Life with Four....

A friend asked me recently if having four kids is much different than having three.

I didn't answer right away, because it was one of those (many) moments when the words in my brain just couldn't seem to make it to my mouth.  I may have just looked at her and laughed maniacally while I tried to find the words. In fact, I'm not sure if I ever found the words. For all I know, she's still waiting for an answer.

See, that's how it's different. Things...elude me. Sleep eludes me. Memories elude me. Sometimes, knowing what day it is eludes me. I have entire conversations--or non conversations--and don't remember. I send a picture of an Ostrich for "O" week at school. When it's "P" week. I show up at basketball practice and can't figure out why no other parent will sit near me. Until I realize that I'm sitting in the team seats. You know, for the actual members of the team. You would think I might have been clued in when there were thirty parents sitting across the gym, trying not to stare at me and the baby in the stroller, occasionally leaning over to ask the person next to them what was wrong with me.

Nothing. Things just elude me. I'm sure some of them also have more kids than we do, and they still manage to sit in the right seats and probably actually send pictures of penguins for "P" week. Overachievers.

(Not that we'd send a picture of a penguin, anyway. We have mostly boys in this house, and they get to pick their own pictures. So we'd send a picture of a penis. See! The fact that that was very inappropriate almost just eluded me. But I'm leaving it here anyway. Because it's funny).

That's another thing. There's no pretending anymore. It's all just out there now. All of it. We used to be able to contain our crazy. At least a little bit. I think.

It dawned on me the other day that we can no longer contain our crazy.

Actually, no, that's not right. It didn't dawn on me. That sounds so...gentle. Like a soft, quiet realization. This wasn't like that. Because really, nothing is soft, quiet, or gentle around here. Except maybe sweet, baby coos from Milkman at 2 am. But they're usually followed by someone bounding into our bed, crying, or sneezing, or throwing up. But I digress.

Anyway, this was no soft, quiet, gentle realization that dawned on me.

 It was more like a loud, boisterous, painful realization that smacked me in the face.

Our crazy can no longer be contained inside our walls, or inside anyone else's.

It spills out, overflowing, everywhere we go. Like the water bottles, and the matchbox cars, and the children that tumble out when we open our car doors. It's like clowns in a Volkswagen. A large, over sized, gas guzzling but very safe Volkswagen. Well, except that it's not a Volkswagen.

I took Archie to pre-school the other day, and in spite of taking an hour to find and put on one shoe before we left the house, he wasn't quite ready to get out of the car when his teacher came out to get him. When his attempts to give me kiss number five failed, he started grabbing things from under the car seat to show his teacher. "Look! We have a blue car in our car! Have you seen this before?"

"Or this McDonald's cup?"

"Or this french fry?"

I smiled my sweetest mommy smile, though my teeth were starting to hurt from clenching them. I had no idea what may have been under that seat.

"Just go with your teacher now, honey".

"How about this? Have you seen one of these before?"

I glanced back and tried to identify the object in his hand. No idea.

Please God, don't let there be anything embarrassing under there.

"Archie, get out of the car now, sweets".

I briefly flash back to my purse spilling on the floor of the car a few days earlier. Did I get it all? What was in there, anyway? Did we ever take all the leftover booze into the house after New Year's Eve ? (I know-leftover booze! Good one, right?). I decide it's not worth chancing it.

"Get out of the car now. Right now. Just go!"

Archie and his teacher both look at me, surprised.

"Love you! Have a great day!"

Archie eventually went into school, and as I drove away, I thought how silly I'd been. I'd briefly forgotten one of the most important aspects of having four kids.

Nothing embarrasses me anymore.

Not nursing in public. If this baby's hungry, he's eating. I don't care where we are, who else is there, or what I'm wearing, or not wearing. Deal with it.

Not being inadequately dressed. Are we all wearing...something? Great! Let's Go!

Not even, for the most part, a preschooler's meltdowns. If your child has never thrown themselves on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably because their lollipop has a piece of lint on it, then consider yourself lucky.

And then have another child.

And certainly not the unidentifiable and/or inappropriate objects under my car seats. If nothing else, they make really great conversation pieces.

Yes, our crazy is now OUT THERE. For everyone to see.

That's not totally new, of course. We've had our past moments in the grocery store, and at Target, and in the middle of church.

But the thing is, with four kids, I no longer care.

You might say the ability to care somehow eludes me.

So what if we're four times as messy, four times as loud, and four times as crazy.

I wouldn't want it any other way.

What it Means

Since L was born two months ago (guess it's time to change the blog name!), a lot of people seem interested in what it means to have four kids.

Does it mean this was an, um, surprise? (Does anyone really care about this? I mean, apparently they do. But I will never understand why. Get a hobby).

Does it mean you're going to be like that crazy Duggar lady and keep going until your uterus falls out? (To my knowledge, this has not actually happened. However, the possibility that it could happen is a frequently mentioned reason why random internet strangers think she should stop having kids. Also, we have four kids. I was never good at math, but to my knowledge, four does not equal nineteen. Or twenty-two, in case her uterus has still not fallen out and she's had more and I've missed it).

Does it mean you lost your mind? (Not yet. But soon.)

Some people think it means your life--or some part of it--is over. I guess that's true. The part of it that had briefly moved on from chronic sleep deprivation, and diapers, and crying--that part is over for now. But I know from experience that that part doesn't last that long. Not really. Not when you look back from the vantage point of a first birthday, or a preschool graduation, or a first day of kindergarten. That part doesn't last long at all. None of it does.

What does it mean?

It means our house got smaller. There is no baby's room, or nursery, no quiet place to put this baby that's all his own.

It means our house got messier. I don't know how, given that this baby can't really make his own mess yet. But somehow it did. God help me in a year or two.

It means things got louder. If you've been to our house, you may not have thought that was possible. I didn't either. Trust me, it was quiet here before.

It means our bank account got smaller, our car got more crowded, and my briefly clean clothes are now covered in spit up again.

It means that people look at you funny in the grocery store...sometimes with compassion, often with skepticism, occasionally with fear. I can't say that I blame them.

They say things like "You have your hands full", and "Bet you don't get much sleep", and "Wow! Four!", as if four really does equal nineteen or twenty-two. Maybe it's the new math.

They also say things like "Whose baby is that?" (Oh, I just borrowed my friend's brand new infant, because I thought it would be fun to carry a crying newborn through the grocery store while chasing a four year old and trying to remember what the hell I need here in the paper goods aisle).

They ask if we know how this happens (Ha. You're hilarious. As if I haven't heard that one four thousand times in the past six months. Also, did you learn the new math?) They also ask me if I need help out to my car more often. Help to my car? No. Help once I get home? Yes. Please.

Having four kids means all of these things. But in addition to all of the things that got harder, and louder, and smaller, it means that a lot of things have also gotten bigger.

My fears, my worries, and the bags under my eyes.

My need for coffee, my dreams of a nanny, and my butt.

My purse that doubles as a diaper bag as I stuff it full of diapers, and wipes, and pacifiers that he won't take. My diaper bag that doubles as a purse as I try to remember to bring my wallet, and my keys, and a hairbrush since I can't remember if I brushed my hair this week  today.

But the thing that's grown most of all is our hearts.

So yeah, we've probably lost our minds a little, and we have some adjusting to do. But when someone looks at me, does a double take, and says "Whose baby is that?", I just smile and say "He's ours. Aren't we lucky?"

Depending on where they are in life, they may not now how to answer that, and that's ok.

Sometimes the only answer that matters is your own. And mine is quite simple.

"What does it mean to have four kids?"

It means another person to love, it means a new little brother, and it means our hearts are fuller than we knew they could be.

What does it mean?

Quite simply, it means everything.

What We Shouldn't Have to Expect When We're Expecting...

It's amazing how a few years and a few children can change things.

Like the reactions you get when people learn that you're expecting.

When you're pregnant with your first child in your thirties, people are generally eager to share in your happiness, your excitement, and your joy.

Second child, pretty much the same thing. If maybe to a slightly lesser degree.

At the third child, a few people start to question your sanity. Some feel a need to clarify that you are, in fact, over thirty-five, right? But most people still seem to manage a heartfelt "Congratulations!" Or, you know, at least it seems heartfelt.

When you're over forty and expecting your fourth child, some people are still generally happy for you, and truly excited on your behalf.  They offer appropriate congratulations, and ask when you're due, and comment that the kids must be excited.

And sometimes, behind their kind words, you can see the look in their eyes that says "I am so, so, so, so incredibly happy that this is happening for you.....instead of happening to me".

And that's OK. Because we get it. We know that this isn't for everyone, and that some people feel strongly about having a certain number of children, or about being done by a certain age, or about not having more children than bedrooms. It's fine, because that's their choice. And it's also fine because, in spite of their own feelings, they don't actually say them out loud.

But then there are the others. And trust me when I tell you--they are a lot of the others. In fact,
the others seem to come out of the woodwork when you're over forty and expecting your fourth child. The others lose all concern for normal social graces, and completely forgo silly things like tact, and privacy, and boundaries.

Sometimes we know the others quite well. At other times, we barely know them at all. It's hard to say which type surprises us more. It's safe to say, however, that nothing that people say is surprising us very much at all at this point.

Here are just a few things that we really shouldn't have to expect when we're expecting:

Was it planned/a surprise/an accident?

I can assure you that none of our children--or anyone else's--are accidents. As for the other versions of this question, on what planet would this be any of your business?

Did you talk about it?

What does this even mean, and why would you ever think to actually ask it out loud? Please see the above response.

Do you know how old you are?

Yes. We do. But thanks for checking. Also, it's 2014, and Barack Obama is president. Oh, and apparently stupid people still exist. Did we pass the test?

What were you thinking?

Oh, this could be fun. Are we going to talk about all of your life choices next? Cause there are a few things from 1997 I've been dying to ask you about. I mean, what were you thinking?

Have you lost your mind?

Nope. Not yet. Maybe I will when I have a fourth child. Or the next time someone asks me a rude, obnoxious question. Guess we'll find out.

Are you going to have more after this? Because people will definitely think you're the grandparents then.

Thanks for this. It's so helpful. Are you going to continue talking after this? Because people will definitely think you're an idiot then.

In addition to the above, we shouldn't have to expect that you're going to give us condolences, tell us you really have no idea how we're going to do it, or tell us repeatedly that you just can't believe it. If you can't manage to keep your (baseless and unwelcome) opinions on other people's family size to yourself, feel free to walk away without saying anything at all.

Unless you are being asked to care for or financially support someone's child, other people's family planning is, quite simply, none of your business. Once someone is pregnant, you are also not talking about a hypothetical pregnancy that may occur at some future date. You are talking about an actual baby who already exists. Most of us maternal types tend to get a little offended when people insinuate that one of our children shouldn't be in existence.

On the other hand, here's what we should be able to expect to hear when we're expecting:

Congratulations!

I'm so happy for you.

You're so blessed.

Because we are.

The end.

(OK, so that wasn't really the end. The above recommendations--also known as "How to Mind Your Own Damn Business"-- also apply to conversations with people who have no children, only children, children ten months apart, children ten years apart, or ten children. Unless said child is a)yours, b) left on your doorstep, or c) the recipient of your physical, emotional, and/or financial support, you don't get an opinion).

The end. For real this time.

How Facebook Made Us Crappy Parents

I'm not sure when it happened, exactly. I didn't used to obsess over my parenting all that much. I'm far from a perfect mother--I'm disorganized, and sometimes impatient, and often over extended. I crave peace and quiet much more than I could ever hope to actually get it, I often have to run to the dryer to find my children's clothes for that day, and I happen to think that if I make home cooked meals involving vegetables five nights a week, that's pretty good.

And I'm OK with that. Pretty much all of it. At least most of the time.

Because these children--the ones who drive me crazy--know that they are loved, and cared for, and cherished. They know that we will get them to school (even when they would prefer that we didn't), and help them with their homework (but not as much as they would like), and that we make sure they have a warm house, and food to eat, and clothes to wear (even if they're rarely folded neatly in their dresser drawers). They also know that their family is not picture perfect, and that it is often loud, and chaotic, and yes, at times, insane. But in spite of that--or maybe because of it--they know how to laugh, and how to let things go, and how to improvise. And for that, I am grateful. Even if the laughter involves milk coming out of their nose at the dinner table. Even when the thing they're letting go of is their underwear, as they drop it out of their bedroom window, because they wanted "to fly it like a kite". Even when the improvisation involves making a "picture frame" with magic marker on their bedroom wall. I'm grateful for all of that because, in spite of the aspects of these adventures that drive me crazy, they are proof that we have children who are happy, secure, and joyful.

And some part of me--a rather significant part, fortunately--knows that, at the end of the day, that is what matters.

But then it started happening. I started reading. I love to read. In fact, I love nothing more than to get in bed early and reading for a couple hours before failing asleep. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen very often, for obvious reasons (and if they're not obvious, re-read the above paragraph). So I read here and there. I scroll through facebook, or click on a link, or browse through a blog. It's always interesting to see what my friends are reading, and what inspires them, and what entertains them. And since many of my friends are parents, they're often sharing things related to parenting.

Uplifting things.
Informative things.
Encouraging things.

And also, things that are making us completely and totally neurotic.

Things that talk about the dangers of non organic produce, GMO foods, aspartame, sugar, sodium, MSG, plastics, too much screen time, not enough down time, inconsistent parenting, global warming, spoiling our kids, neglecting our kids, coddling our kids too much, not coddling our kids enough, too much texting, too much yelling, not enough discipline, and not paying close enough attention to what our kids are learning at school.

All of which is totally valid, of course. To varying degrees. To varying people. In varying circumstances.

But, as everyone knows, those articles aren't addressing the varying degrees, or the varying people, or the varying circumstances. They are addressing you.

And me.

And at least for me, that information stays in my head, tucked away in some atrophied corner of my brain until something triggers it to come to the forefront of my mind. I might be in the grocery store, at nine o'clock at night, in jeans that are damp from someone splashing me during a bath, when it occurs to me that I can't buy that case of bottled water, because those bottles contain BPA, or BAP, or LSD. So I will stand there, searching the aisle--in vain-- for water bottles that don't contain BPA or any of those other things, because the article I read the day before told me we're all going to die if we drink water from bottles made from BPA.

And then I go home, disheartened that I have to give my kids water with chemicals in it, and I find two children-who I had put to bed half an hour before I went to the store--standing in the kitchen eating non organic granola bars.

Off of the floor.

I yell at them to get in bed right now. Yes, yell. Not scream. Not freak completely out. But yell. And then I glare at my husband who is watching football while his children eat non organic granola bars off the kitchen floor. And I thank him for helping. Of course, I'm not really saying thank you. I'm saying something kind of close to thank you. But he knows what I mean. And really, that is all that matters. And yet, the children have probably picked up on this communication pattern, and will take it into their own future relationships, which will no doubt end in divorce as a result of the fact that their mother said thank you to their father when that wasn't exactly what she meant.

Eventually, several threats later, the kids are in bed. (Everyone knows you shouldn't make threats unless you're going to follow through. So, if you feel that you have to tell your kids they're never watching TV again in order to get them to go to bed, make sure you never let them watch TV again. Ever. But get yourself some xanax. You'll need it since you won't have another moment of down time until they're eighteen). I'm putting our non organic, BPA containing groceries away, and thinking about how I just yelled at the kids. I mean, I yelled at them. To go to bed. An hour after I put them to bed in the first place. What is wrong with me? And at the same time I yelled at them, I was bringing non organic, BPA containing groceries into the house and watching them eat granola bars off the floor that could have bleach on it. Except that it doesn't, because I know how long it's been since I've cleaned that floor. Which means it has dirt on it. So, either way, two of my children just ate something really, really bad. And that's not even counting the non organic granola bar that probably has LSD in the wrapper.

And it dawns on me.

I totally suck.

And facebook, I blame you. It's bad enough that we have to be exposed to other peoples perfectly presented lives which some people seem to actually believe represent real life, or that we have to see the 17 layer cake that's an actual replica of Disney World that someone made for their child's six month birthday, but we also have a ridiculous amount of parenting advice shoved down our throats on a daily or weekly basis (yes, I know we all have the option of not reading. Some day I'll write a post about my impulse control issues).

It occurred to me recently that, pre internet, we had to actually go to a book store or library to find information about a particular parenting issue. Pre facebook, we had to google the specific information we were looking for. In other words, most of us had to have an actual problem before we chose to read about how to fix it.

Not anymore.

Now we can read all about the problems we have before we even know we have them.

There is, of course, a lot of good information to be stumbled upon, and as it happens, I do try to avoid BPA and  LSD when it comes to my kids. I buy some things organic, I monitor screen time, I try not to let them lick the floor, and I try not to yell. Too much. In one day.

But there is also such a thing as information overload, and--for me at least--all of this parenting "advice" stays dormant in every underused crevice of my brain, until one over stimulated moment when it comes to life, shouting "You! The one feeding your kids non organic produce, and BPA, and dirt, while you yell at them to go to bed, and make threats to that you'll never carry through with, and speak sarcastically to their father, and text your friends before the kids are in bed. You, quite simply, suck".

Fortunately, in calmer moments, I know better.

I know that the truth goes more like this:

Parenting is hard.

Being completely and totally responsible for three little-ish people is exhausting.

Life is hard.

No one is perfect.

Kids are wonderfully, incredibly resilient.

Love is not all that matters. But it matters above all else.

No day is perfect. Some days are better than others. Some days are so far from perfect it's almost funny.

When things are almost funny, we laugh a lot. And pretty soon, we've convince ourselves that they really are funny.

At the end of the day, if everyone is warm, and fed, and at some point during the day was mostly dressed, I know that it was a good day.

And that is all that matters.

The Ongoing Dilemma...

I have been a little disheartened this week.

A boy at school was mean to N. Not for the first time.  N is fine--in fact, she really wasn't that bothered by the incident that occurred, as she is quite used to this particular child's problematic behavior.  I, on the other hand, kind of went ape sh--um, a little nuts. In the end, the school addressed it, the boy apologized (and is being watched more closely, and is not sitting near my daughter, or working with her in groups, and hopefully not speaking to or looking in her general direction ever again), and we're moving on.

And yet, it makes me mad that it happened, and that I had to spend several hours talking to my daughter, and to her teacher, and to her guidance counselor, and to her principal, about stuff that didn't need to happen. And it makes me madder that this boy has not been taught--by nine years old--which behaviors are just not okay. And, call me cynical, but it makes me sad for him that he is already heading down a road that likely does not have a very happy ending.

To add to that, this has brought up my recurring struggle of how much we should teach our kids to be kind--knowing that kids like N's tormentor probably need that more than anything--versus how much we should tell our kids to just stay away from the mean kids, or the difficult kids, or the bratty kids--knowing that none of us need to go looking to have our feelings hurt by choosing to be around people who don't value or respect us (I thought that sounded better than referring to nine year olds as jerks. Nice of me, right?)

But this morning, I tried to put that behind me and focus on the fact that I got to volunteer in B's classroom today. I did this when N was in kindergarten, and I was excited to once again spend the morning helping my child and their kindergarten classmates write their letters, and their names, and seeing the adorable pictures they draw to accompany their adorable sentences that come so incredibly close to almost making some kind of sense that I can hardly stand it.

As it happened, I walked in and one of B's teachers said "Hi! Do you know how to use the laminator?"

At that moment, the thoughts in my head went something like this:

No! No! No! Please...No! Didn't they tell you? I don't do technology or gadgety thingies. I mean, I would do them, but they don't do me. Or we don't do each other. At least not well. Last year, I spent many, many Friday mornings--at least 6 Fridays mornings each month--in the copier room. With a copier. That's large. And fancy. And very, very confusing. It didn't go well. In fact, you probably heard me crying. So...laminator? Uh, No. I most definitely do NOT know how to use the laminator. Nor do I want to. Show me where the crayons are, please.

But what came out of my mouth was actually this:

"I don't, but I'm sure I can figure it out!"

I even smiled when I said it.

I am such a liar.

This was, as it turns out, a ridiculously ridiculous thing for me to say, since I do not, when it comes to technology or gadgety thingies "figure it out". Ever.

B's nice teacher showed me how it worked, though she rudely made some assumptions about me in the process. Mainly, that I had half a clue. And then, she left me all alone. With the laminator.

Me and the laminator. In a closet. That I soon found out was very, very warm. I took my coat off as I eyed the laminator.

You don't scare me. Just because you're big, and noisy, and you have those....those....buttons.

I did what the teacher had told me. I pushed papers through. I pushed those buttons. It was actually working. I wasn't just laminating. I was a laminating queen.

I was so good at laminating, that I even laminated things together that weren't supposed to be laminated together.

So then I had to unlaminate them, because it turns out that Emily's parents probably don't want Emily's turkey place mat and Sarah's turkey place mat. So yeah, there was that.

There was also the fact that it was getting very, very hot in that closet. So I wasn't just laminating. I was laminating and sweating my ass off. I briefly wondered if there was a lock on the door, in case I needed to strip down to my underwear while laminating, but decided that probably wasn't a good idea anyway and resigned myself to sweating profusely.

Once I had laminated and unlaminated, as necessary, there was the fact that twenty five laminated turkey place mats needed somewhere to go. And when they're all still connected as you try to remove them from the machine in a very small closet, it can get a little....messy. I'm not sure how to describe this, so you should probably just picture Lucy and Ethel in the candy factory. Except it was me, and twenty five laminated turkey place mats.

Yeah.

The good news is, I eventually got to go into the classroom, and help B and the boys at his table with their writing. I love kindergartners. They are so good. At telling you everything you're doing wrong. "You need to do that with a pen, not a pencil." "That's not the way she corrects our work". "You spelled temper wrong". Whatever, kid. Some day you, too, will have spellcheck and not know how to spell anything for yourself. But I was still incredibly happy to be there, and even happier that they didn't witness me in the closet with the turkey place mats.

I went to lunch with B and his class after that, and was a little concerned to notice that all three boys that had been at B's table in the classroom had gone to sit with one of the boys and his mom at a separate table. B was happy sitting at a table with me and most of the rest of his class--mostly girls--but I couldn't help but wonder if this happened on a regular basis. Was he being excluded?

As I obsessed over my five-year-olds social status, B leaned over and whispered to me about M, who was sitting across from us and who was the only other boy at our table. B had described M as "mean" earlier in the year, but after visiting B at school, it was obvious to me that M likely had some developmental issues impacting his behavior. "Mom, he's having a really great day. He hasn't been getting in trouble at all today". I told him not to whisper, at which point he said to the the boy "I'm glad you don't get in trouble anymore".

"Is that your class too?" asked, realizing that a few girls and one boy were sitting at an adjacent table.

"Yeah", B nodded, and then looked at them for a minute before adding, "Mom, we need to move seats. G is sitting all by himself over there."

I told him that if we moved, then M would be sitting all by himself, since there was no one else sitting near him, and that maybe we could ask G to come sit with us.

And so we did.

And he did.

And as the four of us sat there, I realized that I wasn't worried about my kindergartner's social status anymore.

He knew exactly where he belonged.

Time...

First let me say, I don't know how this happened.

I haven't blogged in forever, in part because life has somehow gotten even busier, and in part because, well, things have been... different.

Somehow, we have reached the point where all three of our children are in school.

I'm pretty sure that I just put N on the bus for kindergarten and had two boys at home all day, both still in diapers. Diapers that I spent my days changing, in between making breakfast, and snacks, and lunch, and snacks, and dinner...and snacks. In between nursing a baby, and pouring formula into bottles, and milk into sippy cups, and juice into plastic cups once they could finally sit at the table.

I was just spending my days turning on--and tuning out-- Elmo, and doling out cut up bananas, and Puffs, and Cheerios to a baby sitting in a high chair and a toddler sitting--well, sitting was never his strong point.

I was just thinking how nice it would be when someone was finally in school--even if just for a little while--so that I might get a chance to catch my breath.

And then, it happened.

All of the sudden, one was finally out of diapers, and in school. And, as often happens, the other was all too eager to follow.

Now, most days everyone is in school for at least part of the day. No one is wearing diapers. Not even at night. I think this was supposed to make me jump for joy. But instead, it made me hold the remnants of the last pack of diapers in my hand, and stare at them as I wondered what I was supposed to do with them now. I couldn't just throw them away. And giving someone the last ten diapers from the last pack of diapers seemed a little...odd. I was sure this would also lead to me giving an unsolicited explanation about how I didn't want to just throw them away, even though that would have been a perfectly reasonably thing to do.

Ultimately, I decided that it wouldn't hurt to keep them around for a while--kids do regress sometimes you know--and I put them back on the floor next to the changing table.

Which I guess is technically now just a "dresser", since no one actually gets changed on it anymore.

It turns out, those times we think will never end--the sleepless night, the diaper changes, the crying babies, the constant feeding--well, they end. And when they finally do end, we realize that it was much, much sooner than we thought they would.

We thought they lasted forever. But in reality, it wasn't that long at all.

All of those things that  have ended have now been replaced by other things. Kindergarten, and rainbow words. Viola practice and two hour long dance classes. Making lunches, and helping with homework, and trying to find time to volunteer equally in every child's classroom. Or at least discreetly enough that they don't notice the inequality.

Gently removing a crying three year old from my leg and holding back my own tears until I get far enough down the hall. Explaining to a kindergartner that we don't have to decide who we will marry when we're five--in spite of what that girl in his class tells him. Listening to an eight year old talk about the mean kid, and thinking of all of the thing I'm supposed to say, before ultimately telling her that some people are just jerks. Giving myself credit for saying the word "jerks", instead of the word I really wanted to say.

Searching in the back seat, and the front seat, and under the seat for something that begins with the letter 'G' that can be brought to Show n Tell. Wondering if a 'Gross' three week old lollipop counts, and deciding that it doesn't. Deciding on a toy Giraffe, and hoping the dirt passes as part of his coloring.

Wondering if I forgot anything. Realizing, always, that I did. Filling out field trip permission slips in the school drop off line. With a purple crayon.

Trying not to lose my mind.

At least some things don't change.

There are other things, of course, that have stayed the same. The other night, I found O asleep in our bed. I thought of moving him, but I didn't. At least not right away. For a few minutes, I got to smell his hair which--somewhere beneath the three-year-old boy scents of sweat, and chocolate, and Spiderman shampoo--smelled vaguely as it did when he was a baby. Eventually, I carried him to his own room, and put him back in his brother's bed, which is where he has taken to sleeping.

As I did, Jimmy came up and told me there was a deer in the neighbors yard. I went downstairs and watched through the front window, as she stood there in a heavy rain, appearing to wonder how she had ended up here in our suburban neighborhood instead of the safety of the woods she was used to.

Right there with you, sister.

And then something caught my eye.

A fox made his way across our front yard, across the street, and into the neighbors yard.

Do fox eat deer? It seemed unlikely, but this deer was clearly out of her comfort zone.

I briefly wondered if I should open the front door and yell. (I never could watch those nature shows.)But she sensed the fox--or read my mind--and with a few leaps she was gone.

Leaving the fox to stand in her place.

I thought of staying to watch him, and to see what other wild things might stumble into our neighborhood. Did these things happen all the time, and we just didn't notice?                                                                                                                                           

Like children growing in their sleep.

But then I remembered my own wild things, and that they would be up in a few hours, and I went to bed.

At sunrise, I woke to one crying about a lost Lego, and one yelling "Stop crying! You're getting my bed wet!"  The third, not-quite-as-wild thing, stayed under her covers until the last possible moment. Truly, her mother's daughter.

And yet, in spite of mostly early risers, we managed to miss the bus. Everyone was finally dressed and under orders to Get in the CAR, as I was making sure they had lunches, and book bags, and  violas, and homework. As I grabbed the car keys, eyeing the clock, I heard B outside yelling "O! Come look! A MUD PUDDLE!".

I tried to get the words out of my mouth. But the word that wanted to come out wasn't the one I was supposed to say. I tried to say it properly, "Stay away from the mud puddle!", but that other word--the one in my head, and on the tip of my tongue, and seemingly in every part of my being at that moment--that one wanted to come out, too.

Must.not.say.the.F.word.to.the.children.

Breathe. Repeat.

No, I didn't say it. But in my determination not to say it, I couldn't seem to say anything. At least not quickly enough. In fact, I wasn't the one who spoke at all.

It was B, as he said "Mom...I kind of fell and got a little muddy..."

So he went inside and changed, and the other child--the one who I then discovered had neglected to put on socks in the rainy fifty something degree weather-- was sent inside to put.on.some.socks.

And I still managed not to say the F word.

I know some moms make oatmeal from scratch, and have organic, gluten free cookies waiting after school, and have a craft planned for every free weekend. They have play dates on a moments notice, because somehow their house is always clean. They occasionally, shamefully confess in a whisper that recently, they had a rough morning where they actually raised their voice.

But I tend to think that most of us aren't those moms. I think that most of us are moms who sometimes struggle not to say the F word, as we think alot about the time. The important kind of time--the time of sleepless infants, and curious toddlers, and adventurous preschoolers--and the kind of time that we sometimes start to think is important-- the watching-the-clock kind of time, the I-have so-much-to-do-kind-of-time, the kind of time that prevents us from playing in mud puddles before school.

I dropped everyone off at school that morning on time and in dry clothes. Also, without having heard their mother utter a single expletive. And then I drove home, and did the dishes without anyone "helping" me. I folded clothes without having to stop to turn on Thomas the Train. I talked on the phone.

At one point, I even sat down and drank coffee and flipped through actual grown up shows. Like The View, or The Talk, or Talking About the View. Oh, I don't know what it was called, OK? And to be honest, as much as I have longed for the days when I might once again be able to watch something on TV that wasn't rated G, I found myself distracted by the thought that these people actually get paid to talk about absolutely nothing.

So I turned it off, and listened instead to the sound of silence.

And I liked it.

But only for a little while.

In fact, it wasn't that long at all.

Measures of Success....

Sometimes it's so hard to know how we're doing at this motherhood thing.

Oh sure, we all have days when we think we're doing a pretty good job. Days when everyone is dressed and fed and well behaved and the house isn't a completely embarrassing mess.

Or maybe days when everyone is dressed, or fed, or well behaved, or the house isn't a completely embarrassing mess. Because, honestly, I don't think I've had a day when all of those things happened on the same day since...well, since before I had kids.

So now, most days, I have to pick which of those things I'm going to have. And most days, the one I pick doesn't happen. So then I pick another one, and that one might happen. Or it might not.

So then I just settle for any one of those things to happen in a day.

Or, sometimes, over the course of a week.

Let's just all get our priorities straight and stop this ridiculous, over achieving nonsense, shall we?

I was talking to some friends from church a whole ago, and they talked about how the best thing is the world is seeing a friend unexpectedly show up at your back door. Everyone seemed to agree that this really is just the best thing. So I smiled. I nodded. I put on my face that said "Yes! That really is just the best thing".

But then I thought about it and realized, what if they think that I really do think that this is the best thing and then someday, they actually do it? They actually show up at my door, because here I am, agreeing that the face of an unexpected friend at the door really is the best thing?

And I would have to decide whether I was going to hide in the corner of the kitchen until they stopped knocking and left, or answer the door and tell them that out entire family was in the midst of a typhoid epidemic, so it probably wouldn't be such a good idea if they came in.

Because if they showed up unexpectedly at my door on most days, they would not be coming in.

(As an aside, if you ever do hide in the corner of your kitchen, make sure you're not across from the cabinet with the reflective glass, which can be seen through the door, because otherwise your unannounced friend (or maybe, in some cases, the guy you're trying to break up with) is going to see you, and ask you why you were hiding in the corner, when they could clearly see your reflection in the glass. I mean, that's what I've heard can happen)

So, anyway, I outed myself to my friends at church. Everyone was still talking about how great it is to have a friend show up unexpectedly, and then I said "Well, no, it's really not great. I mean, not for all of us. In fact, I need a week's notice"

OK, a day.

OK honestly, I need two.

And these are the kind of things that go through my head as I think about how I'm doing. Because I know there are many people with young kids who manage to keep their house "company ready" at least most of the time, and I am most certainly not one of them.

I just don't know they do that.

I tried to get tips. I even signed up to get daily emails from Fly Lady. She told me to shine my sink, and wait for the next days emails. So I did it. I shined my sink. OK, so it may not have been the very first day I got that first email from her. But within a few days of getting that email for the fourth or fifth time, I did shine my sink.

But then I wondered if I was doing it right. I mean, what some people consider a shiny sink is quite different from what others consider a shiny sink. So I looked up how to shine a sink. And that's what I did.

And then I waited for more instructions.

I read the next email. It told me to do....something. Who can remember. And I was really going to do it, too. But then, well, I got busy. And those daily emails started piling up. And one day, I noticed that my sink wasn't shiny anymore, which totally pissed me off since I had just shined it that month. So I thought about going back and reading some of those Fly Lady emails.

So I opened one. And I found that little "unsubscribe" link.

And I clicked on it.

It's probably not accurate to say that I don't have time to do things like that. It's probably more accurate to say that I really don't have time to care.

Not because I have zero time. That's obviously not true. Right now, for example, at 12:04 am, I could be shining my sink. Or I could be sleeping, so that I could get up at 6 am, before the kids, and shine my sink. Or, tomorrow I could change "facebook time" to "sink shining time".

Some days I even think that today will be the day that I start shining my sink, or scrubbing my toilets more often, or setting time aside to put all that laundry away as soon as it come out of the dryer.

But then I stand in the kitchen, and look at those sweet faces, as they ask me for more milk, or for syrup for their waffles, or to tell me that they just pooped on the stairs, and I think,

"There are only a few opportunities to preserve my sanity on any given day. I'll be damned if I'm going to waste them shining a sink".

Sorry Fly Lady.

I used to think I needed to keep my house more together. But I've tried that, and for a myriad of reasons, it just doesn't work. And recently it hit me. I don't need to keep my house more together.

What I really need is to get over the fact that I don't keep my house more together. And really, when did good housekeeper ever become synonymous with good mother anyway?

Maybe it was June Cleaver. Her house was always spotless. But did you ever notice, we only ever saw one room at a time? Oh sure, the living room was spotless, but I bet Wally and the Beaver just dumped all their crap in the dining room. (And really, you can't tell me there weren't a few dozen empty Valium bottles hiding under June's bed).

So I'm trying to change my definition of a good day.

It's a good day when everyone is mostly happy, and mostly dressed, and mostly not driving each other too crazy.

It's also a good day is when I decide to stop at Starbucks instead of the liquor store.

At least, before noon. After noon, it just might be the liquor store stop that makes it a good day.

I took the kids to the pediatrician a few weeks ago for O's well child visit. We waited in the exam room for forty minutes. Then the pediatrician--who I happen to love--came in and fixated on B's out of control behavior. Which, I couldn't help but note, probably wouldn't have been quite so out of control if he hadn't been waiting in an 8 x10 exam room for forty minutes.

Without being asked, and based on his ten minute observation of a child who had been locked in a small room for forty minutes, Dr Knowitall told me that B needed consequences, and that he should know it wasn't OK to behave that way, and that he needed to be held accountable, and that change "wouldn't just happen"--I actually had to do something about it.

Then he told me that I certainly wasn't the only one with "this problem". Even though "this problem" wasn't at all what he seemed to think it was.

I think in his own way he was trying to make me feel better, and yet I left feeling...defeated.

Clearly, I was doing this motherhood thing wrong.

I tried to be more consistent over the next few days, but I soon realized that I was already being about as consistent as I could be.

Unless, of course, we just stayed home all day to address everyone's bad behavior, which will of course become worse if we stay home all day.

I found myself wanting to talk to Dr Knowitall again.

I wanted to tell him about moms like me. About how most days, as we drag our children to swim classes, and play dates, and doctors appointments where we are forced to wait for forty minutes in small exam rooms with three restless children, we are often over due for our own check ups, and dental visits, and hair cuts. That although we fantasize about laying on a beach as someone brings us colorful drinks in between massages and pedicures, ultimately we settle for a latte--and occasionally, if we're very, very, lucky--a nap.

I wanted to tell him that I know my children aren't perfect, and that I realize the importance of consistency, but that if I discipline them every.single.time they do something wrong, I will never leave my home

Which would drive all of us that much closer to the edge.

Vicious cycle, no?

I also wanted to tell him that my kids need clean clothes, and clean dishes, and food on the table at least three times a day.  And that my laundry room is often a complete disaster, in part because I stopped receiving Fly Lady's emails, and in part because I never would have done what those emails said anyway. And that after I recently spent an hour in the laundry room, ensuring that my children had clean, folded, well organized clothes, I came upstairs to find one naked thee year old standing on the kitchen table, a five year old decorating the house with miniature marshmallows, and an eight year old making lemonade, which happens to entail spilling lemonade mix all over the kitchen floor.

Walk a mile in my shoes, pal.

I wanted to tell him that while I may not always be the perfect disciplinarian, on many days, I can be found cleaning poop off the floor, wiping a bottom, helping with a school project, making sure dinner's not burning, kissing a boo boo, giving a dirty look that says "Be nice to your brother" while using sign language that says "Clean up those toys", and taking a phone call for work.

Simultaneously.

Cause I'm a mom, and that's what we do.

How do we know if we're doing a good enough job?

Is it enough that they are happy? Fed? Clothed? Loved?

Mostly kinda sorta well behaved?

Or will we have to wait, until they are grown and through college, and not using drugs, or spending time in jail, or getting involved in unhealthy relationships?

I don't fully know the answer.

But I know this:

No one else fully knows the answer either.

But I also know that at the end of each day, something magical happens.

After wrestling wet, soapy kids out of the bath and into pajamas, after picking up clothes and blankets off the floor, after trying not to trip over toys that I just picked up this morning, I kiss three sweet faces, and we say our prayers, and I tell them good night.

Sometimes, I think that it was a pretty good day.

Other times, I hope tomorrow will be better.

But for them, it was just a day.

A day with some good, and some not so good. A day when they were mostly happy and fully loved.
A day of freedom, and creativity, and laughter, and hopefully not too many tears.

A day filled with the special kind of crazy that can only be found at home.

A day of childhood.

I'm not doing it perfectly.

But it's close enough for them.

And that's success enough for me.