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.