Buh Duh Buh Buh Daaah

You know that moment when you say, "Honey, I could really use a break. We should take the kids somewhere fun this weekend. I think name a town, USA would be fun. Don't you think that would be fun? Let's go." So plans get under way to go to Nameatown for the weekend and you know it will be stressful traveling less than four weeks after giving birth but it will mostly be fun and after all that's what families are for, to make happy memories with, right? You try to prepare ahead of time, but there's always busy-ness and time doesn't just grow on trees (see previous post for more commentary on this one) and before you know it, it's 3:30 pm on the day you are slated to leave and nothing is completed - a few (mostly) clean clothes are slopped into a travel bag awaiting their friends and some toiletries, the dirty dishes have taken to death rite mourning because they've given up hope of ever being washed, there are more crumbs than tile on your floor, and you are so tired you can't breathe. And you haven't eaten lunch. Or breakfast. Number Three poops bright blue (why?? how??) and Number Four launches an ocean of mustard into his carseat (see previous post for an explanation of "mustard", too ). You run him into the shower to hose him down and your vigilant daughters point out there is inexplicably a BEE in the shower. A bee. Seriously. (insert here the two most asked and least answered questions in my existence - why?? how??) The Mama Bear Rage starts flowing and I scream my frustration at this impudent insect and trap him in a broken plastic cup against the side of the stall and now scream in victory. Number Two runs and gets me a sheet of paper so we can cap the cup and release Stupid Bee into the wild, but Stupid Bee is apparently smarter than Smart Melted-Cheese-Brain Mom and he escapes into the great beyond of the house, which results in the girls screaming in terror (lots of screaming these days) while I turn my attention back to naked, starving, poopy Four who is screaming because he is, well, naked, starving, and poopy.
And now it's 5:00 and Josh arrives home to find things in pretty much this state. He is, of course, disappointed and silently screaming, but he's a gentleman so he doesn't scream out loud, just starts doing dishes and helping the kids with their chores. He doesn't scream out loud, that is, until he discovers Three has once again pooped blue (I really don't know how this is possible. The dog food she eats is brown and the play doh she last consumed was safety green. Blue poop is very improbable.) and then attempted to take herself to the toilet, where she horror-movie smeared it all over the bathroom and herself. He cleans her up while I continue the never ending process of collecting the entire house so we can leave town for three days. Finally, FINALLY, we are on the road and making decent progress. We stopped at McDonald's for dinner, which didn't quite live up to its I'm Lovin' It campaign, since they failed to give Number One a toy in his Happy Meal. Still though, it's going okay until Number One very definitely stops lovin' it and tells us he's feeling really sick and his stomach really hurts. We pull over to let him vomit, but apparently his digestive tract suffers from stage fright and waits until we're all tucked back in the car, warm and safe and I'm sitting next to him to help hold the bag and comfort and calm him. Then all of a sudden, buh duh buh buh daah, (that's the McDonald's jingle if you can't tell. Inserted here as a display of cruel irony.) the I'm Lovin' It food comes back to haunt all of us, down poor One's shirt and pants, his giant comforter, his sister's comforter that he was borrowing as a pillow, the floor, his seat, and my comfy travel yoga capris. Oh.My.Heck. NOT Lovin' It. This "break" I asked for is melting as quickly as a KitKat on a summer dashboard. Let me just drive home this point one more time. It's 11:30 pm. We've been in the car for five hours. I'm sitting smothered in my son's vomit and his sister is still not asleep because she's crazy and now she's gagging from watching the excitement in the back seat and also from the McNugget-y smell. And all this is happening on the trip I wanted to take as a break.
Alright, back to the action. So One is now completely exhausted and passing out, the late hour, illness, and small bit of Dramamine that stayed in his system all now taking their toll. As best I can, I peel him out of his clothes, wrap him in a still-clean blanket, and send him to sit in my recently vacated passenger seat. Not the safest place for a 6 year old, but it's clean and he can sleep there and if we would have been pulled over and the officer had taken issue with it, one look at my crazed, sleep-deprived, sputum-covered self would have been enough to send The Law running the other way. I turn on the back light and begin scrubbing everything down with baby wipes and Lysoling stuff (we keep Lysol in the car after the last time someone vomited on a road trip) and trying to contain it in the giant trash bag we thankfully had with us. Unfortunately this is all taking place while I am standing in only my t-shirt and a gray pair of panties, the inside light highlighting my rumbly, post-baby body in all its lumpy glory. Lovely.
So that's how our "break" started - with no real "break", although it did end with KitKats, because it was Easter, and tiny KitKats are exactly the right size to fit into a regular plastic Easter egg...just in case any of your Easter bunnies were wondering (and kids LOVE them. At least my kids do. Number One broke out into a spontaneous KitKat rap: "KitKat, KitKat. Everyone loves KitKat, KitKat," complete with breakdancing and everything). And although we no longer love McDonald's, we do love each other and that makes the trip and memories worthwhile....once the stench wears off.

25 or 6 to 4

You know that show 24? Of course. Before we had kids, Josh and I had a Christmastime tradition of marathoning entire seasons of the show when we went south to visit our parents. Josh's brother always had the latest season on DVD so we'd spend too much of our school break drowning in the tales of Jack & Co. Although I enjoyed this excessive period of sloth and junk food, I always thought the show was unrealistic. Not even in the obvious ways like how people and vehicles blow up and then unexpectedly return to gloriously blow up again a few hours later. No, I'd just watch and think, "All that happened in an hour? That much stuff never happens in an hour. No hour is so dramatically and ridiculously filled with unexpected things/horrors. The only thing that happens in my life in an hour is that I've slept one hour longer thanks to a super boring investments lecture. These writers have no idea about real life." (Isn't it cute how much we thought we knew before we had kids??)
Enter: motherhood time warp, where the days are eternal but the years gone in a blink, where in the space of an hour you've acted as nurse, cabbie, tutor, pacifier, referee, chef, and Mom-come-play-with-us-right-now-you-have-to-be-the king cobra but also you haven't had time to shower in $% days because a substantial percentage of your minutes is spent convincing poor Number 4 he'll survive if he's set down for more than 6 seconds.
And now, to the delight of the Fates who were apparently listening and snickering behind their fingers during those ironic pre-kid hours, I spend one thousand percent of my days awash in this bizarre space-time continuum where normal rules don't apply and little makes sense that we call parenthood. And I have days like this: (cue suspenseful theme music and explosion montage)

1:00 pm - I begin fixing my lunch, two hours ahead of where we usually are. Hooray!
1:04 pm - Number Two begins pooping
1:06 pm - Number Two begins crying, asking me to come wipe her, something she's been doing on her own for two years
1:08 pm - I reassure Number Two that she can do it! Go team! You're the best woohoo!
1:15 pm - Still working on lunch, Number Three pees on the floor, through the panties-no-not-diapers-I-won't-wear-diapers she insisted on today
1:21 pm - I discover aforementioned pee in a large puddle, help Number Three use the potty, and clean up the world
1:32 pm - I resume lunch prep
1:35 pm - I again reassure Number Two, who is now screaming nonsensically that she cannot do it Mom I can't do it just come wipe my bum there are wipes in here and toilet paper just come do it for me
1:44 pm - I attempt to eat the lunch, now 45 minutes into the setup of a 5 minute meal
1:49 pm - Number Four starts crying, trying to outweigh the shrieks of Two, who has deteriorated and is now sitting poopy-bummed in the hall with her face in her knees, Mom I can't do it I'm just a little girl I can't I'm little come do it just come do it
1:51 pm - I simultaneously encourage and try to ignore Two and also scarf down lunch at lightning speed
2:00 pm - I reach Four to discover he is smothered in a smushy yellow goo of his own making and that it's already staining his new adorable outfit (this is especially concerning since outfits that are either new or adorable are somewhat of a novelty in our house) and has also soaked into the couch and his pillow
2:08 pm - Four, now shiny clean, also decides he's starving like he's never before eaten in all his life
2:16 pm - Two realizes the futility of her struggle and finally emerges from the bathroom clean and requesting immediate-no-Mom!-teach-me-now-you-can-do-it-while-you're-feeding-CJ and elaborate instructions on how to execute the line dance from Footloose
2:30 pm - Time to pick One up from school, so Four decides now would be a good time to unleash another uncontainable tidal wave of mustard (by "mustard" I mean poop. If you don't get it, you don't wanna know, take it from me.)
2:38 pm - We frantically sprint out the door, chuck everyone into the car and hit the road
2:40 pm - Two screams desperately that JJ isn't buckled Mom and I immediately pull over to correct this epic oversight, only to also discover that in a mindless stupor I evidently put panties back on her the last time she wet through them and now she's wet herself again. in the car. while stowing away on her brother's seat that is now sopping and stinking wet and now I have to move her to her actual right car seat, getting it all wet and nasty, too, so we'll just put a grocery sack on top of One's seat and that'll have to do until we get home and oh my heck we are so late they're going to think we're not coming and they'll give poor Judsen away to a proper home and do you think they'd consider taking one of  the others instead how about the one who just peed everywhere twice in two hours and what am I saying just drive Woman, drive!
2:54 pm - We return home with Number One thankfully returned safely to our care. I clean up the van, carefully make sure all the going-in-the-car stuff is returned to the house and begin counting my children, just to reassure myself everything and one is in its proper place. Of course, Number Three is missing and I run out to the (still open, nice going again, Mom) garage and discover she has streaked down to the road, across our thorn-infested gravel driveway, barefoot and naked except for a diaper and her snuggle blanket.
3:03 pm - Three comes around the corner with a face both shameful and smug and I find she's has filled her freshly replaced diaper with poop and has it smeared on her hands and body
3:04 pm - I let out a war whoop, not so much at my filthy child as at the universe who must think he's freakin' hilarious, cart Three off to the shower and start a load of laundry
3:15 pm - A spontaneous brownie and dance party breaks out and darn it all, I enjoy it. When every day of your life feels like an episode of 25 (it's like 24, but with an extra hour thrown in because everything takes longer when you have to do it with between 6 and 4 kids - it's hard to keep track), you have to take what pleasures you can get.

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.

Moms Are Smart

I sat down to write this entry as an early Christmas gift and ego boost to myself. A recent exchange with Judsen left me baffled and speechless, so I wanted to battle back. We were discussing something and he asked me a question I didn't know the answer to. He said fervently that Daddy did know the answer and I agreed, "Yes, Daddy's smart." Judsen then shook his head sadly and moaned, "Mom, I wish you were smart." At that moment I couldn't even combat his words. It was just as I was putting the kids to bed and the best response I could come up with was, "Lrghksj...well, you're a cheese face!" Nice.
But then I started thinking - moms can do stuff. Cool stuff, like control the future. Like we can make our babies poop on demand and in inhuman proportions by not bringing a diaper out in public. And we can mind-control our kids into finding new heroes to look up to, simply by scheduling family pictures the next day. As soon as you hang up that phone, they will instantaneously become fascinated with the likes of Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield, attempting to beat each other into orange pulp. And if we really want to be cruel and give them nightmares, we just fix green beans for dinner and they will start screaming and be permanently scarred by the horror.
So with that in mind, I set out to write about all the other great things moms can do and how awesome they are. Except then I had the day I had, which proved once and for all that Judsen was right.
We planned a little Christmas weekend getaway, so I spend much of the morning packing. I used my mom smarts to forget a stroller, arm floaties, baby food, and other traveling necessities. We made it to the hotel anyway and attempted to all have a nap.
This worked pretty well, except for JJ who had slept for 20 whole minutes in the car and had deemed this nap sufficient for the duration of her life. So as we laid her down, she screamed the being-drawn-and-quartered scream. It didn't take long for my mom smarts to pick up on the fact that this was going to be a hindrance to anyone else in the family getting to sleep, so me and my brain decided it would be a good idea to use this time to travel to the local Walmart and pick up some of the supplies we forgot, in particular the stroller, since we intended on doing a lot of walking over the next few days.
JJ and I get to Walmart, locate the stroller section, find it empty, track down an employee, ask her if there are any strollers, she asks someone else who has to go look in the back, which is apparently located somewhere in Antarctica, and over 20 minutes later they both come back to tell me there are none. Oh boy. Okay. They suggest another store in town and I set out. Over the next two hours, I stop at four more stores, get lost twice (since my GPS is evidently on his honeymoon in Eurasia and forgot to appropriately set his out-of-office reply), and yelled at once as I'm trying to turn around. By the third stop I was so tired and frustrated and lacking in smarts that I literally had people cowering in fear from me. I hauled the now sleeping JJ (imagine that, she was tired) into the store, shuffling like Quasimodo and with a crazed expression on my face and asked if they had any strollers. The girl's eyes got wide, and no joking, I saw her skin go white. She stood partially hidden behind a cabinet door and said, "No. I'm sorry. We don't. I'm sorry. If we did, I would tell you right away. I'm so sorry." I read the unspoken, "Please don't eat me, " in her face and let the poor thing live.
When I got back to the hotel room after all that, sans stroller, I flung my few meager bags on the bed and sat on the chair in the shower and cried. (They had checked us into the handicapped-friendly room, apparently on a premonition that at least one of us would not be functioning at our full capacity during our stay.)
When I collected myself and the few smarts left that hadn't gone down the drain with my tears, we set out on a walk to see the sights and get dinner. This went alright. We had burgers at a popular local place, and being children of the desert who instinctively take every chance to cool off even when it's 39 degrees outside, got chocolate shakes to accompany us on the walk back home. Except that my family, evidently still possessing more computing power than me, realized it would be ridiculous to walk outside in mid-December carrying a giant ice cream and finished theirs in the store. I, however, clung, with icy fingers, to mine like a lifeline, running the freezing streets and slurping it down.
We got back and decided it would be a smart idea to take the kids swimming. They love swimming. As we got into the pool, they all decided to celebrate by playing one of their favorite games, Leech. I don't know if you've heard of it, but my kids love it. The rules go like this, "Let's all squeal and grab onto Mommy and pull down the front of her swimsuit because she doesn't have a free hand to hold all of us at the same time, and the first one to see her brains oozing out of her ears in retreat wins." I tried to hold my wits about me, but they were rapidly disintegrating and the fifteenth time someone screamed, "Mommy! Hold me!" I lost it. I didn't know what to do. How do I manage kids in the water? Can kids even get in the water, or does water make them melt? Wait, is that the Wicked Witch of the West? What does make kids melt? Or do they more evaporate? What am I talking about? Hello, Brain? Is anyone in there?
Needless to say, we immediately got out of the pool and put everyone in bed. And now I am here, typing this post and feeling more sympathy than ever for poor Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. It's awful to be without a brain.
But perhaps I can overnight a letter requesting one to Santa. Maybe he'll come across a used one at a rummage sale and leave it in my stocking Christmas morning. I hope so. Regardless, though, Happy Holidays to you and yours!

Carnivals or "How to Cement Your Decision to Become a Hermit"

   I've been quite tired lately. Right, I know. As discussed in previous posts, I understand that this is part of my job description. But the kids have been sick recently and JJ is getting in four teeth, so not lots of sleeping has been going on, thus resulting in higher-than-normal fatigue. This is the kind of fatigue that makes you laugh hysterically as you watch Curious George with your babies, because that darn silly monkey tried to put ice cream in his hat and it melted all over his head and sends you into fits of giggles as you read "The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog" because that pigeon sure does love a good hot dog. But, then again, who doesn't?
   Because of this tiredness, we have not been doing lots of exciting things as a family and we finally decided we needed to get out of this funk by doing something fun. So, we took a family trip to a very popular local hot air balloon festival. We were all anticipating it greatly; it's a well-renowned event, famous for its breathtaking views of balloons both up close and in the sky.
  The evening started out well. We got on the borrowed school bus to be transported to the fairgrounds and the kids were in straight-backed, uncomfortable heaven. They LOVED being on the bus and experiencing the scary thrill of not having to wear a seat belt and of being able to look out the window at the passing world, high above all the other cars. Josh and I reveled in their delight and enjoyed the ride as well.
  We arrived at the fiesta at about 6:00 pm, 15 minutes after the "glow" event was scheduled. This is supposed to be incredible, with hundreds of balloons blasting their flames and glowing all at the same time. As we walked around the field, we noticed all the balloons were just being inflated and we were very happy not to have missed the event. So we strolled, becoming further and further intoxicated by the sound of roaring gas flames, the smell of giant fried turkey legs, and the sight of another spectacular New Mexico sunset. Like most intoxications, it was a happy delirium that temporarily clouded out the common sense of experience - you've done something like this before and woke up with a headache the next morning, whether from your drink or from eating too many soggy funnel cakes and melting ice cream cones, having blown your life's inheritance on wildly overpriced make-you-wanna-puke rides and ridiculously expensive toys that disintegrate the moment you walk away from the booth.
  But we ignored all this and enjoyed the experience. We took some pictures, looked at balloons, talked to some of the captains, and waited for everything to light up. Finally at around 6:30, the PA man announced the glow would now take place. Everyone held their breath as we counted down. 10..9....3..2..1! Pause. Pause. One little balloon lit up proudly for a moment and then flickered out, as if he was embarrassed. The PA guy cleared his throat and said, "Okay. Let's try that again." Again, the collective breath was held as we all hoped to be amazed. 3...2...1! Out of hundreds of balloons, the same brave soul and a couple of his friends lit up for a second, but other than that, nothing. This time, Mr. PA sounded embarrassed. "Um, they can't hear they PA system too well out in the middle of the field, so we'll give it a few minutes and try again."
  Now, I'm no expert, but it seems to me that on opening night of a huge event like this, you could think of something better than, "I guess they can't hear us." How about a group text message? Smoke signals? Morse code using flash lights? Carrier pigeons or messenger monkeys?
  After a third failed attempt at the glow, all the pilots started letting the air out of their balloons and laying them flat on the ground. At this point it is 7:00 and not only have we missed the lighting-up, but we full-on skipped the Great Balloon Race launch. We were under the impression we would see hundreds of balloons lift into the air, in a celebration of life and humanity. Instead, the balloons were as limp and dead as the $10 lightsabers we suckered on for Judsen and Felicity at a nearby stand - dissolved in the hands of five year old Yoda and three year old Darth Vader mere moments after purchasing them.
   Well, at least there were still the fireworks, the grand finale of the whole evening. Since the fireworks were supposed to start at 8:00, I held our spot on the grass with JJ while Josh took the older two to ride some rides. We just had enough time for me to try to airplane some applesauce into JJ's mouth, when the fireworks show began, 25 minutes early. Josh and the kids came running back to watch. The fireworks were nice, I suppose, but after a few minutes, Judsen and Felicity tired of them and preferred to play with lightsaber scraps than see any more.
  About this time, the dreamy mist wore off and I realized the same thing I always realize after attending a carnival-like affair, THIS is why I swore off these things last time. No more! No more of these ever! We will move to Walden pond, change our last name to Thoreau, and spend our time enjoying the beauties of nature and NOT spending $24 so we can get into the park and give up more hard-earned cash on things we don't want, need or really even like.
   At 8:02 the night was over and we loaded back on to the buses to go home. We had dinner and went to our room where, in an effort to crown the evening in glory, Judsen promptly threw up his evening meal. We cleaned it up, put him back to bed, and as I used the bathroom before going to sleep myself, I realized we had missed some of the vomit. Because I was now sitting in it. Lovely. A fitting throne for the anti-carnival queen I have become. Now we are definitely moving to Walden pond. This never would have happened if we lived in a cabin in the woods, I just know it.
   As a child, I never understood why my parents wouldn't give us money to go to the fair. We didn't go on the festival rides or buy the food. I didn't get it then, but I do now. And as they read about me unintentionally wallowing in my kid's throw-up after an evening of indulging a childhood whim, I'm sure they're laughing and enjoying the sweet irony.
   It's fine, though, because I'll get my day and it will be a wonderful win-win. Judsen just told me how much fun he had when we went to see the balloons and he got his light sword. I'm so glad, truly I am. We made a precious memory with our sweet children. A memory so good that they won't be able to resist taking their own children to events like this and experiencing the true pocket-clearing, sanity-erasing reality of them. And I'll get to sit back and lick my fingers, dripping with the deliciousness of that moment.

"Tales from the Pot" or "WTMI"

   This post begins on the toilet, the unfortunate setting for many of our stories. If you read on, enjoy. But here is your fair warning that you may receive way too much information ("WTMI").

As all parents know, the toilet is both a wonderful and a terrible place. It is wonderful as you watch your child finally conquer their bodily functions and put them in the appropriate place, because up until now they have been desperately determined to have a bowel movement anywhere other than the bathroom due to an apparent wild fear of toilet snakes. It is wonderful to watch your child grow and progress and be proud of themselves. And terrible...I don't think I need to go into graphic details about terrible.

   Before you have kids, no one really warns you that your own bathroom time will suddenly become a family affair. On the cute little baby shower advice cards, no one writes, "Stock up on picture books for your toilet magazine rack, because this is the place where your children will suddenly and passionately need you to teach them to read." So, if you are reading this and you have yet to procreate, I am doing you a favor and telling you this now. Get comfortable with your body, whatever it looks like, because whenever nature calls and your children are around, you will feel like the Super Bowl half time show. When you are in a public restroom and your daughter shouts, "Wow, Mom! You have a big bum! Are you doing a big poop?" you will be able to exit the stall, wash your hands like a decent human being, and leave the bathroom with your head held high.

   At home, my kids (like most, I think) have decided that Mommy's toilet time is a good time to come ask me things, often revolving around food. Judsen bursts through the door the other day. "Hi, Mom! What are you doing?" "Um, using the bathroom, honey." "Oh. Okay. Can I have this candy?" "Can it wait until I'm off the toilet?" He leaves for a second and then returns. "Will you open this, Mom?" "Jud! Please wait until I"m done!" Finally he comes back for a third time. "Mom, please open this and don't drop it in the toilet." I give in, but the impish prankster in me can't help but seize the opportunity for revenge. As I pull open the wrapper, I drop the candy through my pant legs to the floor, but from where he's standing, it looks as if I've done exactly what he reminded me not to do and my horrified face sends him into angry moaning. "No, Mom!!" I let him writhe for a minute, then pick up the candy, unsoiled, and hand it back to him. "Here it is, Jud, but don't ask me for food when I'm on the toilet anymore." Apparently it worked, because he hasn't come back when he knows I'm in the bathroom.

  Felicity has no such qualms, however. She stands next to the ever-open bathroom door and plays restaurant. "What kind of pizza do you want, Mom?" Um, the quiet time special. She brings me a concoction of plastic shower toys, empty shampoo bottles and dirty washcloths and presents it with spectacular flair. "It's a chocolate pizza, Mom!" And I eat up, lest her feelings be hurt and she be discouraged from ever cooking again.

   JJ uses her willpower-melting cuteness and just marches on in. And here I'm left with two awful options. One, I slide her out the door with my feet, shut it and listen while she cries and sticks her fingers underneath. Then she waits there until I try to come out but am trapped inside because she's sitting next to the door and my only choice is to use it to, as gently as possible, glide her away, across the floor like a tiny, sad hockey puck. Or two, I hold her on my lap while trying to take care of business because if she's left to her own devices, she'll smack things with the plunger and chew on the empty hemorrhoid cream tube that's been neglected behind the toilet for months. So I put her on my knees, singing the Mexican Hat Dance and To Market, To Market. She adores this and to show her appreciation, tucks her little head on my shoulder and settles in for some quality cuddling. Seriously?? You want to snuggle now?

   The few times I am alone are somewhat like eating an entire chocolate cake. At first you can't believe your good fortune and you scarf down all you can, reading magazines like there's gold at the end and sticking it out until your feet fall asleep. But after about half an hour, you realize everything is silent and you begin to feel fairly sick to your stomach because that means either everyone is dead or all your belongings are so torn up you should begin filing the paperwork for your house to be declared a natural disaster zone.

   I guess we'll just keep using the bathroom anyway, though, in spite of all this, partly because it seems there are few other options and partly because, darn it all, I love my kids regardless of what else I'm trying to accomplish.

Dinner

So, dinner. Occurring regularly since the dawn of time, this most primeval activity happens without forethought or preparation when you are a child. At Mom’s and Dad’s house, the magic dinner fairies wave their wooden spoons and dinner appears, hot and fresh and ready to consume at a beautifully set table.

As a parent trying to replicate this glorious occurrence in your own home, you learn that the dinner fairies are dead, for they cannot survive outside of their natural environment of your parents’ house, and that when you tried to plead and wheedle to get them to come, you have only infuriated the Supreme Dinner Being who will now and forever muddle up your brain as you try to plan a menu. “Ground beef? What am I supposed to do with ground beef?! There’s not a recipe in the world that uses such a ridiculous ingredient!” But you do the best you can to feed your family and keep the illusion alive so that when they move out, your poor unsuspecting children will be greeted with the same dead fairy reality that you were.

In spite of this magical handicap, we were making dinner a few days ago for some friends who have just had a baby. As usually happens under these circumstances, the pressure is on to get the friends’ dinner done and so your own kids have to wait, hungry and pleading as you scream in a flour-coated, stress-filled voice, “No! You can’t eat anything! Darn it all! I’m trying to be nice to other people!” (At least, this ridiculous scenario happens too often in my house. Maybe, hopefully, not in yours.)

Anyway, we got the friends’ dinner done on time, it looked terrific, and the dessert had turned out divinely, so I was very proud of myself as we drove it over to them. Because they’re fairly good friends and we were not staying long, only dropping the food off, I permitted us all to go without shoes on, thinking, “It’s fine. This is just a fun, friendly, casual thing.” We take the food inside and as Josh is driving us home, I put my feet up for a moment to enjoy feeling good.  This forces my pants into view for apparently the first time in a decade, and I realize I have orange jello crusted down one entire leg of my capris and it has somehow dripped onto my skin without me realizing. Oh my. Ok. I probably shouldn’t have gone into their house like that.  As I continue my now-embarrassed search, I realize I have a giant black schmear across the other leg, from who-knows-what and having been there for heaven-knows-how-long.

At this point I’m replaying the conversation with our friends in my head. As I happily announce their delectable dinner and with it, implied confidence that it was prepared in a clean, healthy kitchen, I change their response from, “Wow. This looks delicious. That Sephonnie sure has it all together,” to “Aaahh!! Why aren’t you wearing shoes! And look at your legs! Put the food down and go take a shower, woman!”

We get home and trying to forget about this less-than-impressive debut, I busy myself finishing up our dinner. The kids have decided on spaghetti, so I put the noodles on to boil and tidy up the kitchen while we wait. The timer goes off and I secure the fancy drainer lid to the pot and pour out the cooking water. And then I go to take the lid off. In the mere 13 seconds the lid has been on the pot, it has apparently decided to weld itself to its partner and take up permanent residence there. The lid will not come off. I’m struggling and squeezing and turning and banging the pot against the sink. It will not come off. I run water over it. I get a giant butcher knife out and try to pry it off. It will not budge. At this point I am praying and near hysterical crying. It’s getting late, Josh is gone, and it appears there will be no dinner for anyone. Ever. The kids have caught on to my distress and are alternately weeping helplessly, “What about our dinner??” and rummaging through the drawers for every sharp kitchen object they can find – meat forks, steak knives, can openers – to assist me in this wretched noodle pot battle. In an effort to frighten the lid off, Felicity also gets out two pot lids and begins enthusiastically smashing them together, effectively making road kill out of my last remaining nerves and tolling the death knoll for all happiness everywhere. Just when I’m ready to throw the pot through the window and go get us all Happy Meals, something unhooks and the lid finally slides off. Exhausted, I dump their noodles and sauce in a bowl and settle on Reese’s Peanut Butter footballs for my own evening fare.

Going out to eat is not better for us. I’ve heard we’re not alone in this trial, and I’m not sure if the terrified looks we get from older folks and honeymooning couples as we sit in a nearby booth support or discourage this theory. I was at Denny’s with the three kids while we were out of town recently. While waiting for Judsen’s and Felicity’s food to arrive, I decided to give JJ her cereal. I got out the box, mixed some with her veggies, and began to feed her. Everything is going well until Judsen says, “Uh oh. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to.” I look over and he has knocked down the box of cereal, spilling its contents everywhere and turning our table surface into a vast desert of oatmeal dunes. I reply calmly that it’s okay, I know it was an accident, although I’m not sure if my calmness stems because I’ve done a good job of accepting the reality of dining out with children and I am handling the situation like a pro, or because my mind has finally snapped and I’m just seconds away from grabbing a handful of sugar packets myself and starting an all-out food fight.

Our server comes over to see how we are and Judsen, to his credit, is very sweet about apologizing for the mess. Server starts to assure us it’s fine, it happens all the time, and he’s not offended about cleaning it up, when he looks down to see what exactly has spilled. I see a look of horror in his eyes as he gasps, “What is that?!” Oh, just baby cereal. He seems to calm down at the easy explanation of the foreign substance and heads off to get a rag. As soon as he steps away, Felicity decides to add to the excitement and slosh her pink lemonade onto the table as well, creating a sloppy, gooey stew of oatmeal flakes and soft drink. Poor Server comes back to find an even larger disaster and then returns a third time with an enormous bucket-like saucer to slide the mess into. Poor thing. I should have also encouraged him to find a Haz-Mat suit. Needless to say, we left a very good tip when we were done.

Our younglings have also been known to choke mid-drink and spew milk all over the nearby walls, booths and people (aka The Splash Zone), leave a scrumptious potpourri of half-chewed chicken nuggets, fries, and napkins on the floor, and scribble all over pristine white walls with generously given crayons (ironically delivered to distract the children and keep them from getting into trouble J).

Yes, regardless of where we have it, dinner is an adventure. (We say “adventure” because Horror Story seems too Halloween-y and it’s not even October yet.) But we love our little gourmands and I guess we’ll just keep feeding them, in hopes that science soon figures out how to get those darn dinner fairies to adapt to other surroundings. Perhaps they could breed them with a hardier species, like some kind of dishes-cleaning robot. 

The Bear Necessities

Savoring the necessities of life is nothing new to me. As a busy high school student, I relished the times I could sleep all I wanted and just eat with abandon, instead of snatching a nap during a video clip in history class or cramming in a granola bar before softball practice. Since becoming a mother, this appreciation has been taken to Mt. Everest-esque heights; I have begun to cling to every memory of a bite or snooze taken in peace with the ferocity of a drowning sailor clinging to a piece of driftwood. Except if I really was a sailor clinging to a scrap of wood, I'd either be so excited for a moment alone that I'd fall into a delighted stupor right there and sink to the bottom of the ocean, thus eliminating my need for driftwood. Or, I'd start plucking fish out of the water and stuffing them into my sleeves to stave off the inevitable, "Oh, Mom. Glad you didn't drown ... So, what's for dinner?" that would ensue as soon as the rescue boat hauled me aboard.
Anyway, the necessities of life/luxuries of motherhood are a big deal.
Our morning schedule has recently changed; Judsen's school and JJ's teething have "encouraged" me to get up much earlier than I would like. But, I'm trying to have a good attitude about it, so I get out of bed and try to get things accomplished, even though I'm still tired. (Even if I stayed in bed, it would do no good, as Felicity has recently taken to ripping the covers off my body and hollering, "Mom! Get up! Get up! The sun come-d up! And I'm hungry!!"  And yes, I understand that the fine print in the motherhood contract reads, "By engaging in this profession, you will henceforth and forever feel like you've been run over by a truck.")
So, when my alarm went off the other morning, I had already been up for an hour and a half. The girls were somehow still magically asleep, so I jogged into the other room to turn off the raucous singing. And sitting there, blinking its innocent little doe-eyes at me was the "Snooze" button. Up to this point, I had been handling the morning well, feeling proud of myself for getting things accomplished and not even having a terrible attitude about it. But when that little electronic bully started taunting me with "Hey, Seph? Wanna little snooze?", my mind flashed white hot and I wanted to slap that smug red button off my iPhone's screen and scream back, "You think that's funny?? Of course I want to snooze! That's all I've ever wanted! Well, I'll show you snooze!!"
Thankfully at that moment, my too-long-ignored semi-reasonable alterego decided to speak up. "Sephonnie, calm down. It's just a phone, for goodness sake. Just words on a screen. It's not trying to make fun of you."
Reasonable and I had a little tug-of-war, but finally, with a dirty glance back at my cellular device, I let her win and went back into the kitchen.
It's not just moms that crave these necessities, I've found, though. Josh went to "put the kids to bed" the other night, which I was very grateful for. I walked into their room a few minutes later to enjoy the fruits of his labor and found an all-out circus. JJ is doing squats in her crib, giggling and cheering on her siblings as Judsen and Felicity sprint laps around the obstacle course they've built, consisting of their mattresses, some toys and books and the dozing form of their father, who is fast asleep on Felicity's bed. Sometimes you just have to laugh, shake your head, and back away quickly before they notice you and you also end up face-down, fallen in bedtime combat next to your comrade-in-arms.
Food is not really more successful than sleep in our house, I realized in wonder-awe-disgust the other night when I had been working like a crazy person way past dinnertime. After we put the kids in bed, I was cleaning up their leftovers. Overcome with hunger and an animal-like frenzy, I scarfed down the macaroni and cheese that sat congealed at the bottom of their bowls, not stopping until it was gone to look around and make sure no one was watching the death of my dignity.
The kids are good at making sure I feed them, though. We talk about food a lot. Judsen announces loudly, "I want a donut. Those are scrum-ectable!" While digging at the playground, Judsen decides he's digging for big diamond, but Felicity says excitedly, "I'm digging for a big peach!" JJ watches her siblings as they come marching into my bedroom in the morning with a roll of candy they proclaim that they would like for breakfast. JJ has already awoken, eaten her breakfast, and gone back to sleep, I thought. I take the candy from J&F and set it next to me in bed and all of a sudden, I feel Little Octopus wiggling around. I look over in surprise to find JJ not only awake, but grinning at me around the entire roll of candy she has stuffed into her cute little pie hole. Let us note here that she's only 8 months old; she shouldn't know that candy is something to be revered and then devoured quickly in case of competitors. Apparently my sweet tooth has been bred in to my offspring.
During lunch preparations, the kids holler requests at me and play while they wait. The other day they're playing super heroes and shouting out their super hero names. "I'm Captain America!" "I'm Iron Man!" "JJ is Firestar!" And then, "Mom, what is your super hero name?" Inspired by their game, I try to think of something catchy and fabulous based on what I'm really good at, what my mad skills are. The best I can come up with? "I am the Amazing ... Lunch Lady."
And I can never just put lunch down on the counter and walk away. My children insist on having it presented with an Iron Chef flourish. "No, Mom. We're the judges and you're Cat Cora. What is the secret ingredient?" "Um...lunch." "No, Mom. Tell us what you made." So we go through the list while they spout off their opinions on if I did a good job or not. Oy. By the time we're done with all this, the only thing I can think of to make for myself for lunch is pancakes, and those have recently been outlawed by Felicity. About a month ago, we drove past IHOP. Standing out on the corner, was a giant mascot-type pancake. Yes, a pancake. With huge eyes. Waving at the people driving by. The kids thought it was funny for a minute, but then at every corner they apparently had Vietnam flashbacks and started asking worriedly, "Where's the pancake with eyes? He's going to get us!" Now whenever we drive past an IHOP, I have to distract them and get them to look the other way, so we don't have a meltdown about where the scary phantom pancake with giant eyes is hiding.
And what do I get for all my trouble? What do I earn for keeping my little bear cubs supplied with life's necessities? I get early-morning presents from Judsen ("Here Mom! I have something for you!" - an old dish sponge), I get to listen to Felicity's ballads about her life: "I am a cow-boooooy. Cowboys have binoculars. And a belllllt. I am a cow-booooy." I get to feel JJ's tiny hands attempt to pinch my nose because she's already learned that I hate that and all the other kids and Daddy think it's funny to try. I get to watch them wrestle with each other and hear them ask questions like "Where are those humans going?" when they see other people at the park. I get to drag them through the grocery store as they drop to all fours, panting and slobbering and crawling like baby grizzlies. And seriously, even though life's necessities may be in short supply for me, if this sacrifice means I get to be Mama Bear to these little cubs, I'll take it. And just wait patiently for the winter I get to hibernate for four months straight.