team building

My trip to Seattle this past week was spectacular.

What a beautiful, beautiful city. Although I was only there for a few days - I could definitely see living in the Pacific Northwest. Infact, when I returned home, I spent some time researching real estate in the area ... so don't be surprised if there's an announcement soon.

Or not.

You know how I love to dream.

During the time that I was away, I received a call from my husband. Apparently, because his office has lost several of their large contracts - due to the economy - the decision has been made that his office will be closed. There is some discussion about Charlie continuing to work from home, part-time. But the man who works with Charlie will quite possibly, be facing a lay-off, which has been very difficult for my husband to consider.

He's not sure what to do.

Meanwhile, my father has been in an assisted living facility for the past few months. And although he has been doing very well - considerably better than he was earlier this year - I can't help but feel badly that I'm not closer to help. Much like I feel badly that I'm not closer to help my mother with Jim, who was recently discharged to her care.

I'm not sure what to do.

The thought has crossed both of our minds, several times within the past few days, that maybe now is the prime time to pull up stakes and move. To a different part of the country. To a different house, different neighborhood, different community. Where there is more nature and less concrete. Where there is more of a gentleness towards life and less chaos and hostility.

During my time away this week, I was reflecting on a number of different scenarios. On Wednesday afternoon, we worked a half day and spent the afternoon on one of our team-building events. When I scheduled the meeting in January, I took our team hot air ballooning. When my co-worker scheduled this meeting, she took us out to the picturesque Bainbridge Island, and we spent an afternoon kayaking around Puget Sound.



I felt like I had died and gone to heaven.


This is where I am meant to be.



In this house, right here on the water.

But seeing as neither Charlie nor I would be employed if we just pulled up stakes and moved to Washington, this houseboat might be more in line with our financial capabilities.

The way I see it, between the two story houseboat - and the sailboat - and the dingy - we'd have room for me and Charlie, all four kids, my mother and Jim and my father. We could just tether everything together and our quasi-flotilla would move from port to port.

We would experience nature. We would live off whatever we could catch, from the sea. We would be immune from the rat race that it seems our lives have morphed in to. We would cleanse our bodies and spirits of negativity. We would teach our children about the world around them. We would support our parents in their golden years.

We would unite multiple generations as we live, together.

In perfect harmony. Aboard our boats.

At least until the mutiny where I'm thrown overboard for thinking up such a half-baked idea.

a call for civil warriors

I flew home from Seattle, Washington last night.

Luckily, I was able to catch an earlier flight standby, or else I wouldn't have been home until midnight. But because I was flying standby, I was the last to board. And because I brought my suitcase on to the flight, I soon discovered that there was no overhead space for my luggage. Awkwardly, I walked up and down the aisle on a full plane, doing my best to keep my suitcase and briefcase from ricocheting off the passenger's heads and knees which bobbed in to the 20-inch center aisle.

There was very little airflow in the plane as I opened each and every compartment and scrutinized whether or not there was space for my small suitcase. As I walked from the back of the plane to the front, desperately hoping that my deodorant was working and that I didn't smell as sweaty as I felt, I discovered that two rows behind my seat, if I rearranged a few bags, I could squeeze in my small black Samsonite. Once my luggage was securely placed and I easily closed the compartment door, I unsuccessfully tried to suppress my pride as I said aloud, "It fits like a glove!" and then shot my fellow passengers a victorious grin.

Especially the two men who I had seen shaking their heads and mumbling, "Good luck, honey. You'll never find space for that bag."

I took my middle seat, towards the front of the plane, between a woman who slept for the three hour flight, and a man who shared with me the story of his life and family.

It was a very nice trip.

Until we landed.

And everyone started to deplane. And I knew that I'd have to wait to go back the rows to get my suitcase. So during a break in the traffic, I bade farewell to the man that had been sitting next to me on the aisle, and then I stepped out in the aisle to let the woman who had been sitting next to me at the window, exit. And then I stepped back in to my row while passengers filed past. During another break in traffic, while an elderly woman was trying to get out of her seat and was blocking the aisle, I asked if the men who were standing directly below the luggage compartment that housed my Samsonite, could hand me my suitcase.

"Sure!" they said, "No problem, Ma'm!"

The men quickly passed my small suitcase to me while I smiled and offered them my sincere thanks. And right about then, as the elderly woman was trying to get steady on her feet as she stood in the aisle, and reach for her cane, a young man standing three people behind her in the aisle started to loudly yell, "COME ON!! ANY DAY NOW! JESUS, ARE WE ON THE GROUND OR WHAT?!"

Then he grabbed his head in his hands and started to pull at his hair. "FOR GODSAKE! WHAT'S TAKING SO LONG?!" He tried to push his way around the people that were standing in front of him. He actually tried to squeeze his body, and his backpack, around the people that were standing in the 20-inch aisle in front of him.

The people who were standing around this man didn't let him pass.

But they didn't say anything to him, either.

Meanwhile, the elderly woman was being rocked by the ruckus that was happening behind her.

I could tell she felt badly that she was holding up the exit, so she tried to move faster and stumbled. I gently put my hand on her arm and said, "It's OK. Take your time." Then I turned to the obnoxious ass a few rows back and said, "Hey buddy. Grab one of those oxygen masks and take a breath. Everyone is getting off the plane. RELAX."

Several people smiled and I heard one man whisper, "Hear, Hear."

As I was walking out of the plane to catch my shuttle to the parking lot, I was furious. What the heck is wrong with people? What has happened to common decency and why is it that more people don't speak up?

How is is that people who allow their pit bulls to run around off leash and jump on small children - and then scream vulgarity at the defensive mother - aren't locked up in jail?

How is that men who swat at young children - and then challenge the defensive mother to a fight - aren't put in a bag with rocks and thrown to the bottom of the ocean?

How is it that teenage girls on a roller coaster ride with small children at a local park - think it's acceptable to scream out that they have to go pee and sh*t - while there is a delay in getting off the ride?

How is it that a man on a plane - isn't pummeled on the spot by his fellow passengers - when he starts yelling at an elderly woman with a cane?

I think that a civil society depends, in large part, upon people NOT turning the other cheek, but instead, speaking up when they see bad behavior. Yet very rarely do I see people say anything. And I believe it is for that very reason, more and more, the general population is horrifying to me. Or maybe it's just the people in Southern California.

They act as though they have a sense of entitlement.

They can do whatever they want.

Whenever they want.

However they want.

And there's an excellent chance they'll get away with it.

Which perpetuates more bad behavior.

Although my mother tells me that sometimes it's best to hold your tongue, I have numerous memories of mom speaking up about various wrongdoings when I was a child. Her willingness to get involved, always made me proud. Once I got over the embarrassment.

Recently, I heard that several young adults invaded my mother's community swimming pool and were drinking beer out of bottles when my mother happened upon them. Although all the other residents were looking the other way and minding their own business, my mother spoke up.

"What are you doing with glass in our pool?" she asked. They acknowledged her and they said that they'd get out, but they didn't. After waiting a few minutes, my mother bellowed at them, "GET OUT OF THIS POOL, IMMEDIATELY!"

And then I'm fairly certain she said, "Don't think for a minute I won't kick your punk ass to Kingdom Come with my new knee!"

They scrambled out as fast as they could, apologizing profusely in the process.

I adore my mother.

She is my hero.

I want to be just like her. Moreover, I want to be the kind of example to my children, that my mother has been - and continues to be - for me.

She is a gentle, loving soul who truly makes the world a better place.

But don't cross her.

Don't ever cross her.

this little piggy

I arrived safely in Seattle, Washington. And while I was flying from San Diego to Seattle, I decided that if not for my fear of dying in a fiery plane crash, I would really - no REALLY - love flying.

The trip north was so beautiful.

Flying through the clouds, looking down on the ocean and the gorgeous islands off the coast - and then, the Sierra Mountains and the Cascades, capped in snow in mid-July. It was an absolutely breathtaking sight to behold.

Much like the pictures that my husband forwarded to me of the impromptu birthday celebration they held (yet again) for our resident toddler.

Internet. I present to you ... while sprawled across a table wearing a party hat and eating chocolate frosted cupcakes ... the one and only: Henry.

Bagels for breakfast. Cupcakes for lunch.

Maybe I should squeeze in a push-up or two...

OH ... this is a tough life we live when Mom is out of town.

I do I miss her so.

Why, yes. I am still breastfeeding this cupcake indulging, nose picking child.

Why do you ask?

The fact is: Although I never imagined that I'd still be nursing a two-year old, here I am, still nursing a two-year-old. Because, I love it. Because, it makes me happy. Because it makes him happy. And although it seems like nursing a child over 12-months old is probably taboo, I really don't care. OK. Maybe I do.

A little bit.

But not enough for me to stop.

I love the way he toddles up and wraps his arms around my legs and sweetly says, "Mama, NORSE?" If I don't respond right away, he will plead, "Mama. Mama! Pwease, Mama. NORSE?" And if I don't look at him, he will do his best to climb on to my lap - and guide my face with his hands - so I am looking directly at him. When I pick him up and ask, "Henry, sweet baby. Do you want to nurse?" He will throw his arms up over his head and cheer, "YAY HENWY!!!" like he just hit a Grand Slam out of the park in the bottom of the ninth, seventh game of the World Series.

Since I wasn't able to have this singleton nursing experience before, I love that I am having this experience with this baby. I absolutely love nursing Henry. In the early morning, afternoon, or night time, just before bed. And I think Henry loves being nursed.

Although I can't help but wonder if he loves chocolate cupcakes a bit more.

Q & A

In three hours, I am scheduled to be on a plane, flying from San Diego to Seattle, Washington for a business meeting. When I told my boss that I really didn't want to fly and I'd much prefer to drive to Washington - because of the whole 10th grade premonition thing - he laughed at me and said that driving wasn't an option and surely I don't believe some silly high school joke.

I don't believe in people who claim to see the future, do I?

Well, I'm not sure.

It seems crazy that I would ever forget this, but I was recently reminded that a few years before we had children, we attended a large Halloween party where there was a fortune teller.

First she invited me in to have my fortune told and I scoffed when after she flipped over a few cards she told me that I was going to have triplets. But I stopped scoffing and started looking for a paper bag to breathe in, when an hour later, she told my husband - who she had never met before and did not know was married to me - that he was going to become the father of triplets.

*cue Twilight Zone music*

Premonition or not, I'm terrified of flying.

But I'm even more terrified that if I survive this trip, I am scheduled to fly back to South Carolina for my 20-year high school reunion in two weeks. With my husband. And all four children. The whole lot of us will be on ONE plane.

IN THE SKY.

Just writing this makes me feel a little better. Because if I write about it, nothing will happen. Especially if I jump up and down and spin around four and three quarter times, on my left leg, while chewing Bubblicious Strawberry Bubble Gum just before I board and then run screaming "COWABUNGA!" on to the plane.

Still, I sit here with sweat dripping off my brow at what the next few days holds for me, as I fly up and down the Pacific coast. When I told Charlie about my fears, he said, "Hey, look at it this way. You have no one to look after but yourself. But me? I will be home alone with four small children. You can drink wine to calm your nerves. I'll be drinking lemonade."

Although I hope to post several times this week regarding a few topics that are on my mind, I know that I'll have limited access to the internet. So, if you have any random questions for me, please leave them here.

I just received a question from Wendi who wants to know, "Are you able to FLY with your BOB? Can you fit it through the security check in the airport? If you could let me know, I would soooo appreciate it! We have a trip to Colorado in a few weeks and I'm debating whether we can take it?"

I'll do my best to answer Wendi's question and anything else you throw at me, over the next few days. Provided I am still among the living.

(OK, it's not helping me at all that Elizabeth, "the spirtually connected one", just came out of her room crying that she doesn't want me to go on this trip because she doesn't want me to die. Who told her about this?? I certainly didn't. Never once have I talked to her, in front of her, or in the general vicinity of her about these crazy flying thoughts. Is it possible she's been reading my blog??)

Good bye people. Good bye.

This could be it.

Forever.

life's a beach

When you are four years old, the only thing better than spending a sunny day at the beach...

Is spending a sunny day at the beach with your two best friends.

Each day, more and more, I can see that these children have a bond that is unparalleled. And although they possess the ability to make me question my sanity, not a day passes where I don't thank God for them. They are the best gifts I have ever received and more importantly, they are the best gifts to each other.

Today was one of those days where it was very nice to have three of the same age. Because I highly doubt I would have been as content to sit in the ocean water excitedly discussing seahorses and mermaids and pirate ships that would soon come ashore until my lips turned purple and my body was frigid with cold.

Yes, today was one of those days where Charlie and I sat back and watched our children play...

... and it made all the other not-so-easy days, entirely worth it.

good times

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

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

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

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

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

There's nothing more here for you to read.

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

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

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

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

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

It made no sense to me.

This had never happened before.

What was going on?

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

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

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

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

This post.

And this post.

And this post.

And this post?

And this one!

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

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

So, you're very welcome.

Now please send over some hot fudge.

eyes on the horizon

I went to my first gymnastics class tonight. Which was more like an open gym for adults who wanted to come and play on the various equipment. Coach Jack, who coaches the boys team - and happens to be William's instructor - coordinates the Friday night work out and recognized me when I first walked in. He introduced me to the one other "mom" that was there, a woman by the name of Deborah, who has a daughter on the gymnastics team.

Within seconds, it occurred to me that I was the least-in-shape person there.

On one side of the gym, there were women in their 20's doing front flips over a vault. On the other side of the gym, there were men in their 30's doing tumbling passes that defied the law of gravity. Coach Jack jumped up on the pommel horse and my new friend Deborah was doing back walkovers on the beam.

And then there was me.

Thirty six inches off the ground, clutching the beam with my toes, and cautiously doing a dip step. Coach Jack kept repeating, "Keep your eyes HIGH. Don't look down or you'll lose your balance and fall."

(Notice the purple toenails that have yet to fall off.)

I tried the bars.

With the baby ramp on the bottom.

And yet, I still couldn't get myself over without assistance.

I definitely have work to do. But Coach Jack says I'm close. Although, that could be, "Close to throwing your entire body out of alignment and breaking a limb."

But next Friday night?

I'll be back.

******

Totally unrelated, this is a picture of William wearing his new uniform which consists of a baseball hat, sunglasses and a lone strand of beads. He'll randomly give the peace sign and tell people, "I'm a ROCK STAR."

This has been a hectic week for us, with busy work schedules and me trying to wrap up loose ends before I depart on a business trip, next week. So today, when Charlie and I were arranging our schedules - and I was feeling (very) flustered with our lack of time - I overheard William whisper to my husband, "Dad, it sounds like Mom is getting a little fwustwated. Whatever you do, don't look her in the eyes."

It really cracked me up to hear him say that, but it also bummed me out.

It feels like I've been under a lot of pressure and I've had less patience than I had before. This could be a function of work. Or, it could be a function of having three four-year-olds and a two-year-old. Who are very adorable. And also, at times, very challenging. Perhaps it's a combination of everything at varying proportions.

But whatever the case, this week - in particular - has been tough.

I feel like I've been looking down a lot. I've been getting bogged in the minutiae and losing my balance. As a result, I've taken a few hard falls off the beam of life. Sure, I'll get up and keep going, but the image that I had of myself as a patient and compassionate parent (and spouse) is feeling pretty bruised.

Why, I like to think that the reason Carolyn has added a string of Rosary Beads to her everyday attire, is because she wants to be closer to God.

And not because she's looking for heavenly protection from her crazy mother.

(Who is so, so, so thankful she didn't wear her leotard to gymnastics, tonight. Maybe next week. Or never.)

what's in you wednesday

Did I mention our computer crashed again and it has been in the shop?


Well it did.


And it is.


So the reason I haven't been updating my blog for the past few days isn't because I have run out of things to write about ... like that could ever happen. Unfortunately, because I'm limited with what I can do with my laptop, I can't post any photos until my Macintosh is returned to us. Which, was supposed to be yesterday, but now might not be until sometime next week. And for what it's worth ... it physically pains me that I may not be able to post photos of our children from the Fourth ... until the Fourteenth.

For those curious how the kids handled their 5:00 PM bedtime on Monday night, I'd say they handled it quite well. Probably because they realized that if they so much as moved, I'd climb out of my skin. Of course none of them fell asleep until almost 9:00 PM, but they laid in bed and didn't make a peep. They definitely sensed mom was freaky.

In other news. As I'm writing this post, my husband is watching a Bender Ball video. Charlie came home with the Bender Ball a few weeks ago - and initially - I was quite annoyed that he spent $20.00 for a small rubber ball that he could have bought at Target for $2.00.

(Or, I see he could have purchased online for $9.99. Plus S&H.)

But Charlie convinced me that this was a high-end exercise ball that came with an instructional video, and this "program" would help strengthen his core muscles and subsequently, his lower back. Yet for the past several weeks, our children have been playing with Charlie's $20.00 Bender Ball, that he hadn't used. So tonight, after we both consumed hot fudge sundaes, Charlie broke out his Bender Ball and the instructional video that came with it. When he first turned on the video, he saw three middle-aged women and he asked, "Oh great. What's this? Is this a video for chicks or what??"


It's now been less than two minutes since the instruction started, and my husband is in agony.


Here I sit laughing.

But I'll bet Charlie will be laughing at me come Friday night. Because it seems that yesterday, when I was at my children's preschool gymnastics class, I started talking with the headcoach about how I have lost a lot of my upper body strength and flexibility. So she suggested that I join the "adults" gymnastics class that is scheduled to begin on Friday night.


And ... I did.

Beginning this Friday, I'll be taking a gymnastics class, alongside what I assume will be a number of women who are anxious to prove to themselves that they've still got it.

So help me, I will get myself in the kind of shape that is necessary to do a flip over on the bars (or rings) again. I might even re-learn how to do a back handspring. I'm so excited that tomorrow, I'm going shopping for a new leotard.

But thankfully, it's not looking good that I'll be able to to post photographic evidence on my blog.

the mother of all meltdowns

Today, I worked for several hours in the morning before Charlie headed in to his office in the afternoon. But all morning, while I worked, I was thinking about the fun things I wanted to do with the kids. When Charlie and I finally traded off, I sat reading stories for about an hour before I implemented a new "Reward" chart that I had formulated.

Our children, for the most part, are very good. But there are three of them at the exact same age. And quite honestly, the challenges of having three children, the exact same age, can not be fully understood and appreciated unless you experience it.

All day.

Every day.

The theory behind my reward chart is that it will serve as a means of encouraging positive behavior. When I catch the kids being helpful, kind, polite or listening - they will get a star. At the end of the day, whoever has the most stars, will be "Leader" for the following day. Now the role of "Leader" is coveted because it is the leader that gets first dibs to help me on big activities such as cracking eggs for breakfast - pouring detergent in the washer - or putting mail in the mailbox. And at the end of the week, whoever had been the Leader the most times during that week, would have a special day with either Charlie or I, where we would take them out for lunch. Or a matinee. Or something fun to celebrate their good behavior.

Today, once I finished the chart and reviewed it with the children - I tried to test it's effectiveness. I told everyone to put on their shoes and within two minutes, all three of them had put on their shoes - after having been told only once - and they had also fetched Henry's shoes for me to put on his feet.

I was thrilled and could instantly envision world peace and a Reward Chart for Korea.

Everyone climbed in to the car and buckled themselves in to their carseats while I loaded Henry. We set off for REI where I had intended to buy some new shoes for Carolyn who is going through yet another growth spurt and has shot up more than three-inches in the past six months. The kids do fairly well in REI. Minus an event where they hid themselves in a clothes rack and almost flipped it over. And the small scale fight that broke out when Elizabeth pushed the up button on the elevator, and then held her hand over it so no one else could take a turn.

We left REI and we go to the car. The kids buckle themselves in to their carseats while I load Henry. In the backseat, Carolyn and Elizabeth are fighting over my water bottle. Carolyn has already consumed more than 1/2 the water in the bottle - and Elizabeth now wants to take a sip. Carolyn won't give her the bottle. Elizabeth is flipping out. I remind the kids of the Reward Chart and Carolyn passes the water bottle to her sister - but her sister hasn't had the bottle to her lips for more than a second - when Carolyn throws a conniption fit that Elizabeth is going to DRINK! IT! ALL!

Followed by a full body convulsion, with arms flailing, legs kicking, head slamming in to the carseat. I summon calm and tell Carolyn to take a breath. Then I tell Elizabeth that once I finish loading the stroller in to the car, she needs to give Carolyn another sip. Another 30 seconds lapse and the stroller is loaded. I walk around to the side of the car and tell Elizabeth that she needs to give her sister the water bottle. Carolyn, at this point, has resumed her conniption fit SHE'S DRINKING IT ALL! SHE'S DRINKING IT ALL!

And Elizabeth.

Elizabeth just sat with the water bottle to her lips and continued to sip. And sip. And sip. And her eyes gleamed and sparkled and I could just see that in her four-year-old mind, she was teasing Carolyn, "I'm DRINKING IT ALL!" and to me, she was taunting, "YOU CAN'T STOP ME!" So I climbed over the back seat, popped her on the leg, snatched the water bottle away and flipped it at Carolyn while yelling something in Vietnamese.

I'm flushed and angry.

Why can't they just act CIVIL?!

Reward Charts are CRAP!

William, meanwhile - who sensed all this was going on directly behind him - in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere asks me, "Hey MOM! Why did the chicken cross the road?!"

"I don't know!" I answered. "I'm going to guess to get away from her baby chickens?!

We then drive to the local duck pond where our plan was to feed the ... you guessed it ... ducks. I'd post pictures of this outing, except my Macintosh has crashed for the second time in two months and is in the shop.

The whole way to the duck pond - all three miles of it - I ranted from the driver seat, "YOU KIDS NEED TO BE KIND! YOU NEED TO BE RESPECTFUL! YOU NEED TO LISTEN! It is entirely up to you. Do you want to have a GOOD day or do you want to have a BAD day? Because when you act NICELY - you will have a NICE day. When you act UGLY - you will have an UGLY day. Do I make myself clear?!"

Then I repeated that same exact spiel at least four more times. Because there's nothing like kicking a dead horse repeatedly. repeatedly.

So we get to the duck pond. The kids are doing well for the first 3/4 of the walk around the pond. And then, someone sticks their hands in to what they thought was mud - but turned out to be duck poop - and then tries to rub their poop coated hands all over their sibling who was wearing a WHITE shirt. While someone else climbed a tree and broke off a small branch, which they then swung around their head, hitting random objects, including me. And someone else, jumped in to what they thought was a puddle, but turned out to be a small sinkhole that engulfed them to their knees in muck.

Then the baby started howling.

I'm trying to find the joy as I clean everyone up and load them in to the car for a final stop by Trader Joe's on our way home. It is critical that we stop for popsicles. And lemonade. And fresh fruit. And milk. Once we arrive in the parking lot, I run through the rules before we enter the store. There is to be No Pushing, No Hitting, No Yelling, No Running.

We go in to the store and someone promptly begins constructing a tower out of canteloupes. Someone sticks their finger through a cellophane wrapped package of portobello mushrooms and someone else runs headlong in to a grapefruit display.

(And to whomever it was that wrote me a note last week asking if I make this stuff up for an interesting read ... I will tell you that NO, I DO NOT. Triplet mothers, please chime in, here.)

I'm done with all of our shopping in less than four minutes. On our way out to the car, the kids grab uninflated balloons from the basket next to the door. And before I can stop them, they bring them to their lips and try to inflate. Because our saliva is now all over the balloons, I let them keep them, which goes against almost everything that I believe. Because although balloons are a wonderful toy for most children - very rarely have balloons been anything but a nightmare for my trio. The fighting. The popping. The subsequent confiscation of balloons that were originally not yours. Etcetera. Etcetera.

I blow up the balloons. We get in the car. We drive home. The balloons are blowing around the inside of the car and the kids are all upset because their balloons are on the floor. We arrive home and when I open the side doors to the van, two of the balloons blow out and take off tumbling down the street.

The kids go crazy with hysteria, so me - being the awesome mom that I am - take off running after the balloons and save the day.

Once I catch them - I bring all the balloons inside the house. Then I deposit the groceries by the front door. Then, I bring in the kids, who had been securely strapped in their carseats. Then, I tell the kids to go outside and play in the backyard while I put away the refrigerated items. The kids go in the backyard and promptly knock each other's balloons over the fence, then they come in the house to tell me that they want me to run down the street and get their balloons. That's when I notice that in the two minutes they were outside, Henry has successfully removed every stitch of his clothing.

I tell the kids no, that's what happens when they knock balloons over the fence, and then I set about spraying the baby's bottom with sunscreen.

Just then, Charlie calls.

I'm feeling a little frayed and I want to talk freely. So I go in to the laundry room and while I'm transferring a load from the washer to the drier, I hear the front door close. The front door. That leads to the street. A very busy corner street, where I have seen cars bank the curve at 25 miles per hour. The front door that has a dead bolt and a latch up high to keep small children IN.

While my husband is still on the line, I run out of the laundry room and in to the front of the house - which is less than 10 feet away (because we live in a box) and I see that Elizabeth is sheepishly holding her balloon. While William and Carolyn are staring at her, bug-eyed.

I have a monumental flip out because it is clear that she OPENED the front door and went outside of our house and walked along the street to get her balloon. And if I wasn't scared enough about cars driven by teenagers that go flying up and down our street, oblivious to anyone and anything, I was scared about the convicted pedophile who lives six doors down. Or ... the people who have never been convicted of a crime against children, but are waiting for the opportunity to strike. And the people who come across the border, kidnap children, and bring them back to Mexico where they hold them for ransom.

BECAUSE I THINK THAT WAY.

The kids know this. I tell them all the time that they can't go outside without me. They know that they can't open the front door for strangers (which they have done) and they absolutely can't wander off our property. I lose my cool and I dig in to a defiant Elizabeth for opening the door and going outside without me. For the next two or three minutes I alternate yelling from one child to the next.

WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENED?!

WHY DIDN'T SOMEONE TELL ME?!

And right about then, it was as though someone whispered in my ear...

"Henry."

I screamed at the kids, "Where's the BABY?!" but they were hiding under their pillows and didn't even respond. So I ran out in the backyard to see if he was there, but before I completed a full scan or looked in to all of his favorite hideouts, I sprinted to the front door and dashed out to the front yard.

He was no where to be seen.

I ran around the side of our house, the side that borders one of the busiest streets in our immediate neighborhood, and standing 100 feet down our property line - in the nude - was the baby, picking up rocks and throwing them on the road. I ran down and grabbed him - and the whole 100 feet back to the house - I kept thinking that I needed to breathe and decompress because I was on the tippity tip verge of losing complete control.

A few years ago, someone told me that if I can get through a day and my children are all still alive, the day has been a success. So when I got back to the house - I made the decision that the triplets would be immediately put in to their pajamas and deposited directly in to bed, without dinner. Even though it was only 5:00 PM, I knew that if they were up a MINUTE more, there would be no guarantees how the day would end.

So yay for me.

Today was a success.

two

Two years ago tonight, early in the morning on July 4, I went to sleep on the couch. Which happened to be, the only place in the entire house where I could get comfortable.

When I woke up a few hours later, I couldn't stand without Charlie's strong arms helping me. And as I stood to walk around, I remember holding on to a wall when my back suddenly went in to a painful muscle spasm. Since I had never been in labor before, it was my mother who clued me in to the fact that I needed to go to the hospital. I had absolutely no idea what was happening and I was afraid.

Would I deliver naturally, as I had hoped, or would I have to have a repeat c-section? There were so many questions. So many fears.

But very quickly, all of my fears subsided and 16 hours after I had uncomfortably fallen asleep on our living room couch, I comfortably fell asleep in a hospital bed. Cradling to my chest, the most beautiful 10-pound newborn I had ever seen.

We didn't know what we would call our newest family member for several days. When his siblings came to meet him for the first time, we queried them.

"How do you like Robert... Robby? What about Edward... Eddie? How about Samuel... Sam? Maybe Sammy?"

But they didn't know any better than we did. They were only two-years-old, and all they wanted to do was climb on me, play with the remote control and telephone, and push random buttons on my hospital bed.

It took us five days to decide on his name.

It came to us, that final hour that we were in the hospital. As Charlie was loading my suitcase and essentials in to the car and confirming with hospital staff that the carseat was installed properly. And I laid in bed, cradling my newborn baby, exactly as I had done for the previous 96 hours. This little miracle child. The one whose life I pray will be filled with good health, laughter, tranquility and peace.

He will be Henry David.

My littlest love.

My firecracker.

My Henry David.

These past two years have been, without a doubt, the most magnificent years of my entire life. That sounds so cliché. So trite.

But I never could have imagined that one single baby could bring so much joy, love and happiness in to a family.

But he has.

And then some.

It has been two years, today, since Henry David has joined our tribe.

It's difficult for me to fathom that my once fragile newborn is now climbing trees. Much to my surprise, he is able to keep up with his older siblings so much better than I anticipated. (or wanted.)

As he continues to grow, I pray that his life will continue to be filled with good health, laughter, tranquility and peace. I pray that he will stay safe. I pray that he always knows how much he was wanted and how much he is loved.

I pray that I will never forget how special these past two years have been for me.

And I hope that he understands that regardless of how big he may grow - or how independent he may become ... he will always be my baby.

Happy Birthday My Sweet, Sweet Love.