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.

The month my brain stopped working

Someone asked my husband how work was going the other day. "Crazy," he said. "I mean, I was gone for five out of seven weeks."

So. Yup. That's pretty much the gist of it. As I look back now and contemplate why I haven't written a word, why my house looks like someone broke in just to throw crap around, why my kids have worn shorts to school yet still have their winter coats in their cubbies, this is what happens when he goes. I feel like I am drowning in a sea of mess and chaos and can barely keep the boys fed and dressed...so anything beyond basic survival? Ain't gonna happen, my friends. I need to set the bar lower so as to maintain achievable living standards during these weeks. For example: did I forget to pick up a child from school? No? Good. Have all of the children had a bath at least once in the previous six(ish) days? Possibly? Awesome. I am rocking this.

The tactical side of his travel is stressful. But the emotional fallout on the kids is harder. We have three boys who adore their daddy. He's the rough and tumble. He's the silly. "Mom, you know he's the funniest one in the house," says Andrew. (He is.) He's the last piece of the puzzle that wears these guys out before it's time for bed. And because I'm used to being part of a (mostly efficient) team, it's jarring to have half of that missing for weeks on end.

And when he's gone, he's gone. Like, other-side-of-the-world-can't-find-coordinating-time-zones-to-video-chat gone. The boys miss him like crazy. We have constant conversations involving what we think he's doing at that moment, if he is or isn't currently on a plane, how many days until he comes home. Double digits make for hard conversations. Back-to-back weekends are the worst. This past global spree had it all.

The end of the day is where this whole arrangement really bites me in the ass. A normal bedtime routine involves one of us restoring partial order to our first floor and cooking our grown-up dinner and one of us herding/chasing/brushing/reading/kissing the two older boys. It works well enough, and it's what we're used to. Which is why, when he's gone, I herd/chase/brush/read/kiss and then make my way back down to find the clock reading 8:15, the house a mess, and guacamole and beer a viable dinner option if I haven't already eaten with the boys.

The worry on my part is draining. He has stayed at the Marriott in Indonesia that was bombed out a few years ago. He's been instructed not to hang out in certain hotel lobbies so as not to draw attention to himself. He has flown out of the Malaysian airport where the airplane went missing last month. And while I fully understand that there is a .036% chance of anything happening to him, I still worry. And then I eat cookies. Ya know, to cope. And because something needs to accompany the guacamole, as it were.

He's been home for a few weeks now, and the fog is just starting to lift. Leaving a nice, clear view of the devastation that is "too many toys and not enough storage." The boys are thrilled to bits that they have their "funny one" back, and I'm happy to have my co-parent extraordinaire hanging around again.

Don't get me wrong. There's still a ridiculous amount of crap on the living room floor, but as long as The Hubby's here to help me kick it out of the way at the end of the day, I'll take it.

Happiness is...bunnies and boogers...?

"These are the days," I say to myself on some nights, as I try to uncross my eyes and unclench my fists, while I do any (or all) of the following things. (Note: the following items will generally be accompanied by some level of swearing.)

-wipe pasta off the floor and crumbs off the table and juice off the counter.
-wipe boogers off of faces.
-wipe boogers off of pants (mine, unfortunately).
-wipe tears (mine or theirs, depending on the day).
-wipe toilets. And floors near toilets. And floors not-even-quite-near toilets. (Why? And dear Lord, how?)
-wipe bums - I am forever wiping bums, it would seem.

These are the days? Are they really? Because they are exhausting. And they are endless. And they are long.

But you know what else? They are magical. And they are priceless. And they are now. Because the Easter Bunny is coming tonight, and in spite of having to wipe all of the aforementioned, exceptionally gross things tonight, I also got to:

-wipe the table near the TV, so as to have a perfect spot to leave the Easter Bunny's carrot.
-wipe away my smile, so as to appear appropriately serious when having the "The Easter Bunny has already hopped into Tokyo" conversation. This is very serious business, after all.
-wipe the sheets flat, so that two crazy excited boys could lay just so in their bunk beds, ready to sleep for once in their busy little lives.
-wipe their warm foreheads with the palm of my hand, just to feel the warmth of their peaceful sleeping faces.

These are the days? Yes. Yes, they are. Equal parts boogers and magic and love. Because in this house, you can't have one without the others. And you can be damn sure that all will make an appearance tomorrow morning.

Happy Easter, my friends. May your Sunday be full of magic, love and just enough boogers to keep it real.