A Sunday Afternoon

"So, what's the plan?"  I ask, glancing at the clock.  3pm on a Sunday.  In our world of raising triplets, we usually have a schedule and most days follow a certain order.

Sundays we go to church at 11 and the kids are napping by 3.  But today, after wiping 3 little noses, and my own for the past 2 days, we decided to keep the kids and pregnant mama home.  I really don't like to be that parent that drops their kids off at the church nursery with a few tissues.  Not only do I want to be responsible for spreading the lovely nose wiping scenario from family to family, but come on.  Gross.  I don't like wiping noses that don't share my DNA, why should I think others enjoy it?

So, here we were on a Sunday afternoon, the kids having already napped in the morning and 3 solid hours staring us in the face until dinner.  Too cold to go outside (and remember the bit about running noses?) and poor planning leaving us with an empty gas tank, so no Sunday driving.  (We're those kind of people who don't like to visit a gas station on Sunday unless absolutely necessary.)

"I need a shower at some point today," I quip to my husband still in his white shirt and tie.  The lone church goer of the day.

"I'm not sure the kids will be able to last all afternoon in the playroom."  I keep rattling off potential problems with our Sunday afternoon.

He looks up at me and says, "Why don't you go take a shower - take your time - then stay in our room and read a book or take a nap.  Just relax."

I feel like a deer in headlights.  A pregnant deer. And the headlights have this sexy, 3 day beard going.

"Wait, what?"  I ask, still not understanding what he just said.

He laughs.  "Go take a shower.  Don't hurry.  Go read a book, take a nap if you want and I'll play with the munchkins."

The way my heart melted at that moment, he might as well just lassoed me the moon.  Or stood behind me on the bow of a giant ship while I exclaimed that I was flying.  Or just met me on top of the Empire State Building.  Or stood outside my window with a boom box over his head, blasting Peter Gabriel.

"Ok."  I squeaked out.  At that moment, one of the munchkins began wailing and calling for her Daddy.

"Hurry, go!  Get started!"  He said as he ran off to rescue his daughter from the clutches of one of her brothers.

"I love you."  I half-muttered to his back.

I married a really good man.

Daddy with his Lost Boy, Christian.

Daddy and his New Year's date, Sunshine.

Daddy with his future firefighter, Gabe.

The Proof Is In The Stabbed Fruit

This picture is my evidence.

Evidence that there is a gang of guardian angels hanging around my house all day.  I was in the middle of changing a stinky diaper, one little one was coloring at the table, and the other little one was apparently stabbing fruit with extremely sharp knives.

I've since rearranged a few things in the kitchen.  Pushing chairs around to get at things on the counter is the latest maneuver in toddler trickery.

When I saw those blasted knives sunk so deep in that fruit I felt so crazy as a mother.  I felt a little sick my little guy was just playing with knives.  How was I to securely fasten everyone in a safe place while I take 4 minutes to change a diaper?  Because that's how long I was unattending the unattended children.

Then, I thought that I am not alone in my house when I am alone.  I know this.  It's something I believe.  The same way I believe that when the sun sets over the west mountains here, it's rising somewhere else.

I'm not sure how many guardian angels are assigned to my crew.  I imagine, at this stage, a group of 2 or 3, watching over and protecting them, then tagging in another group when their brilliant wings start to get a little droopy from fatigue.  I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one relieved when it's finally bedtime.

I do know they (my angels) have been with us since the beginning.  I felt them in the hospital when I sensed these tiny little beings, not supposed to be born yet, were scared and unsure about their new surroundings of machines, pumps, tubes and needles.  I knew they were there when my own fears of knowing the only thing keeping my daughter and son alive was a machine pumping air into their lungs.

I felt them when I brought them home and I was panicked that they were going to stop breathing in the middle of the night and I would never know because I knew as soon as my eyes closed, my mind would be in a deep, exhausted, coma-like sleep.

I felt them when our ultra-baby-proof play room (we thought) was about to be breached when Sunny tried to shimmy under a railing, that, had she succeeded, would've caused a 12 foot drop onto stairs.  I had no reason to look in her direction (she was near the books, being quiet) and realize this except an unseen tap on my shoulder telling me to turn around.

I believe in angels.

I also believe in angels that I can see.  Angels that have also been with me and my kids since the beginning.  Helping me, encouraging me, doing a night-time feeding or two, giving me a 2 hour break on a Tuesday, bringing in gifts that mean a continued nap time for my two year olds that really still need it.  Angels that randomly and without any prompting from me, tell me that they know what I'm doing is hard, but worthwhile.  Angels that pray for us.  Angels that visit.  Angels that send us clothes.  Angels that simply care about our little family.  

I'm so thankful for all my angels.  The ones I can't see.  The ones I can.  And of course, my 3 foot angels.

Without them, I never would've known so many others.

      

My Valentine(s)

I wish I could send each of you a handmade valentine made out of paper lace and pink construction paper.  This will have to do for now.  Happy Valentine's Day.  

Two Year Olds

Two years ago, during this hour, I was having contractions.

Big ones.  Doctors and nurses were in and out, checking the magnesium drip I was being given to try and stop the contractions.  The big ones.

I was in labor at 28 weeks, not ready to be a mom.  Worry and fear are weak adjectives to describe what I was feeling.  Would they survive this early?  If they did, what kind of health problems would result from being born 3 months early?  Three months early.  If I wasn't trying to focus and breath through those stupid contractions, I would've been sobbing.

Because if they did survive, and were healthy, what about my own shortcomings and inexperience?  I was just supposed to raise three kids the same age at the same time with no prior experience?  It felt like a major mistake was made in the admin department of heaven somewhere.  Me?!?  Mom to triplets?!?

But they did come.  My little 28 weekers, just over 2lbs.  My worst fears were never realized.  Only the secondary, minor ones.  Because we all eventually came home from that hospital, healthy.  But the inexperienced mom part is still a reality.

But I work through that with lots of prayer, a few cry sessions from time to time and frequent treats from an understanding spouse.  The same guy who was with me with every contraction.  The one who fills in the holes when mom just has nothing left.  We all adore him.  

My little ones are all sleeping now, on the eve of their 2nd birthday.  My healthy, happy, busy toddlers.  Those worries of sick preemies seem so distant compared to what kind of shenanigans they are up to now.  I'm exhausted at the end of every day.

And I couldn't be happier about it.  Or more grateful.  

Happy Birthday little miracles.  Mommy loves you.