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. 

what is and what should never be

Generally speaking, I find myself wedged between a plethora of paralyzing parental predicaments and a ruthless reality of redundant riddle. I daydream of simplicity yet I'm consistently plagued by the relentless demands of my tumultuous trinity. My life mimics an inconceivable chaos that is antagonized by my desire to return to a comprehensible version of my current self-sacrificing shenanigans. 

With the exception of the death of my father, these babies, by far, have been the most life-altering, sleep-depriving, sanity-draining, anxiety-filled mind fuck of my life. There isn't enough Xanax or vodka in the world to jolt me back into the time where I felt content and at ease with my ability to parent. They have strained relationships, precipitated panic attacks, and have gifted me the ability to survive on less sleep than I did in college. Despite becoming more and more independent as each month passes, my situation has gotten anything but easier. 

In all honesty, I'd be lying if I said I didn't sometimes fantasize about what life would be like had we only had one more child. In the same breath, I can't even fathom my life without the other two-thirds of our pig paradise. Between Charlotte's asylum-worthy smiling, Vivian's bashful banter and laughter and Ryan's incessant desire to be near me, I'd probably have to die myself before I could ever live without any one of them. Moreover, I anxiously await to see the dynamic of their relationship unfold. They share a beautiful, rare bond that will forever distinguish them from your average siblings. Their connection is magical and their fascination with each other knows no bounds. 

In addition to, they truly are three of the happiest, sweetest babies I have ever encountered, yet the biggest obstacle lies within just that: there are three of them. We are outnumbered and despite numerous projected attempts to see the light at the end of the tunnel, I have a hard time seeing so much as a spark. Throw a regressing three-year-old into the mix and I can't help but feel like I should be juggling a goddamned ball on the end of my nose most days. 

At times, it's hard to seek out all of the good in any given circumstance when you continually find yourself fumbling backwards for every one step forward. More often than not, situations arise that are anything but easy to make sense of. They can be dissected, analyzed and questioned time and time again yet their purpose may never be forthcoming. They test our boundaries, preserve our patience and blur our perception between reality and what we once thought would never be. 

gin n juice

It's safe to say that I cherish and covet my weekly bar excursions. Despite my less-than-frequent states of reoccurring slumber, I somehow manage to buck up, make myself somewhat presentable and set out for an evening of mindless malarkey. It's a time for me to zone out, people watch and dick around on my phone with zero interruption where the only question I have to worry about answering is "are you ready for another?"

More often than not, I frequent a bar that is all of eight blocks from my house. There's nothing special about it other than the fact that I can walk there and it's the only local bar I can tolerate going to on a weekly basis. It's a pretty low-key place during the week, it has an outwardly douchebag-free clientele and most importantly, it serves Tito's vodka. It's my version of a Friday or Saturday night without having to feel like a pork chop in a piranha tank just for being a seemingly single, thirty-something, ringless woman sitting at a bar by herself. 

Even though I am accompanied by a friend on the majority of my nights out, in the event that I do find myself by my lonesome, I've come to appreciate a whole new level of alone time that I once so adamantly avoided. Before I had kids, I would have never, ever entertained the idea of going to a bar alone. The concept seemed foreign, awkward and appeared to be something only middle-aged divorcees did. One three-year-old and a litter later and I've come to the realization that I have a lot more in common with these fellow solo sippers than I thought. 

From what I have gathered, most of the early bird boozers I have encountered are having after work cocktails. When I think of it in those terms, I suppose I'm no different. After putting in a 12+ hour day at the juvenile jail, I temporarily punch out to do a little off-site drinking. Since all four of my bosses can't wipe their own assess and I don't have the option to report to work late and/or call in, time and alcohol consumption are always of the essence. Even so, I'm off the clock and for the time being, beer and Belvedere are on my mind, not babies and Butt Paste.

Whether you seek alone time at a movie theater, library, coffee shop or bar, the daily demands of life often push us to solicit temporary states of solitude. They are brief bursts of mental clarity that become the most vivid in times of overwhelming oblivion. 

mama kin

In the times I find myself on the verge of snapping, I ultimately have limited resources to vent to. While I am incredibly lucky to have an amazing support system of friends and family, I generally choose not to bombard them with my frustrations as it is hard for them to relate to my situation. In all honesty, the only people who can even wrap their heads around my day-to-day life are those who are riding the triplet wave with me. 

Halfway through my pregnancy, I was fortunate enough to be connected to a triplet mom group via Facebook. It's a group of women from all over the world who have had or who are expecting their babies in 2015. We come from all different backgrounds and walks of life but we all have one thing in common: our lives are ruled (or will be ruled) by a toothless trifecta.

Despite the fact that I have never even met any of these women, we have developed an instantaneous, unbreakable, triplet-fueled bond. We laugh and we swear and we talk about everything from pregnancy and postpartum pooping to pumping and playtime. We share our frustrations and our hardships, our excitement and our gratitude and when the unthinkable tragedy of loss strikes, we are there to lift, love and support those in need. 

We share our unfortunate encounters with the ignorant and offer encouragement to those who are approaching the tail-end of their pregnancy. We have more-than-frequent urges to tell our babies to go the fuck to sleep, little time to eat and even less time to shit, shower and shave. We never take advantage of collaborative naptime and we have zero shame in admitting that we often bathe our babies all of once a week. But even in the midst of our most maddening hours, we undoubtedly would agree that we wouldn't change a thing for the world.

While I have often been referred to as 'Super Mom' for my role as the matriarch of four under four, I can't help but cast these moms with the same title for reasons that far exceed my own set of circumstances. Some are single moms and some have husbands who have been deployed overseas. Some have zero help and some had two, three and even four children prior to having their trios. Some have struggled with years of infertility and some were forced to deliver at 24 weeks. Some have spent months upon months in the NICU while others have have been placed on mandatory hospital bed rest for an undetermined period of time. Even though the conditions of our triplet journeys differ from one family to the next, we never pass judgement as we are all very well-aware of the fact that a triplet pregnant and three fuckin' babies is a lot of fuckin' work.

Not only am I am I incredibly fortunate to be a triplet mom but I am equally as fortunate for the people that have been brought into my life as a result. At the end of the day, we're all just doing our best to keep up with the three-of-a-kind hand we've been dealt, and somehow, I've managed to strike the triplet mom jackpot along the way. 

dog days are over

As the babies approach their six month of life, they are beginning to rapidly outgrow that fragile, helpless, all-I-do-is-eat-and-shit state that infants are notorious for. Personalities are beaming, curiosities are blooming and my once three and four pound preemies are feeling more and more like sandbags these days. Despite their preterm-induced developmental delays, they are finally starting to exhibit the behavioral characteristics of the average infant. 

Even though they are still pint-sized versions of their five-and-a-half-month-old counterparts, the litter has come a long way since our NICU days. While it often seems like it has taken them forever to reach such seemingly simple milestones, for these premature little pigs, they've been up against a six-week delay. Even so, they're rapidly progressing and have finally outgrown a time that I have found to be one of the most challenging (and boring) phases of parenthood.

As much as I love the sweetness of a newborn baby, there is only so much time that can be spent staring and gushing over a sleeping infant (or three). I've always found that one of the most frustrating things about being a parent is the lack of reciprocity that an newborn has to offer. You spend countless hours feeding, changing, holding, and consoling them in exchange for witching hours, sleepless nights and projectile vomit. They are little blobs of Heaven that leave you feeling emotionally, physically and mentally drained, but in reality, they really aren't able to offer much in return. Despite our extended stay in the newborn phase, they've begun to take full flight into the curious and active world of an infant.

Over the last few months, we've bid farewell to the redundant days of eating and sleeping and have welcomed longer periods of awake/play time. They're eating nearly quadruple of what they were when we brought them home (80oz a day. Yikes!), and they laugh and smile like little mental patients. They are diligently attempting to roll over, and they're practicing sitting up with assistance. They babble and yell and continue to be fascinated with their hands and feet. They affix their eyes on just about anything that crosses their visual path, and we can finally carry them around without the fear of their heads falling off. They are slowly but surely turning into the three little independent people that I so anxiously have been waiting for.

As a mom of four, I've come to embrace and value the lessons of the past, the routine of the present, and the unknowns of the future. I've been rewarded a responsibility that was delivered in a not-so-conventional manner, but even so, I've resisted the urge to hold up the local liquor store. As luck would have it, we have a 24 hour baby bar equipped with unlimited toothless smiles and bottomless belly laughs. I'll always cheers to that. 

where is my mind?

This weekend, I found myself in an annoying life-induced, can't-snap-outta-it funk. Ya know, those days where you hate everyone, nothing makes you happy and a one-way ticket to the other side of the world is more tempting than a pint of Ben & Jerry's after a long night of binge drinking. Although rare, they do happen despite my best efforts in masking my mind from these kidless, child-wearing free delusions.

As much as I would like to blame our coughing, snot-infested, sleep-deprived trio for my latest Debbie Downer doldrums, their temporary ails are just the icing on the cake. Truth be told, I'm envious of the pick-up-and-go mentality that once ruled our roost.

While I strive for normalcy in my everyday life, I've come to realize my day-to-day living is anything but. The fact is, three infants and a toddler  singles me out from the everyday normalities that most stay-at-home moms encounter. Lunch outings, play dates and trips to the grocery store with everyone requires far more time and energy than is even worth completing such seemingly easy tasks. While I am more than capable of dragging Jake and the litter out with me, I'd likely end up at the bar before reaching any said destinations.

On the majority of my days, my normal is not leaving the house for several days at a time. My normal is event-free weekends. My normal is having zero time to spend with my husband because we are forced to put the needs of our four children before our own. My normal is scarfing down a makeshift dinner before the babies' final feeding of the day. My normal is me hoping and praying for a communal nap that allows me enough time to to drink my coffee before it turns cold. In addition, my normal reveals a home-bound life that requires me to make arrangements for my kids for every waking moment that is spent away from my house. 

As the babies approach their sixth month of life, old challenges have been replaced with new ones and the everyday minutiae that consumes my days are starting to become more and more blurred. Even though my days and weeks pass by in warp-speed, it feels like an eternity before I will ever be able rejoin standard society again. There are times I crave my former spontaneity so fiercely, I can't help but lose sight of the fact that I'm distracted by a world of realities that no longer exist.

Throughout my triplet fiasco, I've learned that some of my biggest sanity-saving graces are those that launch me into my future with the eye-opening realization of the inability to turn back time. I am reminded that time is our biggest enemy and that the present is our strongest ally. Sometimes in life, we need a good funk to find ourselves in the chaos.

mr. brown

With all the recent triplet and toddler talk that has infiltrated my blog as of late, I've somehow managed to overshadow a pretty important component of our family. He's brown, he's five, and his name is George. 

Briefly after JR and I were married, we began to entertain the idea of adopting a puppy. We were apprehensive, at first, primarily because the condo that we were renting at the time wasn't very conducive to having a dog; it was on the smaller side and there was no fenced-in yard. Even so, I found no harm in scouring the Internet for our hypothetical puppy-to-be.

If you've ever ventured into cyberspace with the sole intention of only "looking" to adopt a puppy, you know it's a similar experience as if to say you're going to the bar to have only "one" drink. Puppy faces, much like alcohol, are intended to suck you in with a zero percent chance of turning back. The second I laid eyes on George (whom was named Trout at the time), I made it my life's mission to make him ours.

As we officially began our canine conquest, I was clueless as to what this entire operation would entail. It wasn't just about finding a cute dog online and bringing it home, but rather, it was an extensive screening process that had the best interest of the animal in mind. Paperwork, a brief interview and a home visit were among the unexpected requirements of the adoption process. 

Upon inquiring about G's availability, I quickly learned that this particular organization, Home Fur-Ever, was a non-profit, no-kill, foster-based rescue based out of Detroit. We soon made arrangements with his foster mom to drive out to an upcoming pet expo to meet the anticipated third member of our family.

When we arrived at the pet store, there were dogs as far as the eye could see. Some young, some old and some who were desperately seeking the opportunity to be loved. The sadness and hope in their eyes made me wish I could have rescued them all. I couldn't help but flashback to the Sally Struthers' Christian Children's Fund infomercials from the 90's that guilted you into thinking that your soul was going straight to Hell if you didn't pick up the phone right then and there to make a donation to sponsor a child. I was plagued by feelings of guilt and sadness, but nonetheless, we were there for one brown boy and one brown boy only.

After a long and and seemingly lengthy process, I received a phone call from G's foster mom who formally extended the opportunity for us to become his adoptive parents. We graciously obliged and immediately began to equip our condo for the arrival of our new fur baby.

The days following G's arrival, we slowly began to acclimate to his presence while he quickly launched us into an uncharted territory of steady responsibility. Potty-training, obedience and middle of the night disruptions were to name a few. It was the closest we'd ever come to experiencing what life would be like with an actual baby, and it's something I've always believed all couples should experience before reproducing one day. I truly believe those long puppy nights helped us prepare for what would later become the real thing.

Here we are five years down the road and George's homecoming still remains one of the happiest moments of my life.  He's as kind and gentle today as he was the day we brought him home. He's not only our dog, but rather, our friend and companion who has demonstrated nothing but unconditional love in its purest form. He's our protector, our alerter, and his Cujo-like tendencies when strangers approach the house make us feel nothing short of safe and secure. 

Although he is no longer the solo center of our universe, he continues to play an active role in our family. He may not be our biological child but his cold snout and Frito-smelling feet are all I need to call him my own. 

how many more times

Becoming a triplet mom instantly launched me into a spotlight filled with curiosity, speculation and an excessive amount of intrusive questions and unsolicited comments. It started when I was pregnant and continues to be a hot topic of interest amongst strangers. While I completely understand the draw to our family's dynamic, I'll never get used to the accosting that occurs when we are in public.

Here is a glimpse into the good, the bad, and the stupid of the triplet parenting world.

"Were they natural?" - This is generally the number one question I get asked. While it is a touchy subject for some, I have no problem divulging this information nor do I feel it is invasive. 

As someone who has suffered from endometriosis for more than half their life, reproductive challenges were pretty much inevitable. When we were trying to conceive the first time around, we were told IUI would be in our best interest due to my condition. As luck would have it, I found out I was pregnant just two days before we were to begin the insemination process. Even though our infertility journey concluded before it ever began, I caught a glimpse of what it's like to put your reproductive fate into the hands of modern medicine. It's frustrating, it's stressful, and the worst part is, there is no guaranteed outcome. 

When we found out we were expecting triplets, we were dumbfounded and in disbelief that this could have even happened without infertility. This seems to be the common consensus amongst the general public so when people ask "were they natural?," I honestly think it's just a reflex of curiosity rather than an invasion of privacy. However, since it's generally not socially acceptable to ask someone the sex position in which their child was conceived, this question should really be kept at bay. 

While triplets are shocking, in every capacity, when they happen out-of-the-blue without medical intervention, it generally ups the shock factor a smidgen. It sure as hell did for me. Even so, our babies are no more "natural" than those who were conceived with help. Modern medicine is a beautiful thing that should never have to take a backseat to the traditional means of conception. 

"Do triplets run in your family?" - Nope. Triplets don't 'run' in anyone's family. Next. 

"I'm sorry" - I'm sorry you feel sorry for me. Perhaps it's only because your kids are assholes.

If you find yourself experiencing pity for us, please don't. I regard our situation as one that was meant to be and a combined instance of 'God never gives you more than you can handle,' 'everything happens for a reason,' and 'whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.'

While I will never be able to verbally reiterate what life is really like with three infants and a toddler, I can tell you that the happiness and fulfillment that stems from having four healthy, happy children far exceeds the time and effort it takes in caring for them. 

"Do you have help?" - Absolutely. Several times a week, my mom and mother-in-law rotate days coming over to lend an extra arm or two. Whether it be for a feeding, to console a crying baby or to entertain Jake, their presence allows me to tend to my house, laundry, errands, and in the rare event, myself. 

"Looks like you've got your hands full" - No fucking shit. While I would never claim the hardships of my parental journey to trump those of another, I will say this: my sanity level is at an all-time low. Even so, I wouldn't trade my time with my kids for anything. They are the root of madness, happiness and at times, a very stressful marriage, but at the end of the day, sanity can be restored, time cannot. 

"This is when they are easy" - Oh, is it? Please, enlighten me. 

I'll let you in on a little secret: there is nothing easy about having triplets. While I wouldn't necessarily use the word 'hard' to describe life with the litter, I do find it incredibly frustrating and stressful that I am unable to attend to more than one baby at a time. Above all, I feel guilty as undivided attention is a thing of the past in our house. I know I am only one person, but the babies (and Jake) don't quite grasp that concept yet.

While the novelty of having triplets is long gone for us, it is something that will forever differentiate us from the average family. When you pop babies out three at a time, you have no choice but to take in words with a grain of salt and a shot of tequila.

fat bottomed girls

Needless to say, this past year has been one of the most physically, mentally and emotionally challenging years of my life. Despite conquering a triplet pregnancy, delivery/recovery, and the daily demands of four children, I am still haunted by one nagging postpartum demon: my weight. 

Now, I know I recently birthed a litter of babies. This is not some desperate attempt at a public plea for attention so people tell me how great I look for "just having triplets" because in all honestly, this is the biggest I have ever been. Despite my inconsistent efforts, the scale hasn't budged and the residual weight from two pregnancies has sent my body straight to the gutter.

For starters, my ass and thighs look like they belong in a rap video. My once perky boobs now look like sand-filled Kroger bags that not even Victoria's Secret can save. Most days I don't know if I should wear a bra or tuck my tits into my pants. Continuing further south, the sagging skin on my abdomen looks like it was clawed by a cat, but in all honestly, I don't mind my stretch marks. They tell a story that not many can tell. They are my battle wounds, and I wear them with pride. 

In lieu of several unavoidable postpartum bodily changes, the root of my problem lies within how I perceive myself. It's not so much about wanting to fit into my high school jeans again, but rather, achieving a realistic weight and level of fitness that allows me to feel comfortable in my own skin again. I'm in a physical funk that not even mono and/or a stomach parasite can snap me out of.

The sad part is, I know what I need to do and how I need to do it. However, I'm someone who needs to be held accountable in a situation as such. Asking me to turn down a slice of pizza is like asking a dog to not lick himself. I have zero self-control and even less willpower. Even so, I didn't want to resort to a fad diet that guarantees rapid weight loss in a short amount of time. I wanted to do things the good old-fashioned way: clean-eating and exercise.

I've officially retired my sweat-inducing shapewear and have committed myself to a six-week clean-eating challenge. It's horribly strict and painfully limited, but it's exactly what I need. 

Attempting weight loss is frustrating, gradual, and there is no easy way around it. Pumping may be the fucking worst, but pregnancy weight is a fucking whore. 

you are the best thing

My Sweet Jake:

Tomorrow is going to be a pretty big day for the both of us. It's a day that snuck up on me far too soon, and it's a day that you will begin a new chapter in your young little life. It's a day that the mere thought of puts a smile on my face and a lump in the back of my throat. It's a day that is inevitable for all three-year-olds and moms alike. You see, tomorrow is your first day of pre-school. 

I know it's probably a bigger deal to me than it is to you but that's only because you are my first-born. Your birth launched me into a lifetime of "firsts" that I will only ever get to experience with you. I knew this day would arrive sooner than later, but I never expected it to draw up the emotions that it has. It's not about being away from you for a few hours, but rather, setting you free into the wild for you to start experiencing life first-hand without me. 

The day you were born, I couldn't help but wonder how I ever managed to live thirty years of my life without you. At just moments old, you claimed a piece of my heart that I never knew existed. It was reserved for you and only you and it's the greatest love that I have ever known. You fulfilled a dream that only one person on this planet could ever take credit for; you made me a mom. 

One of the greatest rewards of motherhood, thus far, has been watching you grow. I can only hope that you embrace and apply all of the life lessons I have attempted to instill upon you. You may only be three but the fundamentals of life and human decency can never be introduced too soon. 

As your mom, I have to let you fall to see you pick yourself back up. I have to let you set goals for yourself so I can watch you achieve them. I have to let you fail so you know what it's like to succeed. I have to love you unconditionally so you can learn to love and learn to be loved. I have to show you compassion so you learn to be kind to others. Most importantly, I have to let go of you a little piece at a time in order to let you grow into the person YOU want to become. While I will not always be able to hold your hand, know that I will always be behind you.

In addition.....

*Aim for simplicity. Experiences will 

 be far more fulfilling to you in life 

 than material possessions.

*Always give to others even if you   

 don't have much to give.

*Laugh and laugh often.

*Never, ever take your health for 

 granted. Without it, nothing else 

 matters.

*Forgive but never forget.

*Learn to play a musical instrument.

*Don't worry about the things you 

 have no control over.

*Strive for happiness, not perfection.

*Don't ever invest more time in others 

 than they are willing to invest in you.

*Learn how to cook.

*Remember tattoos are permanent.

*Don't judge others by how they look 

 or what they do or don't have, but 

 rather, judge them based on how 

 they treat others.

*Go on adventures.

*Be kind. Nothing in life is ever worth 

 intentionally hurting somebody over.

*Don't ever take yourself too 

 seriously.

*Live in the moment.

*Know that I will never, ever judge you.

*Friends may come and go but family 

 is forever.

*Take time out for yourself.

*If you love someone, tell them, 

 no matter what. 

*Always remember that you are a product of your environment. Choose who you associate with wisely.

You have so much to learn and experience for yourself, but it's my job, as your mom, to start you off on the right track. I am so proud of who you've already become and I am even more proud of you for adapting to the recent expansion of our family. While you will never remember life before your siblings, I will always cherish our time and the undivided attention I was able to give you. You are my heart, my soul, my everything. You are my Golden Boy. 

All my love,

Mumma

before they make me run

Generally speaking, I am always holding a baby. If one is not physically in my arms, one is next to me or in one of the 89 baby contraptions that monopolize our living room. Nonetheless, the majority of the time, someone is always up and wanting to be held. Despite numerous attempts, I have better odds of returning to my pre-pregnancy body than I do getting them to all nap at the exact same time. 

In the rare event that I do have an hour to myself, it's still spent doing something house/toddler/baby-related. The closest I usually ever come to 'me time' is on Wednesdays when Jake goes to daycare. I lay all three babies down for their morning nap, make my second cup of coffee and head outside to my front porch. Before long, I hear at least one of them squealing on the monitor. After mumbling several "goddamnits" under my breath and delivering an eye roll to a non-existent recipient, I chug what's left of my coffee then reluctantly head inside. Back to babies, back to bottles, back to reality.

Even though 'me time' is short-lived around here, I can't help but take advantage of it when the opportunity arises. When bathroom breaks and trips to the gas station weren't enough anymore, I decided to join a gym. I needed a daily outlet away from my house for mental clarity, above all. I wasn't too thrilled about the idea of putting my BMI-challenged body in spandex, but it was within walking distance from my house so there was really no excuse not to. Despite being surrounded by girls that I could snap in half like a wishbone, it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. That sanity-saving hour of the day belongs to me and only me. 

The only other time as valuable as gym time is bar time. When I became a mom, I made a vow to myself to never lose my identity. While motherhood is a ridiculously huge and important part of my life, it does not define me. Truth is, I've only been a mom for a little over three years. The years leading up to that, I enjoyed going out, crushing beers and hanging out with my friends. My social life was important to me, and it still is. 

Flash forward through an engagement, marriage and four kids, and I still make it a priority to go out one night a week. It's by no means in the same capacity as I once did, but rather, it gives me the opportunity to socialize with people who have all of their teeth, most of their hair and who don't require me to wipe their ass after they use the bathroom. It's a chance for me to take a shower, put on real clothes and talk about something other than babies. Above all, it makes me feel normal. 

Finding balance in life isn't alway easy, especially when you have kids. It's something that generally doesn't come naturally, but rather, something you have to work at. I hate when I hear people say that they don't 'have time' to do something. If it were truly THAT important, you would find the time to do it. 

We're all busy. Welcome to life.