Mother's Day 2013

Dear J and children,

I love each of you dearly. Every day you bring joy to my heart. So in the vein of love and happiness, this Mother's Day, keep it down. Let me be more direct. Shut the hell up. All of you. Don't ask me to find Lego pieces that are under your bed. Don't scream at me if I take away a toy because you were going to maim your little brother with it. Don't tell me we are over budget on something. I have been working my ass off for over a year with no pay. What I would do to have a budget, a small one.

Don't tell me a word and then ask me repeatedly what it means. Especially if I respond to you several times.

Don't point at me, all excited and then yell "Dada." You keep that up and I will go back to work next week.

Don't hit your brother and then try to shift the guilt by crying louder than him. I may leave the room occasionally but I have x-ray vision and I know who throws the first punch.

Don't sing songs that I can hear when I am outside, down the street.

Don't say "why" a hundred times in a row. That shit is wrong and annoying.

Don't pitch a really loud fit when I refuse to give you more banana. The banana was mine to start with. I haven't eaten breakfast in six months and I am freaking starving.

Don't turn on all the toys that make noises at once. Are you deaf? Hey! I am talking to you.

So this Mother's Day, as the lucky mom of three beautiful, healthy children, I ask that you help me maintain peace and mental health. Do mommy a favor. I don't need a card or jewelry or chocolate.

I need you to zip it.

I love you.

Mommy

The proof is in the numbers

I am not a big fan of consumer surveys but one that just came out happened to catch my attention. The title: "Moms With Three Kids More Stressed."

Ah, now you believe me!

I sent the news story round to a few fellow moms of three. Who didnt have time to read it because they were overwhelmed and stressed parenting their three children.

Had they read it, they would have found that moms with four kids are less stressed than mothers with three children. Huh? Who is crunching that data? The survey also revealed mothers with only two kids seemed to fare the best. It makes sense; they aren't perpetually outnumbered or deaf in one ear from endless rounds of screaming.

I sometimes joke to J that we should have four tots, to make it a nice round number. I hate uneven numbers. Plus we already have the (obnoxious) minivan that would accommodate them. His response is to squint his eyes at me, all Clint Eastwood like, and shake his head in the negative. And he is right. Who am I kidding that I can handle another child? Face it. I am all mothered out. Three is just fine and dandy, thank you. Three is enough stress for a lifetime.

Just a casual, not so important observation

Why do so many European countries still have monarchs? As far as I can tell, royal families don't do very much. Lots of photo ops, weddings, pageantry sort of things. But they don't appear to govern, legislate or do much else besides ski.

Maybe it is hard to break up tradition and the cottage industries of selling mugs, plates and calendars with pictures of a royal family. Perhaps the citizens of Denmark, Sweden, the UK and other countries like having monarchs because it makes them feel distinguished and less like, well, us.

How great would it be if the US had a royal family comprised entirely of red necks? A lineage of Honey Boo Boos to dazzle us with beauty pageants, Fourth of July cook offs and cow tipping?

I see you agree with me.

Damn, you D

So I haven't been feeling all that well in the last week. I feel sluggish and sad. Aunt Flo is not around the corner so I cannot chock it up to my misfortune of still having a period. Damn.

Because I am delicate and whiny and hate feeling out of sorts for more than 30 minutes, I saw my doctor today. He listened and then gently said I have situational depression.

What? WTH?

"Situational depression, which is not clinical depression," he explained. "And given what you have just told me, that you had twins, stopped working and moved, all within a relatively short period of time, it is not surprising."

"So I have depression AGAIN?" I squawked. Why was I squawking at him? It wasn't his fault.

He assured me this too shall pass, gave me some instructions and made an appointment for a physical. I drove back home in semi-shock and rage. Depression? I never had depression in my life, minus the postpartum episode with the bubbas. This crap happens to other people. Not me! Not happy, sunshiny me! (Just nod in agreement please).

So here I am, depressed and feeling like a colossal loser. What is the universe trying to tell me? Do I need to get my eating in order, ingest more flaxseed, meditate? (The answer would be yes). Do I need to make peace with the fact that I miss working and who I was? (Uh huh). Could I stand to lose a few pounds?

Stop nodding your head, damn you.

We are moving!

Faithful readers, guess what? We are being evicted. Ha! I guess technically we are. The gentleman that we are renting our house from defaulted on his loan and the property is now in foreclosure. Good thing I didn't finish hanging all of the paintings in the living room.

I hate packing, unpacking and moving almost as much as genocide. It is a close second. So this girl is supremely unhappy about breaking out the bubble wrap and tape and marking up boxes in felt tip pen, yet again.

However, as you know because you LOVE and ADORE this blog, I don't care for Camarillo. So this rather inconvenient situation means we have a chance to look at other suburban areas in the 805 and sashay towards the one we like.

There you have the silver lining. What do you want to bet we end up in Thousand Oaks, much to the mister's chagrin?

Twins do the weirdest things

Took Logan's temperature rectally this morning. He sat perfectly still while Cyrus, unpenetrated, stood nearby and wailed at the top of his lungs.

I quit! Oh, but I can't

It has been one of those weeks. It started with the snot. Lots and lots of snot. And fever. Magnus was the first to come down with a cold. He was warm, clingy and snotty. Then Logan got it. Logan is always whiny so it wasn't a huge adjustment. And then Cyrus, the World's Most Perfect baby, was the last to contract the cold. He was hot and unhappy and not his usual adorable self. I suppose, in retrospect, I should have been grateful that they didn't come down with it at the same time.  I guess they spared me. But the mister was traveling, my mother didn't show up because she was unwell, and I woke up one day, exhausted and spent and just said it aloud. I QUIT.

It felt nice to say it. Cathartic, at least for a few minutes. But reality hit. Babies fussing in their cribs, Magnus needing help with his Batman socks, and a sense of dread took hold. I can't quit. I can't ever quit this job.

I appreciate what an ingrate I must sound like. As my mother tells me all too frequently, I wanted this. (Technically, I wanted another child, a sibling for Mags, but hell, twins sounded cool.) You should be grateful, she tells me as we drive with the kids to a park and pass a field with rows of migrant workers stooped over in the unforgiving heat. You get to stay home and be with them, do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? To stay home and not work?

No, I don't. I want to work, sometimes. At a different job. At a different job that doesn't involve rounds of tush cleaning, breaking up baby fights, pulling tiny objects out of clenched fists, smashing peas into edible mush and fingers pulling at me constantly, fingers creeping under the door to the bathroom when I dash to pee because I've been holding it so long. I want a break. I want to sit on a beach for a week while someone fills my endless margarita glass and applies sunscreen to my face because I slather it on everyone else and don't have the willpower to do it for me.

But I can't quit this job. And ultimately, as hard as it is, it is the best job I will ever have. I get to raise three beautiful, healthy children. Me, I get to do it! And on days when I want to give up and head back to an office building, I look at Logan with his round cheeks, blonde curls, and he smiles at me with milk on his chin.

Can't leave him. Can't do it. I have got to survive this job, one dirty diaper at a time.