Last night I went to bed after reading the “Childfree Life,” Time Magazine’s recent article about the choice not to have children. I’m all for free choice within the natural order of things, but I couldn’t help but fall asleep saddened by the possibility of so many people refusing to have children because, as many say in the article, “they aren’t sure if they want to give it all,” and beyond the social “pressures” and “conventions” that equate motherhood with womanhood, maybe the case for kids isn’t so great after all? Facebook has already developed a baby picture blocking app to prevent viewing people like me from posting pictures of their babies drenched in spaghetti sauce, peeing in the grass, or playing dress up in hats. And if there were ever a day where I would dream about basking in the sunlight, kid-less, but definitely without the matching bathing suits worn by these models, it probably would be today.

The fiasco of the morning routine began before the 6 made it to the big hand of the clock with nursing and a fully dressed James saying, “um, Josie is doing something with these things that look like rice krispies and all of my clothes.”

As responsible adults we reluctantly dragged ourselves out of bed to be greeted by static and Styrofoam in each an every corner of the children’s room, and most certainly in crazy baby’s hair. Master mess maker Josephine, maybe plotting and ploying since 3am?, found an unopened light fixture to be saved for a time I decide to decorate, and dissected the entire contents of the wrapping material along with James’ closet, quietly and undetected by all for unknown, but clearly long period of time. Both of us called “not it,” and having already nursed, my excuse to be preoccupied with those younger and unable to latch to anyone else was of no avail. And the first many minutes of the morning were spent as a family playing “who has the most static electricity? Looks like it’s Daddy.”

Minutes later, as I scrambled eggs and spoon fed yogurt, coffee yet to touch my lips, we heard water running only to catch her on top of the sink “making a waterfall” on the mirror.

Moments after that, Rita, decided to play in the fireplace in the exact moment that Josie wanted to play with knives, and James couldn’t get his dinosaur to roar. I made up for the roaring just fine as I picked up fire hazard baby only to find a leaking diaper of the brown color. Into the laundry room I sought refuge and wipes only to find approximately two inches of water and a spewing, soapy, washing machine making sounds also similar to a dinosaur.

Step one of poorly handling it: I closed the door and ran upstairs screaming.

Step two: I changed the dripping feces diaper and put Rita in her crib, banking on the situation being better handled without a baby in arms.

Step three: I called three people and asked for help in between breaths of hysterical laughing and each said “turn the washer off and get some towels.” My sister, with sympathy said, “I’d come over to help but 5/6 boys just peed in my garage because they noticed the drain.”

It may have been easy advice, but the thought of unfolding all those towels freshly put away and washed was a difficult one, and turning the washer off meant going back in that room with the flood.

I offered Tweedle Josie and Tweedle James some bubbles and said please be good, and they were and they even patted me on the back and said, “im sorry that wondry thingy is breaking and puking.”

Towels may have been a great thought but my linen closet was approximately 400 too short. The smell was of barf and poop mixed together. The feeling of the water on my feet was of soggy grossness. The 7 calls to my husband went mostly unanswered because he told me not to wash the bedspread that James spilled green smoothie all over in our dying washing machine purchased in 1985, maybe 87, and flood insurance does not cover “idiocy.” (he totally was on his way home from work early to help me clean all of it and told me to go to Marshalls to replace the ruined area rugs and forget about it, so he’s still the best. Since there weren’t area rugs, I bought a sweet pair of open toed black booties with a gold buckle, which was clearly the most reasonable trade off.)

3 hours later I think I cleaned it, and water damage is minimal, and my washer might get me through a few more loads of laundry. Only one time did I find the three kids doing something horrible during the cleaning time and I’m pretty sure she won’t ever brush her teeth with shaving cream ever again.

So while all the kid-less people enjoy their sunbathing and handholding at the beach, I hope those sunglasses block the sand being thrown because even though they didn’t bring chaos, I did, and I’m really happy about it through floods, and fireplace cinders, Styrofoam and shaving cream, and I’d say poop, but… that part is the worst.

Im almost ten months not pregnant, so I’m not sure if I should be linking to this party, but, the phrase “womb service” made me giggle  and think about my crazy cravings and 4,876,876 trips to Old Town, Alexandria’s Chipotle while pregnant with baby numero uno.

Baby #1: James Carey  

I spent most of the first 16 weeks sprawled on my bathroom floor, getting to know way too much about porcelain. Monday of week 17 I braved the grocery store, solo. That Whole Foods and I had some rough encounters, especially in its sea food section. I walked past the alcohol aisle, then the whole bean coffee, my envy brewing. In an attempt to choose peanut butter, it happened: my first craving. In my previous 22 non pregnant years, I thought cravings and morning sickness were a bunch of BS. Yet, there I stood, with a burning desire to devour mounds and mounds of a food I had never before eaten: CHICKPEAS. The need was immediate, impulsive, and ravenous. To the salad bar I fled…

I ate approximately 8 million chickpeas during that pregnancy. Humus sufficed, but the pure bean was king. After chickpeas, I wanted a grape fruit, and then I went to Chipotle and ate two salads with everything they served but the beans. Pregnancy has enough wind all by itself.

Baby #2: Josephine Marie

I made it to about 22 weeks before the crazy.

“Where are you?” I panted.

“What’s the matter?” he asked with concern.

“I need ice. Now. Go to the gas station. Or the beer distributor. I want the crunchy kind. With the holes. And make sure its soft enough so I can bite it.”

Everyday I “ate” somewhere around what could melt into 6 gallons of water. And then I made blueberry pancakes, for breakfast, elevensies, lunch, foursies, dinner, and pm elevensies. In fact, for the last 6 weeks of her gestational career, Josephine packed on all seven of her pounds with the sole help of blueberry pancakes.

Baby #3: Rita Therese  

Rita, unlike her sister, craved Omega 3s, probably because her older siblings sucked all the good ones out of me before she got there. It was, actually, the first nicest thing she did for me. At this point of her 9 month life, she’s done a lot more of those. Her in-utero existence gave a resurgence for my once 3-5 times a week  love for salmon. My healthy addiction had been ruined on a 17 hour flight to Australia, during which I threw up roughly 34 times, as they served the most repugnant smell to a girl with full fledge baby in the tummy throw ups: farmed salmon, steamed with peas and some sort of fake rice. If you could see my face as I type, its grimacing in disgust by the memory.

One fine day during week 18, I got hungry and only Salmon would do that day and everyday for the rest of her pregnancy. Smoked salmon is what I really wanted, but I do believe its frowned upon for preggos. I rejoiced and still rejoice, because its healthy and I missed it so.

I also ate 8 billion pounds of peanut butter m&m’s, and 8-10 gallons of would be melted water daily, and wanted roughly 4-6 pints of Guinness because its good and my two other kids were often bad. I settled on sipping my husbands.

And I will have you know that each of the foods I craved are each of their favorites. Its science.

You all did want to know that, right?

Happy Weekend and silly blogging to you!

Prompt: Describe a subculture of which you belong.

Regina Donahue
Subculture, Assignment 2

Moms at the park with three children or more

I park close to grass, and far away from cars both moving and still. I examine new wrinkles and pimples, wondering how they can exist at the same time. I’m thankful rearview mirrors are small enough to conceal the mix of yogurt and avocado spread generously on my shirt. I’m in need of confidence, and last night’s mascara doesn’t look all that bad. I turn to offer a vigorous time-table warning, reminding also of what to do in a parking lot, and Toddler Codes of Ethics. I call on Pavlov, promising suckers in exchange for good behavior, knowing full well rules will be broken, with giggles and smiles, from both them and me. Each of them, still, in their three carseats across, will enjoy a sucker as we travel back home, because my sleeping children don’t transfer, and today’s nap time is booked, and maybe its me that needs to be conditioned.

I step out of the car, cell-phone in back pocket, keys in left hand, right hand ready to unbuckle and balance with the help of my left hip and thigh. We make a train and he holds on to my purse, and the sound of “Choo choooooo” doesn’t at all embarrass. I wish their outfits were matching, because its cute and maybe impressive, but, I’m thankful they have clothes on at all, even if they wore it yesterday and probably will again tomorrow.

I peak into my purse, wondering why I chose to check my face rather than its contents in that silly little mirror. Twenty-Seven snacks should be fine, 6 diapers should suffice, but I am low on baby-wipes, so “Nobody poop!”

It takes roughly twelve minutes to walk those twenty steps, with 6 tiny legs, and shoes on the wrong feet. I see ladies running, childless and free, in Lululemon and spandex. I envy their use of babysitters remembering to make time for squats.

I greet the ones I know, counting heads between the periods and exclamations, thankful for the ellipsis, and sometimes forgetting punctuation altogether. I hope they understand the scatter in my brain, the stains, and the grease. Its just that catching kids on slides, pushing swings, creating barricades near ponds, serving juice boxes and goldfish while breaking up fist fights, and conversing with attention, or any comprehension, is sort of a lofty ambition on three hours of sleep and a baby on my breast.

“Im, sorry. What?”

We chat and share strategies of discipline and sanity, and I think I offer very little, as I watch him push and smack.

“I think its time for naps,” I scurry, but not too quickly because she’s cutting teeth and not quite finished eating, and the third baby is really asked a lot.

I warn, and punish, and pinch a little too. It takes about an hour, to make it to the car.

“Who wants a sucker?” I say, before I put it in reverse.