My wife and daughter have traveled to my father-in-law’s house in the Adirondacks to help getting his house ready to sell. I’m home with the boys, experiencing a quiet(ish) morning.
To-do list, eggs collected from our hens to be delivered, purple Monster High hair fascinator (because that is where allowance and autonomy meet for an 8 year old girl), and coffee. Photo-bomb by Hagrid the cat.
Breakfast for the boys involved two packages of sausage I forgot to freeze and had to cook, fresh eggs, and asparagus from a friends garden. It’s true I ate most of the asparagus. I was curious what would happen when my carnivores were faced with a massive mound of sausage, something usually doled out in a miserly duo. They almost polished them off.
Truman: Mom, I wish I could marry (the puggle dog) Dodger.
Me: I know. You really love him.
Truman: yes, I do. But he’s not the marrying kind of person. He’s the dog kind of person.
My children made my dreams come true. My children suck the life out of me daily.
Nothing restores my love for them like watching the photo stream on my computer while they sleep.
I watch the smiles with newly missing teeth, meld into
a kid whooshing for the first time downstream in the current at Flat Rock, merge into
a 7yo who can barely tolerate his little brother hugging him fiercely because the younger has bumped a major body part, turn into
a photo of my middle child blissed out at a monster truck rally that I shocked myself by not only enjoying but having a favorite truck, which blends into
pictures of my eldest and youngest with face paint on as they play self-created superheroes.
No one told me any of this when I was dreaming of, then struggling mightily for, the babes.
I am grateful. I am overwhelmed.
I am mom. Imperfect, scared, fierce, winning it.
I’ve hacked into my WordPress account! I’ve got logins, passwords, and best of all, it’s on my phone now, too.
Bring on the posting!
“It’s bedtime! Each of you can pick one book.”
Grif dug into “Survivors: the night the titanic Sank” and hasn’t spoken since. Truman is reciting from memory the entire “Ladybug Girl” in his hands, and Maya’s, well, she’s a tad conflicted.
In the act. DUDE. I’m right here! Unhand my panties.
Maya made a chart to keep track of who gets to disembark first from the bus so they don’t have to jostle each other. So civilized!
It never stops being exciting. At 8:15 on a Sunday night, I’m glad I bought enough dollar coins to cover a mouthful of fairy visits.
With children 6 1/2, almost six, and two, there is much jockeying for the biggest piece, the best toy, mommy’s undivided attention, the first turn.
More often than not, though, they work it out and pitch in together. There are some materials that are guaranteed to enable teamwork and merriment in our house: rocks, water, sand, mulch, snow, corks*.
A Barbie party became a swimming hole, which turned into a truck wash. With three kids we have three giant dump trucks (duh). An hour later, I’ve got dinner ready, I’ve blogged (!?!), and they’ve got extra sibling goodwill stored up. And I’ve got photographic evidence of them having a fun, happy, childhood for proof when they hit puberty and start denying it.
Life has been a lot too busy these last few, um, months? Years? But it is rich, for sure.
* (We’ve been saving our wine corks for years – a super toy for diggers to scoop and move around, to use in the tub; an extra bonus it’s that they don’t hurt like Legos or glass gems when you inadvertently step on them in the dark.)
Or the school bus. Whatever.