I Know I Need A Nap

~
I was only the phone with my sister the other day when my son began smacking the dog with a stick.

"Boyo, put that stick down! We do not hit the dog!" I ordered him. Boyo ran off to put the stick down (I thought) and I continued my conversation with my sister.

Five minutes later, Girlie came up to me sobbing.

"Boyo hit me with a stick!" she wailed.

"The same stick I just told him to put down?" I asked.

"Yes," she sobbed.

"Did you hit him back?" I asked.

"No," she cried.

"You should go do that," I told her. Not my finest moment, I know. Plus, my four year old doesn't get sarcasm.

"I don't want to," she cried.

"What do you want me to do?" I teased her. "Do you want me to go hit him back for you?"

"Yes!" Girlie wailed.

Calm down. I didn't. I didn't even consider it.

And then Boyo piped up with: "It assident Momma!"

My sister about peed her pants listening to this on the phone.

Three Kids

Since I had the baby, I've gotten all sorts of looks from people. Looks that say, "Please don't let her get in line behind me," to "Well, that is a walking ad for birth control." Looks that are disgruntled, looks that are sympathetic, and looks that are comedic.


And, invariably, I get the question: "How do you do it?"


Just to be a smart ass, I always reply with a smile, "Do what?"


"Have three kids!"


The way people ask makes it sound like I'm an endangered species. Or an alien. Or an endangered alien species.


Here's the thing - and it's not a secret, so feel free to share.


I just do.


Every day, I just do. I get up before they do. I shower, check my work emails, get breakfast ready, and get them up. I get them to school if it's a school day or a fun activity if it's not. I get them home and settled with a movie for quiet time. I get them back out to play in the afternoon. I cook dinner, do the dishes, work, and sometimes clean my house.


I dress them, feed them, love them, cuddle them, and yes, sometimes I yell at them. I kiss "blood owies," referee fights, read stories, and spin around the living room with them. I tickle and tease, brush Barbie's hair, fight light saber battles, and clap Baby Girl's hands.


I do let some things go - some things that I know moms with one or two kids wouldn't. Things that I can't always do since I divide my time among three. And it's taken me a while, but I'm working on being okay with that. Am I tired? Of course. But I'm no more tired with three than I was with one or two.


However, I'm also more careful with my three than I was when I had just Girlie or just Girlie and Boyo. Each child gets me and Daddy all to themselves at least twice a month - date nights with each child go on the calendar and are written in stone - they can't be broken. They get naptime snuggles with Mom, and bedtime snuggles with Daddy. They get siblings to play with during the day. Taking turns has been drilled into their head - so has the idea that Mommy and Daddy will make things as fair as possible.


I don't know how it all works out - it just does. I don't think about how because I don't have time.

Loving Your Babies

A few of my friends are pregnant. And The Inevitable Question has come up: "Do you want a girl or boy?" Some of my friends are adamant about one or the other. Others don't care. But The Inevitable Question has raised some interesting conversations - among them, how can you love your children the same?

You can't.

I love all three of my children equally, but I do not love them the same.

I can't.

They are different people and have different needs, different personalities, different mannerisms.

I love Baby Girl with the wonder of newness - since she is only 7 weeks old, everything about her is wonderful and new, everything is to be marveled at.

I love Boyo with a fierce intensity - the same intensity that he greets his life every day. He is constantly going, running, talking, thinking, loving. He sets a fast pace every day, and my love for him races to keep up.

But Girlie... I love her with a zealous passion that I think you can only feel for your first born.

Not that I love her more than her brother and sister, but there is a deeper bond that I don't have with my other two. Why?

She was my first.

She was the first child I carried under my heart and in my arms. She carved out the groove in my arms that the other two nestled in. She was the first baby to rest her head against my heart, in the exact same spot that her brother and sister would later easily find.

She was the first one to keep my up all night, the first one to smile at me with a look of total adoration, the first one that I worried for, the first one that I paced over, the first one that I bathed and fed, the first one that I dressed and snuggled. (It's not all hearts and flowers, though. She was also the first one to make me want to slam my head into a wall or scream at the top of my lungs.)

Girlie completed a part of me that I didn't know was empty - she made me a better person, a better woman.

My daughter made me a mom.

Happy Fourth Birthday Girlie!!

Happy Birthday to the sweetest,
happiest,
funniest,
lovingest
four year old Girlie I know! I love you, Punkin Pie!

Girls: 2, Boys: 1

We are having a baby girl! We can't wait to meet her in July!

Lack of Understanding or Stubbornness?

~
My daughter is all about numbers lately. She could count to twenty by the time she was two, but she was just reciting the stupid number song I had taught her. But now she gets that numbers represent something... she goes around and counts everything she can. She wants to know how old people are. How many pets they have. How many cheerios are in her bowl. How many cars on the freeway.

So we were sitting in the car the other day and she was counting how many girls there were (2) versus how many boys (1). Then she started counting all of the white cars. Then she counted all of the gold fish she had in her cup. And then she moved on to ages.

"I'm three," she told me.

"Uh-huh," I murmured.

"Brother's two."

"That's right," I said absentmindedly.

"Daddy's thirty-five."

"Good."

"You're forty one."

"That's ri--wait, what? No, I'm not," I said a little desperately. "Girlie, don't add to Mommy's age. Mommy's only 31."

"That's what I said," Girlie said with exasperation. "You're forty one."

The little devil just shoved me over the hill.