learnings from the Y

1) Just because there is a 3-foot gate in the nursery, don't expect this will be enough to hold back children who are adept at scaling things. If you're dropping your children off in the daycare center: stretch before you arrive, wear good shoes and be prepared to run.

2) Look in the mirror before you leave and think about where you are going. Although Crocs look great with my exercise gear, they are not the best shoes for scaling a 3-foot gate.

3) If the 78-year old man dressed in khakis with a long sleeve oxford shirt, belt, penny loafers and oxygen tank can spend 20 minutes on the StairMaster, you can, too.

4) Do an inventory on your exercise bag before you leave, or the night before - if you're working out first thing in the morning and will be bringing four small children with you. Otherwise, it is possible that what you *thought* was an exercise towel, will actually be a dust rag, and you will be blotting your sweaty face with something that reeks of Pledge.

5) If you happen to forget your iPod, a good mantra is "Before there were children, there was me. I love me! Me loves ice cream! Me eat ice cream if me work out. And 1, and 2, and 3, and 4. Again!"

6) Deodorant. It's a good thing. Even in a gym environment, something to combat offensive body odor is essential. If you don't do it for yourself, please do it for the people around you who must breathe to survive. Otherwise, you might wonder why everyone's face is turning purple and some lady is fanning a rag that smells like ... wood polish? ... in your general direction.

7) If you are a nursing mother: invest in a really good sports bra. Or some duct tape. Maybe both. You'll also want to avoid the ab crunch machine. Unless, your sports bra happens to be waterproof.

8) Relative to a house with four small children: locker rooms are extremely peaceful. Make room in your gym bag for a pillow. And a good book.

9) Don't over do it. Lifting too much weight or doing too many repetitions because "it doesn't feel all that heavy" and you are anxious to have "cut arms", may render your arms completely useless and you may need to request the assistance of a 78-year old man dressed in khakis with a long sleeve oxford shirt, belt, penny loafers and oxygen tank to heft your 20-pound baby in his 8-pound carseat in to your vehicle.

10) Dishwashing is a great activity to keep young children, who might otherwise cause trouble, entertained. It's especially great if you can't lift your arms up and over the sink.

baby toes

There is nothing in the world cuter...

Y not?

I've discovered that it is critical - absolutely positively I cannot put enough of an emphasis on just how critical it is - to get out of the house first thing in the morning with our children.

Right after breakfast.

The energy levels are high, all around, and we cannot stay inside.

We. CANNOT. Stay. Inside.

Some days we go for a walk, some days we go to the park, some days we have play dates, some days we go to the zoo, and some days, I'll buck up and we all go to the store. But only if we are running out of critical items. After my past few shopping experiences, I've decided it is less painful having a toenail removed than going shopping, by myself, with all four children.

One of the great challenges in my life, is to find things that will keep the kids positively entertained and won't cause me undue stress or bore me to absolute tears. It might sound surprising, but there are only so many times a person can go to a park, walk around the block, or go to the zoo, before they have the urge to walk off a pier. Being a stay-at-home parent can be an extremely rewarding experience. But it can also be terribly mundane and frustrating if you don't plan your day appropriately.

Suffice to say, I'm always on the look out for new things to do.

*******

I don't think I've mentioned it, but I recently canceled our gym membership. At least a year ago, I decided that bringing the kids to Kid Kamp while I tried to work out, was more of a hassle than a convenience. And since I could never get myself out of the house early in the morning before everyone woke up - and didn't feel like going in the evening after a full day with the kids - I stopped going.

But, I held on tightly to the hope that I might one day return. So tightly did I hold on to that hope, that I never once touched the contents of my gym bag.

For twelve months, we continued to pay $59.98 a month, before finally coming to our senses. If our gym had been more family-oriented, with classes geared towards children, I might have stuck it out. But because our gym was strictly a place for adults to exercise, Charlie and I ultimately decided that we needed the commitment of a gym membership about as much as we needed another dog.

Lately, I've been thinking about signing the kids up for swimming lessons. I had considered teaching them myself, because one of my very first jobs was as a swim instructor. Although taking all four of the children, on my own, to the pool seemed a little daunting. Even though I could handle the triplets just fine, I would worry about Henry sitting in his stroller while I was in the pool blowing bubbles.

Because three is a great age to start swimming lessons, this morning I decided to go on a fact-finding mission at the local YMCA.

Some of my fondest childhood memories are from the days when I was enrolled in gymnastics and tennis classes at the YMCA. At least two summers were spent at the YWCA's Camp Burgess Glen in the mountains of North Carolina where my mother was camp nurse.

Oh, I'll never forget ... "Bickety Burgess glickety Glenn is mickety mighty fickety fine and wickety we are glickety glad you're here, here, here, here! So wickety what care we how noisy we bickety be, for bickety Burgess Glenn will cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer!"

For several years, it seemed that I spent every waking hour at the YMCA. Until my sixth grade year when I dove off a diving block during a swim meet - hit my face on the bottom of the pool, sprung a bloody nose - and embarrassed myself in front of God and creation. And, the cutest boy in school. That put an abrupt end to my YMCA experience.

But that was over 20 years ago.

Once we arrived at the YMCA this morning, I felt a surge of energy. I don't know why I hadn't considered this before!! Our children would grow up knowing and loving the YMCA just as I had, as a child!! They would take classes and it would give us something new and exciting to do each week!! This is a much better alternative to me walking straight off a pier!!

I strapped Henry in to the Bjorn while the kids climbed out of the car. I gave everyone instructions. We need to hold hands and walk nicely. Once inside the building, we need to keep our hands to ourselves. There is to be no pushing, screaming or yelling. Everyone needs to pay attention to what I say and stick close with me. Sounds easy enough.

Holding hands we all walked carefully across the parking lot. We walked in to the lobby and up to the front desk and I told the clerk that I was interested in their swimming lessons. She handed me a brochure on the various classes and aquatics, but it was at least an inch thick, if it wasn't a foot.

Almost instantly, the kids laid down on the floor, blocking the entrance in to the facility. When I finally got everyone to stand up, they started pulling things off the counter. Hitting the lever on the drinking fountain. Banging on the fish tank. Opening the glass doors to the exercise class. Taking off their shoes. Running in three separate directions.

It would have been easier to corral feral cats.

I tried quickly flipping through the pages of the brochure to find out when the classes were meeting, what was the age range, dration and cost. There were words on the page, I could see them. But they held absolutely no meaning because I was so preoccupied trying to keep my children from destroying the front half of the YMCA.

I wanted to ask the front desk clerk to just sign me up for something. ANYTHING. But I knew that she couldn't do that. Only I knew what time and day of the week worked best. So while I stood with the brochure in my hands, wishing that the exact class I needed would magically POP out of the page at me, the kids started disrobing and manically laughing.

Grabbing for little hands, I pulled everyone outside and tried to speed read the brochure while standing on the front lawn. Children were running wildly around me. One was trying to climb a tree, one was trying to pick flowers from a pot and one was trying to climb in to the trashcan.

Finally, I herded everyone back inside and said to the front desk clerk "Hey, I know! Where's your kid center? You have one, right??"

The clerk hesitated and said "Well, yes, but it's for members only and members need to make a reservation 24 hours in advance to drop off their child. "

In a previous life, I wouldn't have pushed the issue. But as I stood in the lobby of the YMCA with my children that were now trying to climb over the counter and grab the telephone, I responded "Well, that may be. But if I'm ever going to become a member, I really need a moment of peace to read your brochure."

While the clerk made a few calls, I stood thinking about what I had said. At no point had I considered membership. My only goal had been to sign our children up for a class or two.

Yet within 30 minutes, I had signed up our entire family for membership. I also signed our children up for gymnastics that begin in three weeks and soccer, T-ball, basketball and swimming lessons that start in January. There is an additional charge for each of the classes the children take, but the cost for members is substantially less than for non-members.

The more I thought about it, the more I decided this is a good thing. Not only is our monthly "family" membership a dollar less than what we were paying to the gym (or, $31.00 less from what I had been paying when the kids were signed up, too), I will have the opportunity to exercise.

Provided I have any energy left after the daily power walks I've been taking with the kids.

Now, I'm off to go get another dog.

growing up

This is how William entertained himself for 30 minutes following his nap, today. With one hand he lugged Charlie's briefcase around the house and with his other hand, he tried to hold his pants up that kept falling down to his knees. When he'd walk out the front door he'd yell over his shoulder "Bye Sweet-tart. I'm goin' to work!"


Then he would walk to the car, turn around and come back. As he walked through the door he'd yell "Hi Honey. I'm home!!"

Even though the days can be exceptionally long with 3-three year olds, in the grand scheme of things, the time that they are little is so fleeting. How quickly it seems our three babies turned in to three toddlers who are now continuing the growth evolution in to three rambunctious preschoolers.

There are definitely moments where I question what the heck I got myself in to, but I'm happy to report that even after the most trying of days, motherhood is everything that I thought it would be. And more.

Sometimes, I am unable to hold back the tears of frustration and utter exhaustion. Sometimes, I am unable to hold back the tears of joy, that I would have been so blessed. And sometimes, I am unable to hold back the tears from knowing that these little people won't always be little. I won't always be able to tuck them in at night. I won't always be directly responsible for keeping them safe. I won't always know exactly where they are, who they are with and what they are doing. I won't always be able to embrace them in a hug whenever and however often I want.

I've heard that having children is like having your heart on the outside of your body. That is true. It is also true that watching children grow up is incredibly bittersweet because I know it won’t be long before they really are venturing off in to the world on their own.

I just hope they'll be completely potty trained by then.

month four: in review

Several times throughout this past month, I've reminisced what I was doing a year ago at this time. Your father and I went to church. We heard a good sermon. Your father threw his back out and couldn't walk for a week. Noni flew in to town to help. Your siblings came down with a stomach virus and threw up every single day for two weeks straight. For almost the entire month of October, I was in complete oblivion that you were on your way.

It's absolutely amazing how much can happen in 12 short months.

One year later, you have been here for four months and your personality is in full bloom. You are the happiest baby I have ever seen in my entire life. You smile almost constantly. It makes my heart flutter, like an eighth grade crush, when our eyes lock and you let out a deep sigh of pure contentment. You are smothered in kisses no less than a million times a day.

You are holding your head up remarkably well and will spend 30 minutes or more, sitting in your Bumbo chair looking at the world around you. You are pulling your hands up to your mouth and are grasping at toys and bringing those to your mouth, too.

You love looking at books and will carefully examine the objects on each page that I read to you. If you are sitting on my lap, you will put your head back to look at me and smile, and then quickly return your gaze to the story.


We have started to think about feeding you solids, but during a recent discussion with your pediatrician, have decided to hold off for another month or two. It is extremely gratifying for me that you have received all of your nutrition thus far from nursing - and the doctor does not see any need to rush. So, we won't.

Like everything, it will happen (too) soon enough.

You love to be a part of the action. So long as you can see your siblings - or see me - you are entertained. You enjoy your bouncy chair, but you prefer to be held. You still spend a large portion of the day being totted around in the Baby Bjorn - but that's because I'm addicted to having you close.


Your siblings adore you. Throughout the day, I will watch them drop whatever it is they are doing and run over to plant a kiss on top of your fuzzy head. They will also take toys away that you might be looking at and jam your pacifier in to your mouth, but they're three.

Please don't hold it against them.

This month, we have started to transition you from the bassinet in our room to your very own crib in the room you are sharing with your brother. You are still nursing every 3 to 4 hours, round-the-clock but I don't mind in the least. Whereas I have bragged that when your triplet siblings were your age, I had them sleeping 12 hours through the night and napping three times a day, it is different with you. I'm not adamant about having you on a strict schedule because my survival does not depend on it.

You eat when you need to eat, you sleep when you need to sleep.

You are happy. I am happy. Nothing else is important.


You are waking up at least twice during the night. I'll typically bring you in to bed to nurse and then fall asleep for an hour before you wake me up with your kicking and squirming. I'll then return you to your crib, run back to bed, and wake up again - an hour or two later to feed you. I have yet to sleep more than five hours at a stretch, but I sincerely don't mind. You will only be this little once and I'll get lots of shut eye when I'm dead.


You are chatting up a storm and will let out ear piercing shrieks of joy and heart warming belly laughs. This is really adorable, although when you do it at 6:00 AM, when laying in bed with your father and I in the morning, I'll desperately try to keep you quiet with nursing so we can have just a few more minutes of quiet.

If you were to wake up your siblings prematurely, I would be terribly sad.

You weigh only nine pounds less than your sister who is 33 months older than you. You are wearing a size three diaper, although I suspect that you will be in a size four within the next month. I also suspect that within the next month, I will need to transition you from your infant carrier that you are rapidly outgrowing and which I can hardly lift. You have outgrown all of your newborn clothes and fit comfortably in those that are sized 9-12 months.


Boston won the World Series this past month which further confirms my theory that any year I give birth, the Red Sox will go all the way. If they would like to win any future world championships, they need to fork over some money for diapers.

And a possible tummy tuck.


A year ago, I only recently discovered that I was expecting you. But when I look at you now, you have always been here.


I honestly cannot remember what life was like without you.


My little Henry baby, I love you more than the world and am so very glad that you are a part of our family.

let the good times roll

Only when I became a parent of three-year old triplets did I realize that I have a volatile temper.

When Carolyn was sitting on the potty last week and Elizabeth was ramming her tricycle in to her, over and over and over again, and William was in the midst of breaking the baby's gymini, and Henry was crying to be fed and the dog was howling in the garage ... and I was on hold for five minutes with Target because they charged me for three boxes of diapers when I only bought two ... and call waiting was beeping with a call from my podiatrist's office .... suddenly, my head felt like a breakfast cereal.

Snap, Crackle, Pop.

I never use to yell but it seems that more and more, talking with an extremely elevated tone to my voice is the only effective way to get 3-three year olds attention. Unless I ask "Who wants ice cream?!" I might as well be speaking in Arabic.

YES. I've read 1, 2, 3 Magic. This is worthy of a posting in and of itself.

YES. I do time out. A lot. Am quite good at it.

YES. I've spanked. But I don't like doing this. At all.

YES. I've implemented a reward system. My children eat the stickers.

YES. YES. YES. And, YES.

Try getting 3-three year olds in to the house when they are splashing in a pool.

Or, get 3-three year olds in to a car when you have some place to be and they start taking off their clothes while you are buckling their sibling in to the carseat.

Or, get 3-three year olds out of a car and in to the house - when you really have to use the restroom.

Or, get 3-three year olds in to the bath.

Or, get 3-three year olds out of the bath.

Or, get 3-three year olds to the table for breakfast. Lunch. Dinner.

Or, get 3-three year olds in to bed.

Or, get 3-three year olds to do anything for that matter.

And now ... add a baby in to the mix.

Lest I paint a terribly chaotic picture (oops, too late), there is some control to this house. But it is much more difficult to manage the mob children now than it was a mere six months ago.

There is drama everywhere.

The girls are hysterical over who gets to use the one Princess Cup that someone gave them for their birthday. I mean, they are hysterical. No one wants to use "icky" Dora the Explorer. Why would they take turns? That makes no sense. They want instant gratification. They want it NOW. Everyone is also fighting over a tiny wooden zebra, a tiny wooden alligator and a tiny wooden lion. Even though we have three of each. Everyone wants the exact same one.

After listening to the screaming and trying to break up multiple fights, I finally snap. I pick up the Princess Cup and throw it in the trash can. The children bury their faces in their hands and fall to the ground crying. I then open the back door and fling the zebra, alligator and lion over the fence before closing the door and dusting off my hands.

ALL GONE!! THEY ARE ALL GONE!!

The neighbors must think I am positively mad hurtling tiny wooden animals over the fence and yelling "BID IT ADIEU!!" at my adorable preschoolers.

What kind of monster witch throws their child's toys over a fence?!

Here's a clue: The same kind of witch that has decided that it is going to be an extremely lean Christmas because these children have more toys than they know what to do with and they don't need any more. It will only be more cause for fighting.

Moments later, there is silence. The Princess Cup is forgotten, the zebra, alligator and lion are forgotten. The kids are busy doing something else. The baby looks at me and laughs. And then, they are fighting again, over a piece of lint that they plucked off the couch.

MY LINT!! MY LINT!!

I grab my head in my hands and yell "Sweet Jesus in Heaven, help me. PLEASE HELP ME!!"

These children are emulating my behavior. Sometimes it melts my heart and other times, it makes me want to go bury my head in the sand. When I see them hug one another - or share a coveted toy - I want to take credit for showing them how to be kind. When I watch them grasp their hands and give thanks before a meal, I feel proud that they are listening.

But when I see them scream and hit and fling toys - I want more than anything, to scream even louder. Just to make their screaming stop. Good Lord. Why can't they just get along?! How is it possible that a 3-year old in a full fledged tantrum makes me, a grown and educated woman, have a full fledged tantrum??

How is that possible??

When we went to the pediatrician for their 3-year check up this past week, the doctor commented on the bite marks he saw on Carolyn's arm. When he asked how they got there, she pointed to William. When the doctor was examining William, a few minutes later, he noted the bite marks on William's arm and asked if Carolyn had retaliated and bitten him back?

William shook his head and said "No, dat's from Mommy."

The doctor looked at me with big eyes and I immediately felt myself start to flush. In my defense, I bit him after he was on a full-fledged biting spree and had bitten his sisters, repeatedly. Come on, doc. It's not like I bite my 3-year old son, just for kicks. Or, do I?

But you know what? It worked. He hasn't bitten anyone, since.

Seriously. Life was so much easier before the kids had any teeth or could talk.

Something I've learned over the past 36-months is that it is really tough work, this parenting gig. How my mother raised seven children that had to pass through the preschool years before arriving in to adulthood, is worthy of a really grand prize. Whenever I talk to her, she laughs and laughs that one day my blog postings sound like I'm on the top of the world and the very next day it sounds like I'm ready to suck on a gas pipe. That's pretty concise. And accurate.

But something else I've learned is that naughty children?

They taste just like chicken.

livin' la vida (pollo) loco

Ah, Halloween. Ghosts and goblins, pumpkins and black cats.

And chickens. Lots and lots of chickens. And a witch named Jen.

The chickens are Jen's peeps.

This is their story.

Halloween 2007 started out like any other day.

Jen the witch had to battle each of her peeps to get dressed. When she came to the littlest chicken, Chicken Little, she noticed that he had a big poop that Jen needed to change. But first, she decided to give Chicken Little a bath because she couldn't rightfully remember the last time he had a bath, which in the house of chicken meant it was time.

While she filled up the infant tub with water, Jen's other three peeps felt obligated to "help". They pushed chairs over to the sink and scurried up. Submerging their arms up to their elbows in water they splashed about merrily. William chicken grabbed a measuring cup off the counter and filling it up with water - dumped it all over Elizabeth chicken - who was now soaked and required an outfit change.

An outfit change would have to wait because Chicken Little was bare and getting chilly.

Jen placed Chicken Little in the tub and immediately, the water turned murky. William chicken, armed with his measuring cup, scooped up murky water and before Jen could stop him, drank it down in one swift gulp.

She lifted Chicken Little out of the tub, and holding a soaking wet, squirmy and slippery infant with one arm, removed her three peeps from the chairs with the second arm and used her legs to push the chairs FAR AWAY from the sink. She then dumped the murky water down the drain and refilled the tub with clean water. She replaced Chicken Little and finished his bath with out any further interruptions from her peeps - who were now distracted with the hamper and throwing dirty clothes all over the kitchen.

In the afternoon, Jen thought that it would be fun for her peeps to scoop seeds out of their pumpkins. Although her peeps had never scooped out seeds from a pumpkin before, Jen suspected that it would be a rather messy endeavor and decided to hold the production outside. She poured apple juice for everyone and prepared a cup of warm tea for herself. Once outside, the peeps gleefully scooped the seeds from their pumpkins.

For a solid forty-five seconds, they were entertained.


Then, they found other things to do.


Like, give their little pumpkin a bath in Jen's nice cup of warm tea.


This is when Jen decided that even at 3 PM, a Corona would have been a much better beverage choice. If for no other reason - her peep's would have been unable to shove a pumpkin down the neck of the bottle.

Once the seeds were removed, several pumpkins were expertly carved by Daddy chicken. Jen noticed that the pumpkin's faces expressed looks of happiness, shock, dismay and pure horror, which are extremely consistent with the demeanor in the house of chicken at any point in time.


Moving everyone back inside, Jen carefully cleaned all of the seeds that had been scooped from the pumpkins and placed them on a cookie sheet. She then sprinkled Mediterranean sea salt across the top of them and stuck them in the oven to roast. Everyone waited in anticipation for the tasty snack to cook.


When the seeds were finished, Jen moved them in to a bowl and invited the peeps to come have a taste. While Jen and Daddy Chicken reviewed plans for the evening, they lovingly gazed upon their little peeps who were so clearly enjoying a Halloween tradition that they had embraced their whole lives.

They were soon distracted by their conversation and stopped looking DIRECTLY at their peeps. A few moments later, Daddy Chicken scooped up a hand full of seeds - threw them in his mouth - and then curiously inquired why all of the seeds were wet? And, lacked any salt??

While pretending that he wasn't watching them, Daddy Chicken quickly solved the mystery when he watched his little peeps do "salt source removal" on one seed at a time, before placing it back in the bowl and laugh at their sneakiness.

Naughty peeps.

Soon, darkness fell and it was time for Jen to get her peeps in their Halloween costumes. Jen is a thrifty witch (or more appropriately a "cheep"skate here at the house of chicken) because she saw no reason to buy her peeps brand new costumes when they could still squeeze in to the costumes from last year.

Well, except Chicken Little. But he wasn't here last year.


Once they were dressed, Jen went outside to light the candles in the Jack-O-Lanterns that were artistically placed around the yard. It was a windy night and Jen was having a difficult time keeping the candles lit. By the time she would light one candle - and moved on to the next - she noticed the candle had been extinguished in the first. In addition to the wind causing problems, Daddy Chicken noticed that the peeps were singing "Happy Birthday Pumpkin" and blowing out the candles.

Jen posed with her peeps for a quick picture and was particularly glad that they had "crowns" on top of their heads that she could grab to make them stand still.


The peeps and Daddy Chicken took off to go trick-or-treating while Jen stayed behind with Chicken Little and attempted to hand out 16.8 pounds of candy.


When the trick-or-treaters came by the door, Jen would unload hand fulls of candy. She was not pacing herself, or thinking about the quantity of candy that she needed to get through the night. The goal was simple. Get Rid Of It All.

By the time Daddy Chicken and the peeps came back, Jen was down to less than 10 pieces. It took several minutes and a lot of negotiation for Daddy Chicken to get the pumpkin carriers away from the peeps. They absolutely positively did not want to part with their candy.

While the peeps took their bath and Daddy Chicken got them ready for bed, Jen finished handing out the remaining candy. Jen should have turned off the lights, but she was busy feeding Chicken Little and thought that in the past, kids didn't come trick-or-treating past 8:00, anyway.

But what Jen didn't consider is that this year, Day Light Savings time doesn't end until next weekend, so kids were out an hour later than in the past. When the doorbell rang at 8:15 PM, Jen looked around frantically, and spotted her peep's pumpkins ... overflowing with candy that Jen would much prefer they NOT eat. And that SHE not eat.


Grabbing a pumpkin carrier she opened the door and started handing out candy. Just then, two of her peeps came around the corner, with wet hair and clean pajamas and watched Jen distribute candy from THEIR pumpkin carriers. One of the peeps fell to the ground crying while the other peep yelled "Oh no dammit!! Dat MY candy!!"

Did I mention Jen is a witch?

A very bad witch who cares about her children's teeth ... her own waistline ... and clearly needs to do a better job not using fowl foul language around the peeps.

At least her camera skills are improving.

Actually, they're not. A photography class is definitely in order.

halloween preparations

Take a ride on the humongous pumpkin slide at the local pumpkin patch? CHECK.


Purchase more pumpkins than there are people in this family? CHECK.


Buy a candy carrier for each of our four children? CHECK.


Procure 16.8 pounds of candy? CHECK.


Coordinate matching costumes for our children? CHECK.


Implement exercise regiment that will be necessary to help lose weight gained from nibbling candy from three of four carriers and all of the candy from the fourth carrier - because that child ain't got no teeth - and QA/QC "testing" at least two pounds of candy from our distribution stash because I would never want to give out sub-par candy to the children of our neighborhood, and consume remaining 10 pounds of candy that are not handed out because there is no way we'll have 600 trick-or-treaters? PENDING.

burned out

Charlie ran a marathon in 2004, a few months before the triplets were born.

He told me that he "bonked" at the 20-mile mark. I hear this is quite common with marathoners.

They're running along - and then - they hit the wall of complete physical exhaustion.

I think that same phenomenon happens in parenthood. I'm sure of it, because the exact thing happened to me, this past week.

I totally bonked.

I was exhausted and overwhelmed. My body ached. I felt a lot like Wiley coyote, trapped underneath a huge rock. I couldn't get out. Worse yet, I didn't want to get out. All of the motivation and adrenalin that I had been chugging along on, was spent.

What was the point of doing laundry? There would only be more to do, tomorrow.

What was the point of bathing the kids? They would only get dirty again.

What was the point of cooking any meals? They wouldn't eat them, anyway.

Why bother watering the plants? The kids are sure to kill them.

Why get any one, including myself, dressed? We'll be going to bed, again, later today.

Why mop? Why vacuum? Why dust? Why break up fights? Why put toys away?

Why bother doing anything?

The energy required was so great and it was nearly impossible to be successful. I might as well try to hold back the tide with my hands. Or blow out the wildfires.

When I imagined myself as a mother, before we had children, I always envisioned a clean and tidy house. I could see our well dressed children that sat down, orderly, and colored with crayons. Or cooperatively built tall towers out of blocks.

Well-balanced meals that our children would actually eat magically appeared on our dining room table, which was free of sharpie marks. I looked beautiful. I was always well dressed and had abs of steel. I preferred carrot sticks over a bowl of ice cream and craved a pitcher of ice tea over a carafe of wine. My arms were never flabby, nor did they jiggle for a full second after I stopped moving. We would all sing "Doe-Ray-Me" over and over again. When the phone would ring, I would answer it with good cheer.

Last week, when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw a person who looked old and haggard and aged beyond her years. My smile lines were overshadowed by frown lines. Around me, the house was a disaster. There were mounds of laundry. The kids would sit down to color and then break all the crayons. They were throwing their blocks at each other, smacking one another in the head. The only food they would eat were graham crackers smeared with peanut
butter. They would drink milk and spit it on the table.

Not a single person was singing "Doe-Ray-Me".

Instead, I was running around in circles yelling "Holy crap, what now?!"

What. Now.

WHAT NOW?!

The baby was crying. The kids were crying. The phone was ringing off the hook.

I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to listen. I didn't want to do anything, but sit in the corner and get past the first chapter of my new book "Eat, Pray, Love."

While shoving my face full of chocolate.

That's all I wanted.

But I didn't get it. Instead, I got abbreviated naps and another day that was worse than the one before. When we finally did get out of the house, I was approached by a woman at Target who said "Look at all those children, are they yours?! I could never imagine!! How do you do it?!"

Instead of graciously smiling and giving a witty response like "Prayer and wine!" I responded "Of course you would do it, if you had to. Seriously, what are my options? Can I turn them out on the street and say 'You are free! Go fend for yourselves!'? I'm pretty sure I'd get put away for that."

The woman gave me a look like I was loony. Which I was.

I know a Mexican woman with 12 children and she never complains. She is so darn happy that she has clean water and a roof over her head. Nothing seems to faze her. She is like a workhorse, prodding along, day after day. She makes all of her food from scratch, including tortillas. She never screams. She always smiles. She doesn't even drink tequila.

I really don't know how she does it.

Parenthood is an incredible adventure. There are times when it's not at all what I imagined it would be. There are days when it's a million times better than I expected, and there are days when it's a million times more challenging.

Honestly, I didn't think it would be this challenging and our kids are still in diapers.

Quite often, when you're at the bottom of the mountain, you can't see the top. There is no end in sight, just a long, long, long trail that seems to go straight up. That's when having a positive attitude is more important than ever.

Now where the heck did I put mine?! Or did the kids break it, along with the remote?

Actually .... this week is already looking much better for me.

The air has cleared, the sun is shining.

Our home was spared from the fires.

The Red Sox are the World Series Champions.

There are only 1,035 days left until Kindergarten. Or, 670 if I decide to start them early.

We got out of the house first thing, this morning. I ran the kids until they couldn't run any more, and then I fed them a picnic lunch. Then I brought them home, washed their hands, changed their diapers, read them a story and put them all down for a nap. Including Henry - who screamed blue bloody murder for 30 minutes before falling asleep in his own crib and not on my chest for the first time, ever.

It isn't always easy. Actually, it's very rarely easy.

But I know what to do and I know how to do it. Although sometimes, it is damn hard to grab yourself by the bootstraps when you're stuck under a rock and the world around you is burning to the ground.

That's when it really helps to have a supportive husband.

And a freezer full of Rocky Road.

dear children

Dear Children (whom are aged 36 months):

A little over 15 months ago, I wrote a heartfelt post in which I said, if I could, I would have 20 of you. At the time of the writing, I was completely stricken by how quickly you were growing up and evolving from infancy in to toddlerhood. It was bittersweet for me and I wanted to have so many children that we would need a bus to travel on family outings.


Since that time, I've reconsidered.

A few weeks ago, before your third birthday, I started to jot down a few thoughts about sacrifices, that I had intended to turn in to a blog posting. I wrote how your father and I met. How we fell in love. How we were married and attended graduate school together. How we started our careers and excelled in our fields. How we tried for years to start a family. How we were met with failure and heart break, repeatedly. How once you came in to our lives - our careers were no longer paramount.

Once you came in to our lives, we made sacrifices.

We replaced our convertible European sports car with a minivan. We stopped taking lavish vacations and eating out at the finest restaurants. We reduced our income by more than 60% so that we could stay home with you.

I recently passed up an opportunity to transfer our family to Houston, Texas and your father passed up a big opportunity in petroleum exploration. Because in our opinion - it was more important for us to be home with you than to accept jobs that would take us away from you for more than 40 hours a week.

Children, your father and I miss the money that we were making. Especially since these days, it seems that there is a vacuum on our house literally sucking cash out the door. But we have had no regrets. Not even when as we were passing up promotions and opportunities that would allow us to retire as millionaires by the time we are 50.

Up until this past week, I wanted to resign my job and stay home with you full-time. I even considered home schooling you. We would have such fun traveling to various museums and I could re-learn algebra. Although I'd be sacrificing my career, I would much prefer to give it up, than miss out on any of your childhood.

A lot has happened since I first started jotting down my thoughts. We have been house bound for almost a week because of raging fires and poor air quality. Your 3-month old baby brother, who weighs more than you did at 12-months, has been keeping me up all night and you keep me running non-stop all day. You turned three and your personalities have blossomed, just like the atom bomb.

Since you've turned three, your favorite past time involves screaming. You also enjoy fighting. Hitting. Punching. Throwing yourself on the ground and kicking your feet. Particularly in public.

You enjoy whining. Loudly. Frequently.

Pretty much non stop.

Your afternoon nap that once was a solid two hours has reduced to 30 minutes.

You insist on helping me with everything I do. But your idea of "help" and my idea of "help" are at the opposite ends of the definition spectrum.

You like to climb on the counter and take a single bite out of every single apple, while I am cleaning up pee-pee that sloshed out of the potty receptacle that your sibling picked up while I was busy helping your other sibling put on their shoes ... and feeding your other sibling.

You like to grab things like say ... a broom ... and knock pictures off the wall and then tell me that you are dusting. For reasons that completely elude me, you are infatuated with the toilet. But instead of using the toilet for the purpose in which it was designed, you like to put things in it. Like your face. Or your sippy cup. Or your baby brother's teething ring.

Your father seems to think that you are just exerting yourself and testing your limits. But if you keep "exerting yourself", please understand that I am going to exert my hand across your bare bottom.

You can thank your baby brother for being here. Because if it wasn't for my ability to look in to his little eyes and remember that you were once vulnerable infants that I swore I would always love and protect, you'd be gone by now.

My fellow triplet mom, Debbie, has a blog and across the top is a passage that Mark Twain wrote in 1879. "Sufficient unto the day is one baby. As long as you are in your right mind, don't ever pray for twins. Twins amount to a permanent riot. And there ain't any real difference between triplets and an insurrection."

I love you, children.

But I am sorry to say that I don't like you very much at the moment. Your "violent uprisings" have taken their toll. Your constant screaming of "NO!" for anything and everything has worn me thin. And because I don't want to spend three back-to-back life sentences in a penitentiary, I am going to start looking in to preschool for you. Even if preschool is going to cost me the equivalent of a mortgage payment, I will find a way.

So help me God. I will find a way.

I also don't think that there will be any more of you. Because I have seen, first hand, how adorable little cubs soon turn in to flesh-eating beasts. Particularly when they are cooped up in a small house for days on end.

For the final time ... you cannot play with any sharp object you hijack out of the kitchen drawers. Dirty diapers MUST be changed. Sitting on my lap while I eat breakfast, only so you can assume control of my fork and spit partially chewed eggs back on to my pile of scrambled eggs is socially unacceptable and will no longer be tolerated. Those plastic covers on the handle of the doors are to keep YOU out. Naps will not kill you. I, however, might if you stop taking them.

With much love and hope for your continued success on this planet,

Your Mother

ps: It's been a tough week. A really, really tough week. Let's hope next week is better and the weather clears out all the smoke in the air. Now, let's go Sox!!!