Sixteen tons

I am probably going to take a break from complaining that my husband doesn't seem to do much around the house because he went back to work today and I realized exactly how much he had done over the past week. My lord, I am exhausted and it's not even 7:30 p.m.

Today was spent cleaning up after the holidays: Dismantling the tree, taking down garland and Christmas cards, putting up holiday scented candles and moving furniture (okay, a hope chest) back into the living room. It was spent cooking food - and realizing that this evening I must get myself to the supermarket as we are basically down to condiments - and cleaning - and realizing for the umpteenth time that my floors must manufacture dust when I am not looking because no matter how much I sweep, by the time I'm done it's pretty much time to do it again.

This afternoon, though, we ventured out into the freezing weather (and yes, I know this is New England and the fun is just beginning!) for Open Gym at Mary's preschool. This happens twice a week, from 3 to 5 p.m., and I rely on it like I rely on coffee and the Internet: Some days, it's the only thing that keeps my kids off of eBay. Today was going really well, except for some drama because Mary only wanted to wear her pink coat, and naturally The World's Best Mommy had left that in Connecticut when we visited my parents this past weekend, and that, my friends, is a fate worse than death. (I have no idea where she got the sparkly princess gene. Past photographs suggest I was more the sunglasses-shorts-wool winter hat type.)

I produced last year's pretty black wool dress coat and slipped it on Mary, who recoiled from the non-pink article of clothing as if it were riddled with pestilence. I cajoled. I shouted. I pulled out my trump card: "Anna is getting a treat because she used the potty (oh ho, I am so that mother) and if you don't wear that coat to the car and then keep it on your lap, you are not going to get to share it with her."

Guess what didn't happen? There were tears and shouts but I held firm and Anna, tiny little pot stirrer that she is, kept asking me "But I get a treat, right, mama? I used the potty!"

Sigh.

Some days, Open Gym is quiet, other times, a hierarchy akin to Lord of the Flies develops, with Mary, aka the Cruise Director, at the top of the heap trying to play with everyone and talking nonstop to anyone over the age of 20 who will stand still and listen, and Lily somewhere at the bottom, lolling on her blanket while I try to gently encourage and yet fend off curious two year olds (middle of the pack, noisy, somewhat sticky, ever so cute). This time Mary ensconced herself in the office, watching cartoons with Harry, son of Marsha, the saint who runs Open Gym, Anna commenced running around with no less than two sound making animals and half a dozen stacked mini traffic cones and Lily lolled on various objects and protested not being able to eat animal crackers, walk or crawl. We chatted with the nannies and moms, and I secretly envied those who had gone the "screw it, I'm wearing yoga pants" route. Lily ate and ate and hollered and grinned. Mary eventually got over her hatred of the black coat when she realized it was kind of twirly. Anna stole Mary's animal crackers and somehow, a war didn't break out.

And we came home, and made dinner, and I read lots of books in loud voices because that seemed to be the only thing that made Lily happy, and when Tim walked in at 6:30 and offered me a break before the kids' bedtime at 7, I made a beeline for the dark, welcoming bedroom, yanked up at least two blankets and buried myself in the first real quiet I'd had all day. Sure, I could hear the ruckus down the hall but they had their dad, who hadn't seen them all day and therefore reveled in their nonstop attention, whereas I was officially running on empty.

The baby came in around 7, the kids went to sleep, Lily drifted off and my husband and I finished putting away Christmas. The house is relatively still as I finish this up and cozy up to the Keurig, another day done (more or less).

Click, click, boom

If I were a contender in the Mommy Olympics I might post something on Facebook like “Supermom took three kids to get their pictures taken today, then out for lunch afterwards, how sweet is that!?”

Since my entry into said Olympics would be laughable, instead I will tell you that even with a ratio of 1:1 (my mother in law accompanied Tim and me on this incredible journey) I was overwhelmed. Getting three kids to sit down (or stand up, or just stand still), smile (or just stop crying) and look at the camera (or past the camera and at Mommy, or in the other direction, at Daddy, but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD CAN WE ALL BE LOOKING IN THE SAME PLACE AT THE SAME TIME) is difficult. I recommend a full tactical special forces team if you actually have a goal in mind besides “look, we have three kids who were at one point awake in the same room together and not arguing over toys or debating the relative merits of Yo Gabba Gabba vs. The Backyardigans.” (At this point Tim would like to point out that Pablo from the Backyardigans is absolutely far superior to anyone else.)

As I predicted, I didn’t even bother letting the photographer take pictures of Lily in the little outfit that I picked out this morning, but she was a champ for the blanket pictures, laughing and cooing and being generally adorable. She was a little over it when it came time for the christening gown shots but smiled and we got some good ones. And then…we pushed our luck.

My mother in law made the girls beautiful Christmas dresses and wanted a shot of all three girls in said dresses. All three girls together in said dresses. See two paragraphs up and you can imagine how that went. Lily was done. Not having it one bit. The photographer tried to hand her to Mary. Four year olds are amazing baby holding experts. Mary tried. Lily slumped. Her head tilted backwards. And then she let out a scream that would take down the walls and my mother in law and I hastily said at the same time, “or maybe just the older girls.”

Anna played shy. Mary played “I’m too cool for all of this and I’m not going to give you a real smile” but then got into things and took her little sister along for the ride, so my father in law’s office walls will have one really great shot of two of my kids, and one really great shot of the baby, and if we put them in the same frame, well, that pretty much counts as three kids in the same picture, right?

Right?!

The best shot of the Christmas dresses turned out to be the one Tim took of Mary, hamming it up in front of Bertucci’s afterwards.

Who says the promise of pizza doesn’t fix everything?

Twas the night before pictures

It started innocently enough, with a few shots in between outfits, about four years ago at a Picture People in the mall. At my in laws’ insistence, we were gathered together to get pictures of a five month old Mary, this first time mom having missed the memo that digital prints weren’t enough, nay, the fact that my child had reached almost six months of age without being plunked before a canvas backdrop and photographed by strangers smacked of my ignorance and possible neglect of my precious firstborn.

Or something along those lines. I’m a little hazy on the details. I had not, however, missed the compulsion to dress my baby to the nines, so aside from her absolutely gorgeous christening gown, I had also chosen for Miss Mary to be photographed in a perfectly coordinated pink panda bear outfit from Gymboree. We had the little pink sweater hat, the body suit with collar detailing, the jeans with panda bears on the legs and, of course, a pink sweater with bears, white socks with detailing and little black patent leather shoes. She looked adorable.

So of course when the photographer brought out samples to show us (of course they were put into frames to show us just what we were missing if we went with the bargain packages), I was amazed that the best shots of my daughter were of her in just a diaper, her huge blue eyes peeking out from beneath some pink blanket the photographer had produced from a props bucket. She looked so sweet, so innocent, so perfectly chubby baby that I had to have that shot, and two like it, in a cherry frame, matted. And of course I had to have a framed photograph of Miss Mary in her christening gown, because that was the whole reason we were there anyway and what kind of mother doesn’t want her daughter’s first foray into Christian life memorialized? (Just when you think you don’t ‘do’ Mommy guilt, it turns out you just might. It’s insidious!)

Two years later, it was Anna’s turn. I’m sure I picked out a cute outfit for her to wear to her pictures but I can’t remember what it was. The best shots were the blanket shots again. Another frame on the wall, this time my skinny little brunette baby who couldn’t quite fully sit up well looking out at me with her sweet, serene expression. (Yes, the toddler I now lovingly call ‘honey badger’ was once extremely mellow. No, I can’t believe it, either.) Something about the simplicity of the shot, unencumbered by hats and bows and whatever else Gymboree had to go with the outfit, showed me Anna the way she was: Sweet, but with a look I couldn’t quite place in the eyes, a look we now know heralds a child covered in paint, or pudding, announcing “I killed a yeti.” (Oh yeah, that happened.)

So tomorrow it’s Lily’s turn. Lily, who is entirely like and unlike her sisters all at once, who seems to thrive on no sleep, who will wear the requisite white gown her sisters wore for the formal photographs her sisters already have. But it’s almost 10 p.m. and I haven’t picked out anything else for her to wear. I’ll bring a soft blanket and call it good, and two or three years from now, when she’s trying to read, or attempting to strangle the cat, or running down the hall with a bucket on her head screaming out lyrics to “Tangled,” I’ll look back at that simple shot and say, “Yep. That’s her.”

Goodbye, 2011!

It’s New Year’s Eve and the holiday season is officially drawing to a close. I’ve boxed the ornaments (the tree will be left up until tomorrow or Monday when I can bribe Tim to drag it back up into the attic. That’s right, we Fake Fir around here), taken down the stockings and put away all the Christmas presents. Tonight the girls will spend the evening with my parents while we head over to a high school friend’s party. And yes, I am totally overdressing for it, because where else will I get to wear my cute, festive things?

This past year was full of unexpectedly good things. My husband has found his niche in the education realm and is almost done with his master’s degree. We welcomed Miss Lily, also known as LilyKat or Baby Lala. Mary continued in preschool, Anna turned two and hasn’t stopped making the world aware she is a force to be reckoned with ever since.

And me? It was my first full year as a stay at home mom and I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of it. I had another birthday, the day after Lily was born. I’m comfortable in my own skin for the first time in, well, ever, I think. There’s a confidence that didn’t exist 10 years ago, that’s for sure. I’ll never claim to be a great wife or mother but you do what you can and hope for the best. The only real goals I have in 2012 are to finally run that 5k I’ve been working towards and actually keep up with this blog. I know, I know, don’t get too ambitious there, killer.

As I look forward to 2012, the shorter part of my family appears to be living in the moment entirely. Mary and Anna are exploring the rules of cause and effect, it would appear. Tim just got out of the shower, and from the other room, I hear this exchange:

Anna: Why Daddy take a bath?

Mary: Because he’s stinky!

Anna: Oh.

So there’s that. They’re realists if nothing else.

How about the rest of you? What are your New Year’s Resolutions?

A love that dare not speak in art class

Anna and I got some rare one on one time this morning when Mary woke up talking about a dream that would generally occur only after one drops acid and I determined she was feverish and therefore not going to be attending art class with us.

“There were piggies!” she said animatedly, her cheeks bright pink. “They were sitting in trees and brushing their teeth and eating mud!”

Uh huh.

She also didn’t want breakfast, a sure sign she was down for the count, at least for a little while. Mary and Anna are their daddy’s girls and missing a meal ranks high on the list of Worst Things Ever. But it wasn’t all bad. Husband Tim is home from school until the third and that meant a morning of pajamas for the oldest and youngest and an art class date for Anna and me. (But not before we stopped for coffee and a donut, of course. “A big donut! With sprinkles!”)

All the way to art class, Anna asked when we would be there. Through a mouthful of the donut we split 70/30 (gee, why am I not losing weight?) she asked where Miss Stacie was. Miss Stacie teaches Mary and Anna’s art class and Anna has a bit of a girl crush on her. If we drive by the building where art class is, we hear about Miss Stacie. See a blue minivan on the road? “Dat Miss Stacie car!” And any bit of coloring or painting done at home must be hung on the wall with great exclamation as Anna pretends to run her own art class, with Mary and Lily as somewhat unwilling (and unwitting) participants.

Excitement was at an all time high as I parked Tim’s car (smaller, gas efficient, good for transporting one or two monkeys but not the whole clan) and got her into art class, where it was a small gathering of just one other little boy. Anna immediately refused to say hi to Miss Stacie, which is also par for the course for her. Anna’s hero worship exists at manageable distances only.

Miss Stacie got out the paint. Did Anna want to paint? Of course not. Anna wanted to cling to me like a rhesus monkey. Did Anna want to make a Happy 2012 hat to wear this weekend? No, Anna wanted to watch Mommy paint on the mural paper.

“We could have stayed home and done nothing,” I reminded Anna. “And Mommy wouldn’t have needed to get out of her pajamas for that.” Anna remained unmoved. Did Anna want to make a snowman to hang on the fridge? What are you, new?

“What do you want to do?” I asked her. Radio silence. “Do you want to paint?” I get the hairy eyeball. “Do you want to go home and see Mary?”

“No.”

“Do you…want to go to Target?” (What? I have errands to do and I am not about to waste a morning out sans 2/3 of my offspring.)

“Yes! Yes! Oh Target!” And with that she ran over, gave Miss Stacie a huge, cuddly, lingering hug and said goodbye.

Okay. I asked again if she wanted to stay, maybe do a little painting, make herself a snowman. She looked at me as though I asked her if she’d like to submerge herself in boiling oil.

So we went to Target but didn’t stay very long because holiday stock was at 70 percent off and the place was a zoo. I like discount Christmas cards as much as the next girl but not enough to throw elbows. Also, spoiler alert? Brown reindeer Peeps look anything but festive. I tried to look at wrapping paper and ornaments, many of ours having been sacrificed to the gods of toddlers and cats over this joyous Christmas season, but the other people gave me looks that suggested I’d lose a limb as soon as do a price check. Anna was cheerful as she said goodbye to all and sundry as we abandoned our cart by the door, headed into the parking lot and buckled in for the trip home.

“That was fun, wasn’t it, Anna?”

“Where Miss Stacie?”

“Miss Stacie is at school, Anna.”

“Are we going to art class now?”

“Art class is over, Anna.”

“Aw, MAN! Wanna go art class!”

Sigh…the course of true love never did run smooth.

Little hands, little sleep

There's something about starting a "mommy blog." You almost don't want to admit you're doing it, not in the age of STFU Parents and childfree blogs which mock the existence of sites where the writers extol the every smile, coo and bowel movement of their child(ren).

But this is not that kind of blog.

I am the stay at home mother of three small children (TSC for the lazy?), all girls, ages four, two and four months. By extension this means I am underslept, over stimulated and completely addicted to caffeine in all forms. My two year old, upon seeing the glorious orange and pink Dunkin' Donuts sign, will cheerfully crow "skim milk no shuga!" from the backseat (followed closely by "donut, mommy? Just one?"). In a former life I was a journalist and damn good copy editor, in this one I freelance and run children's birthday parties. If you had told me 10 years ago this is where my life would be, I'd probably have laughed in your face.

Now, I laugh, but for other reasons:

*My sarcastic four year old, Mary, who asked me why our house wasn't covered in Christmas lights like the neighbors'. "Because Mommy's a slacker," I snapped. "Everybody knows that," she replied dreamily.

*My two year old, Anna, who eschewed opening Christmas presents to tear her way through a snack sized box of Goldfish crackers, and then, upon noticing her presents, asked if they contained bacon.

*The baby, Lily, who literally screams with delight when her father walks in the room and has since she was practically brand new.

*My husband, who has the unique ability to bring me to the breaking point and then say just the right thing to make me not kill him and laugh instead.

And, of course, I cook and clean and beat my head against the wall and log more miles on my vehicle than a Manhattan cabbie. It's a hell of a journey.

Join me, won't you?