Friday

I will be winning no awards today, this much I know to be true.  Two out of three boys were terribly sleep-deprived today, which meant they were terribly rotten.  (I exclude sweet baby Hatcher because, for the several months, he'll still be perfect.  Then, he will join the ranks of his rotten brothers.  I also know that much to be true.) 

Here are a few things I learned today:

1.) Sometimes, it just feels good to yell.  No, it's probably not ideal, but it can be effective.  Patrick, especially, needs a jarring little yell from time to time.  Otherwise, he tends to take for granted that Mom and Dad won't get too upset if he doesn't listen.  I'd be willing to bet I proved him wrong today. 

2.) Leo can talk more than he wants us to believe.  He says certain phrases, short sentences, etc., and we do hear a new word or two every day, but his verbal development is prompted by words we ask him to repeat.  Today, though, he pulled out a very clear sentence with minimal prompting.  Nearing my wits end, I witnessed Leo starting his nagging little "ehh?  ehh?" with his outstretched hand waving and grasping at the air.  "Leo, I can't understand you when you do that.  You're going to need to use your words," I said, barely looking up from trying to get the baby latched.  "I want a brownie," came the quick response.  Oh, ok. 

3.) I inherited my mother's ability to change my tone as soon as I answer the phone.  I learned this  because she called me, seconds after I had to send Patrick to time out.  She commented on how calm I always sound on the phone.  (Calm, maybe, because I had come close to losing my $#!+ seconds earlier).  I clearly remembered her cheerful greeting on our green rotary phone in our rural kitchen, moments after giving me the what-for about one thing or another (likely my inability to clean up after myself or the phone bill). Apparently, I fall not far from that tree. 

4.) Now, all of that being said, I realized with much certainty today that my life is pretty good.  I know, we've been down this road before.  I do feel blessed more often than not (almost constantly, really.  I can understand if it's annoying.)  Truthfully, though, I feel like I am right where I am supposed to be.  These three boys, a new church where I really feel I belong, a husband who is a great team player, and the job.  The job I love.  The job I am excited about when I wake up in the morning.  So, no matter that our days are sometimes hectic, that I cannot get my eyebrows done without an extra adult coming along (thanks, Colleen!), that I cannot wear heels anymore, that any piece of jewelry I own ends up in destructive little hands, and that I couldn't get through life at this point without a lot of support from our family and friends, it is exactly where I want to be.  Even if I have to yell. 

Now, it is 9:30 on a Friday night.  The whole house is sleeping.  I am pouring myself a drink and taking a long shower in peace.  Tomorrow starts round #867.

As a sidenote, I also learned recently that I need to keep my hair short.  Since cutting it off again a couple of months ago, my age has been guessed on four separate occassions as 4-5 years younger than what it actually is.  I'm taking that as a sign. 

So...What Do We Call Him?

I can't tell you how many times I have heard this.  If you're my dad, it's William.  Just William.  If you're me, it's sometimes William, sometimes Hatch, sometimes Will, and sometimes Hatcher.  It really depends who I am talking to.  My mom calls him Hatch.  Adam calls him Hatch.  Leo calls him Hatch.  Patrick calls him William.  Colleen calls him Hatch.  Wes?  Hatch.  Ariane?  Will.  Katie is undecided.  See?  It's so confusing.  It's exactly the scenario I wished to avoid.  As someone with several different names myself, I wanted to have kids with no nicknames.  But, here we are. 

Adam named this child, and while I have my own opinions on the matter, it's really up to him what we call our happy, dark-haired baby.  So, what's his name?  According to Adam, it's Hatch.  Hatcher, if you wish.  If he chooses to go by his formal name as an adult, then that is his call.  So, there.  Decided.  Hatch Walden; the tiny, charming, sparkly-eyed baby boy.  Two months later, and he finally has a name.  We get a C- for decisiveness.

We're Going Craaaaaaaaa-aaaazy

Well, not really crazy-crazy, but stir crazy, and by "we," I mean "they.  The boys.  The boys with endless amounts of energy, who know only one speed (fast) and who find the most joy out of running through the house throwing basketballs, teepee-ing the bathroom, and making a splash pool out of any accessible sink.  I've dreamt about buying them matching mini-treadmills, on which they'd be required to run for at least an hour.  If only such things existed. 

I'm pretty adept at monster noises, at floor wrestling, and tossing around little people onto couches, pillows, cushions, the like.  But I'm a poor replacement for outdoor play.  The confines of this house are not doing anyone any good...so we're getting out.  Sort of. 

We've booked (or are in the process of selecting) a hotel room, to take the boys for a swimming/pizza/slumber party.  We bought them a trampoline that lights up from the bottom and changes colors with each jump (Santa is bringing that this year.)  We're considering ice skating, but I worry that little Leo will ended up with a busted lip...or worse.  What else can we do to keep these kids busy?  The truth is, I kind of enjoy the excuse to make fun plans in the winter.  Our summer are packed with so much activity, that come time for cold weather, it's no wonder the boys feel couped up.  (Also, while we're out galavanting the city, I always have the excuse of taking care of the baby to excuse myself from any activity I'm not too into...i.e., swimming.  Not a chance in a very cold hell that I am putting on a bathing suit 10 weeks after our third child.  No.) 

WIth Christmas not even two weeks away, I really need to focus on getting this shopping done.  (Thank goodness for free shipping.)  However, it's hard to stay focused with two tiny monkeys crawling up the walls and hanging from the rafters. 


Post-Script:  On an unrelated note, I was greeted this morning by the sound of miniature giggles.  Patrick had Hatch on a roll, giant smiles and tiny giggles.  By the expression on the face of our little boys, it looks as though they have a mutual admiration for each other.  God willing, this could be great.

(Pinterest is sucking away my day today.)  As this is one of my favorite poems, one that was written on the wall in our kitchen for a large part of the summer, I had to move it to here...because it's pretty to look at and pretty to read. 

Breastfeeding and Preschoolers (Not Breastfeeding Preschoolers)

I wish that I had written that post below.  (Instead, I found it posted on Facebook.)  As I am mildly obsessed with breastfeeding as of recently, I had to resist the urge to cheer after I read it for the first time.  After Patrick was born, I would have been mortified to have been breastfeeding in public.  I did it very, very infrequently, and only extremely well-hidden.  Even sitting at home with family, I would often excuse myself to the next room to get the job done.  Anymore, I really couldn't care less who is offended by it.  And, as calloused as it sounds, I also can't be bothered by worrying if it makes anyone uncomfortable (though, realistically, I can understand why it would.)  It boils down to this: when the baby is hungry, it needs to eat.  I'm not embarassed that I'm responsible for feeding him.  If anyone catches a peek, so be it.  I'm still not embarassed.  I have a job to do.  I do it.  There is something about the ability to feed and comfort a baby in a way that no one else can that is primitively satisfying.  Also, the calming effect of the hormones released while nursing a baby help to counteract the stress of having three very little and very crazy kids.  Everyone wins.  So there.

On to the other point of this post: Patrick.  My oldest, about whom I learned something yesterday.  Rather, I learned something about ourselves (meaning Adam and me as parents.)  I was talking to a woman at work, who was telling me stories about her kids, now grown.  As she discussed her oldest, she said, "...and we were so hard on her.  It always goes that way with the oldest.  We didn't know.  Someone had to be first, right?"  In my head I thought, We never did that.  We would never...wait, what?  Oh no.  We did.  We do.  Oh God.

Oh, Patrick.  He is such a great kid.  So smart and funny.  Such a good heart.  He has his flaws, though, and we are...so hard on him.  All the way home from work, I couldn't stop thinking about him.  I was thinking about the times I snapped at him because I had had a bad day.  The times I got so frustrated with him for melting down, expecting more of him and forgetting that he's so young.  He's only three.  My guilt was at an all-time high. 

As I got home, I was thrilled that he was still awake.  I got him out of bed and we read a book.  For a little while, it was just the two of us, and as we hung out, we got to talking.  My heart warmed over.  Hard on him or not, we have a pretty good (and clever) little boy.  So, Patrick, if you're reading this when you get a little older, I'm so sorry.  But, really, I think you're going to turn out ok. 

Here is proof:

Patrick started to tell me about school.  He discussed his teacher, who he referred to by her first name..  I corrected him, and said that he was to call her Mrs. Conner. 

Patrick: But all of my friends call her *****.
Mom: That's fine.  But if all of your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?
Patrick:  They did?! Maybe.  Which bridge is it?
Mom: You are extremely smart, Patrick.
Patrick: Well, you're extremely beautiful, Mom.

Either you'll turn out well because of us or in spite of us, but I have a feeling you are going to grow up to be great, kiddo.  Still, I'm so sorry, Patrick.  I'm working on it. Promise.

I Wish I Could Take Credit for This.

The Analytical Armadillo posted this last year… source unknown…

I’m thankful for not having boobs thrown in my face all the time by offensive and indecent breastfeeding mothers like the ones below:

Wait…Well, this is a bad example. Let’s try again.

Hmm…Just a minute. I’m sure I can find better ones than these…

Eh, still not offensive enough. I’ll check one more time.

That is better. LOOK AT THAT! I see about a half inch of boob. DISGUSTING.

UGH. Look at that indecency! She must be from some third world country to be exposed like that!

Now that’s just…There are no words to descripe how inappropriate that is. Something needs to be done!

But why stop at breasfeeding women? There are boobs everywhere.Beware! If you thought the above photos were offensive, youWILL DEFINITELY be offended by the photos below.

Not this one, though. This one was in plain view on news stands and in mail boxes in 19 countries world wide!

Not this one, either. This one actually won an award!

Oh, and I guess this one is fine too. Everyone knows you can’t sell jeans without someone being topless.

Or beer, for that matter.

Or sunglasses.

Or movie tickets.

Or CDs…

You know what? Maybe I’m crazy, but I think that someone mixed up some photos here. The first batch are offensive, but the second batch are just fine and dandy???

People who live in glass bras:

Shouldn’t throw stones:

 

Hello Again.

I cannot even bring myself to look back to the date on my last posting, but I know it has been entirely too long.  As usual, I often think of things about which to blog, but have obviously not gotten around to it.  Who would have thought that full-time work and three little ones, three and under, would make me an absolutely exhausted and very busy person?  No, really.  I honestly didn't see that coming.  Clueless, this one.

Where do I start?  First, life is great.  I can't complain at all.  Little Hatch, our tiny and sweet baby, is exactly that.  He's a little angel.  He's so loving and smiley and makes all of us, even crazy Leo, so happy when he is in the room.  A few weeks ago, as I was pretending to still be asleep, I heard Patrick sneak into our room and lean over Hatch.  In a whisper, he said, "You are perfect, William.  You are exactly the baby I wanted."  Which, truthfully, is exactly how I feel, too.  The boys are adjusting nicely.  I don't feel like we live in chaos, but I still wonder if maybe it's because chaos is what I am used to.  Usually, things are pretty calm around here.  Naps are great.  As I type this, all three boys are sleeping (the smallest is on my lap) and I hear nothing but the hum of the washing machine...and The Real Housewives of Atlanta in the background (old habits die hard.)

I admit that I should not have gone back to work when I did.  I made a mistake.  While I'm into the swing of it now, the first few weeks were pretty hard on me.  I shed a lot of tears.  Usually on the way home, in would set the horrible feelings of guilt.  I hate leaving the kids.  I realize that it's probably healthy, but I honestly should have waited.  I don't want to feel like a bum mother, or a bad one, or an indaquate one, but I did.  I'm starting to build the "new" mom, though...the one who gets out, buys new clothes for herself, has friends, an actual haircut, and a life outside these boys (although, to be honest, I'd be as happy as a pig in mud if I could go back to hanging out in my jammies every day with my favorite little people.)  I'll be happy when I can be the new mom half of the time and the old mom the other half, which is like finding my Holy Grail. 

Along those lines, I did end up bumping my FTE to a 0.8, meaning that I will work 32 hours per week, or two 12-hour shifts and one 8-hour shift a week.  Three days, but I can manage that.  I really went back and forth with the full-time dilemma, but Adam and I decided that this would be good for us.  Working nights, that means we'll still need a little help with the kids from time to time, but it also means that I'll get to be home with them more often than I am not.  And that makes me happy. 

As we get into the Christmas season, it is so nice to have a paycheck again.  Although we are so far from being of the wealthy kind, it's just nice to Christmas shop and not have a small internal panic attack about how we're actually going to stretch what we need to stretch to get by.  It's nice to have a cushion. It's nice to relax a little.  I needed to relax a little.

Thanksgiving brought us many, many things for which to be thankful.  One: our kids.  Two: our marriage.  In whole: our life. Our anniversary is always within days of Thanksgiving, which means we can always be reminded of how blessed we are come that time of year.  Only this year was different.  Thanksgiving was the day before our fifth anniversary, and we were fighting...hard.  In fact, perhaps it was one of the worst fights in the last five years.  It started out as nothing.  I didn't know that anything was wrong.  We were both a little stressed, but that was about it.  Wednesday night, I had to run to the store for an hour.  Adam called to drop a major bomb on me (Seriously. Called me. On the phone. And dropped a bomb.)  I laughed it off, but came home to Adam in a funk.  As it carried over into the next day, I was immediately upset, too.  In between Thanksgiving dinners, our coinciding attitudes erupted into an all-out fifteen-minute battle.  I was furious.  Adam was, too, but he's the shut-down type and wouldn't show a thing.  We ended up at my parents', where we successfully separated; me with the girls and little kids, Adam with the boys and older kids.  We cooled down a little, enough that we were especially chilly to each other. 

Fast forward to Thanksgiving dinner.  We each had to take turns saying what we were thankful for before eating.  I was staring at the ground when it was Adam's turn, annoyed with him already.  Then it came, in front of my entire family: "This year, I am most thankful for my marriage.  Even though I've been a complete jerk today, I love you, Catie, and I'm sorry."  Damn him for being so sweet.  And for being so humble in front of my family.  Immediately, someone hit the reset button for us.  We needed that fight.  We needed to get things out, and as soon as it was all out on the table and one of us was big enough to apologize (not me), we were good again.  Our anniversary dinner was lovely.  Our day together was lovely.  Our verbal exchanges were lovely.  We were overly affectional and life was good again.  This year, I was most thankful for our really bad days that result in really good things. 

So, as we move into the holidays, the tree is up, Otto (our elf) is out and watching, we have presents under the tree and Amazon perpetually pulled up on the computer.  Last year at this time, we focused on how different things would be this year.  And little did we know what that meant.  Even though I have probably said every week for the past year, "Starting next week, I won't be so busy," I'm still waiting for that time to come.  I do promise to try to keep up with this blog.  Though there is so much that I have forgotten, at least this post is a start.  Happy Seasons to all of you!  May this holiday bring lots of warmth, love, and family for every one of us.  And I mean that.