Part III: A Waddle In Time

Once dad was in town, I started to go down hill very quickly. Even though I was consuming 1.5 gallons of water a day, I was "voiding" no more than a cup a day. It was becoming increasingly difficult to move around, to stand up and sit down, and getting in to and out of the bathroom was a two person job.

My last day of work was Friday, October 8. By Friday evening, I was covered from my hands to my feet in the PUPPP rash, which had started to break out a few days earlier. My toes were especially itchy and since there was no way I could reach down to them - my wonderful dad sat on the end of my bed the couch with a hairbrush and scrubbed my feet until they were pink.

The itching never did stop.

My father is a retired pharmacist, so when Charlie arrived home from work that night, Dad took off for the drugstore to pick up a variety of hydrocortisone creams, Aveeno Oatmeal Bath, Gold Bond Powder, Benadryl, a foot bath, a toilet seat riser - and a prescription for Terbutaline that I had to take every 3 hours, round-the-clock. When dad walked in with bags full of remedies that would help to make me more comfortable, I was so overcome with happiness, I burst in to tears.

Unfortunately, none of the remedies helped.

The itching from my PUPPPs became more and more unbearable and spread over my body. I finally agreed that an Aveeno Oatmeal Bath might help to soothe my skin and then quickly realized that hoisting my 230-pound self in to the bathtub was a terrible, TERRIBLE idea. It took Charlie 30-minutes to get me out of the tub and he came within seconds of calling the Fire Department for assistance. I was adamant that I could get out of the tub without the help of our extremely good looking neighborhood firefighters. With every ounce of stregth in my body - I hulked myself up on my arms, while Charlie stood in the tub and hoisted me out.

I remember laying on the couch Sunday evening and crying. Within a matter of days, I went from feeling wonderful - to feeling like 10 cents worth of God Help Me. The fluid retention was so bad that I was gaining approximately 2 pounds a day. My lungs felt tight, my hands were numb, my legs and feet had swollen up so they were barely recognizable, my back and hips ached with the most intense pain I've ever felt, I couldn't breathe through my nose, my heartburn was unbearable, I couldn't stand up unassisted, I couldn't sit down unassisted, the only way I could go to the restroom was with the tap running and my hand submerged in warm water ... and the itching was driving me insane.

For the first time in the past 30 weeks ... I didn't want to be pregnant anymore.

The plan was that my father would drive me back and forth to doctor appointments while Charlie went to work. The first and last appointment dad drove me to was Monday, October 11. When we pulled out of the driveway that morning, my hospital bags were already in the car.

When I walked in for my NST appointment, the nurses took one look at me and immediately summoned the perinatologist on-call. Within an hour, I was sitting in my own private room with an IV of magnesium sulfate and my first shot of betamethisone (a steroid which speeds lung development for preemies and has the added side effect of relieving skin irritations - i.e., PUPPPS rash). While dad made himself comfortable and channel surfed, I scanned the menu and picked out my meals for the next four weeks while I would be on hospital bedrest.

Even in my dire state ... I never imagined that I wouldn't make it to 35 weeks and deliver our babies on November 12th. Even though I had said I didn't want to be pregnant anymore, I firmly believed that once I was in the hospital, everything would be better.

The next morning, I was given another shot of betamethisone and when I went to order my breakfast (that I had carefully picked out the day before), I was informed that my doctor was withholding all food and water. Instead of my French Toast and Canadian Bacon, I was hooked up with an IV of saline and given a cup of ice chips.

THIS. IS. NOT. WHAT. I. HAD. IN. MIND.

Dad came and sat with me while Charlie went to work - and together the two of us watched back to back episodes of Walker, Texas Ranger. That night, we watched Ken Jennings win again on Jeopardy and then we flipped over to watch the Red Sox get crushed by the Yankees. By the time dad left that night, I hadn't had anything to eat all day and my baseball team was down 0-1 in the first game of the American League Championship.

This was shaping up to be a really bad day for me.

Wednesday rolled around and when my requests for pancakes and turkey sausage was shot down, I frantically started paging my doctor to let him know that I was withering from the hunger. Eight hours and at least 15 pages later, he strolled in to my room - moments after Charlie and my father had arrived. I was livid and just as I started to chastise him for starving a woman pregnant with triplets, he cut me off. Apparently, while I was hallucinating and sweating bullets on my magnesium sulfate drip, he was bringing 12 babies in to the world, four of which were more than three months premature.

Nothing like a perinatologist to put things in perspective for you.

My doctor pulled up a chair alongside my bed and told us that my blood work did not look good and he needed to deliver our babies that night. He may as well told me that I had two heads and a pet zebra. I tried arguing that I wasn't planning to deliver the babies until November 12th. I wasn't READY to be a mother yet. Even though it took us over 8 years to get to this point and I had been pregnant for 30 weeks and 5 days, I wasn't prepared.

I needed more time.

The date was October 13. I thought for a few minutes and then told my doctor "No. You can't deliver them tonight. First - I am not a superstitious person, but I'd prefer that they not be born on the 13th. Second - It's the second game of the ALCS and Pedro Martinez is pitching."

At that moment, a neonatologist from the NICU came in to my room. He watched while my perinatologist performed an ultrasound and using the measurements collected, he talked to Charlie and I about the survival rate and prognosis for a 31-week old fetus. Over and over he told us that our babies would be fine and that there would be no long term effects for being born 9 weeks premature. Still, I was in denial and didn't want to believe that our babies would be born so soon.

I don't remember the doctor ever telling me that I was really sick. It wasn't until after the babies were born that it sunk in just how seriously ill I had become. If they had told me, it didn't register that my liver enzymes were through the roof, my platelet count had dropped, and my lungs were filling with fluid. The really bad news is that I had developed HELLP Syndrome, a form of toxemia, that has a mortality rate as high as 25%. The really good news is that I was at one of the best hospitals in the world, under exceptional care, and my babies were at a gestational age where they could survive if born.

After the neonatologist left, my doctor looked sternly at Charlie and said "I'll do another round of bloodwork and if her numbers have not stabilized, the babies will be born tonight." Fortunately, my numbers did stabilize and I was able to incubate our children a little bit longer.

Unfortunately for Pedro Martinez, Boston lost Game 2 to the Yankees.

When Charlie and my father were leaving the hospital to drive home, dad leaned down to give me a kiss goodbye. He looked me right in the eye and told me that he'd recently received a great deal to purchase 12 plots at a cemetery in my hometown of Massachusetts. He also told me that if I didn't listen to the doctors, I might need one of them.

I don't know what made me feel better, the fact that if I didn't survive this ordeal, I had a place to go for eternal rest - or the fact that my doctor finally let me get something to eat. The kitchen was closed so instead of the turkey and gravy I had been dreaming about all day, I got a roast beef sandwich.

Shockingly, the cold roastbeef sandwich on wheat bread was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.

.... to be continued ....

Part II: A Waddle In Time

A large number of women in my family have been struck with horrible morning sickness. Because of this history, I was positively certain that the nausea, fatigue and food aversions would hit me three-fold. Surprisingly enough - I dodged that ugly bullet almost completely.

From the time I learned I was expecting until I had my first ultrasound, I did experience moments of queasiness and my dietary staple for two weeks consisted of nothing more than Goldfish crackers and strawberry Jell-O. But once my first ultrasound was performed and we saw three little heartbeats flickering away, the nausea disappeared and in it's place was an appetite so large - I could put a team of 15-year old boys in the midst of growth spurts to shame.

In fact, I felt so good that I often got downright panicky and questioned if perhaps they'd made a mistake and mixed up my paperwork. Except for the fact that I'd devour anything that was edible, I didn't feel pregnant. I certainly didn't look pregnant. A little voice inside my head would say, "This isn’t real. Someone made an error. You aren’t really pregnant. This is a horrible mix-up and very soon, they are going to call and tell you that it's all been a mistake and you need to put down the cheeseburger."

As the days, weeks and months ticked by ... the call never came. So, while I waited for the phone call that would tell me this was all a dream, I, alone, consumed more than 75 gallons of ice cream.

Slowly and then quickly, my stomach started to grow. Every so often I still questioned if my increasing girth was a result of the pregnancy or from my ability to pack away 8 tacos at one sitting. By the time I was 10 weeks, none of my bras fit. By the time I was 12 weeks, none of my pants fit. By the time I was 15 weeks, none of my socks fit. Fortunately, I was pregnant during the warmer months and we live in a mild climate because by the time I was 18 weeks, the only shoes that I could wear were flip flops - which I couldn't see beneath my huge tummy - unless I was looking in a mirror.

When I was 14 weeks pregnant, all of my care was transferred from my regular OB/GYN to a High Risk Maternal/Fetal Specialist (aka: perinatologist).

Every two weeks, I would have thorough appointments, including ultrasounds and internal exams. Whereas most women receive only one or two ultrasounds during their entire pregnancy, I had more ultrasounds than I could count by the time I was 22 weeks, and have enough ultrasound images to wallpaper a 15 x 15 foot room.

One of the best things I did while still early in my pregnancy, was to schedule a tour of the NICU. From all the reading I had done on HOM pregnancies, I knew that our babies would be born prematurely - most likely between 28 and 32 weeks gestation. If I was lucky - I would carry them to 35 or 36 weeks, but the odds were great they would be born sooner. Because there was a good chance that our babies would be spending at least a certain amount of time in the NICU, I thought it would be a good idea to investigate.

We were very lucky that the women's hospital where I would be delivering was rated with one of the top three NICU's in the entire country. The care offered to premature newborns at Mary Birch is exceptional and since the hospital is attached to the Children's Hospital of San Diego - they have the resources immediately available to manage all phases of care. What I learned during my pregnancy is that if there is a chance you will be delivering your baby prematurely, especially less than 35 weeks, a Level III NICU (where there is the ability to care for seriously ill newborns, including those who require immediate surgery, and those who weigh less than 1,000 grams (2.19lb.)) is imperative.

IMPERATIVE.

The day Charlie and I toured the NICU, there was a baby that had recently been delivered at 32 weeks. He was tiny, weighing in at only 4 pounds. When I looked in the incubator at this perfectly proportioned little infant, I cried. He was hooked up to wires, monitors, and wore a tiny patch across his eyes because he was under glowing blue bili lights for jaundice treatment.

The neonatologist took my arm and led me up and down the several rows of incubators where I saw tiny babies, each one smaller than the next. I saw lots of name cards - lovingly crafted - above the cribs. There was a Joseph, Eleanor, Thomas and Katie. There was also a Joyous Miracle, a baby girl who along with her twin brother, had been born at 23.5 weeks and weighed in at only 15 ounces. Not even a pound.

I saw a lot of rocking chairs and mother's sitting with their premature infants doing kangaroo care. Considering there were so many newborns in this room, at least 50, it was surprising that I didn't hear a single one cry. Instead, my heart would skip when I would hear multiple alarms sound and see nurses run over to inspect their tiny patients.

Following our tour, the neonatologist sat down with us for the next hour and answered all of the questions we had ... and addressed a number of topics we'd never considered. He told us that my goal was to get past the 24-week mark. Beyond that point, there was an excellent chance our children would survive.

This caught me totally off guard.

SURVIVE?

I never even considered our children not surviving. My only thought, all along, is that they would be born and thrive. It was then that I fully understood just how "high-risk" my pregnancy actually was.

The doctor told us that babies born before 28 weeks could have problems resulting from brain bleeds and retinopathy of prematurity (ROP). Babies born so prematurely were also more suspectible to viruses and bacterial infections. If I could get past 28 weeks, he indicated that the risk of long-term developmental delays decreased dramatically.

This was good to hear, but my plan all along, was to reach 35 weeks gestation. I had every intention of delivering our children on Friday - November 12th, Charlie's birthday. I had even written, in ink, on our calendar: “Charlie turns 38 … babies are born.”

Around here, if it's in ink ... it must be so.

Returning from the NICU tour, I was more determined than ever that I would carry our babies as long as possible. My goal was to stay off my feet and drink at least 1.5 gallons of water a day. In my spare time, I read and re-read Barbara Luke's book "When You're Expecting Twins, Triplets or Quads" and did my best to follow her strict guidelines on caloritic intake. For me, that equated to approximately 4,000 calories a day and loads of protein. At least three nights a week, Charlie would grill up delicious steaks and every single night, I would have a huge bowl of Rocky Road ice cream. Because we ate out a lot during this time, I especially enjoyed telling our foodserver, after I would order the entire right side of the menu, "I'm eating for four!"

Never before in my life - and I doubt never again - will I have the freedom to eat with such reckless abandon. It was awesome. Fortunately, I was never afflicted by the inability to eat because I would get "full" too soon. Apparently, my stomach resides in my lower leg and was never crushed by my growing belly.

Because I really love my job and thought that the distraction of work helped keep my mind off my general discomforts (which were mounting each and every day), I worked full-time with no restrictions until I was 20 weeks. Once I hit 20 weeks, my perinatologist suggested that I start slowing down and requested that I use a handicap placard so I wouldn't have to walk long distances in the parking lot whenever I went to his office for my frequent check-ups. We also invested in a waterproof chair that I used whenever I took a shower. Charlie was a good chap and when my waistline prohibited reaching my legs to shave them - he would pitch in to help.

It was about this time that Charlie and I celebrated our 10-year wedding anniversary. Because I've always stressed that I subscribe to the "Modern Anniversary Gift", Charlie has known for years that the 10-year anniversary is a diamond.

On our wedding anniversary, which happened to fall the night before my baby shower, Charlie shocked me (and his sister, Susan, who was in town for the shower), when following dinner he said "10-years ago I gave you a gift that was unfortunately not meant to be. Today, I am replacing that gift." And with that, he pulled out a black jewelers box and removed an exact replica of the engagement ring that I had lost 9-years earlier. And to think, I hadn't even bought him a card.

Here's some quick background ...

Two years after we were married, one of my sisters married a Kebadjian and we have obviously had close ties with the Kebadjian family ever since. The Kebadjian's had sized our wedding bands and adjusted the fit of my engagement ring a few days before our nuptials. What I didn't remember is that they had also taken the complete specifications on my engagement ring. As our 10-year anniversary drew closer, Charlie reached out to my brother-in-law and told him that he wanted to have a replica of the ring that had been lost, recreated for our anniversary. Most importantly - this had to be a complete surprise, so my brother-in-law could not whisper a word to my sister, who in turn, would most certainly tell me.

Our curse is that no one can keep a secret in my family ... especially the women. Word travels especially fast which is why the phrase "Telegraph, telephone ... Tell-a-sister" has been coined. If you've ever heard that phrase before, just know it was started because of the female line I have descended from.

Now, the reason I mention this story is to illustrate, once again, what an awesome guy I have married. But I also mention it because I was 20 weeks pregnant when we celebrated our anniversary and I was starting to swell up like a balloon. The size of my fingers, which had grown to the proportions of my big toe, were not enough to prohibit me from trying on my new ring. I was so enamored with my anniversary present that I wedged it on my finger and was immediately unable to take it off.

If you are reading this - and if you are pregnant ... do not be a fool and put on jewelry that is designed to fit you in your pre-pregnant state.

Also, do not be a fool and leave your rings on too long while waiting for the phone call that says the lab made a mistake and you really aren't pregnant at all.

Once you reach your second trimester - remove all of your rings. Otherwise, you will spend a lot of time bawling hysterically like Gollum from Lord of the Rings with soap and water, dental floss and vaseline, ice cubes and peanut butter ... and any other 'tips' you can download from the internet for removing stubborn jewelry.

Minus the ring faux pas and a fainting episode I'd had when I brought our new neighbors a tray of O'Henry bars and nearly collapsed on their front porch ... I had yet to go to the hospital for any pregnancy related issues. I was having the best time of my life and wished that I could stay pregnant forever. Although, I was starting to get these pesky spontaneous and explosive nosebleeds, heartburn that felt like my esophogus was on fire, and my hands were completely numb when I woke up in the morning. Despite those minor ailments, my hair never looked better.

At about 22 weeks, Charlie and I went in for a Level II ultrasound. It was during this visit that we received our first bit of scary news. We were informed that choroid plexus cysts (CPC's) were identified on all three babies' brains. In addition, Baby A (William) had a echogenic cardiac foci on his heart.

While Charlie and I were reeling from what this could mean, our perinatologist introduced us to a genetic counselor who informed us that CPC's are considered "soft-markers" for Trisomy 18, and ECF is considered a "soft marker" for Down's Syndrome. The genetic counselor mentioned that we could rule out both of these birth defects if we performed an amniocentesis ... but she also informed us that the risks of miscarriage with amnio is much greater when you are expecting multiples.

For the same reason we decided to forego selective reduction, Charlie and I decided to forego the amnio. We wanted these babies - no matter what. Together, we made the decision that we would never terminate our pregnancy (or one of our children) if the results came back indicating there was a problem.

Still, we were shaken. Here we had waited so long to become parents, and we received the first hint that not one, but all three of our babies, could be born with birth defects so severe, they may not survive their first year. We tried the best we could to tuck that scary news in the far back of our minds forget about it ... and continued looking forward to the impending arrival of our children.

By the time I was 24 weeks, I was ordered to go on "self-restricted bedrest." I hadn't had any complications - but - I was at a critical time in my pregnancy and we didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. At exactly 24 weeks, I moved out of my office and on to the couch in our living room, where I continued to work full-time with my laptop computer until I was 30 weeks pregnant. I will always have wonderful memories of enduring long conference calls on our couch, while watching in awe - the mosh pit that had become my stomach.

In addition to moving myself out of my office - I moved myself out of our bedroom and on to the couch. After a string of profanity at 3 AM due to hot flashes and the most intense leg cramps ever experienced by mankind ... I made the decision to sleep in the living room. Charlie tried to protest, saying something about how he needed his wife by his side ... but he never finished his train of thought. He was back to sleep and snoring loudly before I even left the room.

Once on the couch, I found that I could actually sleep if I was upright with 12 pillows strategically placed behind my back and legs. I also discovered that it was a full body workout placing 12 pillows in strategic locations behind my back and legs and whenever I would finally get comfortable - I had to get up and use the restroom.

Thus began the longest and most uncomfortable nights of my entire life.

Beginning at 27-weeks, I had to go in for Antenatal and Non-Stress Testing (NST) twice a week.

This was an event where I would sit in a chair for a minimum of one hour with four straps around my massive belly that would measure each of the babies' heart rates, monitor me for contractions (that I may or may not feel), and evaluate the fetuses movements.

Charlie being the incredible husband that he is attended each and every NST appointment with me. But because he was still working and was taking off an exorbitant amount of time to accompany me to every single doctor's visit, we finally accepted the offers for assistance.

At 30 weeks, my dad flew in from Massachusetts to help. He arrived on Thursday, October 7. I remember that I almost didn't make it to pick him up at the airport. Charlie and I happened to be at a NST appointment and I was having contractions every 5-minutes. This was a total surprise, because I couldn't feel a thing. They gave me one shot of Terbutaline and then another. I don't drink coffee, but I imagine that if I did ... pounding 20 shots of espresso in less than a minute is a good analogy for the effect of this medication.

The perinatologist on call came to see me. They wanted to admit me that afternoon for observation but I begged and pleaded. "Please. PLEASE. Let me go home. My father is flying in from Massachusetts and we are having meatloaf for supper." Even after all that I'd been through - my priority was not my health, nor the health of my unborn children. Everything in my world revolved around what I was eating for dinner.

When it didn't seem like the doctor was listening to me, I bribed the nurse. If she would help to convince my doctor to release me, I would let her borrow my black leather Dansko's until my feet shrunk back to their normal size. I would also knit her a cashmere scarf and give her my copy of The Red Tent.

After two additional hours, and my incessant whining, they let me go. It was only recently, when I was bragging to some friends about my superb negotiation skills, that Charlie clued me in that the ONLY reason the doctors had released me is because my contractions had finally leveled off.

When we arrived at the airport, we greeted my father who had been waiting for the past several hours at the curb. As I struggled to get out of the car to hug my dad, he looked at Charlie and said "Oh, Dear God. What have you done to my daughter?!"

At that point, I had gained over 90 pounds during my pregnancy, with 20 pounds packed on within the last two weeks. With my carpal tunnel braces, flip flops, nasal spray that I wielded like chapstick, sausage-sized fingers and toes, and a splotchy rash over the better part of my body ... I wasn't quite the epitome of a glowing pregnant woman anymore.

Little did any of us know, my body had started to shut down and our babies would be delivered by an emergency c-section in less than a week.

…. to be continued …

Part I: A Waddle In Time

I love pregnancy stories ... especially those with a twist. Pregnancy is always good fodder for discussion - and since I'm feeling sappy because my babies have recently turned two, I'm taking a long walk down memory lane. This is the first of many stories I feel compelled to write down before I forget the details. You know, my mind isn't what it once was.

One of the most common questions I hear from people is: "Wow, Did you know you were having triplets?!" I don't know what exactly they mean by this. They could mean "Were you surprised when you found out that you were pregnant with three?" Or, do they mean, "Were you surprised when the babies were born?"

Even though we transferred six embryos during our IVF cycle, I was shocked that I was pregnant at all. Nothing could have really prepared me - or Charlie - for the news that we were expecting triplets. When our doctor performed the first ultrasound I could clearly see two sacks with two strong heartbeats. When he pointed out the third, I thought for sure he'd counted one of them twice.

So whenever people ask me if I knew that we were having triplets, my honest reply is "No. I didn't know that we were having triplets until I was almost 8 weeks along. I knew that I was expecting, but I didn't know how many babies there were until I had my first ultrasound." It was mind boggling to imagine three babies, but with time, Charlie and I became more and more excited.

What the vast majority of people do not realize is just because you transfer a certain number of embryos, doesn't mean that you are going to wind up with a certain number of babies. The chance of achieving a pregnancy is increased with the number of embryos you transfer - just as your chance of having multiples is increased.

Theoretically, the more you put in ... the more you could potentially get out.

For the record, it is not advisable to transfer a large number of embryos because the risk of high order multiples (HOM's = triplets or more) is present. A HOM pregnancy is, generally speaking, very difficult on the mother and always results in preterm (less than 40 weeks) birth of the babies.

However, there are alot of other criteria to be considered ... including the woman's age, the quality of the eggs, the quality of the embryos, the infertility history, etc. In our case, we transferred four beautiful embryos during our first two IVF cycles and never achieved a pregnancy. On our third cycle, 50% of the embryos that I transferred "stuck" around. Since I have become a parent, I have met several mother's whose embryo count increased by 50% following their transfer. Meaning, they transferred two embryos, one split so they have a set of identical twins AND a fraternal twin. Three babies + one pregnancy = triplets.

This is more common than one might think.

Two years ago, I read about a woman who transferred two embryos and gave birth to a set of quadruplets - a pair of identical girls and a pair of identical boys. Two embryos = four babies. Can you imagine their shock?

Actually, I can...

I met a woman when I was 18 weeks pregnant that was the mother to quadruplet boys. Throughout her entire pregnancy, she didn't know she was having quads. Here's the scene as she described it: They are in the delivery room. The first baby - that they expected, was born. The second baby - that they expected, was born. The third baby - that they expected was born. They are starting to close the mother up from her c-section, and the doctor sees a little tiny foot. A little tiny foot that was attached to a fourth baby ... that they were NOT expecting.

It's incredible that with ultrasound technology - something like that could happen. It was shortly after I met this woman, that I went to the doctor for my 24-week ultrasound. The technician was taking measurements on all of the babies and she would call out "Baby A. Two arms, two legs, beautiful heart, two kidneys. Baby B. Two arms, two legs, beautiful heart, two kidneys. Baby C. Two arms, two legs, beautiful heart, two kidneys." And then she says ... "Baby D. Two arms, two legs, beautiful heart, two kidneys."

I almost fell off the table. Charlie almost fell off the stool where he was perched next to my head. We both said aloud "Baby D?! What do you MEAN Baby D?? There's no Baby D!!!" The technician glanced at our paperwork - looked at the monitor and said, "Uh, yes there is. There's a fourth baby. Right there. See it's head?"

For the next several moments we sat in stunned silence while our technician ran off to get our doctor. I could tell that he was a little surprised. Even though I was under extremely close watch - with ultrasounds every single week - I met a woman who just a year earlier, didn't know that she was having triplets until her 26th week ultrasound. The reality is - babies can be difficult to spot and technology isn't perfect. After a tense few minutes, the doctor let out a deep breath. "No, there are three fetuses. A, B and C. It looks like one of the babies flipped and duplicate measurements were taken."

I've often wondered how our lives would be different if we had been surprised by an additional baby. I know one thing for certain ... my life wouldn't be nearly as different as a woman I met who after having two children decided that she'd had enough. Her husband went in for a vasectomy and two years later ... the woman became *spontaneously* pregnant with identical triplets. One egg + one sperm = three babies.

In case you were wondering - yes, they are his.

Because technology isn't perfect and because my husband is a jokester, to those people who ask if we were surprised, Charlie will almost always respond "Yes, we were shocked. We had NO idea that we were having triplets. We were in the operating room and one baby came out. And then two babies came out. And then ... THREE babies came out. We totally freaked because we didn't even realize Jen was pregnant in the first place. We thought she had a kidney stone."

Even though a triplet gestation is considered high-risk, I absolutely loved being pregnant. Maybe it was because it took me so long to get there, but I savored the entire experience right up until the end when I topped the scale at 240 pounds, would have gladly traded my Tums for a crane to hoist me out of bed, and had to do my shopping in a wheelchair that beeped whenever I backed up.

One of my favorite pregnancy memories is when we went out for Chinese food following a doctor's visit. I was only 20 weeks pregnant, but I was measuring 38 weeks, or nearly full-term. We sat down at our table and the waitress came up and asked me "What you have? Boy or girl??" And I responded "Two girls, one boy." She shook her head and said "No, no. What you have right now?" And I again responded "Two girls, one boy." I could tell she was frustrated by a language barrier so she shook her head rigorously and said "NO, NO. What you have RIGHT now. In your dummy!!" And I smiled and very slowly said "Two girls, one boy." And then I pointed, top left quadrant girl ... top right quadrant girl ... bottom boy.

She jumped back so fast she dropped her note pad.

Our waitress gaped at me - Charlie - and then me again and asked "TREE BABIES?!" When I nodded ... she grabbed my arm and said "Tree babies! Oh, dat vewy good wuck!" She quickly disappeared and somewhere distant, I could hear her shouting in Mandarin. Seconds later - the entire staff, dishwashers, cooks, and the book keeper came in to the dining room and smiled at me. She again repeated, this time to the full restaurant, "Tree babies. Dat vewy good wuck!!"

The waitress couldn't have been more correct. If there was one thing we maintained throughout my pregnancy, delivery and six long weeks spent visiting our premature infants in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) ... it was good luck. And lots of it.

.... to be continued ....

Happy 2nd Birthday to our Amazing Trips!

October 14, 2006 ... our babies are now two.

Where has the time gone?

These past two years have been an amazing adventure. William, Elizabeth & Carolyn have brought us more joy than imaginable. We never knew that we could feel such love and exhaustion. Simultaneously.

To our beautiful children: Thank you for coming in to our world. We cannot, and would not want to, imagine our lives without you. Good things come to those who wait. Great things come to those who wait longer. We have seen firsthand, the blessings that come to those who wait the longest. My only complaint is that you are growing up much too fast.

I am so excited to see what new experiences this coming year holds. My birthday wish is that you remain healthy, happy and safe. And also, that you remain in your cribs for at least the next 12-months.

As of today, we have three 2-year olds in the house.

Now, for a moment of prayer...

(This slide show is a small sampling of the more than 5,000 photos we have taken over the past 730 days. Over the next couple of weeks, I will be creating separate slide shows to document the babies birth, NICU experience and an introduction to each of our incredible children. But for now, these are some of my favorite pictures of our amazing trio in their first two years of life. Make sure your volume is up & enjoy!)

Lost and Found

Last night was one of the longest I can remember.

I was up with a distraught Elizabeth from midnight until 2AM. Visible every few seconds was a flashlight beam from the backyard. While I sat in the rocking chair with my sobbing daughter, Charlie with his bad back, was in his boxer shorts and slippers scouring the backyard. Again. And again. And again.

Elizabeth barely slept all night ... which means Charlie and I barely slept either, since she was nestled in bed with us. She would doze off for a few minutes and then jolt awake with big tears and cry "Bunny! Oh, Bunny!!!" I was completely exhausted but I stayed awake comforting her, because her grief was so intense.

I had flashbacks to 1995. On April 14, Charlie and I went out to an Irish Pub with some good friends to hear a local band. During the course of the evening, I was fiddling with my beautiful engagement ring, a family heirloom that was once Charlie's great-grandmother's. I remember it was raining outside and my hands were cold - which made my ring fit more loosely than normal. Suddenly, I felt my ring slip off and heard a "clink, clink, clink!" along the floor.

My heart dropped to my knees.

I whispered to Charlie "I dropped my ring! Oh no, I dropped my RING!!" I got down to look on the tile floor and Charlie got down next to me. Our friends dropped to the ground and all four of us were crawling around looking for my engagement ring. People that had been standing around us, asked what we were looking for and I ignorantly told them the truth. After the wedding band episode we'd experienced less than a year earlier, I incorrectly assumed that everyone was truthful and honest.

Suffice to say, I spent the next 3 hours crawling around a dirty bar room floor looking for my ring. I was completely heartbroken that something so precious was lost, undoubtedly picked up and pocketed by one of the bargoers. Over the next week, I called over 250 pawn shops and over 200 jewelers in San Diego. I posted signs in the bar and offered the better part of my financial aid a large reward, with no questions asked.

My ring was never seen again.

To this day, it still pains me to think of the loss, and whenever I see a pawn shop, I drop in to look for my ring. Last night while I was sitting up with Elizabeth and could feel her little body shuddering from the sadness ... I remembered how physically sick I felt when I had lost my ring. I was unable to function. I missed school and stayed in bed for four days, crying almost nonstop.

On April 19th I was jolted out of my slump and life was put in perspective when the horrific tragedy in Oklahoma City occurred. What those people experienced on that day ... THAT was loss. My ring? It was just a ring. A mere possession. My daughter is too young to understand the concept of material possessions right now. As far as she is concerned, bunny is her best friend. He is very real to her.

This morning, when I dragged myself out of bed after having slept no more than an hour woke up, I continued my search. Finally, I had to give up and go to work. All morning I've been distracted by the fate of bunny. The lovely woman at the local office supply store heard my story of woe and generously offered several "replacement" stuffed animals from her inventory. I graciously declined telling her that Elizabeth has an exact replica of "bunny" at home and unfortunately, nothing - but the original - will do.

A short while ago ... I received a call from Charlie. He told me that they were at the park and William, very deliberately, walked up to Elizabeth and handed her bunny. What Elizabeth's mother, father, grandmother and dog could not find ... her 2-year old brother did. Bunny had been inconspicuously tucked in the back of the stroller, a spot that we had all searched, several times last night.

I am beyond thrilled that Elizabeth has been reunited with her beloved bunny. I was seriously prepared to call Dionne Warwick and the Psychic Friends Network later today. But above all, my eyes have been opened to the affect that my children's emotions have on me. When something terrible happens to them ... it happens to me, too.

Even something as seemingly insignificant as a misplaced stuffed animal.

The eagle has landed...

My mom arrived yesterday. Her shuttle - which we insisted that she not take from the airport, but she insisted on taking because she cannot bear to think that she is in any way an inconvenience ... pulled in to our driveway at 2:30 PM.

While Elizabeth slumbered on, Carolyn and William were just waking up from their nap, so I took both of them out of their cribs and ran outside so they could greet their Noni. It's been 3 months since they've last seen their grandmother. Their reaction?

Ah, Noni, Spumoni.

Yet ... a mere five minutes later, when Noni sat on the floor and opened her Mary Poppin's like bag and pulled out a collection of new children's books, videos and airline pretzels, they were all over their grandmother like peanut butter on our table following lunch.

In case you were wondering, the secret to unleashing a toddler's heart is a few new books and some airline snacks.

After visiting for an hour, and since mom had been traveling since 3 AM Pacific Time ... I encouraged her to go lay down and take a rest. At first she was a bit resistant and told me "Oh no, I feel great. I don't want to miss a thing!!" But when I reminded her that Oprah was on at 4 PM in California, she barreled out of the room so fast I thought she might knock down her grandchildren she'd been doting over, just a moment before.

My mother LOVES Oprah. As long as Oprah Winfrey has been on the air, I don't think my mother has ever intentionally missed an episode of her show. Infact, I remember calling my mother after our children were born. Our conversation went something like this: "OH HI JEN! It's so great to hear from you. Can I call you back? Oprah's on and she's got Tom Cruise!"

It happens at least once every couple weeks, mom will call me and say "Oprah was wonderful today. JUST WONDERFUL. Did you happen to see her trip to Africa and the work she is doing with the orphanages?" To which I'll always reply "It's hard to watch television, unless it's The Wiggles, during the day." And in return, mom will say "Oh, I could never miss Oprah. She's wonderful!"

Yesterday, mom settled in her room to watch Oprah's cross-country trip across America. If I could just learn to relax and let our children rip apart an entire book case in less than a minute - perhaps I too, could watch Oprah every afternoon at 4. Unfortunately, at this point in my mothering career, I cringe when I hear paper being torn.

Mom ... not so much.

She just cranked up the volume and smiled. I honestly don't remember my mother ever being so relaxed when I was a kid. But then again, she didn't have Oprah.

Mom then tested my boundaries a little more, when she put on their coats and left suggested that we take all three children for a walk around the neighborhood with their push toys. I had never done that before - without the aid of a carriage or safety harnesses. The kids had a great time, running up to perfect strangers homes and knocking on doors, picking flowers, and grabbing stuff off their porches. I in turn, learned that unleashing our children in to people's yards is a fantastic way to make new friends. Provided you maintain a sense of humor when they come running out of their homes to see who is knocking over stuff on their patio.

We came home from our walk and enjoyed a wonderful dinner. Even though mom recently started the South Beach Diet, I told her that all she needs to do to lose weight is try eating dinner with multiple toddlers on her lap.

Even mom, the super maternal being that she is, drew the line on sharing her water with William when he gave her back some of the zucchini that he'd *tried* from her pasta sauce. He's such a generous little guy. If he doesn't like something, he'll give it right back to you.

In all seriousness - it is really wonderful to have mom here. I truly wish that I could see her every day. It makes me sad to the point of crying, when I remember she is flying home in 9 days. Speaking of crying, you'll never believe what happened today.

The absolute UNTHINKABLE.

What is the absolute worse thing that could happen in the world of my children? More specifically, in the world of Elizabeth?

I'll give you a clue: It's pink with floppy ears.

Give up???

Bunny ... as of 1100 hours ... is MIA.

I came home from a 12 hour work day to be met at the door by my mother whispering "We've lost B-U-N-N-Y." The last sighting of b-u-n-n-y was at naptime. The children woke up at 3 PM and they played in the house, yard and garage. Sometime between 3 PM and 7 PM b-u-n-n-y vanished. Between Charlie and my mother, they spent 4 hours ripping apart the house, yard and garage ... to no avail.

It was so bad that mom and Charlie had to spell where they have last looked for b-u-n-n-y. Trashcan? Diaper pail? Inside? Outside? Couch? Cribs? Cupboards? Dishwasher? Just the mention of the word "bunny" would send Elizabeth in to a teary panic.

For as long as I can remember, I have dreaded this day.

On a much brighter note, Charlie's back is on the mend. That's a darn good thing, since I'll need for him to get up with Elizabeth every 10 minutes when she is mourning the loss of her lovey, tonight.

Daze days like these

Today was a long day. Not because Charlie felt miserable and was out of commission, and not because our house was torn apart due to new construction we have taking place in the kitchen.

Today was a long day because it seemed that everything that could go wrong ... did go wrong. It is now very late, but before I go to bed ... I decided that rather than focus on the challenges of my day - I need to focus on the positive.

The highlight of my day was not when instead of making dinner and getting our children ready for bed, I took all three of them with me to run errands at 5 PM. When I arrived at our first destination, I realized that I had forgotten all of their snacks and sippy cups at home.

The highlight of my day was not when I arrived at the post office and thinking how lucky I was to get a parking spot right by the door - unloaded the children in their huge stroller, pulled out the big boxes of hand-me-down clothes I'm sending to my brother for his 15-month old twins, got to the door and realized that because it was Columbus Day ... the post office was closed. Ah, yes. That would explain the empty parking lot.

The highlight of my day was not when I drove to the grocery store and was unable to snag one of the fancy buggy shopping carts that securely holds all three of my children. Unless I wanted to pull the big Peg behind me through the whole store, I was forced to put one in the seat and two in the basket and then walk around the store, partially leaning in to the cart to hold all three down.

The highlight of my day was not when I realized that Trick-or-Treat snack packs of Reese’s Pieces are not necessarily the ideal treat for (almost) 2-year olds. Unless you don't mind leaving behind a trail of Reese’s Pieces through the entire store. You wouldn't think 100 Reese’s Pieces is a lot ... but when they are littered along the shiny white floor at the grocery store it certainly looked like we were summoning E.T.

The highlight of my day was not when I was quickly picking out some apples, that my son who was perched in the seat of the shopping cart - casually leaned over and grabbed a lemon off the produce stand. A lemon that would be the foundation for the 5,000,000 lemons that were precariously perched on top of it.

The highlight of my day would not be when I navigated my shopping cart between the narrow checkout aisle and as I was unloading my groceries, helplessly watched as Elizabeth and Carolyn, just out of reach, attack the candy display and magazine display, simultaneously.

The highlight of my day would not be when I asked the bag boy to put all of the groceries beneath the cart or else the kids would throw them out. And then, as I was walking outside of the grocery store and down the ramp, all of my canned goods rolled out from the bottom of my cart and in to the middle of the road.

The highlight of my day would not be when I was leaning down to pick up my canned goods in the middle of the road, caught a glimpse of my feet and realized that I had gone out in public wearing my purple fuzzy slippers. Ah yes. That must explain all the looks I was getting in the store - as I was standing in the middle of 5,000,000 lemons.

The highlight of my day was not when I got home, unloaded all of the groceries, brought all the children in to the house, checked on Charlie, made a Rigatoni dinner and when I was draining the noodles - missed the strainer from all the steam - and dumped more than half of them in to our dirty sink.

The highlight of my day was not when after I tucked all three of the children in to bed after their baths, Charlie asked me where the Ginger Ale was that he had put on the grocery list. It was then that I remembered like the snacks and sippy cups, I had forgotten our grocery list, too. The most important item on that list - Ginger Ale for Charlie's upset stomach - was the one item I had missed.

The highlight of my day was not returning to the grocery store at 9 PM to pick up a bottle of Ginger Ale (after plucking all three children out of their cribs and changing dirty diapers), only to be greeted by at least 15 other shoppers in front of me, that had cut out and were using every single coupon from the Sunday paper, in the one line open, with enough food in their carts to last through Thanksgiving.

It might seem like any one of those scenarios above might constitute the highlight of my day. But no...

The highlight of my day did not come until I was driving home from the grocery store. I thought about the date ... October 9th, 2006. Three years ago tomorrow (now today), was our first attempt at IVF. It certainly doesn't seem like three years ago that we were going through our first cycle. It certainly doesn't feel like three years ago I was so full of optimism and hope that Charlie and I would soon be parents.

Three years ago - when our first IVF cycle failed, my heart was broken and my dreams were crushed when we learned that getting pregnant, if we were so lucky, was going to be a lot more difficult, and expensive, than we ever imagined.

Two years ago - I was pregnant and about to deliver our long awaited children.

One year ago - We were preparing to celebrate our babies first birthday.

I reflected on my day, today. I thought back to dinner time and how, for the most part, our children play so well together. I thought about the baby babble and the belly laughs. The words that are just starting to emerge from their vocabulary and their senses of humor that are beginning to sharpen. I thought about their little faces, their little eyes, noses, mouths, hands and feet. I thought about how with three little kids and the massive messes that they create, our house finally feels like a home. (Because I now know how to upload videos ... there will probably be a lot of them on our blog.)



Even on days like today, time goes too fast. In four days, our babies will be two. From what I've read, the behavior that they are exhibiting is perfectly normal for a two-year old. So, I suppose it makes good sense that the feeling I have of falling in to a black abyss, is perfectly normal for the mother of 3-2 year olds. (With that in mind: If you ever see a crazed looking woman with purple fuzzy slippers in a pile of lemons, that would be me. I'm just trying to make lemonade.)

The highlight of my day today - and everyday for that matter - are our three beautiful and healthy children ... that a mere three years ago, I feared would never exist. In truth, they are more magical than I ever imagined.

I must sound desperate

Charlie is completely incapacitated. The last time his back went out this badly, he didn't realize that just the smallest movement could trigger a muscle spasm that would fully disable him. Because neither of us want to risk him winding back up in the hospital on a morphine drip ... I have been adamant that he not move. Unfortunately, he had to move this morning, when he experienced horrible side effects from the Vicodin he'd been taking yesterday.

In 2001, Charlie was out of work for one full month to allow a complete recovery of his back. For thirty days, he was unable to lift anything weighing more than 5 pounds, he was also forbidden to bend, twist, run ... or clean the house. The minor difference between now and then, is that we didn't have three 2-year olds running free.

Yet again, I am extremely thankful that we have flexible careers that allow us to work from home. Today, I was fielding phone calls for an emergency situation at the office - while supervising the children running around the yard. While I was trying to carry on a conversation, I was also attempting to thwart our kids from flinging the better part of their toy collection over the backyard fence. It was about that time, I realized that they were standing on top of an ant hill and were being swarmed by little black ants.

Keeping my compusure in check for the important call I was on, I started swatting at the children's clothing. Just then, Carolyn came walking up to me with something green and slimy all over her finger. As I was wondering what it could be ... I noticed that William had picked up a snail from the ground.

A partially smeared out snail.

My beautiful daughter is standing next to me with part of the snail on her finger ... my beautiful son then proceeds to scoop out the remainder of the snail. My children are smiling at me with smeared out snail all over their hands ... and start to raise their little fingers up to their mouths.

The compusure I had maintained up until that point was lost.

Two of my children are covered in snail guts, all three of them are being swarmed with ants, my husband is laying on the floor completely unable to move, I am dealing with an emergency situation at work, we have contractors at our house finishing some work in our kitchen, a large number of our toys are in the neighbors yard ... and their sprinklers come on.

If there is a silver lining to any of this ... it's that my mother read my blog from yesterday. In 2001, because of work commitments I had in progress, mom flew out and helped Charlie through his rehabilitation. While I took off for work every morning, mom and Charlie took off for the pool, where they floated around for three weeks straight. Mom called this morning to see how Charlie was doing. When I gave her the lowdown on his condition, she hung up and called back a few minutes later.

Twenty two hours and 3,000 miles separate us, today. But tomorrow, mom will be here. She didn't even have to ask if I needed help. Like always, mom just knew.

Sunday Morning Mayhem

Five years ago, the day after our romantic wedding anniversary, Charlie had to be removed from our house by ambulance. He was hospitalized for almost a week and the doctors were prepared to do surgery for what everyone considered to be a ruptured disk in his lower spine. Thankfully, it wasn't a ruptured disk and surgery was not necessary. However, Charlie had to take up a daily regiment of exercises that would help to strengthen his back ... including, yoga.

We never really did figure out why his back went out on him five years ago. It has been one of those mysteries that has completely eluded us. Until today.

This morning, Charlie's back has gone out on him again. As I'm typing this ... he is laying on the couch behind me with a heating pad and loaded up on Vicodin. We were discussing how he may have thrown it out, and the only thing we can come up with is the house cleaning we did last night.

I think Charlie's ailing back is partly our minister's fault. If he hadn't given such a risqué sermon, I wouldn't have convinced Charlie that cleaning the house in our skivvies was a good idea. Instead of spending a leisurely morning at the zoo, I refereed stroller races around our kitchen, tried to keep the children from crawling all over their father ... and figured out how to upload a video to my blog. (What I've noticed is that it's best to let the entire video load before you try to watch it. Hit pause and let the red bar at the bottom fill in. Otherwise, the video is very choppy ... or at least it is on our computer!)



Poor Charlie. Poor William.

Sometimes it's better to stay away from the females in this household.

soul food: cleaning house

Here's an interesting tidbit about myself that I may have mentioned once or twice:

I can't stand clutter and am the anti-pack rat.

When my surroundings get cluttered, my mind gets cluttered, my thoughts get cluttered ... and then I'm just miserable and confused.

Miserable and confused like I am walking around with a bag on my head.

Miserable and confused to the point that I become indecisive and am incapable of making simple decisions like what kind of toppings I want on my pizza.

Do I want toppings at all? Do I even want pizza? Maybe a calzone would be better. Or, maybe I'll just skip dinner and go straight for a hot fudge sundae. Did somebody mention a tuna melt? That sounds great!

I'm not obsessive/compulsive about cleanliness nor am I a complete organizational freak. I can tolerate things getting a little of order here and there. With three toddlers - I obviously have to be able to handle messes to some degree. But when our home turns in to a war zone, I shut down and become unable to manage the simplest of tasks. Which is why I haven’t planned any kind of celebration for our children’s second birthday, which is one week from today … and have failed horribly at trying to plan anything for Charlie’s 40th birthday in just over 5 weeks.

It has often happened that I will stand in the midst of our playroom ... in Legos up to my knees ... and look around wondering how the heck I got here and how to get out. Where do I even begin, and is it worth my energy??

This past year week has been an especially difficult one for me. Because I was out of town on business for the better part of last week - this week - I've desperately been playing catch up, both at work and at home. The sad news is - I'm no where close to being caught up. The problem is when things in my life get cluttered, it indicates a lack of control and when I don't have control of my surroundings - it is manifested in every. single. aspect. of. my. life.

Charlie and I haven't had a fight in a long while. But yesterday as I was driving to work, it dawned on me that the worst fights we have ever had, is when something in my life is out of control. Because what we are dealing with right now is some of the worse clutter that I can recall ... and I have been feeling like a real crank, I had a sneaky suspicion that if we didn't get this mess reigned in quickly, I would snap like a twig.

Snap in a million little pieces.

Even though I hadn't finished doing a lot of the cleaning and organizing that I had intended today, we decided that if there was one day that we absolutely had to go to church - today was the day.

More than organization - we needed salvation.

We loaded up the children and took off. Because we had forgotten the tether that firmly secures Elizabeth's lovey to her clothing ... I opted to leave bunny in the car. This was a horrible, horrible mistake. She screamed from the parking lot, through the church - down the hallway, through the corridor, over the hills, far a way, and in to the nursery. Tears were streaming down her face and she was sobbing "BUUUNNY!!! BUUUNNNY!!! BUUUNNNNY!!!!"

When Charlie ran back to retrieve bunny, I stayed behind in the nursery with our three children. I squatted down to talk with them at eye level and collectively; they knocked me off my feet, on to my rear and then climbed on top of me, while screaming and crying uncontrollably. Even though it's been about a month since we've been to church, they clearly remembered that this was not a happy place for them.

While all the other 12-36 month old children in the nursery just looked at the wailing heap on the floor, several nursery teachers came over and plucked the children off of me. Charlie came back - we reunited Elizabeth with her bunny and when two teachers tried to hold back William and Carolyn ... I turned and sprinted for the door. There was a barricade blocking the exit and I yelled to the teacher "OPEN THE GATE!! OPEN THE GATE!!" while I ran towards her, with shrieking children hot on my tail.

I got through the gate and she quickly slammed it shut, seconds before William and Carolyn arrived. I had no idea they could move so fast. I looked back as I was rounding the corner out of sight and could see that they were both absolutely hysterical. For a moment I felt like the worst mother alive to leave my children, but then I remembered that if I don’t take care of my needs first – I certainly can’t take care of theirs.

We settled in to the church service, fully expecting that at any moment our beeper would go off, summoning us back to our inconsolable children. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. What did happen is we heard a sermon that was perfectly applicable to us in every way … the sermon today was all about having a successful marriage.

The minister told us that there are three “C’s” to marriage: Chemistry, Companionship and Commitment. To which I added a fourth “C” => Chardonnay. And then I worried that I really am turning in to a lush.

Our minister told us that regardless of the challenges that we face in life – in order for any marriage to work – we must make time for it. I was shocked to hear that the average time a couple spends talking to each other per week - is a mere 37 minutes. That's right ... less than one hour, per week, talking. No wonder 50% of marriages don't survive!

We must touch, hold hands, hug each other, kiss each other, love each other. And we must find common ground for activities that we do together - activities that don’t just involve cleaning the house and organizing the clutter. Constantly.

One thing that I thought was particularly interesting was the minister told the entire congregation, that married couples should sleep with as little clothing on as possible, to help facilitate the accomplishment of the above referenced tasks.

Can you image - what kind of church is this, anyway??

In reality: it’s the kind of church that we absolutely love and has the highest growth of any church in our City ... for darn good reason. Once again, Charlie and I walked away feeling like our souls were filled. When we picked up the children – they were happily playing in the nursery – after the horrible injustice that they had endured a mere 55 minutes earlier.

We came home, enjoyed dinner as a family and put the children to bed. Charlie and I then set about cleaning our house, with a bottle of Chardonnay, and as little clothing on as possible. Suddenly, our messy house wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it once was.

My revelation of the day? A little clutter might be good for me ... and I love church.

Things I've Learned Today

1) Although I knew this already, today it was further confirmed that Charlie is very brave. While I worked this morning, he loaded the children up and took them to the library for toddler story hour. By himself. Even though I printed out the map for where he needed to go, he called me and said the library was not where I had indicated. After calling the library to confirm it hadn't been moved - I was informed, repeatedly, that it was most definitely still at the intersection of 2nd and B Street. I called Charlie back and after he adamantly insisted it was NOT at the intersection of 2nd and B Street ... he realized that he had been driving up and down 3rd Street for the past 15 minutes. Considering he was in the vehicle with the navigation system - I think I might be rubbing off on him.

2) Molly, our other animal, does an absolutely fantastic job of cleaning the floor, even if she does miss a spot here and there. Now if I could just get her to help me organize the clutter, I'd be home free.


3) People in my real life, actually read my blog. It's an odd sensation when people that I know, will reference or quote something that I've written about. When I sit down to write, it's like I'm updating my journal. If I gave any thought about the people that were reading this - I doubt I'd be as forthcoming as I usually am. So even though I fully expect that the words I write will be read by my mother - I don't really think about my *audience* beyond that.

Because this blog is for our children's posterity, it is 99.999% true - with just a dash of artistic license here and there. The reality is, every single person within my family is a natural born storyteller. We are the epitome of the Irish stereotype. We love to drink and talk. In my case, because Charlie is living this experience with me - and I don't have very many people to talk to - I love to drink and write. (Please do pardon my horrible spelling and grammar. Refer to the last part of that sentence.)

It's extremely important I make it clear that my blog is a literal unloading of my thoughts from the day, usually after a glass or two or three of wine, without nary a consideration for who might be reading these words.

This afternoon, Charlie and I took the children and walked to our local post office. It was a nice little jaunt, about 2.5-miles from our house. While I went in to have some work documents notarized, Charlie stood outside with the kids and Molly. Once in the post office, I bumped in to our good friends, who were also at the post office to have some documents notarized.

You might remember ... these were our friends we spent Labor Day with.

After making small talk for a while, my friend says "My mom reads your blog." At first I was flattered and then I said "Uh-oh. Really?" and with just a hint of amusement he said "Yes, she called me last month to tell me that I had to read one of your postings, about the night you and Charlie came over for dinner." And of course my mind started reeling like a fishing line with a 5-ton whale on one end ... what did I write that he had to read?

Our small talk ended - I bolted outside and told Charlie we needed to run the 2.5-miles home so I could see what, if anything, I wrote that might possibly be considered embarrassing. To tell you the truth, I couldn't exactly remember what I had written. When we arrived home, I did a search on my blog by date and found what I was looking for. The title read: "This is why we don't go out."

My eyes quickly scanned the entry and when I got to the part about them having abnormal children - I just put my head down on my desk and groaned "Oh no. no. no. NO!!!!" Then I asked Charlie how could he let me write and more importantly PUBLISH something like that on the internet?! Charlie said there is no stopping me when I've had a glass or two or three of wine.

Of course I couldn't just leave this alone.

I picked up the phone and called my friend. In the background, I could hear his children crying. Actually, one of them was screaming. I asked if the blog posting he had read was the one where I had called their children "abnormal." He just laughed and said "Yeah, that would be the one." If there was ever a time I wished our kitchen floor would open up and engulf me - this would be the time. After sputtering for a few minutes, I finally said "Well, it really would have helped if your kids were screaming like they are right now, the day we came over. See, at this very moment they aren't acting abnormally at all!"

Feeling really dismayed that I might have offended our good friends, I got the children ready for bed. I was obviously feeling distracted, since Charlie pointed out I had dressed Carolyn in dinosaurs and William entirely in pink. I went to the phone and called my mom. After telling her how lame I felt about the whole situation, she told me that today while she was trying to access my blog from the library, she'd inadvertently pulled up every single comment I've made on other blogs. Fortunately, please God I've never written anything that I would be ashamed for my mother to read ... but ... holy smokes.

My mother has access to everything I've written on the internet?? I feel like I'm 16 again. Can somebody out there please buy me some beer?!

If it wasn't for this little blog and the people that read it, I never would have had the courage to push Charlie out the front door this morning our children never would have experienced toddler story hour at the library.

Of course, I also wouldn't feel the overwhelming need to tape my fingers together. Damn this new technology. I swear it will be the end of me.

(Linda ... Joel, Grace ... we love you guys. You know that, right?!)

What to do ... what to do?

There's a lot on my mind so I'm going to ramble. There may or may not be any rhyme or reason to what I write but then again, there seldom is.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record ... the house is a disaster.

Again.

I swear, it doesn't matter what I do - I cannot stay on top of it. There is no question that it was easier when the children were infants and not in to everything, because then - when I would clean the house, it would stay clean.

The problem now is that they ransack the place and anything that we had out on the counters - must be moved in to higher piles on the counters - in order to keep the kids from getting in to it. As a result, there are these disorganized piles all around our house that consist of anything from a tape measure, to a sharpie, to knitting needles, to chapstick, to sunscreen, to our gas and electric bill.

It takes every ounce of restraint to not pick up all this junk and throw it in the trash can, which I must then lock down so the children can't pull it back OUT of the trashcan and strew it about the house.

Even with our piles that are perched high on the shelves ... these kids are starting to use tools. They will flip over their little toy baskets and use the additional 6-inches to climb up and grab a say ... steak knife. Or tape measure. Or knitting needle. Or ... gas and electric bill that they will then partially consume. Thank goodness we receive our bills electronically too - or I would be forced to sift through tomorrow's diaper looking for the balance owed to SDG&E.

The clutter is driving me nuts. I am an anti-clutter freak, so this is literally killing me. Yes. I know that the children are only small once, forget about the house and enjoy this time. Blah, blah, blah. All I want is a floor that I can walk across without sticking to, for 24 hours. I want to fold a basket of laundry and not have it be unfolded and thrown all over the house - to the point that I can't distinguish between clean clothes and dirty clothes, so everything either gets washed again ... or stuck in drawers out of desperation.

Is that really too much to ask? A floor that I don't stick to and a blouse that is washed only once or that I think is clean but is really drizzled with maple syrup Aunt Jemima syrup?

A couple weeks ago, I opted to save the $140.00 a month we were paying for someone to come clean the house every other Friday, because within moments of her leaving - the house looked like it had been hit by a train. Besides, after a few months of having someone else clean our bathrooms ... I actually missed it. Yes, I missed scrubbing the toilet and knowing that the bowl was clean enough to eat from. Because - around here, you never know...

The children are napping right now. I suppose I could use this opportunity to go de-clutter and sanitize the house, but ... I don't want to make too much noise because if they woke up prematurely, the rest of my day would be shot. So instead, I blog.

And I wonder ... what could I, should I, ought I be doing differently??

Here's the thing: The outside world when it's just me plus the three of them, is a scary, scary place. I only venture to the outside world when I absolutely must. As an example - we are having tacos for dinner and we have no shells. Or hamburger. Or lettuce, tomato or salsa. Infact, we don't even have cheese or the little flavoring pack. All we have is the notion that tacos for dinner sounds good. That kind of dilemma would constitute a trip to the outside world. Although, on more than one occasion when faced with a similar situation, I will find myself saying "Tacos would be good. But the effort of getting the stuff to make tacos is far outweighed by the hassle of going to the store. We'll do tacos next week. Tonight for dinner, we'll have ... scrambled eggs."

I want to stay home with our kids. I want to be a constant in their lives during these critical formative years. But, I also wonder if I am robbing them of interaction with the outside world? If I enrolled them in a Mother's Day Out a couple mornings a week, would that expose them to positive educational things ... or ... would that expose them to hand & mouth disease?

What to do. What to do??

I think that it would be great to enroll them in some kind of class. I love the idea of getting them OUT of the house first thing in the morning - but I am usually hard pressed debating where I can take all three of them, by myself. I'm also very apprehensive to leave them somewhere until they are old enough to communicate with me, if there were something wrong. The few times I've left them - it's been a colossal disaster.

Mom recommended taking the kids to the library for story time, but I cannot rid myself of the image of three toddlers running around, climbing on top of tables, ripping books off the shelves and emitting their ear piercing shrieks. All the while, I'd be standing there like a deer frozen in the headlights, clutching my diaper bag and wondering how to exit as expeditiously and yet, gracefully as possible. I'm sure I'd be nervously laughing "Oh ... ha, ha ... we're not ready for this yet. Ha. Ha."

It's not to say that I lack courage and don't expose our children to positive educational activities. For example, this morning, I fed all three of them cereal in a bowl with milk and spoons. Three children that aren't yet two, perched at the table, over a recently mopped floor with cereal in a bowl with milk and spoons.

A short while later, I let all three of them stand on kitchen chairs while I made a batch of my mother's famous banana nut muffins. Because our kids have recently started to rebel against eating bananas, and I did not effectively communicate this to Charlie, for several weeks in a row - he continued to buy bananas, even though they were not being consumed. As a result, we had 20 over-ripe bananas in our freezer. Today, I made 10 dozen banana nut muffins and 3 banana nut bread loaves which I had intended to distribute to our neighbors, this afternoon.

Once I finished chopping the walnuts, I let the children help me add the walnuts in to the batter. I noticed that for every handful they would put in the bowl, a handful would go in their mouths. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw William put a handful of walnuts in his mouth ... chew ... take them out - and before I could stop him, throw them in the bowl. If I wasn't using our Kitchen Aid mixer, which was automatically stirring all the ingredients together, rest assure I would have scooped out the partially consumed walnuts. But darn if those nuts weren't mixed up before I could even absorb what had happened. And less than three seconds after that - Elizabeth decided Bunny needed to take a spin in the mixer, too.

Honestly. I don't know what to do with these children during the day so that they are positively stimulated. And I sure as heck don't know what I'm going to do with 120 muffins and 3 loaves of banana nut bread. Tell me about it William ... tell me about it.

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Here's my mother's famous banana nut bread recipe, in case you are one of my neighbors who are now not going to receive a batch of bread, but want to make your own:
1/2 c. oil
1 c. sugar
2 eggs
3 ripe bananas
2 c. flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
3 tbsp. milk
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 cup chopped (preferably not chewed) walnuts

Blend all of the above ingredients together and mix until smooth. Pour in to a greased bread pan (or muffin pan with liners). Place in a 350 degree (F) preheated oven. Cook for loaves for ~60 minutes, muffins for ~25-30 minutes. Serve warm with cream cheese.

A day in the life at 23.5-months

I was home with the children today. Throughout the day I found myself doing and saying things I never thought I'd do. This is just a sampling from a day in the life at 23.5-months...

I never thought I'd pry dog poop out of a child's hand and then jump 2-feet in the air when they handed me a dead bug.

I never thought I'd be glad - extremely glad - to be the first person to see a dead mouse in our garden.

I never thought I would chew the skin off an apple while standing in line at the grocery store, because my child won't eat an apple if it hasn't yet been peeled.

I never thought if I was at a play date and without Kleenex, I'd use my nice shirt to wipe a toddler's runny nose.

I never thought I'd honor the 3 5, 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60 second rule when it comes to my children and a graham cracker that fell on the ground in a public place. For that matter - I never thought my idea of thorough decontamination would consist of blowing vigorously on any food item that fell to the ground.

I never thought I'd lower my standards on cleanliness to the point that I'd smile contentedly while my children splashed in our dog's water bowl ... for the simple reason it kept them happily entertained and more importantly - quiet.

I never thought my most valued article of clothing in my closet would be my cargo pants. (It's all about the huge pockets - that hold everything from diapers to sippy cups to 12-oz packages of Nilla Wafers.)

I never thought that I could spend hours cleaning the house, only to have it be completely and utterly destroyed in less than 10 minutes. Several times a day.

I never thought I'd use my bare hands to catch spit-up (or vomit) from a babies mouth.

I never thought phrases like "Stop playing in the trash!", "Toothpaste is not food!" or "Spit out the battery!" would be common place in my daily speech.

I never thought cleaning my children with a damp paper towel before bedtime would substitute nicely for a bath.

I never thought my idea of decontamination when it comes to my children - would involve sucking the straw on a sippy cup, after it was thrown to the ground in front of the deli counter.

I never thought that after watching my children play with their food and pour their milk in to their applesauce, that I'd pour the milk and applesauce mixture back in to their cup and then watch them drink it, without gagging.

I never thought that in an effort to save a buck, I'd try to cut my children's hair. For that matter, I never thought that my husband, knowing how terribly I do at pruning our bushes - would ever let me within 2-feet of our children with a pair of scissors or electric clippers.

I never thought I'd fully expect that any snacks I give my children - will be promptly dumped out on the floor.

I never thought that my idea of lunch would involve eating whatever was left over on my children's plates and then sitting with them on the floor and snacking off goldfish, raisins and mozzarella cheese sticks that have been partially ground in to the carpet.

I never thought that I'd be overwhelmed with so much responsibility, each and every day.

I never thought that I'd be overwhelmed with so much love, each and every day.

After the kind of day I've had ... I never thought that I'd wager waking up a sleeping child, by picking them up and feeling them in my arms one last time, before I go to sleep at night.

I never thought, in my wildest dreams, that I'd be the mother of triplets.

More evidence I might be losing my mind...

Charlie survived an almost full week without me. While I was at my business meeting in Los Angeles, Charlie was home by himself. Well, not entirely by himself. He was alone with three toddlers, who were fully recharged after their weekend vacations, and in destructo-mode.

I received a voicemail message on Thursday afternoon. I picked up the message while I was in the lobby of my hotel, on my way up to my room to drop off some things before going back down to the lobby for dinner. The message was left by Charlie and he didn't sound too good. He sounded monotone, like someone who might be in a state of shock. The condensed version of his voicemail message went something like this:

"Jen, love of my life. It is me, your husband. I am losing the war, Jen. I am losing badly. I am outnumbered and I have been for the past several days. Your children are in to everything. Your children don't understand the meaning of the word "NO" or if they do, they scoff at me. I need you, Jen. I, I, I can't do this by myself. Carolyn. Carolyn. Carolyn - sweetheart - please get off the table. Please. Please. Please. Jen, this is your husband. It is now 4:00 in the afternoon and I am still in my pajamas. Your children are dressed and look adorable but I haven't showered in ... uh ... I think two days. I am suffering casualties and I am losing the baby war. My zone defense has been breached. Jen, I need you. Please come home soon. Please."

The voicemail message went on for three minutes. It spanned the entire time it took me to get on the elevator - go up nine flights - walk down the end of the hall to my room, drop off my stuff, grab a sweater, walk back to the elevator - go down nine flights - and re-enter the lobby. As Charlie droned on, I could hear in the background screaming and what I think were pots and pans being clanked around.

When I returned home on Friday night, poor Charlie was sick with a cold. He was miserable. I handled the rest of dinner and managed getting the kids bathed and in bed, by myself.

Even though bath time can usually be quite chaotic, our little angels were perfect and it felt so great to be home again. The children were thrilled to see me and would stop their playing in the tub just long enough to stand up and give me a hug and kiss. As I was getting ready for bed a few hours later - I told Charlie that I was feeling melancholy about how quickly our children were growing up. It is physically painful to think that they will be two in less than two weeks. I also told Charlie that I could seriously see trying for another child once our toddlers are successfully potty trained.

Charlie just gave me a look. The kind of look that is pure disbelief, amazement, and fear. Here I am, telling him "Aren't they WONDERFUL?! Let's have MORE!!!" and he's ready to run away. My husband reminded me that less than a week ago, I was prepared to abandon the family and move to New Zealand. Charlie also reminded me that absence makes the heart grow fonder - and perhaps I should give it a few days of being "home" before making grandiose plans for more little munchkins.

He then pointed out that although my dress shoes looked great with my outfit, my shirt which I had worn in business meetings all day on Friday, was on backwards.

Maybe I am losing my mind after all.