An Experiment, Cold Coffee, & 29 Days

Today I decided to do a little experiment.  I took out a piece of paper and made three columns.  At the top of those three columns were my three kids' names.  In each column I made hash marks which signified every action I made in response to a demand made by a child.

After one hour I deemed this experiment:

(A.) One that was way too hard to keep up with.
(B.) One that left me feeling like a bad person for ever having the thought to conduct it.
(C.) One that had expeditiously proven my hypothesis.

My hypothesis:  Moms don't stop.

We don't.  We move all day.   

No wonder I have:

(A.) Plantar fasciitis
(B.) Heel spurs that could cut someone.
(C.) Tendonitis in both ankles from standing and pacing ALL day.
(D.) Bad feet with x-rays to prove it. (Period.)

Let me be clear...I am only testing the scientific method here.  Which is as follows:

(1.) Make an observation (I never stop moving, and my kids keep me going like the Energizer Bunny - okay, that's two observations, but you get my point.  It's a wonder that I don't lose more weight).
(2.) Develop a Hypothesis (See above.  If you're too tired to scroll up, then I'll help you:  "Moms don't stop.")
(3.) Make an experiment (Grab a piece of paper, and chart your actions, moms.  It's simple.)
(4.) Carry out the experiment, and chart conclusions (It won't take long at all to do this.  Adding this little experiment to your day is like meeting one more demand on your mound of growing demands - think of it like a leaf atop of a pile that you just raked).
(5.) Draw conclusions (Now, imagine that leaf pile jumped in, kicked about, your hands tired from raking, and yet you must rake some more to keep the pile tidy.).

The conclusion here is:  In fact, moms do not stop.  We don't.  We go, and go, and go, and even in our sleep we dream of what needs to be done, what should have been done, what could be done, and what will be done, by gosh!  Then, we moms retreat to our coffee.  Cold coffee.  Mmm...thank you, science, for the microwave.  How many mornings have I finally sat down to take a sip of my first cup only to have the joy of it reduced to yet another demand?  That's a whole different experiment that I'm not willing to find out the results to.

There are exactly twenty-nine days left until my 2/3 head off to Kindergarten and 2nd grade.  Am I ready?  No (well, yes, but with some hesitation).  Are they ready?  Yes, most definitely.  While I am not ready to walk away from my BIG girl headed off to BIG kid school for the first time, I am ready to trust that she is ready for the challenges, new experiences, knowledge before her, and the thirteen plus years of grade school that await her before she heads off to college, then grad school, etc. (only the best for this little lady).  While I am not ready to admit that my eldest child is seven+ years old and no longer the first born baby that I once coddled profusely, I am ready to let him take on harder curriculum, continue to make his social mark as his personality grows & continues to shine through, and add to my pile of leaves by bringing home more homework, more extracurriculars, and more attitude (BAH!)...

The bottom line is that the science behind motherhood is a genuine feat of engineering - moms are machines.  We move.  We don't stop.  We move in both fluid and constrained motions.  We do not require fuel, hydraulic fluid, or coolant (well, maybe some occasional "coolant").  Our kinetic energy is made, collected, moved, and stored by one thing only - love - a strong love of those leaf pile trampling wild ones with nonstop demands, seemingly endless energy, sweaty heads, loud mouths, goofy grins, sticky hands, flood pants, and weed-like limbs.  We love them, and because of them  we move.  We move a lot, and we drink our cold coffee and love it, too.  In twenty-nine days we'll truly miss our kids for eight hours a day, and that hypothesis can also easily be proven.

Bee-ooos, A Lone Barista, & The Beach

The Setting:  A random resort condo in Myrtle Beach

The Time:  5:34 a.m.

The Cast:  My family of five and hundreds of other unsuspecting vacation goers

The Story:

I had just drifted back to sleep after awaking at 4:54 a.m. for my baby boy's second stealthy feeding of the night. The first one took place at 1:01 a.m. not long after I had finally gone to bed post a long day spent in the waves, sand, watersides, and resort's pools with our kids at the glistening land of sun, fun and surf in Myrtle Beach. I chalk baby boy's TWO bottles a night up to a rough sleep in a not so cozy Pack-n-Play in the corner of our room. "Nobody puts Baby in a corner," right?  Apparently he wanted me to know that.

I was just entering the second stage of sleep, and my heart rate was beginning to slow as my brain waves were fast approaching the much more rhythmic pattern of deep sleep. Then, suddenly I was awakened by a blaring horn repeatedly honking: "BEE-ooo, BEE-ooo, BEE-ooo!" This was followed by a flat statement that made my slowing heart rate burst into fifth gear: "This is an emergency. You must evacuate the building. Do not use the elevators." The blaring horn and annoying digital voice were like the Energizer Bunny. They kept going, and going, and going...

I rudely awoke my husband and three nestled children just the way this horn and man's voice had done to me. Dear hubby would sleep through a semi entering our room. He was naturally discombobulated and bumbling as I said I would go outside to see if the alarm was legit. I took off outside, braless, and in horrid mommy pajamas where I was greeted outside our condo by an onslaught of stares from neighboring vacationers in the hall and more fellow confused evacuees four floors below on the ground level. Much to my dismay I turned the door handle and our door didn't budge. Argh! I had locked myself out - braless...

I banged on the door repeatedly which actually served as a more effective means of waking my seemingly hibernating bear of a hubby and kids. Hubby lumbered to the door, I bra'd myself, swiftly packed personal belongings, including our kids, and got out of there only to be greeted by flashing lights above our floor and more "BEE-ooos" followed by the man's elevator warning.

We promptly took the stairs, but we lagged behind several other pajama clad families cautiously waltzing down the flights of stairs carrying belongings and clamoring about what exactly this was all about. We made it down the four flights, and once we were in the midst of a crowd, hubby and I turned to each other and agreed we were thrilled to not be on the fourteenth floor or stationed on the floor that requires the snobbish "PH" button.

As luck would have it, I recall being asked by a resort representative upon making the reservation if we had a floor preference, and my reply was a random selection of "four or five" knowing that hubby has a phobia of extreme heights and that he wouldn't enjoy our balcony overlooking the ocean nor would he unlatch the sliding doors to allow our brood out there for fear that they'd attempt to fit through the slats in the railing, dangle from the top rung, or something crazy like that. I shouldn't pick on his vertigo, but after thirteen years of marriage which we "celebrated" during this "family trip" I have a permanent "Get of Jail Free" card when it comes to that sort of stuff. He and I do a good job of picking on each other's quirks. It's a great past time in our marriage.

Back to the story...

We were safely on the ground surrounded by others. As I surveyed the crowd, I noted we were surrounded by all sorts of others. There was some grand people watching to be had on the ground, and there was only ONE fire truck. So what was the "emergency" that woke us all up? Well, we still don't have a direct answer. We saw folks hanging out way up on the nosebleed floors looking down at us probably too tired or too sun burnt to traverse the stairs like we just did. It was all a very lazy and surreal type of evacuation like the stuff bad dreams are made of. There was no one really rushing around and one thing we all needed - coffee...

As things didn't seem to be a state of pandemonium, dear hubby and I decided to saunter down the sidewalk with our crew in tow to the next tower where we knew Starbucks awaited us. The poor barista was flying solo and unknowingly soon-to-be overwhelmed by an onslaught of fellow zombie-like, pajama wearing evacuated resort goers speculating about the purpose of the record scratch-like alarms in the tower next door. Hubby and I treated the kids to whatever their hearts desired from the refrigerated case of pastries, and number one & two shared a "ginormous cinnamon roll." Number three and his rocking bed head enjoyed bites of our shared apple fritter in his footie jammies. My beloved grande cafe mocha never tasted so good. At that Starbucks table - $21.34 later - our family had a moment. Dear hubby and I won't forget it. It was good stuff all around. Sweet kids, impromptu treats, and our whole day before us - family life doesn't get much better than that.

As I write this we are still in Myrtle Beach, the place dear hubby lovingly likens to "pink flamingos or other tacky yard art" where one just has to go to fork out tourist dollars from time to time. We are winding down day four of a six-day family vacation. We have a tendency to Griswold our vacations, and this is the longest family vacay we have ever treated ourselves to. Clark W. Griswold would be proud of what we suffered through this morning as it's something we'll surely all fondly remember even though the "BEE-ooos" aren't something we want to hear (let alone be awakened by) ever again!

The Big ONE

My not-so-baby boy is officially the big ONE.  It feels surreal to think that this time last year I was a pin cushion of IV’s laid up in a hospital bed staring at ceiling tiles all night long wishing the stages of labor would swiftly move along and that my cervix and other parts would cooperate so he’d hurry up and get here.  Now that a year has passed, it seems that time does in fact have wings.

A year with a third child literally under foot has been a blur.  It feels like we just brought him home and just started adjusting to our party of five yesterday.  I still feel like I should be napping like he does, but instead I putz around the house doing chores that never feel like they’re truly accomplished all the while tackling the growing demands of my other two weed-like children.  I sometimes catch a glimpse of them and think, “Where did the baby go?”  They’re kids now.  Ugh.  My heart.

Number three is the most smiling baby of all time.  He really is, and for this reason I feel like he has something in store for us when he becomes a teenager.  He’s a charmer.  He’s rotund.  His knees have rolls.  When my sister sees him she says, “I want to squeeze the Charmin.”  My other two were not so pleasantly plump.  Not to brag, but he is one hunk of a baby, and to top it off he has a crown of ringlets that I refuse to cut.  He’s awesome, and even though I have dubbed him our “we’ve given everything away child” I am so amazed by him and so stinking glad he is a part of our family.

I was fortunate to share my third pregnancy with a dear friend (we’ll call her, “Liz”) who was also pregnant…with TRIPLETS.  We really indulged in some pampering towards the end of gestation.  While our kids were off at school, we’d drool over hibachi lunches doused in yum-yum sauce and pamper our swelling cankles with pedicures in massage chairs – those were the days.  Her babies were due five weeks after my little guy.

The night I went into labor just happened to be Friday, the 13th.  Our kids were sound asleep at the time, and a fabulous friend (we’ll call her, “Sam”) came over to sleep at our house to take care of them until grandparents could arrive for duty.   I am pretty sure Sam didn’t sleep at all as she was excited about spoiling this baby rotten, and she was virtually with me all night long as one of my dear mommy birthing coaches from afar via text and facebook.  After hemming and hawing over whether or not my contractions were close enough together to get me admitted at the hospital nearly half an hour away, my hubby and Sam convinced me it was time to stop cleaning the house and to get in the car.  I checked into the ER around 11:45 p.m.   

Shortly thereafter I received a text that Liz’s water broke.  I fool heartedly thought it was a joke, a text sent to ease my distressing thoughts of my long night ahead as I was merely a “three” when admitted seemed laughable.  But the text was no joke.  As midnight approached, Liz had bent down to cross the day off of her calendar.  It was something she did routinely every night in celebration of yet another day that she had successfully managed to keep her three little buns in her increasingly uncomfortable oven.  As she stood up, her water broke.    Her husband was working across town at the time, and his car grew wings to get him home in what had to have been record time.  Good job, buddy.

I received her text in between contractions. You can believe my shock; however, we had joked from the beginning of our pregnancies about being in delivery at the same time.   She & her husband checked into the ER merely two hours after us & were placed in a room directly across from ours.  Naturally our husbands who are bro-friends hugged it out in the hallway while us women huffed and puffed, and they passed the time by joking about tag teaming the coaching duties and such.  Ha, right…

Their babies were born in the middle of the night nearly eight hours before our little guy.  That’s right, our four babies share the same birthday.  During our hospital stays we had recovery rooms two doors down from each other, which made visitation easy for our shared friends.  She wheeled herself to my room for a visit and held my guy before most of her own, and I moseyed down to the NICU to ogle over her tiny, triple blessings.  Her sweet troopers remarkably spent less than two weeks in the NICU.  Today they are all healthy, happy, busy ones each with distinct looks and unique little personalities.   Their mom and dad are the perfect parents for such a brood, and the triplets’ big brother really loves him so babies and helps to entertain his siblings.  They are laid back, know how to roll with it, and contain seemingly endless energy that I wish was contagious.  I think of them whenever I get to the overtired woe is me part of a day after being up twice or more with my little sidekick in the middle of the night. 

I can’t imagine the demands of three.  I’ve seen Liz in action – all the buckles, straps, limbs, crumbs, toys, diapers, bottles – she’s AMAZING.  I have also seen how the public reacts when her stroller makes an appearance.  She has coined a phrase for those who stare dumbfounded.  They’re “Lookie Lous,” and they’re unknowingly rude.  The public sometimes drives me crazy with just my one baby in tow.  While on the topic, why do some strangers think it’s okay to touch your baby?  NO.  It’s not okay, random Walmart shopper.  And no, he’s not a girl.  He’s wearing blue.  This poor boy needs a haircut I guess, but I digress so pick your jaws up off the floor, Lookie Lous.  Liz gracefully entertains the unwanted commentary and questions that endlessly meet her everywhere she and her babies go.  She is a champ.  I stood in awe of her preggo belly a year ago, and today I stand in awe of her as one heck of a mom.

The events of that weekend one year ago are still surreal to me.  I am fairly certain our families experienced something worthy of a screenplay.  365 days later our homes and lives have adjusted to the increasing contents.  Why do creatures so small require so many large objects to entertain them, keep them safe, etc.?   Our pseudo quadruplets even had a block party to celebrate their birthdays complete with four smash cakes.  What a photo opp, and what a dingy bath tub of soggy cake water that was! 

I was worried about spreading the love before my guy arrived, but his arrival instantaneously made my heart grow at least 3x.  I do my best to dote on each one of my three throughout my day, and I’ve seen Liz do the same with her four.  Life sometimes gets crowded with demands.  Time clearly flies, and this is precisely why I try to pause whenever the moment hits me – when I hear my daughter bound for Kindergarten read to me or see that her legs must have grown two inches overnight, or I notice that my son’s new front teeth have finally grown all the way in and are like Chiclets - so big, square, and white or hear him say something so profoundly insightful, or when my baby finally says “Mom” as he did today for the first time.  In those moments my heart is like butter, and I just want squeeze my babies.  Sometimes they let me.    In those moments I just stare in total awe at the little blessings with such big hearts that my hubby and I are so fortunate to call our kids.  I am so beyond thankful for my weeds and for all of the time we have been granted to share this crazy life with them. 

Happy first birthday to my dear, forever smiley number three!

An Educational PSA on Proper Flushing

A phrase no parent wants to hear shouted from within the house:  "Mom, the water won't stop coming out!"

My 5-year old learned the hard way that one should NEVER flush a second (nor a third, a fourth, etc.) time if the potty water is rising versus draining.

I heard this phrase shouted repeatedly from my Screaming Mimi while I was mid-diaper change with my littlest one and his numero dos.  His bum had just barely been wiped when down the hall arose such a clatter, I sprang from his room to see what was the matter.  There stood my darling daughter jumping, pointing, and shouting in hysterics outside the bathroom door as the water rose, seeped out between the ceramic bowl and seat, and leaked onto the tile floor.

EEK!

I made a mad dash to dive below the toilet to shut off the water when suddenly I endured the slip that left me shaking for hours on end.  That's right – I became a right angle as my feet left the floor whilst holding mi bambino and his unswaddled backside.  I was on my back in a millisecond with my feet dangling in the air and a half nude bambino delicately seated, yet tightly gripped on top of me.  He was crying, my 5-year old was still crying, and you bet, I started crying. 

Thankfully it only took another millisecond to assess the scene, compose myself and reach for the valve as I glanced up to see Niagara Falls coming out of the commode.  I went into Mommy Overdrive.  I told my daughter not to be scared.  As she looked at my drenched white shorts covered in filthy water (I'll spare any further gory details) she could sense that I was rattled, and I could see that she was mortified.  I know she'll feel even more mortified if she reads this at an older age, but someday when she's a mom she'll get it.  At this moment, my 7-year old and my very cautious child approached the scene and began asking oodles of questions as he likes to do.

I thoroughly checked bambino again to make certain he was okay from the trauma of our slip.  He, of course, was strong like ox.  He is quite the Michelin Man of a nearly one-year-old.  I quickly cleaned him up, checked him again, and laid him down to nap as was my original plan before this horrid detour.  Then, I had to excuse myself from the other 2/3 as I expeditiously showered (something moms are masters of) and donned my second outfit of the day.  A few towels, nearly a gallon of bleach, the sanitize cycle on the washer, and I took care of the mess.

As I gained my composure and reentered life (I really felt outside of myself as all of this occurred - it was as though I was in a terrible movie), my older two greeted me.  With his arms outstretched as far as they could go my cautious one simply said, "Mommy - huggies?"  He spoke in baby speak as if to make me at ease or perhaps he knew my mind was mush and could barely comprehend English as he gestured for me to enter his huggie.  He knew exactly what this mom needed after that wretched detour.  My two big kids wrapped me in four little arms making one tight Mommy Sandwich.  That moment made my seemingly horrid day not so horrid after all.

So, kids, here's your PSA - it's short, sweet, and oh, so simple: 

 "Don't flush more than once if the water is rising." 

 Got it?  Good. 

Oh, and one more thing, boys, lift the seat for number one, and please, put it down when you’re done.  Thanks to my big brother I fell into a potty when I was five, but that’s a story for another day…