The Moment With the Leaves

Any style magazines, blogs or TV shows would love my house.  It is riddled with "before" pictures.  From the people to the rooms, we aren't exactly up to the current standards of fashion and trend.  I know this because I've seen your blog and your Instagram shots and we are a good ol' hot mess around here.  But I do have this one tree in my backyard that is so alive with golden fall leaves, any magazine cover would be proud to feature it.    

However, my play room is a hodgepodge collection of toys in un-matching baskets lined up against a strange colored wall with crayon streak accents.  Wait, who am I kidding?  The toys are rarely in the un-matching baskets.  The baskets are usually overturned and toys are strewn...just   s t r e w n everywhere.  

My kids have maybe worn coordinating outfits twice in their lifetimes.  If I do get them dressed before lunch, I'm lucky if their shirt is spot free by dinner.  I don't want to start on me.  Let's just say the woman who got dressed and ready for the day 4 years ago is much different than the woman today, who counts wearing clean yoga pants as being ready.

But my heart sang a quiet, lovely song today.  The 5 of us (kids and mommy) were upstairs in our always messy, very large playroom.  I had just fed the baby and he was sleeping lazily in a milk stupor on my chest.  His soft breaths leaving tiny warm spots on my arm.  My three toddlers were playing together.  Read that last sentence again.  Because the opposite of that sentence is what usually goes on.  Fighting over toys, wrestling over toys, crying over toys and because of this whole new baby thing, a lot of the refereeing and supreme court judging is done from the couch while little man is eating.  

But at this moment, the kids were pretending to go the beach together and packing each other's back packs with pretend food and tiny horses.  Every once in a while they would bring me "lunch" in the form of a plastic pretzel and plastic hot dog on a tiny pink plate.  But then tell me it wasn't ready yet and take it back to their kitchen to put in the microwave. 

The space was so pleasant and comfortable, my very bones tingled with contentment. I sent up a quick prayer of gratitude for this moment.  For these beings in my life that give me grief (to be sure) but so much more joy.  

And before I could even finish my thankful refrain, the wind picked up, sending golden leaves into the air from our big tree out back. The sun was peaking out from one of the many clouds that had dominated the afternoon.  So the leaves caught the warm fall light as they flitted to the ground. Every window in our corner play room had so many golden flecks that even the kids stopped and noticed.  

It was so beautiful.  A reminder that God listens and loves me.  

Because as I was saying thank you, the leaves fell, so lovely and light, as if to say you're welcome.

Of course 3 minutes later I was telling one of my sons (almost verbatim) "please don't take the lid off your hippo cup and dump water on the table..."  Then later, "please don't yell at your sister, we can all look at the book."  And even still, "there are six hot dogs, you don't need all of them, you can share."  

I already know my leaf moment today will outlast the refereed hot dog match.  Twenty-five years from now, when I have a slight ache in my heart from missing plastic lunches served by stubby toddler hands, I won't care about the spilled cup of water, but I will remember my falling leaves and the warm glow of contentment we all shared.

If just for a moment.

Snapped this after I watched the wind burst send dancing leaves past all the windows.  

  

At The Moment

The kids are in their room having quiet time.  Usually quiet time means naps.  I love their naps.  

But sometimes quiet time means yelling and laughing at each other and doing the exact opposite of sleeping.  The latter is happening now.  

The baby is in his little crib cooing at the toy stars above his head.  

I'm snacking on a concoction of marshmallows, goldfish and craisins, taking deep breaths and letting it ALL happen.

How is your afternoon shaping up?  

Motherhood

I wrote this essay around Mother's Day.  Thought I would post it before this baby gets here.  Also, the broken sentences I write about are more complete.  This growing up thing is so bittersweet.  

"Are they ALL yours?"

"Triplets!  Better you than me!"

"You have TRIPLETS!  Oh, I would kill myself."

I've heard all these.  There is something about seeing my family of toddlers in a grocery store that has strangers stating odd and borderline insulting comments my way.  I'm sure this isn't their intention. Casually passing someone in the mustard aisle,  you don't have much to go on.  How can they know about the prayers, the pleading, the hope that there would actually be little ones in my cart someday? 

I'm sure they imagine a scenario where I am in my garage, bawling, trying to dial my husband through stinging tears of fatigue while a two-year old tantrum times three is happening in the upstairs play room.  Maybe they think about six curious hands getting into their own messy diapers and finger painting foul-smelling works of art on crib rails.  Or dinner time, where rice and vegetables are thrown on the floor with disgust and disdain by all three food critics.  

Because in truth, all these things have happened.  

But what I wish they would imagine is the joy.  The laughs.  The chubby hands and quick feet running armloads of last night's pajamas to the hamper with delight.  The broken sentences as they try to put their world together.  "Hold you mommy?"  Yes, I can hold you darling.  "Hand. Oww.  Kiss it."   A mother's kiss on a wounded pinky is like elixir for both souls. 

They should imagine an oversized chair, perfect for a mom with not enough lap space to go around.  Three little heads and bodies cuddled up to read their favorite book.  Again.  They should imagine the four of us playing a favorite game, Run.  The rules are simple, run around in a circle and laugh. When you're tired, stop and have a break of milk and orange crackers shaped like fish.  

Because these things happen too.  These are the moments that make the tantrums hazy and distant.  These are the moments that shine brighter than meltdowns, and weariness.  These are the moments that fill my battered void with a light and wholeness I've never known.  As their mom, I feel the weight and pressure of teaching these three little souls how to be good people.  Yet these little ones, not even able to talk in full sentences yet, teach me lessons of strength, courage, patience (oh the patience!) and love with a clarity and conviction I can only pray for.    

Motherhood is not easy.  There are times when I am brought to my knees, pressed down with feelings of inadequacy and doubt.  But there are times of sacred harmony, when I know, with the core of my being, that I was meant to nurture.  Meant to love.  Meant to be a mother.

The other day, a stranger stopped me, noticed my triplet toddlers, noticed my pregnant bump and said with a sincere smile,  "Oh, God bless you!"  

Yes. Yes he has.        

Mouths of Babes

They're talking.

Like, a lot.

I don't know how or when this exactly happened, but I'm having conversations with my kids all the time.  And I understand what they are saying.  They speak in full (kind of) sentences.  There are some parts of this new world of communicating that have not been my favorite.

For example:

"Self."
"I do it."  The depths of their independence seem to come through when I'm in a hurry, someone else is in danger, someone else needs my immediate attention or when it's just plain inconvenient for "I do it" to be happening at that moment.

"_______________ took my _____________!"
"_________________ hit me!  Oh boy.  The tattling and tears.  My mom got us a referee jersey the Christmas before everyone was born as a joke.  I'm going to start wearing it.  No joke.

"I need that!" This is usually said right after my only pair of dying glasses are swiped off my face while being bent in unnatural ways.  Or my phone is snagged from the counter. Or the spatula I was using to flip pancakes is making it's way to the bedroom in the hands of a quick footed culprit.

But (there's always a but) this new world of communicating is so. much. fun.

For example:

"Self."
"I do it."  My children are learning (and wanting!) to be independent.  I try to focus on this more than the inconvenience or extra work "I do it" might be causing.

While it's true I hear cries of injustice, tattling, tantrums caused by siblings and general weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth, I also see this: (a lot)

This scene is usually filled with "hi's" and giggles and sometimes syllables and sounds I don't recognize, but they are all cracking up and enjoying their time stuffed in a bookcase together.

"Play mommy?"  Man do I love this one.  How many years do I have until mommy isn't their favorite person to play with? (Or even when "mommy" becomes "mom?")  Oye, my heart just held back some tears.

Loved playing hide and seek with them the other day.  They were totally content with finding their tired, pregnant mom under the same blanket in the same chair 18 times in a row.

They all love a good game of being tickled.  Or as Gabe calls it, "I'm ticklish!"  Which is my cue to relentlessly tickle his tiny ribs until he rolls away in a fit of laughter and exhaustion.

I also hear my daughter say things like, "be right back!" as she wheels her little stroller in a circle around the play room. Or get an invitation to her tea party, "Tea party momma? Grandpa. Fire station.  Baby.  Food."  (The tea party will be taking place at the fire station with grandpa, her baby doll and the stack of play food she has on her plate at the moment.)

I hear Christian say (nearly every time, the little heartbreaker) "hi mommy!" whenever I come into a room.  Even if I was just there 30 seconds ago, he says it like he hasn't seen me in weeks and is so happy I'm back.  He is also my biggest secret requester.  He'll come over and say, "secret mommy?" while putting his face right up to my cheek.  Which mean I need to whisper something in his ear that involves doing something fun, like going outside or having pizza for dinner.      

Does stronger communication skills mean more craziness and tears? (Ok, there's always been tears, now there are just words and syllables between the sobs.)  Yes.  It does.  But it also brings a lot more good times.

Or as Christian said at the end of a Saturday spent hanging out with daddy, "fun day."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Today

Today I spent the morning

being woken up by a kicking baby still in utero and a couple toddlers calling for daddy,

listening to Sunshine read aloud from one of her favorite books,

listening to a concert put on by the boys and their bird singing back up,

 breaking a sweat while wrestling all three into clothes, while I'm telling them it's important to wear clothes, but really in my head was thinking, "yea, I don't know what the big deal about getting dressed everyday is either."


I watched the boys watch the birds eat tiny unseen insects off our driveway and future garden plot.

I was growled out by three ferocious little ones, a tiger, a lion and a dinosaur respectively.  Scaring mommy is a favorite activity as of late.  (Uh, don't mind the one sticking a tiger tail up his nose.)

I also put slippers on this guy about 20 times, at the request of his buddy Christian.

Now everyone is napping, I'm blogging but should be doing dishes, and later tonight I'll be attending a hypnobirthing class with Chris.  I'm planning on having an entirely different delivery with this one than I did with the triplets.  Chris is a little weirded out by the whole thing.  He's not sure what to expect.  It doesn't help that I told him we'll spend the first 30 minutes of class gazing into each other's eyes and pondering our love for one another and the miracle we created between us, all the while chanting, "child birth is natural, child birth is wonderful..."

He didn't think that was very funny.

How is your day so far?

Dancing, Wrestling and (not really) Folding Clothes

Sifting through pictures today, I came across this little gem from a few weeks ago...

Sunny was having a particularly hard afternoon, and did not want to sit in her seat while I was getting lunch ready.  She (loudly) let everyone know.  

Apparently, Gabe had enough of the crying.  I laughed so hard when I turned around and saw his little hands over his ears and Sunshine's face so..distraught.  Thank goodness I had my phone on the counter so I could capture this moment.   I had an aunt tell me recently that documenting tantrums for future "yes you did" moments was not a bad idea.

But, like God intended, there is opposition in all things.  Like today, when I turned on some music and attempted to fold the unconquerable mountain of laundry on my couch, my kids came in and started dancing.  

Sunny and Christian were shaking and bobbing their tiny little bums to some Zac Brown Band song.  Gabe was in the corner with one of his trucks.  I asked if he wanted to come dance with his brother and sister.

He popped up, ran over and wrapped his arms around Sunny and started swaying with her.  She laughed with delight.  So for the next couple minutes, they would wrap up and sway until they fell down, then hop up and do it again.  It was one of the sweetest things I've ever seen.  (Of course I didn't capture this moment.  I've been plotting how I can re-create it ever since.)

Christian decided whatever they were doing looked fun.  So the boys took their turn "dancing," which somehow turned into tackling one another.  Sunny kept dancing solo, bending her tiny knees and bouncing up and down while her brothers wrestled near her feet.      

I didn't finish the laundry.  In fact, some days I'm glad it's not my top priority. (Ok, let's be honest, it's NEVER my top priority.)  My three monkeys dancing and wrestling with each other was something that I needed to take in and remember.  Every second of it.  The laundry will always be there.  They, however, will not be 2 years and 2 months forever.  

Time ticks so fast.  I would rather fill my memory with these moments than the harried worry of laundry piles on my couch.  Which, consequently, are still there.  

Maybe we'll have another dance and fold party tomorrow.  I'll be sure to have the camera handy this time.    

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.

      

Friday Night Fun

So, counting to ten can be a liberal interpretation when you're two.

This one is for you Grandma D.

Nap, Mommy?

There are some moments you want to forget about.  Moments you definitely shouldn't put to paper.  But something is nagging me, telling me I need to write it down, for whatever reason.

Be kind.  I'm still a little fragile about the whole day.

Late afternoon.  The kids are all in the gated play room, screaming at me and for me.  All three wailing like their world is falling apart.

I'm in the garage.  Sobbing.  Glad I'm familiar with my speed dial because I can't see through my stinging tears.

My husband answers and can hear the mayhem before I even say anything.

"What's wrong?  What happened?  Is everyone alright?  Is someone hurt?"

Still sobbing, barely able to choke out the words I manage to tell him that the kids haven't napped today because Christian keeps climbing out of his crib so Sunny followed and I'm tired and we are all so tired and they keep climbing out of their crib and they won't sleep and I know they need to sleep because they are all so grumpy and I can't calm anyone down and I can't handle the day anymore.  I'm just so tired.  But Christian--he just keeps getting out of his bed and climbing into their beds.  They are all so tired.  I just need to lay down for a few minutes.  My body is just so tired today.  I don't know what to do.  I don't know what to do.

"Kara, I'm 15 minutes away, I'll be right there."

I hang up and return to my still wailing little ones.  They see my tears and slow theirs down a little.  I gather them up like little chicks and sit on our big chair and we all cry.  Christian looks up after a while, his own tears have stopped. He says, "Mommy sad?"

Yes Christian, mommy is sad because she is tired and thinks we all need a nap.

"Nap.  Book, mommy?"

He hands me a book that was on the arm of the chair and I flip through the pages, talking about the pictures.  Gabe and Sunny managed to fit in each nook of my arm and are both asleep before the end of the story.  Christian, sitting across from me now, says "a-men" at the end of the story.

I look down and notice Gabe and Sunny sleeping soundly and so peacefully and start to cry again.  This time my tears are a little less intense.  The little monkey who can't be bothered to stay in his crib and nap, the only little one still awake, hops down from the chair when he hears the garage open.  "Daddy home!"

Daddy comes in and my sleeping ones wake up to his voice and its decided we all go for a drive.  (We're a one car family lately.)  The excitement of putting on coats and shoes shakes off the sleepy eyes and previous grumpiness.

We get in the car and drive through neighborhoods we'll never live in (4 car garages, iron gates) and toss goldfish crackers back to the passengers.  I still cry intermittently.  I feel embarrassed, a little ashamed, kind of like I failed some significant test.  Because I was just tired.  I JUST wanted to lay down for a few minutes.  Something I usually do when they do.

Then it compounded when I thought of the other little one coming in July.  Who thinks I will be able to do this?  Not this girl.  Not at that moment.  We picked up dinner from a drive-thru window.

When we got back, I went and laid down.  Dad fed them dinner and put them to bed, all while their hysterical mommy slept off her episode.  Chris came in and woke me up after they were down, knowing I don't like to sleep that late in the day.  I thanked him for his help.  Then I thanked him for marrying me.  Then I thanked him for staying married to me.  Then I started to cry again.  He was sweet and gentle and said all the right things to make me feel like a normal person again.

He also told me when he put the kids to bed, they were so tired that Sunny literally dove into her crib and Gabe didn't ask for his usual four or five bedtime prayers.  One prayer and he plopped right down.  And Christian?  Christian actually climbed into his crib and put himself to bed.



We both laughed when he told me that.

My Rioting Mob

The next time a stranger says to me, "Oh triplets!  I always wanted to do my kids all at once,"  I am going to give them the play by play of what exactly happened today.

I won't do it here.  I like my readers too much.  I want ya'll to come back and keep reading.  By relating to you the details of what went within the walls of this home today, you will erase this blog from your reader, claim you never knew me and if the subject of triplets ever comes up in a conversation again, you will get queasy and excuse yourself.

So I'll spare you the exact details.  But the stranger that utters those words, so help me, I will tell them EXACTLY what happened.  Every gory detail.  Especially if they have that look in their eye where I know all they're thinking about is matching onesies and names that all start with Z.  And rhyme.  

Then, at least after they have conversed with me, even if they don't believe everything that happened, they will change their mind, because they will think I am crazy.  And I clearly became this way from having three children the same age.  They don't want to share my fate.

I will tell you this.  (It's still a bit scary.)  There are times during a normal course of play that my little darlings suddenly become a mob.  You know when a city's team loses the championship and crazed fans take to the street to riot?  Cars are overturned, building are smashed up, shops are looted, mayhem.  Pure mayhem.

As I was putting on my disaster clean up suit to enter one area of my house, I left everyone alone to play.  Apparently they were jacked up on milk and goldfish they had consumed for snack time and decided to riot.  Pieces of furniture were OVERTURNED.  Toy tool benches and basketball hoops were on their sides.  Little people were running and jumping on all of these large objects, with glee and delight!  Baby gates had been scaled.  What used to separate the play room from the large treadmill, stove (thank goodness I didn't light a fire today), and other things that toddlers should not have access to was breached.  Mayhem!  Pure mayhem.

Thanks to a sweet neighbor who came over within minutes of me calling for backup, the day was salvaged.  I was able to regain control over what was looking like a no hope situation.  Things got better.

It also didn't hurt that daddy brought home ice cream stuffed with peanut butter and fudge for this weary mamma.  I'm pretty sure he heard my clenched teeth through my texts this afternoon.

Now it's bedtime, and my three little rioting mobsters are sleeping soundly.  That's the wonderful thing about bedtime.  Through the routine of pjs and teeth and bedtime songs, the harsh memories of a horrible afternoon soften a little.  They lay their tiny heads on your shoulder as you say a bedtime prayer.  Their sweet little lips say "ah-men" and give you a kiss they already know you're going to ask for.  You breath a little deeper.

Tomorrow will be a better 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.

Behind Door Number Three

About a week ago I wrote this post.  It was a pretty mushy one.  I went on about stuff I loved.  Of course my kids were the theme.  They got the final sentence, if you will, about things that make me happy.  

I finished writing it, feeling pretty good about my role as mother.  I hit publish.  As timing goes, it was also time to get the kids up from their nap.  I could hear them chattering to each other while I was spell checking.  (psh, who am I kidding?  I never speel check.)  

With a small glow still about my face, still basking in the warmth I had just felt from writing about the little darlings, I enter their room.  Keep in mind, on the walk down the hall I had sent up a little prayer of gratitude.  Because I was.  So thankful for the posse I've been blessed to rear.  

I open their door and a wall of smell hits me.  My eyes are watering from the smell, so I have to wipe them to see what the source was.  One of my angels who I had just thanked God for, was smearing things on her face that do not belong outside a diaper.  The perpetrator was grinning from ear to dirty ear.  

I dry heaved a little.  

I know this is not a pleasant image.  Forgive me for even relating the story with even a little detail.  But it was such a powerful lesson for me.

My gut reaction was to be angry.  I mean really.  

I have to bathe a kid, scrub a crib, sanitize every area within their tiny arm's length, gather the sheets and blankets for the wash---all while two others are becoming inpatient because they are still sitting in their crib while a sibling seems to be having a fun bath.  (It was not fun.)  

But that dang feeling of warmth and love was still fresh in my heart and assaulted nostrils.  My mom always says that God has a sense of humor.  I am starting to agree with her.  

Me: Dear Lord, I am so thankful for these darlings in my life.  Thank you.

God: (chuckle) I'm glad to hear you say that daughter, with such sincerity too.  Enjoy the next 20 minutes.

During the clean up process, between dry heaves and trips to the bathroom and garage for supplies, I was calm and collected.  I was also set up for reflection.  

There are parts of this parenting gig that are tough.  I'm not just talking yucky messes either.  

I'm not even going to start on the topic of the only thing I ever wear are t-shirts covered in banana smears and snot stains and not being able to tell the difference between the two or the fact that I even try to tell.  That's a different post, for a different day.   

Have you ever worked in customer service and come home from work feeling like you were yelled at all day by unhappy customers?  

Yeah.  There are moments when all I see are unhappy clients, screaming in my face because a fellow customer stole the truck they were playing with.  

Ever served tables and have a customer send back their food because it wasn't to their liking? 

Yeah.  My guests throw their entrees on the floor in disgust.  Sometimes it was their favorite dish the 

week before.   

You expect me to eat THIS?  You must be joking.  I only eat cheese quesadillas the 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 1st Tuesday of the month!  Except on a month that has less than 31 days!  Why don't you care?

Even with the snarky dialogue I make up and really gross stuff that sometimes goes on around here, I really did mean that prayer I said a week ago, as I was walking towards certain mayhem.

In fact, it was because of that stinky mayhem that made me realize what a lucky gal I am.  

I forget sometimes, that 5 years ago, I was begging for messes to clean up.  I was pleading for a little dependent that needed me to teach them, love them and walk beside them.

I asked for at least one.  I have three.    

While we are still working on the whole "let's not take our diaper off and investigate what's inside" lesson, I hope they are getting the "mommy loves me" lesson.  Because I do.  

I hope they will always know how deep my gratitude is cemented in my once broken heart.  

I hope they will always know how they helped heal me and make me whole.  

I hope they always know the lessons they have taught me, both during our time together now, and before they even arrived, have made me a better person.

I hope everyone leaves their diaper on, forever more and are all potty trained within 24 hours of attempting to do it.

(I'm a woman of simple hopes and dreams.)  

I hope they know how much I love them.  I hope, I hope, I hope.

  

  

Blossoming into Toddlerdom

We all practiced saying "yes" today.  Even mommy.  Do you know how many times I hear the word "no" in a day?

Neither do I.  But pick a double digit number and multiply it by three.  Which got me thinking.  If I hear "no" a lot, then they must hear it a lot too.  It's never a singular "no" either.  It's always no, no, no.

Something has happened this last month.  My babies are real, legit toddlers.  I know this sounds strange, but it has gotten really hard.  I know you're thinking, "uh, hasn't it always been hard?"  Eh, yes and no.

Sure it was tough when everyone needed to eat every 3 hours.  But I also had a lot more extra people coming in and out, offering their services.  I also lived close to family who would stay late, come early, middle of the day, whatever.

But here we are in this new stage of independence and choice.  And it's just us, until 6pm, when dad is welcomed home by cheers of joy and relief from all four of us.

Monday at lunch:

"Sunny, do you want a graham cracker?"  
                              
"Noooooo! Nooooooo! No. No. No! Nooooo!"  Followed by wailing, cries and exasperated moans and groans.

Uh.  Okay.  No graham cracker.

Monday at lunch, 10 minutes later:

"Sunny, what's wrong, why are you crying?"

"Crack-er!" (crying) "Crack-er!"

"You want a cracker?"

Smile. "Ya!"

So it goes.  I don't want to pin it all on Sunny either.  Insert any one of my children in the above scenario.  You could even plug me into the wailer role sometimes.  Shoot.  More often than not, probably.

But I don't mean for this to be a complainer post.  It's not.  It's really meant to be the opposite.  I suppose I should get around to that.

Lately, I've been really thankful for the experienced mothers in my life.  The ones who have hindsight, years and wisdom on their side.  Like an aunt who recently pulled me aside, pointed to my darlings running amuck in the church cultural hall and flat out told me:

"Uh, this is a really hard stage.  Like, really hard.  But it does get better.  So just pick your battles and don't cave on what's important."

She must have been inspired.  Because at the time, they weren't quite as headstrong and sure-willed as they are now.  It pretty much happened the next day though.  I didn't forget what she said.  

I'm also thankful for a conversation with another aunt (there are a bunch of great women in my life) who said a simple thing that I might actually sew into a pillow as soon as I have the time.  I was bemoaning the fact that my house seems to be in a constant state of disarray and that I didn't think that every room would EVER be clean all at the same time.  Just stating facts about our life.  She said:

"Just remember, you're raising kids, not a house."

Yup.  I am.  It's a pretty important job too.  I do take it very serious.  Even when I feel completely unfit for the task at hand.  Even when I think God must have made a mistake when he assigned these three, STRONG, little spirits to come learn life lessons by me.  Even when some days I feel like a full-time referee instead of a mother.  Even then.

One mother, still raising her last one, said this to me about 4 years ago, when my reality was more doctor appointments and fertility tests than diapers and sippy cups.  She's one of my favorite wisdom endowed mothers.  She also happens to be mine.  She said:

"You know Kara, for some reason, I just see you someday with a bunch of little hands at your knees, all looking up to you and wanting something.  You're going to look back at this (at me being barren that is) and wonder why you were in such a hurry for it to all happen."

Call it mother's intuition.  Call it inspiration.  But she was right.  I think about this sometimes.  Especially when I actually do have six hands at my knees, all looking up at me, wanting something.  I remember how wonderful that image sounded years ago.  Then, I remember to be grateful.

Because I am.  So very grateful.