School days

Today seems relatively boring by my normal standards - I only have two kids running laps around the house and they're both mine, so I should be motivated to get some badly needed errands done, or at least get off the computer and do something meaningful with said progeny.

Instead I'm parked right here, chatting on Facebook and putting together my dream cool weather wardrobe.

Hint: Yes, it is possible to be a stay at home mom and have a "lazy day" from time to time, today being the perfect example. No, it is not possible to be a stay at home mom and buy whatever your heart desires from the J. Crew and Banana Republic web sites. But in my dreams, I have a closet full of shrunken blazers and silk tops, to be worn with the perfect fitting trouser, boyfriend and skinny jeans and accessorized with lovely costume jewelry. Of course, these dreams also include children who would never dream of running up to me and hugging me before announcing "I have jelly all over my hands!", or removing their diaper necessitating an on-my-hands-and-knees cleaning extravaganza, or coming up and biting my leg for the hell of it. I also have closet space in this dream. And the inclination to do things like deep clean the baseboards. And bake homemade treats. And, and, and...

Right, so the lazy day we're having. Anna is a totally different child when she's not bouncing off the walls with Mary. And she's a combination of devious, outgoing and outright hilarious. To wit:

"Mommy. can I have some animal crackers?"

"Yes, in a minute, once Lily is asleep."

"She's asleep!" Lily, who was sitting my arms and violently protesting the idea of going to her crib, seemed evidence to the contrary. I told my middle child as much and she slinked back to the play room, a sly smile on her face.

I rocked Lily and heard Anna's very noisy zoo toy go off, at top volume, jazzy Alphabet Song tune ringing out through all corners of our house. (In my dreams, there is a greater distance between playroom and bedroom. And closets. Did I mention the closets?)

"Anna, turn that off!"

"THE ELEPHANT SAYS-"

"Anna! Turn! that! off!"

"CAN YOU FIND THE MONKEY! OOH OOH! OOH OOH!"

"ANNA TURN THAT OFF!" (Apologies to my voice teacher, who told me I needed to stop yelling to maintain optimal vocal quality.)

"I AM!"

Silence. I started rocking Lily. I laid her in her crib.

"MOMMY I JUST GOING TO THE BATHROOM OKAY?"

Lily finally conceded the battle and went down for a nap. About time, too, considering between a cough and teething she had slept for maybe five non-consecutive hours the night before. (ASK ME HOW I SLEPT.) I got Anna some animal crackers and apple juice.

"THE ELEPHANT SAYS!"

"Anna. Turn it off!"

"I did!"

The fake wolf howls erupting from the armchair told a different story and I switched it off.

"Oh."

Oh, indeed.

Now, the snack rules in our house are clear. You get one snack at snack time. It might be a pretty big snack if you didn't eat a great breakfast, but you get one portion of animal crackers, one glass of juice, etc. There are always exceptions, but that's the party line and we hold to it. Sounds harsh, but otherwise, they don't eat lunch.

I heard the episode of Diego end, and the next thing I knew, Anna was at my elbow with her empty cup and bowl. She had her sly grin again.

"Hi Anna," I said. "Put your bowl in the sink, ok?" The girl who could live on nothing but donuts and apple juice if given the chance paused. She thought it over. She knew her chances of getting more juice were nil.

"Mommy can I have some milk-" and here she attempted to act casual - "with my more animal crackers?"

Three year olds don't do casual well.

"You can have water," I said. "But no more crackers. If you're still hungry you can have carrots."

"WATER!" she shouted, as if trying to wake Lily. But she'd never do that, would she?

Lily eventually woke up of her own accord and I brought a smiling, happier baby into the main part of the house.

"Anna, look, Lily's up!"

"Oh good! Now I can be loud!"

Really?

And it's not even noon. 

Anna goes to school

If my post last night, written after the kids were tucked safely (and quietly!) into bed, was nostalgic and sentimental, this morning was the exact opposite. There was a lunch to pack - tuna or cheese? But no Miracle Whip. There was breakfast for two preschoolers and a baby intent on feeding herself her oatmeal. There was hair to brush, outfits to don, shoes to tie.

I knew my stress had gotten to be too much when I decided to try and get all three girls in one picture out front (yes, I am crazy) and wound up hollering at the baby because she wouldn't keep her cute knit hat on. Yes. You read that right. I yelled (well, not really yelled, but you know what I mean) at a baby. For not keeping a stupid hat on her head. I may also have expressed my frustration at Anna for looking everywhere but the camera and saying "cheese" but somehow managing to not smile whilst doing so. I wound up apologizing to them all as I buckled them into their respective car seats. Anna and Mary said "that's ok." Lily looked on with a blank expression, because, of course, she had no idea why I was apologizing. Which is why it's stupid to be annoyed at her for ripping off her hat in the first place.

I'll admit it, I was nervous. Not for Mary. Mary's a rockstar. I knew she'd be great. (And sure enough, when it came time to say the final goodbye and walk out of the school, she practically shoved me out the door, giving my a glancing hug while eying the giant play house area. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)  No, I was nervous because the parents' informational night the week before had showed me that the vast, vast majority of the parents sending their children to this particular school had Their Stuff Together. Good outfits, expensive (and probably immaculate) cars, perfect hair and makeup (mothers only). Since I seem to exist in a perpetual state of Whirling Dervish, this disparity concerned me. I didn't want Mary to be The Girl With No Playdates because her mother was a little on the nutty side of ADD.

We arrived about five minutes early, along with most of the other parents. However, the school is very strict about its start time and we were not permitted out of the cubby room and into the school until exactly start time.

"Mommy, can we go outside?"

"Not right now Anna."

"But I want to go on the playground. Please? I asked nicely!"

"No, honey, not today."

"Can I stay and play with Mary?"

"No, baby, you don't go to school here," I said.

"Next year!" said a parent, trying to be encouraging. I didn't have the heart to tell her my July baby would not be taking an extra year of preschool and would therefore likely stay right where she is now until kindergarten.

Mary was talking everyone's ear off, getting to know her classmates, and I saw the room mother and her son approaching.

Now, I don't know this woman from a hole in the ground and I'm sure she's very nice. But it was 8 a.m. and she was dressed perfectly. My feeble attempts at fashion at the crack of dawn paled in comparison. Also, I had heard she had volunteered to be Room Mother, which meant she was some combination of highly motivated, organized, and possibly completely crazy. I stood up straight. I willed Mary to be polite.

Her son walked into the cubby room, dressed like all the other little boys in a polo shirt and, I think, shorts. His hair was done in one of those adorable faux hawks that I would so inflict on an imaginary son. Heck, I'd give one to Anna if I thought she'd comply.

Speaking of Anna.

"Hey!" she said, noticing the boy, who had just walked in and noticed an entire room full of people. "I see a shark!!!"

Silence. The boy, possibly taken aback, possibly terrified of a shark, possibly just wanting to spend his time in the fresh air instead of the tiny, overpacked cubby room, backed out as quickly as he'd entered.

In her defense, his hair was kind of fin-like.

I decided to let it go. Kids say silly stuff all the time, right? Right?!

Until that afternoon, I thought maybe we'd have a chance at being the normal family.

"Mary, what did you learn today?"

"That if my cheese falls on the floor, I shouldn't eat it."

Did I mention Room Mom does lunch duty?

It's going to be an interesting year.

Nostalgia

Tomorrow Mary starts her new preschool, having missed the kindergarten cutoff by about a month. This one is an all day program, a couple of days a week, but it's the first time she'll be away from me on a consistent basis for that length of time.

Back in the spring I was pushing for kindergarten. She's emotionally and academically ready for sure. But it didn't happen. A couple of weeks ago I posted on Facebook that while people's walls were filling up with sad posts about sending their children off to school, I was silently grumbling that we had another year to go.

Tonight I'm wistful. She loves her new school and I'm surprised she went to bed as easily as she did this evening. There's a chill in the air, summer is over, and tomorrow, my first baby starts out on her own little journey.

I don't remember my own first day of nursery school, or kindergarten, except that on my first day of my public school career this five year old selected the craziest print dress known to man and wore it with bright red tights. I do remember the day before my brother's first day of school, though back then in our town kindergarten was a half day affair. I was in line at the Ben Franklin with my mom.

"School tomorrow," the cashier said. My mom confirmed she did, in fact, also have the ability to read a calendar.

"But don't worry," the cashier said. "Don't be sad. Pour yourself another cup of coffee and ENJOY IT."

I don't remember what my mom said. Probably that she wouldn't cry. (Which probably would have been a lie. This is the woman who predictably cried when I tried on my wedding dress but also, less traditionally, cried when I opened towels at my shower.) I don't know how she acted once those school bus doors closed on Steve and I that September morning. But I do know that tomorrow, when I leave the cubby room, Mary is going to be a bundle of energy and joy and I'll probably get a little misty. I like to pretend that's not who I am, but you know, sometimes the chink in the armor shows in the light of day.

Five years ago I was counting the days until my due date, then the days I was past due, until at 3:02 in the morning in early October, they handed me Mary. I know the exact time because I had to get a copy of her birth certificate for the school, and it was there, in bold type.

"Is this the long form? Will she be able to run for president?" I asked the City Clerk. I had to ask her something, make a bad joke, I was getting wistful just looking at the stupid thing. 3:02 a.m. in Warwick, this ridiculously wonderful and crazy journey began. It's been a blur ever since. I find myself looking at old pictures, willing myself to remember stories, everything I can from her babyhood. I hate when something slips by. Three kids in four years has been a wonderful blessing, but it's also made for a very rapid passage of time. How did we get here so fast? Wasn't I just putting her into a pink Red Sox bodysuit yesterday, holding her as they won the Series? Weren't we just sitting there, a family of three with a grey cat under a glowing tree, 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve, letting a wide awake two month old "open" her presents?

Today I watched her at a birthday party, running an obstacle course, all legs and arms and a loud laugh, blonde hair in a french braid that hung to her waist, asking for another cookie, a juice box, a ride in a red wagon. Yesterday she and her best friend picked apples and danced in a sudden rainstorm. How did we arrive at this place already? How will she not always be this innocent, this happy? How did I get so lucky not once, but three times?

Tomorrow she starts school. Not even real school, not even all week, but she has a backpack with her name on it and requests for a lunch. (A juice box, a string cheese and a cheese sandwich, according to my four year old menu planner.) She has a towel for rest time and a cubby with a spot for a special stuffed animal just in case she needs it. Tomorrow will be full of new things and every day things and, yes, probably multiple cups of coffee. And pictures. So many pictures, just in case one day I can't remember it all as well as I'd like to.

Someone compared parenting to a marathon, and we're passing another marker on the trail.

Here we go onward.

The nanny

Long time, no blog, I apologize. I blame being in two shows concurrently (why yes, I am insane) and having taken on the exciting new role as nanny to the adorable six month old who lives next door. (Perhaps I should have saved the "insane" disclaimer until after that last statement.)

Honestly, it's great. Once you've broken the golden rule "never let 'em outnumber you," additional kids seem to just kind of fall into the mix. It's just been this week so far, but I'm optimistic. My kids love her. Well, the older two do. Lily seems unsure of just who this person is who gets bottles when she doesn't, and who gets to sit in her high chair, but she's coping. Yesterday, when I was giving Baby G her afternoon bottle, Lily crawled over, pulled herself up on the couch and screeched "MAMA!" joyfully. Baby G, being an only child and therefore unaccustomed to the default level of LOUD that this house operates at on a daily basis, freaked out momentarily but then went back to eating. Indoctrination: complete.

So today I got brave. There was a "creative movement" class at the library for three and four year olds, and it was raining hard. So we decided to brave the weather and head out. I loaded four kids into the car. Performed three car seat maneuvers and helped Mary with her booster. Made sure Baby G could see her car seat toys, handed Lily an animal cracker, handed Anna something, and fielded six million questions from Mary on the three mile drive to the library.

We arrived, and it was still pouring. I unbuckled Mary's booster, and as I did, the key in my hand went flying. I reached out uselessly as it arched over my hand and landed...somewhere. I looked in the backseat. I couldn't see it. I looked on the floor. Nothing. I got out and crouched over in the rain to see if it was under the seats. It wasn't.

I looked at the rain. I looked at the kids. I had no food for the older girls, only a bottle for Baby G, we were three miles from home and all I had was a debit card. The buses are e-fare or cash only. I got Mary onto the sidewalk and moved her booster. Nothing. I got Anna to stand next to her - nothing under her seat either. I moved the babies around like jigsaw pieces. Nada. The key had, for all intents and purposes, disappeared into the ether. And the rain, which had temporarily abated, started up again.

Defeated, we entered the library, Mary and Anna getting in the way as I juggled Lily on my left hip and Baby G's bucket on my right arm. I fired off a text to my husband in Boston, though he was hours away by train. I sent a text to my friend venting.

"I'll call you back," she said.

So I sat back, hoping that when the class was over some librarian would take pity on me and watch my kids so I could search the car Canadian Border Drug Patrol Style. Lily crawled around, Baby G fussed a bit in her carrier, so I swung her.

"Are they all yours?" a mother asked. I looked at Lily, clearly not much over one, and Baby G, clearly not a newborn, and decided I didn't have it in me to be too snarky.

"The older three are. I watch my neighbor's baby during the week."

"I was wondering how you'd managed to have two babies so soon!"

Occam's Razor, this town does not know it.

My phone buzzed. My friend Paula.

"Is it on a keychain?"

I realized that my friend was taking a massive one for the team and searching my car and I almost wept in gratitude. A few minutes later, another text: The key had been found wedged between the seats between the two car seats. How it managed to obtain enough force to do that, I have no idea.

"You need a key chain, Miss Kimberly," Paula laughed at me. She's entitled.

Back in the class, Mary was enthusiastically participating. Anna was somewhat participating, but giving everyone a good suspicious look for good measure. The babies were having a bottle (Baby G) and trying to get in everyone's way (Lily).

"How old are they?" another mother asked.

"A year and six months," I said. Her eyes went a little wide. "They're not both mine."

"Oh!" she laughed.

"Yeah, I've got this gestation thing streamlined to five months," I said. She got the joke. Thank God.

Class ended, we loaded back into the car, came home, did lunch and now everyone is, for the moment, peaceful and quiet. Outside it looks like nine o'clock. It's starting to feel a bit like it to me, too.

Herd immunity.

Last year, before I started this blog, I was kind of concerned about Miss Anna, because while we knew she could talk, and she did talk around the house, she almost never talked to anyone who wasn't a close family member. Everyone, including her pediatrician, told me to give it time, and sure enough, within the year she had started preschool, come out of her shell by a mile, and was much more social.

Today was Anna's three year checkup and Lily's one year checkup, so the whole bunch of us, minus Tim, went to the pediatrician's.

"Hello Mrs. Cirque," the receptionist greeted me. I don't have an uncommon last name, but with three kids under the age of five, even just well visits make us frequent fliers at the doctor's office, and they recognize me by sight and, when I call in, by name.

"The circus is in town!" I announced, walking up to the window and forking over far too much in co pays and receiving forms informing me, that once again, our insurance was being wonky and insisting Lily wasn't covered by our plan. And then we waited.

"Mommy is this doctor for kids?" Mary demanded as I tried unsuccessfully to keep Lily from attempting to crawl into the bathroom, the office, the hall to the exam rooms.

"Yes it is," I said.

"THEN HOW COME THAT GUY-" she pointed obviously, "IS HERE WITH NO KIDS, AND WHY IS THAT BIG PERSON HERE?!"

The father who was waiting for his teenager tried not to smile. The late high school boy sitting nearby looked ready to sink into the floor. I tried to explain how you could see the "kid" doctor until you were out of college if you wanted, gave up, and was grateful when we were called into our exam room.

The girls were weighed and measured. Lily babbled and cooed at the nurse. Anna eyed her suspiciously but acquiesced to stepping on the scale and being measured. And then we waited for the doctor.

"Let's see how Anna's doing," he said in a friendly voice. Anna looked at him with trepidation but to her credit didn't hide in my shoulder.

"Does she sleep well?"

"Yes," I said.

"Does she know her ABCs and count?"

"Yes," I said. "Anna, want to count my fingers?"

"One, two, fee, four, five!"

"Very good," the doctor said. "Does she-"

"I WANNA COUNT YOUR OTHER HAND! One, two, fee, four, five, SIX!"

"Er...I think you counted Mommy's thumb twice," I said, as it was now the doctor, and not Anna, giving odd looks. She managed to not make me the Six Fingered Man this time around and all was well.

"Does she eat well?"

"Anna, do you like to eat?"

"Can I have a juice box? I want a juice box," she muttered to me.

"She eats well," I confirmed.

"CAN I HAVE A JUICE BOX?"

"Later," I whispered. "Later."

"Great," The doctor said. "Does she-"

"I want a juice box with lunch like we had yesterday. We have juice boxes at home but not in the car," she said to the doctor.

"Oh," he said.

"So I want a juice box. I want a juice box. Mommy, can we have a juice box? Can we have one now? Later? I want one now..."

Somehow, we got off the juice box tangent and made it through the exams. And then it was time for vaccinations. Being a good mother, I had anticipated Anna needing some sort of booster and had bribed her with a McDonald's hamburger (don't judge!) if she didn't freak out too much.

"Do you want to do flu vaccines for everyone today?"

"Please," I said, as we are looking at a long year of a new preschool for Mary. He moved towards Mary first, explaining the FluMist was just drops in your nose, it just tickles, one, two, three, all set!

"AAAAAHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAA IT HURRRRRRRRTS!" Mary started screaming. I tried to talk her down. Nothing doing. I tried consoling her. Nope.

Lily got two shots, plus her flu vaccine, and cried. I hugged her. She tried to eat my hair and stopped almost immediately. Mary screamed on.

Anna got her FluMist and started to whimper, but didn't cry. She got two other needles and cried. I hugged her and petted her hair and said she had done very well and we would absolutely go to lunch. Mary screamed on.

She cried as we left the room. She cried as she received a sticker. She sobbed as I said goodbye to the receptionist and sniffled to the car. I told her only girls who didn't scream got treats for lunch. She screamed on. Anna got a hamburger. Mary hollered. She finally calmed down a half an hour later and had some non-hamburger lunch.

"I didn't like that," she said of the FluMist, after we were back home and I was attempting to talk to her about what had happened.

No kidding, kid.

I guess we know which one got the theater major genes.

I just can't wait for her checkup in October. It's going to be epic.

The blog returns at dark thirty

Lily started crying at 3:30 this morning. I was able to settle her until 4:30, and then again at 5. At some point Tim took her until he had to go to work. That's when we heard Mary.

"Daddy, can I wake up now?"

"No," he muttered blearily.

"Go hug Daddy and get back to bed," I said, desperately clutching my pillow and praying for sleep. She did so. Lily was less compliant. At 5:40, as Tim was pulling out of the driveway, Lily started crawling all over me (she has her own crib but by this point I was hoping she'd just sleep next to me) and babbling and touching my face, and I admitted defeat.

My eyes were slits as I laid her on the couch and changed her diaper. Lily babbled happily and cheerfully, as bright eyed as she would be at noon.

"You'll probably be ready for a nap at 7:30 right when your sisters get up," I thought as I cleaned her up. "I'll give them breakfast, settle them in front of a show, maybe I can grab a few minutes on the couch-"

"MOMMY IS IT MORNING YET?"

Or Mary can wake up right. now.

"Anna, Anna, it's morning!"

"Mary, just come out and let your sister sleep," I said quietly, desperately.

"No, I wanna come!" Anna said, hauling herself out of bed. "I didn't poop!"

Kudos, kid.

Mary came barreling out to the sofa. Anna joined her. It was 5:55.

"Hey, you're right, it's the middle of the night!" Anna chirped from her perch, looking out the window. You could still hear crickets. I gulped from my coffee cup.

By 6:00 they had dragged out noisy toys. By 6:05 they were fighting over them, Anna overtiredly sobbing because Lily had the audacity to play with one of her own toys. Mary started whining.

"YOU CAN ALL GO BACK TO BED IF YOU'RE GOING TO FIGHT LIKE PSYCHOS!" I snapped from my vantage point at the dining room table, guzzling caffeine like there was a ban going into effect.

By 6:07 Anna was still whining, this time because Mary had turned her back to her and announced "I just want some time alone with Lily, you can't play, Anna!"

"Heck no, Mary," I said. "You all play together or you go back to your room."

Mary started sobbing. Loudly. Dramatically. Shrilly.

My coffee cup was empty. I eyed the Keurig. I eyed my daughter. Anna started to sob. Again.

"Back to bed, Mary," I said. She opened her mouth and began wailing loud enough to wake the neighbors, of whom I was supremely jealous at the moment. I carried her down to her room. Anna, free of torment, settled down on the couch. Mary hollered from her room for a few moments but quieted down.

It's 6:13. Mary may be asleep, but I don't think so. Lily and Anna are copacetic for who knows how long. I am presently unable to make out what I am typing.

"I WANT TO COME OUT I DON'T WANT TO BE IN HERE!" (Mary)

"BWARRGHATTTTAAAA!" (Lily)

"You're right there, you're right there, you're right there, she's right there, she's right there, she's right-" (Anna)

"LOUD TINNY CLASSICAL MUSIC, FOUR MEASURES ON REPEAT WITH FLASHING LIGHTS!!!" (Take Along Tunes toy)

And then Lily scooted over and began poking a clothespin into my side, over and over. It's happening as I type this. 

Bedtime is in 13 hours, 46 minutes.

But who's counting?

I don't know how she does it.

Right now, I am in the midst of finishing rehearsals for a show that includes a children's chorus. The kids range in age from around five years old to a couple of middle schoolers. So, unable to keep my mouth shut for any appreciable length of time, I've chatted with some of the other parents as I wait to be needed for whatever number.

One mom comes with a small child who is probably two and a half, unlike my small children, he is capable of sitting quietly and watching the musical unfold. I think his sister is in the show, and his mom looks to be in my general age range.

"So you have three kids?" she asked me one day recently.

"I do," I confirmed.

"And they're how old?" This is not uncharted territory for me. I look younger than I actually am. When Mary was born, the nurses treated me like I was on the show "16 and Pregnant," addressing questions to my mother or mother in law instead of the woman in bed holding the baby. I think they reviewed diaper changing 101 with me each time Mary required it. So I smiled and rattled off their ages once more.

"Almost five, just turned three, and almost one," I said.

"And you're in this show? How do you do it? I haven't gotten time to myself in years. How do you get away all by yourself?"

The question wasn't rhetorical. She actually wanted to know. The sarcastic answer: "Well, I'm actually in three shows right now and I'll probably be divorced by Thanksgiving" seemed too flip. The obvious answer: "I have a very supportive and loving husband," seemed too simplistic, though it's completely true. I couldn't pursue any of these hobbies like I do without Tim, who works his butt off to allow me to be a stay at home mom and who also supports a lifestyle that pretty much means Mommy exists only in theory during tech weeks.

But the long answer is much more complicated than that. I do it because I need to. I do it because after a long day, I need a break from being Mommy. I need to do something that reminds me of the person I was before deciding to become a parent, that thing that was part of me before kids, before marriage, the thing that helped define me. I'm a different person now, but one day, my kids will be different people, too. They'll be more independent, have different interests, and, as hard as this can be to contemplate on some days, will eventually move out and have their own lives. Maybe it makes me selfish, but I can't define myself only as "Mary, Anna and Lily's mom" because they will never define themselves solely as "Kim's daughters."

When I was at my baby shower for Mary, the guests were asked to write down some parental advice on an index card. Some were silly: Tim's grandmother advised me to "give her whatever she wants." (That's your job, Nana. My job is to raise her to not be a jerk.) Others reminded me of the importance of a healthy church upbringing. (Note to self: You are failing in this department and don't really want to be, so get on that.) But the one that stuck with me was from a woman who, instead of something off my registry, gave me a silky, pretty bathrobe for the hospital and some really nice, scented body lotion.

"Make sure to take time for yourself."

As a fairly self centered person by nature, that didn't strike me as radical advice, but it wasn't until I was knee-deep in Mommyland that I realized just how important it was to follow. For three years I did the Mommy thing all day, worked at night, and came home in time to fall into bed. Then I quit, and got pregnant. When I could finally leave the baby and audition for a musical, I was so ready it was almost painful. Getting back on that stage reconnected me to something I had lost, and even Tim noticed how much happier I seemed.

So when I was at a baby shower this past spring for one of my best friends, and the advice book circulated, I glanced at the other tips. "Relax." "Read to your baby." "Take lots of pictures, it flies by." All excellent advice. And then I added my own.

"Remember at least one thing that you enjoyed before you became a mom. Find a way to make time for it."

It doesn't have to be big, or expensive, or time consuming, or even the same thing every time, but it should be something.

How do I do it? I don't know, exactly. But I do it because I have to.