It goes without saying...

Except that if you're a parent, it doesn't ever go without saying, does it? In fact, you pretty much MUST say whatever it is, usually at least four times. Three if you're having an exceptional day.

Please put on your shoes. Please put on your shoes. Please put on your shoes. YOUR SHOES. PUT THEM ON.

You also find yourself saying the most ridiculous, most absurd, most idiotic things that make little to no sense. And as an outsider, you might wonder why in the holy hell someone would need to specify such lunacy. They're kids, you might think. Just make them listen. How hard can it really be to make your kid sit at the restaurant table like a normal human and not roll around on the dirty carpet underneath the booth? Mark and I used to be those outsiders. Which makes it all the more fitting that we now reside in this crazy dimension where we must say, out loud, in public, that it is NOT acceptable to lick the display window in the store. We now know the truth about parenting: Unless we, the adults, state an objection - clearly and concisely - the children will forge ahead with their bad ideas. And really, regardless of whether we have said no two or twelve times, they will most likely forge ahead anyway.

So I say this to myself of ten years ago, the outsider who would sit and judge the parents of the window-licking, restaurant-floor-rolling kids: Just wait. You just wait. Because this is what you're going to be saying in 2014:

1. Stop putting that baby carrot up your nose.

I blame this one on Frozen. I think Mason wants to be a snowman. Which means that we'll probably be number 14 in the line of kids at the ER who are all vying to be Olaf. All of us will be singing together, our sweet melody echoing off the hospital tile walls: 
Do you want to be a snowmaaaaan? And stick a carrot up your noooooooooose...

(that will only have made sense to you if you're familiar with the soundtrack...)

2. Do not ever (EVER) pick your brother up by the neck.

One of these days the baby will be big. And he will attempt to return the favor. I can't say that I blame him. But Mason, I'll cut you a deal. I'll only let him do it once. You'll still come out ahead by a fair margin.

3. {__________________}  toilet.

    a) Flush the

    b) Aim for the

    c) Close the

    d) Get your hands out of the

    e) Why is there a boot in the

All of the above.

Seriously.

4. Get off of the couch if you're not wearing underpants.

Ewwww. Just, ewwww.

5. Do not put your toys in your underpants.

Again, seriously? I find that there is a lot of undergarment commentary necessary throughout the day. This moment of awesomeness was from when our four year old tried to smuggle toys to preschool. I caught him at 11:57. School starts at noon.

6. Do not throw anything at me when I'm driving the car. (Or ever, but we're setting the bar very low here to start.)

I have little doubt that one day in the not-so-distant future, my car will be in a ditch off the side of the road due to the fact that I was beaned in the head by a Captain America shield or rogue footwear.

7. Could we please not sing about diarrhea at the dinner table?

I do have to accept the fact that poop is just plain funny to boys. But I am hoping that we can come to an agreement regarding acceptable poop joking hours. An attempt to formulate a ban on poop discussions during dining hours shall be made.

8. Do not spit into the water. Of the penguin exhibit. At the aquarium.

There are no words (that I can remember). There was, however, a mommy-has-lost-her-mind screaming session and a hasty exit through the nearest door.

So, this one is bad. Like, bad bad. And this is the point where I feel the need to specify something in very clear terms with a pinkie swear for added authenticity: We parent. We're on them. We try to keep a close eye, we try to control the goings-on, and most of all, we try to get ahead of the craziness. But here's the problem with this. Regardless of what you think you can prevent and control, they get ideas. Crazy, dumb, why-would-you-ever? ideas that they put into motion faster than you can even imagine. The other day, I was that parent. The one who looks like she has never attempted to control her child in her life. The one who looks like she has never created a rule for him to follow, not a guideline to be had. But I promise you, as I stood not two feet from my seven year old (the one who most certainly knows better!), he put this plan into motion, and I was powerless to stop it. He jumped, and he spit. Right into the water of the damn penguin exhibit. I am sure there were alarms that went off somewhere. I am sure that this caused a genetic mutation in the little feathered guys and that they now crave Fritos based on residual saliva. I am sure that all of this happened, but I can't say that I saw it firsthand. Because I grabbed those kids and got the hell out of there. As fast as a stroller, three kids and a screaming mother could move through the chaos that is the aquarium on a cold January Sunday. So, yes. That happened. Of the seven years, four months and 16 days that I have been a parent, this is the actual moment where it almost killed me.

Now, back to the list. (Unless you have stopped reading by this point out of protest for the penguins? I fully support that decision.)

9. Get the cat toy out of your mouth.

OK, so I don't expect the boys to fully grasp adult-level common sense, but I do feel like even a four year old should understand this:

kid toys = for kids, cat toys = for cats

It has become clear that I am expecting too much.

10. Stop eating those French fries. They are still frozen.

Last night, I was given two replies to this:

Mason: But it's delicious! (Again, we're talking about still-frozen fries that he's consuming...)

-and-

Andrew: Remember, Mom. We each might like different things, and that's OK.

Um, OK. But you both refuse to eat more than a few normal things presented to you at the expected temperature. How are icy potatoes both accepted and defended? This I do not understand.

I will say that after having lived this, and now after having typed this, I. Am. Tired. And on most days (today being no exception), I question what on Earth it is I'm doing wrong that results in my kids refusing to wear pants or keep their bodily fluids to themselves. But l guess if Andrew can stick up for his little brother and, at the same time, remind a grown-up to tolerate diversity (even if it is only through food preference), Mark and I are at least doing something right.

I do, however, think the aquarium staff might beg to differ.

Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom?

I'm sitting here, completely alone, in a quiet living room on a Saturday morning. It is precisely 7:12. As any parent of young children knows, this is an exceptionally late start to the day around here. For whatever reason, the two older boys are sound asleep. I don't know why or how, but I'm watching GMA at a borderline-audible volume level and sipping the greatest cup of coffee that ever was, listening to the baby play in his crib where I have shamelessly left him to chillax with Gloworm until I decide I am ready to start chasing him. (It is not quite yet.)

The clock is ticking. Because in what will most likely be less than 30 minutes, it shall begin.

When I say that "it" shall begin, I could specify with any number of things. The noise shall begin. The fighting shall begin. The leaky sippy cups shall begin. The chasing of the cat shall begin. But today, the "it" that I am sitting here awaiting is this: the questions. In t-minus (18? 26?) minutes, the questioning shall begin. It starts early, and on and on it will go until their heads meet their pillows again this evening. And even then, it sometimes continues. So if you are awake right now and not lucky enough to be the "spouse who gets to sleep in" (seriously, dude, tomorrow's my day), you may have already begun your journey into the Land of Inquisition.

The other day, because I thought it might make for interesting reading thirty years from now (when my boys have kids of their own who question, and question, and question), I decided to make notes of their inquiries from dawn to dusk. As it turns out, pre-dawn would be more precise. I share this with you now so that you may either a) commiserate, or b) make sure to use adequate birth control. Also, as you read this, you must remember the "Children's General Rule of Thumb," which is this: The less energy the adult has, the more serious (or pointless) the question will be.

So I give you this peek into what is a completely typical day chez Youngworth. For notation purposes, the seven year old addresses me as Mom; the four year old addresses me as Mommy; and the baby grunts with the best of them.

***

"Mom, it's 5:58 am. Why is it dark out?" (Because, dude, it is 5:58 in the morning. This is not a reasonable time to have a discussion.)

"Mommy, can I have hummus for breakfast?" (Gross, no.)

"Mom, can I have a milkshake for breakfast?" (Now that idea has merit. But again, no. Although I might indulge later while you're at school.)

"Mommy, do you remember when you were married to Daddy?" (Um, am I not anymore?) "Well, can I marry you?" (Absolutely.)

"Mommy, can I have peanut butter crackers for lunch?" (Yes, and if we do the math, ten crackers a day {multiplied by} five straight months of this very same inquiry {equals} I should probably have allowed you to eat hummus for breakfast so as to vary your dietary intake.)

"Uh, uh, uh, uh, uhhhhhhhh?" (with finger pointing at the object in question), which roughly translates to "What is that object? Why are the best parts moving around in a circle? Why is it so fabulous? Can I touch it? Can I touch it? Can I touch it?" (It's a clock, the hands move to tell time, your aunt picked it out so of course it's fabulous, and no, you may not destroy it.)

"Mommy, can I keep this icicle?" (No.) "But it's for my collection!" (So, where exactly have you put the others?)

"Ah ah ahhhhhh?" (which roughly translates to "I'm doing something I know I am not allowed to do, but is it OK if I do it anyway?" (No, you should not throw every third bite on the floor. Yes, I can assure you that your rejected bites taste exactly the same as the other bites that you devoured. No, I do not enjoy cleaning the floor. Yes, I do wish you would stop.)

"Mom, will the Tooth Fairy leave me what I wish for?" (Well, what are you wishing for?) "A thousand dollars?" (Um, no.)

"Mom, do you remember the game when the Bruins beat the Flames 9 to 0?" (Nope. Not even a little bit.)

"Mom, do I have to eat the carrot?" (Yes. It is the size of my pinkie finger. And if you do not eat it, I will scream like a crazy person because, honestly, it's one stinking little carrot. And I think you choose not to eat it just to see a visible rise in my blood pressure.)

"Mommy, can I have more carrots?" (Yes, but the fact that you are eating them to spite your brother is both admirable and abhorrent on equal levels.)

"Mom, did you know that Justin Bieber got arrested?" (Yes, but you're seven. Why on Earth do you know?)

"Mom, is Heaven higher than outer space? Or is outer space higher?" (This is a good question for Dad when he gets home.)

"Mom, when you die, can you come back?" (Some people think so.) "As many times as you want?" (I guess so.) "When I come back, I'm going to live in California." (Nicely planned, kid.)

"Mommy, can we snuggle?" (I thought you would never ask. And I live in a constant state of fear of the day when you won't ask me anymore.)

"Mom, mom, mom, MOM! What is that noise?" (Dumbass cat got locked in the closet again.)

"Mom, can I have some water?" (The tiniest bit.)

"Mommy, can I have some too?" (Without fail. Every single night.)

...and then, as I walked down the stairs after tucking them in, I wondered a question of my own. It invariably brings a smile to my face and (that which always mystifies Mark) a tear or two (or seventy, depending on the day and my mental state)...  

How is it that they are growing up so fast?

***

So on this peaceful Saturday morning, even when I hide with my coffee and take just a bit too long to get the baby from his crib, I have to remember that time never stands still. This is a gift on some days and a heart-wrenching realization on others. Regardless of the type of day we end up with, I will do my best to savor every moment with these three little men. To soak up the madness and the love in equal parts. And every once in a while, I may throw caution to the wind. Who knows? I might just whip up some hummus and a milkshake for breakfast.

Life without tutus

So, boys. Lots and lots of boys. To be fair, by "lots" I mean the three we have running around our house, but by my unofficial calculations of house size (small) multiplied by craziness level (high), it does indeed feel like we have a whole herd. It generally sounds like it too. And here's the thing about them. Before I had my own herd, I never totally got them. I was raised in a house of girls, my dad being outnumbered four to one. My two sisters and I are best friends to this day, and we have years of cherished memories stemming from a childhood that was, to speak in generalities, pretty girly. My first eighteen years started with stuffed animals, tea parties, and barbies, which gave way to cheerleading and shopping, all of which culminated in sorority house living. (And based on this brief overview, I actually want to punch myself in the face, but hey, it is what it is.)  Growing up through all of this, I always dreamed the little girl dream of the fancy wedding in the fancy white dress with the handsome groom twirling me around the dance floor. And miracle of miracles, this is exactly what happened. (Full disclosure: we twirled to The Humpty Dance and the swear-laden version of Total Eclipse of the Heart. But we twirled nonetheless. And my childhood self would most definitely have approved of the big day.) The wedding daydream was inevitably followed by the mommy daydream. Like most little girls, we pretended that our babies in tow were real little cuddle bugs. We would feed them, rock them, walk them and, of course, dress them. In pink. With bows and ruffles. And on top of that? More bows and more ruffles. Obviously.  But you know what I did not dress them in? As in never, not even once? A Bruins hockey jersey. Or Superman pajamas. Or, God forbid, anything in that wretched camouflage print.

It was six months post-wedding when Mark and I found out we were pregnant, and after much discussion, we decided not to find out the sex of the baby. And really, I loved not knowing. But when my mother bought both sets of Baby Gap bedding "just to be prepared either way," I'd be lying if I said I wasn't lusting after that pink toile pattern. Because it was perfectly precious, just the thing I would have wanted for that baby doll of my youth. But I sort of had a feeling I wouldn't be needing it. And I wasn't sure I had ever seriously considered my life re: the non-toile option.

Reality check #1: September 13, 2006  

"Congratulations! It's a boy!"

They placed him on my chest, and, as anyone who has ever given birth says, it was instant love. Our Andrew. We kissed him and welcomed him. And I knew he was meant to be mine. To be ours. But I also vividly remember thinking, "So, like, what do I do with him?" Because, honestly, I had no idea. Having a boy was so out of my realm of comprehension. But I adapted. And I loved every minute of it. I folded football pj's. I swaddled with the bluest of blankets. And I (very) quickly learned the ultimate survival lesson: you must always (always!) point "it" down in any diaper change scenario. I, my friends, was the mother of a boy.

Then, two years later, pregnancy number two. We went the same route. We chose to be surprised. I loved not knowing. And I knew without official confirmation that it would be another round of blue for us. Sure enough...

Reality check #2: August 5, 2009

"Congratulations! It's a boy!"

They placed the most mellow, beautiful little baby boy on my chest. And again, as they say, my heart instantly doubled in size and in love. Our Mason. Who was the sweetest infant. Who officially made me a mom of boys, plural. Who, about 13 months later, would turn into a little maniac. And this is when the boy thing got real.  From this point on, I would see little girls (the ones I always assumed I would give birth to) sitting quietly, coloring or doing a puzzle (seriously? a puzzle?), whilst Andrew would be in one corner having the tantrum of his little life (awesome) and Mason would be table diving or sofa surfing or eating the crayons that the little girl was trying to color with. But brothers. They were brothers. And I was so happy that they had each other, someone to bond with and share childhood with in that special way that only same sex siblings can.

We knew we wanted three children from the start. (And mother of God, how this has changed our house is cause for a whole separate post.) We knew we wouldn't find out the sex, per usual. But the third pregnancy was different almost from the start. Weird back issues that had never plagued me with the other two. A belly of an odd height, thereby making it impossible for me to wear the same pants I had survived on with the other two pregnancies. Could it be? Was the toile finally to be part of a design scheme? Dare I even think it for a second? But a funny thing happened. People assumed that I was desperate for this to be a girl. They would ask me at the rate of about four times per week, "Will you be OK if it's another boy?" (No, ma'am, I'll need to be medicated.) or, "What will you do if it's a boy?" (Well, we'll obviously be giving him away. There's no more room at the inn for that nonsense.) And I became very protective of my little (giant) belly, where what could be another baby boy was hiding, just waiting for his moment.

Reality check #3: September 26, 2012

"We have another boy!" Mark announced with the biggest smile and a look of slight disbelief.

They handed me the chubbiest little face. Our third baby boy. And my heart squeezed to the point of bursting. Our Oliver. Oliver Parker, named after my grandfather, who (coincidentally) never had a sister either. And so it was meant to be.

In the fifteen months since our third little man was born, it has come to this: I am the mother of boys. Yes, they throw things. Yes, they break things. And they run and they laugh and they scream and they twirl and they wrestle and they do it all again eight times before breakfast. But here's the secret about boys. (Listen closely, because it’s not something they like to advertise.) They love. They love as fiercely as they play. And maybe even just a bit more.

No, it's not what I had dreamed of as a little girl. No, it's not what I had expected. It's life. It's ours. It's real. And I love it more than I ever could have dreamed.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few Bruins jerseys to fold.