Sanity is but one chart away

We live in a veritable sea of charts. Reading charts. Math charts. Chore charts. Behavior charts. School charts. Home charts. We've got more stickers and check marks than any one household should have to endure. 
 

I swear we used to be fun people.

But in spite of it all, we're still lacking one key piece of the puzzle, which I refer to as the "Do What The Tall Lady Called Mom Is Asking" piece. Now, it's not like every day reaches crisis mode. But as anyone with children (or who has the misfortune of waiting behind them in line) knows, they get along. Then they don't. They listen. Then they don't. They behave. Wait, no. They don't.

Instead of complaining about it, I have decided to take a proactive stance and examine where, exactly, it all goes wrong. Based on my empirical evidence and, obviously, several charts, my final data has shown that once the communication from parent to child has broken down, things go quickly awry. [Please note that in this instance, "awry" means me screaming like an actual lunatic.]

To give you a clear understanding, our current communication cycle looks a bit like this:
1) Mom (or other adult) speaks very clearly, and most times, very loudly, asking the child(ren) to complete a very reasonable task.
2) Kids hear the request. (I know they do, we've had them checked.)
3) Kids employ creative license. (Is this even allowed?)
...which leads to:
4) Their final interpretation, which is a thing of absolute beauty. Quite often, this creative interpretation is slightly different from my original meaning. The result is that they might possibly do something in response to the adult's request, but generally not what is being asked of them. So as to avoid further confusion, I have created a final chart. The chart to end all charts, if you will. From this point forward, the boys can cross-reference what I say and then double-check its exact meaning. I expect that we as a family will now be living in harmony. Life will forevermore be without complications. I anticipate the entire experience to be glorious.

Please feel free to employ this in your own household. You have my explicit permission to adjust it as needed, or, on the off chance that your children actually do what you ask of them, then please give yourself a star for good parenting. (You can even earn another one if you pee in the potty. Well done, you!)

{The Chart That Will Change Life As We Know It}

What I say:

Make sure you clear your spot from the table when you're done eating.

What I mean:

I see that your cereal bowl is still half-full with milk, so please balance your dirty spoon in it as you run across the kitchen. I know you'll never make it without spilling, but I love to see you try. Every single morning.

What I say:

Time for school. Go out to the car, please.

What I mean:

We definitely have time for a quick game of Nerf basketball. Maybe even two? And boys, always remember, school comes second to sports. Actually, school comes third to sports AND video games. So feel no need to rush out to the car that is already running in the driveway. I do that just to make sure the Earth stays nice and healthy.

What I say:

Boys, I'm going to bring the baby up for his nap. Please keep it down.

What I mean:

Obviously, the baby is tired. But you know he's only happy when you wake him up with your loudness. So give it a few minutes, and then go crazy-ass crazy crazy crazzzzyyyyyy. Make absolutely sure to time it just right so that he'll wake out of an extra-deep sleep, though. It's silly to waste all that energy unless he's really asleep. Start working on your plan while I bring him up, and then in about thirty minutes, go wild.

What I say:

Stop picking your nose.

What I mean:

Pick it, man. Pick it with abandon. Knuckles up there. Go for it. And definitely make sure you eat it. It's super charming. And trust me, the ladies love it.

What I say:

Dinner's ready. Come sit down.

What I mean:

Please do not respond the first time I call you. Please do not respond the next time either. Bonus points if you can make me call you a full ten times. This will make me very happy, and it will result in an extra awesome fun-filled family evening. This is actually just a test to make sure you do not respond until you hear the secret code, which is "damn it." Don't make a move until you hear it.

What I say:

Time for your bath.

What I mean:

Time to drink your dirty bathwater. No, really, drink up. It's good for a growing boy. Also, you know what that bathwater seems to be lacking? Urine. Actually, nope...scratch that.

What I say:

Five more minutes until bedtime.

What I mean:

I would love to practice my own skills of negotiation while at the same time hone your early talents as a lawyer. Please, I am waiting patiently for your counter offer. And don't you even think of accepting any offer as it is first presented. These skills will serve you well in both your educational and professional endeavors. Because what this world really wants - needs, even - is one more person who cannot accomplish the most basic of responsibilities without first balking and then bartering. You, my fine gentlemen, seem to be naturally gifted in this area. You make Mommy and Daddy so proud. And you know what? You have earned an extra 45 minutes just by putting the effort into your argument. What show would you like to watch, my angels? (Might I suggest a nice, relaxing Caillou?)

~

And to my dear, dear (read: patient as ever) husband:

What I say:

I need a glass of wine.

What I mean:

No, seriously. A glass of wine. Which I'll raise to our little dictators. May they never have to work a day in their lives and always win irrational arguments. Cheers, boys. Momma loves you.

Gold is the new black

Like most everyone in the world, I've been sitting here in awe of the Olympics. In awe of the athletes. In awe of their talent. And, obviously, in awe of their fantastic hotel snafus. I've been sitting here, night after night, taking it all in and feeling like an untalented couch dweller. And then it struck. Inspiration. Enlightenment, even. Because this thought appeared out of nowhere, like four of the five Olympic rings. You? Me? We average folk? We are talented. We are ready. We've been training for years, and we didn't even know it. Fellow Sochi couch spectators, stand tall in your slippers and listen carefully. Four years from now? We. Are. In.

I can hear you thinking, "Come again?" and also, "Are you seriously such an ass?" Well, yes, I am. But really, bear with me, and you too will see the light. My training regimen is so simple, yet really, amazingly effective.

I am a mother of young children.

That's it. That is the whole training, which I will now share with you. In order to help you examine your own readiness level as well as formulate a plan tailored to your lifestyle, I've chosen eight events to illustrate how I plan to reign Grand Champion Extraordinaire. I do realize there are more events to be had, but let's not be greedy. Eight medals should suffice.

So get the DVR ready to record some serious NBC. The good news is that between now and 2018, you should have ample time to delete the 114 Disney Jr. shows taking up all the space. If you can manage this, the plan is already proving to be worthwhile.

{Before you continue, please note that I have broken the blueprint down, event by event, so as not to confuse or overwhelm you with too many fabulous details. I know, I know...You're quite welcome.}

Now, without further ado, The Plan.

From Couch Dweller to Olympic Bling: 
Making Greatness Happen

1. Curling. Because, for all intents and purposes, curling = sweeping. Boom. I've been training for this for damn near eight years. I will rock this.

2. Hockey. My oldest son is a sports fiend. We play hockey in the kitchen, all day, every day. In case you've never fallen in your socks, I will clue you in to this piece of reality: hardwood floors are slippery as hell. Dangerous? No, no. Say it with me. Rink preparedness. And as for the physicality of hockey, have you ever had to wrestle a toddler into a diaper when he's having none of it? I am all sorts of ready for hockey combat. Bring it.

3. This mysterious ski and shoot combination (which, I realize, has an actual name. But it brings me great joy to call it "ski and shoot," so ski and shoot it shall be.) I give to you: Nerf gun war à la suction cup darts. Accuracy honed, people. I also give to you: (occasional) elliptical trainer use. Now, I'm not saying it's exactly the same thing. But I'm not saying it's not. Give me a shot. I will make this happen.

4. Pairs figure skating. (Because if you're gonna go for it, at least have a gentleman in a deep V-neck sequined ensemble by your side.) So let's just say that a person has some previous experience in the air as a cheerleader, the result of which would be pretty decent balance. Let's also presume that this same person, to pass the time while waiting for pasta water to boil, may or may not twirl on the kitchen floor. (Please see hockey re: hardwood slickness factor.) Finally, the third piece that will make this a guaranteed success? Two words. Roller. Blading. (Which is actually only one word.) Gold medal material, friends. Gold medal material.

5. Bobsled. Seriously? I can run while pushing a double stroller with two heavy kids, their cups and their complaints all tucked safely inside. I can even do it on trash day in October, weaving on and off the leafy sidewalk with bursts of speed so as not to become roadkill. So the bobsled? I can push that beast from here to the center of town. Hop in. We'll go get a coffee.

6. Skeleton. I live in New England. I went to college in Syracuse. This girl knows sledding. And I mean, really. How different can it be?

7a. Downhill skiing. Nope. Even with my numerous aforementioned skills, this is not gonna happen. You may not have heard the story called That Time I Tried Skiing in the Alps...I would post an excerpt here, but it has too many swears to be considered decent. Which instead brings us to...

7b. Snowboarding. Sort of. Now this I may be equipped for, and I'll tell you why. Our seven year old got a Ripstik for Christmas, which we've all been testing out. It's board-like in nature, which will serve as my starting point. Plus, I've got four years to train, at which point I will have graduated from the hold-on-to-the-kitchen-counter-for-dear-life level of skill. I'm thinking that after four years, I'll be ready to throw that bad boy down an icy slope. Downhill Ripstikboarding. Patent pending.

8. Short track speed skating. Consider the following scenario: Ice-covered parking lot. Escapee toddler. (Fact: those little punks are fast!) Ice skates or dirty sneakers, it matters not. You navigate the surface of that ice with such speed and agility that you would actually be recruited for the sport. So give me those 80 inch blades, and let's get on with it. I would, however, ask that I be allowed to purchase the spandex outfit in black. I would assume it's slightly more forgiving.

So there you have it. If I have convinced even one person, I have done my job. You and I? We can be amazing. We will be amazing. Spandex or otherwise, the world has not yet seen the likes of us.

***

Finally, one last word for the realists out there. Yes, I do know this is far from legit. But can't you just let me have my dream? Because the other option is that I sit here, night after Olympic night, eating chocolate and contemplating my complete lack of both talent and medals. And that would be just plain sad. If you would allow me this moment of fancy, I promise you can have a ride in the bobsled. Or you can take my sequined partner for a spin. Truly. The choice is yours.

My (sippy) cup runneth over

My general take on life is that it's nothing without laughter. That every day should have at least one good chuckle in it. That being said, I can't help but be solemn for a minute, and the reason is this:  In this hyper-connected world we live in, we see an abundance of sadness. And to be quite honest, I sometimes have a hard time processing the sheer extent of it. There are moments where time stands still, and you can't help but feel your vulnerability. For me (for everyone?), Sandy Hook was decidedly one of those moments. Innocent faces that mirrored my own child of the same age, parents who looked and seemed a whole lot like me. I was changed. Forever. Since then, life has seemed more fragile.

Now, more recently, I find myself again surrounded by some of the saddest stories of loss. These stories also hitting so very close to home. Young mothers. Young fathers. Babies. Children. Siblings. Every day, it seems, there is another story in which I can see myself. It is near impossible to consider the rhyme and (lack of) reason of it; the randomness of it. And just the bare truth of it, which is the absolute, deepest, most profound sadness that some families must face. It makes my heart hurt to even consider.

Then, the piece of it that really takes my breath away. The families. The survivors. These same souls who are in so much pain and find themselves amidst suffering of the worst sort. Some of these mothers, these fathers, putting forth the most heartfelt messages, the most positive words of strength and survival, and they send these messages of love and hope out into the world. As if to help comfort the rest of us, those of us on the sidelines who should be comforting, not comforted. To remind those of us as of yet personally unaffected by such grief to slow down. To remember that this day, this hour that we're living right now? This is life. Grab each moment as it is, for these moments are nothing if not fleeting.

These stories, so full of grief, and these messages, so full of hope, they have led me to this. To take the advice given and to move through the world with open eyes and an open heart. So I make this promise to myself and my family, so blessed are we to have each other. I will take each moment as I can, the good, the bad, and the crazy, and I will choose to be thankful. I will choose to embrace it all. Life, it would seem, is too short to do it any other way.

So I will be thankful for the fighting in the living room, the wrestling that starts out playful but ends up dangerously not so. Because my children are together, and fighting or not, they love each other.

So I will be thankful for the ridiculousness that is our living room, where you must proceed carefully through the cars (by the hundreds) and the trucks (by the thousands) and the blocks and the balls and the legos and the movies (that they are not supposed to touch) and the cups (that most surely have leaked) and the hammers and the capes and the hockey sticks, just to make it to the couch. Because, tidy or not, it's life.

So I will be thankful for our kitchen table, so covered is it with crayons and papers that I have cleared and organized just moments ago, but somehow the piles always seem to return sevenfold. Because this is what creativity looks like.

So I will be thankful for the strong-willed seven year old's battles, during which he refuses to don any article of clothing that is not of or pertaining to a sport. Because it shows his passion.

So I will be thankful for the strong-willed four year old's battles, during which he refuses to don any article of clothing that is not of or pertaining to superheroes. Because it shows his innocence.

So I will be thankful for the hugs and the kisses and the smiles and the giggles and the crazy hair on our baby boy. I will even be thankful for his temper, which grows feistier by the day. Because as long as he is healthy, nothing else matters.

So I will be thankful for the mind-numbing haze that comes with raising young children, feeling like nothing I do is right. Every once in a while, I can see a glimmer of the truth that it's not so bad after all, and I can appreciate that it's a gift to spend my days wading through this messy business called life. Because this is what it's really all about.

So I will be thankful for it all. And I will think often of those who live the grief that we ponder and who still think to remind the rest of us that this thing, this decision to pause, to cherish and hold tight? This we must do.

So I will.

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.