Three Together

I’m getting the usual slew of Christmas postcards, the kinds with really heartwarming pictures that remind me how bad I’ve been about documenting our own lives. So the other day, I turn up the heat, strip the kids naked, pick a neutral background, and try to get some good shots. Main lesson learned is that a two month-old and four year-old are posable; a two year-old is not. Other lesson learned is that it’s impossible to get all three of them to look at the camera at the same time. So much for all those cute photo ideas I’ve been accumulating on Pinterest. Not quite coordinated enough to go through the bother of getting them onto a card and mailing them out, but here are a few at least, for those who still frequent this blog. Merry Christmas!

Highs and Lows

Does anyone else find parenting a completely up-and-down experience? One mom wrote about how after she heard about a friend’s child who had died of leukemia, she went to hug her kids, then two minutes later was yelling at them for something they had done. That’s what parenting is like. It’s a bipolar experience.

I didn’t really get this before I had kids. When I’m in public with the kids, I’m pretty sure other people don’t see this about us either: they don’t see the times I really lose it at them, but they also don’t see the spontaneous, incredibly touching moments.

The bad moments can be really bad. Sometimes it’s a one-time event, like her waking up at 4AM with a bloody nose that has stained her security blanket. I know she won’t go to sleep until the blanket is washed, then it has to be dried in the machine, by then Eric will have woken, and bottom-line is that none of us are sleeping any more that morning, which means the whole next day will be one morass of fussiness. Sometimes it’s a build-up of badness, so subtle it’s hard to describe. Like incessant whining for the entire day. Or when they can’t seem to stop bickering for two seconds. Or like the other day, when Eric threw a fit the entire thirty-minute ride home because I wouldn’t stop the car to give him a cough drop, then threw another fit during lunch because I couldn't spoon-feed him on my lap due to having to take care of the baby, then another fit because I wouldn't let him eat fruit until he had eaten more of his meal. By the third fit I had yelled at him and had to apologize. It’s usually about then that D texts to ask how the day is going and I don’t know what to say.

There are the good moments. Like when I can’t get him to change out of his pajamas and somehow Ellie not only cajoles him into it, but helps him choose his outfit and change (“you want the monkey shirt or the stripey shirt? The stripey one? Okay. That goes with the stripey adidas pants.” “Adidath,” he replies). Or when I walk out of my room and trip over a gift bag that she has carefully placed in the doorway, with a gift wrapped in tissue paper that is a drawing she has made of our family. Or when he demonstrates the ballet moves he’s learned by having to come along and watch her ballet class every week (it involves a lot of twirling and leaping). Or when she says to him, “do you want to see something?” and he runs off after her exclaiming, “Thee thom-thing! Thee thom-thing!” Or whenever I tell her I love her and she says back, “I love you too, mommy."

I watched a TED talk once that showed a rather depressing graph indicating that from the time you have your first child, average happiness plummets, and doesn’t rise until the kids start leaving for college:

The speakers postulated that if you layered in a representation of moment-to-moment happiness, the graph would look more like this:

When you’re a child, there’s a huge variation in moment-to-moment happiness (I get a cookie! She snatched that toy!), which obviously continues into adolescence (the world sucks; I hate you; he is so awesome), then levels out in early adulthood. Then you have your first kid, and while on several levels life in general sucks more, there is a lot of momentary variation. Sure, there are major lows, but as my sister reminds me, usually anything really bad will be over in about twenty minutes. And there is the potential for moments so good you can’t put it into words. We trade average moments for moments of transcendent happiness.

Personally, D and I were at relatively stable, happy levels before we had kids. It’s a challenge to traverse the constantly-changing, emotionally-volatile landscape that is any given day with the kids. It requires emotional margin and preferably a normal night’s rest, and especially when we lack that, the spiritual discipline and insight to ask for God’s help and wisdom and maintain a wider perspective. And I think part of it is accepting that, for now, this is a normal thing. To remember the wanting-to-pull-my-hair-out moments will always pass, and to be intentional about recording and recalling the good moments, the ones that make it all worth it. Because as trite as it sounds, they do.

Dressing With Flair

Stylistically, I vacillate between preppy and bohemian chic. I like blush-pink cardigans and bright cropped pants, gauzy dresses and patterned blouses. If I could pick a store to live in, it would be Anthropologie. This is all in theory, of course. In reality, I wear mostly neutral colors and stripes, and buy all my clothes from Target, where they have a fitting room large enough to roll in a shopping cart without having to remove the kids from their seats. I can’t remember the last time I voluntarily wore a skirt. Or heels, for that matter.

Enter Ellie, who considers it her moral duty to dress like a princess every single day. She absolutely refuses to wear pants—I know, what? Where did this come from? Where did that girl who wanted to wear her horse jammies all day go? She has two perfectly good pairs of jeans but insists on wearing a tulle skirt every single day. I finally caved in and got her a few skirts so I wouldn’t need to do laundry so often. That, and enough tights to make it through the winter. I think she’d look effortlessly chic in dark skinny jeans tucked into boots, with a striped grey shirt and a subtle hairband—but I have a higher chance of talking her into going out in nothing but her undies. As far as she’s concerned, the brighter, the better. The bolder the pattern, the denser the sequins, the puffier the tulle, the better.

We’ve discussed the concept of matching. That usually ends as it did this morning, with her insisting that the pink dot on these bright-purple-with-multiple-colored-polka-dotted tights matches the pink on the pale-pink tulle skirt she wants to wear. Paired with her white shirt with fuchsia ruffles down the front. Look! There’s some pink on both! The shirt and skirt actually look passable together, but the tights… well, our discussion ended with her in tears, sitting on the floor in naked misery. Mom, I’ve been thinking about those tights all night. I really want to wear those tights with that skirt. And I think, well, who am I to deny her so much joy? So there she goes, out into the world in her pale pink skirt over purple tights with green polka dots. With a smile on her face.

Sometimes I linger secretly outside the door after dropping her off at preschool to spy on her. I love the way she acts—so capable and confident. She hangs up her own things, then approaches some other kid in her own quiet, unafraid manner. She acts like someone who believes in her own beauty, walking around decked her in her handmade necklace and ummatching tights, and I think, I hope she never ever loses that. I hope I can help her embrace who she is, even if it’s not always the same as who I am.

Journal Excerpt

The baby finally went for a nocturnal eight-hour stretch between feeds two nights ago. I am feeling like a new person while desperately hoping it wasn’t a fluke. Unfortunately, it feels like waking up in a post-apocalyptic world, like living in a trailer where obviously aliens have attacked the planet and all you see are flashes of decrepitude: grimy bathrooms and toilets. Small, conveniently choke-able toy parts scattered in every possible random space. Kitchen counters so cluttered there is no space to cut an apple. Food particles sealed into the vacuumed carpet. Any minute now a haggard-looking Brad Pitt or Will Smith will appear. I have to give credit to D that things are not worse, but there’s only so much housework the poor guy can do on top of running two health districts, three kids, and a surly, sleep-deprived wife for the past six weeks.

On the up-side, I made butternut squash soup today, which reminds me of my Boston days when my apartment-mate, who believed in eating colorful foods, first taught me the recipe. It made me think of medical school and community and retreats in New Hampshire in the fall. Sometimes it is staggering to me how much of ourselves we can lose as parents; how much what is still part of who I am I simply don’t access or experience. I really am still someone who likes to read, and paint, and play guitar at retreats, and shop, and bake fancy things, and go to exercise classes. But instead I am mostly someone who spent today wiping snot every five minutes and explaining for the fiftieth time why we have to SHARE. And who will apparently be doing the same thing tomorrow.

Going From Two To Three

Going from two to three has been harder than going from one to two. Intuitively this makes sense—you’re going from man-to-man to zone; you’re outnumbered—but somehow we didn’t expect it. There was a lot more trepidation going from one to two; we couldn’t quite wrap our minds around it. What do you do when they both want to be held? What if one cries and disturbs the other one’s nap? What if they both need you at the same time? Does the universe just end?

In retrospect, with two we still had a good amount of control. Three, on the other hand, heralds a whole new way of parenting. A mother of five once told us the toughest step was two to three. After three, she said, it was all pretty easy. D hypothesized it was because you learn a new skill set with three that you then more easily carry over to four, or five. I hypothesized that said skill set was, well, not caring. Letting go. Giving up control.

That’s what it feels like with three. The middle one cries on the ground for thirty minutes while you’re nursing, because the baby just has to feed. You leave the baby for the oldest one to entertain/irritate because you have to make sure the middle one gets more soup into his mouth than onto the ground. There’s more mess, more crying, more slightly weird outfits because you didn’t have time to debate whether purple polka-dotted tights match a grey striped shirt.

People remark on how the third baby seems so laid-back. Come to think of it, each baby seems to have gotten more laid-back. We always thought it was lucking out in the genetic lottery, but it’s probably also that we’ve both become more laid-back. My friend who’s a first-time mother doesn’t want to bring her baby out until he’s had vaccines—ours has already gotten sick twice courtesy of his siblings. I was trying to keep them from spreading their colds until I actually saw her cough directly into the baby’s open mouth, and then I gave up. We made our first baby adhere to a strict EASY schedule; we pretty much just remember to feed our third every three hours. Often he eats while two other kids are crowding my lap and stroking his head.

D cites a study which found that the moms who were most stressed were those with three kids. Moms of four kids were actually less stressed; the study hypothesized this was because they simply learned to care less.

Is this all a good or bad thing? Unclear. On one hand, we try to make sure we each get quality time alone with each of the kids. We still plan and prepare as much as possible and have learned it’s okay to hire more help. On the other hand, there’s a certain level of entropy and chaos we learn to embrace, and it doesn’t mean there’s any less happiness or joy. It just takes us thirty minutes to get out the door—can she bring her bunny? But then can he bring his doggie? He wants to wear his grey sneakers but can only find the left shoe and insists on putting it on his right foot. Why again does she have to wear a jacket? Wait; where is the baby?—but I guess that’s how it is these days.

On One Hand, They Self-Entertain. On The Other Hand, We Get Headaches.

She is four; he is two. With his rapidly improving verbal skills, we are now privy to long debates in the car like this one:

Eric: “Look! See geese-kuh!”

Ellie: “Dee-dee, it’s not geese-kuh. It’s geese.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Dee-dee, can you say, geese?”

“Geese-kuh.”

“Geese?”

“Geese-kuh.”

“Can you say geeee-suuuh?”

Pause.

“GEEEE-SUH-KUUUUH.”

Journal Excerpt

Probably top on the list of things I enjoy about him—right there next to neck folds, toes, and the way he curls up like a roly-poly bug on my chest—are his involuntary expressions. I enjoy making up monologues, since let’s face it, we spend a whole lot of time alone together these days. Sometimes he looks up at me like I’m God—eyes big in awe, lips pursed in shock—can you believe it? there she is again! Sometimes on the changing table he gets this look of bewilderment—what are you doing down there? And I actually feel like apologizing for intruding upon his privates.