Three-and-a-half years into my triplet mom journey and I still wake up, at times, thinking, "how the hell did this happen again?" I mean, who reproduces three at a time, anyway? Don't get me wrong, I love my kids, I really do, but this is one life wrench I don't think I will ever perceive as "normal."
Despite my best efforts to make sense of the unexplained, life has carried on as such and I still find myself in the epicenter of curiosity, lodged somewhere between fascination and ignorance. I always surmised this aspect of triplet parenthood would eventually curtail, but as luck would have it, my hopes are perpetually shattered by my persnickety peers.
With that being said, here is a glimpse into the thought process of a triplet mom when bombarded with the good, the bad, and the clueless.
"You're a supermom!" As endearing as it is to be referred to as a "supermom," I assure you, nine times out of ten, I feel like anything but. For starters, my day-to-day life is inexplicably overwhelming and often quite isolating. Generally speaking, it feels like I am treading water with weights tied to my feet, and it takes everything in me to keep my head above water. My daily demands elicit a level of exhaustion I never deemed possible, and quite often, the only thing getting me through the day is knowing that the current day will eventually end. I verbally declare "tomorrow is a new day" more times a day than a priest performs the Sign of the Cross with "this too shall pass" and "pick your battles" presenting as a second and third contender.
A successful day for me in the triplet parenting world includes not killing my kids, putting on deodorant and/or brushing my teeth, and making sure there isn't a hole in the crotch of my leggings. While I desperately attempt to maintain some sort of self-care routine, I am often forced to succumb to the unavoidable physical/mental/emotional obligations I am subjected to on the regular. My needs are always placed on the backburner with the mere hope that maybe, just maybe, I will be awarded the time, privacy and energy to shower and put on a clean set of clothes that I will likely be wearing for the next three days.
"Just get a sitter." Just get a sitter? Why don't I just split the atom while I'm at it. Sadly, it's not that easy. To begin with, there aren't many occasions that I am willing to sacrifice the sleep, nor willing to endure the wretched mornings that are so commonly associated with overserved nights out. Hangovers with kids should be used as a torture tactic. By the time it's bedtime, you're on your hands and knees promising God that you will never drink again just as long as your kids go to bed without a fight. Then the morning comes and you are hangover-free, festered with guilt for lying to God the night before. So, no, chances are I am not going to risk going to Hell unless you can guarantee 6am childcare.
"They must be easier now that they're older." I don't know about you, but the first word that comes to mind when I think of a three-year-old is "asshole." Truly. Fuck the "terrible twos." It's a shame no one ever talks about the "asshole threes," because that's where the real Matzo Ball lies. The tantrums, the whining and the defiance I tolerate is enough for me to secure a permanent parking pass at the Betty Ford Center. I am truly baffled when people even mention, much less suggest, that having three kids the same age is easy. While I can honestly say that I do prefer their current age merely for the independence factor alone, I am ultimately trading one evil for another. For instance, they are all potty-trained, but on the flipside, their thriving personalities make me feel like a mental patient ready to erupt like Mt. Vesuvius.
"I'm sorry." I'm sorry you hate your kids; perhaps he should have pulled out.
Gawking and/or pointing. For the love of God, stop staring. We are not a hippo giving birth at the zoo. We are not a criminal getting arrested at the scene of a crime. We are not a streaker running across the field of a nationally televised sporting event. We are just regular moms, walkin' around, trying to do regular mom things with our overactive uteruses and 89 kids in tow.
At the end of the day, and I am assuming most triplet moms are with me on this one, all we ultimately ask is that you think before you speak. Words can be hurtful and cannot be unspoken. We're not looking for sympathy, pity and above all else, we certainly don't consider ourselves better mothers because of our fertile fate. Kindness and patience go a long way. Like the old saying goes, "if you have nothing nice to say, eat shit."
