Good Bad Good Bad Good Bad Good: The Ever Changing Mood of a Stay at Home Parent

I used to have concrete ideas regarding whether a day was good or bad. It was simple to me. It was either good or bad. Nowadays, I can't say that anymore because it changes constantly. I may wake up to a good morning but 10 minutes later feel like it's the worst day I've ever had. I started to notice this when we had our first son. I learned to think in terms of good and bad moments. I might be able to say a day was ok if more good moments occurred than bad. If there were more bad moments than good, though, it was a crummy day.

These days it's hard to even characterize a day or a moment because even a single moment can be split three different ways - by three different children. I might be having a horrible moment with one child while somehow sharing a peaceful moment with another and may just be having a calm but neutral one with the third - all at the same time. Basically, my moments have been divided into thirds now. In some ways it just makes life more interesting and rich but in another it can be schizophrenigenic (an excellent term coined - as far as I know - by a family friend). To put it simply, it can be maddening.

Here is an example from this very evening. One of the twins, Evan, was having a difficult time sleeping. I finally had some luck soothing him by rubbing his back slowly and his little eyes slowly closed. I marvelled at how beautiful his eyes are. His lashes are so long and dark. His little hands so cute and cuddly. I looked over at the other crib where his twin, Dylan, was sleeping and I quietly chuckled about his position. He had his round bum in the air and he'd crammed his face into the mattress. I thought to myself how I needed to reposition his head as soon as Evan was asleep. I heard Neil laughing with his daddy in the other room and I was filled with peace but then it began to change. Neil began to yell. Evan began to wake up. Neil screamed louder. Evan screamed louder still. Dylan was fine for a little while but he began to stir. My peaceful thoughts were replaced with silent pleas for Neil to shut up! He didn't want to have the bath that he has EVERY night but fights over having EVERY night that he ends up enjoying ridiculously then hates getting out of. (The logic of two-year-olds is amazing but that's another post for another day.)

Anyway, the tenderness I was feeling for all my babies was still there but I was annoyed with Neil, frustrated with Evan and mystified with Dylan who was calm for the longest but even he succumbed to the madness eventually. All three babies were crying and it was time for me to go to another room before I wigged out. If you've never heard three babies crying at the top of their lungs with no hope of consoling them, you'd understand why I needed to do that.

So, how did it all end? After calming myself down, I began to settle the babies down. I tucked Neil in bed after telling him the requisite "night-night" stories exactly like I do every night. (Deviations in plot or subject matter are strictly prohibited - he notices every little detail.) I finished with the story his Grammy told him and now is a part of our evening ritual: I told him how he is the luckiest boy in the whole world and then named all the people who love him. My shoulders became less tense and my anger subsided as I softly told him that his mommy and daddy love him so very much. I gave him a good night kiss and he told me "night night" as I left.

Meanwhile, the twins grumbled for a minute or two longer but they soon settled down and slept to the sound of peaceful, lullaby music. All was good except for the fact that we'd run out of trash bags and Chris was about to put the 300 lbs worth of dirty diapers out in our City trash bin and couldn't do it until he had more. Exhausted, he set off for the store and I went to the computer. Now that everyone is asleep, formula is made, dishes are clean, and laundry is under control, I have to start my paying job. After that's done maybe I can sleep. Despite having to work, and since the boys are sleeping quietly, I'd most assuredly have to say that this is a good moment. I'm going to enjoy it.

Going the distance

Certain events in my life have motivated me to explore the concept of distance. On the surface, the term "distance" seems pretty concrete and graspable when defined as a separation of two points - when it is defined in terms of physicality. Distance is harder to comprehend when it is defined in terms of feelings such as emotional separation and remoteness. We can measure physical distance with tools but emotional distance is not quantifiable. It's personal and subjective.

What I find most difficult to untangle is how the concept of physical distance can impact emotional distance - how we each make choices regarding how we allow physical distance to impact emotional distance and connectedness. Is it necessary that individuals be near each other in order to remain emotionally connected? I think that question has to be made by each person and is often made differently. I, for one, feel that physical proximity is not integral to a close and loving relationship. As the saying goes, "distance makes the heart grow fonder".

In my life, I have had many instances where I made a conscious choice to remain connected or to disconnect from another when they were leaving. This morning, I received a phone call from one such friend, my dearest friend, who now lives on the other side of the world - in Switzerland. She is the closest thing to a sister that I have but, if I had made different choices, she could have just been another person that I used to know. I have never, nor will I ever, regret that choice. My life is richest with her in it. It would have been a great personal loss if I had let her slip through my fingers.

I often wonder what our relationship would have been like and would be like now if she and I lived in the same city as we once did. Would we be closer? How much fun we would have! Would I love her more? Perhaps but I doubt it. Our connection is so deep that the miles between us seem immaterial. I wish we could get together with her and watch our children grow up alongside each other. I wish she and I could grow old together - to sit on a front porch sipping ice tea in our old age but I accept that that won't be the case. She has her own life there as I have my life here. We remain committed to each other, and I wouldn't trade our relationship for the world.

My perspective isn't held by everyone though. I know others who feel that proximity is necessary for a close relationship. I don't discount the fact that it is harder when you can't always go and be with someone you love but there are ways to be connected regardless of proximity. It may not be ideal but love really has no boundaries and is not measurable by inches and miles - not unless we choose to define it so.

Unlike physical distance which can be easily defined and understood by many, emotional distance is in the control of each individual. It is a conscious choice that can have far reaching implications. It is much harder to overcome emotional distance than it is to overcome the physical. I can get on a plane or drive a car but I can't open a heart that has closed itself off. I can't go the distance alone. I hope I don't have to.

Herbs, beer and boogers

I'm having a much deserved beer tonight. Ok, I lied. I'm having a much deserved 2nd beer tonight. I expect it might even be a 3 beer night. Today wasn't any worse than any other day. It just was

another

day

filled with the usual shit.

The boys pooped a billion times. I've been covered in so many bodily fluids lately that I'm completely immune to it. I have to remind myself that poo is dirty and I must wash my hands because I'm almost so desensitized by being covered in it. Now, THAT's messed up.

Here is a summation of today's fun: Waking at 4:00 a.m. to Evan yet again. Cry, cry, cry, fucking crying again. No reason. He's ready to be up. We're sure as hell not. Who wins? He does. The dude won't go back to sleep. Fuck all the experts. My babies are bad asses. They're not some little wusses you hear about that fall back to sleep after crying for 10-15 minutes. Nope. These dudes are hard core. So, Mr. Evan wins. He gets to sleep with Mommy in the guest bedroom so Daddy can get some fucking sleep so he can make money and feed his little punkass kids and, occasionally, me (though you wouldn't guess I don't eat much since I'm STILL trying to lose my insane pregnancy weight).

The most positive aspect of the day was a groovy visit from my Uncle Don. Neil loves him now that he knows that when Uncle Don comes he brings food Daddy doesn't want him to eat: Chicken strips and french fries. God love him. I have to admit that I like what he brings me: Fat wrapped in a bun - well, a burger and fries. Ok, so it's not helping me lose the weight but I need a little SOMETHING. Anyway, Uncle Don rules. My babies love him and so do I.

The rest of the day was feeding, tickling, kissing and harassing my little buggers. Evan's physical therapy was more of a focus today since the surgeon said his torticollis isn't resolving fast enough and he'll have to consider surgery if he doesn't improve in the next 3-4 months. (Evan was smushed in the womb by his twin, Dylan, so he has a shortened neck muscle that makes his head tilt to the left.) My mommy guilt is insane these days so I tried to stretch the little stubborn toot's neck every chance I had. He hates it so it's a lot of fun to do. Surgery would be totally sucky though and I'd feel like the world's worst mom if he has to have it.

Anyway, the rest of the day was "uneventful" in that nothing other than the usual crazy shit happened. I finally started reading some peak oil junk my hubby wants me to read. Ok, maybe Portland would be a great place to live. The question is: how the Hell do we get there with any money left over? Can we get there with my family's blessing/understanding? What about my need for REAL Tex-Mex? Will I go even more coo coo without sunshine?

The day ended with the twins getting a fabulous bath in our kitchen sink with their big brother harassing them and running madly away (as if they could get him if they tried) and Neil deciding I was his personal booger rag as he repeatedly blew his nose (while laughing) against my leg. Eeeuw. It's a damn good thing I'm gross and thought it was funny. I then promptly chased him around with the real booger rag as he fled with glea.

Now, I'm having a mature woman's moment. I'm having a break. I just read some info on growing herbs since I've started cultivating them in our greenhouse. I'm feeling all domestic and good. I just finished my beer and will be seeking the third and hope the boys go to sleep soon and sleep the whole entire night. We'll see. I may drink one more beer just to make the fantasy seem real.

Peak what?

Picture this: It's my 34th birthday and I'm feeling every bit of it. My in-laws have generously volunteered to watch our 3 babies so that my husband, Chris, and I can have a date. A date - what is that? You've all heard it before. Another parent bemoaning never having a chance to get out and be an adult. Yeah, well, don't discount it until you've been in my shoes. Of course, let's not discuss my shoes - old, dilapidated, abused, cheap shoes.





Back to the story. My hubby and I have gone to our old haunt - a great little Tex-Mex restaurant we used to go to in our no-child days or BWHC (before we had children) days and our pre-twin days, a/k/a WNDOL (when Neil dominated our lives) days. We pigged out and we drank. It felt great. . . until Chris took the conversation away from the exciting and never ending conversation of what the Hell to do with [insert child's name here] to the topic beginning with "we're going to die."





Maybe that's not bleak enough. Let's see, this should cover it: he didn't expect to ever teach our oldest (2 1/2 years old) to drive and he wouldn't be surprised if our children's' life expectancies would be no more than 50 years old. Whoa! Screech. Where's my fucking margarita?





It wasn't April Fool's Day - he actually missed that this year for the first time. What crazy prank was he pulling? Well, his prank isn't so dang funny and I wish I could pretend his concerns weren't valid. It was at this dinner that he explained to me about peak oil.





Peak what? Exactly. In a nutshell, according to peak oil people (POPs), our oil will max out. Before we actually run out of oil, we will reach a maximum amount of oil we can pump (peak oil). The problem is that demand will continue to rise beyond that which is available. What will that lead to? Mass disruption of the economy, peace, prosperity, etc., etc. All in all, they forecast a pretty grim future, although some are a little more optimistic than others. So where does my husband lie in the continuum of POPs? He's in the "things are going to be horrible" end of the spectrum. The question for me now is where do I stand?



The answer is: I have no idea. Do I believe we'll run out of oil eventually? Yes. It's a finite resource. It's nonrenewable so therefore we will run out. Will it be soon? Likely, yes, unless we make drastic changes which I don't think most of us will be willing to do without a very strong incentive. In other words, when the choice is taken out of our hands because oil is too expensive. I also have some nagging anecdotal evidence: I have a relative who specialized in looking for oil as a geologist for various gasoline companies such as Exxon. I asked him years ago whether we'd run out of oil. He said yes without hesitation and explained that everyone in his field knew that. When I asked when he said in about 20 years. That was around 10 years ago. Hmmmm.



I'm not going to spell out all the technical support for or against the idea of peak oil because there are tons of sites which do that far better than I could possibly dream (or care to do for that matter). I think most credible sources at least acknowledge the reality that oil isn't going to last and we need another energy source. The biggest problem is where is this energy source? Most people, including me, have resolved any rising anxiety by convincing ourselves that some nerd will figure this all out. We all bow to the God of technology asking for this new saviour. "Please, God, bring us a new energy so that I can drive 45 minutes to work while gabbing on my cell phone. Please let my life continue to be easy."

So, where are these nerds? Who are they? Are you one? Do you know someone? I'd love to talk with them. Maybe they can call me and explain to me how they're going to fix everything so that every driver in the U.S. right can relax.

Meanwhile, my husband is acting coo-coo. After my uplifting birthday date, we continued to talk about our future. I began to read. Maybe I'm a little coo-coo too. We have 3 little babies we brought into this world and now we're hoping they won't hate us for it. I've started buying books on how to be more self-reliant. We're starting to garden. We're debating about whether we want to stay in the ugly suburb we're in. My husband feels we need to make changes to get ready. Get ready. GET READY! It feels so extreme and yet, when I read information about it from POPs who seem to know what they're talking about, my adrenaline does begin to pump and I feel like doing something. Anything. I hug my babies tighter. I kiss them more often and I try to not laugh at my husband as he experiments with reading a book by candlelight. Abe fucking Lincoln, man. So, is he crazy? I don't think so but I wish he were.

I remember

I once went to a doctor who explained how the body had its own memory. He relied on that memory when he investigated cases of potential fraudulent injuries. He'd look for signs their body would make that indicated whether the injury actually occurred or not. He told me this after my own body showed signs of past injury about which I hadn't even told him. He read my body's responses and asked me whether I had dislocated my right kneecap before. Yes, I absolutely had many years prior as a cheerleader. Although I continued talking with him regarding my injury, my mind was focused on the stunning fact that he knew something about me that few people knew just by observing how I subconsciously reacted when he examined my knee. I have since forgotten the physical therapy exercises he recommended but I haven't forgotten that my body has its own memory of which I may not always be aware. I jokingly referred to it as my carnal knowledge.

I was reminded of this idea recently in another unexpected way. I had been given a wonderful gift from my parents, one that I was so looking forward to: a full body massage. In the last 2 and 1/2 years, I have given birth and cared for 3 boys - 2 of which are twins who are now 7 months old. These years were bursting with innumerable trials and tribulations, joys and blessings, successes and concerns. Basically, I had been through a hell of a lot and I needed some TLC.

I trotted off to the spa and slowly left behind my typical mother thoughts about my babies as I drove further from home and closer to my retreat. I practically glowed when I arrived and quickly settled into a moment for me. The room was dark, lit only with candles. Music softly played and washed over me. Peace and quiet are so rare these days. Peaceful sounds make me pause and listen. The masseur was perfect. She talked only briefly and gave me my space. I disrobed and laid on the table and began to let go.

The more my body relaxed the more tension I realized was there. Years of tension that no booze or hours away from home could wash away. I tried to relax as much as I could but then that became a stressor in and of itself so I stopped. I worked on just letting myself be.

As she massaged my muscles, she was like an archaeologist digging down through the layers of memory trapped in my body. In my case, they were memories and emotions that I had unknowingly buried in order to survive the many difficult situations I had experienced in the last few years. As she massaged, my body began to quietly tell me its story.

I began to revisit the last 2 1/2 years, particularly since I became pregnant with the twins. Emotions that I had tried to keep in check so that I could just get through the latest crisis, concern, discomfort. I remembered the first sonos that played havoc with our emotions as we were told both babies would make it, one would make it, both would make it, one would surely die and then both would make it. I began to remember what it was like to have 2 babies living in my belly, kicking me. I remember being afraid - how could I possibly handle twins? I remember not being able to hold my 2 year old when he needed me, being on bed rest, having a hard time even turning over.

Then there was the hospital - the long four weeks when I was ripped from my home and family to live with nurses and doctors. Alone in a room with the babies in my stomach, waiting and wondering what would happen to me and the twins. The birth - so welcomed yet so feared. 34 weeks - 6 weeks premature. 12 people in the operating room. One baby ok. One not. They were tiny. One in the room with us. One in NICU. Bonding with Evan but afraid to change his diaper because he was so small. Dylan with his face covered with breathing apparatus. His chest sinking down deeply as he struggled to breathe. I couldn't hold him yet. Later, so tiny he was placed skin to skin with me - placed down my shirt in what the nurses referred to as the kangaroo hold. That's when he really became my baby. Coming home and falling asleep with my 2 year old who was so confused and scared. One baby came home. One in the hospital then all of us home.

Each memory and emotion was being massaged out and I secretly cried tears that I had not let myself shed. I will cry more later when they're older or during my next massage.

Introduction

Every day, people ask me how I do it - how do I manage to raise 3 boys who are 2 1/2 years and younger? They jokingly call me a saint, super mom and tell me I'm amazing. I want to laugh yet I understand what they're saying - my life is a bit insane. Each time a stranger makes a comment, I say my usual remarks to make a joke about it all and try to move on to whatever it was I was trying to do. It's weird standing out in a crowd any time I take my babies out of the house. It's probably a good thing that I'm somewhat comfortable with attention - public speaking doesn't phase me and, hell, I used to jump around flashing my bum as a cheerleader in high school. The difference is I used to choose when I stood out. Now, I stand out every single time I go out - to the store, the doctor, wherever. I'm (we're) a spectacle to behold, a curiosity.

The problem for me is that I am not a saint. I'm not super mom. I'm just a chic that has 3 boys. I'm doing the best I can and that's it. There are days that I suck. There are days that I kick ass. It doesn't matter how good or bad I'm doing, though, I can't convince people that I am just a chic with 3 boys.

This chic needs to vent. This chic has things to say. I'm choosing now to say what it's like to raise 3 boys under 2 1/2. I'll leave my silly remarks for casual conversations but here is the deep stuff - the real story. I also choose to talk about things that don't have to do with the dudes because, as hard as it is to believe sometimes, there are still parts of me that aren't wrapped up in their worlds. I need to convince myself of this even if I don't convince anyone else.

So, here I am. Read or not. It's your choice but I'm writing nevertheless.