Keeping the faith with five fiesty tykes

“How was your Palm Sunday?” asked good friends we had dinner with last night.  Truth be told, it was not so great.  Not that Palm Sunday is a historically a great day anyway, but their question was motivated, I think, by a curiosity about how we juggle five children under seven during mass -- especially mass on Palm Sunday which, by my estimation, is the longest mass ever. 

We take our children to church every Sunday.  We always have.  I was raised Catholic and even attended Catholic school for several years  (until an unfortunate incident involving a certain Sister Mary Lynch made me go public!).  I went to church every Sunday until I was 18 and then took about a decade off, spending Sunday mornings either sleeping off the effects of the night before or running a race in Central Park.  I suppose I’ve always been a gal of extremes; it was either up for a healthy morning run or down and out after a few too many the night before; up and out for mass or a decade of religious abstinence.

Then I met Des, who is now my husband.  I was stunned that a cute, fun, single guy actually went to church every Sunday.  And, since I was instantly madly in love, I started to go with him.  We got married, had children and I accepted Des’ proclamation that they “will be Catholic and Yankee fans.”  To this day, I still wonder about the equal weight of this mandate of religion and sports fanaticism, but frankly, I’ve got bigger fish to fry so, I just go along with it.

As our children arrived, we took one, then two, then five children to church every Sunday.  What a sight we were just a few years ago as we rolled in ten minutes late with five tiny tots strapped into a double and triple stroller.  Even today, we joke that the 10:30 mass is really the 10:45.  We may be late, we may be slightly more sloppy than I’d like but, we show up.  Every Sunday.  Including Palm Sunday, which, in addition to being one of the longest masses ever, is also the only day in the liturgical year that everyone is given a slight, wispy weapon upon entry to church. You guessed it:  palms!

Imagine if you will, what one seven year old, one five year old and three three-year olds can do with a fistful of palms.  If sword fights, fishing, tickling, tackling and tug-of-war come to mind, then you guessed it right. It’s hard enough for us to control our clan at church on any given Sunday but on Palm Sunday, it is downright impossible. It’s no easy task to try to listen to the gospel while intermediating the increasingly violent escapades of the palms of our pew.  It’s not easy to keep our cool in the front row (yes, we sit in the front row!) while the kids are clobbering each other, climbing over us and creating weapons from a religious symbol.  At one point yesterday, I took a palm to the eyeball and could have sworn I tore my retina.  Thankfully, I didn’t.  Although, I'm pretty sure I did swear under my breath. 

So, in considering the question "How was your Palm Sunday?" I can only recall the power struggle in our pew as the palms waved and the kids whined.  And, I think about how I prayed for peace. And patience.  This is my wish for Easter, for my family and for all of you.  Peace and patience and perhaps even a pretty palm or two to adorn our home until next Palm Sunday -- when the battle of the palms will almost surely start anew!

A new twist on forgetting Valentine's Day

I recently wrote a piece for Parents where I shared the many personas of pregnancy.  One such pal I met along the way was Felicia the Forgetful.  She arrived during my first pregnancy at the onset of the second trimester -- right about the time when I forgot to bring my lunch to work and couldn’t remember where I left the car keys.  I naturally assumed she would leave once the baby arrived and, like so many assumptions I had about “when the baby arrived”, I was wrong.

As it turns out, Felicia is here to stay and, the prognosis isn’t good.  I heard a report on the radio the other day that one of the symptoms of perimenopause is forgetfulness.  What does this mean?  I fear it means we ladies don’t stand a chance.  We get a severe case of “Mommy brain” before we even meet our babies and now it seems that a good decade before the big M (Menopause!) sets in, we officially have no chance of finding the mind we lost; it just may be gone forever.  Which brings me to an interesting little tale from this week.  It involves our dog who, under different circumstances, just might have been gone forever as well.

It was Valentine’s Day.  We’re not big believers in Valentine’s Day since my husband rightfully proclaimed many years ago, “when you love the one you’re with, every day is Valentine’s Day.”  So, we didn’t have big plans. Some might say we had no plans at all.  Des was going to take our second-grader to his 6:30 basketball game, leaving me home to tend to dinner for our other four kids.  After basketball, we hoped to hustle them all to bed as quickly as possible and then cuddle in with some wine, fondue and last week’s episode of 30 Rock.  Sounds romantic, right?

I got home from work a few minutes earlier than usual and realized I needed to get a baguette for the fondue-dipping.  Perhaps not surprisingly given my post-pregnancy, pre-menopausal brain, I’d forgotten that critical detail for our Valentine’s dinner.  Being the consummate multi-tasker, I decided to take our dog with me while I ran around the corner for bread… it wasn’t quite doggie exercise but, at least it was a chance for our large, loyal lab Finnegan to pee.

I returned home pleased with my bounty and quite content to whip up a Valentine’s meal of “Dinner Eggs” and heart-shaped toast for the kids.  When I cracked the eggs, I recall saying “have you guys seen Finnegan?  That’s weird that he didn’t come running when he heard the eggs crack.”  This is a dog that loves a good eggshell.  Don’t ask. He just does.  In any case, when he didn’t come running, I assumed “we must have left the gate closed at the top of the stairs.” And I carried on.

About 15 minutes later, my sweet Valentine’s kiddie supper had pretty much imploded.  There were fights about the not-so heart-shaped toast, spilled milk and a 5-year old having a fit.  That’s when the phone rang.  In an effort to diffuse the tension, I asked the sobbing 5-year old if she'd like to answer it. And she did.

I couldn’t help but notice the caller i.d. was “Mima” – the name of a cute little Italian restaurant right around the corner.  My heart leapt.  Could it be?  My sweet hubbie had a Valentine’s day surprise in store?  He’d booked a sitter and made a reservation and we were headed out for a late dinner after tucking the tots in?!  It seemed to good to be true.  And, as my confused 5-year murmured “What? You have Finnegan?” into the phone, I realized it was.

As you may have guessed by now, when I went around the corner for that baguette, I left the dog behind.  Tied up and totally forgotten. I never even looked back. When I snatched the phone from my bewildered little girl, the lovely hostess on the other end of the line said “I’m really sorry to bother you but he’s been here over an hour and he’s really starting to look sad.”  Um, oops.  Chalk that one up to Mommy Brain!  

The kids were crushed “You left him in the dark?! All alone?!  On VALENTINE’S DAY?!”  Yes, yes I did.  But, I didn’t mean to.  And, after calling a neighbor to watch the kids while I ran back around the corner to get him, he greeted me with a wagging tail and unconditional love.  And we all had a Happy Valentine’s Day after all.  I think.  Part of me doesn’t quite remember…

A 3 day weekend with 5 tots 7 & under

Tomorrow is a national holiday and I for one am thrilled.  For starters, our five and seven year old actually seem to understand a bit about Martin Luther King and the importance of his role in our society; to see these little people we created start to have some cognizance of the world around them is really pretty cool. Beyond that, like many folks, I'm glad for a day off of work and time to spend with my family.  Although, truth be told, we're only two days in to this three day weekend and I have to say, I'm more tired -- and more broke! -- than ever.

Here's a quick rundown of the events of the past 48 hours...

• Breakfast, breakfast and more breakfast.  Yesterday there was an appetizer course of two boxes of cereal followed by a main course of about a dozen eggs and six bagels, washed down with a half gallon of juice and almost as much milk. What did I get out of the deal?  Coffee and a lot of dirty dishes.  Thank God for coffee!  Today's breakfast was pretty much a repeat, but the eggs and bagels were replaced by dozens of pancakes.  Good news though, I got one before they were gone!  Score one for Mom!
• Costco & Wine.  Our cupboards -- and wine supply -- hit an all-time low this weekend.  So yesterday, my dear hubby took two tykes to the wine store while I took three to Costco.  I didn't realize what a bad deal I got until two of the triplets started crying that the clementines I loaded on top of them were too heavy and I realized I could no longer see my five year old, Ciara, over the top of the cart.  For all I knew, she could have been lingering near the lady giving out PopChips but thankfully, she was still hanging off the end of the cart, doing her best to keep a month's worth of snacks from falling overboard.  Things got worse when I had to navigate the parking lot with a cart that weighed more than I did, three howling kids and gale force winds that were decidedly not at my back.  The upside? An ample supply of wine awaited at home. The downside? A massive dent in our bank account, a back that still aches, four broken nails, a case of possible frostbite and, to add insult to injury, the fact that I arrived home without any milk or paper towels.  And had to go to the grocery store today. Grrrr.
• Accidents.  The triplets, who turned three in October, have been doing pretty well with potty training.  They flaunt their big boy underwear and will show them off whether invited to or not. They are generous in the sharing of their undergarments and the morning chatter often includes things like "Hey KooKoo, wanna wear my Spiderman underwear today?" "Ok MacMac, you can have my red boxers!" I assure you I never thought I'd have a band of brothers swapping skivvies -- just as I never thought my house would be a urinal.  As good as these little fellas are, when they are tired, they get a bit lazy.  So lazy in fact that they forget to go to the potty and free willy -- and all of willy's contents -- wherever they may be. So far this weekend, that has been on the couch, under the table and ON OUR BED! Not good.  Especially since the caffeine has worn off, the wine at this point is unappealing and the reality of several more loads of laundry seems especially daunting given my aching back! 

Looking ahead to tomorrow, the day that we honor this amazing man who had a dream, I realize I have a dream too -- it is nowhere near as noble and is admittedly self serving.  By comparison, it's a downright selfish, small little dream but I bet it's a dream I share with many busy, juggling moms; I dream of a night of uninterrupted sleep that lasts for at least eight hours; I dream of the day the kids will bring me breakfast... or at least share a bit more of theirs; I dream of the day I'm not scrubbing urine, snot, and other bodily fluids out of clothes, furniture and rugs; and, I dream that when those days arrive, I will look back on these days fondly.  Because as long as each day can be, the years most certainly fly by far too fast.  And, aching, tired bod and all, I am so psyched for one more day to play with our little clan. And, when I get to work on Tuesday, I will be grateful for a yogurt to call my own and a chair to sit down on!

Silly Nicknames for kids: endearing, damaging or totally insane?

Do you have nicknames for your kids?  We do.  Lots of 'em.  So many that I fear they may be causing some issues with our identical triplet boys.  But, to be fair, let me start at the beginning. 

When Liam, now seven, was born, he was a real snuggle bug.  It was the winter of 2004/5 and during those long, cold, dark months, he spent a lot of time snuggling in and scootching up my shoulder in that way only a newborn can.  You know about schootching, right?  It's that wiggly way babies nuzzle in, up and over your shoulder; it's really quite pleasant to experience, especially when the wind is howling and the temperature is falling.  This sweet baby maneuver earned Liam the nickname of "Scootie" in addition to an original little ditty we'd sing to him that went something like this: "Ooh, ooh, Scootie, ooh Scootie-Loo.  Ooh ooh Scootie.  Ooh Ooh, we love you!"  Sleep deprivation can do strange things to you and this was definitely one of ours.  I'm sure Liam is grateful to have outgrown the Scootie nickname but, the standard was set and his four other siblings are now suffering the consequences. 

For Ciara, it's not that bad.  When she was first born, we called her "Bitsy" because she seemed so itsy-bitsy compared to her big brother Liam, who was almost two at the time.  As the months passed, she turned into "Little Bitsy Burps A Lot" because, well, she burped a lot and it sounded like a cute doll name and she seemed like a cute little doll.  When she started to talk, she couldn't say "Ciara" and it came out like this "Ciaga" -- pronounced like this: "Key-Ga." Somehow, that one stuck.  We all call her Ciaga.  Which has line extensions including: Ciaga-Loo, C.Loo, Lucy Loo, and LuLuLemon.  Don't ask.  It just happened.  Sleep deprivation still reigns supreme. The bad news is that as this five year old hops on the bus and heads to kindergarten, we are waving good-bye to our sweet Ciaga-Loo.  The good news is that the kids at school all call her Ciara; she can say it, spell it and knows without a shadow of a doubt that Mom and Dad's silly nicknames stay at home.

Unfortunately, the same can not be said of our identical triplets who, at three years old seem to already have some identity issues brewing.  We consistently dress Kevin, Declan and Cormac in red, blue and green to help folks tell them apart; this backfired rather dramatically when Declan started to tell people his name is "Blue" .  You would think given the challenges that these guys face, walking around town with identical little faces, we would stay true to the names we gave them.  But alas, that is not the case.  I find nicknames just too irresistible and as such, Kevin has become KooKoo Bear, Declan is Duckling and Cormac is MacMac.  But wait, it doesn't end there, there's more!  

For Kevin, KooKoo Bear has several iterations, our favorite of which includes pretending to page him, like those announcements you hear in the airport.  "Mr. Bear?  Is there a Mr. Koo Koo Bear in the house?"  He thinks it's hilarious and so do we.  Our little Duckling (formerly known as "Blue") tends to take things relatively in stride, including the occasions when we quack at him, assuming that he must speak Duck. For the record, he does not and seems to find our antics and quacking less amusing by the day.  Last but not least, there is MacMac.  He was born last and came into the world as "Baby Mac."  Not to be outdone by his identical siblings, he was a chow hound from day one and clearly committed to becoming "Big Mac" on the fast track... which of course led us to all sorts of fun including the occasional "Mac Snack Attack", "Mac & Cheese" and the final grand evolution to "Macaroni" which, of course, culminated in our admittedly absurd paging game: "Mr. Roni?  Is there a Mr. Mac A. Roni in the house?"

Is it sleep deprivation? Are we insane? Do all parents have numerous strange nicknames for their kids?  I don't know.  All I know is that yesterday, Kevin came home from preschool with some “artwork” that said "KooKoo" on the back.  Apparently the teacher tried to write "Kevin" and he indignantly insisted "my name is NOT Kevin.  I am Koo Koo Bear!"  Um, Houston, I think we have a problem.  I hope it's one he outgrows.  But if not, I beg you not to make fun of my Koo Koo Bear.  If you do, prepare for the wrath of his loyal back-up unit because if there's one thing I can say about Scootie, Ciaga, Duckling and MacMac and KooKoo, it's that they stick up for each other... which, I suppose, is at least one thing we’ve gotten right in this hazardous, sleep deprived world of parenting!

Christmas reflections: The good, bad and merry!

In the days leading up to Christmas, people often said things like "It must be great to have all those kids on Christmas!" Or, "Wow, Christmas in your house must really be something!"  It is great to have "all those kids" on Christmas (and the other 364 days of the year!) and this year, our Christmas really was something.  Something like this.

It started at 5:15AM because little Mac couldn't find his "Wawa" and was wailing like a madman.  That smelly, soggy "Wawa", as it turns out, was right underneath him the whole time.  With that crisis solved, we sighed, rolled over and said a prayer that we would fall back asleep until sunrise.  No such luck.

At 5:30, Liam appeared in our room. You might think he was there because of the excitement of Christmas and anticipation of opening his gifts but alas, that was not the case.  As it turned out, the reason for his pre-dawn appearance was a bloody nose. A very bloody nose.  

It was about 6:00 when that nose stopped bleeding and Ciara got up to pee... and ask if it was time to open presents yet.  This reminded Liam that it was indeed Christmas and started the frenzied repetition of "Did Santa come? Can we go downstairs? Did Santa come? Can we go downstairs? Did Santa come?" You get the idea.

We managed to hold them at bay until about 7:30, which was no easy task.  Liam and Ciara took a peek downstairs and scampered back up announcing, as if with a megaphone, that "Santa came! Santa CAME!  SANTA CAME!"  These whoops of joy awoke the triplets -- all of whom, until then, had been peacefully slumbering with their respective WaWas.  

What happened in the next two hours is unclear.  Perhaps because my husband and I were so tired, we couldn't see straight -- not to mention the fact that it was especially hard to see through the flying gift wrap, bubble wrap, boxes and tissue paper that blew across our living room much like last year's Christmas blizzard blew across the Northeast.  It is also possible that our memories of the gargantuan gift opening are vague because our camera batteries died at roughly 7:32, just as the kids were coming down the stairs. I'm not sure how it happened, but Christmas Day dawned without a single AA battery to be found in the Lyons Den; next year, I'm putting batteries on my list for Santa!

At around 10:00, we were putting away dishes from our Christmas Eve dinner and getting ready for breakfast; as I reached up to get the silver chest out of a cabinet, a stack of dessert plates came careening down onto my head, shattering on the floor around me.  Needless to say, this just about shattered my Christmas spirit.  And, my scalp.

With that mess cleaned up and pancakes and bacon on the table, we all enjoyed a merry breakfast.  All of us except Ciara, who suddenly looked flushed, dazed and confused.  Out of nowhere, the poor girl spiked a fever of 102 and was whisked off to bed.  Where she slept for two hours.  Leaving me to wonder, "any chance I could spike a fever and get a two hour nap out of the deal?!"

By around 1:30, Ciara was up (and pumped up with Tylenol) and we went over the river and through the woods (well, over the river, anyway!), to my parents house, where we had a truly wonderful time.  It was a remarkable, memorable and magical Christmas with generations of family visiting and exchanging gifts.  It was really very Norman Rockwell.  The fire was crackling, the music was playing, the kids weren't fighting, it was all good.  Very good. And very much the way Christmas should be.

Of course, this little reverie was abruptly broken when we returned home; Declan had a fit because he couldn't find his Hexbugs, Kevin peed on the rug and a quick glance in the mirror informed me that I received a zit the size of Texas for Christmas.  Oh well.  Such is life.  And I will take it.  All of it.  The good, the bad, and the merry.  Because really, on Christmas and every other day of the year, life with "all those kids" will undoubtedly have ample bits of good, bad and merry.  And I, for one, wouldn't have it any other way.

The Halloween Hangover

I don’t know about you, but this week was a rough one in the Lyons Den and I attribute a lot of it to what I’m coining the “Halloween Hangover.”  It’s not pretty.  It can be scary.  It is the aftermath of the sugar-induced carnage we call Halloween… ironically enough, the Catholic Church recognizes November 1^st as All Saints Day but inside our humble abode, our offspring have turned to demons.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the biggest fan of Halloween.  I definitely liked it as a kid… except for the year that my Mom decided I should be a “Jar of Jellybeans.”  How?  By putting one of those plastic dry-cleaning bags over my head and filling it up with balloons.  Today, she’d probably end up in jail for such a thing; back then, the greatest offense was that I literally popped on the way to school, had to walk home full of deflated balloons and then was sent back as Miss New Jersey – a title that was never exactly aspirational and was next to impossible to pull off as a fifth grader with glasses and a retainer.  But I digress…

Halloween is a big deal in our town.  A very big deal.  There are jack-o-lanterns aplenty and a big parade; it almost feels like Christmas except that the lights are orange and Santa has been replaced with the fire department handing out treats.  There’s a lot of pressure – pressure to create your own personal haunted house, to turn out tasty Halloween treats and to come up with crafty, creative costume ideas.  None of these are my strong points.  In fact, given that our family has four birthdays (five if you count the dog!) and our wedding anniversary between October 5^th and 12^th, I really don’t have the mental energy to consider Halloween until the week before.

That’s why this year, the kids wore musty old costumes from the basement and once again, our amazing neighbors came to the rescue and affixed an eight foot spider to our roof.  This is true; we came home from grocery shopping last Saturday and there it was.  And there is still is.  And there it forever may be.  Because much like the weeks before Halloween, the weeks after don’t provide much of a respite from the treadmill we call life and I have to prioritize…. Plan Liam’s 7^th birthday party or remove that spider? Do another load of laundry or remove that spider?  You see where I’m going right?  That spider just might be wearing a wreath, some holly and twinkly white lights before long.

As for the kids, Halloween reckoned them unrecognizable.  And not just because it was hard to tell the triplets apart when they abandoned our color-coding scheme and went all Spiderman, Blues Clues, and Fuzzy Lion on us but, because they literally went so coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs -- or, more accurately stated, for Reese’s, Hershey’s, M&Ms and Starburst -- there wasn’t a trace of the sweet children I know and love.  The sweets they consumed turned them sour and their sugar-fueled antics turned me into the Wicked Witch of the West.  No costume required. 

In the past few days, it’s been impossible to drag them out of bed; they have one track, candy-focused minds; they have opted out of all our family rules and let’s just say that I’m the one left cleaning up the mess that all that sugar has wreaked on their delicate little digestive systems.

I really think they have Halloween Hangovers and sadly, they haven’t had the time to sleep it off. I’m hoping that this weekend will provide the ample rest and sugar detox they all need; until this passes, I will do my best to channel my inner Glenda the Good Witch… and I know that my kids will be as happy to sing “ding dong the witch is dead” as I am!  

"I'm Blue": a major mishap of raising identical triplets

There are a few phrases I never expected to hear in this lifetime, among them "You're having triplets" and "They're identical."  Given that I had two toddlers at home when I received this news, it was especially unsettling... and all the more so when the disturbing facts and frightening statistics about birth defects and premature labor finally settled in.

The pregnancy was a long haul -- 36 weeks of ups and downs, worrying and fretting, and sleepless nights with an alarmingly large belly, as noted for posterity here:

Freakishly large belly with 17+ lbs. of bouncing baby boys inside

When the little fellas finally arrived, we had a plan for telling them apart.  While my husband Des wanted to tattoo them, I decided that just a bit of nail polish on the big toe would be a better way to go -- red for Kevin, blue for Declan and green for Cormac.  For the better part of their first two years, these little guys had a better pedicure than I ever did... typically with a coordinating outfit to eliminate any possibility of a mix-up.

Onesies with their names helped in the beginning... could you tell these guys apart?!

As time passed, we all comfortably relied on the color coding system.  It has helped me and Des, Liam and Ciara, my parents, neighbors and friends and extended family to know who's who here in the Lyons Den.

Color-coded kids from the very beginning -- circa May 2009

That said, I'm not so sure it has helped the very fellas it was intended to benefit: Kevin, Declan and Cormac.  Since the day they were born, these poor guys have had their toe nails painted and their hand-me-downs organized by color.  When we don't have red, Kevin may get orange or yellow.  When we don't have green, Cormac may get gray or white.  But we never seem to run out of blue... which I suppose is why when strangers ask Declan what his name is, he responds with great sincerity "I'm blue."  

Yikes, now is that a motherhood mishap, or what?  The poor kid thinks his name is Blue!  Not to worry, this is an issue we're actively working to address, first and foremost by letting them each choose their own clothes.  The problem?  Now they all want blue.  To make matters even more challenging, on many days they all want "Yankee uniforms" and Declan (a.k.a. "Blue") now mutters to himself as he stumbles down the hall "Derek Jeter!  Derek Jeter!"  I suppose in terms of aspirations, it's better to be Jeter than be Blue but, my hope is that one day, he'll be happy just being Declan... and until then, I hope that we -- and everyone else -- will find a way to tell who's who!

Cranky Yankees circa June 2010 in color coded crocs & clearly not too happy about it!

The Summer I did hard time... Potty time

When I look back on the summer of 2011, many memories will be of the hard time I spent in potty time -- "tile time" as my good friend Jill calls it.  Call it what you will, it's hard and it's not fun.  Don't get me wrong, I know it's time well spent; the last thing I want to be is the mom of triplets who go to college in diapers but really, since that's unlikely (both the diaper part and the ability to pay for college!), I can't help but lament the hours I've spent in bathrooms this summer. 

I've spent so much time in our bathrooms at home (no, we don't have three of them, only 1.5!) that I think there's now a dent in the "big potty" seats I've spent hours perched upon.  I've spent so much time in restaurant bathrooms, that I think I've lost a few pounds  -- admittedly, this is the potential upside to being held hostage in a public bathroom by three two-year tyrants waving their willies everywhere but IN the actual potty!  I've spent many a sunny afternoon in the bat-cave like bathrooms you're prone to find at pools and beaches; again, eager to find the bright side (in this case, literally) I suppose I should be grateful for less of those damaging rays and subsequent wrinkles.  I've also spent a fair amount of time in the bathroom at church which, on the one hand, gives new meaning to "praying to the porcelain God" but, hasn't done much for my spirituality... other than, of course, repeated prayers that Kevin, Declan and Cormac finally get the swing of it (for lack of a better term!) so we can put these potty-training days behind us.

Truthfully, it's getting old.  And I'm out of PullUps.  And I'm loathe to buy more.  My little guys really seem to be getting it.  Or so it seems until I find a turd on a chair (as I did during dinner one night this week) or sail across their bedroom on a pool of pee on the floor (as I did this evening).  One step forward, two steps back.  I suppose that's how it goes.  Try, try again.  As much as I want this phase to be behind me, I also have a keen appreciation for the fact that when it's gone, it's gone.  Much like the bottles and onesies and highchairs, diapers and pull-ups will soon be gone.  Already, my sweet babes look like big boys as their shorts sag behind them in the space the diapers once filled but "training pants" don't.  By the way, has anyone else experienced these training pants?  If not, don't bother -- if they worked, I wouldn't have experienced a Slip n' Slide of pee earlier tonight!

In any case, I know that this too shall pass. And when it does, I will be proud of my guys for figuring it out.  And I will be glad that my house no longer smells like a urinal. And I will be just a little sad about those saggy shorts for I know they represent the next phase and I'm not 100% convinced that I'm ready for my babies to become "big boys".

The Case of the Absent Tooth Fairy



Liam in simpler times: after the loss of tooth #1



The tooth fairy has officially visited our home five times.  Our six year old has officially lost six teeth.  As you may have noticed, there is a discrepancy here.  As far as I can tell, the issue was the loss of tooth #5.

I can’t recall where or when it fell out and neither can Liam, the aforementioned gap-toothed six year old.  The fact he can’t even remember the details of this little tooth makes me feel a bit better about my own vague recollection. I do recall that when it came out, it eventually ended up in a little “treasure chest” – one of those Melissa & Doug hand-painted projects which, for some reason, ended up on top of our entertainment center (yep, we still have one of those!) several weeks back.  That’s when my mind goes blank.

Fast forward to this morning, when I got home from walking our dog to find a pouty gap-toothed Liam sulking on the front porch.  “What’s wrong?” I asked.  “Daddy moved my pillow last night and the tooth fairy never came!”  Hmmm.  I had to think quickly on this one.  Had tooth #7 fallen out last night?  Did I have amnesia?  What exactly happened and how could I respond glibly while keeping his faith in that apparently dim-witted fairy? 

A career in advertising has left me relatively quick on my feet, good with a retort and polished in the arts of ambiguity and empathy, which I can conjure up as needed.  Without dissing the tooth fairy or the Dad, I was able to discern that at some point last night, Liam found that treasure chest with tooth #5; it had slipped behind the TV and was discovered during a search for a Tom & Jerry video (yes, we do let our kids watch them and if you haven’t seen Tom or Jerry in a while, I’d highly suggest that you revisit them!). 

Like any other 2^nd grade believer, Liam assumed the tooth fairy must have radar and would intuitively know when a small boy places a toothy treasure under his pillow.  With this in mind, Liam had slid the treasure box under the pillow without uttering a word about it to me or the Dad.  When he woke up this morning and found the tooth and treasure chest under his bed, he reached the reasonable conclusion that when Dad did the final late night tuck-in, he must have knocked the treasure chest under the bed, thereby sending the tooth fairy off course.

This was a lot to take in so early in the morning but, grateful for the large cup of coffee I'd consumed, I explained that Liam was right.  Of course the tooth fairy’s radar doesn’t work under little boys beds; it is only effective under pillows!  That answer seemed satisfactory and so it is that tonight, tooth #5 (and the fairy!) will be getting a second chance.  Having reviewed the contents of my own treasure chest of Liam's teeth (yep, I save them... gross, right?), I came across these little gems from a few months ago.  I can't help but think that my little guy's initial excitement when he wakes up and discovers that the absent tooth fairy finally reappeared might be diminished when he realizes she only left $2.00...

My life in PottyLand

Here it is, Sunday night once more.  Once again, the weekend has flown by in a flurry of activity.  As I look back on the past few days at the pool, Liam's first swim meet, a trip out for ice cream, our obligatory Sunday mass and a great grilled dinner, there is one unifying theme.  The heat and humidity that has the nation talking?  Nope.  What I will recall most from this weekend is the inordinate amount of time I spent in the bathroom with our two year old triplets.  I don't think I'd be exaggerating to say that it adds up to hours.  

We are deep in the throes of potty training. It's reached the point where Kevin, Declan and Cormac are far more enthusiastic about it than I am.  The initial excitement of "PooPoo on potty!" has pretty much waned for me.  The cries of "Gotta pee Mom! Gotta pee NOW!" have me callously responding "NOW?! But you just went!"  Or, worse yet, "Can't you just hold it, little buddy?"  Needless to say, my weary responses are not to be found in any potty training manuals.  I don't have time to read them anyway but, it just feels wrong to tell a two-year old in PullUps whose personal pride is currently wrapped up the "Three P's" (pee, poo, potty) to take a chill pill because Mama would like a view of something other than a porcelain (or in this case, plastic) bowl!

While I would have preferred to spend less time crouching on the bathroom floor and more time enjoying the great outdoors (believe me when I tell you that 100 degrees in the pool beats 100 degrees in the potty!), there were (as there always are) a few bright spots during our shared potty time...

• There was Cormac kindly encouraging me.  "Good Girl Mama!" he joyfully exclaimed as he barged in on what was to be my private moment on the potty.
• There was Kevin, completely enamored with the "Magic Potty!" at the pool... that self-flushing variety is apparently a lot more exciting than what we have at home.
• There was Declan, who can pee more than any kid I've ever seen.  He spent more time at the potty than in the pool... leading me to believe that perhaps he was drinking a lot of kiddie pool water... a thought I really don't want to linger on.
• There was their shared joy at wearing "big boy underwear!"  My, how we've progressed... just a few months ago, they thought Ciara's old Princess Pull Ups were big boy underwear.  Now they are in Liam's hand-me-down tighty whities and just as thrilled.  Geez, the bar for these little guys is really set low!
• Last but not least, was our adventure at church today, where I spent more time praying to the porcelain god than the big guy upstairs. 

I think it's starting to pay off though. Just think of all the money we'll save when we officially bid adieu to diapers! Just considering life without repeat orders from diapers.com is all it takes for  me to muster up enough enthusiasm to take three little fellas out of their cribs for one last trip to the potty... after all, I don't want to disappoint their image of this "Good Girl Mama."  

What do you get for $500 at Costco?

This week it happened again.  Our groceries disappeared.  Just like that, POOF! They were gone.  The emergency reserves of peanut butter and jelly?  Gone.  The only bread left in the house?  Those nasty end pieces that no one one will eat.  The only fruit?  A lemon. Slightly moldy.  The only snacks left for camp?  A few measly fruit roll-ups... the ones we'd deliberately passed over for weeks because the humidity leaves them so tightly rolled they inevitably incite a toddler tantrum.  

With a possible LyonsDen famine bearing down on us, I did what I had to do.  I went to Costco.  At 4:00 on Friday while the sun was shining and the pool was calling.  As I crammed my protesting kids into the car (not all five of them, just the "big ones" while the "little ones" were napping), I could feel my temperature rise, my pulse quicken, my temperature shorten.  I hate Costco.  I love the pool.  What in God's name was I doing?!  

Well, if men are hunters and women are gatherers, I suppose I was gathering. Providing.  That's what I was doing.  At least that's what I told myself.  I had to go to Costco and as it turns out, I had to spend $500 to stock our shelves, fill our pantry and ensure a good rotation of satisfactory snacks for my little campers.  The dollar amount still shocks me.  What did I get for $500, you may wonder?  Well, quite a lot.  I think it's fair to say we won't need snacks until September.  And, we'll have some basic provisions for oh, perhaps a week or so.  Since I've been told it's of interest, here's a quick glimpse of how we filled our cart... 

Milk, Eggs, and juice boxes galore,
Saline solution, cereal bars, granola bars and more,
Cheerios, Chobani, chicken and cheddar too, 
Gogurt, Fruit Snacks and boxes of goldfish (two!).
Laundry detergent, dishwasher detergent and a box of Bounce,
Toilet paper, paper towels and apple juice (size: 64 ounce!).
A watermelon, blueberries, bananas and pears,
Bread, broccoli and a couple of Swiss au pairs!

Ok, gotcha.  I didn't really get any Swiss au pairs.  But seriously, for $500, you'd think maybe they'd throw one in!  Especially since the sticker shock left me in such a bitter mood.  The kind of bitter mood that caused me to drop a quiet F-Bomb when someone nicked me in the ankle with their cart.  And again when I banged my head on my cart while unloading some stuff from the bottom shelf.  And once more when it rolled over my toes, administering the final blow to the the pedicure I got in April.

I should also mention that I got six pairs of footie pajamas.  And some books for an upcoming birthday party.  While these items were admittedly impulsive and won't fill our pantry, they were necessities in their own way and truly, they were a bargain.  I think there's some merit to my role as a gatherer.  And typically, I embrace it.  However, given the surly mood and battered bod this trip to Costco left me with, the moral of the story is this:  When the sun is shining and the pool is calling, GO!  For heaven's sake, the pool has a snack bar and the kids won't starve!  Once again, a lesson I learned the hard way.  Although, on the upside, there won't be any tantrums over sticky fruit roll-ups next week!

The Sick Kid Snafu

One of the things that struck me this week was the inordinate amount of sick kid snafus we experienced here in the Lyons Den.  What is a "Sick Kid Snafu"?  It's when a sick kid necessitates a swift change in your well-laid plans, often causing disappointment, occasionally causing disagreement and rarely if ever causing delight.  Here's a quick rundown of our Sick Kid Snafus in just the past four days...
 

• Monday: July 4th fireworks viewing canceled for Lyons Den tots due to Declan having a raging fever and Ciara having a tummy ache.  I did my best to disregard both minor maladies but when Declan's eyes glazed over and Ciara had a "burp plus", I knew it wasn't meant to be... a maternal instinct that did cause a brief marital disagreement and resulted in a very disappointed 6 year old!
• Monday/Tuesday: A massive midnight barf-o-rama caused a major snafu for a much-needed night of uninterrupted sleep!  Additional casualties included one comforter, one bedroom rug, one hallway rug and one very upset little lady covered in bright pink vomit.  Lessons learned?  First, do not dismiss the burp plus; it is clearly an omen of a barf plus plus plus!  Secondly, encourage wee ones to approach the endless July 4th barbecue bounty with caution; regurgitated watermelon, fruit punch and hot dogs do not make for an easy clean up!
• Wednesday:  Another, even more desperately needed night of sleep disturbed by a nose bleed.  A massive horror show of a nose bleed at 3AM.  The kind of nose bleed that resulted in another comforter casualty; thankfully the rug was spared since it was still in recovery from the bright pink barf-o-rama.
• Thursday:  A day that started with a bleary-eyed me and proved to be  a doozy of a day at work.  Lots to do, lots of meetings and then? You guessed it!  Sick Kid Snafu!  A tiny tot with a fever that insisted on rising despite ample, frequent doses of Motrin and Tylenol.  This working gal turned SuperMom donned my cape, fled the office and raced my minivan to the pediatrician pronto!  Key challenges aside from moaning tyke in backseat?  No wallet and no gas in car!  Talk about a snafu!

Looking ahead to tomorrow, I already had to cancel a playdate, once again leaving disappointment in the wake of a sick kid snafu.  Looking back on the past week, I realize there's even more in the way of plan-bashing, kid-caused upsets... there was the night Kevin fell off the couch and split his head open on the coffee table and the recent bee sting that had us all in a panic.  Heck, even the dog foiled some plans when he had diarrhea for days and required an emergency trip to the vet.  Hundreds of dollars and several postponed plans later, he emerged with a spring in his step and a wag in his tail.  The moral of the story?  As long as there are kids (and I suppose dogs!), there will be snafus.  And, much to my own surprise, I've learned to roll with them... usually with only the slightest trace of disappointment!

Tuesday Tip: A Pull Up is NOT a Swimmie



A few weeks ago we were headed to "opening day" at our pool.  I pulled the beach towels out of the basement, located swim suits and swim shirts that still fit the kids and checked the sunblock for expiration dates.  We seemed to be in pretty good shape until I realized we didn't have any swimmies (a.k.a. swim diapers, water pants, you get the idea) for the triplets. 

I decided we had two choices -- let them go bare bottom, which seemed reasonable enough given that they are 2 1/2 and dabbling in potty training OR put them in pull-ups given that they are just dabbling in potty training and it would be poor form to provide a pool-clearing "floater" or two (or three!) on opening day.  Our choices sparked an interesting conversation between me and Des, a real introspective of the type you might expect to see on 60 Minutes or 20/20.

"What's the difference between a Pull Up and a Swimmie?"  "Is it just the packaging and clever marketing?"  "Are those CPG giants P&G and Kimberly-Clarke out to get us yet again?  Convincing us that we need day diapers and night diapers and pull ups AND swimmies?!"  "Yep.  It's a conspiracy.  They are just preying on the vulnerability of parenthood and have tricked us into thinking we need all this stuff."  "Well, not us!  Screw it!  This summer we're not buying those Swimmies!  At $10 a pack, we'll be bankrupt by Labor Day anyway.  Little guys, go for it... put on your pull ups and hit the pool!"  And so they did.  And this is what happened:

Close up of exploding post-swim swimmie

It may be hard to fully appreciate the impact of the water-logged pull up; this picture doesn't quite do justice to the fluid-filled interior that erupted up and out of the little guys swimsuits, leaving an almost snowy-like trail from the kiddie pool back to our chairs.  As they waddled by, weighted down, confused and embarassed, onlookers couldn't help but laugh.  Ok, I couldn't help but laugh myself.  In fact, Des and I almost wet our pants we were laughing so hard.  The poor little fellas didn't think it was funny though...

"It's not funny.  Could you just buy me some Swimmies?!"

The morale of the story?  There is indeed a difference between a pull-up and a swimmie and good corporate citizens and reasonably competent parents will indulge their children with both! 

Summer Concert at the Lyons Den

Tonight was another one of those nights. I left work a few minutes early so I would be home for an important call at 5:30.  I walked in to the typical throngs of little ones looking for an uppie and chattering about their day.  Unfortunately, I promptly dismissed them, ignored their chatter and hid in the bathroom until my call was over at 5:45.  I then reentered the kitchen, kissed them all hello and acted like it was normal to have a mom who is hiding in the bathroom one minute and all love and kisses the next.  My fleeting attention was not lost on them as an unusual evening unfolded.


I had just gotten dinner on the table at 6:00 (gotta love leftover night!) when a few of our neighbors started to filter into the yard.  Then a few more.  "We're here for the concert," they announced.  I had to admit that I had no clue what they were talking about.  Then a few more filtered in.  Then I noticed about ten sippy cups full of water lined up by our back gate and a blue bucket newly and neatly labeled in Liam's handwriting "Money."  I excused myself to go back into the kitchen and ask my five mischievous kids what was brewing.  They erupted into an excited explanation -- "We're having a concert!" "I play drums!" "We made tickets!" "They gave us dollars!" "Gonna sing songs!" "Is dinner over?!"  And so it was that I learned that in the brief window between the last day of school and first day of camp, my five tykes turned into both budding performers and junior extortionists.  


Unsure of how to proceed, I decided that the show must go on.  Dinner could wait.  None of us wanted to disappoint the gathering crowd, each of whom had apparently paid a dollar and was now holding a sippy cup of water.  One of them was wise enough to remark to another "You might not want to drink this, I think it might have come from the hose earlier today."  As Ciara circulated and made sure everyone had "refreshments", Liam was collecting more money while the triplets tottered to and fro.  With an authoritative bang on a pre-school sized drum, the "concert" began -- a cacophony of percussions that included that drum, some maracas, some bells and a good old-fashioned spoon on a Lego box.  It was just the type of "concert" you'd expect from a junior set quintet; it was more noise than music and I was kind of horrified that they had charged folks for the experience.


Don't get me wrong, I would have made them return those dollars even if the performance had been stellar but, I think the kids have a few lessons to learn from their performance art endeavors...

1. Don't take money from friends and neighbors.
2. Practice makes perfect.  
3. Water does not a refreshment make.
4. A mom that hides in the bathroom instead of saying hello when she gets home from work isn't all bad.

In fact, that very same Mom might let you leave your dinner on the table, chuckle at your concert, and then offer up a stroll to town for ice cream.  All because these days between school and camp and summer days in general are far too fleeting and deserve to be enjoyed.  God only knows what tomorrow will bring but for now, I think I've nipped my petite extortionists in the bud. I'd keep your dollars in your pocket though, just to be sure... 

Car sick kid + violent storms = Road trip from hell!

I have to thank our neighbor for coining the term "rolling vomitorium."  This is what our minvan (a.k.a. "Swagger Wagon") turned into last Friday afternoon as we traveled to Long Island to spend the weekend with my aunt.  


We got off to a pretty good start.  We were able to leave work a few hours early and had the car packed and ready to roll at 3:00.  By the time we cruised around town borrowing pack & plays, gassing up and stopping for iced coffee, it was closer to 3:30 by the time we actually left.  About two minutes later, the skies opened up, the thunder boomed and the lightening started a stellar performance that would last for hours.  As the weather roared outside, the kids roared inside. "I want a snack! I want a drink! Can we watch a movie? He's kicking me! She pinched me!  Why can't I have a snack?  How long does it take to get there?!" Mind you, this all erupted before we even hit the highway so I should have known it was going to be a long trip.


Our first snafu?  A certain young man who obviously disregarded his mother's strong urging to pee before we left the house.  As we crawled along in the Friday traffic, slowly navigating the flooded roads, poor Liam started squirming in the third row... "I REALLY have to go!" he pleaded with such urgency there were tears in his eyes.  Unfortunately, we were on a highway with no rest stops and not even a shoulder to safely and sneakily pee upon.  Additionally, he was so crammed in the back that exiting the car required climbing over one pack & play, one large dog and his sister.  Since it seemed to be a legitimate emergency and the notion of spending the next few hours in a car full of urine was unappealing, we risked life and limb to let the little man out to relieve himself.  We got back in the car soaked by the rain but, figured it beat being soaked in pee and away we went! 


Shortly thereafter, the fun really started.  Declan was sitting behind the driver's seat in the car seat previously known as the "Barf Chair."  We'd gone through a period last summer when whatever kid sat there inevitably hurled.  We thought we'd fixed that problem by adjusting the seat.  We thought wrong.  "I'm not feeling very well," Declan announced in a matter of fact manner.  Then his sweet face turned from rosy pink to ghostly white to a frightening shade of grey/green.  Then he threw up what appeared to be about ten pounds of watermelon.  Pink fruit-strewn stinky barf was all over him, all over that car seat and, ready for this?  All over our DOG!  Poor Finnegan gave me a look as if to say "Really?  First you jam me in this car between kids and pack & plays and bags and now this?!"  


Our next move was pulling over for the second time to strip Declan down, clean out the seat and do our best to remove the watermelon chunks from Finny's fur.  This was no easy task on the side of the LIE with the rain pouring down and the lightening continuing its show -- especially since when I opened the trunk, I was nearly killed by the bags that tumbled out, bouncing off my head on the way to the ground.  Not good.  On the upside though, we were prepared -- a quick change of clothes, a swift cleansing with wipes and a hearty dose of Purell and we were on our way once more.


Until he threw up again.  On Finny.  Again.  This time we had the good fortune to pull over under a bridge so at least we weren't pummeled by the rain as we stripped the kid down.  This time I could feel the eyes of onlookers as they crawled by in the miserable rush hour traffic.  I suspect the other Swagger Wagon drivers understood; they had a sense of "been there, done that."  The swank sports cars seemed to scoff, as if to suggest "I would never allow that to happen is this sleek performance machine!"  And then there were the sympathetic old folks in oversized sedans, one of whom actually pulled over to say "is everything ok?  I saw the naked baby on the side of the road and was worried."  Well, kind sir, thank you.  To tell you the truth, we were worried too but, once again, all's well that ends well.  


We put Declan in his PJs, put on a movie, passed out some pretzels and continued on our journey.  As the kids laughed at something clever from the Clifford video, Des and I laughed in the front seat... we knew we had hours to go, the car smelled like puke and the dog looked like hell but really, what else could we do?  Our traveling family circus keeps us entertained in all kinds of weather and when we woke up to a blue sky and bright sun the next morning, we knew it was well worth the trip. Even if it was the trip from hell! 

Tuesday Tip: Ten reasons to tread lightly and wear your shoes

Motherhood is full of surprises. From those first flutters of pregnancy to the wonder of falling in love with a bald-headed baby, the only thing you can really expect is the unexpected.  I’ve grown immune to some of the unanticipated side effects of parenting… sleep deprivation, driving a minivan and the ongoing battle against kid-clutter have all become part of my new norm. Something that continues to surprise me however, is all that's underfoot, in the most literal sense.  Here's my Top 10 list of barefoot surprises... along with a renewed commitment to treading lightly and wearing my shoes!

1. Legos. Ever step barefoot on a Lego? If so, you can probably relate to the expletives that explode from my mouth each time it happens. I do occasionally apply a child-friendly filter, which now has our 2 1/2 year old triplets using the word “freakin’!” in a most charming way. My barefoot encounters with wayward Legos are so frequent that if I ever get around to writing my memoir, I think I will call it “My Life in (Freakin’!) LegoLand.”
2. WaWas. You may call it a lovey or woobie or blankie but those beloved soft comfort items are known in our house as “WaWas”. Actually, for Liam it was a “WeeWee” but then Ciara came along and we didn’t want her to be the only little girl on the block with a “WeeWee” so, she mercifully called hers a “WaWa” and this term of endearment is here to stay. As are the Wawas… all five kids have them but the triplets in particular get great joy from sucking on them. When they are in their cribs making those sweet sucking sounds, it is absolutely endearing; when one falls out of the crib and you step on it barefoot in the middle of the night, it is absolutely gross. Soggy, wet, nasty and gross. Enough said!
3. Soggy Cheerios. I admit it. We rely on our dog Finnegan to do a lot of the post-meal clean up. So much so, in fact, that he’s gained well over ten pounds since the triplets were born. He is so efficient in his efforts that he sometimes even starts the clean up while the little guys are still in their high chairs; the sight of the chairs being nudged around the kitchen by a ninety pound dog is an especially good one if you ever get a chance to see it. In any case, I suppose we’ve become overly reliant on Finnegan and under-reliant on the broom because I now find myself muttering each morning as I dislodge yet another Cheerio from between my toes.
4. Our dog, Finnegan. He does pretty well for himself at mealtime but any other time of day he’s prone to be tripped over, stepped on or plowed over. This never used to happen but now, it’s fairly routine. He might get knocked out of the way as I chase down a kid or worse yet, stepped on overnight as I go to find one of those darn misplaced Wawas. Either way, that poor dog really takes his blows. 
5. A bike helmet. Ever wake up in the morning and trip over a kid' bike helmet next to your bed? Me too! I thought this was a rather unusual occurrence but have since heard from other Moms that it’s happened to them too. Not sure why the bike helmets end up in the bedroom instead of on the porch in the neat little basket I’ve put there for the very purpose of bike helmet storage. I guess it’s probably the same reason why my neatly labeled baskets for “Cars”, “Trains”, and “Dolls” now flow over with books, random puzzle pieces and yes, even an occasional Lego.
6. Big Wheels… and little ones too. Matchbox cars, firetrucks, dump trucks and the like never seem to find their way into those neatly labeled baskets and bins. And, they just may be the death of me one day. I’ve been known to sail half way across the house on a moderately sized “shake and go” car and trust me, the sight of me shaking and going in this way is not one you want to see. Especially since it may also include another inappropriate freakin’ expletive!
7. Play Dough. Fresh out of the jar, this stuff is squishy and soft. Not something I enjoy between the toes but, it’s preferable to those gummy, soggy Cheerios. Leave it out for a while though and suddenly that Play Dough isn’t so playful. It hardens to teeny, rainbow colored pebbles that I find scattered throughout the house and between my toes. Let me go on record and make it official: I hate Play Dough!
8. Crayons/Markers: While you may not naturally equate these childhood tools of the trade to the aforementioned big wheels and matchbox cars, they can just as easily propel you across a room if you step on them just so. These are yet another shining example of defiant toys that refuse to reside in their neatly labeled bins. Why, oh why, do I even bother?
9. The laundry basket. There are two places in my house that I would expect to find the laundry basket – in the basement by the washer/dryer or in my closet brimming over with the days soiled wears. Unfortunately, there are probably 22 places that I might stumble across, over or into that basket. Ok, maybe not quite 22 since our house isn’t that big but, suffice it to say, ever since the triplets decided the laundry basket is their “boat”, I’ve found it docked in the kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms and everywhere in-between.
10. Sticks and stones. They say that sticks and stone may break your bones and I am here to tell you this is true! While I haven’t actually broken a bone (yet!), I have stepped on and tripped over many of these “collections” courtesy of any of our five kids. What’s surprising about this isn’t the notion of kids collecting them but rather, using the dining/living/bedroom/kitchen floors as display cases. If only they’d leave their wares outside, I’d be more alert, more apt to watch underfoot for sharp rocks and jagged sticks; I just don’t have that kind of radar up when I’m blindly fumbling for my morning coffee!

So, there you have it. Ten items large and small that I’m still surprised to find underfoot. I suppose the only other thing I should mention is, well, my kids. With so many of them in such a relatively small space, I have been known to literally trip over my own children. Especially when the triplets were in that cute crawling/pull up on your legs phase. I’ve apologized countless times for stepping on tiny fingers and toes; just imagine their shock and surprise when they are repeatedly stepped on by their own Mom! Now that I think about it, maybe all those Legos, Cheerios, Play Dough, sticks and stones I find myself stepping on and tripping over aren’t accidentally left behind. Maybe it’s just my kids trying to tell me in a not-so-subtle way, “Hey Mom, watch where you’re freakin’ going.  And while you're at it, put on a pair of freakin' shoes!!!”

A (typically hectic, unusually manic) Day in the Life

Here’s the text I sent Des on Monday night at 7:54 PM when he was presumably dodging fly balls as the go-to pitcher and assistant coach for Liam’s first grade baseball team:

“Macmac barfed. Decker barfed. Quiche has mold. Help!!! BTW, don’t think mold & barfing are related. Think barf & strep are related & quiche is just bad luck!”

For those of you interested the events that preceded and followed, here’s a rundown of Monday, May 2nd in the Lyons Den:

5:57 Wake up. Finish blog post. Unload dishwasher. Make lunch. Pack snacks. Start laundry.

7:00 Drag Liam from bed, make breakfast, send him off on bus.

7:30 Moaning from triplets room prompts me to look inside. Discover MacMac (aka Cormac) in a feverish fit with green snot pouring from his nose. Literally pouring. Temp is 101.9

7:40 Debate w/ Des re: need to take MacMac to doctor. Des says no, I say yes. I win.

7:45 Shower, dress, change MacMac, wake Ciara, pack lunch and bag for work.

8:15 To the pediatrician we go – thank goodness for the walk-in hour!

8:45 Home we go – that walk-in hour sucks! Waiting room is overflowing with pink-eye, allergies, stomach bugs and generally sick kids. We make an appointment to return at 11:30.

9:00 Dump MacMac at home, head to work.

11:15 A bundle of nerves and stress, I leave my piled-high desk to retrieve my boy and return to doctor.

11:45 Discover MacMac has strep. Panic sets in. How long ‘til the rest of them fall?!

12:00 Quick trip to CVS to fill prescription.

12:45 Return to office, dig in to sandwich and emails that await. Work, work, work.

5:45 Home sweet home. Feverish boy slumbers on couch while other kids run wild and Des and Liam take off for baseball.

5:50 Closer look at couch reveals that feverish boy on couch is not MacMac. It’s Declan. Sh*t!!

6:00 Dinner is served. “Egg pie” (aka quiche!) and broccoli, typically a crowd pleaser is unanimously dismissed with a chorus of “no like it”

6:30 Backyardigans video provides 23 minutes of kid-entertainment and mom-relief. I shed my work clothes, locate thermometer and put on Florence Nightingale uniform. Ok, not really. 

 

7:00  Mac and Declan have rising fevers.  I put on their PJs and pop them in their cribs.  A suspicious gurgling precedes Mac's massive vomit. Ciara, playing the role of physician’s assistant, continually chimes in “it’s really bad Mom. REALLY bad” while Declan moans from crib and Kevin jumps up and down singing “MacMac throw up! MacMac throw up!”

7:30 Mac is changed, crib is changed, Declan has been given Tylenol, MacMac has had his antibiotic and a solid dose of Advil to keep the fever at bay. Ciara is brushing her teeth. The four kids I have at home are now ready for bed.  I think the worse is behind me.

7:45 Nope. The worst is still coming. As I discover mold on the quiche Des and I were going to have for dinner, there is a blood curdling scream from upstairs followed by Ciara’s call, “MOM! Come quick! It’s REALLY bad!!!”  Sound familiar?

7:46 Declan is covered in barf. His crib is covered in barf. I am covered in barf. Kevin’s enthusiasm for his brother’s barf has worn off; Cormac has nodded off.

7:54 Text to Des as per above. I stink like vomit, we have no dinner (though I’m no longer hungry!), there are piles of laundry to be done, work to catch up on and for the record, I’m exhausted, having only had about 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep the night before thanks to an itchy dog, a big boy with bad dreams, la ittle girl who woke us to tell us she went to the potty and a rotation of triplets with lost blankies, high fevers and general malaise!

Suffice it to say that in the hours that followed, there was more vomit, alternating doses of meds to keep MacMac and Declan’s fever at bay and less consecutive sleep than the night before. When the sun rose, I rose with it to get in a run. And boy, am I ever glad I did because today might as well have been Groundhog Day. Just hit the repeat button (or reread button?!) and you’ll know what my day was like. Even the pediatrician feigned surprise when I appeared once again at 11:30 with a little fella red with fever and ripe with strep. When I mentioned that I’d probably see her again tomorrow with my third little guy, she laughed and said she has the day off. Which leaves me to wonder… when will I get a day off? As MacMac has been known to say -- albeit under very different circumstances, as in when asked to apologize for biting his brother – “Not today!”