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." 

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.