concern is that she (and her son) are after my father for his money.

People need money to survive, but dang whenever it's around, it sure does cause a lot of problems.

I've heard both sides of the story and I don't know what to think or believe any more. I know that dad is not getting any younger and I know that his health is not going to improve. I also know that Mary makes him happy. From what I could see when I was visiting, she genuinely cares for him and sincerely, at this point, I can't think of anything that is more important that that.

Dad says that he is tying what remains of his estate in to an irrevocable trust, so there is no need to worry. But I do. Because as the youngest child, it's a part of who I am. I don't worry about the money as much as I worry about the genuine love and acceptance that my father has in what remains of his life.

Then there's my sister Mary who is going through radiation for breast cancer and from what my family tells me, she is having a very difficult time of it. I still haven't written to her. But I'll do that, tonight.

Then there's my sister Beth's very good friend, Craig, who fell 12-feet off a ladder and broke his neck and back and ribs. It's a miracle that he survived the fall. He was just moved to a rehab facility in Boston and my brother-in-law started a blog for him.

Then there's work.

And four small children.

And potty training.

And ice cream bowls that are too small.

Then there is my mom's fiancé, Jim, a wonderful man who I've known for the past 30 years. Late last week, he collapsed while eating out at a restaurant with my mother and their friends and had to be taken off to the hospital in an ambulance. He spent the night in the hospital and was treated for dehydration before being discharged the following day. He's home now. But I'm worried because I love the guy and he has to watch our children in less than a month when we participate in our triathlon.

And then there's our triathlon.

Which is the point of this post.

Last week I finally got myself in to the pool and I swam 1300 meters. The race will only require for me to swim 500 meters, but there is a big difference between swimming in a shark and current-free pool and swimming in a shark and current-abundant ocean, so I'm trying to add more distance to each swim so I'm more prepared for "race day."

What I figured out is that if I swim the side-stroke, I can go forever. Moreover, I think that the side-stroke makes me look less like a seal. Especially if I'm wearing my neon blue Speedo bathing suit with bright yellow swim cap and hot pink goggles.

Oh yes. I look good. But in a way that is unlike anything you've ever seen gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated.

On Sunday I rode my bicycle 12 (very hilly) miles with our neighbor and then Charlie and I ran two (very hilly) miles together on Monday night, with the children. He pushed two in our double BOB jogging stroller and I pushed the other two in our bike trailer with the stroller conversion.

My athletic husband, who ran a marathon a few years ago, was galloping ahead and I was trying desperately to catch him. I thought I was doing pretty well. As I was running up a hill pushing 80 pounds worth of stroller and children, William piped up "Mom, what are you doing?" and I breathlessly answered "I'm running!" He paused for a moment before laughing, "No you're NOT!!"

Lesson for the week: Nothing helps to boost a downed morale like endorphins. And nobody keeps you humble like a three-year-old.

********

Anyone that leaves me a comment telling me how they are doing with their goals, will be entered in to a contest to win a CD compilation of my all-time favorite bust-a-move work out music. Trust me. You'll love it.

Almost as much as you'll love the new ice cream bowls I'll probably send you, too.

sadly, this dish didn't break

There was a magnitude 5.4 earthquake in Southern California today.

I was sitting in a business meeting and felt the building that we were in start to shake. The epicenter was about three hours north of our house so everyone and everything is fine.

Thanks to those who called or sent us an e-mail asking why we still live in California where the ground shakes, the buildings collapse and there are out-of-control wildfires.

I've been in a dozen or so earthquakes in the 17 years I've lived in California. Thus far, we've been fortunate to never sustain any property damage - or bodily injury.

Tonight Charlie showed me what our "new" ice cream bowls look like, because apparently he thinks that we eat "too much" ice cream and need to start living a "healthier lifestyle" and all we need is a "taste" to satisfy our craving, so he took the liberty of packing up our vats bowls and moving them to the garage.


After filling this tiny cup up five times, I am now the kind of person that eats ice cream directly out of the carton.

(While hiding in a closet.)

finding grace

Before they were born, while they were still fetuses entirely dependent upon my body, my daughters have had distinct personalities.

The baby that the doctors referred to as "baby C' was my smallest and the most active girl, flip flopping around and kicking her siblings on their heads with her tiny feet. "Baby B" was always larger and very rarely moved. She was content to lay still while her sister did tumbling passes in the adjacent placenta.

Yet while they were in utero, I had already determined what they would be named and had deciphered my daughter's personalities.

Baby C would have a bubbly demeanor. She would be constantly on the move, never content to sit still. She would smile at everyone she meets and be the life of the party. She would be the first to crawl, first to walk, first to do everything.

Baby B would be more laid back. She would be slower than her sister to do things. She would be more withdrawn and have reservations about every one that she meets. If there was a party raging poolside, she would be more content to stay at home with me.

When our children were born, it really surprised me that "baby B" was the smallest of the trio.


It surprised me that she was so active, even as a 3-pound preemie, whereas baby C, the baby that I thought would be so active, was perfectly content to sleep.


I thought for sure it would have been the other way around.

The notable difference in their size and personalities continued to puzzle me as we brought our children home from the hospital. Baby B - Elizabeth Jeanne - would hardly eat and squirm constantly; whereas Baby C - Carolyn Grace - would polish off all of her bottles and sleep soundly.

Several months after they were born, when we were comparing their growth charts, Charlie and I confirmed, without a doubt, that our girls had been switched at birth.

The baby that in utero, we knew as baby C - the smallest and most active of the trio - was born immediately after her brother. Once we discovered that they had been mixed up, I realized that the predictions I had made about my daughter's personalities while they were in my womb, could not have been more accurate.

Elizabeth is a social butterfly and it downright scares me how she will talk to anyone. As she was active on the inside, she is active on the outside. This child never stops moving. She rarely eats, and yet is a ball of energy. She has a gentle demeanor and adores her baby brother. She was the first to crawl, first to walk and first to potty train. I think that if William had not been blocking her exit, she would have been the first to be born.

Carolyn is very shy and withdrawn. She is extremely cautious and will not approach any one that she doesn't know. Whenever we go out, she will stay by my side, and frequently, hang off my leg. She is jealous of her baby brother and will snatch toys away from him. Where her sister will eat two bites and ask to be excused from the table, Carolyn will sit and eat every last morsel on her plate ... before asking if she can have what her sister didn't finish. She is four-inches taller than Elizabeth and 12 pounds heavier. She was the last to crawl, last to walk, and still shows no interest in being "fully" potty-trained.

That last issue, the issue of potty training, has been very difficult for me. Almost as difficult as the way she hides under my shirt in public and knocks her baby brother down whenever he comes near.

Because Carolyn has been so adamantly opposed to going poop in the potty, her refusal is beginning to negatively affect my attitude towards her. I simply don't have the same level of patience or compassion that I once had, and I find myself saying and thinking things that are less than kind.

I am frustrated beyond belief.

Now if someone were to tell me about their stubborn child who refuses to potty train, I would tell them to relax. I would say that it will happen when it happens and until then *shrug* there's not much you're going to do about it.

But when I've got two other children, the exact same age, that have been potty trained for several months ... and one that is going through a regression of monumental proportions ... it's difficult to stay level headed. It's difficult to not want to pick your child up and compress their belly like a tube of frosting - squeezing that poop clean out.

Six people have now told me that the key to having a stubborn child have a successful evacuation on the toilet, is to put the child on the potty and keep them there until they poop.

I tried that once before and after a solid two hours and a tiny poop, I hadn't done it again. And since I've got so many activities happening on any given day and I'm often managing my time in mere seconds, I don't want to sit around waiting for hours and hours for a child to defecate.

But one day last week, I was at my wits end.

So on Wednesday night - and again Thursday night - I sat my daughter on the toilet.

The first night it took an hour. The second night it took four and a half hours. I suspected that Child Psychologists the world over would tell me that this approach is WRONG. I suspected that my callousness in ignoring my little girl's pleas of "I'm tired!!" would land her in therapy. I suspected that the vast majority of the civilized population would say that this is a cruel thing to do to a child.

But, there I was.

She was doing this holding-of-the-poop thing to spite me and I was NOT going to lose. It was a war of wills and I would triumph. The poop that had been daylighting since earlier that morning, was no longer longer poop, it was sh*t, and I was tired of cleaning it out of underwear, seeing it, smelling it, and otherwise thinking about it.

I was determined that it was coming out in the pot.

Not in a diaper.

Not in underwear.

Not in pieces on her hand - which she might then wipe on our linen shower curtain.

Thursday night, I put her on the potty at 8:00 PM. Four and a half hours later at 12:30 AM, my daughter finally did go poop. It came out once she fell asleep.

All weekend I was upset over my actions on Thursday night.

I was upset that I would force my little girl to sit on a potty to go poop, when it was clear that she absolutely did not want to. I was upset that I would tell her the next time I see her knock her baby brother down - or hit him with a block - I was going to do the same thing, to her. I was upset that I have been so disappointed with her in almost everything that she does.

I was upset that I had less than favorable feelings about my daughter as a manifestation of the frustration that she was not doing this one thing that I really wanted her to do.

When our daughters were born, it didn't matter to me who was named what. But I find it interesting that the child that I always thought would be Carolyn Grace, my baby C, is in fact baby B.

After some soul searching this weekend, I'm certain that it was no mix-up that my daughters were born when they were. I have decided that it was a case of divine intervention that my girls came out when they did. Because if Carolyn was born when she was "supposed" to be born, she would have been named Elizabeth Jeanne. But because their names had been picked out well in advance of their birth, the angels on high must have known that the child that would really need her mother's grace, was baby B.

My Gracie.

I have decided that instead of being frustrated with her, I must shower her with love. I must spend more one-on-one time with her and not completely lose my cool whenever she does something that I think she knows is wrong.

Above all, I must show her grace.

I have also decided (again) that pooping in the potty isn't going to happen until Gracie decides that it should happen. I can only hope that it will happen before I am eligible for the AARP. Until then, I am putting her in diapers - all day every day - because she and I have both cleaned enough poop out of underwear to last a lifetime.

favorite thing friday

There are very few things that really gross me out.

Actually, I just started thinking about that statement and it's not entirely true. My idea of fishing is to hold the rod. I need to have someone else put bait on the line - and then, have someone else take any fish off the line that I may have caught. Touching the bait - or a live fish - makes me queasy. And the time that I stepped barefoot on a snail when I was 18 years old, still to this very day, makes me nauseous. Almost 20 years later, I can still hear the crack and feel the slimy jagged ooze between my toes.

But almost more than either of those things, the one thing that really grosses me out is old sponges. Old stinky kitchen sponges.

A few years ago, I watched a show on Oprah about a woman who lived in absolute squalor. She never cleaned her bathroom, never cleaned her kitchen, never cleaned her house. She had the same sponge in her kitchen that was at least five years old that she used to wipe down her dishes and her counters.

A team of scientists - including mold and mildew experts - went in to this woman's house and collected samples from her rugs, bath mats, counter tops, and curtains. They bagged up her nasty old sponge and took it back to their lab for an evaluation. And although I remember feeling really grossed out with the state of this woman's living space, what I remember most from that show is that her kitchen sponge was loaded with E. coli and salmonella.

I can only imagine how bad it smelled.

Growing up, I remember my family would always throw sponges in the washing machine every few days to clean them. The average life of a sponge was at least a year. If not a decade or two. Even now my mother has sponges in circulation that I recognize from high school.  The sponges are clean, I'm sure of it, but I never did understand reusing something that I considered to be disposable. The quality of the sponge was degraded. 

So once I landed my first job and collected my first paycheck, one of the very first purchases I made was to buy NEW sponges for my apartment. Once every couple of weeks, I'd break out a new sponge and throw the old one away. It was and still is a great treat for me to open up a brand spanking new sponge.

Up until recently, I would use a sponge for washing dishes and wiping down counters. But when my mother noticed that some of her friends were using bar mops, she ran out to the store and bought me a pack.

Now, I use bar mops exclusively for wiping down and drying our counters, and I use sponges exclusively for washing dishes. At the end of the day, I toss my used bar mops in to the wash and pull out a clean one for the next day.

My sponges still go in to the trash after two weeks or when they get stinky, which ever comes first. But after reading this article, I have also started running our sponges under water and then, sticking them in the microwave for one minute to zap any bacteria.

Here's a link where you can purchase bar mops. I really like the William Sonoma brand. I also really like William Sonoma dish towels. In my opinion, they are the highest quality dish towels around. We've had ours for five years and counting. Come to think of it, I really like pretty much everything from this store.

Almost as much as I like clean bacteria-free counters.

wednesday weigh in

I think it's important that I be honest and tell you ... I took a little hiatus from consistent running. Because, well, driving and staying in a new place every night for three weeks straight can throw a wrench in your exercise routine unless you are really dedicated.

And well, I'm not. At least not yet.

But I hope to be. One day.

This past weekend, Sunday to be exact, I started to run again. When Charlie told me that he had spoken to my mother and she told him that she booked her plane ticket to fly to California with Jim in August to watch the children so that we could participate in our triathlon, and Charlie then went on line and registered and paid money for our triathlon, and then I looked at the calendar and realized Good Golly the triathlon is in less than four weeks, I got a little panicky.

Since we are out $65.00 per person and my mother has dropped a small fortune on plane tickets, there is no turning back now. We are committed.

So Sunday, right?

I jump on to my recently* tuned up bicycle (*is five months ago still considered "recent"?) and make it to the end of the street before realizing that the tires are both flat and the seat is six-inches higher than it should be. And although I could still make it to the track, I look and feel like an idiot pedaling along with two flat tires and my legs over-extended, so I turn around and ride home. Awkwardly.

Charlie comes out of the house and fixes the bike for me. I hop back on and make my way to the track, after doing a three-mile loop around our neighborhood. Since I hadn't been on a bicycle in over four years (the last time was before I was pregnant with the triplets), this three-mile loop robs my brain of it's thinking power and leaves my legs feeling like jelly. But since I have to swim and ride before I run on race day, I figured that riding before I ran would be a good warm-up.

Once I got to the track, I hopped off my bike - did some stretches - plugged in my headphones - turned on my iPod and took off running. The first 1/2 mile was great. No problem. I was trotting along, with the mantra "wicked pissah" repeating over and over again in my head.

(This phrase happens to be a little something I picked up during my recent trip to Boston. Along with five pounds from eating hot fudge sundaes every-other-night.)

With each step, I'd tell myself "I'm wicked pissah, out running. I'm the wicked pissah runner. I'm going to do a wicked pissah race and finish in wicked pissah time, because that's what a wicked pissah athlete does. And I AM wicked pissah."

Left foot hits ground ... "Wicked"

Right foot hits ground ... "Pissah!"

Left foot hits ground ... "Wicked"

Right foot hits ground ... "Pissah!"

"Wicked Pissah! Wicked Pissah! Wicked Pissah!"

As I'm jogging along, I noticed that a few of the people that were walking or running in the opposite direction were smiling and laughing in my general vicinity and I assumed it was because they were thinking I looked so good.

But instead, it was because I realized, right about the time I finished a mile and felt like my lungs were going to explode that OH! I'm still wearing my big bike helmet and I look like a wicked pissah goofball staggering around the track.

My goal this week was to run twice, ride twice and swim twice. Thus far, I haven't been running or riding since Sunday and I have yet to step foot in the pool.

But I've watched figure skating while eating corn dogs.


That has to count for something.

***********

How are you doing with your goals?

and the winner ... (drumroll please)

Winning this contest with over 700 votes...

She is a Christian mom, Army wife, doula, and aspiring midwife...

She has had four kids in three years, including identical twin girls...

She is passionate about birth, babies, breastfeeding and all things natural...

She is currently pregnant with her second set of identical twins (this time boys!), due in September...

Let's give it up for.... Heather!!


Since she will soon have six children under the age of six ... including two sets of identical twins ... Heather's life most definitely classifies as twinsanity!!

Considering Heather will be in her ninth month of pregnancy in August, she is excused from posting a picture of herself running in a marathon with her new stroller. But don't think for a minute I don't want to see a picture of your beautiful babies in their new ride!!

Now, I must give a big thank you to everyone who participated in this contest.

Thank you to the people that wrote and shared their stories, thank you to the more than 1,700 people that voted, and of course, thank you to the people at Chicco for offering such a wonderful gift.

Congratulations again, Heather!! When you're not chasing (waddling?) after four little ones, please send me an e-mail with your address so that I can forward it on to the folks at Chicco and they can get your new stroller shipped out.

Wow. That was as much fun as post-season baseball!

What shall we do next?

not unlike a hanging chad

I probably should have given more detailed instructions on voting the other day when I posted our top 10 finalists. But in the past day, I've received a lot of e-mails requesting that I please cast an additional vote for someone, which I cannot do.

Because I can't vote any more than any one else (once, per computer or per internet search engine i.e., Explorer, Fire Fox, Safari, etc) (hint, hint), I figured with a little over 14 hours remaining and the "race" extremely close, I should give a quick tutorial.

When I set up the poll, I had the option of allowing the voter to vote multiple times. But I opted not to do this, because I wanted the winner to be selected based on the consensus of the population, not how many times someone could hit "vote" and refresh in a 48-hour period. Frankly, I didn't think that would be a very fair advantage for someone who had a lot of time on their hands.

So now that the poll has been open for three full days, I figure it's a fine time to tell you how to vote. Because I'm good that way.

1) Click on the contestant that you want to have win.

2) Click "Vote"

3) You can then open up the results to see how everyone is doing - and - you have the option of changing your vote, if you so chose.

My apologies to anyone who needed this information sooner.

I hope this picture of my beautiful baby Henry before...


... and during his very first haircut offsets any inconvenience.

(Well, if you don't count the time my mother grabbed a pair of scissors and lopped his bangs off while we were in Massachusetts, this was his very first haircut.)

nothing that a glass of wine can't heal

This hasn't been my most stellar week.

Returning from vacation always seems to derail me for a few days, but coming home from three weeks away and immediately hosting an important business meeting for almost an entire week is tough. It's also tough trying to juggle two work schedules and four small children. And a dog that is on her last legs and will probably need to be put to sleep in the next few days. And then dealing with contractors that have to come in and rip up portions of your floor because they installed it incorrectly, really stinks.

You know what else stinks?

Waking up at 5:00 AM to the overwhelming smell of poop. And a child, standing next to you in the dark - tap, tap, tapping you on the head and telling you that they had a big poop and they know that poop goes in the potty and they really want a new bicycle and they don't know why they keep pooping in their diaper but CHANGE IT, MOMMY.

At this point, I am ready to jump off a bridge when it comes to this whole potty training stuff.

I have tried everything.

If you write to me and say "Oh, yeah, I had a really stubborn child and I did THIS" I can almost guarantee that yes, I did that, too.

Stickers? Laxatives? Rewards? Punishments? Praise? Ignoring it and realizing that they just aren't ready?

Did it.

I even stopped putting them in diapers at night and instead, put them in cloth underwear with a cover because I thought for sure they would be upset if they were in their own poop. Right?

Wrong.

Now, they've started pooping in their underwear during the day. Or, rather big poop smudges because they try desperately to hold it in.

I've had them clean their dirty underwear and was only a little surprised that they didn't mind at all. After watching them splash in poopy water, I grabbed the dirty underwear and threw them right in the trash while yelling, "DORA IS ALL GONE!!!"

You know what else is gone?

My mind.

Who takes four children out to get their hair cut and then takes them clothes shopping and shoe shopping and then schedules an appointment to have their professional portraits taken ... all within five hours time?

I'll tell you who, me.

With very rare exception, for the past several years, I have always cut the children's hair. And usually, I make the colossal mistake of cutting their hair mere hours before we go to have their pictures taken. And if there is one thing I really cannot and should not do ... it's cut hair.

So yesterday morning we went to have the children's hair cut and I was thrilled that the stylists took the time to put adorable bows in the girls hair for their pictures. We then went to a mall that I'm not very familiar with and I spent two of the three hours that we were there - running back and forth between Charlie who was taking the children on rides on a small train - and the three stores I had wanted to shop.

But I was having a terribly difficult time trying to find the stores and could be heard yelling at the mall directory "Who is the idiot that designed this stupid thing?! It's completely upside down!! Macy's isn't there, it's over THERE. What the berrying berry!!!"

(Although I didn't use the word berry.)

Then, because the kids are of varying sizes and I've been having terrible luck with purchasing clothes only to discover that they are way too big or way too small, I herded them in to the changing room with me, yesterday.

Elizabeth is in a size 3/4.

William is in a 4/5.

Carolyn is in a size 6/7.

By the time I finally left the store, covered in sweat and stressed out that we'd never make it to the photoshoot in time, and overly frustrated that the girls had pulled their professionally placed ribbons out of their hair and in the process, turned their adorable bobs in to something that resembled a rat's nest, all it took was my unsuspecting husband to ask "What took so long?" and I spontaneously combusted.

Poor Charlie didn't know what hit him.

You know, we've been though a lot together.

Graduate school.

10 years of infertility.

The birth of four children in under three years.

The death of loved ones.

Driving almost 7,000-miles in less than a month.

But I don't recall ever being so angry or loudly vocal as I was yesterday while driving south on the Interstate. "You want to know what took me so long? I'll tell you what took me so long!!" And then for the next 37 minutes, my lucky husband got to hear ALL about it. He got to hear how I am totally overwhelmed with work and life and potty training and everything in between.

Once I paused to take a breath, Charlie convinced me to cancel the photoshoot because everyone seemed to be a little crabby. So, I begrudgingly rescheduled the photosession for later this week.

Now, I just hope that Henry's black eye will be gone by the time his one-year-shots are taken. Because we no sooner walked in the door yesterday, when he took his first unsteady steps, stumbled on one of the toys his siblings had thrown on the ground, and smacked his face on a truck.

You know what helps when you are feeling overwhelmed?

Wine and an early bed time for your children. Honestly. I am sipping on a glass of wine while sitting next to my husband who is watching "The Best Damn Sports Show" and I feel like the world is my oyster.

Even though I sometimes choke on the pearls.

quick, i need advice

I am in the market for a new baby carrier.

The Bjorn is great, fabulous in fact, but I need something that I can wear Henry around in on my back. Or, side. I have a Kelty backpack, but I am looking for something smaller, easier, more comfortable for him and me. Something that I can just load him in to and get various chores done around the house.

I'm typing this one handed. Because my baby skipped his morning nap and slept for barely 45-minutes this afternoon and now, he won't let me put him down.

So please. Tell me. What is a good carrier that you would recommend. My plan is to buy one before I go to sleep tonight.

(or early tomorrow morning as the case probably will be)

why, hello monday

In lieu of a single blog post summarizing the current state of my child-crazed mind, I am doing a series of shorter posts. Why is it that I'm not writing a longer blog post, you ask?

Well, I have no time to sit and think because the triplet's aren't taking a nap today. Last night I decided I am done with kids not going to sleep until 10:00. I'm not going to bed until 1:00 or 2:00 AM because there is way too much to do and I can't get anything finished until the children are sleeping. And then, like clock work, Henry is up crying before I have a chance to dream.

So the reason I am sleep deprived and teetering on the verge of complete and thorough mental and physical collapse is solely due to my children. Namely, a 12-month old that is capable of climbing furniture and believes with everything he is, that sleep is for the weak.

Never once did I imagine that it would be so grueling to sleep train a singleton. With the triplets, they were all on the same exact schedule so there was no question that they were going to sleep. They could look over and see their siblings in their cribs and know that it was futile to resist. But with Henry, he knows the others are up and he refuses to go down without a fight.

Today is Monday.

I have a full week ahead of me with the most insane schedule juggling we've ever experienced and a dog that has severe bronchitis, is losing control of her bladder and is leaving messes of phlegm and pee everywhere she goes.

The past few days, in fact ever since we've been back from vacation, I've been walking around in a stupor wondering "How in the name of gin did I do this?"

Although there were challenges at times with driving almost 7,000-miles in three weeks time with four children under the age of four ... it is exponentially more difficult being at home.

If things don't improve quickly immediately, we're loading up the family and leaving for another tour of the US and Canada.

brainwash, nearly complete

I've been trying to impress upon the kids, in a way that they can understand, that there are good and bad things in the world. There are things that they should do to stay safe and there are things that if they don't do, they might be in danger.

The context and feelings behind these discussions will soon be the subject of a separate post, but today as we were driving to swimming lessons, William pointed out that there was a BAD MONSTER living in the forest - a dense area of trees along one of the roads in our neighborhood.

When I asked what the monster looked like, Gracie called out "HE TALL and GWEEN!"

When I asked what he does that makes him bad, Elizabeth pipped up "He eat cigawettes and, and, and .... he wikes da YANKEES!"

we'll be entirely grey by the end of summer

There's something about the second baby.


Or rather, the baby resulting from a second pregnancy.

Not only does Henry have older siblings that he can observe and learn from, I seem to be a lot more relaxed with him than I ever was with our triplets. As a result, my little baby seems to be doing new things at an accelerated pace.


For instance, the triplets didn't drink from a straw until they were 16-months old.


They weren't able to scale furniture until they were at least 17-months old.


And they didn't climb to the top of a slide...


... turn around ...

... and slide back down, until they were at least 24-months old.


I don't know what panicked Charlie more ... telling him that we need to consider taking apart some of the play structure to keep Henry safe. Or, telling him that because Henry was growing up so fast, it might be time to consider baby number five.