Some days are like this…
We have a routine: The Schedule. We stick to The Schedule (and unlike any sort of club, we do very often talk about The Schedule).
Some days, the universe does not comply with The Schedule.
Yesterday morning, I take Audrey for a run. Due to, um, unfortunate timing, I cut it short because the nearby park bathrooms were locked (at 8:45 am? c’mon Parks and Rec…). To make up for this, I do some other exercises in the living room before first nap, with babies pulling at my ponytail and trying to eat my watch.
First nap: success. Shower. Prepping the birthday cake ingredients. We are out of buttermilk, so I make some with milk and vinegar.
Post-first nap: bottle success. Walk to Green Lake Library, during which Theresa, who is going through some serious separation anxiety, will not ride in the stroller and switches places with Jamie to ride in the Ergo (even though it was his turn, which he will probably remind her of someday after reading this post).
We return home. The garage door appears to be broken: it will not close. Dad works on that while Mom and I serve lunch and put babies down for nap. They are red-rimmed-eyed exhausted.
I start making birthday cake. We have no sugar. Our neighbor is also out of sugar; thankfully another neighbor’s daughter saves the day by bringing me her family’s stash.
After 35 minutes of whimpering-leading-up-to-real-crying (and if that doesn’t sound like very long, come over sometime), we have to do a total nap reset. None of them had fallen asleep, despite being falling-over-tired. We take them downstairs, check diapers, read two stories (or Oh My Oh My Oh Dinosaurs several times) and attempt nap again.
No go. Not even close. Three babies screaming and crying real tears.
So I drive them to Everett.
They sleep for maybe 30-40 minutes of this 50 minute trip, but the real result is the quiet that I get from driving sans radio, and with their pacifiers in.
We return home. The microwave has stopped heating anything, which means we need to wait longer to give them their bottles.
My dad figures out what is wrong with the garage door and fixes it.
In the remaining 2+ hours before Alan returns home from work, I wear Theresa on my back in the Ergo while I call appliance repair people (five in total) before finding one who can come next Tuesday to see what’s wrong with our microwave. I finish making and then bake the birthday cake. We play many rounds of peekaboo and watch several episodes of Baby TV (i.e. look out the front door or window).
It is bath night, which means all three in one tub. This saves water but does not save my back which is constantly leaning over, sitting Jamie or Audrey down because what else does a one-year-old want to do but stand up?
Finally…Daddy arrives home, sweaty and tired from his bike ride uphill. Theresa, who has been crying almost any time she is not in my arms, flashes her toothiest heart-melting smile and reaches for him. Audrey clings to his legs.
They are in bed at 6:25 pm.
And I would like to say that through all this craziness and loudness, I did not lose it. Even when the voice in my head was yelling, “GO TO SLEEP!” (because that is the most effective thing to do for an upset baby) and “I am trying to make your birthday cake, goshdarnit!”, I was able to breathe and laugh and realize that it would all be okay.
And it is okay. Which means I am okay. I am stronger and patient and mindful.
I am SuperMom.
In other news, Callie often brings one of her stuffed mice to the foot of our bed at night, perhaps as a gift for us, or payment for her kibble, or whatever goes on in her kitty brain. This morning we found this at the foot of our bed and sat it next to her for a photo op: