I knew everything about kids before I had kids.
I had the kid thing figured out.
I’d been a babysitter since I was twelve. Ran church nurseries and served as a nanny. I was going to kick this kid thing in high gear.
The triplets arrived. One would think that would throw me off my take-charge, know-it-all game. One would be wrong. I read all the books. I had a system. A triplet master calendar that chronicled every medicine, feeding, bathroom event, and diaper change. I had a color coded system. Everything for the baby was in had a green rubber label or sticker. The eldest was blue. Little bit was pink. (Those are still their favorite colors to this day. Point 1 for nurture versus nature.)
I scoffed at people who couldn’t get it together and get out of the house efficiently. I secretly rolled my eyes at people who would let their kids crawl into bed with them. Ohhhh, I judged all those messy, schedule-less schmucks. (I can really excel at judging. It’s something God and I have regular conversations about. He’s not a fan.)
Well, that’s all gone out the window.
I’m a hapless, harried mom of three seven-year olds.
Let’s take a few moments for a glimpse inside our weekend, fellow weekend warriors.
Saturday morning: I begrudgingly crawled out of bed at 7:30 even though everyone had been well awake before then. I was exhausted because not one, but two kids tried to crawl in bed with us in the middle of the night. One succeeded. The other one talked me into crawling back to his room at 4 am because three people in our king size bed can work but four really does NOT.
I had to go shopping for a cocktail dress which would fit for my date Saturday night. Because I am not a triplet mom that teaches spin class or trains for marathons so my dress size isn’t what it once was. Bray was going to take the boys to the NFL Experience downtown since the Super Bowl is in Houston this year. I fixed all the eggs I had after making muffins. Who knew we were out of eggs? I rationed the milk into breakfast glasses because who knew we were out of milk too?
We tried to get ready. One couldn’t find his shoes. Bedlam. The other one couldn’t find his LSU socks. So he threw all of the clean clothes out of the dryer on the floor to effectuate finding them. Shouting from assorted parents about the insanity of throwing clean clothes on what I am confident is a dirty floor. Repeated requests to put on shoes and brush teeth. Did you brush your teeth, one of us would inquire. Yes, one would respond. Is that a true statement? Let me smell your breath, I retorted. Oh okay, shuffling off toward the bathroom. They have been brushing their teeth every morning since they were two. Why is this still an issue at seven?
Little bit comes out in an outfit that neither matches or is fit for purpose on a cool January morning. I informed her as such. The solution: put navy and hot pink heart leggings underneath her green and turquoise skirt. Fine. Who cares? We’re only going out in public and I’m not having WWIII over the fact she looks like a bag lady. The boys leave. One has a hole in his pants. The other one refuses to pull on his jacket. I still haven’t brushed MY teeth.
Sunday evening: We didn’t really have a schedule. We had a long lunch with family friends which we needed. Arriving home at 3, instead of doing the dozen things which have to be completed by Monday morning, everyone goes to bed. I’m exhausted but can’t nap because the oldest, who needs 60 seconds of sleep a day, is going bananas. Everyone finally falls asleep, except me, and wakes up after 5. Forget an 8 pm bedtime. No one will go to sleep now.
We have to make our 100 day shirt for this week at school. The baby just wants marker dots on his shirt. No big deal. We put marker dots on his plain t-shirt. It looks like crap. He freaks out. We run to Michael’s before they close to buy stickers to cover the black dots. We finish his. Little lady is freaking out because we can’t find the black shirt we bought to put her emoji stickers on. We have her stickers but no shirt anywhere. We rip the house up. She pouts. I’ll just wear my uniform… No, we’ll end up buying her another plain t-shirt to wear for ONE freakin’ 100-day day. I sit with the eldest. We start sticking his footballs and basketballs on his t-shirt. 48 stickers. Nowhere near 100. Buddy, I’m sure we bought more stickers. Where are they in my car? We rip up my car. No stickers. I guess I’m going BACK to Michael’s tomorrow on my way home from picking up the little lady’s t-shirt.
It’s 6:30. We ate late. Is anyone actually hungry? It appears not, they respond. Popcorn. We decide on popcorn and apple cider for dinner at 7. While the Pro Bowl is on. And little bit has a game on the iPad. I cut up some strawberries. There, that’s healthy. Strawberries and popcorn. What’s wrong with that for dinner?
I decide to wander into the office to update you all so no one feels bad at their home. Whatever you’re doing, it’s better than the mediocre parenting going on around here. Good luck this week troops. We’ll need it. (And I hope you don’t have 100 day celebrations. Seriously people. Like we don’t have houses to organize. I mean there’s missing stickers and t-shirts in here somewhere.)