protecting my gifts

There have been so many thoughts swirling about my mind regarding our children heading off to school this summer. Not fall - but summer - because it's a year round program.



Just yesterday, as I was driving to a meeting and mulling things over, it was like everything finally came in to focus and I was able to pinpoint the exact source of my distress.

Ultimately, what I've concluded is that I'm not lamenting our children "growing up" as much as I am lamenting "letting go."

As their mother, I'll never really let them go, but I think most parents would agree, sending a child off to school is the first big step towards independence.



Of course all of this is complicated by the fact that time marches onward and my children are growing up more quickly than I expected. They will not always be so small that I can just scoop them up and cuddle them whenever I want.

Not that I always want to.

Because just today, as they were literally bouncing off the walls, I hollered that they needed to go in the back yard and give me some PEACE! and QUIET!



What makes this whole 'letting go' thing particularly tough for me is that over the past few weeks, there has been a lot of bad happening around us. In our immediate neighborhood, there have been at least six break-ins within the past four months, including approximately four cars and two homes. Criminals are smashing out car windows or jimmying locks. One of our neighbors came home last week to see that someone had broken their back door and stolen a new laptop computer and various electronic equipment.



One of the women in my small bible group is a corrections officer at a federal prison. This past week she shared with us that the ringleader for the top drug cartel in Tijuana had been at her facility. And apparently, his children were attending one of the elementary schools in our neighborhood.

She also mentioned that the proprietor of our favorite Mexican restaurant was recently kidnapped by that same drug cartel and held for ransom, at one of the houses less than two miles away from our home. The kidnappers had demanded $2,000,000.00. The family was only able to come up with 10% of that, but they called in the FBI, who marked the bills and were able to rescue the man. He'd been tied up and tortured for 12 days before he was found.

All this ... happened ... in our neighborhood.

And we didn't even know about it.

There are rational fears and there are irrational fears. But sometimes, when there are bad things happening all around you, it's really difficult to distinguish between the two. Some might think someone going in to an elementary school with a gun and taking children hostage is an irrational fear. Unless, you happen to know that there are students who attend that school, that are the children of a top drug lord in Mexico.



I've read the book, Protecting the Gift and I have learned a lot from it. It's important to do your research, trust your instincts, be aware, and teach your children. There is no doubt, I am our children's number one advocate and I must stay engaged and not just assume (or hope) that they'll always be safe. As such, I'll be writing a letter to the Principal of our children's school, just as the book suggests, and both Charlie and I will be committed to staying involved with their school activities. We're also planning to set up a series of small surveillance cameras all around the school grounds that we can link to our iPhones.

No, not really. Although I like the idea. Because I wonder, have I done enough work to prepare myself and our children as they begin this first step, out of the nest?

Then again, can you ever be prepared enough?



There have been news reports of a man attempting to lure small children in to his vehicle at various schools around San Diego County. And earlier this week, the terrible story about what happened to the beautiful and vibrant Chelsea King, who also lived here in San Diego, just reaffirms that there is a lot of evil in the world.

I'll say it again: There is a lot of evil in the world and it makes me physically weak to think about sending our precious children out in to it. At least when they are with me, I feel like I can better protect them.

My babies.

I love them more than I love myself. And watching them, is like seeing my heart on the outside of my body.



Parenthood is about loving, teaching, and learning to trust and let go.



I'm really struggling with that last part.

mommy gorilla

After reading some of the comments on my post from Thursday - and discussing the topic with my friends - it dawned on me that I should write a follow-up post clarifying a few things.

Most importantly, I don't condone hitting children.

Now, I'm not going to lie. I have doled out a spanking before - like the day that my children opened the door and let their naked baby brother out who ended up wandering far off down the street. But in my opinion, they were LUCKY that the worse thing to happen was a spanking to their bum and a bedtime at 5:00 PM.

My friend Debbie and I discussed the topic of discipline during our walk this morning. My friend's position is that a parent should never, ever strike their child. Sure, she has had many situations where she could wallop her boys, but she didn't. Because how can you teach respect to a child when you are hitting them? And once you start hitting - it becomes a very slippery slope of where the "spanking" might stop.

As much as I'd like to believe that I am a "controlled" spanker, I know that's not true. Whenever I have spanked our kids - I have done it because I was frustrated and lost control. There has only been one situation where our kids acted up and I told them that they were going to get a spanking and they needed to wait for it. And let me tell you, those 10 minutes leading up to a quick spanking were absolute TORTURE for our children. The wait was far worse than the actual spank.

When I was a child growing up, my mother had something that she called the "BLOOD SPATULA." I don't recall my mother ever hitting any of us with that spatula, but I do remember her yelling, "I'm going to get the BLOOD SPATULA!" and we would all run and hide. Whatever bad behavior we were doing - would cease as soon as mom would reach for her spatula that we envisioned would splatter our blood across the walls.

It was both the worst, and greatest, mind game of all time.

(I can just imagine my mother falling off her chair as she reads this, while thinking, "Oh No! She's telling the world about my Blooood Spatula!!!" How much do you want to bet she leaves a comment denying it's existence? And, I'll bet that my Aunt Grace leaves a comment denying the day that she broke a wooden spoon over my cousin Margaret's head. What made that situation particularly tough was that Auntie was actually aiming for Lisa.)

While I do believe that there are times when nothing gets a point across as efficiently or effectively as a swat on the behind, I'm never happy about it. Especially when I read parenting blogs that rave, "We don't hit people that we love and respect."

Oh. Well Then.

I must not love and respect my children.

In hindsight (no pun intended), with the one "controlled" exception noted above, the only time I've ever spanked our kids is when I have lost my patience. Likewise, the only time I've ever screamed at them is when I've lost my patience. When I reach a certain level of frustration, I resort to this crazy primitive beast, that pounds on their chest. But you know what? I think it's NORMAL that I act that way when I'm provoked.

Consider this: Humans are highly evolved animals. And when I think of animals in the wild, I think of lions and tigers and bears. Animals that have been known to not only bite their young, but eat them whole.

Why do you think that is?

When I wrote about losing my patience a few years ago, I was criticized harshly. "Shame on you for not having the same control you require of your children."

That's an excellent point.

Because in reality, when I am feeling calm - and controlled - I am much better able to handle children that act up. But I'm not always in control because I'm not perfect. I admit it. But I also try my best to improve it, every day.

Being a good parent is such tough work.

It takes patience - control - consistency and stamina.

Regarding Rebecca at the pool (and the boy at the beach), the parent should have removed the child at the EXACT moment they started acting up. I am convinced that if the parents had swung in to action fast to stem the outburst, the kids never would have been so out-of-control and violent.

Soo, the primary point I was trying to make in my post on Thursday is that a parent needs to establish themself as the alpha leader in a family. A parent, NOT a child, is the one who runs the show. That doesn't mean that you need to HIT them, or SCREAM at them.

It means that you need to be in control.

Consistently.

Every so often, I go a little overboard with the drama, in an effort to show the children that there is a very fine line between gentle mom and the CRAZY mom that emerges if they push me too far. If they are fighting over toys, I might pick up all the toys and put them in a trash bag and toss them in the garage for a week. I've been known to leave an event, immediately after we've arrived because children are misbehaving. I frequently do time outs until they calm down and apologize for their poor behavior. And for what it's worth, I do time outs for me, too.

And well - there are those times I pound on my chest and yell.

Because regardless of what any one might think, I think it's good that my kids are just a little bit afraid of me.

this too shall pass

Years ago, before we had children, I had a real home office.


In that office, I had a beautiful solid wood desk, bookshelf, and table. There was a desk lamp and a floor lamp and an assortment of art pieces, hanging on the wall. There was a fax machine, a telephone and a 20-inch, flat screen, computer monitor. There were assorted office supplies and files. There were miscellaneous reports and journals that I had published over the years.

Everything was neatly stowed away and organized.

Today, that home office is now the boys bedroom. What had been our guest room, with a solid cherry futon, end table and coffee table, is now the girls bedroom. Our home office has been reduced to a computer hutch in the family room that holds our computer, critical paperwork and mailing supplies.

Once our children were born, we moved all of our excess furniture and equipment in to Charlie's office. In addition to our furniture, we moved all of our old school supplies. Our textbooks from graduate school, research materials from our Masters Thesis, and assorted diplomas were boxed up and stored.

But last month, when Charlie was laid off and his office was closed, we realized that we would need to make a decision about what to do with all of our furniture and supplies, both work and school, that we had accumulated over the past 20 years. We would need to figure out a way, somehow, to assimilate everything in to our home. This past week, Charlie began the process of moving all of these items out of his office, which will be closed soon, and in to our garage.

When we returned from our vacation to South Carolina three weeks ago, I was already starting to feel overwhelmed with our small living space - rapidly growing children - and assortment of things that I'm not yet prepared to get rid of ... but have no place to store.

Children's bicycles, in addition to our bicycles. Strollers. Toddler toys. An oversized wagon. An antique school desk. An heirloom doll house that measures five feet long by two feet wide.

Now ... add to that ... the equivalent of two rooms worth of furniture and innumerable boxes filled with reports and documents that are critical to our careers. I just spent the past four hours, filling up three trash cans worth of things I'm prepared to get rid of, and filling the back of my husband's truck - to the brim - with items for Goodwill.

But what about the rest?

Do we sell these beautiful and well made items, that I adore, for a fraction of what we bought them for? (answer: no)

Do we store everything in a storage unit and shell out $100.00 a month for an undetermined amount of time until we can use them again? (answer: no)

Do we leave everything in the garage and do our best to ignore the fact that you can no longer see the ground? (answer: no)

Do we sell our house and move to a larger house, even though we have no idea how much longer our careers might keep us in San Diego? (answer: no)

Do we count our four little blessings and focus on the fact that we are healthy, have a roof over our heads, food in our refrigerator and air conditioning on a sweltering summer day? (answer: yes)

Do we tell ourselves that we don't know the answer - soon it will hopefully present itself - and until then, it's best to pour ourselves glasses of lemonade and lay on the lawn with our children deciphering characters in the clouds? (answer: most definitely yes)

At the moment, Charlie is online looking at larger homes in San Diego County. The average sticker price is $900,000.00. To me, it seems illogical to buy an almost one million dollar house when the future is so uncertain. Or, to even waste time looking at such a purchase.

I'm ready to keel over from uncertainty.

Work is crazy busy and I've got a backlog at least four weeks long worth of things to get caught up on, since our vacation and my two-week trial. The house is a disaster. Last night was the first time I had mopped the floor in six weeks. I'm doing my absolute best to get caught up on paperwork, errands and shopping. People are calling and asking us to call them back and by the time we get around to calling them back, two days have passed and they are angry.

We have no idea what we are doing. We know we want and/or need to move, but we have no idea where. We have no idea when or how. From all accounts, my job will be gone in a few years - unless I accept a new one and a transfer. But who knows where that transfer will be?

Charlie just started a new company and will be signing his first contracts next week. But we don't know if we want to remain in San Diego. We don't know if we want to sell our house and move or rent. We don't know if we will sell everything and travel around the country. We don't know if we will homeschool our children or send them to Kindergarten, next year. We don't know if it's possible, or likely, that we will move closer to family.

We don't know anything.

Except that dressing up and pretending you are an adult is sometimes a whole lot more fun than actually being one.

this isn't my most upbeat post

I really hesitated posting this. Because I feel like I shouldn't admit that I'm tired. Perhaps it's the sinus infection that I'm battling and the lack of sleep I've had over the past few years days. But whatever the reason, or host of reasons, today I feel like I've been physically and emotionally hit by a freight train.

Tomorrow I will feel better.

But today, I am tired.

I'm tired of working full-time.

I'm tired of feeling like I am robbing my husband of his career.

I'm tired of feeling like we live too far away from family.

I'm tired of picking up after people all.day.long.

I'm tired of wondering what I'm going to cook for dinner.

I'm tired of making meals that go uneaten.

I'm tired of grocery shopping.

I'm tired of laundry.

I'm tired of waking up at 3 AM to children who wet the bed.

I'm tired of children changing their clothes 40 times a day.

I'm tired of all the missing socks.

I'm tired of all the clutter.

I'm tired of not eating better.

I'm tired of worry.

I'm tired of worrying about my mom.

I'm tired of worrying about my dad.

I'm tired of worrying about my Uncle Bill.

I'm tired of worrying about Deana.

I'm tired of worrying about money and the bills.

I'm tired of worrying about our health and the health of our planet.

I'm tired of worrying about the economy.

I'm tired of worrying about world relations.

I'm tired of worrying about saving for retirement.

I'm tired of worrying about college tuitions.

I'm tired of worrying about whether our children will go to school.

I'm tired of worrying what other people will think.

I'm tired of feeling like I could be a better friend, sister, daughter.

I'm tired of feeling like I could be a better mom.

I'm tired of feeling like I could be a better wife.

I'm tired of feeling like I could be a better human being.

I'm tired of feeling like I am not doing enough.

I'm tired of seeing and feeling my body age.

I'm tired of feeling like this blog isn't better than it is.

I'm tired of beating myself up whenever I let the children watch television.

I'm tired of trying to control things that are outside of my control.

I'm tired of not realizing when things are outside of my control.

I'm tired of children waking up for the day at 5:30 AM.

I'm tired of children that don't nap. Or nap long enough.

I'm tired of doing things, only to have the children undo them.

I'm tired of asking children to do things over and over and over again.

I'm tired of saying, "FINE THEN! I'll do it myself!"

I'm tired at my lack of patience.

I'm tired at my lack of discipline.

I'm tired of comparing myself.

I'm tired of politics - at every level - every where.

I'm tired of the bad people in the world.

I'm tired of people that seems so perky! and together!

I'm tired of feeling like I never get a break.

I'm tired of not having enough time for myself.

I'm tired of feeling like everyone needs a piece of me.

I'm tired of a toddler that wants to nurse at the most inopportune times.

I'm tired of the knowledge that I'll never have these days back again.

I'm tired that I don't live in the moment more.

I'm tired of feeling like I need to put on a happy face or I will appear ungrateful.

Tomorrow I will feel better.

But today, I am tired.

However, I am NOT tired of baking and eating a plate full of chocolate chip cookies in a single afternoon.

And that ... is a real problem.

good times

I'm going to scatter throughout this post some pictures that I took during our Fourth of July celebration last week. Because these photos are presented in no particular order, I'll just interject here that we started the day off with a Pancake Breakfast at our local firehouse.

Then we went to a parade on Coronado Island. Then we went to the beach where a nearly-horizontal Charlie pushed a stroller loaded with three children across 1,000 feet of sand while people stopped to stare. And me, being the supportive wife that I am, laughed and took pictures while holding the baby and a beach umbrella (no, I wasn't entirely empty handed).

Then we went out for lunch. Then we came home and baked Henry's birthday cake and prepared for a party with friends. Then we went to a party with friends at a local park where there was a lot of eating and drinking and merriment and parachuters that held American flags while they fell from the sky.

There were lots of fireworks. And there were lots of children who stayed up four hours past their bedtime chasing beach balls through pitch black fields with a plastic bat. We had an awesome day. And no surprise, the kids slept in until 9:00 AM on Sunday. Which before children, really was no big deal. But post-children, is the equivalent of sleeping in until 2:00 PM.

Now, for the four men that read my blog, please look away.

There's nothing more here for you to read.

Ladies, as I've mentioned, I haven't yet weaned Henry.

I'll write more about that later, but for the purpose of this post, I think it's just important to note that I am a nursing mother. And up until a few months ago, I had been reaping one of the "monthly benefits" that many breastfeeding mothers enjoy.

But once I stopped reaping that particular benefit, I gradually noticed a change in my demeanor.

For approximately 24 days out of the month, I was happy and had an optimism about life. But for three or four days, leading up to the commencement of the event, I would dissolve in to something that was unrecognizable.

I would become weepy, irrational, overly reflective, and distressed to the point of panic.

It made no sense to me.

This had never happened before.

What was going on?

Although this might come as a shock, I had never once considered that my behavior was in any way related to hormonal fluctuations. I have always thought that women who attributed their crabbiness, food cravings and dermatological variances to "the time of the month" were full of bologna.

My general opinion was that PMS had morphed in to the biggest "Why-I-Can-Act-Like-A-Psycho-And-Get-Away-With-It" scape goat, ever.

But recently, because I couldn't understand what was happening with my own self, I started jotting some notes in my calendar. And today, sweet beejezhus, I see a definitive trend.

HELP! I AM FALLING OFF THE BALANCE BEAM OF LIFE!

This post.

And this post.

And this post.

And this post?

And this one!

There's a pattern. I am one of those women. And until I can get this resolved, either through acupuncture, meditation, weaning, diet, or perhaps a three-day medically induced coma ... I plan to take a break from blogging about my life for a few days each month. Maybe I'll just post pictures and tips on how to BOOHOO, why am I crying?! remove sand from toes at the beach (baby powder). Because really, there's no need to warn all of you that OH GOD the sky is falling.

I'm hopeful that someone out there is thanking me for this post.

So, you're very welcome.

Now please send over some hot fudge.

losing (and finding) my soles

Charlie and I will be married for 15-years in August.

It makes me feel very proud whenever I consider how well we manage our marriage, our family and our careers. Whenever people come to visit, it seems that they almost always comment on how our relationship is like a well-oiled machine. We work together very well. But there are those times we don't work together very well. And oddly enough, nine out of ten times, it's my fault.

Take this morning for example.

As I was getting dressed, and surveying the shoes in my closet, I casually commented to Charlie that my pair of Croc shoes have been missing for a few weeks and I needed to find them. Then I added that the last time I saw my Crocs, they were in the back of Charlie's truck next to my field bag.

(As some background: Charlie's truck has been designated our non-family transport vehicle. So whenever one of us needs to work away from home, we will drive the truck and leave the parent at home with our van which is better suited to transport four small children in carseats.)

This morning, I clearly remembered that when I went out to a drilling project several weeks ago, I had driven Charlie's truck and my field bag - which housed my steel toe boots and hard hat and safety vest and safety glasses and ear plugs and associated safety supplies - was in the covered bed. And since I never like wearing my steel toe boots for long stretches of time, I had worn my Croc shoes to the job, and then put on my boots once I arrived.

But then, I neglected to my Croc shoes back on again once the job was over, so I drove home wearing my boots. And, I never got around to putting the Crocs back in my closet. So they just sat in the covered bed of Charlie's truck, next to my field bag.

Over the next few weeks, as we would go through and clear out our closets and garage - as we so often do - we would generate bags of items that we would donate to Goodwill. And these bags would be deposited in to the back of Charlie's truck.

Next to my field bag.

And my Crocs.

Which I still neglected to place back in my closet.

So this morning when I said that I was missing my Crocs, Charlie shot me a concerned look before he slowly said, "Jen. Your Crocs were in the back of my truck with all of the stuff that was going to Goodwill." Then he frowned and added, "I think I may have given them away with all of the donations when I did a drop-off."

And instead of me saying something like, "Wow. I'm a BIG dope I really should have made sure my Crocs weren't in the back of your truck with all the stuff going to Goodwill. My bad."

I said something like, "YOU DID WHAT?! YOU THREW OUT MY BELOVED PAIR OF CROCS? WHAT THE %^&# WERE YOU THINKING?!?"

And then I continued...

"WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL ME AND ASK JEN! ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO THROW OUT YOUR FAVORITE PAIR OF SHOES?! ARE YOU %^&*#^@#?!?!"

All the while, our beautiful children, who had been sitting at the table happily eating their breakfast, raised their eye brows while I vented, before covering their ears.

This went on for several minutes. Me accusing my husband of being flippant and inattentive. My husband retorting that I should do a better job managing my stuff. Me retorting that I DO THE BEST JOB MANAGING MY STUFF AND EVERYONE ELSE'S STUFF IN THE ENTIRE FAMILY and this absolutely isn't my fault.

It's his fault.

Because I never make mistakes. NEVER. I am the do-all-hold-it-all-together-manager of this family and if it weren't for me, the walls of our universe would collapse.

All the while, I knew this wasn't true. And I knew that the way that I was handling this particular situation was bad. Terrible infact. And what I really needed to do was promptly apologize and shut my trap.

But of course I didn't.

Another several minutes later, when the fury of my emotions had sufficiently disspitated and my spouting-off and finger pointing had ceased, and Charlie had retreated to another room to separate himself as far as possible from me, I was lifting Henry out of his booster chair and my toddler son threw his head back and gave me the most heart warming smile.

My beautiful baby.

That I made with the man who threw away my shoes.

It hit me full force at that very moment, sometimes - I'm a real crank.

An irrational, over-the-top absolute-witch-to-be-around, crank. Sometimes, I act like a real bad word. And instead of talking to my husband rationally when I've had some time to digest a situation and recognize my contribution to the problem, I lack the ability to filter the thoughts that rapidly shoot from my brain to my mouth.

Today, I knew that I needed to do something fast because if I didn't, there would be a dark cloud of discontent over our house all day long and spanning into the unforeseeable future. So I found my husband putting on his shoes and I mustered an apology that went something like, "Charlie, I forgive you for throwing out my shoes."

My husband gave me a blank stare and crossing his arms across his chest said, "Yes. AND?"

I took a deep breath and continued, "And. I'm sorry that you gave away my most comfortable pair of shoes that you really should have known better than to donate to Goodwill. But I forgive you."

I gave him a weak smile but instead of accepting my lame attempt at an apology, my husband rolled his eyes, sighed and walked away.

Because what I should have said was, "I'm really sorry that I acted so terribly - especially in front of the children - and I'm sorry that you are married to a woman who can, without warning, morph in to a jackass nag machine. But I love you and adore you and without you, the walls of our universe would collapse. And I mean that sincerely."

I do mean that sincerely.

And although it might feel good to vent, it feels so bad immediately after. Why it is that I lack the ability to shut up is beyond me. And how my husband can lovingly tolerate being married to someone that attacks at a moments notice is even more of a mystery.

While I set about working, Charlie ushered all the kids outside and loaded them in to the car. A few minutes later, he came back in to the house carrying my pair of old Croc shoes. He gently placed them next to me and without a word, turned and walked out the front door.

I picked up my shoes and followed him outside where I asked the obvious question, "So, you found them?" He nodded his head and responded, "Yeah. I found them. I remembered seeing them and thinking that you probably didn't mean to throw your Crocs away, so I put them aside."

Charlie disappeared in to the garage to grab a few items for their trip away and I held my shoes up for the children to see. "Look," I said, "Daddy found my shoes." The kids smiled at me before William very sternly said, "Mommy, you need to go apologize to Daddy right away."

I was already embarrassed because I had made such a spectacle. But it was even worse when I realized that the kids were highly aware of my tantrum and called me on it.

Hoping that I could perhaps turn this in to a learning experience for everyone that had been subjected to my wrath, I said, "I definitely need to apologize to Daddy. Because even if my shoes had been donated, I acted very badly this morning and there is no excuse for the way I behaved. You should never treat the people that you love with disrespect and that's exactly what I did."

Then I bit my lip and added, "Sometimes it's very hard to admit when you are wrong and ask forgiveness. How do you think I should handle it?"

Not surprisingly, the children were quick to offer advice.

Carolyn piped up, "I think that you should go and tell him that you are very sorry." Elizabeth added, "I think that you should give him a hug and a kiss and tell him you'll never do it again."

My husband reappeared from the garage and stepping in front of him and placing my hands on his arms, I declared for everyone to hear, "Charlie, I am so sorry. I hope that you will forgive me for acting so badly. Even if my shoes had been donated, I was completely out of line. You are the glue that holds this family together and I love you with all my heart."

I leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek and gave him a hug. And my husband, being the wonderful man that he is, wrapped his arms tightly around me and said, "I forgive you, Jenny. But sometimes you really ARE a pain in the ass."

Then William, who was strapped in to his carseat yelled out, "Now that you said I'm sorry, go get a baby in your tummy because I want two more brothers."

I honestly have NO idea where the kids pick this stuff up.

But I couldn't make it up if I tried.

the fallen angel

Just a short while ago, as I was printing out a document to review for work, the children were playing on the floor behind me. Without any forewarning, Henry erupted in to a painful cry. When I looked around to see what (or WHO) had hurt him, I immediately spotted his sister standing less than two feet away and holding a wooden Brio train track like she had just completed a powerful overhead serve.

Henry was clutching his face with tears squirting around his chubby fingertips and I was instantly furious. I know that sometimes, the baby is an absolute pill. I know that sometimes, he chases after the kids and torments them relentlessly. I know that sometimes, he screams like a mandrake and requires a lot of my attention.

But barring the use of a straight jacket or vast amounts of duct tape, there is only so much I can do with a lively toddler who truly believes he is the fourth triplet.

Try as I might to stress that the children need to be gentle and remove themselves from a situation when things start getting tumultuous with Henry, they never do. Instead, they pick up what ever happens to be close and pummel their baby brother with it. Or, they kick him squarely in the chest and send him flying across the room. Which heightens an already tense situation and before you know it, I've got a room full of small people brawling and bawling.
It. Drives. Me. Crazy.

So today after this most recent incident occurred, I glared at my daughter and I told her that the next time she hits her baby brother, I am going to hit her and there is going to be BLOOD.

And then, I looked at my two other four-year-olds and added, "THAT GOES FOR YOU, TOO!!"

Henry cried.

My daughter cried.

My other children cried.

I felt demonic.

Moments later, my husband smartly decided that an immediate outing was in order and took all four children to run an errand. As my family was walking out the door, I happened to notice that my mother-in-law, Kathleen, had sent us a lovely package that was sitting by our doorstep. I opened the package up and saw that she had included a piece entitled, "Legend Of A Child Waiting To Be Born." It read,

There is an old legend that tells of a child that was preparing to be born. He said one day to God, "I'm told that you will send me to earth tomorrow, but how will I live so little and defenseless as I am?"

God: "Among many angels I chose one just for you and it will be waiting for you ... it will take care of you."

Child: "But tell me, here in Heaven, all I do is sing and smile and this is what keeps me happy."

God: "Do not fret, your angel will sing and smile at you everyday; you will feel loved and you will be happy."

Child: "But how will I understand when people speak in the strange language that man speak?"

God: "Your angel will tell you the sweetest and most gentle words that you could ever hear; and with a lot of love and patience you will be taught to speak."

Child: "And what will I do when I want to speak with you?"

God: "Your angel will put your hands together and teach you to pray."

Child: "I've heard there are many bad men on earth, who will defend me?"

God: "Your angel will defend you, even at the risk of it's own life."

Child: "But I will be sad because I will not see you again."

God: "Although I will always be at your side, your angel will always speak of me and will show you the way to return to my presence." At that moment, a great peace reigned over the Heaven, but the child began to hear earthly voices and hurriedly he repeated softly, "God, please ... I am leaving now ... tell me it's name ... what is my angel's name?"

God replied, "It's name is not important. You will simply call her Mother."

This piece is so beautiful, when I got to that last line I actually burst in to tears. I couldn't help but think about the scene that unfolded at our house less than five minutes earlier. It appears my children have been born to an angel that will threaten to beat them until they bleed if they continue to wail on their baby brother. Isn't that nice?

Oh! Listen? Can you hear it?

I think that sound were the doors of hell flying open for me.

great expectations (verse 1)

I originally wrote this post late last night. But the "tone" of the post that I thought was entertaining at midnight, sounded rather whiny at 8 AM. So until I have an opportunity to go back and make some edits ... just remember this.

Nobody likes a cry baby.

Unless they are 20-months old and covered in sand.

wednesday weigh in

Yesterday when we took the children to have their Christmas photos taken with Santa Claus, I purchased two separate packages totaling $50.00 that contained a variety of different sized pictures. I did not, however, purchase the $25.00 CD because I figured, why would I need the CD if I have a scanner that could just as easily get my photos uploaded to my computer?

Today when I went to pick up the 120 pictures that I had printed out at Costco for $0.13 a photo that I had planned to include in the 120 Christmas cards that I wanted to send out tomorrow, I was asked if I had a copy of the CD that relinquished the photocopy right to me for the 120 pictures of my children that were sitting right there, just a few inches away.

And of course I said, "Huh?"

So it turns out that what I should have done is purchase the $25.00 CD and not the photo sheets for $50.00 because legally, I am not authorized to reproduce any of the photos without the copyright relinquishing code, that comes on the CD. Considering I've done it this exact way for the past three years, I had no idea that I was breaking the law.

Did I mention that we spent more than four hours yesterday getting those pictures taken?

Did I mention that we drove to hell and back through Southern California traffic IN THE RAIN because we were too ignorant to drive five minutes down the street to the new mall and Santa that is just as "photogenic" as the Santa(s) the mall an hour north always hires and that we've visited for the past three years?

Although I am extremely sensitive to issues of copyright infringement, instead of driving an hour north to pay the $25.00 for the CD so that I can "legally" print out pictures of my children, I instead, uploaded the photo on to my scan disk - took it to a local photography shop and tomorrow at noon, will hopefully pick up the 120 photos that I need for our Christmas cards.

And if they ask if it is a professional photograph, so help me I will LIE and tell them that NO, it's a photograph that was taken by a friend from a neighborhood Christmas party.

Go ahead, judge me. Tell me how lame I am. Tell me that even though I gave the photography company $50.00 when I could have only given them $25.00, I will burn for eternity.

Regardless of whether or not I am successful in the illegal reproduction of pictures of our family, I'm feeling the burning fires of Hell on my feet. It seems that on the way home from Costco this afternoon, I flipped out on the kids.

It was raining. It was pouring.

Henry was strapped in my baby carrier on my back. The triplets all want to carry our one umbrella. They are running away from me in the parking lot. Not intentionally, probably - but because they were so distracted by the gargantuan black umbrella that they were carrying that they couldn't pay attention to me. They couldn't see me. They are walking behind cars, staggering about like a bunch of small drunk people, until I finally take the umbrella away and listen to their cries of protest the rest of the way across the parking lot.

I load them in to the car, quickly, quickly I plead. The baby is getting wet and I am getting drenched. They are so slow. I've seen snails move faster. They climb in to the car and promptly begin fighting over which seats they are going to sit in. Someone is in the driver seat. Someone is trying to climb in to the trunk where they spot several of the Christmas presents that I had bought for them while I was at the neighborhood mall earlier in the day (Which is also where I spotted the awesome looking Santa Clause. Five minutes from our house. You can probably guess where I'm going next year.)

The baby starts wailing. I'm already agitated because I have to figure out a Plan B for getting my 120 pictures without spending three hours driving back and forth to the mall north and buying a CD. Or, printing all of them out at home which would take no less than fifteen hours and $200.00 in print supplies.

But now, as they are in the trunk and picking up presents and saying "WOW! LOOK AT THIS!!" I'm furious. I start yelling at the kids and people walking by are undoubtedly thinking, "Damn, what's HER problem? Relax lady!"

We drive 15 minutes home and three of the four children are asleep in their seats. I bring Carolyn in to the house (who had received the brunt of my anger in the car - quite possibly a manifestation of the frustration that had been building when I discovered that she was trying to flush a poopy diaper down the toilet this morning) and I notice that UPS has dropped off a package by our front door.

I pick it up and see that it is from the Catholic Supply Store.

How gloriously timely!

The nativity set that I had bought for the children for Christmas has arrived. I decide that instead of waiting until Christmas morning to present the gift - I will give it to Carolyn, now. She will have some quiet, undisturbed time to play and I will have a chance to play with her while repenting my sins of motherhood to the small Holy wooden figurines.

Less than five minutes have passed and the children in the car all wake up crying. I bring them in to the house and they immediately rip things apart.

Bed spreads are being pulled out of rooms and dragged across floors, drawers are being emptied of clothes. They are running around bouncing off the walls. I do my best to restore order and then remember that the reason my mother use to threaten us with the BLOOD spatula is because hitting us with her bare hand hurt too bad.

For the first time in my life, I find myself threatening my children with a BLOOD spatula.

My mother calls and I tell her that I'm losing my mind. How am I supposed to home school our kids? Maybe if I was medicated, I could handle it. Or maybe if I had a lobotomy. Could I call DSS and ask for help??

Mom tells me that my Aunt Barbara did that once. She actually drove to DSS and told them that she couldn't handle her children any more. Could they please take them.

I'm in awe.

Really?? That's an OPTION??

Charlie comes home. Instead of staying for the pathetic looking turkey dinner I had started earlier in the day, I tell him that I need to run off to the store and see if I can get pictures printed.

I knew that if I didn't get out of the house, I'd lock myself in the broom closet and start sobbing.

I am sick. Again.

Our children's last day of school is on Friday.

We have no backup plans for child care if our homeschool strategy tanks.

I am being forced to return to work full-time in a few months. If I keep my job and bring in full-time help, I will miss out on the "joy" of raising our children that I waited so long and worked so hard for.

But to give up my job would be to give up 75% of our income; benefits; pension. But if I stay home with the children, maybe I'll have more patience. Maybe I'll be a better mother if I'm not torn between family life and work life. Especially if I do have a lobotomy and am medicated.

I reflect on the heated conversations I've been having with my various siblings over the past week.

My father has been divorced for less than two years and has now settled in to a relationship with a woman who is living with him. As my father's health continues to fail, she takes care of him, completely. She dresses him, washes him, shops and cooks for him.

Over the past few months as his relationship with his friend has continued to evolve, my father no longer wants my sister - who has been his closest ally for the past 30 years - to be his health care proxy or power of attorney. He wants for my sister to return all of his checkbooks, credit cards and financial statements. Not only is this a kick in the teeth to my sister that has been there through everything for my father and handled his recent divorce completely, there is concern that my father might not have the mental capacity to know what is happening in his life.

My sister, who holds the titles of chemist, pharmacist and attorney is questioning his competency and in my opinion, rightly so.

As much as I appreciate that my father has a companion in his life - is it really wise for him to assume complete control of his financial matters when his health is clearly slipping?

I want to support my father and have him live the best life he can. But I also feel that it is important that he be protected. And what if. WHAT IF. What if Dad is led not once but twice in to a relationship with someone who is after him only for money?

It certainly appears that way from the outside.

Dad is in denial about the whole thing. He just wants for everyone to support him without question. But why haven't any of his assets been tied up in a trust yet?? Why does Dad keep stalling?! He just lost 40% of his estate. The rest may be gone soon if he isn't careful and it really doesn't seem like he cares. But we do. Is that wrong??

To care about Dad's finances makes us appear like we are money grubbers.

Honestly, if Dad spent every last dime on a life that made HIM happy, great. But to potentially funnel everything to a woman who he just met seems irresponsible and well ... stupid.

Meanwhile, there is a battle brewing between my father, my sister, and my brother - who has been called in by my father to serve as his "advocate".

The whole thing is a nightmare.

I come home from ordering the pictures where they will charge me $0.27 per print (more than twice the cost from Costco) and the house is even more upside down then when I left. I start cleaning up and am requesting our children to help. I spot that parts of the nativity scene are scattered in different rooms and although I shouldn't be bothered, I am.

I mean, it's just a toy.

But it seems like sacrilege.

I find Mary and Joseph underneath the changing table.

The donkey, lamb and ox are under the couch.

I find the three wise men in the bathroom sink.

The angel of the Lord and the shepard are on top of the trash can.

I can't find baby Jesus.


I'm looking and looking. Then I start yelling, "WHERE IS JESUS?! WHERE THE HECK IS JESUS? WHO LOST JESUS?! FIND HIM!! I NEED HIM NOW!!"

Please Jesus. Where are you?

****

So. Let's see. What was the purpose of this post?

Oh yes. How are you doing with your goals?

mommy needs prozac (seriously)

Let the record show I have tried quite a lot...
To teach our children to correctly poo in the pot.

Now I'm reverting to poetry and rhyming prose...
Can you feel the desperation - who out there knows?

I probably should not write all of this or put it in verse...
For soon my words will be the subject of an adolescent's curse.

But I am desperate and do not know what to do...
How to convince my child that the potty is where you go poo-poo?

I have tried stickers, presents, candy and gum...
I have tried timeouts, scolding and a spank on the bum.

I have tried time and patience, understanding and praise...
I even created a video montage that became an internet craze.

Then there were suppositories, laxatives and an enema one day...
Surely that would solve the problem, at least that's what the experts say.

I know that telling my children the police would take them away had to be a sin...
But I was feeling rather hopeless and thought I'd soon be in the loony bin.

Last week I thought we were in the homestretch - heading for the final mile...
When suddenly my child has regressed and is now peeing on the tile.

Calls were made to specialists, behavioral therapists and more...
This is primarily about helping our child - and secondarily, saving our floor.

Is this a crazy power struggle or developmental delay?
Is it physical or mental, or variable each day?

If this is four, my body shakes with fears...
For what lies ahead in the teenage years.

I know I need to give up control, so please help me Lord!
Because I am tired and frustrated and going completely out of my gourd.

Daily I repeat the Prayer of Jabez and ask God to please bless me indeed...
A divine guiding hand on my heart is what I really need.

I have fully surrendered and am now waving a white flag of defeat...
I have resigned myself to poopy diapers and have retired the enema Fleet.

The appointments aren't until next year, mid January I think...
But at this point, *I* am the one that really needs a shrink.

As tides rise and fall and the day is filled with the sun...

Potty training, no - being a good mother, is the toughest job I've ever done.

state of the union

Yes, the call I made yesterday was real.

As was the call that my 15-month old son made, moments later to my boss. I was so engrossed babbling on to an air pocket that I wouldn't have even realized he had made a call, if not for Henry's fit of laughter that caught my attention, when he heard my boss talking on the other end of the line. And then I heard a familiar voice. Who I can only assume, heard me - babbling on to an air pocket.

So, um.

Now what?

I don't foresee anything happening immediately, but once I called Charlie at work, and he stopped saying, "Oh no you didn't. OH! NO! YOU! DIDN'T!!" he calmly observed, "Well. I suppose that might be considered pulling the trigger, huh?"

It feels really good that the "truth" is out.

I certainly don't want to be a full-time career woman and I don't want anyone to think that I ever will be a full-time career woman, while I have children at home. Not just small children mind you, but children. So long as I have children at home, my schedule must retain enough flexibility so that I can attend to them first and foremost.

Currently, Part-time is fine!

Part-time is fun!

Part-time allows for supplemental income that helps to offset the cost of living. Part-time is necessary for me to have a break. Especially since none of the children in this house like to sleep very much anymore and although I am their mother and I love them, I'm not insane and I know that staying with them every minute of every day will drive me insane. Rapidly.

But. If we are to move back to the east coast, the expectation is for me to work full-time. And since I'm not willing to do that - perhaps Charlie would be in a better position to accept the opportunity that might be offered to me. And by that point, the children will be a little older and the call of full-time school will be on the radar. So that's when I'll stay home and teach them and sell handmade goods and my blog will be wallpapered in ads.

Although Charlie enjoys being home with the children, he has it in his blood to be a professional. And for the past few years, his career has been on a yo-yo track. He works full-time, he's out to help me recover from birthing triplets. He works full-time while I'm on maternity leave, he returns to part-time so I can work, he's out almost full-time to assist with the triplets while I work full-time and gestate baby four. He's out to help me recover from birthing a singleton, he's full-time while I'm on maternity leave. He's part-time when I return to work.

I think what makes all of this so difficult for me is that I spent so many years working hard to obtain my academic degrees, professional registrations and earn a reputable position with the largest petroleum company in the world. To walk away from it all seems scary and slightly irresponsible. In this day and age, women are accomplishing (almost) everything that men accomplish in the work force. But unlike men, it is in a woman's DNA (and conscience) to raise her children and that is why making the choice of what to do once baby arrives can be absolutely grueling.

People have been asking me, why would we change anything?

Life is great!

But the fact is, every so often, it's important to pick your head up and look around. You must take an inventory of where you are in life. Is it necessary to slightly adjust your compass heading? Or, perhaps throw the compass on the floor smashing the glass and breaking the dial?

For the past several months, I've oscillated between pure contentment and pure panic. There has been a gnawing at my heart that sometime soon, we'll need to make a change. We'll need a larger house and more elbow room. We'll need to be closer to family. We'll need to make the decision to either send our children to school full time, or home school them ourselves.

Regardless of how great life is, I think it's good to shake things up every so often. Even if after you shake things up you feel the need to sit down and stick your head between your knees because suddenly all the blood in your body has drained to your feet.

My mother called me this morning to say that she was up all night last night thinking about our situation and she has determined that I am manic and need to be medicated.

That came as a real surprise because I was up all night thinking that this is the most clear thinking I've had in a long time. Especially now that I've shaved everyone's heads and we chant Hare Hare Krishna.

what did i do?

I think I may have just called my boss and told him that my career was my passion until I had children. And now, my children are my passion and I can't be a really good mother and a really good employee. And then, I think I said that I want to home school our children. And then I might have said that I think my company should hire Charlie in my place. And then, I think I may have said that we need to be relocated to Virginia so we could be closer to family.

And then, I called my husband from our home line and told him what I did.

And then, while I was hyperventilating and talking out loud to my shadow over the repercussions of such communication with my husband and boss and our uncertain future, unbeknown to me, Henry picked up my cell phone and in the process of mashing buttons as only a one-year-old can do ... called the last number dialed and jabbered on the phone while I could hear my boss ask over the speakerphone, "Is this the baby?? Is this Henry??"

And then I passed out.

desperately searching for balance

Earlier this week, I started a post in which the very first paragraph read, "Here we go again ... me not sure what the heck I'm doing. Me wondering if sending the children to Montessori is the right decision. Me wondering if we should move. Me wondering what to do with my career. Me wondering how in the world I'm supposed to keep all of the balls that represent the various facets of our lives successfully in the air. Me realizing that although I'm getting through each and every day, it doesn't feel like I am doing any one thing particularly well."

Over the weekend, and almost all of this week, I have been in a stupor regarding what I "should" be doing. This most recent seizure and subsequent, immobilization of my psyche was prompted by two managers who cornered me on the last day of my meeting in Palm Springs, and asked point blank, "What do you want to do? You know you'll need to make a decision, soon. Right?"

My peaceful world wobbled and fell off it's axis.

Career. Opportunity. Relocation. A Decision.

I've known that I need to make a Decision soon. But this is the first time that I've been TOLD that I need to make a Decision soon.

I stink at making Decisions.

One of my bosses, the more senior of the two said, "You are very talented. We could really use you in a number of locations within our corporation. In fact, I think we could use Charlie, too. For the past several years, you have been leading a very eclectic life. And while that is admirable, you are living a mainstream life - while being out of the mainstream. Right now, you have the opportunity to give your family more stability."

Then for the swift kick that sent my peaceful world rolling out the door where it was run over by a semi-truck, "Do you want to move? Yes or no? Do you want to work full-time? Yes or no?"

I stuttered.

I couldn't make eye contact.

I was fixated on a bird sitting on the top frond of a palm tree outside of the pool. In a span of five seconds I tried to dig deep in to my soul and come up with the right answer.

What do I want to do?

What is the right choice for my family?

When it became clear that he wasn't going to move until I provided an answer, I blurted out, "Can I use one of my life lines? Uh. Maybe call a friend?"

It seems that there is a potential opportunity for me in Virginia in the middle of next year. Management wants me to consider this job. I have no idea what I want, even though the idea of living closer to family and in an area with changing seasons is appealing. My mind changes throughout the day. I ponder and pray at night and wake up with one decision, only to have my mind change five times before I've even climbed out of bed.

Add to that, the children's Montessori teacher pulled me aside today and said that they have three spaces available in the nap room. The option is available for us to leave the children at school for six hours a day as opposed to three. I can't believe I'm even considering this but the part-time schedule is pure torture.

The delusion I had of having three hours of "free" time to myself in the morning has yet to come to fruition. Not once have I jaunted off to the store - or to the gym. Usually, I'm trying to clean up from breakfast and lunch preparation, take the baby down from the table, make beds, get myself and the baby dressed, take the baby down from the table, play with the baby, throw in a load of laundry, take the baby down from the table, tidy up miscellaneous piles, and get Henry settled in for a nap.

I hardly have time to get anything else accomplished in those three hours during the morning, before it's time to go pick up the kids. And even then, I'm usually five minutes late. Twice in the past week, I've had to wake up a (finally) sleeping baby so I could go get his siblings from school. I'm sure it would be less painful to stab myself in the hand with dull scissors.

Was my life easier before school or is it easier now?

I really can't tell. It feels like I am constantly running around trying to get things accomplished. And even though I'm moving nonstop and sleeping very little - I'm not getting half the things done that need to get done.

Grocery shopping? If I'm lucky.

Laundry? Maybe but probably not.

My list for thank you notes is a mile long.

And the resulting guilt when I do something like blog or sit and stare at dirty grout, when I should be working or playing with the children or talking to my husband about "Oh my God, what should we DO?!" is debilitating.

People have been telling me that when the kids go to school, life will be easier. When I hire help and have people come clean the house, life will be easier. Currently, I have our children in school AND I have someone coming to clean the house. And thus far, life is not any easier. If anything, it is more complicated and I feel more driven to work so that we can afford all of these "conveniences."

Now, the option is there to send the kids to school full-time.

I feel like I'm on a slippery slope.

This isn't what I wanted to have happen, I think they're too young, but it seems so tempting.

Six hours a day.

The additional cost of full time school is so marginal, it's not even worth discussion. But since our children's energy stores are exploding, I've enrolled them in gymnastics one day a week and swimming lessons twice a week. At this point, our children's education and extracurricular activities is equivalent to our mortgage.

It's a fact.

Financially, I can't stay home and send our children to school. I also can't send our children to school full time on some days, and not on others. This particular program is five days a week so it's all or nothing. And although there are other preschool programs, I've already invested a lot in this particular one, so I don't want to make a change. Unless, that change is to terminate school altogether. But that seems wrong.

I think?

What really bothers me is that my patience with the children seems so slim.

Why is that? Wouldn't it make sense that if I was gone for them for longer stretches during the day, I would embrace them and all of their completely irrational four-year-old behavior when we were reunited? Why do they annoy me? I feel like I am spread so thin and the best that I have to give is subdivided upon far too many entities.

Although one might think that with all of my "free" time, the time I have with the children is focused. But it's not. I'm distracted by the next thing that needs to be done. Dinner preparation. Baths. Putting the mail away so that the kids don't open random bills, and cover them with scribbles from a purple crayon and pumpkin stickers.

Yet even though just one of our children, let alone all three, has the ability to drive fruit flies from a rotting banana, I really miss them. I miss our outings to the zoo and the library and play dates and various parks with picnics at random times throughout the day. Is it possible that the small window of opportunity for unstructured free time, before they were pulled away from me and in to a rigorous daily routine has already slammed shut closed?

On our current schedule - or proposed schedule - it certainly seems that way.

I feel like I have very little time with them anymore. Except for those days when they are home sick from the most recent virus they picked up at school. I have a bit of time in the morning during breakfast. A bit of time in the afternoon before I wrestle with them to take a nap. A bit of time in the evening when I'm trying to prepare dinner and keep them away from the hot stove because yes!! it! is! hot!! must you burn yourself again to know that your mother speaks the truth?!

I really want to be one of those women who have a passion about their career - or know in their heart that absolutely, they could give their children everything that they could learn at school and more. I want to be one of those women who knows the best and right thing to do. I want conviction. I am so afraid that if I stop working and pull the children out of school, the visions I have for success will not match our reality.

And then what?

I'll be unemployed during a dire economic time and the children under my tutelage will have glued their eyes closed with an adhesive stick that they thought was sunscreen.

the old bait and switch

This weekend, a friend of my mother's - who she met while at the Optimum Health Institute several years ago - came to stay with us. Lea is from Ireland and she is absolutely lovely. She attends OHI every year for a few months to "detox" and whenever she is in town, we always try to see each other.

Lea currently lives in Northern California. She is one of the most gracious, peaceful, classy, soulful, earth loving people I've ever met. Twenty years ago, Lea ran a Montessori school. She is wonderful with children and her demeanor exudes calmness, patience and love.

Just having her in our home has an extremely peaceful affect on me.

Saturday morning when we sat down to eat breakfast, Lea was attempting to tell the children a beautiful story about a Quail named Robert. But she was distracted because Carolyn was trying to look under her shirt to see if she makes milk, William was continuously interrupting to see the earring holes in her ears, and Henry was screeching. Then there was Elizabeth who wasn't feeling well and with a temperature of 103, was trying to curl up on Lea's lap.

It was pure mayhem and the peaceful Lea looked over at me and said "I have no idea how I ran a school for so many years. How on earth did I do it?" I replied, "I don't know, you tell me. I have no idea how I have survived the past year."

The last time we saw Lea, Henry had not yet been born and I remember talking to her at length regarding my concerns with having four children under the age of three. And I clearly remember Lea telling me that if I could just get through three-years-old, four is a wonderful age. Yet this weekend, after seeing the drama and the hysteria, Lea told me that their behavior is perfectly typical and four will probably be the most challenging age yet.

HUH?

I've been seriously holding out hope that within the next month, a tremendous transformation will have taken place. Where suddenly, our children will become reasonable and as a unit, they will become tolerable. But Lea crushed my theory and when I told her that people, including herself, had said FOUR would be the magic age, our elegant friend snorted.

She snorted.

For the past day, I've been thinking about how surviving the first few years of parenting is a lot like learning how to swim. When I was a child, I have memories of my older siblings standing in the swimming pool and encouraging me to paddle out to them.


"Come on, you can do it! It's only a little ways!"

Summoning what courage I could muster, I would jump in to the water and while attempting to stay afloat, I would struggle to reach my siblings, only to see that they were slowly walking backwards, away from me.

Instead of swimming a mere three feet, I would have swum six, nine, twelve feet. I would have made it across the pool and my siblings would be cheering me on, "See! You did IT!! You didn't think you could do it, but look what you've accomplished!!"

"Sure! And hey my whole life only flashed before my eyes once!"

Now, I am on the brink of our children turning four. And although I am proud of how far I have made it without requiring resuscitation, some days the edge of the pool still looks awfully far away.

"Hey little one!! Throw me that thing ... will you?!"

a camping we shall go

We went camping this past weekend.

When our friend called us on Friday afternoon and asked if we would be up for camping "sometime" and we tossed out the idea of leaving on Saturday, he couldn't believe that we would be so spontaneous as to pack up the children and a tent and leave on less than 24 hours notice.

Clearly he doesn't know us very well.

Charlie and I used to camp all the time, but this is the first time we have taken our children camping. Probably by the nature of studying geology, we spent a large portion of our college experience in 'the field'. We love spending time in nature and sleeping outdoors, away from noise and light.


After driving two hours to the north and ascending curvy mountainous roads, we unloaded the car at our camp site and Elizabeth promptly threw up the contents of her stomach. Thankfully, she was sick the moment after she stepped out of the vehicle and not the moment before while she was seated inside, because vomit coating our equipment that was squeezed in to every square inch of car space might have meant an immediate end to our outdoor adventure.

Our friend has three children under the age of five - so together with our four children under the age of four - we had seven small children running around and playing. But at one point, Charlie and I decided that if we had been on this trip - alone with our children - it would have been a lot less stressful and more enjoyable. It seems the combination of new children plus our children created an energy level that now as I'm thinking back on it, just hurts my head. My head hurts even more when I think of Carolyn opening our friend's cooler and intentionally crushing her finger in to several of their eggs that just moments before, they had told me they planned to use for a "special" breakfast.

Although we both have a lot of small children, we have triplets.

Our friend does not.

This weekend, I realized just how much work triplets really are. They are more than "just" three kids. The level of effort is exponential. Three children. The same age. The same wants. The same competitions. The same idiosyncracies because of their developmental stage.


Our friend has taken off the past several years from his career to stay home with his children where he works with them extensively on reading, writing and math. He grows all of his own food organically, and is teaching them to play various instruments. He and his wife are teaching their children to be trilingual, since they speak English, Gujarati Hindi and Punjabi, interchageably at home. They are doing an incredible job of raising their children, but when my friend told me that his children have never thrown a temper tantrum because they don't know what a temper tantrum is, I felt like kicking him in the shins.

At one point, I looked over to see him sitting down quietly with his four-year old son and quizzing him on the curriculum of a First Grade activity book while our children were laying face down licking dirt.


No sooner had we started a fire and I was desperate to get our kids to bed. Instantly, my visions of keeping the children up late in to the evening and wrapped warmly in a blanket so we could star gaze, dissolved.

Their lack of an afternoon nap and over indulgence on sugar caused them to run around the camp site with their arms literally waving over their heads while shouting "ARGHARGHARGH!"

I sensed it was the perfect storm brewing and I could just see children falling one after the other directly in to the fire pit. So, while I was sitting nursing Henry at the campfire with our friends, Charlie was trying to get the children in their pajamas. They were so crazy excited to be in a tent, they were bouncing around and pushing each other to and fro.

At one point, Carolyn shoved William who smacked in to Charlie's face and sent his glasses flying. Charlie yelled, all eyes and flashlights from the campfire quickly turned up to see what was happening and when I went to investigate, I found my husband, terribly flustered and ready to wrap the kids in tent line.


Fresh from sitting with our friend and his prodigal children who were calling out all the capitols of the United States, I approached the tent with a gentle and quiet mind. Having been separated from the children for a good 10 minutes prior to that outburst, I had summoned patience and was better able to interface with our children than my husband, who had been subjected to their bedtime ritual insanity.

When I walked up to the tent, I actually said, "Hello Children. Let us all be peaceful loving souls on the earth, Kumbaya."

They just looked at me and I could see their beautiful blue eyes spinning in their heads. Instantly, I could feel myself being sucked in to their vortex of crazy and then someone sat on the potty and in a fit of acting goofy, proceeded to dump a bottle of water all over themself and their dry pajamas and I cracked like Jimmy Corn.

The words I started yelling didn't even make sense. But then again, dumping WATER on yourself when you are CAMPING and it gets COLD at night and you only have ONE pair of pajamas doesn't make sense, either. For the second time in less than five minutes, all the flashlights at camp were again on our tent.

I could just imagine what our friends were thinking. "Peace Loving Man. What is with those kids? Who is in control over there? Our children would NEVER behave that way."

Charlie and I got the kids situated inside the tent, duct taped the zipper close, and returning to the camp fire, opened up our bottles of beer which we then drank down faster than we've ever drank down beer. We then talked animatedly about being admitted to a mental institution and laughed like we were crazy.

It continued to get dark and our friend queried his four-year-old son, "What continent is Saudia Arabia on? What about Germany? Afghanistan? India?" Then he turned to astronomy. "What is the smallest planet? What is the largest? What are the planets in order from the sun?" Then on to math. "What is four plus four? What is eight plus two? What is twelve minus eight?"

"Who is the 43rd President of the United States?"

An hour or so later Charlie and I retired to bed feeling like the worst parents ever. Our kids don't know what continent they live on and I suspect they would be easily convinced that we are citizens of Pluto. They have a slight grasp of math, because they all seem to want FIVE of whatever it is we are having. Five strawberries. Five grapes. Five cookies.


Our kids certainly know what temper tantrums are and they know how to throw a good one. If I sat them down with an activity book, it would just be a matter of time before they tore out the pages and ate them. Charlie and I lose our patience and we get extremely frustrated. Sometimes, it seems that the ONLY way we can regain control of a situation is to channel the alphadog.

Sometimes, reward stickers and time outs just don't cut it.

The next morning, when one of our children was in the process of throwing themself on the ground for a temper tantrum, I ashamedly picked them up and quickly took them to the car where we set off on a 20-minute drive. Charlie remained behind at camp with our other three children.

But when I returned from the drive, my husband had a sparkle in his eye and a spring in his step. He pulled me aside to say that one of our friend's children had tried to reach in to their cooler and pull out various food items. The mother had said no. The father had said no. But the child persisted. And then, the mother - the patient, calm, yogi master - started breathing fire from her nostrils. She snapped at her child in a demonic voice while her husband desperately pleaded, "Walk away. Walk away!"

But she didn't walk away.

She stood her ground and a monster emerged.

An ugly, beautiful monster that suddenly didn't make us feel like the worst parents ever, anymore. When Charlie excitedly relayed this story to me, I felt warm with love, compassion, understanding, comraderie. And I did what any person who tries to feign oblivion to a nasty situation would do.

I walked up to my friend who was still fuming and placing my two hands palm together, bowed my head and unsuccessfully trying to suppress my laughter, whispered "Namasté."

Life is good and I honor the Spirit in you which is also in me. Especially that spirit that goes CRAZY when provoked by small people.

And to think ... they almost had us totally fooled.