how to disappear completely

Dear Dad:

Eleven years.

I remember waking up on the day of your destined departure and thinking, ‘my dad is going to die today.’ It’s one of those things in life that is deemed so inconceivable, its consequences are only received in its arduous aftermath. Its unwavering persistence never falters, and its impact brands the rest of our existence with habitual heartbreak.

The days preceding your anniversary and my self-proclaimed ‘Annual Day of Dread,’ are nothing more than an unwanted invitation to resurrect repressed resentment. You were around for the good, but I surely never imagined you’d be absent from the best. I know you’d do anything to disencumber my mind from its boundless bereavement. Instead, I resort to finding solace in your relentless efforts in making yourself known during my darkest and most challenging of times. After all, sequences of intuitive innuendos have displeasingly become our new black.

In lieu of countless internal dialogues justifying the need to visit your grave, I have yet to muster the courage to do so. Guilt, obligation and desire all take a backseat to the mere fact that I can’t come face-to-face with your headstone for reasons stemming from nothing short of the fact that you just don’t belong there. It has taken me a long time to remotely come close to terms with your absence, I need not be reminded of the true permanence of your demise.

Death is a such a mind-fucking conundrum, and grief is its unsolicited ally. Despite being an inevitable outcome, it is the only standing certainty of our existence that elicits permanence in its truest form. I mourn your loss every single day of my life, and I selfishly miss your physical presence. Today, I grieve a life without you in it.

I’ll see you in my dreams,

jax

stop! in the name of love

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." 

ten years gone

Dear Dad:

On this day, an incomprehensible decade ago, the finality of your fate feverishly launched my heart and soul into a fictitious, unidentifiable realm that is host to the unfathomable. A place that is riddled with grief and plagued by permanence. A place littered with forcible acceptance and daunted with unattainable peace of mind. A place that has been harboring a menagerie of back-burner feelings that have ultimately festered my life into an everlasting existence of magnificent sadness.

As I reflect on our last, and final, conversation, I can’t help but wonder what it was like, for you, the lead in my life’s biggest tragedy, to be dying right before your daughter’s eyes. You were a 58-year-old terminally ill man, lying on your deathbed. The strongest man I knew was skin and bones, weak, and feeble. So sick, so tired, so vulnerable. Your illness was ready to claim you, forcing you to surrender and forcing me to prepare myself for the impending realities of your afterlife. 

The aftershocks of grief are what make death so challenging. They are fragments of memories, flickers of what was, and glimpses of what could have been. They often hit unheralded, unexpected and unbridled. They gain momentum like a tsunami, and there’s no way of knowing when they will dissipate. They do not announce themselves, nor can you prepare for their unpredictable repercussions. 

I don’t ever think I’ll ever accept your absence from my life, and I have your stubbornness to thank for that. Your physical presence has been replaced by reoccurring numeric sequences, lyrics of a song, the smell of cigars, the sight of Lake St. Clair, and the sporadic visual encounter with a cardinal. You are everywhere, yet you are nowhere to be found.

I’ll see you in my dreams,

jax

eight miles high

Dear Dad:

It has been said that 'time heals all wounds.' I say that the person who conjured up this notion is a fucking idiot. Time has, in fact, proven to be quite the opposite and has been a sorry excuse for the inexplicable grief that has plagued my soul as a result your unfortunate departure.

Despite my best efforts in fallaciously fooling myself into accepting the fact that you are in a "better place," there are days that I am nothing but numb to the fact that you've been absent from the longest eight years of my life. The mere mental mien of your face leaves my mind in a motionless state of melancholy musings.

It wasn't until a few years after your cancer diagnosis when you verbally declared to me that you "weren't going to live to be an old man" that I realized you were coming to terms with your untimely forthcomings. It was an excruciating realization that we were both trying to wrap our heads around, but even then, it was nothing I could have ever prepared myself for. My immediate response to you was, "You are an old man," but as I look back now, you were anything but.

I think of you everyday and often wonder how different my life would be if you were still in it. Would you still have your boat? Would we still frequent Mr. Paul's? and quite possibly, my most burning question of all, what kind of grandpa would you have been? It takes my breath away just thinking about it, and it's something I will struggle with for the rest of my existence.

We are conditioned to comprehend that death is an inevitable part of life, yet its finality is truly unfathomable. Grief burns infinitely deep and it leaves a perplexing void that knows no boundaries. It's what makes or breaks us, and it's the only repercussion in life that reaps such permanence.

Today, I celebrate your life and the 26 years of memories you left me with. I may never comprehend all the fragmented "whys" that fester in my brain, but there is one thing I know for sure: I will forever be grateful for the day you were there to see me enter your world, and I am equally as grateful for the day I was there to see you exit mine.

I'll see you in my dreams,

jax

bittersweet symphony

Mr. Bean/Princess Pea/Charlie Girl:

The weeks leading up to today, your first birthday, I had delusional visions  of penning the perfect praise of the initial 365 days of your lives. It wasn't until I sat down to do so that I realized I struggle to conceptualize the appropriate thoughts, words and feelings that are free-flowing through my brain yet seem damn near impossible to transmit to print. I assure you it isn't for lack of content, but rather, for once in my life, I am at a loss for words.

As I reflect on our unequivocal union, there aren't vocable expressions deemed appropriate to describe the changes, challenges and chaos that has ensued as a result of your birth and homecoming. On the flip side, I am overwhelmed with feelings of joy and happiness upon seeing your faces light up when I enter the room. The sounds you emit when I exit are nowhere near as joyous, however, they're always taken with a grain of salt. After all, you are babies.

I'm sure this goes without saying but this last year has, undoubtedly, been the most bittersweet twelve-month period of my life. Sacrificing a career that I loved to become a stay-at-home mom was never a conceivable notion in my life plan, however, the sense of pride and accomplishment that I now endure on a daily basis is immeasurable. Having four children in two-and-half years is not for the faint-hearted, and caring for you all has been no easy feat. My once short-term daily goals of making it through each 24 hours have now turned into an award-worthy, year-long achievement. 

To make up for the fact that I wasn't able to hold you on the day you were born, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to do so today. Happy First Birthday, my sweet litter. You'll forever be my bittersweet symphony. 

All my love, 

Mumma

so fresh, so clean

As if I didn't already have enough on my plate as a stay-at-home mom to 10-month-old triplets and a toddler, I've recently decided to become a sales consultant for Norwex. Now, before all of you pyramid scheme conspiracists start going off the handle, just hear me out.

For starters, I know exactly what you all are thinking; "Great, another direct sales asshole is going to try to sell me stuff while clogging up my Facebook newsfeed." Well, I'm not gonna lie, part of that statement is true. 

With all the marketable natural living-promising products out there today, there's no doubt that we, as consumers, are transforming into a more health-conscious society. We opt for food-fearing fads (GMO-free/gluten-free/organic) in an attempt to preserve our bodies and ward off chronic illnesses, diffuse oils in our homes to holistically encourage health and wellness yet we continue to neglect one very big household and environmental issue: the chemicals in our cleaning products. 

Aside from the potent, nasal-burning fumes of your average household cleaning products, some ingredients have been linked to everything from skin and respiratory irritation to chemical burns and chronic, long-term effects, such as cancer. If you're sitting there thinking, "Oh, I use the 'natural' brands," I have news for you; they're not as safe as you think they are. While there are several popular brands out there that deem their products as such, they still contain chemicals that have negative impacts on our health. I know they smell good with their fruit-infused extracts and all, but they still contain harmful additives and preservatives. As a former natural-cleaning-product-cleaner-turned-Norwex user, I have also found them to be lacking in performance, from a cleaning standpoint. 

Now, you don't have to be a wizard to realize that my days are pretty hectic. With four under four, a dog and a husband ruling my roost, you're probably thinking, "How the hell does this broad ever find the time to clean anyway?" Well, to be brutally honest, I love to clean; however, nowadays I don't have the time nor energy to clean as I once did before I birthed a litter of babies. That's where Norwex comes in. 

So, what exactly is Norwex, you ask? It's a line of reusable, self-cleaning, microfiber-based cloths designed to save you time and money, remove up to 99% of surface bacteria all while drastically reducing the use of chemicals within your home. The only thing you need to pair with Norwex to clean, polish or dust, is water. 

If you're feeling skeptical, I don't blame you. To be honest, I was, too, before I bucked up and gave them a whirl. Not only do they clean surfaces above-and-beyond anything I have ever used, my mind is at ease knowing I am no longer subjecting myself or my family to potentially fatal chemicals. 

I didn't decide to join Norwex for the free trips and fancy cars, but rather to help educate people of the toxic chemicals we subject ourselves to all for the sake of a clean house. I am very excited and feel incredibly grateful that I have been awarded the opportunity to help others make more informed decisions when it comes to preserving the health of themselves and their families starting within the walls of their homes. 

www.norwex.com

www.jaclynhiller.norwex.biz

say it ain't so

Often times, frustration gets the best of me. While I am completely aware of the fact that the babies don't have the mental capacity to make sense of anything I say, it doesn't stop me from spewing the verbal discourse they are subjected to on the regular. 

Truth be told, my mouth is incapable of holding back the impromptu, swear-infested thoughts that are conjured up in my head. My filter-free mindset often makes for some spontaneous, one-sided dialogue when I find myself alone with the litter.

Here are a few of the most commonly used phrases that are expelled from my lips on a day-to-day basis: 

"I'm putting you up for adoption"

This threat is generally only muttered to the boy of the bunch, Ryan aka Mr. Bean. For starters, he's obscenely cute and he knows it. He's a total mama's boy, and he has a hard time functioning in this world without me. I lose 99% of our stare downs and his days are often centered around the fact that I am a sucker for toothless smiles, chubby cheeks and bountiful belly laughs. As annoying and back-breaking as his neediness can be at times, I will always surrender to the fact that he is the last little boy I will ever be able to swoon over. 

"Can you give me a fucking minute?"

If you don't dispense your human waste into a diaper around here, your basic everyday needs (i.e. bathing, eating, involuntary bodily functions) are often overlooked and mocked by three antagonizing grins. They are completely oblivious to the fact that I am one person and that there are three of them. If I pick one up, the other two seize, buck and cry with envy. The general rule of thumb around here is: if they can see me, they all want me. As adoring as it is to be loved and needed as such, sometimes it leaves me hankering for the ability to click my heels and Wizard of Oz the hell outta here.

"You all are gonna drive me to drink"

If you're thinking "alcohol isn't the answer," maybe you need to start drinking more. In all honesty, I don't drink nearly as much as you'd think. My bed seems to always win the "sheets vs. sauce" internal struggle as shut-eye is *generally* far more valuable to me than vodka. 

"Is this a joke?"

Most commonly used after someone: 1. saturates their outfit with barf and/or shit. We do, on average, 3-4 costume changes a day around here. 2. someone blows out their diaper right after they've been changed; or 3. when someone wakes after a half-hour nap. 

"I'm going to eat your face"

If any of my children ever end up with bruises on their faces, it could only be from one thing: me kissing them. Chunky cheeks never go unnoticed around here and they seem to always get caught in my smooch-infested crossfire. 

"Get your goddamned hands out of your mouth"

If the smell of spit-up was deemed as an attractive, desirable odor, I'd be the most sought out woman on the planet. It's bad enough I look like a disheveled, unkempt garbage man everyday without the smell of spoiled milk taking over my dysfunctional dress code. The less-than-fragrant aroma is ingrained in my nasal passages (and clothes) and I have their tiny little fingers and hypersensitive gag reflexes to thank for that. With that being said, laundry has undoubtedly become my number one extracurricular activity. 

"This is coming out of your allowance"

Nothing is more frustrating than making three eight ounce bottles of formula only for all of them to decide that they don't have the attention span to sit through a feeding. They buck, roll, or will just downright refuse to finish a bottle. Ounce-for-ounce, formula has a monetary equivalent to the value of sleep around here. 

"Why are you so cute/pretty?"

Most days, I feel like I accomplish more before 9am than the average person completes in an entire day. The remainder of my waking hours generally follow suit. Even so, I do my best to spend some one-on-one time with each of the babies. In the moments I do find myself alone with each of the trifecta, time slows down, attention is undivided and for the time being, we usually just stare at each other. Even though these moments aren't as abundant as I would like them to be, they are cherished in a regard that far exceeds a life that reflects a more simplistic means that resides far beyond our comprehension. 

As the babies' tenth month has lapsed, I am reminded that the temporary situations in life are often the ones that seem to be the most demanding and mentally draining. They cue reactionary moments of haste that can often be misconstrued for permanent positions of powerlessness. There is no recourse for their presence, but rather we have a choice to let them make or break us.