'Tis the Season

The past few weeks have been hectic as you can imagine. We feasted at our first Thanksgiving as a family of five, survived our first night away from the little guys and prepared for Christmas.

Relaxing isn't exactly a term I would use when describing my household, but this year we did our very best to keep things mellow. A certain three year old jumping on the coffee table in his skivvies shouting his own rendition of, "Santa Baby" comes to mind. Ok, so maybe mellow isn't the word either.

It's December and Reid and Landon are standing in an effort to swipe everything off of every surface they can reach. All candles and hot beverages have found new homes in higher elevations. Lately, the dynamic duo have been plotting their attack in regards to the staircase. Any chance they get, they begin their journey up the stairs, chuckling to each other all the while.

A fun fact about babies, is that they love to sit in their high chairs, look you in the eyes, and drop their food on the floor. Now in some households this may be taboo, but when you have a 75 pound dog, all is forgiven. However, I'm sad to say, restaurants hate us. We seemed to visit many this December and each time we go, we leave behind far more than a tip. Unfortunately we've created a monster by letting them feed ol' Jackie boy. Make that two monsters.

This Christmas was a very good one. It was the first year that Carter was really excited about Santa and the first year we were all together on Christmas morning, just me and my boys. All three boys sat on Santa's lap this year (and I'm sorry if you're reading this big guy, but you've really got to work on your act). Santa should not walk around socializing. Santa should know his place...ho ho ho should suffice. Carter asked him for a "bee pillow" and while a touch of last-minute panic set in, the boy received his wish.

One thing that really stuck with me this holiday season, was the day we were driving home from school and Carter innocently shouted up to me from the third row, "Mommy, I want to hear that reindeer song!" Suddenly it hit me. My kid knows every last word to "Dancing Queen" and doesn't even know "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer". I felt like a twang of guilt.

The big boy also had a guest appearance in the church pageant on Christmas eve. I bet you didn't know there was a dove in the manger, did you? I tried to prepare Carter ahead of time by reading a children's book about the real meaning of Christmas. He, in turn, wanted to know if the baby Jesus then went outside to build a snowman. Hmm...maybe I'll try again next year.

Nerdy at 30

It's taken me a few weeks to come to the realization that I am no longer a "twenty-something". I'm not sure why, and I never thought I would be so petty, but I really had a a tough time adjusting to the idea of my 30th birthday

I know, I know. 30 is not old. I realize that. I also realize that I have a lot to be proud of. A house, three beautiful boys and a husband that oddly enough, loves me unconditionally. It's not that I don't have anything to show for it, as one might think. Really, I just feel that everything is moving so quickly and that my life is just slipping away. I know, I know. This sounds awful. But hey, who doesn't love a little "Debbie Downer" every now and then.

A few months ago my sister bought a new pair of pink high heels. She was elated. I must not have been bouncing off the walls with enthusiasm because a couple of days later she very seriously told me that she had been thinking about my less than stellar reaction to her recent purchase. "Please", she begged me. "Don't turn into one of those moms who lets herself go and only wears sweatpants and ponytails, just because you live with all boys". Never, I chuckled to myself. I'm not one of THOSE. Fast forward to me sitting on the couch in nothing but sweatpants and a patriots t-shirt, my hair in a tangled knot on the back of my head. Uh oh. I have officially arrived.

Perhaps the most daunting moment regarding the "Big 3-0" may have come when looking for a new car. Last year, I made the horrific leap from the last shreds of my single-girl life, when I traded in my VW convertable for a more sensible mid-sized SUV. It had four-wheel drive and plenty of room for another car seat. Although it was hard to leave my beloved Cabrio that fateful day at the car dealership, I managed to say goodbye.

A few months ago, it was also time to replace our Jeep Grand Cherokee, our first major purchase as a married couple. I can't say I was super attached to it, really it was Ben's car. However since I'm the one who drives the kids every day, we began browsing Craigslist for larger SUV's. As you can imagine it's a tight squeeze with three carseats jam-packed into one row. The result was poor little Reid being slightly tilted to one side for the first 10 months of his life.

One evening while browsing some "online inventory" of SUV's with a 3rd row, I stumbled upon an ad for a Chevy Suburban, $5,000.00 with only 56,000 miles on it. Though I pictured a much more "chic" vehicle, I had to look for the price. I clicked on the ad and up popped a photo that would change life as I know it. A gigantic, white suburban glared back at me, with all the bells and whistles. Literally.

Turns out, a local ambulance company was selling the car. The burb was decked out with lights, sirens and a thick electric blue stripe down the side. To top it off, was a gigantic "cow catcher" in front. Laughing out loud, I turned the laptop towards Ben, jokingly saying, "I think we should get this". Next thing I knew we had an appointment to view the beast.

As I hopped into the driver's seat to test drive the Suburban, I was overwhelmed, dazed and confused. I felt engulfed by the car, petite and well quite frankly, like I was driving a school bus. I cruised through the beautiful backdrop of Roxbury Connecticut, I couldn't help but wonder, how did I get here? And why are there multiple dispatch radios talking to me?

I pulled back to the ambulance station, resisted the urge to set off the sirens and before I could say "we'll let you know", my husband was arranging payment. The men began discussing the emergency responder equiptment and through my slow-motion, swirly haze, Ben's voice stood out. "Oh, if you can't get the blue stripe off, I almost don't mind". I quickly snapped out of it and whipped around "NO, we mind. The stripe must go". A week later, we picked up my new ride. Ambulance stripe, and all.

The stripe didn't last long, thank the good Lord above that Ben was able to remove it with a heat gun. Over the weeks that followed I began getting used to the "boy mobile" or "man van", as my mother affectionately named her. After all, it had heated seats. Two days after my 30th Birthday, I had the day off to do a little shopping. Driving home on the highway in the "burb", I suddenly felt very free. Turning on the radio, I came across Madonna's "Material Girl" and suddenly had a flashback to my childhood. I had the album on cassette and have a very distinct memory of carrying my boom box out to the woods in back of my parents house, standing on a large rock and belting out the lyrics. Laughing out loud like a fool, I turned up the radio and remembering the song word for word, sang at the top of my lungs in my new mommy mobile. That day, shimmying around in the driver's seat I realized how far I've come. I also realized I was going about 80 miles per hour and being watched by the car next to me!

Maybe I'm getting older, but there's nothing I can do about it. Besides, I still have some pretty sweet dance moves. And, I have to admit that even though my new car could have eaten my VW for dinner, it is pretty fun to drive. Plus, it can fit my whole family (and probably yours too). So if you happen to see me cruising the strip, toot your horn, wave hello...and don't mind the sweatpants and ponytail.

As I mentioned in my last post, we recently embarked on a 3 day journey to our nation's capitol. Try outlining that concept to a 3 year old. I tried everything from explaining, "our town is in Connecticut, and Connecticut is in a country called America...or...The United States of America...or USA for short". Game over-in the end I settled on, "It's where the President lives. He makes all the rules".

Simplicity. It's the best notion known to man (or should I say, woman?). It's my ultimate goal in life, and perhaps the biggest challenge to obtain.

As I packed for our trip, I did my very best to keep it simple. The 3 boys had a duffel bag and Ben and I shared a suitcase. Then I packed snacks. In two bags. Oh, and a pack and play. Then came the lap top and the portable DVD player. Oops, then the double stroller...and the umbrella stroller. Don't forget the diaper bag and my pocket book. So much for simplicity.

While we were on our mini vacation, Ben had workshops throughout the day. Fortunately my saving grace was the presence of two of my very best friends Addie and Kate. I'm not sure I would have survived the big city on my own with “Dennis the Menace” and his two mischievous sidekicks. Although the girls kept us busy, getting to and from the rental car and navigating D.C. was up to me.

There are many moments from our trip which will carve their place in my memory, but one in particular stands out among the rest. The five of us left our hotel room with our supplies for the day, and headed down to the “atrium” to have breakfast before parting ways with Daddy-o. After scarfing down our $10.00 bagels, we said our goodbyes. In an instant, the boys and I were left amongst the hustle and bustle of suits and briefcases, that only a convention center hotel can offer.

I can do this, I thought to myself. Carter behaved like a good little angel and threw out our napkins like he was told. I washed up the boys and strapped him into his stroller. Perfection. Then it occurred to me, this is all well and good, but I have two strollers and one set of hands. Oops! Didn't think that one through. With a quick change of plans and my determination in high gear, Carter was out of the stroller and pushing it all on his own, zig-zagging throughout the hotel, carrying the diaper bag as if it were his own baby. We made it out of the atrium and into the elevator (barely) without one person so much as smiling, holding a door or moving out of our way.

Now, one thing you should know is that in all major areas of the hotel, there are roughly 6 elevators, naturally you take the one that opens first. Well, when your 3-year-old runs in before you, leaving you stranded with two strollers (and two babies) panic mode sets in, imagining him alone in a 20-story hotel with a million and a half strangers. I just about broke my hand lunging forward and grabbing the elevator door in an effort to prevent it from closing with him in it. The next thing you should know is that my child has an unnatural obsession with elevators and REALLY enjoys the pressing of the elevator buttons.

So, we all make it into the elevator and then out of it in one piece. Only then did I realize that we had gone to the wrong floor. So we waited for another elevator, which in itself is not an easy feat, since Carter took off towards the escalator. Some genius of a businessman tapped me on the shoulder to say, “he's headed towards the escalator”. Thanks bucko, I hadn't noticed. Fortunately (or unfortunately) a lady managed to swoop him up for me, rolling her eyes and judging me, as if I were Britney Spears cruising the streets of L.A. with a baby in my lap (love ya Brit Brit). Needless to say, I somehow managed to corral the children back towards the elevator.

As we waited, some jerk comes flying by and stumbles, spilling his hot coffee in the air, ultimately chucking it into the garbage and leaving a few droplets of coffee on Landon's forehead. Thanks a billion, you big A-hole. To top it all off, another kind gentlemen popped into the elevator we were waiting for prior our coffee shower, and hit the button to close the door. It was only then that I stated out loud, “Thanks. There are some really nice people in this hotel”, as the doors slid shut before my very eyes.

Finally, we got to the right floor, and managed to make it through the convention lobby where we looked very out of place and got a few chuckles out of some older businessmen. By the time we reached the door to exit, someone decided to learn manners and open the door for us. Well, they should have known better, that my little preschooler wanted to push the handicap door button on his own. I tried to explain to the people, but it was too late. He was having a tantrum, in front of about 100 people indoors and a group waiting to load a tour bus outdoors.

Fortunately the episode was short-lived. We walked across the parking lot and into the parking garage, up another elevator and to our rental car. I looked at the clock and realized that it had taken me a full 45 minutes to get from our breakfast table to the van. Truly unsure whether to cry or laugh, I decided on the latter, scanned my hotel card and headed out onto the open road (which, in case you were wondering, happened to be the wrong road).

The point of the matter is, though I may strive for simplicity, it seems as though the more you try, the more it slips from your reach. Sometimes it's the complexities that make life interesting-my stories certainly seem to entertain some of you, right? For now, I'm going to keep my chin up, and continue laughing at my boys and how frazzled they make me at times. An estimated forty billion kisses, 4200 diapers and 14,500 ounces of breast milk later...10 months down boys, and Mommy hasn't cracked yet!

5 in the bed and the little one said, “roll over!”

I'm sorry to tell you, but families who believe in the philosophy of “The Family Bed”, are not a bunch of hippies who believe in a wholesome, nurturing sleeping experience for their kids. They are simply tired and exhausted zombies like the rest of us, who are entirely too lazy to get out of bed and bring their children back to their rooms.

Lately it seems as though there is some combination of boys in my bed every night, and their names are not Tom Brady, Zac Efron and Christian Bale, if you know what I mean.

First, Carter went through a phase where he would wet the bed, night after night and rather than haul ourselves out of bed to change the sheets, etc. We let him crawl on in. Next, the babies decided to play a fun trick on us called, “You thought we were sleeping through the night....boy were you wrong you big idiots”. Then, right around mid-September their first teeth decided to make their appearance (same tooth, same weekend). Finally it seemed, Carter had outgrown his toddler bed and just preferred the space and abundance-of-down comforter, which only our bed had to offer.

Nearly every morning, I wake up feeling overtired and unusually sore. Did I exercise the night before you may ask? Not unless you call hanging off the side of the bed, one arm in the co-sleeper one tucked under my head (so as not to elbow anyone on the other side of me) exercise. Every morning, typically around 3am, the monitor goes crazy with the sound of a boy (or two) and illuminates the room. 9 times out of 10 my adoring husband gets up to retrieve the culprit. Sometimes I notice, sometimes I just wake up from a swift kick in the head courtesy of my oldest child.

A couple of weeks ago, we were in Washington D.C. Tagging along with Ben on one of his work conferences. We arrived at our hotel around 1am and a light seemed to shine down from the heaven onto a big fat king-sized bed. This is my chance, I thought to myself. It's the middle of the night, the kids are exhausted...a big, comfy bed and a good nights sleep!

Open mouth, insert foot. OF COURSE, we weren't that lucky. Apparently a bigger bed equals bigger opportunity for snuggling. Upon our return to Connecticut, the conclusion was drawn that maybe Carter needed to upgrade to a twin bed. We rearranged furniture, bought new sheets and plopped down a down comforter as if to simulate our own comfy nest. Ben and I even made a pact to go to him in the middle of the night, rather than letting him climb into bed with us.

I am happy to report that it SEEMS to be working! The past few nights we've still had slumber parties with the little guys, but hey-baby steps, right? The lesson I'm learning for this phase in my life? That's just it, it's only a phase. I highly doubt my three sons will be crawling into bed with me when they're 16 (and if they do, let's face it-I'll have bigger fish to fry). Until then, I guess I'll suck it up, (protect my face) and cuddle my boys while I still can!

Summer Breeze

Today marks a new month, the first day of school and the babies turn 8 months old! For as far back as I can remember, the anticipation of Labor Day weekend has been a weird mix of emotions for me. I am a summer girl all the way, and since I was a little kid I remember feeling a bit depressed as the season came to a close. September, though lovely in it's own right, symbolizes a closed book, a locked gate at my beloved Tobey Pond with a big fat "NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY" sign nailed to it (cue the Debbie Downer sound effects).

September is here whether I like it or not. Once again, I have failed my boys in keeping up with the ol' blog. I have to say I feel a little guilty, after harassing my own Mom for years and years about not giving me a baby book, despite my sister and brother having them. OK Mom, I get it. You didn't give up when you got to me, you were just TIRED and BUSY.

This summer was a good one, so here's my attempt at offering a brief synopsis of memorable moments.

Fourth of July weekend, was eventful. We took the kiddos to Lime Rock Park for the annual fire works display and got there early with Mexican takeout. 2 hours early. Oh and we didn't pay to get in to the park, we sat by the road, near a church, adjacent to a cemetery. We're a classy bunch. The highlight of the evening was when a car rolled by, then stopped in the middle of the road, threw it into reverse and stopped beside our chairs. The wise woman rolled down the window and decided to offer us a free parenting lesson in regards to fireworks and how although our twins were adorable, we should really think about covering their ears, since they are highly sensitive. Thanks for the tip, Einstein. I don't know what I would have done without you, being an early childhood major and all. Oh, and did I mention that the second the fireworks began, Carter wanted to go home? So we did.

In mid July we took our first vacation as a family of 5, joining the rest of the Patrick family in Cape Cod. We packed entirely too much stuff into the Mazda, including (but not limited to) a laundry basket full of clothes, two L.L.Bean boat totes, a diaper bag, an air mattress and pump, towels, sheets, pillows, a backpack full of toys and books, a pack and play, a cooler (two coolers), fishing poles...oh and three children. Ben's golf clubs didn't make the cut and had to travel in my parents car. As we hit the road, we swung through the local Dunkin Donuts to grab some breakfast, and as you all know, Carter's go-to treat, a donut with "sprinkles and frosting" (white frosting, colored sprinkles, if you please). We were back on the road for approximately 25 minutes when, surprise! Mr. Wonderful had to pee. Once again, we pulled into yet another D&D so that Ben could run in with the boy. I rolled down the window and requested another donut. He rolled his eyes and hurried Carter along. Moments later, as I pondered this new found experience of donut hopping through the entire northwest corner of Connecticut, they emerged. Carter looked a tad pale. He had puked while standing in line for donut #2. Woops.

Fortunately his car sickness (inherited by his Mother) held off for the remainder of the trip. Our vacation was top-notch and involved mucho family time, good food, sandy feet and really warm water. When we asked Carter what his favorite part of the trip was, he responded, "Watching 'Wonder Pets' on TV. So glad he has an appreciation for the finer things in life.

We returned on a Wednesday and on Thursday headed off to Home Depot to buy paint for the exterior of our house. We even managed to leave the boys with Ben's parents so that we could pick out colors in peace. Looking back, we were so optimistic we would get the job done in record time.

The very next week, I was curled up on the couch watching something mindless and trashy, the kids were asleep and Ben was at softball. The phone rang and it was the Hubby, calling to inform me that he was on his way to the emergency room. The big hot shot made the brilliant decision to slide into first base and busted his knee. Being the kind, caring wife that I am, my response was as follows: "Great. We were supposed to paint the house this weekend".

In August, we headed north again, on our annual trip to Ogunquit, Maine. We improved upon our packing situation, which was a holy miracle considering this trip was 3 days longer and we brought a second pack and play along for the ride. Maine was pure relaxation, since we were there with the Nadeaus and Carter, Reid and Landon are currently the only grandchildren. We had so much help and support, I now know the secret that so many mothers hold so dear. Nannies.

A highlight of this trip, was a delicious meal we shared with friends in Portland. In particular, the moment where Carter decided to pee on their beautiful rug. Furthermore, the moment in which I made the decision to let go of Landon (who promptly fell backwards) and catch the pee with my bare hands. Even more specifically, the moment where yours truly stood up, pee puddling in hands, baby screaming wildly on the floor, and went out to the deck to call Ben in to help. Way to make a good impression.

The summer had it's perks; Heather and Bryan's wedding, James Taylor and Carole King, Lobster Rolls at the Bistro, lounging in the mother of all kiddie pools....and it's pitfalls; pink eye repeatedly targeting my children with a vengeance, Carter tripping and going under at Tobey Pond and most recently, Carter falling into a toilet full of poo for Aunt Ky Ky. Two months later, my house is not even close to being finished, offering a classy two-toned look to passers by.

September. Bitter-sweet. Next on deck is Carter's third birthday, for which I hope to mail invitations by the weekend. Did I mention that today was his first day of preschool? After much anticipation, packing and picture taking, he proceeded to vomit in the car on the way there. Therefore, tomorrow is Carter's new first day of preschool. Summer may be over, but I'm willing to bet that despite my annual Labor Day "depression" there are many things that will keep me entertained as the cold weather approaches. Stay tuned.

Pleasantville, Interrupted

I am astonished by the amount of time that can pass before I realize I forgot to post something funny that happened. It was probably about two weeks ago now, on a quiet Sunday morning. I was enjoying a cup of coffee, nursing the twins and writing on my laptop. Ok, I may have been perusing Facebook, but that's beside the fact.

My darling husband was outside mowing the lawn and Carter was playing peacefully in his toy room. The serenity didn't last long, because no sooner had I brought the white porcelain coffee mug to my lips, I heard the kitchen door slam. Carter had escaped.

With a sigh and a huff, I put down my cup of joe, “unlatched” a baby and hustled through the kitchen to look out the back door. There was no sign of him. Dressed in a t-shirt, pajama bottoms and my floor-length fleece robe, I slipped on a pair of Ben's oversized flip flops and high-tailed it out the back door, around towards the front of the house.

Now one thing you should know about our property,is that it is surrounded by a white fence. Through each picket I could see my little man, pushing his own lawn bubble blowing lawn mower and headed down our shared driveway. Panic mode set in and I started chasing him along the fence. The problem that posed itself, was the simple fact that there was a fence between us. My mind wandered to the threat of our neighbor pulling into the driveway at any moment and not seeing him, as well as the fact that I had left the babies inside, screaming their heads off!

As I ran down our sloping front yard, I could see Ben in the distance, on the other side of the fence, mowing down near the street. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking he would see him, but quickly realized he was wearing headphones and was completely unaware of what was happening. I started running again, waving my arms to get his attention as my baby boy neared the bottom of the driveway.

In my haste, my robe had flung itself open and trailed behind me like a superhero's cape. I threw my arms up again frantically waving to Ben, when wouldn't you know it? I lost my drawers.

Fortunately, my husband saw the tail end of this commotion, stopped the mower and grabbed Mr. Wonderful before he headed downtown. Yup, only MY pants would fall down in the middle of my front yard, in a residential neighborhood, where folks were getting ready for church, grabbing their morning paper and walking their dogs.

I crouched, frozen in the middle of my front lawn, pants around my ankles and bathrobe firmly wrapped over my bare knees. I was laughing so hard I nearly peed my pants, and tears trickled out the corners of my eyes.

Looking both ways for friendly neighbors, I shimmied my jammies back on, slipped on my ridiculous footwear and sprinted (OK, lumbered) back into the house. Carter was banished to the outdoors with his father and thankfully, the twins had fallen asleep.

Lessons learned: Install an eye-hook lock on the kitchen door, encourage lawn mowing sans earphones and finally, always tighten drawstring on pants. One more for the record books, folks!

Stop and...Shop?

Last Sunday my college roommates came to visit. It was a fun time as usual, but one of those days where reality kind of sneaks up on you. Three carefree college girls have morphed into career women, home and dog owners, mothers....basically we're getting old. Ten years ago our Sunday would have consisted of sleeping late, nursing a hangover, getting a coffee and taking a drive. This particular Sunday still involved coffee of course, but a "drive" has transformed to a walk with a stroller and our beverage of choice at lunch, was caffeine free root beer. Gone are the days of sunbathing at the waterfall in the warm, early days of May. Gone are the parties, the bar hopping and the wet t-shirt contests (trust me, I'm a nursing Mother, it wouldn't be pretty). This particular Sunday, we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. Home to our hubbies, children and beloved doggies. It was 2 o'clock and although I'd been awake since 6am, it still felt like the whole day was ahead of me. I decided to grab Carter for some quality, one on one time at the grocery store.

We drove in my car with the windows down and the sunroof open, blasting one of his favorite songs, "Who loves you pretty baby...who's gonna help you through the night". Yeah, I was missing my girls, my college days, but I couldn't help but think about how great my life was now. It was a beautiful, sunny day, my child was being adorable and I was going to have a well-stocked fridge. What could possibly go wrong?

I'll tell you what. No matter how good I feel, how sunny the day, somehow I can always be taken down a notch and humbled. This day was no exception. We parked the car and grabbed a shopping cart. On this particular afternoon, I was excited because I was going to cash in old bottles and cans, which is kind of a new concept for me. We always recycle, but I had decided to make it a goal of mine to actually return them at the store. Carter and I headed over to the dimly lit bottle return area. We began putting cans and bottles in the machine and Carter was delighted to help out. Probably around the tenth or eleventh bottle, he was assisting me in putting one in the machine when, surprise! That evil Magic Hat was half-filled with warm, old, beer. Down my right arm it trickled, right onto my clothing and my two year old son.

Annoyed but not yet broken in spirit, I continued on with the task at hand, when suddenly, a seemingly innocent old man showed up. Before I could open my mouth to stop him, the sneaky little thing began popping his cans in my machine, with my running tab!!! I said, "Oh, I was using that one". He looked at me blankly (I swear it was a facade) and gave me my receipt. However, what he didn't understand is that I had put more cans in since that first receipt popped out. Ooh I was really peeved at this point but decided to let it go for the simple fact that I was always taught to be nice to old folks.

Carter and I finished up with the bottles and turned to leave, smelling like stale beer. As we entered the grocery store, my bare foot suddenly hit the cold tile. Yup, that's right. My flip flop had just broke, right there in the produce department. I had an empty cart and a long list. I managed to pop the plastic thong back into the foam hole and then proceeded to do so about nineteen more times.

There I was, hobbling around Stop and Shop looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and reeking of a fraternity house when who do I bump into but a former "flame". Of course, this would happen to me, I thought to myself. Now, as stated earlier, and many times before, I am VERY happy and content in my life, however you would be crazy if you told me you didn't want to look good in this type of situation. With a swipe of my wind-blown hair and a quick adjustment of my geeky glasses, I managed to exchange a formidable, "Hi, how are you?". Dear God, the only thing that would top this off right now is a big ol' box of tampons in my shopping cart.

As we drove home, I couldn't help but laugh to myself. Maybe not too much had changed at all since my days at Plymouth State. After all, like a typical college kid, it was the end of the weekend and I was tired, craving a home cooked meal, and missing a shoe!

Ode to my Hubby

A faithful follower of my numerous blogs,
he thinks he's portrayed as a bump on a log.

This theory could not be further form the truth
'cause when it comes to the kiddos he is never aloof.

He changes poop diapers and cooks us our meals,
he goes food shopping and browses for deals.

He reads them their stories each night before bed
He combs down the hair that sticks up on their heads.

He buys me pedicures to jazz up my toes,
each night he serves me milk and oreos.

He sleeps with the dog when the weather is rainy
and puts up with me when I'm acting so zany.

Though it seems he is often the brunt of my jokes
and he may drive me crazy with his pinching and pokes,

I do love my hubby, deep down I do.
Here's your retraction dear, I love you!

Doggie Dearest

Northwestern Connecticut has it's fair share of unpredictable weather. And it seems that with crazy weather comes odd behavior! Last Friday was no exception. Rain showers and a thunderstorm passed through our town into the wee hours of Saturday morning. To tell you the truth, I probably wouldn't have noticed (again, the perma-exhaustion thing) if it weren't for my four-legged "son" Jack, who incessantly paced our bedroom, his toenails click click clicking on the cool hardwood floor.

Let me back up and introduce you (if I haven't already) to our beloved Jackie. Half golden retriever, half husky, Jack is the epitome of man's best friend. He's loyal, lovable and gentle with Carter and the babies. Jack is always ready for a game of catch and always good for a laugh. Take for instance, his new haircut. Poor Jack is freshly shaven, save his bushy tail and the normal fur on his head. Put it this way-As we led him out of the groomer's and into the back of the Jeep, I was embarrassed FOR him. Anyway, weighing in at about 75 pounds, he in no way, shape or form looks like a wimpy pup. Sadly, this couldn't be further from the truth. This dog is the biggest baby on the planet.

So back to the thunderstorm. On this particular night, Landon had decided to grace us with his presence, lying between us in our seemingly small queen sized bed. Shortly after his arrival the thunder began in the distance. Thus, the pacing began. Back and forth in the pitch black room. He would lie down. Stand up. Walk over to Ben's side. Lie down over there. Stand up, shake it off, walk over to my side. Let me tell you ladies, if you think that sleeping an inch away from your husband's face is bad, you should get a load of the hot steamy breath of a panting pooch greeting you when you roll over in the dark, with only his shadow illuminated by the lightning outside.

Before I knew it, Jack had jumped up onto the bed. In the past, we probably would have let him stay. The poor thing is simply terrified of thunder. I can't blame him really because I tend to be fearful of storms as well. However, with the little one next to us and his non-stop restlessness we just couldn't chance it.

I turned to Ben as the two of us lay there shielding our 4 month old from the hyperventilating dog who loomed over us. "Go get his drops". Although fearful, I am proud to say that unlike Jackie, I do not need medication to help me through thunderstorms. That's right ladies and gentlemen, our dog takes an herbal remedy to help with his anxiety. Just a few drops on his cute little nose, which he promptly licks off, can usually help him calm down. I'm told that it has the same effect as Bourbon, which OK...I'll admit it, sounded really great right about then.

I'm not sure which came first, the tail end of the storm or Jackie's special cocktail kicking in, but we did manage to get back to sleep that night. As I lay there in the darkness, dawn on the horizon and the last remnants of heavy rain hitting my windows, I couldn't help but think to myself (for the billionth time) "I live in a zoo". As I rolled over and glanced at the alarm clock's familiar red glow I forced myself to close my eyes because I knew it was only a matter of time before someone snored, cried, barked or tackled me, leaving me no choice but to start my day for good. Besides, I thought, it's any one's guess which combination of little boys/dog would be joining me for a slumber party the next night!

"Just another manic Monday"

Weekday mornings are hectic. Really hectic. It typically goes something like this. My alarm goes off around 5:15am. I then proceed to press the snooze button a million times, which in turn makes the alarm sound every five minutes like a mosquito buzzing in my ear. In fact, there's nothing much I can do about it other than wake up, because I can't for the life of me figure out how to reset the darn thing.

The past couple of weeks have been particularly challenging because my sweet little angels have had a sudden change in their sleep patterns. Thus, causing Mommy to be up a few times throughout the night or up very early, like as in 4:30am. The big boy has recently gotten in on the action and has ever so loudly been getting out of bed and has figured out how to open the child safety knob on the inside of his door. We have determined it's easier to admit defeat and let him join us. Therefore, the past few days in particular have left me overtired with all-day muscle aches, which I can only imagine are the direct result of lifting car seats, lack of proper nutrition and sleeping like a contortionist because my two year old has taken to sleeping horizontally between Ben and I.

When I finally do wake up, I try to squeeze in a shower if I'm lucky. Then comes my tradition of watching the channel 3 news (again, if I'm lucky and not interrupted by "Phinneas and Pherb" on the Disney Channel). I nurse the twins, then struggle to find clean clothes for the boys. This is not to say that Ben does nothing, because he does. However, my darling hubby usually waits til the very last minute to roll out of bed and I have to admit, I can't help but wish bodily harm upon him, as he lays there snoring while I deal with "feeding time", fighting Carter for the remote and juggling various outfit combinations in my head.

Most mornings Ben can be found ironing his work clothes downstairs while Carter screams the lyrics to many a song as he sits perched on the potty. After I change the twins I am usually running around trying to get myself (somewhat) put together while Carter chants "Nudie Mommy, Nudie Mommy". Let's put it this way; it is a daily struggle to remember deodorant, let alone to make my hair look good.

Once we're all ready, Carter slides down the stairs while Ben and I each grab a baby and we all meet in the kitchen, where the twins are strapped into their car seats, Carter screams for fruit snacks or anything else he knows he can't have in the morning. In fact, one day he had a tantrum because he wanted a can of beer, but that's another story. Every day we pack bottles, feed the dog, put my breast pump back together and rack our brains for the items we need to bring to daycare. Then Ben helps me pile everyone into the car, we exchange a quick "love you" and we go our separate ways. Once I arrive at work, I must then pull the stroller out of the car, put the babies in the stroller, attach my two bags to the stroller, then get Carter to hold my hand as we cross the parking lot. Sometimes I am also balancing a hot coffee and a handbag. It's quite the spectacle, which I invite you to watch. Bring your popcorn because it takes awhile and it's cheap entertainment.

One particular Monday morning, I was freshly showered but rushing like usual. I threw on my red shirt, grabbed my shoes and realized that my black Capri pants were folded in the laundry room downstairs. Because I was pretty much ready (other than the capris) and my hands were full, I slipped on my shoes and headed down the stairs. Clearly, I am a multi-tasker. Carter had gone down ahead of me, while Ben and the boys were still up in our room. As I reached the bottom step, I heard the back door slam. Carter was nowhere to be seen and panic mode set in.

I whipped open the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the back porch, wearing nothing but my t-shirt, undies and wedged heels. "Oh my dear God", I thought to myself. "I cannot believe this is happening". I looked both ways. No sign of life from the neighbors. Then, Carter decided to make his appearance. He stood across the driveway from me, as if we were involved in a stand-off in the Old West, a perfectly mischievous smirk creeping across his face.

I could see the wheels turning in his head. Before I knew it he started to back up, his eyes never leaving mine. "Get back here", I growled. "NO!" he flatly shouted and scurried off through the dewy morning grass towards his slide. He looked back at me. "GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW", I loudly whispered, trying my best not to wake our neighbors for the obvious reason that the whack-job next door was screaming at her kid at 6:55am in nothing but her skivvies and a pair of red high heels.

Growing desperate I threatened that he would not be receiving a treat on the ride home that afternoon and that his clothes were going to get wet if he took one more step. He stood motionless, staring at me as if he didn't hear a word I said. With a huff, I spun around, ran inside, slid on my pants and took off into the back yard. I swooped up my little devil child, and carried him like a football, back into the confines of our home.

You might be thinking that this is one of those "once in a lifetime" moments. But I have to tell you the scary thing is, this kind of stuff seems to happen to me ALL THE TIME. The twins are now four months old and I'm already feeling outnumbered as the only lady in the house. Moments like these make me feel like I'm in the movie "The Truman Show", or "Candid Camera" at the very least. As I sit here blogging I look around and this is what I see: two different toddler sneakers, one flip flop, books scattered on the coffee table, disheveled pillows on my window seat, diapers, blankets, suction-cup darts stuck to the wall and to top it all off, a gigantic (boy) cat surveying the whole scene. I crack up at the thought of Carter reading this blog one day when he gets older and taking pride in his work of successfully making his mother look like a lunatic.

Old Mac Donald had a...donut?

"Had a farm...e-i-e-i-o". This phrase echos throughout my house repeatedly, at least once a day. Carter. Loves. Farm animals. Mostly cows, but he's been known to dabble in anything farm related, from goats to tractors. You name it, he loves it. His second birthday party even had a farm theme, right down to the chocolate chip "cow pies" on his cake. So when a co-worker mentioned a local farm, complete with petting zoo, I jumped on the chance to take Carter last Saturday.

Another thing you should know about Carter, if I haven't mentioned it already, is that he also happens to be obsessed with donuts. Unfortunately he has recently discovered that they come in flavors other than plain. Even more discouraging perhaps, is the fact that he would prefer (OK, demand) frosted donuts with sprinkles. It's not that I blame him really, because everyone knows that in my opinion, sweets are not worth it to me if they don't contain chocolate as a key ingredient. However, I try to guide him in the opposite direction, 1. For his health and 2. The simple fact that Carter passing on the chocolate equals more for ME! Anyway, several times throughout the week, the big boy had requested a donut and several times, we answered him, "You can have a donut on Saturday on the way to the farm".

Well, wouldn't you know that bright and early Saturday morning, Carter climbed into our bed and informed us that he was ready to go to the "Donut Farm". I honestly didn't know whether or not to laugh at his innocence or cry for him at the realization that there is no mystical land of farm-dwelling donuts.

As the five of us lay in bed that Saturday morning, I asked Carter what made him happy. He, distracted by the Disney channel, promptly answered "Max and Tucker" (our cats). Once I got his eye contact I said, "No honey, what makes you happy in your heart?" He answered in all seriousness, "Mommy, Daddy, Max, Tucker and...Doggies!" Naturally, I responded with, "What about your brothers?" Carter looked right at me and stated in a rather matter of fact manner, "NOPE!" Oh dear, I thought, this is going to be a long day.

Despite his apparent distaste for his baby brothers, we made our trip to the farm a family affair. Since the long drive happened to fall smack dab in the middle of a baby feeding, I had to pump in the car on the way there. You can only imagine the mess that creates as I struggle to shield myself behind the dashboard, direct Ben to keep an appropriate distance from the car in front of us, and yell at him when we pull up next to someone at a stop light.

After a quick stop for the previously mentioned donuts, we pulled up to the farm, just in time to see a cow being led across the parking lot. I wish I had video documentation of the pure joy which resonated from my little boy's face. Or the confusion which washed over him when he discovered that he could not ride him.

The rest of the morning went something like this. First we hit up the petting zoo where Carter had to be taught that the ice cream cone full of animal feed was not intended as a morning snack. Then, we watched in horror as an unattended yet brave little girl, stuck her hand in the Emu pen, right under the sign which basically stated "do not feed us or we will bite off your fingers". And, who can forget Carter screaming at the cows (who blatantly ignored him while grazing a half mile away) "Wanna eat cows!?!? Wanna eat???" All this, as Mommy reminded him not to lick the fence and tried desperately not to have a nervous breakdown regarding the massive amounts of goat saliva on his chubby little hands.

Shortly after our son Tasmanian-deviled his way through the petting zoo, we decided to take a tractor-pulled hayride through the woods to see the new baby pigs. Of COURSE we had to make a scene by being the last poor suckers to board. OF COURSE I had to clumsily guide Carter onto the wagon, Landon strapped to my front in the baby carrier. OF COURSE we had to hold up the whole ride while we waited for Ben to pay our hayride fare and OF COURSE there was only a 12 inch wide space left for him by the time he joined us with Reid strapped to him. Let me tell you, riding on a bumpy trail with two infants, their poor little heads bobbling all over tarnation is no picnic. Nor is it the perfect family activity you may be imagining. Hay was bouncing, Carter looked oddly nervous, and there were two pregnant women nearby who's water, I prayed, would not break. I mean seriously, isn't that a bit risky ladies? As we entered the woods, the awning of leaves above us was quite beautiful, however this moment was immediately interrupted by my husband whispering, "Is this 'Deliverance'???".

After a few more minutes along the muddy road and passing what looked like a homemade meth lab (OK I may be exaggerating, as I have never seen one in real life!) we came upon an open field. From there, we had to exit our extravagant wheels and wander through the woods to a fenced in area full of big mama pigs. Right in the middle, nestled in a pile of hay, lay the world's cutest pile of piglets! They were nothing short of precious. One man asked the question I pondered in my own mind, "Do you have problems with coyotes?" Our farm tour guide responded by saying that coyotes wouldn't stand a chance against the mother pigs. Apparently other than their size being a factor, they are VERY protective of their young. I found it so heartwarming that a Mommy pig would defend their babies against the bad guys, as with humans the motherly instinct is there and in full effect. OK, now that I've compared myself to a fat, four legged creature which snorts and sleeps in poo...back to the story. When Carter asked if he could kiss the pigs and was told no, he decided he wanted to go home.

So back we trudged to the wagon. All that, and he wanted to leave. Kids really surprise you sometimes. After a brief stop at the farm's hot dog stand, we stumbled back to the car while balancing ketchup drizzled hot dogs, locally made birch beer and a water bottle (oh yeah, and three kids). Overall, we had a very entertaining morning. It was great to get out in the sunshine and have some long awaited family time. However, I have come to the realization that family time is not always relaxing. In fact, it's a lot of work. Like the old saying goes, the hardest work is the most rewarding. When I see the look of contentment on my children's faces, I feel the most rewarded. That, and at nap time when I can put up my feet and "reward" myself with a treat...even if it didn't come from the donut farm.

Some things I've learned thus far...

1. Don't sweat the small stuff...like matchbox cars, Lincoln logs, Mr. Potato Head accessories, etc.
2. Relish in the sweet little surprises. This morning for instance, I found boy pee in two separate places in my house. One puddle in the laundry room, one next to the toilet in the downstairs bathroom. Really? You were INCHES from the toilet!!!
3. Mom will always know best. Today she offered to come over later if I needed some help with the boys. "No no I'll be fine". However, by the time I discovered that second puddle, Mom was on speed dial. Maybe now I'll have a chance to wash pancake dishes from breakfast, vacuum the house and brush my teeth!

A.M. Ambush

So I have this awful habit of not wanting to get out of bed to use the potty in the middle of the night. Child-like behavior, maybe, but I've seen one too many scary movies and am still under the impression that the boogieman is going to get me if I step foot out of my bed when it's dark out. You should also know that I keep a tall glass of water next to me to quench my insatiable thirst in the middle of the night. Why am I telling you my personal water to toileting ratio? There's a point, I promise.

Yesterday morning I was up at 6 nursing the twins. When they finally finished things up at the breakfast buffet, I was so desperate to pee that I ran across the hall into the bathroom, where Ben stood getting Carter dressed on the changing table. It's funny how once you get comfortable with a person, you have no qualms about plopping down on the john right in front of them. Ben isn't exactly a fan of this phenomenon but in my opinion he should be happy that I share everything with him! Anyway, on this particular Saturday morning, no one had a choice in the matter.

As I sat on the potty feeling sweet relief, all of a sudden cold water began to trickle down my shirt. I looked up in shock as my fresh little boy stood on the changing table, spray bottle in hand, giggling ferociously as my husband stood by laughing. I was unable to move, due to the sheer lengthiness of the peeing. Carter continued to spray me relentlessly as I sat paralyzed on the pot.

Why would one have access to a spray bottle of cold water you ask? Besides the obvious fact that my darling husband gave him one, you might like to know that Carter's hair has to be sprayed every morning due to a massive and chronic case of bed head.

So there you go. Despite what you may be thinking otherwise, it was not my own stupidity that landed me in this mess! Unless of course your mind goes back to my boogieman theory-from which you could in fact conclude ,that there is a moral to this story. Best risk the monsters of the night, or a mischievous little monster could await you in the morning!

Woops!

A few Fridays ago, we got home after a long day of work for both of us. I have to say I was looking forward to dinner, the couch and a good movie! Silly me for thinking we could have a relaxing evening, because our beloved pooch Jack decided he had just about enough of the children getting all of the attention.

As we sat down for dinner-a bourbon roasted rotisserie chicken which I slaved over (or rather, drooled over while perusing the "prepared foods" aisle at Stop & Shop) we heard a yelp in the other room. We looked over to see Jacky, unwilling to take another step and looking mighty uncomfortable.

Instantly my mind went to the chewed-up tube of Lansinoh (nipple cream) I found greeting me at the bottom of the stairs that morning. "Great", I thought to myself. "The plastic has cut his intestines and he's going to die". Ok, so maybe I tend to have a slight flair for the dramatic, but nonetheless, anyone who has a pet knows the instant pain you feel when they're sick or injured. They don't call 'em man's best friend for nothing people!

Before I could get a fork in my mouth, Ben was packing Jack into the Jeep and headed to the animal hospital. After shoveling down some food, I turned on the TV to captivate Carter while I nursed the twins who were now screaming their little baby heads off. I had no choice but to whip out the boppy and nurse them at the same time.

Next thing I knew, Mr. Potty Training (who might I add is not gracious with the inopportune times in which he needs to pee or poo) jumped up and needed to go potty. He was wearing jeans. Translation: "You think I'm doing this myslef lady?"

In an effort to meet his needs and protect my couch and carpet from bodily fluids, I cut the boys loose and arranged them on the couch. In turn, they were livid that I had cut their mealtime short and proceeded in a chorus of screaming while I rushed Carter into the bathroom. I plopped him on the pot, then ran back to check on the boys. I managed to suppress the cries momentarily by shoving their binkies in their mouths.

I walked back towards the bathroom to check on C, and I have to admit I was feeling a bit cocky, as if I were Wonderwoman...Calm and collected. "I can do this!" I said to myself. It was then that I realized I was standing in my kitchen window at night. Facing my neighbors house. Topless.

Ok, so I'm still figuring things out. The night grew progressively more stressful, yet strangely satisfying. For some ungodly reason I decided to give tubbies to all three boys with no back up in the house. It went surprisingly better than my first experience. Baby steps! Oh, and you'll be glad to know that my four-legged son came home that very night, muscle relaxers and all. That's right, the dog threw his back out. Two months down and thankfully, we're still laughing.

Rub a dub dub, 3 Men in a Tub!

Last night I attempted the impossible-giving tubbies to all three boys by myself. At the time, I thought I was honing in on my time management skills. I mean, doesn't it make sense to wash all three at once? Not as easy a feat as I imagined.

In actuality, I can't take all of the credit. Ben did wash Carter's hair before running downstairs to "tend the fire" (aka watch "Family Guy" or "Sports Center" or any combination of the two). And while Carter conjured up a conversation with his Papa on his pretend cell phone/rubber ducky, I prepared Landon for the big event. Reid held down the fort on the changing table. (Before you go calling child services, please note that the changing table is in fact located in the bathroom!)

As I eased Lando into the tub and onto his tubby lounge chair, the screaming began. Now mind you, the tubby water was a tad deeper than I anticipated, thus I had to hold him up with one hand while cleansing him with a washcloth with the other hand. Picture a wiggly, slippery little nudie baby, screaming like his life depended on it. All the while, Carter played merrily beside him, blissfully unaware of the waves he was causing with every movement he made. I decided Landon was done and swiftly lifted him out of the tub, lingering soap suds and all. "Oh well", I thought to myself, "At least he's cleaner than he was before". Within seconds he was wrapped in a towel, binky strategically corked in his mouth for sanity purposes (Mommy's sanity, that is). After a speedy lotion/diaper application, Landon relaxed on the changing table and Reid was up to bat.

I stripped him down and plopped him into the tubby. One thing Miss Brilliant neglected to do, was check the tubby temp, which had dropped significantly. More screaming. Also, the soap suds had pretty much diminished due to the big guy's splash fest, so now I was left with no soap whatsoever and no hand to get any with. I put down the washcloth, grabbed the soap and squirted it onto Reid's tummy. Again, freezing cold. The poor boy almost jumped out of my hand. The screaming increased. Carter tried coming to the rescue by pouring water on him. I had to cut this party short, so I pulled Reid out of the tub and the "penguin plunge" was over.

As I lotioned and diapered Reid (or Dor-reid-o as we like to call him) I sensed some activity going on behind me. I turned to see Carter stepping out of the tub and matter-of-factly stating, "Me all done now". So I wrapped him in a towel, which lasted 2.2 seconds before he was off and running, in all his nudie-ness. Reid, still screaming, had now disturbed Landon who chimed in while both squirmed restlessly on the changing table.

Enter Carter, still naked, who I promptly placed on the potty. Carter peed, then said he was all done, sliding himself off of the big pot. I turned to help him and only then did I spot the fresh poo sliding down the outside of the toilet bowl. The point of origin was clear, however a skid mark ran down his leg and onto his foot. Unsure of how this occurred exactly, I wiped him up with baby wipes since (just my luck) the tub had now been drained. I did a drive-by diapering of the big guy, and quickly threw his jammies on, ran a comb through his hair and sent him on his way. I finally turned my attention back to poor little Reid.

Although the entire incident only lasted about 25 minutes...it sure was eventful. It prompted me to realize that maybe it's OK to ask for help and that maybe I don't have to strive to be supermom (I said maybe). Because ultimately, I wind up looking like a frantic Lucille Ball or at the very least, Uncle Jesse from "Full House".

"Would you like fries with that?"

So we bit the bullet and vowed to really work on Carter's potty training. We decided to go "balls to the wall" in our method, or in simpler (and perhaps more appropriate terms) no pull-ups or diapers. It's officially undies time.

Now, one thing you should know about our eldest, is that he is quite positively his parents' son in that he is easily swayed by the prospect of food. "Treats" to be specific. Therefore, when we explained that he would get an M&M when he peed on the potty (2 M&Ms for poo) he pretty much trained himself.

Yesterday he spent the whole day in big boy undies (except for nap time). He even pooped on the potty before school. When we got home last night, we realized that we hadn't really planned dinner and asked Carter if he would like to go get a Happy Meal as a special treat for staying dry all day. Of course he said yes and thus we prepared for a family outing to up and coming Canaan, CT (sarcasm) otherwise known as the real life Farmville. Carter was psyched to get apples in his happy meal. At the risk of sounding like a commercial mommy, I was equally as happy that he wanted apples and dislikes french fries-options like this lessened the sting of guilt for feeding fried, processed food to my two-year old!

Mind you, our little jaunt to Mickey D's was only the fourth place we've ventured with the twins. What a twisted little minds we have thinking it's OK to subject them to the aroma of a bubbling fry-a-lator and the impending doom of ketchup smeared napkins abandoned at most every booth. Needless to say, they did not leave their car seats.

As we walked in, a good-natured grandpa looked at us and immediately stated, "Wow, I thought I had my hands full", nodding to the two little boys who hung from the bench, chocolate milk dripping off the table. We offered a knowing laugh in return and staked out our spot in the corner.

A brief synopsis: Ben left to order the food while I held down the fort with the boys. Next thing I know, Carter is off and running. I look at him, I look at the babies. I look back at him and decide that yes, I should probably chase him and leave the babies. Carter goes to Ben. I go back to the twins. Carter wanders back. Repeat above synopsis.

In what seemed like light years later, Daddy finally returned with our tray of greasy goodness. After bite #1 of his cheeseburger, Carter decided he needed to use the potty. Although Ben insisted he didn't have to go, being the ever-nagging wifey, I lectured that we need to take him anyway to encourage his training. Seconds later they returned, because like his Mommy, Carter seems to have a great distaste for public restrooms. "Too yucky", he announced.

In no time, tears ensued when a chunk of Carter's cheeseburger hit the ground. Then, the babies began turning into little strawberries, overheating in their snowsuits, hats and blankies. Oh, and did I mention that this classy establishment does not carry apple slices? Or that my son was terrified of his wind-up walking Chewbacca toy? You'd think the kid saw a ghost. Finally, one more trip to the bathroom, this time the ladies room, and the discovery of the hand dryer. Again, you'd think the kid saw a ghost. Who knew my child was so jumpy?

Amidst the chaos, my hubby and I caught each other's eye for a brief moment in time and he said, "Did you ever think that when we got together 5 1/2 years ago that we would end up with 3 little boys, eating dinner at McDonalds no less?"

"Definitely not", I replied as I surveyed the scene of crinkled up papers and empty cups. Looking back, I wouldn't have it any other way.

"I just need to"

This morning Carter and I headed to Goshen for a play date with my high school friends and their kiddos. I left milk in the fridge for the twins, but by the time we returned, I had missed a feeding and had tingly ta tas to prove it. I was also 30 seconds away from leaking through one of the few shirts that fit me right now. Hey, no one said motherhood was sexy.

Ben was about to put Carter down for a nap, so I decided to pump before the babies woke up and needed to be fed again. As they were getting ready to head upstairs, the phone rang and Ben got distracted talking to someone. Then I got distracted Facebook-stalking. All of a sudden we caught each other's eye long enough to silently point to our dear boy.

There, in our window seat, stood Carter with his shirt half up, breast pump firmly in hand. Though we struggled to disguise our laughter, the outburst was inevitable. When we asked him what he was doing, he said "Pumpin". When we asked why, he replied, "I just need to".

This moment will forever be etched in my memory, and taught me two things. 1. Maybe I should supervise my child better because before I know it he'll be in the knife drawer and 2. Again, toddlers do not discriminate when it comes to "lady things". Note to self: hide all breastfeeding supplies, tampons, bras, etc. before he smuggles them into school or whips them out when we have company!

Diapers and Undies

So as of today, we estimate that we've gone through about 373 newborn diapers (lost count of wipes). It has been 3 weeks and 2 days.

This is obviously not even counting C's diapers...cross your fingers that potty training takes off! On Saturday Carter got to pick out big boy undies. We've been promising "Handy Manny" underwear but just my luck, Target did not have them. I was thrilled to see they had Sesame Street and Mickey Mouse, two of his favorites. However, my little man instantly gravitated to the Disney Princess pack. I managed to distract him with the Elmo variety pack, until he lay eyes on the pink sparkly Minnie Mouse undies. It was like he got a little glimpse of heaven.

The sad look on his face was almost too much to bear as I explained to him that those were little girl underwear. Normally this sort of thing would not matter to me, but since the bulk of his training will take place at daycare, I just couldn't do it!!! Ultimately he picked the Sesame Street ones.

My guilt really got the best of me that day and Carter ended up leaving the store with the big boy undies, two pairs of pants, a new bathing suit, sunglasses and...a little mermaid camera that says, "You're as pretty as a princess" when you take a picture. I couldn't resist. It almost made up for the lack of Minnie Mouse panties!

For now, Carter pees on the potty spontaneously and we continue to bribe him with M&Ms :)

"Me do it"

The other night the babies were being sleepyheads and didn't drink that much milk, so I decided to pump a little to start stockpiling the freezer (and ok, I was uncomfortable). Since I've been too lazy to get my electric pump and all it's attachments out of the attic, I plopped down on the couch with my manual pump. Next thing I know, Carter is in my face (ok, in my chest) fascinated by the milk spraying out into the bottle.

One thing you should know (and here I go giving away family secrets) is that my nephews have taught my whole family that nipples are called "pennies". Ben and I find this hysterical, and although we are not children, we have embraced this term in the spirit of immaturity and use it on a regular basis.

Now, Carter has clearly seen me feeding the babies, but this was a wonder all its own. He could actually see the milk coming out. He looked very perplexed. I started to explain what I was doing then thought to myself, "Who am I kidding? The kid thinks this is some kind of squirt gun".

Before I could nudge him away, my angelic child-turned devil's spawn, had grabbed the pump by the handle and squeezed so hard that I thought my penny might rip right off and find it's way back to it's rightful change purse.

It's moments like these that are so spontaneously unexpected, yet in no way surprising when I think of my new life as queen of boy kingdom. Let this serve as a warning...beware of 2 year-olds going anywhere near your ta tas!!!

Headline: Dairy Queen opens early this year...

Breastfeeding is a curious thing. Women are reprimanded when they don't do it, yet scolded for doing it in public. Any La Leche League-Nazi will preach it's importance, and how it is such a beautiful thing. Really? Milk dripping down your half-deflated tummy and spraying all over your poor, defenseless baby is beautiful?

My philosophy is simple. I make myself do it because it's the healthiest thing for my kids. Also, breast milk happens to be cost efficient, odor free and you never have to worry about heating it up. That, and because I fear the wrath of my R.N. sister if I ever chose not to!!!

Whether you're for it or against it, breastfeeding is a phenomenon all it's own. The biggest thing I've learned is that you have to have a sense of humor or chances are you probably won't succeed. Buy stock in nursing pads, invest in a good pump, use lots of lanolin and take a deep breath.

When I had Carter, the first few weeks were rough. He cried a lot at night and looking back I honestly think he was just hungry and I wasn't feeding him enough because it hurt. Poor little guy. My mother in law explained it best when she said "It will make your toes curl" but if you can make it through the first 3 weeks, you'll be golden. I made it, then didn't stop for 15 months.
I had morphed into a creepy lady who was sad when her toddler was clearly ready to wean, and I was the one crying.

A lot of analogies come into play when dealing with breastfeeding. For instance, when all goes well you can feel like the virgin Mary, or superwoman at the very least. You know, the calm, nurturing rocking chair-bound mother you always imagined? However, most of the time this image is terribly interrupted by the harshness of reality. 9 times out of 10 you will feel like a cow. Especially if you have to pump full time, like I did when I went back to work. Hooked up to all these tubes and wires, you are painfully humbled and yes, unless you are inhuman, you will feel like a heifer. And, don't be surprised if your husband walks in and moos at you, it's only a sign of affection. If you choose to lay on your side and breastfeed in bed in the middle of the night, you may feel like your old friend Porky Pig. Think of the fairgrounds on a nice autumn day when you stroll through the barns and see the big mommy pig laying comfortably in the hay with her little piglet latched on, blissfully unaware of anything around him. In this instance, if your hubby oinks at you, you have my permission to draw the line, haul off and smack him.

This time around with the twinsies, I have to admit that breastfeeding has been much easier now that I know what I'm doing. Last week I set a challenge for myself; latching both babies on at the same time. I'm proud to tell you that I was successful. I am not proud to admit that it is in no way a pretty sight. First of all, this is not something I can do beyond the comfort of my own home. Basically, you have to let it all hang out, there is no way possible you can be discreet. And, if you start dripping milk on your hungry little babes, I've got news for you...there's not much you can do about it because, surprise! You've got your hands full. While much more time efficient (feeding one baby right after the other can take up to an hour plus when all is said and done), it is not always so practical. And this ladies and gentlemen, brings me to one final analogy...dairy bar. When those two little boys are settled on either side of the boppy pillow. I just can't help but visualize them stepping up to a counter and ordering a milkshake. I know, I'm a weirdo but here's where the whole sense of humor comes into play in such a desperate way.

Rocket Poo

Two nights ago, I woke up in a dazed stupor to nurse the babies at 2am. Typically the boys get their diapers changed and then it's time for the feeding frenzy. Reid was up first.

I routinely unfastened his diaper by the light of the "3's Company" episode on television. I took a wipey and began to wipe a tiny bit of poo off his tiny little bum. In a flash, I felt a splash hit my right arm and before I could utter any words, I let out a yelp, waking my snoring husband and prompting him to fly out of bed and hit the lights.

My little angel had projectile pooped on me. I've never seen anything like it, and working in the field of early childhood I've changed many a diaper in my day. I looked down to find poo on my shirt, shorts, sheets, comforter, Reid's jammies, a pillow...the list goes on.

Ben's laughter still resounds in my head. To top it off, Carter threw up on our bed first thing the next morning. This is only the beginning, I told myself as I prepared a fresh batch of laundry.

3 testicles or 4?

Imagine my surprise when our beloved pediatrician came into my hospital room shortly after performing circumcisions on the boys. He sat down in the rocking chair like an old friend and said, "So, yesterday did (Twin who will remain nameless to protect him from years of embarrassment) have 1 testicle or 2?"

Hubby and I looked at each other on the verge of nervous laughter. "Um...I thought there were two?" I cautiously answered. What kind of mother does not know the answer to this question? I rationalize that I was overtired and didn't exactly take the time to examine anything. Seriously, changing little boys is a high speed mission. You have to move quickly or else the garden hose will flood everything around you!

Apparently the testicle in question has yet to drop and Doctor M was not too concerned. Only time will tell if Mr. T will make his appearance! Boys are proving to be confusing already...

Happy New Year!

On New Year's Eve, we had cereal for dinner. Then I made a delightful batch of brownies and we stayed up til a whopping 9pm.

Throughout the night I was restless and had this awful back pain. I woke up a lot, either to pee, to have Ben rub my back or to order him downstairs to pop my heating pad in the microwave. I couldn't lay down so I sat up most of the night. Do you think it occurred to me that I was in labor? Nope!

Finally, around 5am Ben offered to call the hospital and I agreed. I think this took him by surprise because I have avoided these type of calls at all costs in the past, despite some other uncomfortable times. We called my Mom to stay with Carter, and we were off to Charlotte Hungerford to brave the dark, icy morning.

Now, one thing you should know is that I've never experienced natural labor before. With Carter I was induced, so this was one of those decisions where I really wasn't sure. All that came to a profound realization as we drove on Route 8 and it occurred to me that I had full blown contractions which were averaging 3 minutes apart. You could say that panic mode set in right about then.

Long story short...Got to the hospital around 6:30 at 8 centimeters. Panicked that I would not be able to get an epidural and pleaded with a poor unsuspecting nurse to give me one. She gave me a rather vague answer, as if she were scared of me and what I was capable of. Little did she know I was looking for the nearest object to smash over my own head. By the time the doctor arrived, I was 9 centimeters. He was pretty much an angel in disguise, giving me the go ahead to get my epidural.

Then Mr. Anesthesiologist showed up with an attitude problem, telling me that it was silly to get the drugs at that point because I had already done the hard part. A script played out in my head, "I'm sorry kind sir, but have you ever squeezed two children out of your vagina?" Fortunately I kept my mouth shut and so did he. In about 20 minutes I was in seventh heaven and being wheeled down to the O.R. (standard for twins in case a c-section needs to be performed)

The Doc opted not to break my water, rationalizing that it would break as I began to push. In the next few moments I can guarantee he was second guessing himself. As I began to push, an explosion shot out of me, splashing all over the doctor, as if he were hit by a giant water balloon. I couldn't help but laugh and let me tell you, by the time the second bag broke all of the staff learned their lesson and jumped back almost simultaneously.

Reid Bradford was born at 9:17am, weighing in at 5lbs 9oz and Landon Dean came at 9:22am, weighing 6lbs 3oz. Turns out they were the first babies born at that hospital in 2010. While most of my friends were likely to be nursing hangovers from exciting celebrations the night before, I had just become a mother of three boys.

Oh boy(s)!

On August 30th, we made the trek to UCONN Medical Center for an ultrasound. I was 17 weeks along and we anxciously anticipated finding out the sex of the babies. We had decided that this would probably be my last pregnancy, so I sat down on the crinkly paper, kicked up my feet and braced myself for the big news.

Back in June we told my parents I was expecting and that they would now have 6 grandchildren. Through my mother's joyful shrieks, I saw a light bulb go off in her head. "5 grandchildren, you mean", she corrected me. "No, Mom...6" Louder shrieks ensued. That very day, in my parents kitchen, I uttered the words, "I guarentee they will both be boys".

As the tech doused my belly with the special jelly, we went through the standard measurements of Baby A. As she neared the region of glory, she spoke the words, "And that looks like a little boy part". I started laughing. I knew instantly that Baby B would be a boy as well. Turns out I was right!

As I wiped my tummy down and tucked my new pictures into my purse, I looked at Ben and said, "I cannot believe this, but I'm happy! It's ok that we're going to have 3 boys". Moments later, we walked past the gift shop and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a tiny pink outfit . And I began to cry, right there in the lobby. "Maybe I'm just a little sad that I'll never have a girl" I guiltily whispered to my husband.

Telling our family and friends was interesting. Most were thrilled and thought they were hysterical bringing up the "My 3 Sons" reference. However, there is a population of individuals out there who either say, "Ohhhh" in disappointment or "So are you going to try for a girl?" Are you kidding me??? I haven't even popped out TWINS and you're asking me if I'm going to get pregnant again, with the 50/50 chance that I could possibly have a girl? As if boys aren't good enough or make our family complete?

It was then that I came to the realization that I wanted a girl one day for selfish reasons. I wanted to buy tights, sparkly shoes and poofy skirts. I wanted to shop for prom dresses, wedding dresses...and for a little while I actually felt sorry for myself that I wouldn't have these opportunities. Material things that I somehow thought contributed to my quality of life. I decided to embrace my news and prepare for the long road ahead. Maybe headlocks, soccer balls and fart jokes were in my future, but I would be prepared. It was then that my mama bear instinct kicked in and I vowed to jump in feet first and raise the best boys possible. Besides, I could always dress one up in tights, right?

The Joys? of Pregnancy

Every pregnancy is different. I've heard it a thousand times and believe me, it couldn't be closer to the truth!

When I was pregnant with Carter, I loved it. Yes, I suffered a bit of morning (and 5pm) sickness, but it was short-lived and the rest of my pregnancy was smooth sailing. Despite a rocky finish with a bout of high blood pressure and an induction at 37 weeks, I felt good. In the months following his birth I actually missed being "with child", rubbing my non-pregnant belly at the most inopportune times. Once or twice, I was caught by onlookers wondering if I had a stomach ache.

This time around, things were different. I threw up all day, every day for about 16 weeks or so. I wore really stylish bracelets (intended for motion sickness) which made it rather difficult to hide the pregnancy from co-workers in the heat of summer. I would wear long sleeves and extra deodorant in an effort to avoid inquiring minds.

Let me make a small disclaimer, that I happen to hate when people make choices for themselves and complain about these choices in an effort to make others feel sorry for them. HOWEVER, pregnant women and mothers need to stick together. We are a sisterhood and someone needs to warn others of the imminent dangers of getting to know your new porcelain friend (we'll call him John).

As far as "morning sickness" goes, I have to say that no one can truly understand this heinous phenomenon unless they've experienced it themselves. There is nothing like it. And if you're a man, please note that the stomach bug you suffered from 3 years ago, does not even come close. I threw up in the car, at work, in the car on the way to work, in restaurants, in a bed and breakfast, in a rest area, in a port-o-let...the list goes on. Did I mention that I was told that it would be worse with twins? I didn't believe it until the day it arrived banging down my (bathroom) door.

Another pleasant side effect which I discovered while carrying twins, was the torpedo-like "growth" many refer to as the belly. My stomach grew so preposterously large, I looked like I was smuggling a watermelon. I also had the great bonus of having a full length mirror hanging just inches from my shower. So, when the time came to exit the tub, BAM! There was this tall, disproportionate amazon woman staring back at me. It never failed to amaze me, especially towards the end. Once simple tasks such as tying my shoes or giving my son a bath became painful, if not impossible! I cannot fathom people like Kate Gosselin, the TLC mommy of 8, who you could say "fell from grace" this past year. How did she carry sextuplets? And here I am complaining about two! Still, as a woman who has managed to avoid major body image issues, I wondered if my belly would ever go back to normal, or transform into a saggy, wrinkled, stretch mark ridden bag of loose skin.

At the risk of sounding like an awful mother, I also have to come clean about my feelings regarding the babies kicking. I agree, pregnancy is a true miracle-the first time around I loved those little movements. The twins on the other hand, were nothing short of freaky. When they moved around it looked like something out of a Stephen King movie not to mention it didn't feel all that pleasant. There were absolutely no vaccancies in my dear old hotel a la uterus, so when they moved it felt like my skin would just tear open and an alien would pop out. And hiccups! Don't even get me started on the constant hiccups...

I won't go into all the other little party favors I received this time around, because many are rather disgusting and may prevent my single girlfriends from ever taking the plunge into motherhood. Let's just say that I had a revelation that these little beings inside of me were going to give me a run for my money.

Is this really happening?

Allow me to introduce myself. Small town girl with two cats, married a great guy, got a dog, had a beautiful baby boy, bought a house (complete with treehouse and white picket fence), decided to get pregnant again. All in the course of about 5 1/2 years. Crazy? Maybe. But I've always known what I wanted out of life, so when opportunity knocked, who was I to turn it down?

On May 21st 2009 I entered my bathroom and did what many women dare to do. I peed on a stick. I saw two lines. Then, in the days that ensued, I peed on more sticks. All signs pointed to "you better get used to it, because your life will never be the same!" Hubby and I were very happy to become a family of four, and decided to keep our news quiet for a bit. In my opinion, nothing is sacred these days and in the era of cell phones and social networking (of which I am shamefully addicted) we promised one another that we would savor the moment for ourselves, maybe for the first trimester.

For the next few days I enjoyed every minute of my ravenous appetite, even dragging my husband and 18 month old to a Thai restaurant 30 minutes away on an almost violent craving. We pondered these cravings, wondering how I could possibly have them so soon. "Imagine if it were twins?" said Ben. "I would die" I replied. We even went so far as to look up "symptoms of twin pregnancies". Funny how mother's intuition was #1.

On June 3rd, our silence was broken...oh how it was broken. Things didn't seem quite right and my doc sent me for a pleasant internal ultrasound. After a giving the technician a brief tutorial on where to stick the wand (not even kidding and I flatly refuse to delve into this any further), she non-chalantly chimed, "Oh, it looks like you're having twins, do they run in your family?". Cue the record scratch.

"Excuse me?" I choked. She repeated herself, congratulated me and sent me on my way with a wave of her bangle-clad wrist. I walked to my car, with a slight feeling of having the wind knocked out of me. I sat in the front seat and dialed hubby's number at work. I believe I spit out something along the lines of, "Everything's fine, but I'm having twins". Of course he thought I was kidding, as many people tend to suspect of me, but eventually I got through to him and the rest my friends, is history.