Right Back at You

Comments are awesome. I don't know if I say enough how much I love reading your thoughts on my thoughts - thank you - I love it.

Your support and fun on the last few posts has just been plain delightful for me. I laugh, I smile, I cry, I laugh again, I realize I should take pictures later in the day, I realize I should be ordering my groceries (if only I had my act that together). I hope you know that the fact that I get days behind on e-mail and my own blog reading at times does not mean I don't get excited about every thought you take the time to type here.

I don't know if you all ever have time to read comments, but here's a few of my recent favorites.

On restricting sugar to reduce baby size at birth, Jessica from Bernthis said, "My version of watching my sugar intake is eating a cupcake while looking at myself in the mirror." Awesomely funny.

In response to shopping with three toddlers, Joe at Irrational Dad said, "I'm going to get a vasectomy." Wise.

On Cusp from For Myself: "Go but Stay! Hurry up but Wait for me! Freeze but Change! It's the positive and negative magnetic forces of humanity." Exactly.

There were some fantastic responses to the constant "are they all yours" question.

Marinka - "Hey, you could say that you got your kids at Costco in bulk! I bet they'd give you a huge discount!"

Manic Mommy - "Four different fathers though."

Maura at One Ping Only asked, "If I have a t-shirt made for you that says, in big bold red letters, "YES, they're ALL mine!!" will you wear it next time you go?"

I would wear it every day, I kid you not.

And finally Nissa had a sweet response to the ubiquitous "you have your hands full" comment - "Yes, but my heart is full too."

Awwww. It is.
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My heart is full, my body is full, my lungs can't expand properly, my bladder always feels full, I am full. (Matt would add "of crap" here, but he's out drinking beer with his friends, so he gets no input.)

Thirty-five weeks full.


The most frequently asked question of this pregnancy is how our current kids are handling things. Do they know? Are they ready? I don't think they "know" know, if you know what I mean. But, they are darn cute. They all pet my stomach and call it baby. They give it kisses. They lay their hands there and yelp and shout "he kicked me" (Gee - brother all the way) or "she kicked me" (Ess - holding out for a sister).

Cue, though. Cue. He's a source of endless amusement for me. He brings me a book and tries to sit in my quickly disappearing lap. He pushes back - hard - against my non-yielding baby belly and whines, "moo! moo baby!" Which is Cue-ese for "get the hell out of my lap, you useless interloper." Two seconds later, he turns around and kisses and pats the baby bump.
"Baby," he tells me with authority.
"That's right," I agree.
Next, he pats my right boob. "Baby?"
"No sweets, boobie."
"Boobie?"
"Baby," I pat my belly for emphasis, "boobie," with a point to the correct location. Kid's not convinced. He thinks I'm growing a big baby and two little ones. Very little ones.

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A beer by any other name ... might be a baby.

The name guesses continue to make me laugh and actually, there are some gorgeous names in here that we hadn't considered. Here they are. This puts everyone on a level playing field. Plus, it's damn funny.

Kate at The Big Piece of Cake - Coors? Bud? Yuengling? I think Pabst is lovely.
Sophie at Our Life, Inzaburbs - Fat Tire
Andrea at The Sweet Life - Vienna
Anne at A Penny Thought - Ruby
Tracey at Just Another Mommy Blog - Bud, Miller, Heineken or Rolling Rock
Heather at Fergiesims Family - Corona
Aunt D - Redhook Full Sail Schlitz Natty
Yo, Maura - Amber or Pilsner
Marinka at Motherhood in NYC - Michelobia
Issa's Crazy World, Loads of Pink, A (really) Simple Life, P-huong, and HarryJack's Mom all guessed - Stella or Sierra
Meghan at A Mom Two Boys suggested Dogfishhead Aprihop. (Love it.)
Tonggu Mommy - Moose Drool (That's the dog's name.)
Bon at crib chronicles - India Pale Ale
Kate, Tracy, Katy, Ewe Are Here - Elysian
Mike in NC - Killian
Susie at Here Only and Michelle of Honest and Truly - Elliot
Luanne at I'm Hungry for Something - Elysian? Sunrae?
Psychmamma - India? Amber? Elysia? Elysian?
Gayle at The White House - Hale
Kari at I left my heart at preschool - Hailey or Elliot

Let's do this guessing thing right. All official like. If anyone's interested. And if not, well, I guess there won't be any comments on this post and I'll tuck my tail between my legs and move on quietly. The baby's birth is the end of this points contest and I'll announce the winner of the beautiful handmade blanket shortly after...so guess well. I'm going to give TEN POINTS for the person closest to each of these:

1) Birthday and time (time will break a tie)* - Gee was ten days late and Cue was ten days early. Gee at 3:30 a.m., Cue 12:27 a.m. My official due date is July 4, 2009.
2) Birth weight - Gee was 8 lbs, 15 oz. Cue was 7 lbs, 8 oz.
3) Beer-inspired name for a girl - Mike, Aunt D and Tracey are disqualified for email over-sharing.

Throw in a sex guess - ten bonus points if you are the date, weight or name winner AND you get the sex correct. Answers have to be in the comments on this post.

*Anyone who guesses any date passed July 6 is banned from this blog. Possibly permanently. Definitely permanently if you're right.

Voices in My Head

The kids and I went to Costco.

It was insane, as usual. You would not believe in the economic downturn based on the rate at which people are buying mammoth size containers of hummus.

For purposes of this post, my brain speaks to me, inside my head, in italics.

Okay, in, fruit, craisins, cheese, a chicken, out. We can do this.

I surveyed the toddlers. Clean, wearing cute sweaters, relatively non-snotty. All three were in the cart and the littlest one was strapped down. Gee had my keys.

Gee has my keys. Mental note of possible trouble. Launch operation Costco.

As we pushed in the door, the greeter said, "wow, are they all yours."

"Yes," I smiled sweetly, "yes they are."

"And another one on the way."

"Yep." I kept rolling. No stopping for chit chat.

We bee-lined for the fruit. "Gee, don't drop momma's car keys. Cue you have to sit on your bottom. Who sees the grapes?"

A man in produce directed me to the grapes. Not a Costco worker, just a random guy who assumed I must have some emergency need for grapes to drag three toddlers to Costco. "Are they all yours?"

"Uh huh, all of them."

I kept moving. Grapes, good, oranges, strawberries, check. It's a go for chicken and cheese. Bagels.

"Gee, do not drop momma's keys. Cue, sit down. Ess, don't put your fingers in your mouth, it's disgusting, this cart is dirty. Blech. Dirty."

I need bagels. I have bagels. Damn, Cue wants to hold the bagels.

We motored for the chicken. Cue tried diligently to poke a hole in the bagel bag with his finger.

Cue is going to poke a hole in the bagel bag. Chicken, and we're out of here. Proceed to check-out. Ahhhhh. Snack granny with cheese. Detour! Detour!

"CHEESE! CHEESE! EESE!! MOMMA!! CHEEESSEEEE!!!"

Damn.

The toddlers' need for cheese was apocalyptic. They would not survive for five more minutes without cheese on an eye-removing pointy stick.

Okay, okay. Cheese.

I pulled up next to Snack Granny Cheese and she doled out her cheese stuck onto little custom made toddler eye-removers before I could get the hand sanitizer out of my pocket.

"Wait. Wait. Don't touch the cheese with your Costco flu fingers. Wait."

Blech, too late. They've already gooed their cheese and now they are fingering it and eating it. Gag.

"You're supposed to eat it off the stick. Like civilized human beings. Stop behaving like toddlers."

Never mind, go just go.

"MMMMMYYYYY CHEEEEEEESSSSEEE!"

Everyone in Costco is now aware that Gee has dropped his cheese.

"It's okay. It's alright."

Shit. Where are my keys?

"Gee, where are my keys?"

"MMMMYYYY CHEEEEEESSSSEEEE!"

Cue has poked a hole in the bagel bag with his slimy Costco flu cheese and spit covered fingers and he is mining index fingers full of bagel crumbs to smear around his cheese drool mouth. Beautiful.

"Cue, I need the bagel bag. Give it to momma, please."

Total I-want-to-hold-the-bagel-bag meltdown. Beautiful. Craisins. Hand him the craisins.

Cue now held a bag of craisins that weighed more than he did.

Check-out. People are looking at me. Head for check-out.

We were in line. Our turn. Carts go left, shoppers go right. I have to leave them in the cart, there's no other way. Costco's slightly scary check-out procedure stops for no woman and her screaming 22-month-old and cheese-covered three-year-olds.

They're fine. Just pay. I'm sweaty, don't look, maybe that makes it the boxing guy's responsibility if one of them falls?

I glanced behind the checkout guy. Cue had snot ropes rivaling a Nepalese orphan with swine flu. Their cute sweaters were covered in cheese goo. People started backing away. Gee picked his nose and ate it.

"Gee," I snapped, "NO! That's really yucky."

???? Yeah, THAT'S really yucky.

He proceeded to stick my van key up his nose. I stared in horror.

At least he still has the keys. Wow, my kids are so not as cute as they were when we entered.

The check-out lady asked me if they are all mine.

That was pity in her voice.

"Nah, I borrowed a few of them because it's more fun to shop that way." Blank look.

Put your D.C. sarcasm away, it's not welcome here.

Back at the van, I went to open the rear to unload the groceries, but I couldn't find the keys. Gee stood up and started jumping in the cart basket. Cue tried to imitate in the front, still clutching a toddler-sized bag of craisins.

Maybe I should unload the kids first and avoid a trip to the ER.

My brain is wicked smart like that sometimes.

Oh and there are the keys, hanging from the mesh bottom of the cart.

A sweet older lady passed by on her way to her car. She waved and called, "my you're busy." I think I managed to grunt in return.

I lifted them all down from the cart and herded them towards the van door, barely maintaining voice control. "Ess help Cue up into the van. Chairs please, I need you in your chairs. Shit!"

Shit! The cart is rolling away with all my groceries and it's making a beeline for the cars across the parking lot. Children are loose, groceries are escaping. Gah.

"Get in the van please, get in your chairs," I yelled over my shoulder mid-sprint.

I look like an idiot sprinting across this parking lot with my enormous pregnant belly. Also, my kids, who have the brain capacity of startled quail chicks, are now motherless and loose in a busy Costco parking lot. Stellar.

Cart secured, I dragged it back to the van and wedged it into the rear bumper. My chicklets were all in the van.

Miracle. Strap them in.

I did. And then, I shut all the doors and leaned against the van for about ten minutes, reveling in the relative quiet of an insanely packed Costco parking lot. My head hurt. I wonder why?

Cusp

I wake in the still, warm night to an odd feeling , a soft, repetitive jolt. Gradually, sleep clears and I realize it's inside of me. The baby has the hiccups.

Everything about this spring feels like an edge. Ess and Gee, grown so tall and solid and confident, are on the verge of being children. I can barely see the toddlers of last fall, the babies in diapers that I changed and guided and nurtured. It's as if they wrapped themselves in a cocoon while I wasn't watching and now they are bursting out, so colorful and adept and different that I am left searching the ground for my snuggly, furry caterpillars.

The unborn baby is on the verge too, testing tiny swallowing reflexes, practicing breath, readying for the transition from water to air.

At my feet, I sense my own edge, a crumbling cliff side towards which I move ever closer with reluctant, shuffling steps.

For a moment, I rest. I sit down here, in the sun, in the midst of early summer's flowers and let the warmth of now soak my face and bones and round belly. That edge is coming, but not yet, I have now. In the fall, I'll be a preschool mom with a newborn. Such a different thing from a first time mom with a tiny child. The baby is a fact, not a center, a satellite, not the sun. People won't pause to tell me how darling he or she is, they'll smile and say "my you're busy." This little one will grow to a year, babble and coo, smile, roll over, crawl, and stand without the white hot spotlight of a new family, in the quiet shade of our little forest.

We walk on, the "big kids" running and rolling and jumping, beyond my ability to protect from falls and scrapes and bumps. I only patch and kiss. Cue struggles desperately to keep up, reaching for my hand to help him, still unsteady on the slopes. In the distance, the drop off looms. The view is gorgeous from here on this little peak, back over my new motherhood, my time with all toddlers, my time as a pregnant woman, forward to unknown valleys, distance mountains, hidden vistas.

Surveying the landscape from a distance, I am aware that this cliff I dread might not be such a huge obstacle after all, just a little change in terrain, a slight scar in the landscape. It might require nothing more than for Matt to take my hand and help me down, lift the front of the stroller. The path continues on, even in spots, climbing, cresting other peaks. From college graduation, I'll wager that the end of pregnancy and new motherhood looks like a two-foot drop.

Lilacs are in the air. My babies run. The stroller is heavy, even empty. My uterus tightens in regular intervals. I don't register each contraction, only an oddness, a discomfort. With focus, I find the muscle taunt and hard, the baby within frozen in anticipation, preparing, practicing. In the same way that Ess and Gee throw tantrums, yell and stomp, punish and forgive, flash anger, forging new brain pathways for the future, practicing for challenges that I can't see, preparing for escapades to which I will receive no invitation.

I'll just hand them a handkerchief, like maidens of old, and whisper, remember me, return some day.

In the night, I wrap my arms around my belly to better feel the soft movements.

Stay, I wish, stay with me like this.

But, that's not really my heart's desire. I mean only this night, this time, let me feel you and hold you so that I can have this to remember. My true prayer is the same as every mother's prayer, shouted to the stars, whispered to the hummingbirds, the prayer that reverberates through bodies and hearts and minds when we press our soles to the ground and turn our faces to the sun - change, evolve, grow, develop.

It's the prayer of the universe, in my mind, the thing that runs through that force that some call Buddha and some call Allah and some call God. The united yearning of trillions of mothers and trillions of fathers bound together into a universal power - a life force - roll, crawl, walk, run, leap, dance, swim.

Fly.

Before you know it, before I know it, before any of us knows it, the prayer is answered and we are left behind.

As it should be.

Long Time Passing

We made our annual pilgrimage to the flower wall. It's a beautiful stone wall in our neighborhood park that explodes with color in May. Rather than letting them enjoy it, I torture my entire family by dressing them up, dragging them to the wall and forcing them to take pictures.

It went well. Zero screaming fits, we moved fast. I like the pictures, despite my shocking lack of color, but the shadows around and under our faces drive me crazy. I think the sun was too high and bright. We might need to try it all again on a cloudy day? I don't know, I just take a million pictures and pray. Matt is rolling his terrible eyes and gnashing his terrible teeth right now at the thought of a repeat performance.





I love them all, but this might be my favorite (except for the darn shadow) .


I had a follow-up ultrasound on Tuesday and the cord is not around our little one's neck any longer. What a relief, I hadn't realized how much I'd worried about it until she said it wasn't a problem. No extra stress tests, no more ultrasounds, just seven (or less? please?) quiet weeks and we meet our little micro brew or our little boy.

(I absolutely loved the comments and tweets trying to guess our beer-based girl's name. One was better than the next, but Michelobia, courtesy of Marinka is my favorite so far. No one has guessed it yet. It's actually a fairly common, non-exciting name, based on a Seattle micro brew.)

Our lovely midwife smiled and told me everything looked great and she'd see me in two weeks and my wasn't this a big, healthy baby.
"Big?" I asked innocently. "How do you know he's big?" (No, that's not a slip I always call babies 'he' because that's all I've birthed, meanwhile the ultrasound technician said 'she' because she has a girl. It's a tricky, two-possibility world.)
"He's measuring five pounds already."
"Well, that's just, huh, great?"
"We know you can deliver a nine pound baby," she smiled reassuringly, "so I'm not too worried about it."

Um, yes, we know I can, but that doesn't mean my vagina wouldn't prefer a six or seven pounder. Every pound counts, you know. Or, so my vagina told my brain whilst in the midst of yielding to a nine pound baby. At least that was my brain's translation. My vagina actually said "AHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!" over and over for three hours.

"You probably ought to watch your sugar intake really closely. I recommend you focus on protein and vegetables," she added.

There might have been a little sob in my voice when I said weakly, "okay." I've already reduced myself to one grande chai tea latte a week. What else is there?

I think she may want me to give up ice cream. Gulp.

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Ten points in this one - anyone know the folk song from the title for five or the famous children's book I referenced?

Hide Your Goats, Bring Your Kids

Our local animal shelter held an adopt-a-pet fair this afternoon. They put up a huge tent in the parking lot of Home Depot and showcased their available dogs and cats. Since Matt needed to return a door anyway (? I don't ask), we figured, what's more fun than a tent full of over-excited dogs and cats. We know! We know! Three overly excited toddlers in a tent full of over-excited dogs and cats.

The adoption fair was predictably noisy and chaotic and less fun than I imagined, what with the excruciatingly loud barking and trying to keep three small children from jamming their hands gleefully between the wire mesh of crates and into the faces of numerous Pitbulls. For the love of God, I had no idea there were so many Pitbulls at animal shelters.

(Please, Pitbull fans, do not flame me, I'm sure most Pitbulls are lovely dogs. One of my closest friends has one and I never hesitate to spend time at her house with my kids. I'm sure your Pitbull raised your newborn single-pawedly and slept in the crib and was gorgeous and loving while your neighbor's Golden Retriever turned on their toddler and did damage requiring like seventy-seven stitches. I know it's the dog and the training and not a particular breed. I still don't want my babies, who have never met a dog they didn't love and are accustomed to cages only in pet stores with friendly puppies, to jam their entire hands into a crate that contains an adult, unknown Pitbull.)

The woman in charge of the tent directed us to a "family dog" for age appropriate petting. A Burmese Mountain Dog in an enormous crate in the middle of the room. Matt, who is only marginally better than a toddler around dogs, was immediately smitten and had the ginormous, smelly creature out of it's crate and mobbed by the loving administrations of our toddlers in seconds. Meanwhile, I perused the information twisty-tied to the side of the crate.

Burmese Mountain Dog
Approved for Kids
Other animals - AGGRESSIVE

Hmmmmm. An one-hundred and thirty pound, long-hair-covered ball of muscles that is "aggressive" with other animals. No, thank you. Not that we were taking a dog home, but we really weren't taking an aggressive dog home. We walk in the city park three blocks from our house every day. Form the mental image of me pushing a triple-wide jogging stroller, surrounded by squirrels and dogs of all types, holding the leash of an 130-pound dog that is aggressive with other animals. No.

Tent woman sidled up to me. Something tipped her off that this possible adoption had gone south. Possibly my pained expression.

Tent Woman: I just want to clarify, I know that it says this dog is aggressive with other animals, but it's nothing really. It's really a misrepresentation.
Me: Oh.

I softened my violent we-are-so-not-taking-this-huge-hairy-behemoth-home attitude slightly although we were so not taking this huge hairy behemoth home.

Me: Is it just squirrels or something?
Tent Woman: Oh no, nothing like that, he's fine with other dogs, all animals really, it was just a goat.
Me: A...goat?
Tent Woman: Yes, he used to live on a farm and he killed a goat.

Her expression was all innocence, belying the horror of her statement.

Me: ...

At a loss for words, I drew blood from the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming at my husband to get my entire litter of offspring away from the goat-killing monster dog. Tent Woman waited expectantly.

Me: Well, just a goat then, no big deal.
Tent Woman: Yes. (She shook her head sadly.) Just a goat, he's really mislabeled.

My biting sarcasm completely wasted on the tent woman, I gave Matt a death-laser-get-my-children-the-hell-out-of-this-tent-right-now look and started herding reluctant children towards the door.

Matt: What? He's really sweet, the kids love him.
Me: (hissing through my teeth) Goat-killer.
Matt: What?

We were out, we navigated the booths, accepted coloring books from Smokey the Bear. Safety first, except inside the freaking tent.

Me: That dog KILLED A GOAT. A f#*king goat. An animal larger than our children. Like a cougar or a lion. I know, we could just adopt a tiger.

Matt looked at me like I was insane. As if I had anything on tent lady.

Matt: He killed a goat?
Me: That's what she said, no big deal, not to worry, just a little slip involving a large animal and a lot of blood.
Matt: Did the goat butt into him or something?

I remained silent, but my expression said something like this: DUDE, DOES IT MATTER???!!!

Then, we both laughed until we cried, because that is just so, so border of Idaho, or Heidi, or not exactly what you'd expect at a pet fair in the parking lot of a large home improvement store.

The end.

Some People Call Me Maurice

Yes, it's another disjointed update post with points. No, there's no reason for that title except that we've been fixated on names lately (of the baby variety) and that the title and artist are worth five points. If anyone can tell me what the hell a "pompaduce of love" is, I'll kiss you. Okay, fine, five more points.

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Danke schoen, darlings, danke schoen. (So easy, five points for the artist and five points for the movie. Anyone? Aha, I know, not funny.)

I am so behind, with the trip and visitors and life, etc., that I want to say it here. Thank you for your comments on the Good Mother post and the anniversary post. First, you made me feel like a normal, non-committable screaming lunatic and then you made me feel like the work I put into all those little life stories was worth it. I'm validated as a mom and a person and a writer. Thank you. I'm working on replies. If you've emailed me in the last ten days and you're thinking I'm rude as all hell, give me a few more days.

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I can see the city lights. (Title and artist for five.)


Seattle was awesome. Three days without our children, awesome. Shopping at the two story Anthropologie (with a short breakdown during which I had to call my sister and get permission to buy ridiculous, beautiful things with my pre-determined spending money, like adorable fabric covered initials for the kids' rooms), still awesome.

Cute, no? (Just say yes, I get shopper's remorse easily.)

Hugs from the kidlets after three days away, priceless.

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You ain't getting a hound dog (or a Great Dane), cry all you want. (Ouch, that one is a stretch, and Matt probably will get the damn dog. He's already got the kids calling it the "dog's little house.")

The mudroom groweth. Eighty square feet of muddy-stuff-storing heaven.


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Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world. (Last five, make them count.)

So, oh, yeah, I'm still pregnant. Thirty-two and a half weeks.


I'm big, like catch-a-glimpse-of myself-in-a-window-and-gasp big. The baby's big too, with kicks that are now more like punches to the gut than little bubble flowers.

It's almost certainly a girl. Matt and I agreed on a girl's name over fish and chips on Bainbridge Island. We have never ever agreed on a girl's name. I threw a temper tantrum over his rejection of all my names for Ess and he caved. Last weekend, we were talking about favorite micro brews and a name just happened. We both love it. Girl. For sure. And yes, she is named after a beer. That's not really weird here. Gee is named after a bar and Cue's name I noticed on the bottom of our TV screen while watching football one night. Last name of a quarterback. We're not proud. We'll take names where we can get them.

I don't know what else to say about the very last eight weeks of pregnancy in my world. I'd like to put it into sweet, flowery words, but I can't find them. I feel great. I feel sad. I want it to last and end. I feel cute and happy and wonderful, but simultaneously whale-like and tired and scared because oh-my-god-it-she-he-has-to-exit-still-and-that-shit-hurts.

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Tiptoe through the tulips. (Okay, one more, because they're so darn cute.)





Have you smelled the flowers lately? Because it's spring and they smell heavenly.

Just Another Moment

Sixteen for a moment.

He is tall and thin, brazen and obnoxious in his St. Louis Cardinals' jersey. It clashes fantastically with his ridiculously red hair. He always has something to say, some playful jab. Classes with him are fun. Everyone knows him, most people like him. She likes him, but there is no edge to it, no intrigue. He is all openness and light and she foolishly scorns him while she craves his friendship like water. He hurts her best friend's feelings at a basketball game, makes her cry, sitting in the bleachers. High school drama. She doesn't talk to him for a while.

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Nineteen for a moment.

They are in the same dorm Freshman year, together constantly, but not dating.

In the summer after freshman year, before her parents move to Colorado, he fills her car with pink roses. Roses everywhere, so many that there is nothing to do but throw some of them away. The note he left stays in her glove compartment for nine years. Until, at twenty-seven, she finally sells that silly little-girl car and tucks the note into a box of treasures.

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Twenty-three for a moment.

He is tall and strong and she loves him, but he doesn't call her any more. She has hurt him like this, she knows. She has played games and fallen back on him and relied on him to be always there, steady and open and wonderful. He has been her lover and her best friend and her scapegoat for five years. Except now he's gone from her and she's moving away, out of Ohio forever, and it hurts like a million bees stinging from the inside. She sits in her girly blue car, with his love note in the glove compartment, watching him play tag football, because she wants to say goodbye.

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Twenty-six for a moment.

Her favorite picture from the wedding is of him. It is the moment she entered the chapel. The clever photographer snapped the groom and not the bride. So many pictures of the bride anyway. The smile on his face makes her heart flutter. It floods her with peace. She feels lucky and so loved.

She is curled fetally on their bed. Their mattress on the floor in their very first house perched on the edge of the District of Columbia. She still wears her black pencil skirt and peacock blue silk blouse, though it is untucked so that he can rub her back from behind. I'm so sorry, she whispers, maybe I'm having a nervous breakdown? It's hard to eat, she hardly sleeps. That's how much she hates this life, her life, her fancy law firm job and the crushing hours and the never-ending stress.

He leaves the magazine, folded open, on the counter in their tiny kitchen. They eat Thai take-out straight from the Styrofoam. What do you think, he asks her around a mouthful of noodles. The chopsticks in his hand jab at the top page. She glances down. Do you want to live in paradise? The ad queries boldly. It's the page of open positions in a pharmacy trade magazine. Saipan. Micronesia. She's never heard of it. Really? she asks him with her eyebrows.

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Twenty-nine for a moment.

Really. Has it really been three years? A soft tropical breeze blows off of the Pacific into their tiny apartment. He sits on their narrow balcony, a corona in one hand, his gaze east towards California. She negotiates the piles of boxes, ready for the post office.

I'll miss you every moment.

He snorts. Their nervous feral island dog pokes his sharp head under his hand. The boxes horrify the dog. You'll love it.

She smiles. Southeast Asia, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, India. She is traveling for three months, he is headed home. I'll be there before you miss me, she tells him.

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Thirty-one for a moment.

She calls him from the parking lot of the clinic. The technician wouldn't say anything, she tells him. She is calm. The calm of shock. I'm headed to the doctor's office. But, I don't think, I couldn't see a heartbeat. I think the baby's gone.

It's a forty-minute drive, but he is there in moments, or maybe the minutes just stop until he gets there. He fills the doctor's office with his presence. He holds her tightly and she finally cries.

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Thirty-four for a moment.

They hold hands, nervous and sweaty on the suffocating plane. She has tears in her eyes. She wants to be here, her daughter and son are so close now, but her heart is torn. He's fine, he's okay. She closes her eyes and she can see his baby face, just two nights earlier, and a world away, covered in chocolate crumbs from his first birthday cake. Frosting smears his bright red hair, the exact color of his father's hair at sixteen.

They celebrated his birthday a few days early because they were leaving to fly to Haiti.

It will be okay. He'll adjust. Oh god, he's only one. He has a sister and a brother, that's a joy. It's okay.

Ready, he asks beside her. No. Yes. Never.

She watches him sleep, crunched into the tiny bunk in the stuffy room of the orphanage guesthouse. His daughter. Their daughter? Beautiful and tiny and brown sleeps on his chest. Just like their red-headed son waiting at home. She likes to sleep on his chest just like their son. It's okay.

*************************************
Thirty-six for a moment.

She can see him through the kitchen window, tall and broad and bald, working in the back yard. The red-headed boy and his chocolate-skinned twin sister ride their new bikes on the patio. The baby pushes a little shopping cart filled with sticks and flowers and various other treasures. It makes her laugh, suddenly. Is she really standing at the sink in a kitchen in socks, arms wet from washing dinner dishes, hugely pregnant with their fourth child? She would be barefoot if it weren't so cold in this backwater city in May.

Is it possible to end up with nothing you ever dreamed of twenty-one years ago and be this happy? Their tenth anniversary is this week. She knows she won't get flowers. He rarely buys flowers or cards, it's not his way. Except in college, she remembers enough flowers for a lifetime filling her entire tiny car.

On a whim, she pads into the cluttered office and opens the closet full of random things with no other place. It's blue, she thinks, a blue folder with pockets. The kind you used to use for high school reports. She's almost given up when she finds it tucked into an ancient back pack. It's there, in the back of a pocket behind other cards and notes and letters. A piece of loose-leaf paper, folded into fours. The blue lines are faded and almost gone, but his writing is clear and bold, in all block capitals. The same eighteen years ago as it is today.

The note starts simply and ends simply, to the point and honest, so like him, then and now.

STACEY,

...

YOU'RE ALWAYS GOING TO HAVE AT LEAST ONE PERSON WHO CARES. LOVE, MATT

It seems that anything is possible and even ordinary love stories can be extraordinary.

***************************************
Never a wish better than this. Happy Anniversary, Matthew. The answer is, forever, yes, I will.

Double Agent AnyMommy

The mystery...the intrigue...the suspense...the MOUTHY HOUSEWIVES.

What?

It's a new advice site where you can seek answers to all of your pressing questions from five mouthy bloggers who think they have all the answers. After a few martinis maybe?

The most pressing question is (dun, dun, dun, dun) who are these mysterious maidens (aha?!) of mouthiness?

I could give points for anyone who guesses all five correctly, but then they might hunt me down and kill me. Or you. Or something. Hurry, check them out, because I'm pretty sure there's code in that button that causes this post to self-destruct. Although, if my blog self-destructs, I'm going to hunt them down, right after I cry like a baby.

******************************************
These boots are made for walking. (five points for song and artist!)

We walked for Maddie and moms and babies all over the country on April 25th. Thank you and much love to my fabulous team of local friends, including Harvard to Homemaker and Hey There Dearheart - they are always up for a crazy idea like a three mile walk in the freezing cold with abijillion kids (or eight). We had a great time.

Thank you again to everyone who donated to the March of Dimes for our team. You are truly awesome.


That's the three and under contingent. Lazy kids.

******************************************
On the road again. (five more!)

Did you know that i.Mom.my is now Mommy Geekology? It's true. She's in the blogger, I-have-some-crazy-readers protection program. I don't have the same crazy readers, so I can tell you the good news. I don't know if I have any crazy readers, actually, certainly not crazier than me. I just might be the lunatic you're looking for (title and artist for five points).

*******************************************
Through the years. (last one - five points!)

Our tenth wedding anniversary is this week. This my present.



It's the footer walls for a mud room. A room dedicated to mud, and mud-covered things and all things muddy. A room that our 3 and 7/9 children and Matt must pass through before entering my house. Deposit thy mud all ye who enter here.

There are no words for how happy the mudroom-to-be makes my anal-retentive, mud-hating soul. I am in love with the mudroom. Best present possibly ever. Maybe even better than the wood burning stove. Who needs diamonds when you can have a room dedicated to mud?

Matt thinks the mudroom is merely another chink in my armor in his never-ending quest to get his present.

Aha. Is there any mudroom in the world that could contain that?

A man should dream.

Tomorrow, we return to regular posting with a huge dash of sap. Sorry. Tenth anniversary and all. Then, shhhhh, I'll be gone for a few days. With just my husband. For the first time in four years. Bless you Grandma, Aunt H and Aunt D - may the toddlers not tie you up, steal the keys, lock you in the basement and demand ice cream for dinner and later bedtimes. Because, you know, they never do anything like that. (If they do, don't call us.)

A Good Mother

Quite often, the comments here, which I love and adore, which make my day and make me laugh and make me think and introduce me to new lives and stories all over the world, frequently these comments - you - tell me that I'm a good mother. That I care. That I am perceptive with my kids. That I have good ideas.

And quite often, I try and I am and I do.

But, it is easy, in all honesty, to be perceptive and loving on paper. On blog, I guess I should say.

Sometimes, I am not a good mother. I don't mean in my head. In real life, in living color, I am mean, impatient, a horrendous role model of sarcasm and anger in response to frustration.

These three going on four kids under four didn't just happen to me. I am not a victim of circumstances. Matt and I have a lot of education, we have resources, we understood, each time, the change we were accepting to our lifestyle, our finances, our career options. We made conscious choices.

I like being at home with my kids. I would change nothing. Nothing about any of that changes the fact that three and a half is a horrendous age - by far my least favorite to date. Saige and Garrett are whining, temperamental, bossy creatures. They don't listen. They scream when thwarted. They never met a toy or situation they can't exploit inappropriately. And suddenly, they can be mean, intentionally, emotionally cruel. They refuse hugs. They throw things I've asked be set down.

In case you are thinking: Wow! I had it wrong. Worse mother ever, get some control. They are also delightful, adventurous sprites. They understand consequences. They are sweet. They are chatty and fun. They can be helpful. They are just...three? And I am human. I am patient and consistent, except when I'm not.

Matt's new schedule keeps him at work until 6:30 four nights a week. (It's fine, he's then off for three days!) Which means, in my world, that dinner is no longer the finish line on his work days. He won't be home until almost seven, after clean-up and a little playtime and getting ready for bed. He won't be home until they are all washed and PJed and cute and snuggly, reading stories on our big bed.

They really are cute and scrubbed and ready for bed by 6:45 - thank a higher power - because those last forty-five minutes can be ugly, on all sides.

Last night, Quinn took huge offense to having his diaper changed for bed. He screamed and thrashed and kicked at me with his strong, stubby little legs. A good mother might have walked away, put him in his crib and taken a break. I was tired and ready to be done with this day and I wrestled his scaly demon baby strength.

Meanwhile, Garrett played, irritatingly, with the closet door behind me, contributing to the noise and chaos. Enter Saige, whining in her ear-piercing, small-animal-being-tortured-whine that I swear only little girls attain. (Not saying Garrett doesn't whine, he does, but that little girl whine, that huffy, indignant intentionally ear-splittingly-loud little girl whine. It shuts down my brain, collapses my synapses to one desperate pathway - OH MY GOD someone put that creature, and me, out of our misery. That I-think-I-might-understand-why-people-kick-puppies little girl whine).

Enter Saige, mid-whine about her pajama pants being stuck or inside out or something that can wait a god damn minute thank you very much.

"MAAAAAAMMMMMMAAAAA myyyyyyy paaaaaaaaaants."

I lost hold of a thrashing half-diapered leg as my eardrum exploded on her side.

"Just a minute." I swear that was said quietly and reasonably.
"MY PANTS!! MY PAAAAAAAAAANTS ARE STUCK!!"
"Okay, I'm dealing with Quinn, just a minute." (Still, I swear.)
"I fixed them!" (Wait, a pleasant voice - she has a pleasant voice?)

"Great." I had, admittedly, not turned from my current wrestling match. Baby still howled.

That was not nearly enough accolades for little miss center of the known universe. "Maaaaamma! I FIIIXXXEDD THEM!!" Error, error, pleasant voice gone.

"I need a minute."

She threw her pants to the floor with an indignant screech and an attitude that made my blood boil and my brain go blank. The screech-crying escalated.

I could lie here, because I'm okay at telling stories. But, I won't. I lost my shit. I turned on her with a snarl that would make your blood run cold if you observed me at Target. (In fact, if you saw me react like that at Target - which you won't because I'm not completely stupid - you would blog about the horrible mother you saw at Target and her poor, poor children.) Don't sugar coat it in your mind, don't think I'm exaggerating because you think you like (liked?) me.

I turned on her with all the power and sarcasm and nastiness of my thirty-odd years of experience. "You Have Got To Be Kidding Me? Are you seriously going to stand there and scream at me because I can not, right this second, look at your magically fixed pants? I am DOING something. The baby is crying. I Said I Would Help You In A Minute."

In this time, I took her arm, not kindly, I dragged her and her pants and her scream and her snotty nose and her mind-crippling attitude to her room. I sent her running in.

"Put your pajamas on and if you scream in here instead, you will go to bed without books or songs immediately in whatever phase of pajama wearing you choose to accomplish. AM I CLEAR?"

She sniveled, "yes momma." Of course she did. She is three. I have thirty-three years and an advanced education's vocabulary on her whiny ass, not to mention I am bigger and louder. And I shouldn't use it. But, I did.

Know what else I did? I left Quinn on the changing table for the time it took me - brief but real - to inappropriately take my frustration out on my daughter. He could have fallen. Broken a bone or cut his lip open, but I lost sight of the correct course in my anger.

Fifteen minutes later, when Matt walked into our bedroom, we were piled in the middle of the bed. Faces clean of tears, bright in deliciously cute PJs, clustered around the second of our three books. I had changed the baby, redirected Garrett, gone to Saige and praised her for putting on her pajamas, for fixing her pants by herself. I asked her if it was okay to scream when mommy needs a moment before she answers. She knows the answer is no. I told her it's not okay for mommy to yell when she's mad either. We hugged. We brushed teeth in various stages of gum protrusion.

I could have started this story here - told it so differently. Here, where it started for Matt, warm and joyful, all bleached and smelling of clean laundry (mostly, with the possible exception of our sheets). That wouldn't be the whole story, would it?

It would be a sweet story. True in it's own right and so incomplete. So there you go, I give you the ugly underbelly, the moment before the moment. Because you know what, I am still a good mother. I am just not a perfect one.