The Fire I'm Refusing to Ignore

I started this post yesterday but couldn't finish it.  I woke up this morning to the news of the Dallas shootings and my heart is heavier still.  I don't really know if I have any words of wisdom or if I'm just another white girl who is more clueless than not.  But my reasons for not posting this had more to do with my own self-preservation and fear of judgement which felt small and selfish.  I can't pretend there isn't a fire anymore.  

I’m heavy hearted this morning, unable to shake the feeling that something is wrong.  My Facebook feed is filled with #AltonSterling and #PhilandoCastile and pleas for our country to wake up and see that for some the world is on fire and the people with water are denying the flames’ existence.  Because they can.  Because they live in safe, fireproof houses and they don’t even realize that those fireproof houses allow them to chose blindness and that is privilege.  I can’t stop thinking about Alton Sterling’s fifteen year old son.  I was going to post something dumb about the books I’m reading but it all feels trite right now.

I don’t like feeling like this, heavy hearted with the burdens of others.  I don’t enjoy lamenting and feeling angry at God for not doing something already.  And I suppose you could say that I bring this on myself.  In an attempt to see and hear I’ve started following more people of color, those in the LGBTQ community and civil rights activists on social media.  Which of course fills my feed with more hashtags documenting the names of men and women whose lives were taken unjustly.  I’m forcing myself to look at the problems and that in turn makes my heart break.  

I could stop looking.  I could easily unfollow all those voices on social media, take Facebook and Instagram off my phone all together and never open another news outlet site again.  I could easily pretend like those injustices don’t exist.  Because of my white privilege I have the choice to look the other way.  But I can’t un-know what I know.  My eyes were opened when I was fifteen and I read “To Kill a Mocking Bird” and “Black Boy.”  They were opened again when I was 19 and I took my first African American Studies class.  And again when I was 21 and took the Social Justice track at Intervarsity’s summer camp.  I can’t un-see what I saw when I taught at George Westinghouse high school in Brooklyn, New York, a stone’s throw away from the projects that raised Jay Z.  I could feign ignorance, but the truth is I know.  I’ve seen the injustice and one day I think I will be accountable to God for what I did with that knowledge.

So I keep looking.  I keep reading.  I keep feeling heavy and helpless because it feels like the least I can do.  To not look away.  To see it and bear just a fraction of the burden my black brothers and sisters bear.  

And maybe that’s the hard part for me.  It feels like the absolute least I can do, but I don’t know what else to do.  I’ve been reliving this cycle for years now, since the Trayvon Martin shooting.  I feel the burden and the grief, I lament and post articles and like posts on Facebook until the media coverage dies down and the death becomes a little more removed.  And then I can forget (I have the luxury of forgetting) for a little while until the next shooting, the next unarmed or unaggressive black man or boy dies and the cycle repeats.  It feels so… worthless and unhelpful.

I heard on the Liturgists podcast (episode 30: Prophet or Ass, around the 18 minute mark) that in order to bring about real social change two kinds of people are needed.  We need the prophets, the ones who are outside of the power structure and who decry injustice loudly and clearly.  For the others outside the power structure these prophets are affirming and life giving.  They are leading the cause, giving a voice, pointing to the injustice and spreading the message needed for change.  Martin Luther King Jr. would be an example of such a prophet.  Those most empathetic within a power structure are also affected by the prophet’s message.  What happens though is that as human beings it is essential to our cognition to identify as a good person and so we subconsciously filter any information that undermines our self identification as a good person.  When a prophet brings forth evidence that our way of life oppresses another group of people we get defensive and we tune out because it challenges our identity as good.  For most within power structure we are unable to hear the message of the prophet.  Mentally we shut down.  And so a second group is necessary.  I like to think of them as allies.  An ally is someone within the power structure that can present the message of the prophet in a way that clearly and specifically calls out oppressive behavior while still speaking in a language that affirms the goodness of the identity of those within the oppressing groups.  An ally can take the prophet’s message back to the others and gently educate and inform.  Allies can have lower stakes conversations about the structure of white supremacy and its damage with those who have benefited (whether they realize it or not) from that structure.  They can call it out in a way that acknowledges that most of these actions are unthinking and affirm the basic goodness of those inside the oppressing group.  Both groups are needed to bring about social change on a large scale.   

I’m beginning to understand my role as an ally.  I need to speak up, to have hard conversations, to call out oppressive behavior.  And I need to do it in a way that still affirms our basic decency.  Without this approach it is scientifically proven that cognitively those in power will shut down, tune out, and forget. 

So I’m trying that today.  I’m refusing to look away and I’m being brave and kind with those around me.  In person I want to keep quiet because it’s hard to have difficult conversations face to face and point out someone’s conscious or subconscious bias.  Online I want to be cutting and snarky because I’m angry at myself for being so quiet and impatient with those that I think just don’t understand.  It’s easy to be bold and harsh online when you don’t have to see the effect of your words.  I’m raising my voice AND I’m doing it in love.  Because my role in bringing about social change is to be an ally, and this is the best way I know how.

For what it’s worth, this podcast is an excellent listen.  It’s another one from The Liturgists, called Black and White: Racism in America.  I think it’s a great entry point for those of us within the power structure to begin to open our eyes and learn.  

Little Actors Club

On Tuesdays this past spring Ryann and I ate dinner early and then hop in the car.  We made our way to the community center, the same one where I spent so much of my own youth.  We headed upstairs, down the hall to Arrowhead room 2.  Toots joined a group of other 3-6 year olds for a 45 minute class titled, “Little Actors Club.”  It was a drop off class, so I couldn’t watch, and because she’s three and her reporting skills leave something to be desired, I don’t exactly know what went on during those 45 minutes.  From what I gathered, they acted out a different story each week.  The teacher brought makeshift costumes and props.  Laced in their play acting are theater games and vocabulary lessons.  It seems to be a popular class; this one was more full than any of the others we’ve taken at the community center.  

I came across this class ages ago and knew I wanted to sign my girl up.  I hesitated though, questioning if it was because I thought she would like it or because I would have liked it at her age.  I worry about becoming a stage mom, pushing my three year old into acting classes.  Still though, something in my gut knew she’d love it.  In the end it was her brother’s hockey class that tipped my hand.  If he was signed up for another session of something, she would want to be too, and I hadn’t been impressed with the dance class last fall.

Every Tuesday at 6:15 I was so very thankful I followed my gut.  She skipped out of class each week, animatedly chattering about the past 45 minutes.  She’d be on a high for the rest of the evening, so excited about life and her place in it.  Little Actors Club made my girl come alive in the purest and truest sense.  

One week as I walked through the community center with Ryann, inwardly glowing as I watched her outwardly glow, I marveled at how innate our wiring is.  I had peeked in the window as I waited for the end of class.  Ry had a smile a mile wide as she acted out whatever story they were doing that week.  I could tell how happy she was in that moment, how “in her element” she felt.  And it’s amazing to me that at this young age Ry has an element.  There is a thing that makes her come alive, a thing she was created to love and do.  This doesn’t feel like the normal kid joy that comes from doing normal kid fun things.  There is a different energy about her after Little Actors Club, an exhilaration that radiates from her.

And as I watched my girl radiate and come alive I was struck by how long it’s been since I’ve felt that way.  When did I stop doing the things that make me come alive?  Why did I stop doing them?  If you asked me today, I’m not even sure I know what makes me come alive right now.  What brings me exhilaration these days?  What has me skipping and buzzing like Ryann after Little Actors Club?

I don’t know, but I want to find out.  I don’t know if it will be something that has always made me come alive, or something new, something I’ve never tried.  I just know I want to make space to explore the things that make me come alive again.  Watching Ryann every Tuesday in the spring has me longing for that spark.  It’s inspiring me to try and find it again.  

I’m tempted to think it’s selfish of me to search for my own “come alive” moments.  But when I watch Ryann, when I observe her pure joy and excitement I think about how much better she would be if I, as her mother, operated out of a similar place of happiness.  If I mothered out of a sense of being alive and exhilaration.  Wouldn’t we all be better off?

So I’m searching for my own Little Actors Club.  I’m exploring and wondering and dreaming.  I’ll let you know if I figure anything out.

What makes you come alive?

Things I've (finally) Learned After Four Kids

These kids are nuts.

Ya’ll.  I have four kids.  It’s kind of a lot.  I’ve spent the last eight months feeling a little bit like the stereotypical crazed mom of lots of littles.  You know, manic eyes, unshowered, yoga pants and spit up covered shirt.  (Can we talk about the spit up?  Rory is still spitting up after pretty much every meal.  Now that she’s eating solids her spit up is a rainbow of colors and it has stained every article of clothing I own.)  Now, though, it’s summer and I’m slowly crawling my way out of the hole.  The weather is better, our schedule is a little more relaxed but also defined.  Rory can handle a shorter morning nap and a few more excursions.  I’m feeling more like myself.  It’s kinda nice.

And over the past eight months I’ve learned some lessons that I’m slightly embarrassed to admit took me four kids to figure out.  So I figured I should share them, if only to allow you to benefit from my stupidity/wisdom sooner than later.

And so, without further adieu: A few things I’ve finally learned after four kids…

1.) How to remove a onesie after a blowout.

Those shoulder slits do more than just get the onesie over the kids head...

You guys.  You guys.  This one will change your life if you’re like me and you cleaned up countless diaper blowouts without figuring this out.  You know how onesies have those funny shoulders with the slits?  I always thought it was just so you could get the onesies over babies’ huge domes.  But you know what else you can do with them?  Pull the onesie down over their shoulders in the event of a blowout diaper.

I mean, all those years of trying to get poop filled onesies over my kids heads without getting crap in their hair and it wasn’t until kid number four that I finally figured out I could just pull it down.  Life changing I tell you.  And it came just in time because for a while there Rory was only pooping once a day and it was a disaster every. single. time.

2.) Sometimes, like when you serve chili to a 6 month old, its just best to strip them down to their diaper.

so much mess.

Rory loves ground beef.  Taco Tuesday is her favorite.  Chili mac makes her heart soar.  Pasta sauce with meat in it is her love language.  And I’ve finally learned that when she is eating messy meals like this I should just strip her down to her diaper before we eat.  Because there is not a bib in the world that will protect her clothing from that mess.  Somehow she manages to get pasta sauce on her toes.  Her clothes don’t stand a chance.  So it’s hillbilly style dining around here and I’m fine with it.

3.) Some toys are just not worth it.

I’ve developed what I call the “Out of my hair to clean up ratio” when it comes to toys.  I think that the primary function of toys should be to entertain my kids so I don’t have to.  But after four kids I’ve realized that not all toys and activities were created equal in their ability to do this job.  And I’ve become ruthless in eliminating/hiding toys that don’t meet the proper “Out of my hair/clean up ratio” standards.  In order for a toy to remain in good standing around here it needs to occupy my kids for at least three times as long as it takes to clean up said toy.  This is why I will let my kids remove every costume in the bin, turn any and all boxes into robots/computers/airplanes/sea creature, and drag their laundry basket to the basement so it can be an elevator (I still can’t figure out what they were doing with that one).  Because these things occupy my kids for hours.  Or at least 45 minutes.  It’s why I leave crayons, markers coloring books and pads of paper at eye level on the closet shelf and don’t complain when every crayon ends up on the floor.  They’ve spent 25 minutes coloring one scribble on each page in the book and not whining at my feet to be picked up (side eye to you Lou).  If it takes me 7 minutes to clean all that up I’ll still think it was worth it.

Things that do not make the cut include play dough, arts and crafts projects and legos (kinda).  Play dough occupies my kids for approximately 3 and a half minutes and then I spend the next three weeks finding dried up dough inside every crevice, on every surface, and under every fingernail in my house.  Arts and crafts project kits don’t make the cut because it is decidedly not an “out of my hair” activity.  I have the help with the gluing and the cutting and in the end my kids have a paper owl that looks more like a disfigured snake and I’m supposed to treasure it always.  And also the whole time I want to stab my eyes with the scissors.  Liam is just starting to be able to assemble legos on his own, but for years it required me trying to access the non existent engineer in my brain to figure out the instructions.  

And finally number 4:  I don’t have to be all the moms 

Some moms are great “arts and crafts” moms.  Some are “play with trains for hours” moms.  Some are “chase you around the park for hours” moms.  These are examples of mom-ing things that I am maybe not great at.  I remember once taking Liam to the park when I was 17 months pregnant with Ryann.  There was a mom there who was the quintessential “cool mom.”  She was young and fit and obviously so fun.  She chased her kid around the park, running up the equipment and sliding down the slide, laughing with seemingly endless bounds of energy.  I watched her, hand resting on my gigantic belly vowing to be like her as soon as this kid was evicted from my womb.  But the reality is I’m just not that mom.  I would like to be, but I’m really not.  When I do it I feel unnatural.  Like I’m playing a character.

I am the kind of mom that sings show tunes in my kitchen with the girls.  The mom that takes the kids on the train or to the pool.  I’m the mom who reads their favorite books a million times and uses my full arsenal of accents and voices.  I’m a “dance party when everyone is melting down” mom.  I’m a “get out of the house” mom.  I’m the “scratch your back forever” mom.  I’m finding that when I am intentional about focusing my energy in these ways with my kids I don’t feel guilty about not being the other moms.  I can love it when my friends are the kind of moms they were built to be without feeling all the “I should do that too” angst.  And my kids don’t care.  They just want me to be their mom, whichever kind of mom that is.  

So, there’s a few things I’m (slowly) learning.  What about you?  Anything 2 or 3 or 4 kids are teaching you??

New Kind of NYE

It was a full house.  Eight adults and ten kids ranging from age five to three months.  One lake house with lots of rooms.  It was a full house. 

We spent New Year’s Eve at a friend’s lake house this year.  It was a gathering of our people.  The ones we are “doing life with,” so to speak.  I packed cozy clothes and my new Ugg slippers along with enough food to feed an army and two pack and plays.  We were gathering for just two nights, but time together under one roof is precious and I anticipated it with much excitement.

For two days kids ran around in every imaginable kind of costume.  Batman sparred with Olaf, princesses played with chefs.  There was fort building and movie watching.  There were snowball fights and crafts.  It was exactly the right space for my little family this exact moment.

On our first morning there we woke to a milk container that had mysteriously shattered in the refrigerator overnight.  This is when eight adults are at their best.  We worked quickly and efficiently and in no time that fridge was cleaned out, wiped down and put back together.  And then we all had champagne for breakfast.  It was supposed to be mimosas, but no one brought orange juice and after all we’d been through we felt like champagne for breakfast was justified.

For two days the adults enjoyed conversations that happened lazily over coffee and picked up again during lunch.  We were interrupted but able to find the plot again because we had the time and space to do it.  We talked about what the year ahead held.  We laughed together a lot.  We blasted my “dancing in the kitchen playlist” while we prepared a happy hour feast and danced to the songs of our high school and college days.  We had fun together.

On New Year’s Eve we fed kids dinner early.  While they scarfed down frozen pizza and clementine oranges we nibbled on appetizers and enjoyed some beverages.  Then we busted out hats and funny 2016 glasses and had ourselves a dance party.  Toots was in her element spinning and rocking out to the KidzBop Pandora station. My little Red showed off her dance moves, dropping it like it was hot at one point.  We had fun with our kids, twirling and singing and laughing.  Thanks to the magic of Netflix we played the Carebears countdown and rang in the New Year at 6:59pm, hugging our little people and toasting with sparkling cider. 

And then the kids went to bed and the grown ups got to take our time savoring a meal and connecting around the table.  For a little while we checked in with how we were “really doing” and shared a glimpse of what’s going on behind the chaos that is raising little people.  

And because of those little people who would be awake and ready for action at an unsuitable hour we ourselves watched the East Coast New Year’s countdown and rang in the New Year at 11:01pm.  And then we promptly went to bed.

I’ve never been a big NYE person.  I love the idea of it.  The romantic notion of beginning a new year with celebration.  I like the idea of champagne and gold, glittery dresses and dancing.  But I’ve never gone so far as to shell out a hundred bucks for a ticket to a party at some hotel or bar.  My best New Year’s Eves involved dinner out somewhere fancier than the local Chili’s with people I really love and watching the countdown on TV. 

It was a little different kind of NYE this year.  There meal was homemade and there was not a high heeled shoe in sight.  This year the best part of New Year’s Eve was the dance party with our little people.  Laughing with our friends who understand so intimately just what this crazy stage of life it.  It was a different kind of NYE, this one that revolved around our kiddos.  But it may have been my favorite one yet.

We’re in a new phase of life, this season of four kiddos five and under.  There will be less meals out and more game nights in with our kids.  Less time away and more time together.  I’m ready for it, excited even to start creating the same kind of family memories I have with my own family.  And I’m thankful for this tribe of people who love my kids as much as their own and are willing to ring a new year in with chaos and laughter and little people.  Our family is better because of them. 

It’s been a month since we kicked off the New Year with these friends but I’m still so thankful for the ways in which it set a tone for our year.  It was everything I needed as I closed out one year and began another.  It was equal parts family and friends, thoughtful and fun, challenging and light.  It was a different kind of NYE.  It was just what we needed.  

Happy Birthday Sister

My beautiful sister turned 30 on Sunday.  When some of my friends turned 30 I paid tribute with words as best I could.  Today I braved the snow to sit at Panera and try to do the same for my first and best friend.

I’ve known my sister all of her 30 years.  In fact, my very first memory is of meeting her.  I remember being in the hospital room with my mom and dad and brother.  They wheeled her in the room inside one of those clear, plastic basinets.  I could see her little head, topped with a fine layer of bright red hair.  She was tiny and pink and impossibly new looking.  She was magical.  Then my aunt’s friend took me to the vending machine and let me pick out whatever I wanted and that was magical too.  

Growing up my sister was a shadow I wanted to shake.  I hated when she was allowed to do the things I was doing.  I wanted her to earn it, as I had, to wait the appropriate amount of years to partake in whatever privilege I had.  We were a little less than three years apart and she was always right behind me, wanting to do all the things I did.  I may have been unnecessarily territorial.  

It wasn’t until high school that I began to really appreciate my sister.  Of course it didn’t start that way.  I remember being so pissed that I had to share my dad for the daddy/daughter dance the fall of my senior year.  I’d had him to myself all the other years and suddenly my freshman sister was there once again honing in on my territory.  But by the end of the night, after dancing and laughing and genuinely enjoying my sisters company she became a real, relatable person.  After that I liked seeing her at school, knowing her friends, sharing the peripherals of each other’s world. 

When I went to college I missed her.  She continued to grow into this interesting, unique, funny person that I wanted to be around.  After college I moved to New York.  She came to visit me one weekend and after I dropped her off at Grand Central to catch the bus to the airport I had the sudden realization that I was ready to move home.  Why the heck was I living a plane ride away from all my people?  I wanted to be flying back on that plane with her, seeing her more than just holidays and occasional weekends.

When I think about my sister all I can think of is “there.”  She is my ultimate go to gal.  She’s been there for me in every sense of the word.  When Tommy and I would get in fights during our dating years she was the one I’d call because I knew she loved him and me and she’d sort me out.  When I eventually married him she was right there next to me.  When Liam was born and everything was harder than I’d ever expected it would be my sister was there.  She lay in bed with me, Liam sleeping on one of our chests watching iCarly or some equally terrible show for hours on end.  Anyone who knows my sister will tell you, she shows up for her people big time.  She’s there.

My sister is funny.  And smart.  She has the biggest heart.  She’s devoted and loyal.  She knows how to connect with everyone.  In our family she is the lynch pin, mostly because she prioritizes us.  Being with family is important.  She’s everyone’s favorite sister (and I’m not even bitter because she deserves it.)  She’s used her tremendous talents to work for non-profits because she believes in the work.  Her friends will tell you she’s the one you want in your corner.  She’s loyal and loving and fierce.

It is my kids that are the luckiest when it comes to my sister.  She has loved them deeply and greatly from the moments they were born.  Finding a unique way to bond with each of them has given them all individual relationships with her.  She is playful and patient, loving and helpful and they love Aunt Ry.  

When I was younger I hated how much my sister wanted to imitate me.  Matching outfits made me grumpy and her treading into any of my supposed territories sent me into a rage.  Now though, I want to be just like my sister.  Truly.  When I grow up I hope I’m more like her.  

I’m not usually at a loss for words.  But when it comes to my sister all I can come up with falls short.  I will reread this essay a thousand times with a angsty feeling because it just doesn’t quite do her justice.  I don’t know if all the perfect words in the world with encapsulate all the things I love about her.  So I will end with this:  I love my sister so much I named my first daughter after her.  There is really no one else I would rather she emulates.  If she can inherit a fraction of my sister’s character, along with her name, she will be lucky.

Happy birthday Ryann.  I love you too much.

Rory Girl

Oh man. It's December. And according to this blog of mine, the last time I posted was July. I had big plans for this blog, my writing and life in general for 2015. And then I found out I was, er, unexpectedly pregnant in February and 2015 started to look a whole different than I had planned. Truth be told this pregnancy took it's toll on me and 2015 has been lost in exhaustion, baby growing, baby delivering and keeping baby alive. It seemed to take every ounce of my energy and creativity to do that, and there was nothing left over. Then there's the deeper truth that who I am at my core, my faith and much of what feels like my foundation has been out of sorts since I lost my dad two years ago. And hence, December has arrived and I've written very few words this year.

BUT I have high hopes for 2016 and this little corner of the internet of mine. I've got lots of thoughts swirling in my head, and am feeling ready to start sorting through my out of sorts-ness on the blank page. So hopefully I'll be able to pick back up in the new year and give this blog some new life (just in time for the "end of blogging" of course. I suppose I'd be better off closing the blog and starting a podcast like every blogger I know and love.)

In the meantime I thought I'd share the main reason it's been so quiet around here...

On October 9th at 11:50pm we welcomed this little one into our home.

Rory Powell.

Our Rory girl has been a surprise in every sense of the word. A lovely, beautiful, perfect surprise.

She is darling and sweet and adored by her sisters and brother. We are all adjusting to life with a little less sleep and attention than we'd prefer :) Some of us are handling it better than others.

I have big thoughts on what I've learned now that I have four kids (what the what- I. have. four. kids.), how I feel about raising three girls (our home is now covered in a layer of glitter) and how I'm feeling about being a stay-at-home mom full time now. I hope to dive into it all here soon.

But for the rest of the month I'm committed to snuggling these guys,

creating space to anticipate the coming of Christmas and all that it means,

and keeping the newborn alive. It's chaos, but I love it.

Ways in Which my Fourth Pregnancy has Turned Me into a Toddler

I’m pregnant.  Again.  31 weeks pregnant to be exact.  This one was not exactly “planned,” so to speak.  I ran into an old high school classmate last week, one who was about as pregnant as I am with a toddler about as old as Red.  And as she so succinctly put it, “so this one was a surprise too, huh?  ‘Cause you’d have to be crazy to plan on having kids this close together, right?”  Which is pretty much how I felt when I put two and two together last February and took a pregnancy test.  Crazy.

Anyway, I’ve now had time to (for the most part) get used to the idea that I will have four kids in five years.   I’m even finding some positives in the whole barrel of insanity that will be my life.  I can see the fun to be had with so many kids this close in age.  At this point what’s one more, right?

But pregnancy.  Ugh.  I’ve never been a super pleasant pregnant person.  I’m not one to marvel over the amazing things my body can do in pregnancy.  I’m more likely to crab over the million annoying side effects (number one on my list: the weird way my sinuses get completely blocked during the nine months my womb is occupied.  I’ve cornered the market on BreathRight strips.  I’m thisclose to wearing those things during daylight hours.)  The novelty of pregnancy wears off with each successive pregnancy and this fourth one is for sure the absolute worst.  And then, because I have a three year old and a one year old, I realized that this pregnancy has turned me into a freakin’ toddler.  Let me explain:

Exhibit A.) The Hangry Toddler Meltdown.

Red is pretty known for the “Hangry Meltdown.” When she gets hungry, it comes with a side of anger.  And now, in my third trimester, I can relate sister.  On more than one occasion I’ve found my hunger growing as I prepare meals for the kids.   By the time I’ve doled out three cheese sandwiches with fruit and yogurt I’m not only starving but also irritated that these small people get to eat before me.  The longer it takes for food to make its way into my mouth, the more the rage grows.  Heaven help the kid that asks for more milk just as I’m sitting down with my own lunch.  I’m not proud of it, but irrational, over the top tirades about how “mommy just wants to eat her lunch with out getting up to refill milk fifteen times” have been delivered to dumbfounded and slightly terrified children.  I’ve wanted, on more than one occasion, to throw myself down on the ground like Red and just cry.  The only thing that stops me is the fact that my giant belly makes getting up difficult.

Yep.  This.  I get it Red. 

Exhibit B.) I keep toddler sleep hours.

In the first few months, when my normal first trimester exhaustion was enhanced by the fact that I was still nursing Red, I slept when she slept.  Meaning I put a show on for Toots at nine and passed out while Red took her morning nap.  Then I slept again at one when both girls napped.  And then I went to bed at seven with all three kids.  And I was still exhausted all the time.

All I want to do is sleep.

 Now, in the third trimester I’ve graduated to a sleep schedule more like Toots.  A nap around 1:30 or 2:00 is probably a good idea for me, especially if we’ve had a busy morning.  Like Toots, I can push through and skip that nap but it makes for an ugly evening.  If Toots and I have gone hard all day without a siesta we’re a mess by 5pm and need to be put to bed by 6:30, usually crying.  It’s been a bonding experience for the two of us.

And finally, the icing on the freakin’ cake:

Exhibit C.) My bathroom habits are identical to a potty training toddler

You guys.  I can’t even.  I didn’t think it could get any worse than when I was in the final weeks of my third pregnancy with Red.  My poor bladder was like the guy who should have probably retired five years ago.  Still working, but not super effective   Toots was potty training at that time and there was definitely an afternoon when we both peed our pants a little at Target.  At the time I thought that was as low as it could get, pregnancy humiliation wise.  This time around my bladder didn’t even try to pretend like it was still up for the challenge.  As soon as that pregnancy test revealed a plus sign my bladder put the “Gone Fishing” sign on the window and booked a first class flight seat to Vegas.  Where it’s apparently remained for the duration of my pregnancy. 

I pee all. the. time.  Everything makes me have to pee.  The sound of the shower makes me have to pee.  Hearing someone else peeing makes me have to pee (which is fantastic when I am constantly taking small children to the bathroom all day).  If I take a sip of water, thirty minutes later I’m running to the bathroom.  And I’m absolutely running because for some reason, with this fourth pregnancy, by the time my brain registers the need to pee, it’s five minutes too late.  When Toots was potty training she would get to the bathroom and say, “I just peed a little bit on my underwear.  But that’s ok.  It’s just a little bit.”  Yep.  I get it.  I’ve lost the ability to hold it. 

Also, that thing with toddlers where you make them pee before you leave the house and then, no matter what, thirty minutes into your tour through Mariano’s, with a cart full of groceries, you’re rushing down the aisles to find a bathroom?  Welcome to my life.  I have to plan my outings around the every 45-minute bathroom stops I will need to make. 

Maybe I should just succumb to it, wear batman underwear and no pants, 50 necklaces and not leave the house again until the baby comes.  This is how Toots rocked potty training.

You guys, please someone who has survived four pregnancies please tell me this will get better?  I’m not going to be stuck like this forever right?   Someday when I sneeze I won’t also pee a little too?