To Grandmother's House We Go

So we traveled for Christmas this year. No. Stop it, you. I know, I know you know what's coming. You know how it is, being trapped in the moving metal carcass that is your minivan that also feels like it will be your tomb because how on Earth can we possibly survive a 13 hour cross-country road trip with three small beings, two big ones, one that is unborn but perhaps the wiggliest of the bunch and enough stuff to delight a small third world country and we haven't even had the holiday yet.

But anyway, we made the trip and now I will describe to you how it went. Wipe the tears of mirth from your eyes and enjoy.

It began innocently enough, with seven straight viewings of The Ultimate Collection of Bugs Bunny Classics and some conversations about road signs. Number One proudly sees the yellow diamond and announces, "That says elk must live here." I ask him how he knew that was an elk (we don't see many; we live in the middle of the desert) and he ponders this for a moment before answering honestly, "I don't know. I guess I'm an expert." Seems about right for a six year old from 45 miles outside the US-Mexico border.

The fun continues (you knew this was inevitable) with an emergency I-have-to-pee-right-now-and-no-I-can't-hold-it-yes-I'm-willing-to-go-on-the-side-of-the-road-yes-I-promise-I-really-will-go-not-like-last-time potty stop. We pick the best location we can find in the middle of nowhere, an innocent-looking exit, and let the troops out. It isn't until Number Three is 30 yards away and shin-deep in mud that we begin to discover that the entire place is a swampy pit. But at this point, Number One is barefoot because he can't find his shoes, so he's peeing perched on a pokey rock but not far enough away from the car, as we now realize because his rather impressive puddle is adding to the general murkiness of the ground we're trying to navigate only now it's super gross because in addition to being made with melting snow, it's also made with Jud's pee and he's upset because his feet hurt and "I keep peeing all on my pants!" and he can't get back in the car by himself and Number Three is now trying to climb the wildlife fence she's found and is getting dirtier by the second so Josh goes to chase her while I help Number Two use the facilities. I lift her out (she's also barefoot because apparently NO ONE can find their shoes) and take her to the opposite side of the car, hoping conditions will be better over there. But overhearing us talking about the mud, she's refusing to put her feet down and is clinging to my arm like a spider monkey while I help her pull her pants off and encourage her to pee while dangling precariously from my limbs. This might have worked but then we realized that the empty exit wasn't quite so abandoned as we thought and so many cars are still driving past and Josh is hollering to put her pants back on while he wrangles Swamp Thing. Two is so distressed by the audience and the nakedness that she never can relieve herself and Josh gets back to the car with Three, in the process nearly tripping over the dead deer corpse rotting not five feet away that in all the hullabaloo we didn't notice but now it's filling our car with a horrible stench and as Josh stuffs Three in her car seat he tries to escape the deer and stink and mud he does end up bashing his already-broken-from-a-previous-adventure-but-that's-another-story toe and falls into the driver's seat howling and trying to wipe away mud. I'm pretty much in the same state, except that pregnancy is insane so I also start giggling deliriously and chalk it up to the worst rest stop ever.

How about lunch? 

Not in a state of mind to make any sort of impressive impression, we opt for fast food with a play place. Two eats her food miraculously well and goes off on greater brightly-colored plastic adventures. One makes it about halfway through his lunch before moaning, "Mooooomm, my heart is really tired of nachos. And my heart has never let me down." How can you argue with that as a parent? By all means, don't let me be the one to wreck your hopes and dreams. Go. Play. So Three (who is a growing almost-two-year-old) decides to scavenge the remains of her brother's cheesy chips, after polishing off her own quesadilla. All is going well until I steal one of her many remaining nachos and she freaks out. "Hey!! No!! I want one!!" You have one, Jay. "Hey! No!" In her tirade, she knocks more chips to the ground so we scoop them up and throw them away, but this just incenses her further. She scrambles under the table and attempts to climb into the trash can to rescue her poor babies. While she's distracted, Josh also eats one, but she is a woman on a mission and will not tolerate anyone sharing what she's rightfully stolen. So she pulls herself up on the bench and begins yanking Josh's jaws open in an attempt to fish out the chip he's just swallowed, all the while protesting the injustice of the world against a helpless lady. Oh boy.

After that there are only a handful more minor incidents, like when we're driving through a local polygamist colony - one of the remaining few in the United States - and Two, motivated by only the cows around us know what, begins announcing determinedly and happily, "This is my town!! This is MY town!" Um, Felic, perhaps you might wanna choose a new town. "Nope! THIS is my town! I wanna live here." Oh man. Thankfully for us she is far too spirited for her application for citizenship to ever be taken seriously, so we distract her and the rest with a few more rounds of Bugs Bunny, and finally we make it to Grandma's house. Hooray!
Because we are us and entering and just sitting and chatting would be out of the question, Two attempts to ride a TV box down the stairs, knocking her sister bloody in the process, Three shoots off the back of the treadmill at full speed, thus further bludgeoning her poor face only one day before her birthday and three days before Christmas. Because who doesn't want their two year old to look like they've survived 10 rounds with the world heavyweight champ? Yikes. One regales Grandma with the whole litany of weapons and warriors he knows about and she, being the ever-impressive woman she is, remains interested, all while making peanut butter sandwiches for the whole clan.

And now it's bedtime, let's go have a bath, and Two and Three literally begin climbing the walls of the bathtub (if I step on this soap ledge and this shampoo bottle, I can almost make it), despite my insistence that it's not a good idea, so we now decide that throwing cups of water around the bathroom shouting happily, "Let it snow!!" would be a good replacement activity. One is upstairs still, now reading The Little Mermaid to Grandma, which leads to an in-depth discussion of eels and the pros and cons of each different species. Grandma, loving to the end, compliments him on his reading and encourages him to come to bed and Grandpa says good night and show me in the morning all the awesome wrestling moves you know.

Whew. But at least we're here, with the opportunity to celebrate a beautiful holiday with the people we love most. And that's something worth even a drive like the one we just (barely) survived and will attempt to do again in a couple weeks. Wish us luck.

Merry Christmas!

Body Issues

So, I'm pregnant. Wahoo! Also, I'm pregnant. Aaaahhhhh!!! That's my body screaming in terror. Poor thing. I don't blame it. Pregnancy does a number on this bag of skin and bones our rapidly deteriorating brains call a home and mine has been through a lot lately.
I was dancing with my kids last week. Dancing quite vigorously to a rousing rendition of Eye of the Tiger. The children were not having good success in finishing their dinner so we decided some peppy music would be in order. The good news is that it totally worked. We did some shuffling and some rings-around-the-rosie and some air guitaring and before we knew it the dinner was consumed and everyone was full and happy. The bad news is that when we put the kids to bed shortly after that, I could no longer walk. The old gray mare sure ain't what she used to be and every muscle in my critchety, expanding body seized up, sending sciatic pain ripping through me like a tornado, and condemning me to an evening on the couch cuddling frantically with a hot pack. I guess Baby was mad that we were dancing happily without him and he was forced to be sloshed around inside against his will. (The disclaimer here is that we don't actually know if it's a "him" yet, but I hate referring to my baby as "It".)
A couple days later, we continued to learn about the joys of a pregnant body while getting ready with my daughters to take them to school. I tell Number 2 that I just need to use the bathroom and then we can go. She gets super annoyed, throws her hands on her hips, and points out, "Mom. You went potty already." "Well, yes, honey, but when you have a baby in your tummy you have to go potty a lot," and then we're launched in to a full-scale explanation of how the baby presses on your bladder and what's a bladder and oh it's a big sack that lives in your body and collects your pee like you collect lid-less markers and rocks and junk mail and other unidentifiable items and now you're looking at me with a bewildered expression so we'll just say that the baby squeezes the pee out of you when you're a mommy and I don't know if this is better but it certainly is an idea that delights you and seems to satisfy your curiosity even if you are permanently scarred from wanting to become a mother so we can finally get out the door to school where I will once again have to use the bathroom so that I can go work out without wetting myself or at least not very much.
A couple more days later and I need to run into the other child's school - Number 1's elementary. I am feeling good about myself, fully dressed at 7:45 am, carrying in 40 water bottles to donate to the school's jog-a-thon, doing my civic duty and being clothed like a decent person while I do it. Heck to the yeah. I drop the water bottles off and wonder why the office staff still stands there staring at me expectantly, but like all good stories I don't find out the reason why until I get home and look in the mirror to admire my admirable reflection. It is at this point that I discover the giant streak of chocolate (where did it even come from at this hour??) that is clearly and unabashedly highlighting my only-this-large-during-pregnancy-much-to-Josh's-dismay cleavage from top to bottom. Classy. No wonder they were all staring at me, not expectantly like I'd thought, but like I was a chocolate buffoon and with sympathy and horror for the poor children being raised by me.
The fun is still not over. Fast forward to today and we are getting ready for church. I don't "get ready" all that often, so this is sort of a big deal. To celebrate the occasion, I decide to wear fun hot pink tights that will look really cute with my dress when I'm done, but take a fair amount of effort to put on. Poor Josh walks in during this process and gawks at me stuffing myself into these tights like a sausage trying to shimmy into its own casing, with an understandable amount of horror, but he knows enough by now not to say anything. Number 3, on the other hand, has no such hangups. She just waltzes in, takes a look, and says, "Ew." Glanching at myself in this ridiculous get up, I sort of have to agree with her, but we'll just slip a dress on over top of it, pretend we don't own a mirror at home and hope for the best. At this point, halfway through growing Kid Number 4, I'm pretty sure that's as good as it's going to get.

Mopping

I mopped my floors this weekend, y'all. I know. I know this doesn't sound like a big thing, but for me, it's likely I wouldn't feel better about myself after completing ... anything. Not a marathon, not a jaunt up Mt. Kilimanjaro, not flying to the moon. That sounds overly dramatic but let me explain.
First, a disclaimer. This post is a little break from the norm. It seems every year or so, I feel inspired to write an entry like this, one where I bare my soul and hope for the best. (See June 2012's "I Am A Mom".) So, here we go.
Deep breath. I suffer from postpartum depression. I would use the words "crippling" or "paralyzing" to describe it, but they don't seem sufficient. More like "suffocating" or "all-consuming". More like, "I feel like I live in a sucking black hole and there is absolutely no way out." And here's the kicker: my youngest is 17 months old. She's not that young anymore. The annoying baby blues hornet that buzzes around for couple weeks after you get home from the hospital morphed into a giant, raging dragon consuming everything around it, even after the official "postpartum" period passed.
Here's the good news: in the last four weeks, I have genuinely started to feel consistently better, like for the first time in over three years, I have more good days than bad ones. That is a triumph. Just a few days ago, sweet Josh put his arms around me and said, "I'm so glad that the woman I married is back." Oh man. Me, too.
But here's the reality: after my first child, life was good. I was genuinely surprised at how much I enjoyed being a mother, at how fulfilled I was, and interested in stuff, and at just how happy I felt. My house was not always, or even usually, pristine and I was super tired, but my perspective on these things was so positive. I looked forward to the future and enjoyed my present. I felt eager to wake up each morning and give life another go.
After I gave birth to my second, things were much different. This was a fairly stressful time in our lives anyway, as it was Josh's last year of dental school, which meant we rarely saw him. We were trying to make the enormous life decision of which job opportunity to pursue, where to move our little family, how to begin paying off our vomit-inducing amount of student loans, not to mention how to be parents now to twice as many kids as before and continue being spouses to each other through all of this. So all of this is going on and Felicity is a few weeks old and then a few months old. And this whole time, I can't even conjure up the energy to put on a bra, let alone smile. Doing the dishes was beyond impossible, as was menu planning, budget planning, or any other "planning". This time in my memory is so gray, surrounded by fog. I simply was not happy. I remember Josh coming home one day to me standing in the kitchen, surrounded by a tornado-sized disaster and saying, "Seph, you just look beat down." That's exactly how I felt. Like I had been trampled by the Budweiser Clydesdales and their wagon, every day. Even before I shoveled myself out of bed in the morning, I was beat.
But this was my first time dealing with this, and I really didn't know. I thought it was because I was tired, and stressed, and that Josh was stressed, and we were moving, you know? It wasn't until we had moved in to our next home that I began to think there may be an issue. We had been there about a month and I was still struggling to unpack the house. Josh was settled in to his new job and I was overwhelmed again with trying to get things in order. I remember vividly sitting in my kids' bedroom, surrounded with Rubbermaid containers filled with toys, my back to the wall, sobbing. The thought in my head was, "There is no way. There is no solution to organizing these toys. There is no way the house will ever be in order. There is no way I'm going to survive these next five minutes. There is just.no.way." I remember wondering if this was normal, if everyone was completely and constantly consumed by an inability to do the tiniest task.
I had a small job and that kept me moving forward. I worked about 10 hours a week and my kids came with me and somehow we survived that year.
And then we moved again and I was expecting Number 3. The world was black again. I couldn't get dressed, I couldn't get my kids dressed, there was nothing. Jaylee was born and we were happy to see her and loved her so much, but the depression didn't lift. We bought a house and moved again and again, I couldn't do anything.
When I look back at this experience, sometimes I think the only thing I will be proud of about how I handled this experience is that I didn't stop. My kids still got to school, they ate food every day, and we made it to church most Sundays. Sometimes we even went to play group.
I did not face depression with grace; I'm not sure what doing that would look like, but I'm sure it wasn't me. I laid frozen on the couch, feeling literally that my soul was being devoured, that I would implode at any moment. I had to; life could not go on, feeling so sad and desperate and hopeless and paralyzed. I writhed in bed, under the weight of this beast, the knowledge that I am not good enough at anything, that people are only nice because they feel sorry for me, that I am a complete waste and failure. I slogged through trips to the grocery store, putting things in the cart without fully being able to think through my purchase decisions and hardly able to see the people around me; tunnel vision was very strong. So much energy was being put in to this swirling vortex of awfulness, that there was little left for physical functions.
There were thoughts of suicide. I didn't experience these after giving birth the second time, but they came hard and fast after the third. I am not a person given to many physical vices, thankfully  -  I don't smoke or use drugs or drink any alcohol. These things are not available in my home at all, which is a real blessing, because for the first time in my life, the temptation to use them until I fell into oblivion was not only real, but tangible, as a physical craving. I am not a violent person, but new and horrible ideas of self-harm crept up. I wanted to do whatever it took to get away from these dark feelings, from being crushed to death from the inside out.
I believe in God; I prayed to Him during this whole experience. I wish I could say that the heavens opened and He beamed His love to me like a ray of light and I was cured. That did not happen. I felt like my prayers were bouncing off the ceiling, that I was being bound and gagged and asked to do what's right anyway. I could not feel the divine inspiration that comes to every mother as she strives to raise her children. When people did tell me I was doing a good job at something, it felt like a cruel joke.
I saw a therapist, a psychologist, tried several medication solutions. I walked around in a medicine-induced fog for seven months, my brain entirely unable to solve problems or think anything through thoroughly.
I tried physical exertion. I worked out ferociously and instead of feeling better, found myself sobbing through the workouts.
I watched my friends accomplishing normal things, running a 5K, cooking dinner for their families, showing up to play group wearing makeup and having their hair nicely groomed, and I could not possibly fathom how I would go about doing the same thing. While I was around them (or anyone) I felt stupid and lame and weak and like the charity case friend.
A weird thing about all this was that so little of what I was experiencing was actual reality. As Josh put it once, I live a princess life. We live in a comfortable home, Josh has a stable job, everyone in my family is relatively healthy. My marriage is good. We have food on the table. On paper, things were perfect.
Josh was there for me. Always. He talked to me and held me and listened to me cry. He was endlessly patient. He tried to help me through things.
In some tiny corner of my brain, I knew that. I knew I was lucky, and yet, in my reality, in what I saw and felt and experienced day-to-day, there was nothing happy or golden. Life had no luster or sparkle. The demons were relentless.
As I mentioned earlier, things are finally improving, for which I am endlessly grateful. I mopped my floor. I went for a run. I organized my medicine cabinet. I managed my home while Josh was gone for five days. Each of these truths feels so momentous I literally want to stand on top of this computer desk and scream my delight to the skies.
I'm not sure why I'm posting this. I don't really want to. I don't really want to share my dragons with everyone.
This entry is not intended to induce guilt or pity or thoughts of "I should have helped", "If I'd only known", or anything else. It is not anything. It is simply a statement of what was.
I hope that as you read this, it doesn't feel like it applies to you. I hope you think, "Wow. I really can't relate. If something needs to be done, I just go do it, even if I'm tired. Life is hard sometimes, but that's fine."
But I guess in writing this I'm hoping that if you do relate, if you have experienced some of these same things (whether caused by pregnancy or anything else in the world), you know that you are not alone. I don't know if that helps you. There are times it wouldn't have helped me. But maybe it will.
After going through this, there are a few things that I know, and hopefully they help. 1) You are not alone.  You're not, even when it absolutely feels like you are. 2) God is there. I don't know why sometimes it feels like He's not and I don't know yet quite what I am supposed to have learned from this experience, but I do know that He is there. 3) Just hang on. When it feels the worst, just hang on. You don't have to swim to the lifeboat or even kick. Just hang on to the lifeline. When it feels like there's no hope, just hang on.
I went through this while surrounded with endless support and blessings, way more than I deserved. If you are experiencing it without someone to lean on or while the world is falling apart around you because of a job (or job loss) or health or family crisis or anything else, you have my deepest sympathy and prayers in your direction. Hang on. God is there. You are not alone.
When you can't have hope, I will try to have it for you. Because someone and Someone had it for me. And now I am feeling better. Not every day, but on a lot of days. And that is something to be grateful for. And shout for joy about. I mean, I mopped my floors. Isn't that great?!

Peanut Butter Jelly Time

You know those days that you pop out of bed, excited for life and all you're going to get accomplished that day, and then your kids step in, shaking their heads and saying, "No way, Jose. We have a full 12 hours of fighting, whining and general house-wrecking planned. You ain't getting nothing done today." And you're sitting there forlorn, thinking of any argument, "I'll make you cake for breakfast. No, seriously, look at this pound cake recipe. Doesn't it look good? It does? Yes, Mommy will even put it in muffin tins so when anyone asks you about breakfast you can tell them we ate muffins, like we are decent people who don't raid the Our Best Bites dessert section before 8 am."
And then before you know it, the muffins are devoured and the little rascals are carrying on with their evil plans anyway, arguing and thrashing and pulling out all the toys you, in a more organized life, cycled into the garage, to be pulled out in a few months after putting others away, creating a mess so awful that when Hubby gets home he asks, "Wow, did they have friends over? No? How did they do this all themselves in just one morning?"
So you use those few chaotic moments to launch a productivity sneak attack, but your children find you and holler, "MommyIwannahelpyou! MommyIwannahelpyou!" and they're stealing the scissors and unraveling all the ribbon and taping everything in sight and then tattle on their sibling who is mimicking their every move, but it's not bad when I do it, only when she does because she gets in my way of torturing you, Mom.
And now it's time to get ready to go, and Number 3's diaper smells as if a giant crack in the Earth has opened to reveal several new sulfur deposits, so you hose her down and try to do Number 2's hair. As you're wrangling these unrepentant strands, Number 1 begins crying with an unusual amount of alarm, "My nose is bleeding!" A bloody nose is not unheard of in our house (this may come as a big shock to you), so I don't think it's going to be terrible, but I try to get in to him quickly anyway. I am wholly unprepared for the blood splashed all across the tile, filling the bathroom sink, and literally gushing from my poor five year old's honker. His eyes are terrified and he's crying and trying to keep things together with a wimpy Kleenex and Number 3's crying because I put her down and Number 2 is bouncing, trying to see around me so she doesn't miss any excitement. We get some ice and a washcloth and get Big Brother settled trying to stave off the flow, while the girls and I mop up the blood a little so poor Judsen doesn't get freaked out every time he looks around. I'm trying to keep him calm and get the disinfecting spray and clean up and make sure he knows he's not going to die and prevent Felicity from blinding herself and her sister in her exuberance to help me with the Clorox.
Finally most of the blood is sopped up and we sit on the couch for a brief reprieve of cuddling and Curious George.
Now that Judsen's feeling better and everyone is mostly calm, it is time for us to attend our obligations, which we are at least 45 minutes late to. These go fairly well, except for JJ's terrible twos rehearsal, in which she throws a spectacular fit over...well..name something, I drank too much milk, the dog doesn't want me to stand on her, your rice is in a brown bowl and mine is white...you know.
We get home all ready for a nap, but before I can even make it into the house, Felicity comes running, "I'm sorry I made a big mess with the noodles, Mom." Fantastic. I walk in to find an ocean of dried rotini swimming in the hallway. Judsen has found a jumprope from somewhere and is attempting to either lasso the pasta or slingshot it across the house; it's hard to tell. JJ is alternating between punting it around and ice skating on top of it, which sends her crashing to the floor. Felicity is making an honest attempt to sweep up, but she's small and the broom's big and it's much easier if I just stir the noodles around.
Ok. Pasta crisis dealt with, now for naps. JJ's down, but the big kids decide there's no deal if we can't first sneak out of bed several times for an impromptu game of Ants in the Pants.
After naps, it's time to prepare for swimming lessons. Josh blessedly arrives home, and apparently JJ was as happy to see him as I was because this was another big chance for her to freak out about something. Wahoo! As I herd the older two out the door, she abandons Daddy, muffins, and Martha Speaks to come prostrate herself at the entrance to the garage and cry.
Swim lessons are great, up until the part that we try to go home. Both kids decide they definitely have to use the bathroom before we get in the car, so I say a little prayer, send Judsen into the boys' locker room and go with Felicity to the girls'. She gets in her stall and as I'm waiting for her, the women's swim team from the college comes in. Now I'm trying hard not to send eye daggers and I-hope-you-gain-80-lbs-and-miles-of-stretch-marks-when-you're-pregnant thoughts towards their tiny, tan bodies, because that simply would not be kind. So I turn my attention back to Felicity, who at this point, has been in the stall for 20 minutes, pooping, pirouetting with her swimsuit around her ankles, and redecorating the place with shredded toilet paper. Oy.
We hurry out because I am genuinely concerned that Judsen has been on his own so long, and to my greatest fear, he is nowhere to be found. I wait a few minutes, ask the pool staff, ask a guy going in to the locker room, look outside. My baby boy is not anywhere. Oh my heck, oh my heck, oh my heck. I head outside one more time and hear a faint, "Mom!" I look across the parking lot and in relief (and terror and a little anger) see him lounging near our van. A nice lady who was just leaving noticed our situation and helped hustle him back to me. He had gotten worried and didn't know what to do, and because "it was taking you forever in there and I thought I saw a person that was you by our car", he walked out the door, crossed the parking lot alone and "a car almost hit me" and waited next to the van for us. Oh, goodness. (The one bright spot here, aside from him being okay, is that we had a very good discussion about what to do if that ever happens again.)
Now we're home and I sit for a minute to relax and let the adrenaline and horror seep away, and the girls decide it would be a perfect time for a WWE smackdown on Mommy's lap, so they're wrestling each other and grabbing my glasses and kickboxing my tummy. Flight wins out over fight and I jump up and sprint into the bathroom, hiding on the toilet and locking the door behind me. Aaaahhh!!
Thankfully Josh is a wonderful human being and decides it's Peanut Butter Jelly Time. You know this time. Things get so hectic and Mom's losing her marbles and we still don't know what's for dinner, so Dad busts out his days-like-this special: PB&J.
So I come out, a little calmer and ready to make a little appearance at a bridal shower. I laugh and have fun with the girls for a bit, bring some cake home to my kids, at least one smears it all over the pretty white shirt she was wearing, and now we're having showers and all going to bed at 8:30.
And maybe tomorrow I'll wake up refreshed and composed. Or maybe I won't and we'll have Peanut Butter Jelly Time again. All I can say is, bless you Mr. Jif and Mr. Smucker. And Josh. Always, bless you, Josh.

The Airport

Kids at the airport. I could probably just stop there, because I'm sure you're already thinking what I'm thinking. But you know me, I'm not going to stop there. Let us keep commiserating together about our experiences with kids at the airport.
Now, I'm not even talking about flying with kids. I've done it, flown by myself with the munchkins, trying to keep them strapped in the stroller until the exact right moment, then hauling you, them, and all their stuff down the gangway, attempting to keep them somewhat muffled during the flight and hoping beyond hope that no bodily fluids make it into the rows in front of or behind you, and then the bathroom on the airplane stops working before you're even in the air, and, like the comedian Brian Regan says, there's apparently only one tool in the known universe that can fix it and it's in Madagascar, so you drive around the runway at random for over an hour and the flight attendants can see your crew getting restless so they smuggle you extra pretzels and bottled water. When you finally land, the airline has lost your luggage, and as you wait in line to talk to them about it, one or more of your children poops their pants and sticks their hands in it. No, I'm not talking about that.
I'm taking about simply having your children at the airport. I did this recently. We were there to retrieve my sister, whose flight was delayed by a little while. Figuring it was better to go in and wait for her than sit in the parking lot watching the 50th rerun of Sesame Street's The Great Numbers Game, we made a break for it. No, of course I didn't have a stroller. Or snacks. Or even a tiny sippy cup to keep us entertained. That would have been far too responsible and/or prepared to be a good Sephonnie Elliss story.
We made it through the parking garage, down the elevator, and across the road into the actual building itself, the kids looking around and taking everything in with huge eyes as if this is their first time on Earth, and me repeating incessant instructions to stay together, hold hands, wait for your sister, no please don't pull her arm, and don't walk away where you can't see me. We enter the family bathroom stall to all relieve ourselves. This, of course, involves reverently touching the paper towel dispenser and upon learning that it does what every other automated dispenser in America does, doing the cancan in front of it so it begins emitting miles of white paper. And then we need to flip the light switch on and off as rapidly as possible, unlock the door, ask over and over if I can go outside and just wait by myself because I'm a big boy and no one will take me because I know karate, and also sing perhaps the ABCs and some favorite church hymns at the top of our lungs.
Once we're through with the bathroom, the running ensues. We run around around the luggage carousel (Mom! Is this like a slide??), run into the lost luggage office shouting Hi! Hi! (I'm sorry, no. My 15 month old does not need to file a complaint. Carry on, please.), run around the waiting area chairs (Felicity, try to catch me!!), run around the luggage carousel again (Mom! Now can we use it as a slide?!), run under the Caution! Restricted Area! tape that is cordoning off a broken carousel, and finally just nestle against its side because we've all decided we want to hide from Aunt Shanelle (who is the person we are there to pick up and who has yet to make an entrance). Except now actual baggage is starting to pop up and swim around on this thing that Mom said wasn't a slide, but look at those suitcases riding down it, and maybe Mom doesn't know what she's talking about. JJ reaches out her arms and pumps her little legs to try to catch hold of one and let it take her in circles and Judsen begins hollering because he's afraid she'll get hurt. But now that's boring and let's play tag again and hey! yay! there's Aunt Shanelle, but we haven't seen her for a while, so now all the running is coming to an end while Felicity dangles between my legs trying to act shy but also get Auntie's attention at the same time. Judsen is hiding his face in his arms, but continues to run around like he's some sort of jungle warrior who feels camouflaged because if he can't see us, then we definitely can't see him. And JJ remains oblivious to the arrival of one of her favorite people because darn it all if she's not going to catch one of those bags and have it take her for a spin before this night is over.
The point is, kids are awesome. Traveling with kids is awesome. Not traveling with kids is awesome. You're a mother, so now and forever anything you do with your children can be considered awesome. Right? :)

This Day

You know. You know this day. This day was that day. The day when the first things you hear are your soggy five-year-old's reassuring words, "Mom, I didn't pee my bed. My shorts just got wet. And my sheets are wet. And do I have any clean underwear?" and your three-year-old pipes in with, "Mom, whenever you feed fish and dogs you need to wash your hands. Mom, let's go feed the fish and dog. Actually, you just feed them. I want a chocolate granola bar." So you stagger out of bed, too tired to do anything but follow orders from these small alien leaders who have apparently sucked the brains right from your head, and begin digging in the dryer, looking for the requested breakfast food, only to realize that on a good day, only clothes are stored in there, and that's the real reason you're in the laundry room in the first place, because Thing 1 is still standing naked requesting your assistance for clothing. You find clothes (hopefully they're his) and continue your zombie march to the kitchen to find sustenance for Thing 2.
Thing 3 is now awake and needing a shower because she seems to have the remnants of last night's Cheetos still clinging to her skin and one half her hair is cemented to her face with, well, you're probably better off not knowing. So you begin preparing her for a cleansing, but this is difficult because she's anxious and wiggling and the problem of remembering which direction to pull her pants to get them off her body seems insurmountable.
Finally she's in the shower, Number 1's out the door, and you remember that Number 2 needs a small picture printed for school. This shouldn't take more than a few minutes, right?, so you get your exercise clothes on thinking that we'll whip this assignment out and get a workout in before you can say Bob's your uncle and you have to take anyone else to school. You sit down at the computer, choose the picture, click print and ... no ink. Awesome. Let's change the cartridge. Only, how do I go about this on this newfangled contraption? Watch the informational video where the top of the printer magically lifts itself off and the cartridges slip happily into view and then fairies fly out sprinkling pizza to all the happy children. Ok. Step 1: figure out how to take the top off. Grunting and pulling and squeezing results in half the printer being lifted up at a horrifying angle while the rest remains steadfastly in place. Sephonnie, you have a college degree for crying out loud. How hard can this be? Finally after praying and frantically pushing into every nook and cranny, gold is struck and the top lifts away and the cartridges do, in fact, slide happily into view. Replace the one that seems bad. Print pictures. Shots of you and your beautiful daughter come out green and streaked. Ok, replace the rest of the cartridges. Print pictures again. 45 minutes and $45 in ink and photo paper later, you have two tiny pictures to show for your hard work and now 0% of the children remaining in the house are dressed and there is no time for a workout and in fact -aaahhh!!!- the clock says there's no time for anything.
Rush to school. A few minutes later, it's time to pick up Thing 1 and a friend. You do so and decide to run an errand on the way home, so you take three tornadoes into poor, unsuspecting Big 5 to purchase a couple things for your yet-uncompleted workout and the guy says, "Hey, you were in here last week, right?" I can't possibly imagine why we would have made an impression, as you're wrestling Number 3 who is riding backwards on your shoulders like a confused sack of potatoes and Number 1 & Company are darting around the store, hollering excitedly about their favorites from the weapons counter.
After a brief respite that comes in the form of death-threat-enforced naps and lunchtime, you're all getting packed up for a Welcome to Kindergarten night at the elementary school. Cute, right? Except that poor Josh is still at work and won't be home for hours so the whole crew is coming with you and Kid Uno to learn about kindergarten. You walk into the school, juggling three bundles of joy who begin sprinting around the school's cafeteria like this is the first time they've ever been let out of the cage and the poor teachers try to squelch the immediate look in their eyes, "Um, lady, I think you're in the wrong place. The clown college is down the street," and instead they earn an Academy Award for saying, "Welcome to the Wolf Pack!" like they're genuinely glad we're there.
The teachers are awesome and keep all three kiddos entertained for an hour and a half (except for the few moments when Number 2 feels left out and begins crying loudly, "I wanna go to kindergarten, too!!") and then you reach home to put the kids in front of a couple episodes of Horseland and hope that the clients coming for their workouts any minute now aren't offended by the enormous pillow fort that is still inhabiting the front room.
And then the small ones are in bed, and you collapse on the couch with a new episode of Psych and the banana butterscotch blondies you've been waiting to dig in to, and hope that you are revived enough to try it all again tomorrow.
This day. You know this day. When you love your kids and work this hard, there's bound to be this day. I read a quote that seems very applicable. Here is my own little interpretation: "Behind every great kid is a mom who's pretty sure she's screwing it up. And behind every mom who's pretty sure she's screwing it up, is a Sam's Club-sized bag of chocolate chips that give her the courage to try another day anyway."

Exercise

I have no idea how it has taken me so long to cover this jewel in the crown of beloved motherhood experiences. I know, you're probably already giggling (or crying - sorry) at recounting all your own Crazy Town experiences while you try to dance away the unpleasantly redistributed materials left over from giving birth.  Josh and I have recently re-stepped up our workout game; we have started an intense at-home fitness regimen with crazy 40 minute videos to follow. As you know, completing this at top notch is not easy with at least two out of the three ragamuffins coaching me on to success. The guy on the video shouts instructions as to how to properly perform each exercise: "Move to where you're uncomfortable!" Well, Mr. Beachbody, while I'm muddling through these 74,000 pushups, I've got one poopy-diapered child trying to sit on my face while the other attempts to steamroll her sister with an enormous stability ball. I may not be great at most of the stuff in this workout, but I'm pretty sure I've got the market cornered on uncomfortable.
From time to time, I will mix things up and teach workouts at my church for fellow sailors on the Moms Who Are Trying to Figure Out How to Get Anything Besides Poop Done ship. We do this in the morning, which means our children are with us, which means this is ever an exciting event. There are rare beautiful days where I go teach these classes and everything is smooth and wonderful and we are all sweaty and happy and then we ride our unicorns home. More often than not, however, things go as they did today. We swing into the parking lot at least 10 minutes late, because digging through the clean but perpetually unfolded laundry basket to find something half decent for the offspring to wear and then tossing them granola-bar-faced and raggedy-headed into the car with hopefully a right and a left shoe of any sort on their feet, always takes longer than I imagine. I get the kids out of the car and let them run around on the sidewalk while I gather my belongings. They really like this because, of course, there are sprinklers running, sprinkling my wrinkly children with happy drops. I am beginning to get concerned at this point, because I cannot find the cord to my speaker system, which was right in the car only a few hours earlier. The other class participants are ever patient and kind (bless them) and come out to help herd my orphans into the building. Now I am really sort of worried, because underneath the crunchy cookies, old water bottles, and thirty five jackets that seem to be our car's emergency storage, there is absolutely no sign of this wretched cord. I cannot find it. It is just nowhere.
I enter the church to break the bad news and the other ladies come to the rescue, jerry-rigging a system that is at least passable, so we can still get our now-25-minutes-late workout in. We begin and my kids unleash an impressive showing of their truly terrible Elliss power. JJ is riding on a cute little push-along car. Felicity decides to help her and smashes her sister into a tower of stacking chairs. I help up JJ, reprimand Felicity and go back to it. Felicity then knocks JJ completely off the car, face-splatting the poor one-year old onto the gym floor. Still trying to properly maintain the Zumba sexy and take care of all this, we relegate the car to the stage, where hopefully no one can reach it. Felicity (who was really on a roll) climbs on the stage and makes a solid attempt at driving that car right off the edge. If it wasn't for some fleet-footed ladies at the class today who caught her on her way down, she would have done the same face-splat her sister had barely completed. Oh my heck.
So the workout goes on, with the kids emptying out my entire purse off the stage and on to the floor, running the halls, and attempting to start a basketball game in the middle of our dance area. JJ is crying, runny-nosed, and so tired. She's trying to run underneath my legs like some terrible version of London Bridge. I leaped gracefully over her a time or two, but the morning caught up to me and as I tried to the next time, I nearly scalped her with the inside of my leg. She didn't like that very much, so I spent the entire cool down song with her curled in my arms. Cute, right?
They're not always full-on naughty. Sometimes they're just them. Both girls love to come dance in the exact spot on the floor that I am dancing. JJ, without fail, will hijack the step I am using and begin tap dancing on it. She doesn't want another one, immediately to the side; only mine will do. Felicity comes out to sing the song's words and do the arm movements. Judsen will run up from time to time to ask if he can have fruit snacks or if we can listen to his favorite rock star song five more times in a row. Two of JJ's great firsts came while trying to lead these poor, wonderful ladies in a workout. The first time she ever pulled herself to standing was on a step that I was currently using to teach a variation of hamstring curls. The first time she ever walked was chasing a push-toy around that church gym and through my legs while I attempted to execute a shuffle mamba pivot.
Oy. At home, they sit on Josh as he does pushups, turning his exercise session into a bull-riding rodeo. They perch on his chest, feet, and face (remember, there are three of them) as he does abdominal work. JJ will just randomly lay down flat right under his feet, increasing the plyometric demand of any workout because he has to watch for her and then jump at the exact right moment to avoid trampling his impish, giggling daughter.
I call this workout philosophy Body by Baby. Your body has babies and then its most consistent form of exercise is babies. And you end up with a few extra lumps and curves but also happy kids and the opportunity to decide that giving up your six-pack for a few years is probably worth it.

Happy Mother's Day

My kids love to party. Very often they'll come streaking into the kitchen and jitter excitedly. "Mom! Come look what we made for you! It's a party!" I'll trepidatiously enter the living room to discover an enormous nest carefully designed from pillows, comforters, stuffed animals, toy trains, and crumbs from an indistinguishable origin. The kids will watch my face expectantly and as I reveal true joy (they believe from their engineering genius, more accurately from the fact that the nest doesn't also include Silly Putty, blood, or green crayon smeared on anything) they jump up and down and shout happily and ask me to turn on music so they can be properly enthused. A wild rumpus ensues, we end up making an unexpected dessert, you know...
So when I came home from an appointment to find the kids hard at work on what they told me was my Mother's Day surprise party, I wasn't too shocked. I was touched by their thoughtfulness and their creativity in putting the lessons they've seen on Curious George to real life. Plus, the fact that this Mother's Day celebration was happening only two days after New Years' Eve was of no concern. I mentioned it to Judsen and he said, "No, Mom. We're just pretending it's Mother's Day. We're just practicing."
I watched them at the craft table, cutting newspaper, mixing water, glue, and blue paint into one of my new Tupperware bowls (which they found after opening every single door, drawer, and cupboard in the kitchen. Yes, of course, they left all the doors ajar and in perfect head-knocking position. Why not?), and then placing it carefully over an old box full of ancient Halloween candy. While they completed their task, Judsen issued instructions to me. "Mom, could you make us some coconut cake and dinner and treats and hot chocolate for your party? You're going to be so surprised!" Yes, it was starting to feel like Mother's Day already.
When they were finished, they were eager to whack apart the soggy cardboard immediately, but we encouraged them to be patient. In search of other activities, they wandered into the living room where Felicity had been apparently storing her in-case-of-emergency toy. There, sitting on the couch, in all its splendor was a lidless, used pregnancy test. I was horrified. "Felicity! Why is that there? That is not a toy! That is a stick for mommies to pee on!" She scurried to throw it away, sweetly apologizing, which made me feel a little sorry about my abrupt reaction to her, until I realized the reason the test had been lidless was because she was chewing on the cap! Oh brother.
I ran to the bathroom for an escape, but the kids, apparently finding no joy in the living room, decided to come with me to see if I had any better options. So I'm using the throne and JJ starts to sort through the trash potpourri. Felicity stands on the ledge of the tub, all wrapped up in the shower curtain, singing and pretending to be Mildew Batman, I guess. In an effort to commit fully to her character, she lifts her legs and twirls around, again supported by the shower curtain, until the effort brings the bar, curtain, and child crashing to the ground. She, understandably, begins freaking out and looking for comfort, so I hold her on my lap. Glad this isn't awkward. I hurry and get finished and rush to get some ice for Felicity's bruised face, and JJ, not to be forgotten, comes after us, leading the roll of toilet paper behind her and into the hall like she's the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
Dinner seems like a good idea at this point, so I quickly make enchiladas. It is while my hands and forearms are smothered in chicken shards and red sauce that JJ comes sauntering in, doing a striptease and showing us her new skill of removing her own diaper. Here we recall that she is only 12 months and a couple seconds old; she should not have mastered sticky tape yet. So my little nudist wanders around the kitchen to cheers and giggles from her brother and sister while I scream for Josh (who cannot come because he has locked himself away trying to complete an important business phone call) and try to clean my hands off enough to contain her.
We then eat, which works out pretty well for most of us, but Judsen begins crying inconsolably at the terror of consuming tortillas and cheese. Oh boy. Happy Mother's Day, indeed. I help him calm down (for which he sweetly tells me, "Mom, thanks for helping me feel happy." Melted my heart.), finish his dinner, and we all decide that bed would be the best destination. We get the kids in their pajamas and teeth-brushing ensues, only Felicity picks up her turn for tears when Josh will not let her use her toothbrush to remove the hairspray I found crusted in her ear.
I had hoped that after a night of rest, all might calm down some, (I can't say return to normal; we've met often enough for you to know what "normal" at my house is.) but they all popped their heads off their pillows ready to bring on Day 2 of the Mother's celebration. Judsen insists that we smash the pinata before breakfast because "on Curious George, Marco's mom hits the pinata and then they eat". This doesn't quite work out, because his sisters insist on being fed first. As I'm trying to prepare the meal, we discover Felicity's bar stool is missing and the kids go on a search for it. Felicity finds it in the office, holding up part of the audience Judsen had gathered for the pinata-smashing. Sitting in a ragged circle are a stuffed bear, Dora's backpack, some dirty towels, and in the place of honor on Felicity's stool is a Halloween pumpkin with an upturned bucket for a hat. Judsen gets very offended that we would try to remove the stool or its guest. "Mom, we can't move it. All the water will spill out." "It's full of water??" He looks at me like why can't I get a clue, of course we fill plastic pumpkins with water before we set them in the middle of the office in order to witness a  practice Mother's Day pinata party, held on, of all days, a snowy day in January.
Holy moly. So, Pumpkin gets cleaned out and we decide it would be best to get on with the pinata event before anything else happens. The kids cheer when I break open the box (held up with duct tape on a plastic pole) with a few swings and Judsen declares it was so fun and he loves me and Happy Mother's Day. I sit the kids down to eat finally, Felicity promptly dumps all her hot chocolate out on the counter then gives me puppy dog eyes, "Sorry, Mommy, " so I can't even be frustrated with her, and that's where I left them so I could come write this. And now as I look behind me, all three have followed me in here and are demolishing a block of Styrofoam with butter knives and their bare hands. JJ is sitting on an old, half-chewed Baby Ruth and all three desperately need a shower. So I guess I better go. There are many more adventures and Mother's Day parties awaiting. The kids are delirious with happiness that we get to do all this again in just four short months. And what the heck. I'm happy, too.
PS I'm editing this post while the kids are in the shower. I'm nearby so I can check on them, but JJ still snuck out to stand behind me naked, grinning while she poops on the floor. I sprint over to pick it up, asking her why the poop nugget. Judsen immediately picks up on this new, hilarious phrase and is now walking around the house singing, "Poop nugget! Poop bugget! Poop nugget! Poop lugget!" And now we're discussing ninjas and their wardrobe choices in depth while the girls sit on the carpet, eating an entire loaf of bread by the handful. Awesome. Happy Mother's Day.