Easy, Baby

There is no so thing as an “easy baby” because raising tiny humans is the hardest job there is. Period. There is only one line in their user manual and it reads: “completely unreasonable”. So this weekend when my cousin with one baby asked how life with three is even humanly possible--I told her having three children is absolutely amazing with one important stipulation: the third baby must love everything. Without this, it would likely be a complete disaster. I recognize by putting this into the universe I am breaking the cardinal rule of motherhood: never speak the good aloud or you forfeit your right to sleep and must do a round of Hand Foot and Mouth as penance—but it must be said: Josephine loves everything. She loves: nursing, vegetables, her sisters singing unreasonably loud 1 mm from her face, pacifiers, no pacifier, sleeping, the front back, her car seat, swimming, baths, and everyone. In a completely unsurprising turn of events yesterday I discovered she loves the swings at the park. The one thing she isn’t fond of are bottles, but even then, she won’t complain about it or cry she will simply eat solid foods and wait without complaint until me and my boobs get home.

Now that mothers everywhere have stopped reading and unfriended me, just know that I know how lucky I am.

I had heard of these mythical unicorn babies before but couldn’t believe they existed or were sure they were exaggerated by delusional, exhausted mothers. After all, I thought Charlotte was a good baby and she had colic for 4 months. Am I being rewarded for having the foreknowledge only acquired through the trial and error of my previous babies? I have absolutely no idea. But I am soaking up every ounce of her little smiling face without ever questioning the magic. Despite her undeniable goodness, you will never hear me call any baby “easy” because the only thing I find simple about raising babies is how easy they are to love.


The Mother of all Days

Every day in our house is Mother’s Day. I feel celebrated by my husband and children on a regular basis. Sometimes out of no where my husband will send me a text saying, “I appreciate you” or Maddie (typically when I offer her a popsicle after dinner) will tell me, “You’re just the best Mom” and then plant a cold wet kiss on my lips.

During Charlotte’s first six months of life I could count on one hand the number of hours I was away from her. Not days, hours. With the arrival of Josephine, I’ve learned that time away from my kids can actually be just as necessary and beneficial as time spent with them. It is not about quantity, but quality. I read somewhere that 71% of moms of young children want alone time on Mother’s Day, which means the other 29% must not have understood the question. This is why on Saturday we can plan for a family picnic at the park, but on Sunday I want to sit on a throne of solitude while my kids play happily nowhere near me.

I joyously revel in my role; but I am constantly in a state of meeting others’ needs that are not mine and so when my husband lovingly asked what I wanted for Sunday, besides some homemade-glittered-crap from the girls, I told him I wanted a day that is entirely my own. In order for it to be special and truly unique or, excuse the pun, the Mother of all days— it would need to be a day where: I make food that is only for me, sleep according to my body’s needs, exercise without pushing a stroller, read a book where the main character doesn’t live on a farm and most importantly, when someone calls out for Mom, only Dad will answer.  

Happy Mother’s Day to moms everywhere, especially my own.


My Scrambled Brain with a Side of I Already Forgot

I’ve recently come to terms with the fact that I no longer have a cohesive mind. I realize my kids need to wash their hands after they are already eating a fistful of strawberries and spent the morning digging for slugs. I can in one moment be thinking how reasonably King Triton dealt with his mischievous mermaid daughter and suddenly I remember we are out of peanut butter. I will be walking to the refrigerator to grab a sparkling water and then be completely side tracked by the dog or the doorbell and by the time I get back to the fridge, Maddie has nabbed my water and I accidentally call her Alexa—to which Alexa responds, “What would you like to order.” My former UCD-educated-mind, preferably one that remembers all my kids when I’m leaving the supermarket.

So now it seems only fitting I share with you some random occurrence that follow no particular theme or pattern because even if I wanted to follow a logical train of thought, I wouldn’t be able to find my keys to get there.

  • Having a third baby makes you worry less about the common milestones like walking or talking and worry more about what age they will start picking their nose and eating it in public.

  • Yesterday, I used my hair dryer that I haven’t used on myself in 6 months, to dry off Barbie’s outfit as suggested and requested by my 5-year-old.

  • When my baby doesn’t poop for more than 3 days, I will dress her in an outgrown outfit I’m prepared to throw away.

  • As I loaded up my herd into our minivan and used my bare hands to wipe someone’s snot, I thought about how my current situation is the exact opposite of whatever it is people do at Coachella.

  • While some Mom’s may have been busy the night before Easter filling their kid’s baskets and hiding eggs; I was stuffing Ariel costumes and princess dresses into upper cabinets, so the only outfits my daughters could find to wear were pre-screened and approved for Easter brunch.

As moms we are busy—constantly thinking for or about our tiny humans: I wonder why they act tired but won’t go to sleep and for the love of Velcro and slip-on, “Please go put on your shoes.” We don’t have the luxury of only thinking about ourselves, which leaves us with a brain and life that often resembles an egg; scrambled, over hard, but never over easy.