My (Very Low-Maintenance) Valentine Wish List

For this Valentine's Day, I've decided to think outside of the box (of chocolates).  I have given it some thought, and this list is what I really want. I don't want to be pushy, but if you know my husband, please let him know that any or all of the gift options would be appreciated. One or two would even be fine. I'm not picky.

1.  a) I would like my metabolism of my early twenties. Think: the days when you could eat a bowl of cheese fries every day for a week and not end up having a belly that resembles a bowl of cheese fries. Valentine's Day is about love. And I love cheese fries.

                                                              -OR-

    b) I would like for the muffin top to be considered fashion forward. Think: Renaissance Era portraits where a bit of roundness meant beauty and fertility. Because I think we can all agree that this is a much easier look to rock, especially since it's the damn fertility that has caused the problem to begin with. I'll even accept that this trend be short lived. Just throw me a bone. And coat it in chocolate.

2.  I would love for my children to think of me and do me small acts of kindness. Off the top of my head, I could suggest they maybe clean the pee from the bowl as an act of love. Wiping up the floor would show devotion. Leaving pee everywhere, be it in the shape of a heart or not, does not convey the appropriate Valentine's Day wish.

3.  It would be lovely if a young teenager - I would even accept a tween - could show up at my doorstep and say these words to me:  Ma'am (I won't even be pissed when she calls me Ma'am), would you allow me to come in and help your children assemble their valentines?  I know it can be an activity that is taxing on the patience, and I would love to take that off your hands. To which I will say, "I will gladly pay you, and I will be in the other room."  I will use this time to drink wine. Red wine, because I obviously want to honor the color of this holiday. I will even go so far as to offer to pay double if this messenger of relaxation can talk the four year old through writing an O on each card and assure him that his arm will not fall off from the enormous amount of effort this task requires. Then I will refill my glass.

We were actually able to make it through without a helper. It was touch and go for a while - his arms simply "could not take anymore!" The good news: he has perfected his capital A. The bad news: his name does not contain the letter A. We are, however, still in need of help with the seven year old's notes. Please send positive thoughts and well wishes.

4.  Could we all please come together as fellow humans and decide that we love each other enough to each donate $1 to the scientific research required to eradicate the stomach bug? I know that in this day and age and crazy-ass political climate that is causing so much strife between us all, it can be difficult to find common ground and easy discussion. But lord help us, if we cannot love one another enough to agree that getting puked on by a child is in need of a solution, then there is really no hope for us as a human race. Let's get this thing solved before one more person has to revisit the previous night's chocolate truffles.

5.  Lastly, I would like someone to declare, officially, that leggings are pants. Also, if we could somehow work in that flannels are appropriate for 9 out of 10 occasions, I would be tickled pink. Or red with hunter accents. Whatever.

In the end, I want my Valentine's Day to be a day during which I am presented with zero calorie cheese fries in a house altogether lacking in urine that requires cleaning, surrounded by children who are all too happy to create crafts showing love for their peers, all the while having no one hurling chunks at my supremely comfortable legwear.

Not to set the bar too high, but Honey, if you love me, you'll make it happen.

xoxo

Never would I ever

I researched a minivan the other day.

"So?" you ask.

"So," I say.

So. This is significant. It will go on the list.

"The list?" you ask.

"The list," I say.

The list of stuff-I-swore-I-would-never-ever-(ever)-do-as-a-parent. The list.

And, friends, it is a long list.

My husband and I laugh - often - at what a-holes we were. For real. We were newly married and childless, and we sat upon our high, pristine SUV horse and made royal decrees of what would never happen in our kingdom should we ever procreate. We had visions of picturesque family moments involving children, happily dressed in Baby Gap, participating in activities of our choosing. There were several children; they never fought. We would never go crazy like our parents had. We would never lose control. Our children would always eat a balanced dinner that we chose, because damn it, we would always be in charge. We would never become that family that had so much going on that we couldn't find ourselves. Only one sport per season. Only appropriate television. Only lovely things in our lovely life. And never, ever a minivan.

The downfall started small. A rearview mirror on the backseat decorated with animals, just so I could see my firstborn cherub's face while I drove. Never would I ever have one of those. Until I did. It was green. It had a giraffe.

But the rest of the list? The rest of the list I would stick to.

It is now eleven years later, and the only thing I have left is my SUV. (And honestly? Regardless of the type of car it is, its floor is covered in crackers, and it is a disgusting Mom-mobile.)

So, let's point out the ways in which I must eat my words, shall we? Just yesterday, I herded three boys into a dirty-ass car after work to get Mason to hockey - a sport I swore no child of mine would ever play. They were dressed in head-to-toe NFL and Star Wars attire. They watched Sponge Bob in the car that now has a TV. As if that technology weren't enough, Andrew played Pokemon Go on the ride back to a house where french toast sticks were dinner for two out of the three. (The third chose chicken, rice and a raw carrot, so I guess I'm 1/3 not a terrible parent.) Bedtime was like an hour after it should have been, and although yes, they did all read, it was not the full 30 minutes required by their school. Oliver, now 4, had me read all of the Star Wars guns to him. Guns. To my four year old. (There are rifles, blasters, and bows in addition to the various lightsabers, in case you were wondering.)

And all of that nonsense will happen again today, tomorrow, and the next day, because we'll also have to get to soccer and football. In case you haven't kept track, that's three fall sports. Three, not one. We'll also have to somehow make it to Open House at the boys' school. Because we obviously have time for that.

I'm sorry. To anyone I've ever judged for anything, I am sorry. My children are so incredibly far from being J. Crew fashionable it's ridiculous. Cereal is a meal. It is sometimes followed by ice cream. My ten year old says "crap" and "freaking" when he thinks I'm not listening. My seven year old lies about doing homework. My four year old loves weapons more than he loves me. All of them probably need a bath, and I imagine that their 28,394 hours of screen time a week would be frowned upon by the American Academy of Pediatrics.

To my 2005 self, I say this: You are a fool. Kids will pee on your rug. They will want to dress themselves according to their taste, not yours. You will buy light-up sneakers. (No, really. You will.) You will buy electronics and allow them to watch horribly non-educational things. You will tread water every day just to get by, and in doing this, you will stop caring if Lucky Charms may not be the best choice. Because at least they're not going to bed hungry AND dirty.

So in this moment, I admit defeat. I admit that I no longer care. This is our life, and we are happy. This is our life, and when we are not screaming at the children, we are happy.

And if I ever end up in the driver's seat of a minivan, I'll honk that horn and give a nod to my old decrees. Then I'll drive the kids to McDonald's for dinner. Because, honestly, we're probably late for something else I swore I'd never do.

Beep, beep.

Always late. Always dirty. That's how we roll.

Port-O-Problems

The spring has hit us this year, as it always does, with chaos of the no-time-to-breathe variety. We, the five of us, have been driving from field to field, game to game (although never together, and always in two separate cars) with nary a chicken nugget to sustain us, and if the winds are favorable that day, we might (**probably not) have all of the requisite sporting equipment for where we are headed. We are never home.

Craziness has consumed us.

If we could do the math for a moment, there are four field locations in town that we've been rotating between, which have six port-o-potties between them. They draw my children in. Call to them. Woo them with their wretched blue magic water that hides neither visual nor smell.

"Mommy," said Oliver one day in a wonder-filled voice of a boy who is horribly and happily three, "is that MY big, huge poop in there?"  He had just walked in and readied himself to add to the glorious and most extensive collection.

"No. No, it's not."

"Do you think a giant dog came in here and did that big poop?"

"Um, I don't think so. But maybe."

"That would be so silly," he concluded, all the while hovering over the poop under discussion, allowing us to fully appreciate its splendor.

Problem number one: The children think it's OK to have a discussion this long while inside the potty. It is not. Gag.

Problem number two:  Number Two at Number Three. On an extra special day a few weeks ago, we were at the farthest possible location from the potties - dreaded Baseball Field Number Three, where the child spectators have an array of broken glass ("Sea glass!!") ("Nope, just regular glass. Give to Mama, please!") along with a used mattress in their wooded "fort" area to entertain them. It is all sorts of awesomeness.  This is when the potties speak the loudest to them. Both the 6 year old and the 3 year old decided that they had to go IMMEDIATELY, and let's GO GO GO!

There are two port-o-potties side by side. Common sense dictates that I had to enter with the younger, sending my middle child in to fend for himself. The good news is that they have air vents that allow him to shout through so as to best communicate with me (along with every single spectator at Field One).

"Mom!! I have a bit in my pants! I couldn't wait!"

No. No. No. No. Noooooooooooo.

Meanwhile, I looked down to help Oliver, and not to be outdone by his big brother, he had decided to bless his undies just a bit, too.

You want to see graceful? You try to take dirty undies off the 3-year-old pooper while making sure he doesn't tumble in / touch anything / lick anything while contained in a 3 foot cube-o-filth, all the while listening to "Moooom! Can you come in and help me?!?" from the filth cube next door.

In the end, I took both pairs of undies off, folded them up nice and tight to contain the damage, left them in the car, and then bathed the children in the sanitizer-like substance they provide. When we finally got home and pulled into the driveway, I shoved the undies into my purse because my hands were full. And then, I got distracted. Distraction is a mother's enemy.

So, the next day, my husband was lucky enough to receive this text at work:

And finally, to make you feel so much better about your own personal parenting decisions - and also to show you that sometimes, the poop emoji might actually serve a purpose - I give you problem number three: The Day It Was Raining, I Was Wearing Flip Flops Inappropriate for the Weather, and Oliver Had to Go.

I'm on the fence as to whether I should even admit this or not. But in my defense, it was really cold, really rainy, and my wet feet just could not (COULD NOT!) handle yet one more trek through a sopping field over to the potty. We were watching the game from the shelter of the car, and we were so happy and so dry. And then, in what was probably a poor parenting decision, this:

(I sent this to my sister. Because if nothing else, sisters can laugh with you about poop and do not judge.)

This, my friends, is what motherhood looks like. It is not sexy. It is not even sanitary. But God bless the soul who created picture messaging so that I can share it.

So now, on this Saturday, we're off to gymnastics, one soccer game, and two baseball games. Since we must find the good in every situation and learn from our mistakes, I'll be wearing sensible footwear and will be armed with wipes, plastic bags and changes of clothes. I'm ready for what the day may bring. I just hope it brings us to potties that have recently been cleaned and emptied. I've set the bar very low for my happiness.

Happy Saturday, friends. May your day be free of all things portable toilet. This is my wish for you.

The last letter

Well, this is it. I knew it would come one day. But I also knew that I still wouldn't be ready.  You've been my pen pal for twenty years now. Twenty years! I know that for you, having been 88 and all, that's sort of just a drop in the bucket. But for me? That's more than half my life. If Gramma had lived, it might be that she had been the intended recipient. But she left us, and it was up to the two of us to forge our way through and figure it out. So I wrote to you. And you saved it all - every last bit of it - and now, without even knowing it (or maybe you did?), you've given me this gift. My life, in snapshot form, there on your faded, red counter for me to rediscover. Every trip I've taken. Every bit of mundane nonsense I've babbled about. Every apartment and car and assignment and job I've ever had was there, documented and ready to relive. It's like having a conversation with you, which is something I have to understand will never happen again.

Life got so busy with three kids, a husband, a job, a house. You understood; you lived it. And I know you knew it without my even knowing you did. So the letters slowed down. Never stopped, but slowed down. Because life sped up. Instead of details about my comings and goings, you opened Christmas cards and party invitations. Instead of postcards from far-off places (I really did see the world, didn't I?), you opened updated wallet sized pictures of little boys who loved you so much. Each new picture different - crazy teeth, no teeth, crazy hair, no hair - all of them marking another change in life for us, while your life chugged steadily along with change so much more subtle that I almost didn't notice. First a cane, then a walker, but always (always) a Subaru, always your music, always your smile and your absolute refusal to admit defeat.

Until now.

So here is my one last letter to you. I know you can't open it. I know you can't save it. But I hope beyond hope that you'll feel the love it's filled with from wherever you are.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Dear Poppy,

Hi there, my old Poppy Pop Pop. We went by your house the other day. We knew you wouldn't be there, and it was so strange to be there without you. But with every step inside, I could feel you. I could smell you. And I can't tell you how much I wished I could hug you again.

We used to talk about everything. I loved to hear your stories. Old tales about your mom ("Mother"), who so desperately wanted proper young gentlemen, but who instead had to wrangle you and your crazy brother out of the pond and into white gloves. I never could quite picture you the proper one. And I still love your refusal to attend anything if you had to wear socks. We used to talk about your love - my Gramma (who probably would have forced you to wear socks to my wedding, by the by.) Your life together, and how much we both missed her. We talked about the old world and what it was like, how it changed, what it became.  We talked about politics and culture, sometimes religion, and we talked about how you built the life around you.

I still have questions.  But you can't answer them.  And this hurts my heart.

You were never quite certain what would happen in "the after."  You didn't think much of much would go on. But Gramma had so much faith in her faith, and she never doubted. So which is it? Did you find each other? Can you see us and feel our love for you across space and time? Could you see us all together - your family that you created - in the house that you built, sharing stories and smiles and tears?  I hope so. And as much as I miss you and am sad to see you go, I have to say this: Whatever it is, you finally solved the mystery of what happens "after". I wish you could share this last tidbit of wisdom, but I know it doesn't work like that. So I will think about you often and wonder. And I will miss you.

Thank you for saving my letters. Rereading them is a gift. A glimpse into the past. My own personal time capsule. I will treasure it always.

So that's it, then. I'll go on my way. And you go on yours. Until we meet again, if that is indeed what shall pass.

I love you so much. But you always knew that.

Love, Alli

p.s. Thanks for all those years of breakfast dates. You were right. The pancakes were fabulous.

p.p.s. If you could please just go find Nancy Reagan, I really do need to know what she thinks about Donald Trump. This I must insist on.  xoxo

Nine is just fine

I've never been overly impressed with the "six" year of any given decade. Nothing against them - it's just that they were always one year before or one year after something really cool happened. 1985: my baby sister was born. 1987: I turned 10. 1986: just bleh. 1995: I graduated from high school. 1997: I started dating my love. 1996: just bleh. 2005: Mr. '97 and I got married. 2007: We bought our first house. 2006: WAIT! FIRST BABY WAS BORN! NOT BLEH AT ALL! (Although, on days when he wouldn't stop screaming even for a gulp of air, I was totally wishing for some bleh.)

The little guy who finally made a "six year" worth something!

So now, as the calendar has turned to 2016, my initial reaction was to be like, "Oh, a "six" year? Bleh. Nothing much to see here."  Except that, a minute later, I was like, "Oh, holy hell! Wait a minute! 2006 was a big deal, which means that 2016 is just as exciting!"  Because my "baby" boy, the one whose socks are now confused with mine in the laundry, is turning ten this year. Double digits, my friends! It's the only major digit change in this boy's life until he reaches the big 1-0-0! (Which his children had better celebrate grandly, so help me.)

But here's a secret: I'm sort of wishing we could just pause here for a bit. Because nine is not bleh. Nine is charming. Nine is sweetness and sass, both in manageable amounts. Ten scares me. Ten looks way too much like middle school and girls and the reality that is hours of homework and friends doing crazy things. But nine? Nine is just fine, thank you very much. And nine is all mine.

Nine rushes downstairs in the morning to check SportsCenter, but does it clutching blankie in the remote control hand.

Nine tries to cuddle and nuzzle in for a hug, but almost tips me over doing it with the force of a wild boar.

Nine believes in all the magic of the world but all the rationality of the times tables in equal parts.

Nine wants to swim out to the deep end to do tricks, but wants me to watch each and every one.

Nine wants to go to school to see his friends, but runs off the bus and into my car every day back to our safe cocoon.  

Nine loves Sponge Bob, but still laughs at Sesame Street.

Nine loves me in all of its single digit glory.

I really hope that ten doesn't come along and tell him that loving his mommy is "so last decade." And when he hits the triple digits in another far-off, not-so-bleh six year? I hope that third digit wants a hug from me just as badly. Wherever I am, I'll be waiting for it.

~ {p.s.} ~

I sometimes wonder where this little face has gone to...

but then this guy wants to cuddle and read a story, and I suddenly see that it's been right there this whole time.

An unexpected magical moment

A few years ago, I had either been feeling extra jolly, or I had just had a nice glass of red. But either way, the result is that our Christmas card had the following message in it:

"Every day has a bit of magic to be found. Look for it. Believe in it. And treasure it always."

Well, here's the thing. It's sometimes rather difficult to look for magic in a day when you're busy yelling and looking for the one missing shoe that is going to make your kids miss the bus. Life is chaotic. Every day. All the time. And lately, with the rush of the holidays and the general mess that is life with children, I feel like I've lost my way from my original optimistic message.

My coping mechanism has been to sneak out of bed and down the stairs around six in the morning in an attempt to be somewhat productive until the house wakes up. I grade papers, or I make lunches, or sometimes - dare I say it - I just enjoy a quiet room. I may get thirty minutes. Sometimes I get a full, blessed hour. (This is when I hear the actual angels on high.)

So today, just as I sat down on the couch with a most glorious cup of coffee, I heard the creak of size 9 baby feet creeping down the stairs. Creak, creak, creak. And I cringed just a bit. I am ashamed to even admit it, but I did. Because I really just wanted to be left alone for one minute.

But then, just as I felt myself getting irritated, this happened:

He shuffled silently over, climbed right up, and lay his soft little head in my lap. The warmth of this little boy in pajamas filled me with so much love. Peace that was almost tangible settled on my shoulders and into my being, and I saw what it was all about. Over his head, I could see all of our family memories on this tree. The macaroni wreath of a preschooler, a baby handprint made as we held our little bundle, a popsicle stick snowflake that came home crammed into a backpack - all of these hold a moment frozen in time where our boys have handed these things to us with their chubby little hands and so much pride in their eyes. And this littlest boy with his littlest hands lay on me with trust and so much love, and I felt my heart grow in that moment.

In the end, I did nothing productive before we started our day, but I was every bit the better for it. Because this was today's bit of magic to be found. And I will treasure it always.

Accepting It

Our oldest "gentleman" just turned 9, followed by his brothers, 6 and 3, so we've had them for a while now (and I guess we'll keep 'em). It's taken some time, but we're finally starting to get a handle on this whole parenting thing. Only recently, however, have I come to realize this: No matter what I say or how I plead, there are a few truths in our crazy life that I never expected to come to terms with, but shockingly, come to terms with It all I have.

(Please note: "It" will henceforth be referred to as a proper noun with a capital I, because It is a being unto itself, a thing who comes to live amongst your family members right under your nose, completely unnoticed by you until the very day you realize that life is going on, but not at all according to plan, because It does not actually care what you had planned.)

So after nine years, this is what It means to us:

It means that every time I take a shower, there will be a conflict / injury / general discontent in some other quadrant of the home involving cartoon choice / Pokemon card debate / wrestling injury that I will be able to hear through running water AND a closed door. No joke - every single time. People, I just want clean hair and a moment of peace. Why don't they get It?

It means that if I clean my car inside and out on a Wednesday, this same car will end up twice as dirty by the stroke of midnight on Thursday - goldfish literally swimming out of the seat cracks and the rear windows smeared with disgusting mystery opaqueness. I appear not to have any regard for cleanliness or my surroundings regardless of what I do. I cannot solve It.

It means that one child will always wake up at least one other child in the house at a ridiculously early hour, no matter what I promise or what I threaten. I cannot control It.

It means that by the time all the children are in some type of safe learning environment and I'm on my way to work, I will need to find a way to disguise at least one smudge of substance, identifiable or otherwise, on my skirt and/or shoulder before I start my day. It also means that regardless of personal preference, I wear more patterns and fewer solids because of the need to camouflage It.

It means that no matter how I instruct the children otherwise, at least one of them will come home with dirty trash in their lunch boxes. For the love of all that's holy, can we at least agree that the Gogurts need not be returned home half-consumed? Are they thinking of finishing them later? Are they just that lazy? Gross, boys. The word for It is gross.

It means that at the end of the day, I will be exhausted from defending valid arguments against nonsensical beings. Oreos are not ever going to be for breakfast, but after a 20 minute tantrum, there's a quick second where I think It would be easier to just give in.

It means that as much as I have whimsical visions of my boys being a walking ad for Baby Gap, Mini Boden, or similar, they will instead look like this:

His hat pains me, but it was his birthday dream come true. I can possibly persuade him to wear a polo shirt once a year for an hour photo shoot, but only if the Red Sox necklace stays on.

And this:

He is dressed like a different character every day.
I can still trick him into wearing polos and boat shoes on occasion.

And this:

This guy? Always looks like a mad scientist.
He may or may not be wearing clothes at any given point in the day, polo shirt or otherwise.

I have to find the pride that at least they are taking charge and finding their own identities. And wearing underwear. (Sometimes.) It's the little things, isn't It?

And finally, as I deal with It day after day after day, the children are somehow suddenly years older, and I realize that It is life. And whether or not I like their flat brim hats or character T-shirts, I had better get on board anyway, because if I don't, I am going to wake up, and It is going to have passed me by.

It may mean that daily life will never be totally in my control - sigh, wipe boogers off shoulder, shove slimy lunchbox into dishwasher that I will forget to run. 

But It will never mean Oreos for breakfast. For them. But me? I have earned It.

What should have been your happily ever after

To a certain woman whose life changed so drastically all those years ago today,

You were supposed to have been engaged. You were meant to have the most beautiful, perfectly perfect of rings, one flawless diamond flanked by an equally perfect sapphire on either side. Platinum, I'm guessing, because he knew that's what you would want. That ring on your finger would be the start of a life together. Of a family, maybe. Of children who never had the chance to know either their mother or their father. Because they never had the chance to be born.

I think of you often, sometimes at the oddest of moments. You had such an impact on me, on my view on life, which is odd considering I don't know who you are.

But I do know enough.

You had a boyfriend. You wanted a fiancé. And I'm sure you told him so, just as I did mine. Maybe you described your perfect ring. Maybe he just knew you loved blue. But either way, he nailed it. He had that ring made at a small store in Waterbury, Connecticut, and honestly, it was beyond gorgeous.

He had it made for you. Just for you. Because you were the one for him. Because you were his future.

But he went to New York on September 11, 2001. I don't know where he worked. I don't know if he was just visiting that day. But I do know that he never came back.

And that ring. Your ring. It sat there in the back of that small jewelry store, waiting to be claimed. By you, who may not even have known it existed. Because he never had the chance to pick it up.

And when I walked into that store one fall day, a few months after the terrorists rocked our world, it was just for a moment of whimsy. To pretend that I really was looking for a ring. Just to be fanciful, really. Just how it probably started for you.

"I have just the thing you're describing," the jeweler said to me. "It's right about your size, too - you can try it on just to get a feel for the color."

"It's gorgeous," I said, showing the ring to my mother, who had indulged my fantasy and come into the jewelry store with me, allowing me to dream of a day when an actual engagement ring would be mine. I tried it on as a play thing, as a shiny piece of pretend, not knowing that what I had on my finger should really have been on yours.

"It was actually a special design I made for someone," he said. "He died in the Trade Center on 9/11. The ring has been sitting here, waiting to be claimed."

I actually lost my ability to breathe for a moment. And I could not, could not, get that ring off of my finger fast enough. Your ring. The one you should have had on your left hand. The hand that should have been flipping through wedding magazines and holding champagne, not crumpling tissues and wiping tears.

I hope that finger wears a different ring now. And I hope you have children, who carry a future on which to hang hope. And that your babies, getting so big so fast, want to play dress up and pretend and watch your wedding video of Mommy and Daddy, another Prince Charming who found his way to you, giving you a different, unimagined version of happily ever after.

And I hope with all hope that your ring made its way to you and that you have it tucked away as a pocket of love to cherish. I never knew you. And I never knew him. But there's one indisputable fact that I know to be true: He loved you so much. And he most certainly wanted you to have it.

A little bit of perspective and a little bit of shame

It's been one of those days.

The boys have been fighting. And not listening. And fighting. And not listening. And just for good measure, fighting some more. It was our first real day of summer vacation because we've been on the go until today. Our first day of downtime. Our first day without any type of schedule to speak of. We were not coping well.

 "Mom? Mom? Mommy? Mom? Mommy? Moooommmmmm???" is what I've had screamed in my general direction for roughly 10 hours now.

So by the time Mason decided to use the nice note cards that I just bought after I had already said no 28 times, I. Was. Done. And I exploded.

"No one ever listens!" I ranted. "I'm sick of it! It's ridiculous! Why does no one ever listen to me when I say no??!?"

Ugh.

"But Mommy," he started to sob, "I was just writing everyone a note!"

And he was. One for each brother. One for Daddy. One for me. "Momi," he wrote carefully on the front of the envelope in his perfectly practiced kindergarten handwriting.

Giant crocodile tears streamed down his face. He cried with all of his five-year-old might. He was heartbroken. And then, all of a sudden, so was I.

This is what I found in his sad little hand:

In case you can't read his "Mason phonics", it says:
"Momi, Luve You, Mason" (written in what he has decided is cursive)

And in that moment, a five year old taught his thirty-seven-year-old mother a lesson. Life is short. Hearts are fragile. And note cards, no matter how much they cost, are just paper - meaningless without precious sentiment poured inside.

I'm willing myself to guard this moment carefully and revisit it again when I need perspective, even if it is 28 times a day. Because really, I should know better.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll write the little guy an apology. I think I know just the note card to use.

To the girl in the blue bikini

It just happened to be your chosen spot of relaxation that put you in my path. I saw you, quite literally, as soon as my feet hit the sand.

I was the crazed lady pushing a toddler in a stroller while I chased children - plural - and balanced a beach bag that contained magazines - zero, pails - three, and beverages - the boring kind.

You were the girl in a lovely cobalt bikini relaxing on your blanket, propped up on your beach bag that most likely contained magazines - three, pails - zero, and beverages - the fun kind. You were reading a Nicholas Sparks book. And you gave me a smile that said, "Oh, you poor, poor, crazy, crazy lady." But not in a mean way. In a "I can't even imagine for a second what it's like to be you" way.

We both had a nice pedicure. The similarity stopped there. (And you are grateful for that.)

But you see, this has happened to me once before.

She was the crazed lady unloading an SUV full of children - plural - onto a sidewalk in Brookline in the summer of '03.

I was the girl in the lovely sundress parking my VW Cabrio across the street from her. I gave her a smile that said, "Oh, you poor, poor, crazy, crazy lady." But not in a mean way. In a "I can't even imagine for a second what it's like to be you" way.

We both had a nice pedicure. The similarity stopped there. (And I was grateful for that.)

"I used to be you," she said, smiling back at me. "I had that same car. That was a lifetime ago."

And off she went, crazy children in tow. I remember it as if it were an hour ago, not twelve years ago.

Now, in the summer of '15, I see how the torch has been passed.

At the end of the day, I saw you once again as you still sat in blissful silence on a sand-free blanket while I walked by, crazy children in tow.

"I used to be you," I said, smiling back at you. "I had that same bikini. That was a lifetime ago."

And off I went with my children - plural - to load my beach bag into an SUV that most definitely was not a convertible.

Potty Training Day(s) - Forecast: Very, very wet

This is dedicated to anyone out there who is having their first crack at this whole potty training thing. (Pun intended.) We're now on our third round in this house, so let me say this: Potty training is awesome! (No, it's not.) Potty training is easy! (No, it's not.) I love it! ( I do not.) But train these little creatures we must. There's a reason why they don't make Thomas the Train undies in a size 14. Because that would just be gross.

So here's what I can tell you. There are things you won't know until you know, and I feel like I should give you a heads-up before you start. I can personally only speak to potty training the gentlemen of the world, but I'm sure some of this crosses quite nicely over the gender line. So, disinfectant at the ready! I would like to call this bit:

 "Things I Didn't Know Until It Was Too Late. And Too Wet. And Too Smelly."

• As you embark on this journey, you should know that "I think I have to go poops" generally means "I have already pooped in my pants. Please fix it." This will happen at a very inconvenient time and/or location.

• The "Let Them Walk Around Naked and Figure It Out" approach is pretty effective and awesome until you hear that telltale plop on the floor. Run, do not walk, to the nearest container of Clorox wipes. Apply liberally. (To the floor. Not the baby.)

• Bleach is always the answer. You will need it for everything. The floor. The walls. (Yes, the walls.) The laundry. Just. Bleach.

• There will most likely be "a bathtub incident." Refer to previous bullet point for all possible solutions. (Hint: there's only one solution.)

• Many things will end up in the toilet. Some of these things are supposed to be there. (Hooray! You are a potty trainer extraordinaire!) Some of these things are not supposed to be there. (Hooray! You can buy everyone a new toothbrush immediately!) And then refer to the previous bullet point. Again. (FYI, the third bullet point is generally the right answer for all given potty training scenarios.)

• Two words: Public toilets. Because although staying home forever will seem like the better option, you will eventually need to emerge from your comfortable potty abode. Once you venture out, you will see toilets that have every imaginable substance in, on, and/or near them. The dirtier the toilet, the more your child will insist that he or she needs to pee immediately. Get ready to see your child touch everything. Twice. You will die a little bit inside. Get used to it.

• Any toilet your child has access to in the home will follow this approximate cycle:  4:00 - dirtiest toilet you've ever seen. 4:01 - cleanest toilet you've ever seen. 4:05 - dirtiest toilet you've ever seen. 4:06 - cleanest toilet you've ever seen. This will now be your life. There is no end in sight as far as I can tell. But damn if you aren't going to be the best toilet cleaner around.

So there you have it. Hang in there. Chin up. Laundry basket and wine at the ready. Because six minutes after those new Paw Patrol underpants come out of the gate, you're gonna need all of it.

Cheers!

p.s. You should also know that each child will have his or her own style. Our third happens to be a "stand tall and proud while I point and shoot" kind of a guy. And like I said, some things will end up in the bowl that should not be there. Ten precious little piggies, for example. There's a reason the bathtub is so close to the toilet bowl. Happy training!

The very busy toddler

Once, there was a very busy boy. And he was very loud. So very, very loud. But sometimes he was quiet. So very, very quiet. And his mommy needed quiet. She knew quite well that this loud little boy should not be quiet, but sometimes she dared to enjoy a quiet minute - just one - before investigating. And this was never, ever a good idea.

And so the story unfolds...

On Monday, the little boy discovered one roll of toilet paper. And he was very quiet.

On Tuesday, the little boy discovered one tub of Aquaphor. And he was very quiet.

On Wednesday, the little boy discovered one tube of toothpaste. And he was very quiet.

On Thursday, the little boy discovered one bowl of lollipops.

And he was very quiet.

On Friday, the little boy discovered one thermostat. And he was very quiet. (And they were all very cold.)

On Saturday, the little boy discovered one bin of markers. And he was very quiet.

On Sunday, the little boy discovered one bottle of water, one box of crayons, one unlocked door, one empty neighborhood street, one pair of scissors, one toilet brush, one Chapstick and three grill forks from the basement. That day, he was very, very quiet.

The next morning, his mommy decided that she should never enjoy another quiet moment ever, ever again. This was to be for the good of all involved. And so they lived happily ever after in the noisiest house of all time, where the front door would remain forever dead bolted and the counters would forever be cavity-free.

The End.

Here white, there white, everywhere you look white

OK, boys, listen. Dad and I need you to know something about the world. It's life changing, and it's going to alter your outlook forever. Are you ready for it?

Here it is:

You know that thing we call the ground? Well get this: It isn't always going to be white.

No really, we're not lying.

I know, I know. It's been so long that you don't remember. And that's OK. I think it will look familiar to you when you finally do see it again. But just in case you don't, we need to teach you about what it was like so that you too can pass that information on to your own children. You know, in case the ground never shows itself again.

First thing of importance: You know those chains in the backyard? The ones that just disappear beneath the surface and seem to provide no real purpose? There's something at the end of them, down below the layer of white. They're called swings. No, not slings. Swings. Yes, that's right. Now, a swing used to be a really fun thing that you could sit on and then rock back and forth using your legs. Yes, your legs! No, you're right, but it's because you wouldn't have to wear snow pants, so you could actually bend them in order to pump the swing. I promise, I am not lying. You would actually be able to bend your legs outside.

Look closely, kids. If you squint, you can catch a glimpse of the fabled swings.
We took this just before they were fully covered and all hope was forever lost.

There's also this thing called grass. It's like little pieces of green plants that cover the ground. It's soft and you could play on it, and you used to be able to run and run and run on it as fast as you can! Because guess what? The grass does not come up to your knees and hold your legs stuck in place. And you don't even need boots to walk on it! I know it sounds like I'm making this up, but I assure you. There is a grass-covered promised land somewhere out there for you. I need you to swear that if it can never again be found here in Massachusetts, you will one day go out in search of it. It will be well worth the trip. And when you find it, promise you'll take off your shoes and wiggle your toes on it and think of me.

And finally, the best piece of news: the beach. That's right, kids, the beach. You know how you had to wear boots the other day because it was too cold and too slippery? Well, you might still have to wear shoes, it's true. But it's because the sand is...wait for it...TOO HOT! Can you even imagine? A heat source other than a fire? I swear to you, it's a thing to marvel at. What's that? Sand? Well, I guess I should save that for another conversation on another day. I don't want to overload your little brains with too much at once.

Maybe we can talk about that in July, after we get our fleece-lined bathing suits. But yes, sand is amazing.

I hope you can one day have this conversation with your children or your grandchildren about how yes, in fact, the ground was once covered in white.

And I hope they can't even believe it.

That's right, boys. Just keep walking until you find warmth.

Adieu old friend. You were comfy while it lasted.

~

Fare thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well.

-Lord Byron

~

Dear Big Red,

You were a good ol' couch, and man did I love you. For fourteen years, you stood proud. A beacon of Pottery Barn-esque loveliness, marred only slightly by your second-class Bernie and Phyl's bloodline. You were always bright-eyed. You always welcomed us with open arms. You cuddled us and comforted us and kept us cozy. You welcomed friends and family near and far. From time to time, each of us in turn slumbered on you when the bed seemed just too far away.

And in the later years, you welcomed us at 2 a.m. while we comforted little ear infections and stuffy noses. This, I'm sad to say, was the beginning of the end for you. These little people, you welcomed them as you had welcomed us. They took your invitation to heart, and they, quite literally, loved you to death. Because there you sit, fourteen years later, looking like the scene of a crime while you decorate our curb like yesterday's trash. (Full disclaimer: you were, in fact, sitting there with yesterday's trash. Sorry, man.)

Stay strong, Red. May you be free to comfort others in the afterlife. I wish you happiness. I wish you love. And I wish for you to come back in the next life covered in a nice, washable fabric.

Carry on, old boy. Until we meet again.

Big Red
2001-2014

Have yourself an elfie little Christmas

'Tis the season, friends. All is merry. All is bright. All is calm. Unless you forgot to move the damn elf.

I've looked into it, and here's the thing of it. I'm pretty sure when Santa Claus decided to send forth his minion army of Elves on Shelves, it wasn't done with an innate desire to torture all parents.

"Oooooh boy," he thought, as he rested his laptop on his ample middle, typing up the final details of the plot-to-end-all-Christmas-joy-for-parents. "This'll get 'em!" Not so much, though, right? I'm pretty sure it was just created to bring along a smile or two to the children. And a bajillion dollars to its actual creator, but that's a whole other story.

I actually have a secret about the whole elf thing; it may or may not make you want to punch me.

I love our elf. 

Let me be clear on this. I have most certainly directed a middle finger (or two) at Sprinkles at roughly 11:47 pm upon the realization that he still needed to fly for the night. I have thrown my pajama-clad children out of the way at 6:03 am to race down the stairs, only to move the elf seconds before they start looking. There's no greater panic at this stage in our parenting lives. (And for this I am thankful.) But to keep the magic alive? You bet your bowl full of jelly that I haul my Christmas ass out of bed and move that thing.

And this is the reason:

Here the boys shall sit. All day, all night. Lost in the magic.

At this stage of the game, this is what actual true love looks like.

Sprinkles even inspired a serious kindergarten portrait.
They perch together, life imitating art.

Because Sprinkles is a member of our family. True story.

The boys love him with every fiber of their being. They talk about him all year long, predicting exactly when he might return from the North Pole. They tell him secrets. ("Sprinkles, we really want a dog!") (To which I whisper at a later hour, "No elfing way, Sprinks.") They screech with delight when they find him upon his initial return, and then again each and every morning until his departure on Christmas Eve. And they cry - real, actual tears of sadness - each year when he has gone back to be with his elf family. They miss him so fiercely, which some may see as freakishly unhealthy, but I figure this: their emotion is real. Their love is real. And for them to feel so much love for one more thing in life, even if he is small and red and creepy-as-hell? Why not? With each day, their hearts beat stronger and with more love and more joy and more emotion. I'm happy to raise boys who can love something - anything - with so much passion. Hopefully one day their love will be transferred to a few daughters-in-law worthy of their passion, their own house full of chubby, angelic faces, and one stealthy, red elf perched above it all.

One more night, friends. We can do this.

And then, I allow you to shove that little punk back from whence he came.

Merry Christmas, everyone. May the joy of the season be yours.

In the end, I did not sell the children

Saturday, September 20, 2014 {Day 1}

Hurrah! Am capable mother of three! Husband is gone, but can do this. Will do this! Will celebrate life and beautiful September day while cheering on various soccer games and entertaining mini spectator who is not quite two. Will embrace beauty in world and be thankful for variety of blessings.

Will maintain control. Stand by decision of McDonald's departure based on sibling bickering. Will drive quietly and calmly. Will not yell.

Am unsure of husband's trip duration. Twelve days? More? Would probably be helpful to have husband's flight info. Or hotels. Or at very least, return date. Although will be positive and uplifted in spirits as we approach possible return date. Will check when husband is off plane roughly 96 hours from now.

Children are fed and clean. Am in control of everything.

Boys are sleeping. I am eating cookies. All is right with world.

Sunday, September 21, 2014 {Day 2}

Is beautiful and sunny day! Must send boys outside! Am capable mother who promotes physical fitness and imagination!

Alone in quiet house, but cannot hear self think over spin cycle of overworked washing machine in process of dying. Will investigate selling next child who pees in bed.

Mason upset, missing Daddy. Look at wall map. Locate Vietnam. Is much farther south than previously imagined. Manage to play it cool and relay invaluable knowledge of South China Sea. Now clear that "South" in title of sea was clue as to southern location.

Children are fed. One child is clean. Evening still success in spite of dirty feet. Will cover with socks tomorrow.

Dinner consists of one 32 lb burrito. Is being consumed far too close to bedtime. Cutting into cookie eating time. Also, must buy more cookies.

Monday, September 22, 2014 {Day 3}

Have spent all available energy enforcing homework and broccoli eating. Baby's bath was equivalent of wrestling wet seal, as he did not want to leave tub and used slippery skin as ally. Considering allowing baby to sleep in tub. Wondering if this would be acceptable. Will begin search for tub-sized pillow.

Will serve Lucky Charms for dinner tomorrow. Do not have energy for round 2 of broccoli fight. Will assume some level of nutritional value while enjoying stress-reducing benefits of combat-free home environment. Am genius!

Have to work tomorrow night. New sitter coming. Sent long, detailed text to sitter. Next time will send text to correct sitter. May consider earlier bedtime so as to resume functional thought.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014 {Day 4}

Vacuumed for sitter so children will not become lost in piles of crumbs. Oliver not comfortable in clean surroundings. Addressed discomfort with spontaneous projectile crackers.

Practicing Oprah's breathing technique. Would like for Oprah to send breathing coach. Would also like Oprah to send cleaning woman.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014 {Day 5}

Tired. Oh so tired. Me. Not children. (Why not children??)

Please send help. And wine. Please send help and wine.

Thursday, September 25, 2014 {Day 6}

Searched for library book for more time than was spent actually reading library book. Will consider organizational improvements. Or will ban further intellectual pursuits for children, as proving too stressful for maternal figure. Ban easier to enforce than organizational conformity.

Freezer is void of ice cream. Have entered crisis stage of existence.

Friday, September 26, 2014 {Day 7}

Day 2 of ice cream crisis. Considered entering grocery store with three children. Decided to churn own ice cream instead. Should be easier.

Baby turns two today (!!) - has been blowing out fake candles for majority of day. Party not for one more week. Should be professional whistler by time husband returns.

Baby spent portion of afternoon rolling in rock driveway during tantrum fit. Seemed comfortable.

Saturday, September 27, 2014 {Day 8}

Consumed mayonnaise expired in 2012. Should now verify boys' comprehension of 911. Hoping they will take break from Sponge Bob to notice body. Also hoping boys will survive on dry cereal until husband returns to find Lord Of The Flies conditions and wife expired due to mayo incident. Will try to scribble last wishes on memo board.

Baby found wandering in living room singing "oooooooh shit, oooooooh shit, oooooooh shit."

Possible that parenting not my calling. Must investigate other avenues.

Have given up. Am eating frosting out of can.

Sunday, September 28, 2014 {Day 9}

Is beautiful morning! Have renewed parenting inspiration and can see light at end of tunnel!

Have completed early morning virtual grocery trip for afternoon delivery. Vegetables are coming! Have thrown vile frosting in trash can. Shall remain healthy and happy mother of three.

Grocery delivery brought new level of happiness.

Apples! Tomatoes! Bananas!

And ice cream. Sweet, sweet ice cream.

Baby noticed Daddy missing. Demanding Daddy come in from car in driveway. Is unable to comprehend empty car. Has thrown sippy cup in protest. Four times.

Special Lego project with Mason. Day full of Lego stress negates happy grocery aura.

Monday, September 29, 2014 {Day 10}

Will wear anything to work not needing iron. Bar is set to basic survival. House clean in sporadic moments.

Is late, am watching television. House is quiet. Must enjoy quiet, not waste quiet on sleep.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014 {Day 11}

Why? Why did I watch TV? So very tired! Must see bright side. Bright side has coffee. Much coffee.

Sent each boy to school with wrong lunchbox. Now suffering ridiculous lunchbox guilt while boys fight over seats on couch. Is too dramatic to throw couch out window? Was on fence about baby #4. Am currently off fence. Will possibly never see fence again.

Somebody please find source of mystery mooing in living room.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014 {Day 12}

Husband comes home today! Hurrah!

He will find: Clean(ish) children who have eaten food, nutritious or otherwise, playing in clean(ish), couchless living room echoing with mystery mooing sound.

He will not find: wife, as she will be getting pedicure. In France.

Au revoir, mon amour. Don't forget to check the mayo before you eat it.

One last one

To my sweet little buddy on this, your last night of being one.

Just one. One year old. How did that happen so fast?  First, you were one hour, and we marveled at the tiniest little creature in our arms, so new to this world. We rested our eyes for just a minute, and you were one day. And we knew you just a bit more. We brought you home to this chaos of brothers, and life took over. You were suddenly one week. One month. One year. We marked every milestone. Every occasion. Every miraculous time you turned one once more.

But tomorrow you are two. And that is the end of the one era that happens once in your life.

It is just one day of difference. But as time marches on, one day at a time, there's one thing we know so well, and that is this: there is no going back. Not even for one minute.

Because you are one, you won't remember today.

But if you could, I would want you to remember standing in your crib on the eve of your birthday, lifting up your perfect little chin, asking me for one more kiss - just one. Like you. Just for one instant more.

The place where time stands still

As August rolls to a lazy end and the carefree days are starting to blend ever-so-slightly with reality, I find myself thinking about summer and its traditions wrought with their magical ability to freeze time. Traditions that you look forward to, where you arrive almost as if you have never left, and without taking notice of the previous 364 days, you feel like you have been put right back into place, every last bit of it unchanged.

For us, it is a lake tucked away in Maine. To give you a general idea of the crowd - my husband's entire family - you need to know that a) he is one of four children, and b) each of them has three or four kids. The whole congregation of 24 crazies packs up what is necessary (97 pails, 46 bathing suits, 36 cases of soda, 172 cases of beer and 2 boats...just the actual bare minimum of what is needed...) and heads up to the lake that awaits us year after year. This is the thing that our boys wait for; this is their "summer thing."

"Mom, which boat will we go on to get ice cream?" (Whichever one you want.) "Who will still be wearing pajamas in the morning when we play?" (No idea, but my money's on you fools.) "Will we all play our games together?" (Without question.) "Will we make s'mores?" (By the dozens.)

We field these questions year-round (Andrew was just planning next year's pajamas this past week. These sorts of plans will continue sporadically throughout the next eleven months.) The closer we get, the more rapidly the questions are fired at us. Will we get fudge? Pops? Can we jump off the dock? Can we swim right away? Who will get there first? Will we be last? Will Grammies make breakfast in her "cavin?" How many chocolate chip pancakes can we have? Are we there yet? How about now? Now?"

When we finally (finally!) pull onto the drive and hear the crunch of the gravel under our tires, the questions stop and the amazement sets in. We step out of the car, look around, and all I can think is Man, this place does not change. The field, the beach, the dock, the cabins. It's all sitting there, frozen in time, just waiting to be brought to life by dirty little feet running wild. And in the second it takes me to process this thought, they've taken off at full speed, off on a new adventure.

It's one week a year, and the week flies by. We sit, we drink, we eat, we drink, we laugh, we drink. And just like that, it's over. And each year as we leave for home, I think A whole year will go by before I see this place again, but just as quickly, we are packing again and coming back to this place. It is so full of memories of cousins running and laughing (and fighting, sometimes, but not even as much as you'd expect.) Scary stories at the fire (why seven and eight year olds talk so much about decapitation is scary indeed) and s'mores. Little ones jumping off the dock into calf-deep water and being as excited as if it were an actual Olympic dive.

And at some point, you can't help but notice that among these tallest pine trees in the middle of the woods that have not changed even a branch in fifty years, and we grown-ups who may have aged slightly (but certainly not to the naked eye, thank you very much), the kids? Who are these tall strangers running around before us? My five year old who once allowed his older cousins to paint his nails pink? Not a trace of him in his now almost-eight-year-old self. And I dare you to try to paint his nails now. My two year old who was terrified of his uncle's boat to the point of hysteria? Now five, running full force, desperate to get his life jacket on fast enough to make it aboard before they leave. And the baby? The one who was a "mere" gigantic basketball in my stomach two years ago? The one who ventured on his very first inch of crawling last year among those cabins? He now runs faster than I do on most occasions, and never (ever!) in a safe direction. He spent this year's week plotting, along with his one-year-old cousin, how to best enter the lake unobserved by us fun-ruining, good-for-nothing adults. I have no doubt that next year, they will actually steal one of the boats.

So as we adults relax around the fire pit under the stars, day after day over the course of the week, year after year with our families, amused to tell our same stories for the sixtieth time and laugh and laugh and laugh, as if it were the first time any of us have heard them, we are surrounded by the next generation who are running and laughing (and fighting, sometimes, but not even as much as you'd expect...) and just for a moment, I can actually see their stories materializing in the crisp Maine air, something you can almost grab on to and send ahead to another campfire twenty years from now.

And who knows? Maybe among those trees and that lake and those cabins, we will sit with them as they tell their same stories and laugh and laugh and laugh, all the while marveling at how much they have grown and how much has changed in this place where nothing changes at all, in this place where time stands still.

Sign THIS, lady.

In other non-news, we're waiting for words over here from the 20 month old. We've got a few. "Done," as he hands over an empty cup. "Hiiiiii baba," to say hi to either brother. "Habitat, habitat," which were lyrics that our seven year old practiced over and over (and over) for his first grade show. Other than a few extra random tidbits, there's not much communicating going on with actual words. Throwing? Yes. Yelling? Certainly. Words? Not so much.

So I think to myself, hmmmm. What could improve this situation? Think, think, think. Sign language! That's it!  I never used baby sign language with the older two. With my oldest, it didn't occur to me. And, bonus, he really could have used it. (Sorry, kid.) The middle one just didn't need it and has been demanding that his needs be met since 2010 without so much as a five minute break. We have friends who have done it with great success, their babies telling them "eat" and "all done" as everyone cheers the little star on. So why not? Let's get on this horse, eh?

I chose one word, the sign for "more," so as to avoid the pointing/grunting/fussing trifecta, when in his head he's saying, "For the love of God, woman, I just need more crackers! MORE CRACKERS! Why can't you get on that?"

This is what he's supposed to be doing:

{picture happy, chubby baby calmly expressing his wants and needs with a simple hand movement}

And this is what he took away from the lesson:

(Oliver gets in touch with his inner Ross Geller)

So, have I taught him a life skill? Yes. Most assuredly to come in handy once he enters the real world. Or once his brothers hit the teen years. But for now, I have to content myself with a baby smiling at his loving mama, proudly bumping his fists together, telling me in not so many words to "f" off and get him some more damn crackers.

It would seem that the only thing left to do is teach him the sign for please.

The face of the third child

There are many things that could be written about a third child and what this baby does to a family. The beauty of what they add. The chaos of what they add. The fact that this third miracle takes the current arrangement of a 1:1 parent-child ratio and throws it right out the car window, probably along with his shoes. And the parents are too busy to notice or even to care. Barefoot he shall stay, which is a good thing, because it's one less thing to lug back inside the house. 

Once you have adjusted and accepted that you will forevermore be outnumbered by these short creatures, you soon realize that there is a reason for stereotypical birth order traits. Our third child is exactly what he is: the third child. It is simultaneously all about him and never about him. He is dragged around town whether it suits him or not. He is woken up from the deepest of sleeps because someone needs to go somewhere for the ninth time that very day. He is loved to the point of being strangled and played with to the point of being trampled. He rolls with it because he has no choice. He's chill. He's crazy. He's stealth and ninja-like. It's survival of the fittest, and he's doing just fine.

The third child is...

The third child is taken to the park during nap time. He is then photographed first, comforted second.

The third child plays near the cool playground but not actually on it because it's just slightly out of acceptable T-ball spectating range...

...so he makes do and plays with a garbage can.

The third child forages for food when he is hungry.

The third child does things his own way.

The third child is often gated like a zoo animal...

...and carried around like a koala.

The third child must use his foot to jockey for space, because the older brothers think nothing of hitching a ride on his stroller. (Toes - mini yet mighty - may be located just to the left of the Count's creepy facial hair.)

And in the end, the third child naps when he can, tucked in happily and peacefully. With his favorite shaving cream cap.

Oh, little Oliver. Mama loves you. Thank you for being so patient with us as we go about our crazy life that you have no choice but to be a part of.

Always stay so sweet. And only punch your brothers if they deserve it. We both know they probably do.