This is my Body and I Love it for You

I lay on the couch on yet another snow day morning, another day stuck home with the children. At this point in time, I had lost count at how many days we had been home and had long stopped caring if the children ate, slept, pooped or wore clothes.

I couldn’t have told you when I last showered or even if my underwear was clean. Putting on a bra or real pants seemed like an impossible task for you see, we were snowed in but there was also the plague making it’s way through the house.

Snot was flowing and puke was spilling. This is the stuff that makes day drinking happen.  It was so bad, I knew the inevitable should happen… I had to clean the house.

But later.

I adjusted my position on the couch, turning more on my side and as I scooted my shirt pulled up revealing my stomach. I was playing on my phone, it didn’t matter to me.

She came out of no where as she often does when I’m laying down. It’s funny she never wanted to cuddle as a baby, always wanted out of my arms, miss independent so similar to me. But as the years have past, she never misses an opportunity to crawl on top of me and nestle her head just under my chin.

mother and daughter

She seems to need to be close, breath me in.

I never push her away even when she decides to cuddle at the most inconvenient times like during ‘wrestling’ between me and her father but that’s what happens when we forget to lock the door.

She crawled on top of me, sticking her bony child knee in my groin causing me to scream.

“Sorry mommy,” she said with a giggle but not stopping on her way up.

She lay her head down, I wrapped my arm around her and I could feel her relax. I continued reading on my phone and she began to trace the lines of my shirt.

She traced the scoop neck of my tank top and with a hint of mischief, let her finger slide over my breasting knowing that she shouldn’t touch it because breasts are one of those special parts no one gets to touch (at least for now, I’ll talk to her about ‘2nd base’ when she’s older).

Her finger reached my exposed belly, “Mommy, your shirt is too small. I can see your belly.”

My normal reaction would be to quickly pull down my shirt, covering a part of me that I’m not the most proud of, that’s not ‘perfect’ and don’t want people to see. My body would tense and cringe. I would usually swat her hand away as she tried to touch it, telling her no. But this time, this time I decided to just let her touch.

I decided the message was to important.

I want to raise a strong and confident daughter. I want her to know she’s beautiful because she is. I want her to embrace her imperfection and know that she is perfect because she is who she is and there is no such thing as the perfect body. I watch her watch me as I look in the mirror and do my makeup. She questions why I wear it, what I like about it. She watches me dress and stress over clothes that will hide those areas I don’t like. She hears me say things like, “Ugh this makes me fat.”

She sees my insecurities…. I need to let her see my confidence too.

My body is beautiful. It’s healthy. It’s strong. It’s sexy. It’s done amazing things; pushed on another’s chest to make blood pump when their heart had stopped, turned on a man I’ve known and been with for more than 17 years and most importantly, my body has given life to 4 children, 3 of whom lived inside me all at once.

I want her to know that I am proud of this body of mine and I have earned every scar, freckle, wrinkle and stretch mark. Well, some I earned and some were just given.

She traced the stretch marks on my stomach, buried her finger deep in my belly button and poked my stomach to watch the squish wiggle. I didn’t say a word, just watched her, let her see I wasn’t ashamed.

Her hand went flat and she placed it on my stomach then laid her head on my chest.

“My momma,” she said. “…pretty and squishy.”

I kissed the top of her head and held her close. She stayed a few more seconds and just like that she was gone but I can only hope the message, though it will need re-enforcing, will always stay with her.

 

 

The Mirror

“What should we get mom for her birthday?” Jeff asked as he drove, Hayden and I to the restaurant to celebrate Hayden’s 9th birthday.

“I don’t know?” Hayden said from the back seat.

“Well, what does mom like?” Jeff asked

I looked up in the rear facing mirror at Hayden and waited for the answer. This was going to be good.

“A new phone,” Hayden said with a smile. “Mom really likes her phone, we should get her a new one.”

Jeff snickered and Hayden beamed for making Jeff laugh but those words hit me right in the heart. They stung deep. I tried to smile and brush them off as Jeff asked Hayden what else I liked.

“Maybe some coffee or new sunglasses, mom is always wearing her sunglasses even when it’s not sunny…” Hayden rambled on. I couldn’t focus on the conversation because in my head, I was beating myself up.

I know he didn’t mean to hurt me. I know he was just being honest and it’s true. I do love my phone and it’s usually always in my hand. But I suddenly wondered, is that all he sees of me? Does he think I want to be on my phone more than with him?

My kids are excellent mirrors.

They seem to have no problem finding my flaws and reflecting them back at me. Every little ugly thing about myself, they magnify. I see it and it stings. It’s like a constant reminder that I had no idea what I am doing as a mom. They don’t do this on purpose, it’s just a fact.

I am a yeller.

I feel like I’m struggling to be heard. The noise of life is all around and to cut the chaos, I yell. It’s also my stress release. I’m like a pressure cooker ready to burst and to release that pressure so that I can focus, I yell. I yell at my kids and during some conversations my throat is raw afterwards.

“I just don’t know how to parent without yelling,” I lamented to my mom as we sat and ate lunch. “And that means I’m raising children who yell at each other, yell at me.”

She looked thoughtfully at me and then because she is my mother and still after 30 plus years of being a mother is at times insecure, she asked, “Was I a yeller? Did you get that from me?”

I didn’t mean to be her mirror and reflect her flaw but because I am her child, I did.

A smile spread across my face, “I don’t remember you yelling.”

We got quiet and both took bites of food, kind of both seemingly pondering motherhood.

She was the first to break the silence, “Say, you didn’t tell me that you made a crafty tail-mix snack for Hayden to take to school as his birthday treat.”

“Well, I didn’t think it was that big of deal,” I said as I took another bite.

“When Hayden was at my house, he went on and on about how the two of you worked together, pouring all sorts of treats into a big bowl, stirring it up and then putting it in little bags that he decorated with Halloween stickers. He was so proud that he got to make this treat with his mom and then give it to his friends,” she said. “From what he told me,  you made like 30 little bags. Wow.”

I looked at her as a single tear rolled down my cheek and I released the breath I didn’t know I was holdinhg.

“H-h-he said all that?” I asked, my voice getting caught in my throat.

“Yes,” she nodded.

I couldn’t help the second tear that rolled down my face.

“That was a bad day,” I began. “We had gymnastics that night. And homework to get done before going and then I added this project…. all I remember was yelling at them to stop stealing pieces of candy and to stop sneezing on the bowl.”

“Well, all he remembers is that you took the time to make an extra special treat and that you did it together,” my mom said.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks.

“It really wasn’t that big of deal,” I shrugged, trying to lessen the situation.

My mom reached over the table, took my hand and looked me right in the eyes, “Yes, sweetie. It was… to Hayden.”

And that’s when I realized, he didn’t remember the yelling either.

 

Crying over Sippy Cups

There is a drawer in my kitchen that holds nothing but sippy cups.

It used to be completely full with cups trying to make an escape when the drawer was opened but now there is only a handful left. That is because somewhere in the house, van or back yard there lies partially filled cups with old fermenting apple juice and chocolate milk cheese.

sippy cups

I don’t know exactly where these sippy cups go to but I do know that I will never see them again. They have gone the way of the missing socks from the dryer and that one flip flop that has been missing for about a year.

There is a part of me that wants to refill that drawer, go on a sippy cup shopping spree… get that drawer so full that we can’t close it.

But that isn’t right.

The truth is, there really shouldn’t be sippy cups in our house.

The kids have long out grown the need for them. They are totally capable of drinking out of a regular cup and have been for sometime. In fact, when they are home with their dad while I am working, the sippy cups don’t really make an appearance.

They are still around because of me. I am the one who just can’t part with those danm cups.

I just don’t think I could bare to pull open that drawer and not see sippy cups in there. The kitchen would sound so quiet without the rolling and rattling of those cups in that drawer. Some of those cups we have had since the days when Hayden was a baby. In fact, I still have and use the very first sippy cup, I bought for him.

Those sippy cups are the last remnants and reminders of the past. They are the last of the baby thing in the house (expect for the random pacifier I found in the back of the bathroom cupboard last week).  Long ago, we purged all the baby bottles, cribs, bedding and clothes. All the baby proofing, electrical coverings and safety gates are gone, in fact our house could be considered quiet hazardous to a baby.

There is not a thing about our house that looks like there used to be babies here beside those sippy cups.

Truth be told, the sippy cups annoy me. I hate the search that needs to be done to find them because God forbid, the kids remember where they set them. I hate taking the plastic inserts out to clean them. I hate opening one only to be hit with the horrid smell of rotten milk making me want to vomit.

I really don’t like those cups but I can’t bare to get rid of them. The kids don’t need those cups and honestly, look a bit silly drinking from them.

It’s just that, I love to see them drinking from them. It reminds me of when they were small, when they could still fit in my lap without arms and legs and other body parts spilling all over. It reminds me of when I used to be able to pick them up with ease where now I have to grunt and end up saying, “Oh my back” afterwards.

But it’s time. It’s time to say good bye to the past.

toddler triplets with sippy cups

Jake, Quinn and Claire turned 6 this past week. It’s a big deal going from 5 to 6. That means they are leaving all the things preschool and kindergarten behind. They are now grade schoolers… 1st graders.

So in the next few days, maybe weeks, I will get rid of those sippy cups. I might save one or four. I will probably shed a tear as I put them all in the bin to be recycled.

It has to be done. I’ve known this for a while.

And I will do it but only after I cover the entire house in plastic because even though they are getting older, they are still my children which means spilling is in their genes.

Quiet at the Dinner Table

A lot of times when we sit down to eat dinner, I am just quiet.

There is no real reason. I just don’t feel like talking. I think it’s because sitting down to dinner is my signal that we are in the home stretch. The witching hour is drawing to a close and bedtime is around the corner. It’s time for c0-parenting and mostly importantly, it’s probably the first time that I sat down in hours.

I just want to be quiet, be still, eat. And by doing this, I am open to listen.

I hear things like, “Yuck. I am not going to eat this.”

“This is gross. It can’t be food.”

“Is there any bessert?”

But every now and again I hear,  “Thanks for making the food, mom.”

My heart just melts. It doesn’t matter that the one who said it said it because the others were complaining about the food and he is trying to stay on my good side. He said it and I’ll take it.

I look around the table and the people sitting there, the people most important to me in the world and sometimes I get overwhelmed. There is this feeling that washes over me that I can’t explain. It steals my breath so that I couldn’t talk if I wanted too.

I study each person, really looking at them. I remember who they were when they were small and see who they are now.

I don’t feel worthy.

I yell. I scream. I cuss.

I focus on my own needs sometimes more then theirs.

I don’t want to read a bedtime story.

I don’t want to look at this one quick thing.

I fail.

And I do it over and over again.

I constantly question, ‘am I enough?”

But then one of them will catch my eye and smile at me or come over and put their arms around me in a  hug. They don’t know it but it’s in those moments that they save me. They reaffirm that I am enough, that I am what they need most.

children around the dinner table

I can’t help but smile at them. Their chatter makes me laugh. Especially the conversations from the littlest ones while they discuss the drama that is kindergarten.

“I like it when Ava kisses me,” Quinn says with a sheepish grin.

“Ew. Gross. How can you like that” Jake answers with a disgusted tone. “Girls are yucky.”

“No they are not,” Quinn defends himself, “Girls are pretty and I like it when they kiss me. Like when Ava does and Olivia and Kelly.”

I want to say something, tell them there is plenty of time for kissing girls, tell them that 5 is not the age to be worried about kissing but I stay quiet. I just listen.

“My teacher says that kissing is just for your family,” Claire announces, proud to tell of her classroom.

“But I can’t help it if the girls are always kissing me. I want them too. I don’t want to tell them no,” Quinn says exasperated.

“You could run away,” Jake adds.

“No. No. Don’t do that,” Claire adds, “Girls don’t like it when you run away from them. Just marry them instead.”

I can’t hold it in anymore and I laugh. I laugh until my sides ache and I’m gasping for breath. On one hand they are so young and have no idea but on the other hand, they know exactly how it works.

“You all should eat now,” I say when I can breathe again. “We can discuss who you are going to marry another time.”

There is a silence that falls around the table, only the sounds of chewing with the occasional burp and giggle.

“I don’t want to kiss any girls,” Jake says, breaking the stillness of the room.

“You don’t have too,” Hayden says speaking up for the first time. “because maybe you will can kiss a boy. You can’t help who you love or want to kiss.”

I can’t help but smile and my sweet insightful son. He’s right. He has no idea why, to him is just that simple. Love is love.

And that is why I listen. They are so young but so wise. They see the world as pure and beautiful.

I’m supposed to be their teacher but each day, if I can forget how the ride my last nerve and sometimes cause me to wish for a padded cell in the loony bin, they teach me something.

And that is why I’m quiet at the dinner table.

Lock the Door, Baby

I recently realized that I was a woman, perhaps even a sexy woman, and not just a mom.

This didn’t happen during a moment of deep reflection. I’m a busy mom, the only reflecting I do is about  what kind of wine to drink.

No, when this epiphany happened, I was bending over to pick up a toy while getting dressed and defending my backside from the dry humping my husband was giving me. I pushed him away and acted disgusted that he wanted me. He winked at me and kissed my neck and left me in our room to dress.

I heard him call to the kids to go outside with him which meant that I would be totally alone.

Why did I push him away? I liked that he wanted me. I wanted him to want me but yet, I push him away?

I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw a frumpy no make-up, no bra, stains on her tee shirt, yoga pants wearing mom looking back at me. The clothes hung on me and did nothing for me. I looked like a box.

How could anyone find me sexy?

I sighed and opened my underwear drawer to pull out a clean pair. I pushed around a sea of white cotton granny panties that had become my norm. I sighed again but then I saw a small fleck of black way in the back of the drawer.

I reached for it and pulled out a black lace string thong. I laughed at it. I couldn’t remember the last time I wore it. I had visions of sumo wrestles run through my head. Had I really worn this piece of dental floss as underwear? It seemed like a lifetime ago that I had worn something that sexy. I was pretty sure if I put it on now, it would get lost.

I threw the underwear, if you could even call it that, back into the drawer and took out a my comfortable white granny panties. Sure, I had had these since my son was born about 8 years ago but they sturdy and comfortable and covered me.  They also made my ass look three sizes bigger than what it was, but so what.

As I turned on the water and waited, I asked myself, “When was the last time we had sex?”

I never wanted a sexless marriage so I always made sure that we had sex at least once a week. Giving myself the right to skip a week if I was PMSing or feeling fat or tired.  Not that my husband asked for it but I wanted to try and keep our sex life alive. This wasn’t an easy task after the birth of triplets, four kids ages two and under doesn’t really make a girl feel like giving up the nappy dugout.

But I did. I picked one night a week, I’d get naked, kneel and bend over on the bed, butt in the air and say “Go for it, dude. Do it quick so that I can sleep.” What kind of sex life was that? I’m pretty sure there were senior citizens in nursing homes have more and better sex that I was.

In the shower, my thoughts drifted to a conversation I had with a girlfriend. She told me that she had sex with her husband at least once a day.

“Damn!” I remembered yelling in shock. “And your vagina hasn’t fallen out? Do you suffer from a lot of chaffing?”

She laughed at me because she thought I was joking but I wasn’t. How was that possible with kids. She was a mom, she worked, ran a household and here she was having sex like she lived in a college frat house. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was a little jealous. I wanted that.

I toweled dry. I reached for my pair of granny panties on the counter and put one foot in, ready to pull them up when something stopped me. I looked at my underwear drawer. I walked over and opened it and found the black string thong I had shoved in the back corner.

lock the door

“I’m wearing this,” I said to myself. I pulled it up and looked at myself in the mirror, for all intents and purposes, I was naked. And I didn’t look like a prized sumo wrestler.  My body wasn’t the same as when I was in my twenties but I wasn’t a girl any more. I was woman.  I had had children, an almost 11lb baby and triplets. My hips were wider, my breast were fuller, and sure hung a little lower, I had curves and a tummy but, damnit I was beautiful. I lived with a man who sure thought I was as evidenced by the rubbing his crotch on my thigh or ass I received every time I bent over.

And that’s when I remembered that I was a woman and not just a mom. And if I wanted to have sex at least once a day, I was going to. Somewhere inside me was a libdo… it was about to get dusted off and given a jump start.

I put clothes on over my sexy undies and appeared in the kitchen where the kids had reentered the house and were begging to watch TV.

“Let them”, I said trying to give him my best sexy smile.

I was a little rusty on the art of seduction so he didn’t pick up anything from my smile. I slide my yoga pants down my hips a little more, hoping he would notice the black string thong peeking over the top of my pants. I couldn’t remember if a ‘whale tail’ was sexy or trampy but if I wanted this to happen, I had to pull out all the stops.

I bent over the dishwasher and started unloading, banking on the fact that he would notice. I held my ass in the air a little longer than normal but the man seemed to be suddenly oblivious. I knew the window of the kids being glued to the TV was closing. If there was going to be sex, good sex, in the afternoon then it was time to be direct.

I felt a tingle all over my body. This must be what it’s like to be turned on. Hot damn, I like it.

I walked over and pressed myself to him and kissed him. I put his hands on my hips as I worked my kisses down his neck. His fingers found the strings of my thong and I could feel his arousal.

“Mommy, can I have some apple juice?” a child asked

I almost cursed the child out but stopped. Yes, I was a woman who wanted sex but I was also a mom. I bent over to get a sippy cup from the drawer and I could feel him watch me. I was now fully aware that he wanted me.  I poured the juice and then handed it to the child. As the child left the room, he was on me once again on me  like white on rice.

“Bedroom,” I said

He took my hand and I giggled like a horny teenager. This was happening. We are going to have sex in the middle of the day. He pushed me back onto the bed and attacked. Clothes were flying off and hands were everywhere. I opened my eyes and saw the door and the child standing there.

“Shit,” I whispered.

My husband, being the ever quick thinker and still mostly dressed, jump up in the line of sight of the child and ushered him out of the room, “Mommy and I were just hugging.” I heard him say as they walked away.

I laughed and pushed the feelings of embarrassment away. Sex was normal, natural and we weren’t doing anything wrong. So what if the child might have seen a little skin and kissing. I told myself that he’d probably forget in about 5 minutes thanks to having an attention span of a gnat and if not, that’s why we have a therapy fund started for each one of the kids.

The click of the lock on our door brought me back to the here and now. That’s right, we had a lock on our bedroom door. Awesome.

That afternoon was the breath of fresh air that our sex life needed. Sex didn’t have to be scheduled or once a week.  It could happen at any time and in any room where there was a lock on the door. The kids are older and can be more self sufficient if needed. They were no longer the demanding babies sucking the life out of everyone.

“You know, some day the kids are going to realize what we are doing in here when the door is locked,” I said as Jeff walked in on me changing a few weeks later and locked the door, signalling what he wanted.

“That’s why we buy their love with chocolate and toys.” he said as he pulled me close, “Now let’s get naked.”

 

Watching Soap Operas

hospital archway

My mom has been sick, so sick that she landed herself in the hospital but not the hospital that I work at, a different one.

For the past couple of days, my life has consisted of working at a hospital, going home, going to another hospital, going back home and so on and so forth. Add in school functions, a carnival, kids, vomiting cats and a husband and you will know why I am beyond exhausted.

The good news is, she is getting better and should be coming home soon. Praise, Jesus.

One of the days last week, I was not needed at my hospital so I took the opportunity to go and sit with my mom. When someone you love it sick, it’s just good to be there. And since I had planned to spend the day is a hospital, I didn’t mind because at least at the hospital my mom was at, no one expected me to clean up their poop or start an IV.

My mom would sleep on and off between doses of pain medication and I just sat at her bedside. As the morning hours turned into early afternoon, my mom found the remote and clicked on the TV.

I looked up from my book to see what she had chosen to watch.

“Really, you are going to watch the Spanish channel?” I asked, “Did you learn to speak Spanish and not tell me?”

“Sometimes, I just like to listen to them speak,” she said with a sigh.

I giggled and patted her hand as she turned her attention back to the TV and then soon her breathing stilled like someone sleeping. I poured myself into my book as a heated conversation from the TV filled the room in Spanish.

As is the custom in a hospital, as soon as my mom was a sleep, someone came into her room to check on her and ask her the same questions the person before asked. She woke with a start and dutifully answered.

“Oh,” she said once the doctor had left, “I can watch my Soaps.”

She clicked the numbers on the remote and the channel changed as I was transported back in time.

I suddenly remembered when I was sick. I was maybe 8 or 9  and I had the stomach flu. I couldn’t go to school and had to stay home. Being that my mom worked full time, she didn’t always get to stay home with me when I was sick. She would usually get a grandma or a babysitter or take us to the neighbors house but this time, mom stayed home.

Precisely at 12:30pm, my mom walked into the living room and cuddled up with me on the couch. She scooped me up in her lap and clicked on her soaps. Together, we watched. For the next hour, I was in my mom’s arms. My stomach didn’t seem to hurt as much and I felt my body healing.

I didn’t really understand what was going on in the show but I liked it because my mom like it. It made me feel grown up and special to share something she liked. It was a time when nothing else mattered, nothing else was more important than just us being together.

Watching soaps became something special my mom and I shared together. As I got older, we would sometimes play hookie from school or work just to spend the day watching soaps. My sister would often join and it was just the girls wrapped up in the ridiculous world of soap operas.

I couldn’t help but smile at my memory and then realized that something similar was happening now. The soaps were on again and it was me who was holding her while she was sick. I was helping her feel better just being with her.

“Hey, I remember her,” I said looking up from my book, “Wow, I can’t believe she is still on the show.”

“Yeah, I know.” my mom said, “She’s been on for about 30 years and boy, does it show. You’d think she could get some work done.”

I laughed at my mom’s uncharacteristic snark.

“You know what’s crazy,” my mom began, “They have a baby one week and then the next week send that baby off to boarding school and then the next week they come back as a full grown adult while all the other characters are still living the same day.”

I laughed out loud at her observation.

“I know. That is so ridiculous.” I said, “Are they still using the same story line?”

My mom nodded, “Yes, someone who has been dead for twenty years has come back to life, someone slept with her sister’s husband and someone is having a baby but doesn’t know who the father is but it might be an alien.”

I laughed out loud again as my mom drifted back into her drug induced sleep. I left the soap opera on in the back ground and turned back to reading my book.

We were together, one feeling sick and the other just being there and  in the background was the Soap Opera… and that’s all that mattered.

My ‘New’ Motherhood

At dinner yesterday, I had a moment. It was one of those moments where I wanted to say, “Oh, I’m so verklempt.” But I wasn’t really sure how to explain that to the children so I just kept it to myself.

As we ate dinner and each of the children tried to out talk each other with stories of their day, I looked around. I really looked at each one of these people that I love so deeply it’s hard to put into words.

Jake wanting so desperately to make everyone laugh.

Claire wanting to be right.

Hayden trying to act so much older than eight.

Quinn speaking up but not quite loud enough to be heard by all.

I leaned back in my chair and I held my chest. There was a dull ache in my heart and a small tear in my eye. I can’t really explain why but I was just so over come. Each child is just so different but there is something about them that is so similar. They are a part of me and Jeff and sometimes that just blows me away.

I look at them and I see Jeff’s hairline on the boys and his ears. I see my eyes on Claire and my nose on Hayden. I can’t believe that I made them. These precious beings are mine… but for how much longer.

There is a shift that is happening, a change in how I am their mother. I can only assume that at some point every mother goes through this. There comes a time when your children need you less.

It’s the on going process of letting go and frankly, it sucks.

The first five years of life and very mommy centered. They were the center of my world and I of theirs. They needed me for so many things, my every waking thought, and even some dreams, were about them. The worries of is my baby eating enough, pooping enough, reaching the right development marker. They needed me to tell them when to eat and when to sleep. They needed me to dress them and get toys for them.

Not that I knew exactly what I was doing but I had a system and it worked. I knew how to be the mom of babies and toddlers and then one day that changed.

And here sitting around the dinner table are kids, big kids. Kids that will in just a few years be tweens and then teens and then God willing, if they don’t set themselves on fire or run into a tree, adults.

No more am I needed for every little things. They are older, they want to do things on their own. They have opinions and want a say in what happens to them.  They no longer want me to track their every bowl movement.

To be honest, I feel very lost and have since September when I put all 4 of my babies on the bus heading to school. I feel like I am going through a mini ‘Empty Nest’ syndrome. Every day from 8 to 4, I struggle with how to be a mother.

There are no diapers to change, bottles to make or battles over nap time. I am left with only me.  Being a mom to triplets and their big brother became my identity. And in that process, I lost who I was. I lost Jen. And without two babies in her arms and a toddler on the floor and another baby crying in the bouncy seat, I don’t know her.

I am still the mother of triplets and their big brother. But now I have the chance to be that and more.

What does that mean?

I have no idea. That is the part I struggle with. The part that I am still trying to figure out and comes to terms with. And I realized recently that probably about the time I do, it will be summer vacation and my time will probably once again be centered around the kids and their every want.

Without really realizing it, I entered this new phase of motherhood. Instead of dealing with diaper rash and leaky sippy cups, I am now left with how to deal with being the parent of the child who starts a food fight in the lunch room and having the son who wants to kiss all the girls.

This happened when I wasn’t looking and instead of embracing it and facing it, I’ve been holding onto the past. I’ve been wishing for the years of toddlers. I’ve been hoping that some smarty pants scientist will perfect time travel so I can go back to the familiar world of three infants and a toddler.

That’s what I know. That’s what what I’m comfortable with. Everything else scares the shit out of me.

There are times, I feel like I am loosing my mind.  I am seriously complaining about having more time for myself?

Yes and no. This is not just about having more free time and time for myself. This about a change in my life, a change in my family dynamic and a change in how I am a mother. This is entering a new phase. This learning how to parent older children so that they don’t turn out to be serial killers. This is about rediscovering who I am, my dreams, my talents.

This is my new motherhood, and scary or not, I’m knee deep in it so I better figure it out.