Three Turn Four

I have a stack of parenting books on my bed side table and also I have a little secret that I will share with you.  Leaving the books in a neat pile on my bed side table has done little or nothing to make me a “better” parent.  That really disappoints me.  Apparently, you have to read the books and then make changes to current parenting strategies and/or implement new toddler tactics.  I think that if one takes the time to search “parenting books” on Amazon, browse literature selections, place a paperback in the shopping cart, and then make payment…then the knowledge in the book should flow from the pages into the children, parents, and household.  Who’s with me?

I did read something I liked once.  It stated that infertility can lead certain parents to believe that God did something extra miraculous by finally bringing a child into their family and that belief creates a layer of crazy pants in the parents’ decision making process. I jumped on that faster than a Kenyan marathoner…because I love to blame infertility for my crazy pants.

I still battle the belief that I have to “show” God I can be a good parent.   During our pregnancy struggle I heard people say over and over and over, “God has a reason for everything.”  I took that to mean, “God doesn’t think you have the social, intellectual, and/or emotional capacity to parent and that is why He hasn’t blessed you with a viable pregnancy.”  I know that is not true.  But infertility is a naughty little bugger.  She puts foolish thoughts in your head and a pair of crazy pants in your sock drawer.

So this week, when The Trifecta turned four, I found myself pulling on my XXXL crazy pants…and they felt TIGHT.  Aren’t parents supposed to feel happy on birthdays?  I did not.

All week long my brain felt broken.  Every time I looked at The Trifecta my chest got tight.  Because the time I have left with them at home before they start the rat race of formal education is ticking faster than green grass through a goose. 

I went to Campus School to place them on the list for the 2014 school year, knowing that with our March birthday, we have little to no chance of three spots on the kindergarten enrollment list.  But I went.  The sweet lady behind the glass handed me a clip board and three forms.  Name?  Date of birth?  Address?  Phone numbers?  Simple enough.  All of a sudden my hands began to tremble and my palms began to sweat and I felt very shaky and some throw up crept into my throat.  A stranger stopped, put her hand on my shoulder and asked, “Are you ok?  Do you need a glass of water?” I declined her offer, tightened up my crazy pants and filled out the forms.

After the girls went to sleep I gave Chris Jackson a 45 minute presentation in which I shared my fears and hopes and also an awesome plan to move to the mountains of North Carolina and teach The Trifecta math skills through seed planting.  My husband listened intently.  He then offered a calm, rational, and thoughtful reply.  I don’t remember most of it, because by that time of day my Adderall has worn off.  My brain began weaving, “How does this man have such faith?  How has he managed to remain un-medicated after all these years? He really has lost A LOT of hair. I love this guy so much.  When he finishes talking I am totally going to kiss him on the lips.”  Chris Jackson interrupted my day dream, “Amy?”  “Yes,” I replied, “I have heard everything you just said and I could not agree more.  We are going to pray about this.”  Then I kissed him on the lips.

Currently, I’m ready Trophy Child, by Ted Cunningham.  If you are a sane parent with reasonable expectations and high parenting self-esteem, this book is not for you.  If you own one or more pair of crazy pants in size M-XXXL, I think you may find some comfort in the pages and words of this paperback.  The author instructs me to attach my children to Jesus and not to me.  I wrote, “I am not convinced of this,” in the margin.  It’s probably true though.

I love my three little four year olds.  I want to keep them close to me and I don’t want them growing up any more.  Right now they are attached to me and I love it bunches and bunches. I know I’m not supposed to say that.

There may or may not be a book to “help” someone like me.  I may or may not get over my feelings I have to prove my parental worthiness to God.  I will probably always need Adderall. Someday I may or may not exchange my XXL crazy pants for a smaller size. But, I worry that I will always want my three miracles attached to me. 

Happy Birthday, Tiny Toes Trifecta!

Momtastic

I used to have a safe and peaceful place inside myself called, “The Shopping Zone.”  I could sort through sale racks faster than a speeding bullet.  I could fill the largest dressing room full of clothes and go back for more before the sales associate could ask, “How’s it going in there?”  My Dad coined the term, “buying season” to explain the financial damage done to his bank account following a shopping spree with my Mom.   We could have a twelve hour shopping bender and not even stop to hydrate.

The first time I went shopping after The Trifecta’s birth I felt tired before I even left the house.  I had an event for Junior League. The girls were 5 weeks old.  I had a belly the size of a woman in her third trimester (minus the baby/babies), and milk producing organs the size of a micro-planet.  I also had nothing to wear.  “Listen to me,” I hissed at Chris, “I’m going to ONE store.  I’m going to buy a dress, shoes, and SPANX.  I don’t care how much the items I need cost us.  If I find something that fits, I’m going to buy it.  I’ll be back by the next feeding.”  “That’s a great idea,” he replied with a supportive hug.

That’s how I shop now.  It’s a sprint race, not a marathon.  I go to one store.  I find what I need.  I don’t even look at the price tag, because I cannot be distracted by the proposition to bargain shop.

And so, when I had to make a shoe purchase for an event several weeks ago, I did my best to prepare myself emotionally and spiritually for my shopping expedition.  I would depart for Dillard’s following bath, story, and bed time.  That would give me approximately one hour to venture into the shoe department, search for needed shoes, try them on, and secure payment. If everything went according to the plan I had mapped out in my mind, I could still be in bed by 10:00 pm.

The air of the automatic doors hit my face and as I bee-lined for the shoe department. I made my selection in record time.  The shoes only slightly cut off the circulation to my toes and barely sliced into my heels.  They would do just fine.   I raced to check out and pay for them.

The young specimen working the cash register could not have been less impressed by my Momtasticness.  Perhaps in was the frizzy hair falling out of my pony tail holder into my eyes.  Or, maybe it was my worn yoga pants streaked with food, finger paint, and Trifecta mucus.  I didn’t care.  I just needed to pay and get home.  I reached into my new Thirty-One handbag.  It has 962 secret zipper compartments.  I could feel my wallet, but I could not FIND my wallet inside the bag.  I smiled at Young Specimen.  “It’s in here somewhere,” I explained, “I bought it because it has secret compartments.  I have to hide wallet from my triplet daughters.  They are almost four.  They like to look through my things.  One of my girls likes to hide my paraphernalia.  So I have to, you know, put my wallet and keys where they can’t find them.”  Young Specimen continued to stare at me.  I continued to search.  Seconds turned into minutes.  Minutes turned into a panic attack.  I took my 007 purse off my shoulder and began to shake it violently upside down.  No wallet.  I turned the device inside out in hopes of finding another zipper.  No wallet.

“Pardon me, ma’am?” said a soft voice over my shoulder.  (And yes, the voice TOTALLY just ma’amed me!) “Are you talking to me?” I replied.  “Yes,” answered Soft Voice, “I sell Thirty-One purses.  I actually I have that bag.  I think you are overlooking the zipper around the edge of the bag.” 

I located the wallet, paid for my purchase, and left the store.  By the time I got into bed it was 10:27 pm. 

That safe and peaceful place for shopping lives in me no more.  It has been replaced and filled with three precious little girls and the desire to build pirate ships, solve puzzles, paint pictures, and read stories.  And I know it’s not just the shopping.  I live in yoga pants and a ponytail.  It’s my Momtastic season of life right now.  And I’m totally ok with it.

 

 

Accidents Happen

I haven’t written a blog post in 100 years.  At least it feels like it’s been that long.  I haven’t felt much like writing lately.  I’ve been feeling a little Mommy-Manic.  One minute I’m thinking, “We just assembled a pirate puzzle together!  Motherhood is the best thing EVER!” And the next I’m all like, “I’ve been singing ‘Clean-up, clean-up, everybody do their share’ for the last ten minutes and no one is helping me therefore I am all alone in this world.” 

Last week I hit an all-time low.   The Trifecta had “Hibernation Day” at school and felt excited about wearing their pajamas to school.  I selected a trio of cuteness… smocked pink pajamas.  As I started to dress the girls a riot broke out; screams of discontent and opposition.  They have a closet full of smocked threads, custom applique and monogrammed garments, and Lilly Pulitzer shift dresses.  But what do they want to wear? Hendley will wear whatever I select for the day.  Elizabeth wants mismatched leggings and torn tutus.  Mary Ellis wants shorts and MTSU and ATM t-shirts.  A harmonious parent would just go with it.  But I fight them.  I can’t tell you why.  I may live in sweatpants and workout clothes, but I want The Trifecta to look tidy and together.  So we bargain.  I pick their clothes on school and church days.  They pick the other days. 

After several minutes of intense negotiations I decided to let them select their pajamas.  I dressed them.  I put on their socks and shoes.  I announced the time had come to go to school. 

I turned off the television.

Anarchy.  Rampage. Revolt. Chaos.

I stood in silence for a solid thirty seconds as my precious angels WENT COMPLETELY NUTSO.  My heart raced.  My armpits began to sweat.  My pulse hit the roof.

I snapped.

I threw my keys and purse on the ground.  I clinched my fists.

And.  I.  Roared.

“GET INTO THE CAR RIGHT NOW!” It was one of those screams that made my throat sore and my ears pop at the same time.  Somewhere in the house a light bulb exploded (probably).

And also I may or may not have threatened to give gypsy children all their toys.

Mary Ellis and Elizabeth started to cry and ran to the car.  Hendley stared at me with her intense, honest eyes.  “Mommy,” she whispered, “Don’t talk to me that way.”

I picked her up and put her in her car seat.  We drove to school in silence.

When we arrived at school the excitement of hibernation day seemed to replace the events of the morning.  I kissed Mary Ellis and Elizabeth good-bye.  I pulled Hendley into my lap.  “Hendley,” I began, “I’m sorry I lost my temper this morning.  I shouldn’t have yelled like that.  I felt overwhelmed.  Can you forgive me?”  She smiled and shrugged her shoulders at me.  “It’s ok, Mommy.  Accidents happen.”  She wiggled out of my lap and joined her class. 

Was my temper tantrum an accident?  Accidents cause injury, harm, and damage. 

As I drove away from the school I started to blubber…a big, fat, snot-spiller, soul cleansing cry. I cried because I haven’t had a solid six hours of sleep in seven months.  I cried because a pile of clean laundry the size of Mt. Everest waited for me to fold and put away.  I cried because the dishwasher is always full of clean dishes I have to put away and the sink is always full of dirty dishes that need the dishwasher.  I cried because I REALLY want to be a patient, loving, and kind mother and at that moment I felt like the opposite of all those qualities.  I felt reckless, irresponsible, and rotten.

And then I thought of Hendley.  “It’s ok, Mommy.  Accidents happen.”  I spent summers working for State Farm Insurance in high school.  One of my many jobs required me to take accident reports for auto policy holders.  Some involved senseless drivers, another involved pit bulls, and this one time a brand new $100,000 Mercedes drove off the lot and crashed into a guard rail.  I decided to file an accident report on my own self.  I don’t have a deductible and there isn’t a body shop to repair the damage.  

I want to do better and I want to be better.  And also I hope to have less laundry to fold. 

Worlds Collide

The Trifecta entering the sanctuary...

Remember, that one time on Seinfeld, when George worried that his two worlds were colliding?  Relationship George (the man who spends time with his wife) and Independent George (the George we know around Elaine, Jerry, and Kramer) clash when Elaine wants to get to know his wife.  He called it his, “Worlds Collide Theory.”  It’s one of my favorite episodes because George has a crazy tantrum in which he yells, "Anybody knows... You gotta keep your worlds apart!"

Today, as I watched The Trifecta enter the church sanctuary for their Thanksgiving Program, it occurred to me that my worlds were colliding.  Not in the same way as George of course.  Quite the opposite, actually…all the things I love the most were meeting head-on in one location, at one time. 

My parents sat to my right, my brother and Chris Jackson to my left.  I sat smashed in the middle, in a pew, in a church I adore to tiny pieces.  First Presbyterian Preschool and The Trifecta’s teachers, Ms. Allison and Ms. Tasha…have I mentioned how much I cherish them today?   And then, just when I didn’t think I could take it anymore, The Trifecta; Elizabeth, Hendley, and Mary Ellis, walked into the sanctuary. 

And for a moment I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t take the happiness that palpitated inside me.  My worlds were colliding; my parents with my brother with my church, with our preschool, with my husband with my precious children…things that I treasure, in one room, at one time.

But, unlike George, I didn’t have a tantrum.  I did burst into happy tears though. Check out the show: 

Join Them

Once upon a time The Trifecta used to take magical naps.  The kind of naps blessed by unicorns and sprinkled with enchanted sleepy horn dust.  Then, the unicorn galloped away and naptime stopped. 

No more time for Mommy to eat lunch.  No more time to fold laundry while watching, “The Real Housewives of New York.”  Or, “Bridezillas.”  Or, “Law and Order.”  Or anything on the Lifetime Movie Network.  No more cruising EBAY for NWT Lilly Pulitzer or obsessively scrolling through my smocked auction pages on Facebook.  Mommy time died when the magical unicorn ran away. 

I tried all sorts of tricks.  I sat in a rocker and told them I would call Santa if they didn’t sleep.  Instead of sleeping they spent the whole time whispering, “You won’t have to call Santa on me, okay Mommy?”  Or, “Hey Mommy, look at me, I’m sleeping.”  Or my personal favorite, after not sleeping at all, “What a great sleep.  I’m wide awake now!”

I Pinterested and found a glorious idea for nap boxes filled with books and “quiet” toys. This resulted in The Trifecta leaping from bed to bed, fighting over books, piling the “quiet” toys on the floor and eventual mayhem. 

Then, one day, after my 26^th trip up the stairs and my 14^th personal depiction of the police banging on the door and threatening to cart away non-napping three year olds, I had an epiphany.  If you can’t beat them, join them.  I’m a fighter.  I don’t give up.  But this battle, this insane combat from 1:30-3:30 each day…The Trifecta had the upper hand. 

“Move over,” I ordered as I climbed into Mary Ellis’ bed.  “What are you doing, Mommy?” she asked. “I’m going to take a nap.  In your bed,” I answered.  Elizabeth and Hendley climbed into bed with us.  I had a toddler on each arm and one on my stomach.  Within 10 minutes, The Trifecta fell into sleep.

The mystic unicorn had returned. 

The system is not perfect.  It’s hot and sweaty when you have three bodies napping upon you.  There is drool involved…lots and lots of drool.  Most days two of the three fall asleep while I spend the rest of the time whisper-shouting, “Get still and quiet or you’ll wake your sisters!” 

And one time, I fell asleep.  And when I woke up there was not a Trifecta in the bed.  There was a duo.  The third had crept out of the bedroom and into the playroom.  There was a big mess in there.  But she was still alive so I didn’t worry about the mess so much.

Periodically, my limbs will endure such a smashing that my arms and legs will fall asleep.  Leaving only my face muscles active.

I still love naptime.  The snuggling.  The laughing.  The whispering.  The kisses.  I love hearing them breathe when they sleep. 

Welcome home, enchanted unicorn.

Pumpkin' Paintin'

 

 The Trifecta loves Fall.  They love all things scarecrow, hay, and pumpkin.  After we purchased our pumpkins we decided to paint them.  The Trifecta wore their uniform of choice...underwear.

 

 

 

 

Did you know that pumpkins are the world's largest fruit?  Elizabeth does not eat pumpkin, but she loves Granny Smith apples because they are sour.

 Pumpkins are 90% water.  Hendley is 100% precious.

 

Pumpkin seeds are known as pepitas!  Pepita was my Spanish name in high school.

 

 Painting pumpkins is serious business.  Various colors are needed as well as multiple brushes.

Pumpkin flowers are edible. Have you tried them?

The world's largest pumpkin weighed 1,140 pounds!  Mary Ellis weighed 3.2 pounds when she was born. 

Pumpkin seeds are small but powerful, just like The Trifecta.  From a tiny seed grows a GIGANTIC fruit!

 

Trivia Tidbit:  Dreaming that you eat pumpkin means that you will live a rich lifestyle.  I have never had a dream about eating pumpkin.

 

Pumpkins are grown on six of the seven continents. 

 





80% of the pumpkin supply in the United States is available in October.

Native Americans used pumpkin seeds in medicines.

Mary Ellis enjoyed mixing all her colors together.



Elizabeth used a lot of purple and blue.

 

Hendley Grace used green, of course.

 

In the end, Mary Ellis just painted her whole body. 

Bono Says...

BT (Before Triplets) Chris Jackson and I used to run together.  We were both getting our Masters and I read somewhere that physical goals helped with academics so I made us run two marathons.  Because I don’t mess around with goal setting.

We would have to get up between 4:15 and 4:45 am so that we returned by 6:45 am.  That gave me just enough time to take a shower, drink two to three cups of coffee, pull my wet hair up into a pony tail, and make the 2 minute commute to school by 7:30 am.   When you set your alarm for the early morning, you need some tough ammunition to prevent the pushing of the snooze button.  Our first strategy involved placing the alarm clock clear across the room by the door to our bedroom.  The second strategy was most effective.  We purchased an alarm clock with a CD player and set U2’s “Beautiful Day,” as our wake up song. 

When Bono greeted us with, “The heart is a bloom, shoots up through the stony ground there's no room, no space to rent in this town, you're out of luck and the reason that you had to care, the traffic is stuck, and you're not moving anywhere…” we somehow managed to crawl out bed, throw on our running clothes, bob our heads and point at one another (sometimes Chris Jackson busted out into a full dance sequence) and make it out the front door.  We usually didn’t speak until we crossed the pedestrian bridge. 

Now when my alarm goes off around 5:15, I crawl out of bed alone.  The only marathon we’re training for together now is the long distance course of parenthood.  I leave Chris Jackson in bed, usually with one of the girls, and sneak into the kitchen.  Even though I complete my Bible study first, it’s still dark when I walk out the door.  I send up a quick prayer before I hit the play button on my ipod.  1) Please allow the girls to sleep peacefully until I return home. 2) Please protect me while I’m out in the dark of morning. 3) Please keep all my post-triplet organs, specifically my bladder and intestines, from falling out of my privates while I run.

The first song on my play list?  “Beautiful Day,” of course.  Bono says, “It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away,” and I begin my slow drag (picture an injured dog) of a jog.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the verse:

What you don't have you don't need it now

I have a tendency to manipulate lyrics to fit my own personal wants and needs rather than listening to the artists intention.  In this case, I think Bono is telling me to be thankful for what I have.  Because I think Bono is a guy with deep thoughts.

Sometimes I grumble; I don't run as fast or as far as I used to, I don't get a solid 8 hours of sleep each night, loading triplets into the Jeep makes me sweat, I got a bad hair cut last week. 

But I think I should listen to Bono about this when he sings to me. Everything in my life is a gift and a blessing.  During my Bible study last week I came across the following quote.  I wrote it in my study guide without crediting the source, “With thankfulness comes contentment, a satisfaction with what God has given us and where He has placed us.” 

I want to think about where God has placed me in this crazy, glorious, sometimes confusing world. And I want to feel thankful.