The Family Dog

If anyone ever wants to know about 'the family dog' just go rent "Marley and Me"..or you could just call my house and I will tell you all about the family dog.



Most families in rural Pennsylvania have a dog. Or two. There are many, many families all over the world who have dogs, even in the city. Dogs who are an integral part of their family, who are loved and faithful companions. They need walked and loved and vet checked and fed.



My dog, mainly, likes to be fed.

We came across this particular animal when we had just moved to our new home, all freshly built and full of wide acres and woods. A friend of a friend had heard of a family who had recently decided to give away their Labrador retriever. She was 3 years old and fully grown, perfect health and very gentle.

One December day, my husband rings into the phone on his cell, and says "bring the boys to the window, I have a surprise for them". He drives up the driveway with the window down, her gold head hanging out, snowing like crazy and the kids went NUTS.

She is hands down, the most gentle dog known to us. The day after her arrival, the older boys went to school and our third son, at age 4, asked if he could go outside and play in the snow with his new dog. I, having just had a baby weeks before, said "OK, but I'll watch from the window"..out they go, red and blue snowsuit and yellow lab. I watched for a time while he threw snowballs and she tired to chase them or catch them. Then he (or perhaps the dog herself) got the bright idea to start digging a tunnel from all the snow that was pushed to the side of the drive from my husband's snow plow. I watched as one little boy and one large dog dug side by side in the deep, deep snow for over an hour to create the 'coolest tunnel ever' and two big brothers come home ready to play in it. On that day, the four yr old child made his very first friend, and she didn't care that he couldn't talk very well. She pulled him on his sled and jumped in the pond after him, swimming and laughing. She chases him on his bike and on his four wheeler. She walks every single day to the bus stop and sometimes even follows the bus for a short distance. She waits every single day at the end of our rock wall, every single day. Sometimes it's only for a pat on the head from the older boys, but the now 7 yr old always, always has a stick he's grabbed from the woods to throw to her. Every single day.



This sounds idyllic, right? Well, I'm now going to give you all the 'reality bites' section of this dog story. You know there are animals who are just big oafs, right? All hair and stink and slobber and barking at night when it's NOT APPROPRIATE. Well, our wonderful, amazing dog is also that big dummy as well.

(as a side note, I wonder if my dog is bipolar? maybe she needs medicated..)

Anyway....my dog has gained an enormous amount of weight since coming to live here at our house. This is because everyone feeds her. As in, every single person in our house fills her food dish at least once a day. Do you sense a communication problem here? My husband feeds her when he leaves for the day at 5am. Next, Mr. "I take a dump every single day at 6am" feeds her. Then when they kids leave the house at 7:45am, the other twin feels badly for her, so he thinks a bowl of food may help her survive the day without them. By noon the 3 yr old has fed her at least part of her breakfast and possibly all of it. After school, the 7 yr old feeds her 'just because I love her so much MOM!'...by 6pm when it's dinner time, she gets all the leftovers. That's like 8000 calories a day! My dog needs to do P90X!

Last summer, I went on a crusade to 'save the dog' by jogging with her or at least walking her daily. She lost a little weight and was so much healthier, happier. This summer, again, all over again, because she's even bigger than last year. Poor animal. And believe me, taking this animal on a walk/jog isn't fun because I usually end up DRAGGING her 110 lb body half the distance! She will actually stop and lay down. Picture a mother on a country road, dog tied to jogging stroller, two kids on bikes and one small blond boy pushing at a dog's BUTT to get her up and moving!

We are a movie, just waiting to happen.



My dog has a keen sense of who is small enough to have food at eye level. She has some kind of radar with the midgets. One particular child, she has stolen every single solitary piece of food from for two years straight. He hates her. When these particular friends show up, the dog gravitates toward this single child (they have 5 children in total), fully knowing he will have some kind of food at some point in his visit. And she always, always gets it without biting him or hurting him. She just reaches up and gently takes it out of his hands. We should perhaps praise her dexterity for not hurting this child, but as his cries and screams of "Maggie stole my hot dog! Maggie stole my pizza!" are much louder, she usually gets yelled at.

My dog will lay in front of whatever door we are using and will not move her body. In the winter, we use the garage door~she lays in front of it on one of those coco mats. We all have to literally STEP OVER her body or in the children's case, LEAP OVER her body to get out the door. In the summer, we use the sliding glass doors on the deck. She again, lays on a decorative, outdoor mat I have out there. We open the door, and jump. She never moves. In my head, I'm silently screaming "MOVE YOUR ASS DOG!".

My dog is also, I'm sure, a lesbian. Which is fine, because I don't have a sexual bigot issue. (also, I am not one of those people that says "I know lots of homosexuals" and really doesn't..I hate that about people! Jesus!) Anyway, she is, at the very least, sexually confused. She came to us already spayed, without pregnancy or puppies. She is a humper. She gets on other dogs, she gets on benches, and occasionally, a child who has fallen off a snowmobile. We have been outside sledding and my husband will yell "KID DOWN!" and we run to save whatever child is being molested by our beloved hound. Confounded animal!

Our dog is a night barker. Last night, for example, at 2am, I was awoken by barking. And she really barks, if anyone is familiar with a lab's bark, it's not a little yip. She barks. I jump out of bed to run to the window, look down into our front yard, where the movement light has come one and see one yellow lab barking at one skunk. I immediately run to the children's rooms to shut their windows, as I know what the outcome of this battle will be. I am too late! The skunk has done it's duty and my dog has run down the yard, rolling and rolling.

I now own 'skunk dog'. We attempted a bath, with gloves. We were unsuccessful. She will simply have to wear it out.

Our dog drives us nuts. She does. It can be 90 degrees outside and she will come and sit right next to us on our feet. I can lay on the deck on a towel after playing in the pool with the kids and again, I will detect a faint smell, look over and she'll be within inches of me, laying down. She will take a ball we throw to her, and run. She never, ever has brought one back. Ever. We just accept that we'll have to buy cheap tennis balls. The kids all are hoping that one day they will come upon a hidden pile of them. She eats Barbies. But not the heads. She eats the bodies. She runs away with our flip flops, and frankly, any one's flip flops. She especially likes the ones that say 'Adidas' or 'Nike' or 'Under Armour'. The $2.50 ones from Old Navy just don't cut it.

I have tried, after bathing her, to brush her teeth. She takes the brush and eats it. She does enjoy some Crest.

She is all tongue and brown eyes. She looks like she's smiling.

She is gentle beyond belief. One afternoon this spring, the 3 yr old asks "Mom, can I go jump on trampoline?" as I am finishing the dishes. I told her yes and I would be right out in a few minutes to watch her, as our trampoline and play area is about 25 yards from the deck. I watch her walk out, Maggie the Dog waddling right behind her. She climbs up the step onto the trampoline, inside the enclosure and begins jumping away. The dog sits down, eyes keen on this child and I think, 'she's not so bad after all'.

Marley may be Maggie the Dog's cousin..

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

This is a letter from your only child.

I embark on this emotional exorcism with Father's Day upon us and I have no father.

My children have a beautiful father. My husband is as close to a perfect man as one can ask for.



I had an imperfect father. His imperfections are part of the reason I loved him so.



My imperfect father left me, not of his own accord, of course. Cancer is a choice no one makes willingly. His absence has broken me.





Dear Dad,

Hi, how are you? Do you miss me?

The boys just finished yet another school year, the twins had beautiful report cards! One with straight A's and one with all A's and one solitary B. AND: to be specific, those were the FINAL AVERAGES. I know you like specifics.

Your third grandson finished first grade with his ego intact with wonderful progress and made some incredible strides this year. Not only has he begun to trust his environment, he has some great little friends, as well. His confidence has grown and he is finally beginning to read. He has demonstrated very keen math skills. He is an amazing athlete. Or, better put, he will be.

Your granddaughter is a chip of the ole' block. You would be amazed at her intellect and character. She is all fire, all cinnamon. Her character will take her places, we have complete and total faith in her. She's smart and she's sassy. She would rather face consequences than admit to failure. Believe me, she can take a spanking.

The boys just finished Little League. One twin did not play, and we didn't make him. He is a bookish child, and the only sport he's done to date without major prodding was football. You would undoubtedly LOVE watching the Little League games, I know you would..most grandparents do. But knowing your distinct love of baseball, I know you would love sitting in one of those folding 'chairs in a bag', right behind home plate.

I like to think that you would praise my parenting. I doubt myself. Parenting is full of doubt and all these dumb potholes..and you always said if there was a pothole on a road, I would definitely and without a doubt, hit it.

I hit them daily, Dad.



I want you to know that taking care of Mom is really, really hard. It's so hard that I wonder if this is why you drank yourself to sleep every night. Am I mistaken in that she drove you to it?

Do you know that she has bedsores on her back? Do you know that I take care of them? Do you know that she doesn't know what day it is? She came to ask me this morning and then asked my husband later in the day. She doesn't know what today is, Dad. She doesn't know how to pay her bills, she doesn't know how to make a phone call. She sleeps 18 hours a day. She sleeps in your recliner. She doesn't eat very much, usually what I force down her throat. Do you know that she has accidents? Do you know that she is so, so very lonely that she intrudes on our personal time? Did you help to do this? Do you understand how isolated she feels and how isolated we feel? It is unfair of us to constantly make her go to her apartment when she is lonely...however, it is equally unfair of her to expect me to entertain her on a minute by minute basis. I don't think she even understands what she's doing.

She is an amazing actress. I think I have you to thank for this..as she more than likely had to cover bruises and smile pretty for the public. She loved you. She is broken, too.



Do you know that your mother is still living? Can you even believe that? My God she's 103 years old. I know you believe it because you always said she was too mean to ever die. I admit, I am not a good granddaughter to her. I am busy with four children. I also have to thank you for this, for having me late in life so I wouldn't have to deal with her and Mom simultaneously.

Do you know that I still have the same best friend? She has three kids. Her husband helped my husband coaching Little League. Aren't you glad for me? You always told me she was a keeper, and she has proven to be. I am so glad to have her, she is one of the strongest, solidifying parts of my life. It's never, ever hard to be her friend. She is a wonderful mother, she laughs with her children.

I miss you very much. I miss talking and reading with you. I think, of course, of all the things you are missing..but not as much as I used to. I am trying NOT to feel sorry for myself any more. I surely didn't want to lose you. But more than that, I know you most certainly didn't want to leave.

I am most sorry for the boys, that they don't know you. The young men that had a place in my life or in our home all remember you fondly, I know they do. Not many could forget you. You were fair and fun and real.

I want you to know, I'm trying very hard to take care of my mother. I'm failing at it, much worse than you..while you may have been abusive to a point..you at least provided for her in your death, fully knowing she would not be able to provide for herself. I wish you would have left me with some kind of 'guidebook', a manual of sorts to figure out this windy road I'm on.

There are so many potholes, Dad.

I write this with Father's Day looming over me...and I'm sad because I realize I don't remember what I got for you on your last Father's Day. I hope it was good.

You were good.

Ten Year Old Boys

Ten year old boys.

As the mother of ten year old twin boys, I feel as though I am qualified to say the following:

They are complete and utter idiots.

There. No, I do not feel better, because I love my sons and their report cards tell me that they are not fools.

Why, then, do they act as such?

The day begins with the struggle to awaken. Get out of the bed. Get onto the feet. Get into the bathroom. Getting one or both of these boys out of bed in the morning is like extracting an unwilling molar. Painful and possibly bloody.

One twin has his own bedroom due to his needs. These needs are as follows, although not in any specific order: 1) his need to read at night, and sometimes weekend mornings 2) his need for organization to all things 'his' 3) his need to sleep in whenever possibly and 4) his need for space. I understand all of these needs, because he inherited most of these traits from me. He is, too, a mean, nasty little cuss at times and we have found that if given the space to decompress, he is nicer. This twin emerges from slumber still catatonic and no one is to speak or look at him until he has gone to the bathroom and eaten his breakfast. We have ALL learned this lesson the hard way. Even after breakfast, we sometimes try to leave him alone or face certain death.

The other twin is a mess. Just a plain mess. This child drops his clothes, underpants, sock, glasses, whatever, whenever, wherever. He doesn't have a care in the world. His clothes are jammed into his drawers, wrinkled and (YES THEY ARE CLEAN) he has no care at all that he looks dishelved at best. This twin shares a room with 7 yr old brother. For two reasons, basically. One is that we only have a four bedroom home and in planning the home, did not include fourth and girl child. Secondly, other twin cannot deal with his own twin or 7 yr old brother.

So, this twin gets up every day at 6 am and goes to the bathroom. Every single solitary day of his life. The kid could wind his watch by his bowels. It's amazing and his father is incredibly jealous. Again, I have nothing to add on this because only a MAN would find it 'just wonderful' to be able to have a BM every day at the same time for ten years.

I digress.

Ten year old boys are lazy. Like, super duper, if it doesn't suit their needs, LAZY. I have heard also that this does not get better in near future years. These enigmas, these beings, are forged from my body but sometimes I feel totally detached from them. I see them, I see the the physical similarities they possess that are like that of my own, or my husband's, or from a family member. I remember rocking them, I remember feeding them. I documented their accomplishments, the first steps, first tooth. I love these children.

Then they open the mouth that God bestowed unto them and I want to put them in the Goodwill Box.

If the sheer stupidity of their questions continue throughout the teen years I may have to be medicated. I find myself YELLING the answers because literally, the 7 yr old knows the answer~why are you asking me this??!! I have never, ever understood the need for the rhetorical question. If one already knows the answer, why ask it? My ten year old sons are the new meaning of the term 'rhetorical questions'.

I have also noticed this year that ten year old boys have a pronounced hearing loss. To accompany their vision loss, I presume.

"Good morning, rise and shine~" is normally how I start their morning. After rising approx 20 minutes before the first battle of the day, I chug down my first cup of coffee and pour another. I walk up the stairs and enter twin bedroom. I bend down and kiss his head, under this pile of hair that he REFUSES to cut, and utter my morning sentence. He rolls over and I say "5 more minutes...OK?"


He then asks me what time it is since his vision is impaired and his clock is directly next to his bed.

I walk into bedroom two and find other twin somewhere in his bed. Sometimes sideways, sometimes completely turned around. His covers are all over his bed, floor. One pillow on floor, on top of his head. I rub his head and try to awaken him. He pops his head up, eyes closed..."how many more minutes?" to which I reply "5". I leave the bedroom, fully knowing that the 7 yr old is buried in my own bed, and I save him for last because he's my favorite in the morning. He still has the morning, stinky-sweet smell that hasn't left yet at age seven. His hair is everywhere on his father's red pillow, only this time I'm the one who won't part with the curls. I find him, with his little fists curled up under his chin and his eyelashes are so long. I take my time with him, I wake him. He stretches and pops up and away he goes. Fifteen minutes later, after the 7 yr old has already gotten dressed and eaten his cinammon toast, I am using my own vocal abilities to YELL the twins out of bed. I keep thinking that if I yell loud enough, the sheer force of my voice will MOVE them. I am wrong.

When they finally arrive for breakfast, they have awoke the toddler and come down in such a rush that I find myself throwing toast at them. At some point before school, there will be a fight between two or all three boys.

Then the tripping, the falling. They can't walk into a room without one or both of them falling down or knocking something over. I haven't sat at our dinnertable in 6 mos without one of them spilling a drink, dropping a utensil or food, or falling out of his chair. Last night a full glass of OJ went literally flying off the table, hit the french doors before ricocheting across the floor sending sticky juice all over the glass, cupboard, table, chair, wall, and floor.

The smell of them is sometime gag worthy. And I realize I haven't even hit puberty with these two! I will be suicidal then!!! I tote a Febreeze container all over the upstairs, spraying their rooms, bedding, closets and hampers. HAMPERS! Hampers are the third reich of hell. The towels, the clothes, the sweaty socks. Their bathroom is frightful, I only go in to clean it, once a week, and it is painful.

See, I take time to deliberate on this subject because I have 8 more years until they go to college and I'm not sure if we'll make it.

While I am often (ok, more than often) irritated by my two older sons, I can attest to them being very nice kids. They are kind. They don't pick on other kids (exception: 7 yr old brother). They don't mouth off their teachers. They don't fight at school. They are intelligent (outside of the home).

I don't pretend to be a kid lover. I'm not. I am a book lover. Kids take away from books. But I do LOVE my kids, sometimes I just am not crazy about them. I think all mothers feel this way. I think. If they don't then they are just kidding themselves.


In all honesty, I can say that my boys have brought a sense of reality to my life. I had no sibs, I had no idea what families do. We watched The Waltons and I thought that was what big families did at night.


In our house it's similiar, only not so much.


"Goodnight Mom, can you pack my lunch but not with carrots because I really want a bag of Doritoes instead and I need money for the book fair ok thanks goodnight oh and don't forget my jersey and omgosh where are my American Eagle jeans??"


Our seven year old has a different approach to bedtime. He tells us he loves us and goodnight. He then proceeds to tell his older brother all the things he hates about him. We used to encourage him to say nice things, but that's like saying "it's ok to lie"...so we let him.

We have no idea what we are doing. I wrote before that 'perfect parenting' is a myth.

The fact is, we have four kids. Chances are, one will be screwed up.
I will try my hardest to keep him/her out of prison.

Perfect Parenting

I do many things wrong. I do so many things wrong that it's hard to enumerate all of them. I have failures. This is not to say that I do not have successes, because I do, they are just fewer and farther.


I did not work hard at school. I should have worked harder, should have got better grades. I had good grades, but they could have been better. I should have worked harder at my family relationships, with my aunts and uncles and cousins. I should work harder at my church and religion.


My biggest fear in life is that I will, somehow or someway, fail my children. That I will not be the 'perfect parent'.


Is there such a thing? Does anyone deserve the title?





My parents were far from perfect. But the problems they had between them did not reflect their parenting skills, because each of them were outstanding parents to me on totally different levels. My mother was the consummate 'friend mom'. She loved me and my friends, she loved the kids in the house, feeding them. She loved my girlfriends, the giggling and visiting and talking. My mother was also my friend. This is on some levels, a mistake. When I became a rotten, snotty teenager and she suddenly wanted to assert herself, I just laughed at her. I did, literally, laugh at her..because she had never in our lives together, ever assert her authority over me.


This caused a multitude of problems for us, even now, as I am somewhat her 'caretaker', it's sometimes very hard to divide the friend vs. mother code.


As a child, my father did little with me. I'm sure he was just bewildered as I was with him. We circled one another warily for many years, not really connecting until I was a little older. I can remember when I showed an aptitude for music, he became very interested in my progress, what I was capable of. My love of the arts, books, theater and music was a key part of our relationship. It cemented us together. We were intellectually connected. Not so much emotionally, but we had common interests and unique taste.





As a new parent, I was all over the twins as they developed. I would be the PERFECT MOTHER. So, I read countless books on parenting. As I was planning (well, the word 'planning' has little to do with us being knocked up with twins..) on staying home to raise the duo, I was envisioning mornings of arts and crafts, nutritious snacks, baking, playing. Long lazy naps and fun afternoons together. Well, I can attest that all those ideas went directly OUT THE WINDOW when they arrived. I might have well just thrown those books in the fireplace and lit a match.


See, children are born with their OWN agenda. Unknown to first time parents. I tried and tried to be the best mother I could, of course now hysterical because none of the books had said anything about two year old boys playing with their own fecal matter or peeing in his brother's bed. By age three, I was that mother that came downstairs in the morning, made a pot of coffee and turned on Sesame Street while pouring Rice Krispies into a giant bowl with two spoons for them to share. (one bowl=less dishes)


Twins enter nursery school. I hope and pray that they are not ejected for unknown issues. They are not, and are in fact, extremely bright and loved by their teacher and peers. Whew!


About this time, we decide another child would be just wonderful. Like many young couples, we go off the birth control thinking it will take a few months, maybe up to six months, to get pregnant. Four weeks later I was pregnant.


I mean, I was PREGNANT. As in, 62 lbs pregnant. My doctor, at about 30 weeks, came into the exam room with my file and announces that I have gained more weight at this point than I did with the twins and "my God, Noelle, do you want to be obese?". Thank you, great Obi-Wan of Gynecology. My doctor, the "weight-Nazi".


I go on to have this infant, who just so happened to be yet another son. This child would not come out. He just would not. I should have known then that he was to be always attached to me, because he didn't want to come out in the first place. "Giant Purple Head", as my husband so lovingly exclaimed while the poor child remained solidly stuck, half in, half out. Like some alien life form. He was, at that point on, attached to either my breast or my shoulder and as a toddler, my hip or leg. We made, I feel, the most mistakes with him.


You see, at age 28, I was READY to be a mama. I wanted to 'mother' him...I did. To death. This child, now age 7, is like another limb or appendage to my body. His day begins at 6am when he sleepwalks into our bed and inhabits the spot his father moments ago had vacated. A person truly doesn't know love until she watches her child sleep, watches his little chest rise and fall, his hands clasp and unclasp.


Bad. Bad mothering. The pain of separation when he went to kindergarten was almost unbearable from both ends. It was a terrible year. This year is better. I should have made him more confident.


The addition of the fourth installment into a home with three boys goes as such: as a crawling and newly walking baby/toddler, I would walk into our playroom, turn on Baby Einstein and throw some Cheerios on the floor. This would keep this child out of my hair for at least 30 minutes. By the fourth child, I'm just happy if she doesn't eat dryer lint. We have, from the beginning of her life, drug her to baseball games, football games, soccer fields. She has been toted all over the state, country. And she's a better child for it. She is outgoing and talkative and confident.


I use bribery a lot in parenting. I barter every day. Quid pro quo.


That's not in any books, either..I've checked.

I love the television. I am NOT that mother that says "oh, we don't let our child watch too much tv..." Are you kidding? It's a free babysitter! I am a woman who actually enjoys showering alone! I don't need a play by play of 'going potty' while I'm the one doing it! I like having a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper, if that means 30 minutes of Sponge Bob, so be it. I give my kids apple juice straight from the container (gasp) sometimes NOT DILUTED. I let them eat orange sherbet for breakfast, occasionally cake if available (it has eggs!). I pick my battles. Carefully. I have found that if I am to say what I mean, and mean what I say..I actually have to believe in what I'm saying MYSELF. It's perilous. Parenting is perilous.

I let my kids play outside in thunderstorms. I let them jump in mud puddles. I let them ride on a zip cord hoisted 25 ft off the ground. I have let daughter have pacifier WAY too long, why? Because I want to sleep and she can't sleep without it. Of course.

I do insist they go to bed at a decent hour but that is mostly for me. I admit it! Thankfully, we have found that a rested child is a healthy child.

I have several friends who are better mothers. They all have amazing qualities that I admire. One friend has humor, one has faith. One friend has patience, one has a very loud voice. Some of these women are professional, career driven. Some are, like me, staying at home. All of these kids have benefited in some way or another from these mothers.


The fathers also need some credit.


Of course, my husband is amazing in his own right. He has done nothing but play with these kids since they were old enough. He LOVES them. He listens to them, he talks to them and he coaches them. He helps me discipline them. We know of many men who do similar things with their kids, and again, all these kids seemingly have benefited from their fathers.


I guess that the myth of perfect parenting is just that. A myth.





As I mentioned before, it's like these kids come into the world with their own agenda. Every kid is so very different. My own twins are like polar ends, north and south. The 7 yr old is the west and my daughter the east. It works.





I am not a perfect parent. I am an adequate human being, at best.


My kids are happy. We laugh, they communicate with us, sometimes knowing we will yell, sometimes we just talk. They express their needs and desires. We work hard to keep the lines of communication open.


I think that if we show our kids the respect we want them to show us, it will come around. They are an entity all to themselves. Respect them for the differences, for their similarities.

Daughter of Mine..

I thought having a daughter would just be the 'be all, end all'. I love girls. I love being a girl and a woman. There is nothing better to me than great hair, new lipstick, a pretty dress or perfume. I love the clothes, the jewelry, the bags, the SHOES.

I had sons. I love my sons. I admit, I was worried and probably hostile when I found out that my husband had impregnated me with the male species. I coveted my nieces, I loved having them over and dressing them up, painting their nails, fussing over them. All three of my sweet nieces are 'girly girls', especially the last one who is the tiniest, most petite, little thing. She is three years older than my daughter.

Who is now bigger than her.



I found out around 20 weeks that I was expecting a daughter. I was beyond elated, I was over the moon! OH JOY! I went on to have a non-complicated pregnancy and the easiest delivery yet.

She was the most beautiful newborn, all her tiny features perfect. She resembled my 6 yr old son, who looks the most like me so obviously her father was incredibly taken with her. She was a delightful infant, we were insanely in love with this little angel.

She was happy, she was surrounded by so much love with us and her big brothers. All of her aunts and uncles and cousins adored her because of my longing for a daughter and because of her beautiful disposition.



My daughter is now three years old. I entered into this year with a fair amount of trepidation, due to all of my previous children turning into monsters at this age. "Terrible Two" has nothing on age 3. It is the hands down WORST year of a child's life (or maybe better put, a parent's).

This child is insane.

OK. Maybe not technically, physically 'insane', but I swear she is.

This little girl, who is a giant in height (thank you daddy), is a bundle of energy. Not in as much as she is energetic, but she is energetic all day, every day. She is talkative, she talks nonstop. She is messy, she is rough, she is loud, she is bossy.

I am tired.

I am more exhausted mothering this little mini-me than I ever was mothering TWIN BOYS. She has me going from sun up to sun down.

She loves the outdoors. She loves worms. She eats dirt.

I know nothing of tomboys, at all. I was the prissiest, most articulate little diva ever. I understand books, literature, music. I know nothing of fishing poles, crayfish. Nor do I want to!



I have become the consummate 'football mom' if you will. My twin sons are not overly athletic, but they had a good season playing for the first time. Of course, 6 yr old excels at sports. (never mind that the child cannot READ yet! ugh). Point being, I learned to understand the sport, the boy, the son. I learned what is expected of me when it comes to being a mother of boys. I get it.



My daughter has totally confounded me! I don't know how to mother this dirty little piglet..she is a walking contradiction. At first sight, one would naturally think 'what a darling (however large) child!' because I dress her according to society's standards. Then she will either tackle a nearby brother or sit in the dirt to expose her underpants.

My husband is thrilled that our daughter is a boy.



I am hoping she will eventually turn into a girl.

I had a friend at one point in life that was a naturally gifted athlete. She was an amazing basketball player, she played volleyball and softball and was exceedingly good at all things sports related. She was at the same time very feminine. She loved clothes and jewelry and boys. She has since married and had a beautiful daughter of her own.

I am hopeful!

A Day in My Life

I often make reference to my "crazy mother who lives with us". This post is going to be a detailed description of why I call her that.


I love my mother. She shielded me throughout most of my young life from the ill fortune of her life. When I was a late teen and found out that for most of her married life she had been verbally and physically abused by my father, I felt sorry for her. I have since grown up. While in many ways I still feel sorrow for her in her situation, I also understand my father better. Crazy, right? How can one justify the abuser?


Don't judge me. My reasons are my own and yes, I do justify it. To a point. Of course, no one should be abused, ever. But in an imperfect world, in which we live, there is abuse. It's a cycle. My father was an abuser, my mother the abused. In the same sentence, I can say my mother was an abuser and my father the abused. It's a hard thing to explain unless actually experienced.


This is why an insight to my daily life while living with my mother would explain some of my justification.





My day starts early, of course, I have four children. Husband's alarm clock goes off around 5:00am. I usually sleep through this, unless he is in one of those moods where he keeps hitting snooze.


Anyway, my day begins with the usual chaos any mother of multiple children goes through to get everyone dressed, fed, clean, clothed and out the door in one piece to make it to the bus.


First of all, no one wants to get up. My kids even go to bed before 9:00pm. So, after initial argument and finally getting up and dressed, breakfast is served and teeth are brushed. About this time, toddler awakens and has IMMEDIATE NEEDS as all toddlers do. "drink!" "cuddle!" "baby doll!"


During this, I'm usually barking orders to older kids to get backpacks, get shoes. I hear a door squeak open. Here it comes. My mother.


"shhshshhh....shhshhhhshhh....shhshhshshh"..her wheezing and breathing precedes her arrival. She has COPD. She smoked for 40 years, including the time she was pregnant with me.


"Noelle, can you come over?"


My mother wants me to come over and SIT on her couch and visit. I do not have time to do this. It's 7:30am and I am trying to get people out the door. I tell her that I'll be over in a little while.

She is angry. She wants me to come over.Now. She storms home and slams door.
Kids are gone, out the door to school.

8:30am. Door squeaks open.

"Noelle, can you come over and look at my pills?"

Her pills are fine. She wants attention.

I check her pills. The pills are fine.

"Noelle, can you look at this one spot on my back?"

"Noelle, can you go downtown and get me some milk?"
She can drive. She can go downtown. She fought us to get her driver's license back, after her two year chemo.

"Noelle, can you put three yr old upstairs and come over?" She wants me all to herself.

No. I cannot PUT my daughter upstairs. She yells, she slams the door.

I go upstairs to fold laundry with toddler. Door squeaks.

"Noelle, can you come over?"

No, I'm upstairs. I am making the beds, taking care of clothes, possibly exercising or getting a shower. I am emptying dishwasher, cooking, baking, going to the school. I have doctors appts, dental appts. I have to mop the floor, clean the bathrooms. I am taking the car to be serviced, I am taking care of a sick child. The list never ends, there is always something to do in the house.

Door slams.

Noon. Lunch time for toddler and myself. Door squeaks.

"Noelle, can you call my doctor and ask for more pills?" or "Noelle, can you please call the pharmacy and ask them about the xanax?" or "Noelle, can you call the dentist because my tooth hurts." or "Noelle, I need you to call the ear doctor because my hearing aides don't work." These are all things she can do herself, but only does if she chooses, because she would prefer me to do them for her.

This is all so she gets attention.

After lunch, if she has actually taken all her meds, she usually passes out thankfully for the rest of the day. This is when I am able to move freely about my own home without fear of disturbing her or getting her mad at me.

Sometimes she doesn't get her meds in her and she will manage to open her door separating our homes 6-7 times during the afternoon. She will yell into my home "Noelle, where are you?"

The fun really starts when the boys burst home from school at around 3:45pm. The rush of them coming through the back door, yelling from school, needing food and help with homework coincides with my mother squeaking open the door, just having woke up from her 4hour nap. She is not only confused about where she is, she is upset that the kids are not quiet. "What time is it?" or "where is your father?" (dead, mom, dead) or "why must you boys be so loud?" or my favorite "can you come over?".

Usually my husband gets home around 5:00 pm and is expecting dinner. She usually arrives about 5:30 wanting me to come over. I try to have enough dinner left over so I can send her home with some dinner, because she will not cook for herself. She will eat toast and coffee.

After dinner, during our family time, my mother will come over and ask my husband numerous questions. Questions that have all been asked before. Many, many times before. She needles him. She badgers him.

Almost every single night, approximately 20 minutes before we put our kids to bed, she will come over and bring a handful of candy she wishes to distribute to them. Obviously, we do not allow the children to have candy right before bed since they have all showered and brushed their teeth.

She is mad. She leaves and slams her door.

My husband and I are exhausted, both laying on either ends of our sectional.

Door squeaks open. "shhshhsh.....shhshhshhshh....shhshshhh" she is wheezing and she comes over. "Can one of you come over?" or "Noelle, can you come over and talk to me?" or "can one of you check my pills?".

Once and a great while, we try to have a spontaneous moment of intimacy downstairs. Not possible. She has snuck over and caught us too many times.

My mother calls me during the night. "Noelle, can you come over?"

It may be 2:00am in the morning.

My mother has suffered through cancer. It was awful and horrible.

She lived. It is awful and horrible. One has no idea how much it pains me to write that. I love her. Do I wish she had died? Of course not, no, never. Do I wish she was her 'old self'? Yes. I miss my mother.

My husband and I have no privacy. We have no sense of privacy, as she doesn't respect our home as our own.

I have friends that would like to visit my home. For coffee, for playdates, for visits. As soon as anyone appears in my home, she immediately opens her door and comes over. She cannot understand our conversations. She is easily confused and angered. My friends don't come around as much. I understand.

My mother interrupts my phone conversations. I could be on the phone with the school teacher or principal, a doctor, she doesn't care. "NOELLE!!! I NEED YOU!" or "where are you???". Every day. All day.

Mom has a problem with the children. She feels they are too loud (they are, I actually agree on this one), they are wild, they talk too much. She doesn't understand that there are actually 4 of them, alive and kickin', here in this house.

This has been for over three years.

My mother recently misplaced a huge amount of money my father left to her. When I say misplaced, I mean, it's gone. We cannot find it and she has no idea where it has been moved to.

My mother walks in on my showers. She takes things from our fridge and pantry. My mother bothers our babysitters, she won't leave them alone. It is hard to find a sitter for four kids in the first place, try finding one to deal with a demented grandmother as well.

If I leave town to shop, I cannot tell her because she will have an episode before hand to ensure I do not leave the house. If I do leave for an afternoon or we take off on the weekend, we come home to our house totally and completely LOCKED and she has all the keys.

If there is a Christmas dinner planned at my in laws, she will have some kind of medical or emotional crisis so I have to be with her and not my husband and kids.

My mother will ask me to put my children upstairs so I can talk to her.

My mother is jealous of my children.

My mother is jealous of me, she was jealous of my father's attention to me.

My father got to the point of abuse. He would actually hit her in order to make her stop talking or needling him. I used to think that it was so awful. I wondered why he never, ever hit me. I was easily as annoying as a child I'm sure.

She drove him to it. I know this because I feel this overwhelming, suffocating feeling at times. I just want her to stop. Just stop. Just please please stop.

Just leave me be.

Leave my children be.

That feeling is hard to admit. I love my mother. But the woman who lives in my house is not my mother. My mother is gone. She died with cancer 5 years ago. The person who inhabits my mother's body is a stranger. She is scared of everything, she is scared of her pills, of my dog, of the neighbor kid.She is terrified of being alone, she is sure there are men in the woods who are going to break in our home and kill us. She is afraid of turning off her tv at night. Her lights.
Gone is the woman who danced in the living room to the BeeGees. Gone is the artist who drew with charcoal. Her love of decorating and her colors, gone. The woman who could dazzle with the bluest of eyes, who loved and was loved.
We cannot go on vacation without having someone to stay with her, and still my cell phone rings hundreds of times while we are gone. I worry terribly when we are gone, thinking she will get so confused that she'll take off in her vehicle or have an accident.

My mother is gone. She is lost and I am here to care for this woman who resembles her.

What I have written today is merely a half of what my day entails with her. I am literally so exhausted by reading it myself that I don't know how to continue.
We cannot go to a football game. A wrestling match. A little league game. We have to sneak in and out of our home. If we try to leave, she cannot bear it.

I have a lot of humor. I have to in order to survive.
I have a lot of grief, too. No one wants to admit the person they loved their whole life, who was an amazing mother, is gone.
Mine is gone.

The sound of silence.



Today is one of those days that every single noise in my house is driving me NUTS.

Three year old daughter has officially given up her nap. Not good. The two hour break I had in the middle of the day, for coffee or exercise or nothing, is gone forever. She currently sits next to me blowing on a school issued recorder, every note pierces through my tymphanic membrane through my head and makes me recoil. The ten year old twins have done nothing but irritate the six year old brother today. And by 'irritate', I mean poke, trip, steal his sandwich, hide his Nintendo DS, and tie his shoelaces together. The six year old finally resorts to fits of extreme violence toward them and being the incredible mother I am, I let him, because they simply have it coming to them.

I just want peace and quiet.

Namely quiet.



I could even tolerate a movie playing, a child's movie, even...if they would be quiet and SHUT IT for a short time.



Saturdays often present the problem of my husband being home and wanting to GO GO GO and WORK WORK WORK. See, mommys and kids do not want to move quick on weekends. At least in our family, we want to be in pj's and read the paper or book or whatever. Not my husband. The only time he sits down is after dinner to digest and then he's off again on another project. So, weekends are not usually great for us. This relates to my need for quiet in the sense that he is not physically present in our home right now to remove the sources of noise (children).



I have decided that if I die and go to hell (which is a very real possibility), I will be stuck in a car with multiple children all talking at the same time. My children all have a tendency to interrupt one another, which in turn prompts the first kid to speak louder, which in turn pushes the next child to practically yell in order to interrupt the previous child and so on and so forth. Our school is approx 1.7 miles from our home and usually by the time we get there, I am in a state of panic from the sheer noise. I'm trapped in it. A vortex or swirling sentences and nonsense comments and stories and songs and alphabets and 'who said whats'....it's like a black hole of noise.

No escape!



My poor husband will often sit down on the sofa at night, try to initiate a conversation and I can level him with one sideways look, over my stupid horn rim glasses. I have an occasional eye twitch in my left eye, which either signifies my nerves on the brink or maybe a stroke in the making.

I have mentioned before that I like words, reading them or writing them. I am, in fact, a very good public speaker. I am, however, so over sensitized by my children's constant noise that even holding a coherent phone conversation is sometimes impossible.



After having twins, I learned that the later a child talks, the better. I can remember clearly shocking my cousin one day when she asked why I didn't encourage my third child to 'use his words'...when I replied "I don't encourage my children to talk. Ever.".

Once they start, they never stop.



So, we attend functions, be it church or school sporting events or whatever. Adults ask my children questions, generic questions ALL adults ask ALL kids, usually getting a blank stare or a one word answer from a sullen or shy ten year old who doesn't make eye contact. Not my sons! My sons will launch into a dissertation or the days' events or give a detailed account of an experience that would relate to the question. I cannot tell you how many people have complimented me on my kids, especially the twins, ability to sit and visit and look everyone is the eye. My twin sons have a handshake to rival my own. I guess it is confidence, I would like to think they are confident.

So, in all my complaining of the noise and constant talking and communication that goes on 18 hours a day in my house, I should not really be telling them to be quiet. I try to stimulate the conversation by asking them to find a point of their story, make it, and move on.



Sudden, blissful silence has filled my house as I've sat here and typed. Three year old has invested herself into a movie, thankfully a Pixar film that I can stomach. The boys have stopped fighting and one is reading, two are gaming.

Joy to the world!



Now, the next obstacle will be for me to find 30 minutes to exercise and shower. Alone. As we have church tonight which will be yet another challenge in my quest for quiet.

Taking four kids to a Catholic Mass in very entertaining. For the other parishioners. They all smile and look adoringly at the three year old, who is sometimes holding up her dress to show some random person that Snow White is on her big girl pants. These people all do this funny, 'oh she is so cute' face and I know why.
Because they are thankful this kid isn't theirs!
We were much more diligent churchgoers with our twins in tow. We took them regularly and they fell into a rhythm of mass, understanding the nuances of a mass and how it works. They knew the Our Father by age 4 and flow through mass easily. After adding the third and fourth installment of our family, we tend to have a 50% record for mass. If we were more motivated and willing to undergo the trauma of hauling all four kids out every Sunday morning into a public domain where CERTAIN humiliation will occur, our younger kids would be better.
The six year old asks, on average, 30 times during the hour long mass, when it will be over. The highlight for him is the 'passing of peace', where he can get up and shake his grandfather's hand. Our daughter, all three years of her, asks several questions to the actual priest while he is speaking. The reverence of prayer holds no meaning for her. In her mind, it's suddenly quiet in the church...well, of course that silence needs to be filled with her voice either singing Old McDonald or announcing she must poop immediately. All the while, the other members of the congregation cover their smiles and duck their heads (don't encourage the crazy toddler!). I am hoping that they find in their memories that possibly their own children acted as such at one time in history. In all probability, I'm sure they are all thinking "if that child were mine, she would get a spanking". Well, she does! We just pick our battles.

So, in my heart of hearts, I know my children are not YAPPING and TALKING and YELLING just to single me out and drive ME to the brink of insanity. It's not personal.

They are trying to drive the whole world nuts. One house and church at a time.

Blog, blog, blog.

I took a huge leap of faith and posted this link to my Facebook profile. The support has been amazing and almost unsettling...I feel as though I need to step up my game.

It's personal, this writing stuff. Some of the material is probably intimate enough for a therapist to dissect.

I have some life experiences to draw from. I have the most experience with motherhood, obviously, since my husband and I have decided to repopulate our small town. I have some experience with love. I have a lot of experience in laughter, and friendship. If you are a friend of mine, you are loved loved loved. In not having siblings, I developed strong ties to my friends and they are incredibly important to me. I love music. I love wine. I love my hair.

Let's explore a vein of friendship.

My children have friends. They are adorable. The twins friends roll through the back door, idle around the kitchen until the refrigerator door opens, rape and pillage the inhabitants of the fridge and pantry. My six year old has friends who still like to sit on my lap and ask if I'm their aunt. Our three year old daughter has no friends because she is really, really bossy and doesn't share well with others, which she comes by naturally (from my MIL..WHOOPS! haha) from me. Kidding.

At any rate. I have these people in my life that I consider friends. Some have changed and rolled with the tides of time, the different directions life take us. Some have stayed the same, while some are new and exhilarating.

My very first friend I met in dance class at age 5. I remember my distinct impression being that she did not look like me. It's funny that a child may make that distinction, or use that as a reason to stare at someone until they wave or smile at you. Instant friends! She was taller than me, slimmer, willowy almost and had black hair. We were very close friends for many, many years. We spent many nights at each other's homes and had many creative outlets that we shared, such as dance, piano, music and literature. We are still friends. After a separation of college and life, we came back together later in life to share many laughs and some intense tears. This friend is a good friend. She is educated, astute. She is real and cultured and interesting. I do not know what I bring to her life except a love that I have had for her for years. It was fun being her friend.

I have a friend that I met midway through my teenage years. Maybe thirteen. She was always in my grade, but we ran in different social circles. She was very quiet, extremely intelligent. She lived on a farm, outside of town, so she rode a bus and I was a walker. After we met, she became a walker too, since she practically moved into my home with my parents and I. This person became the better half of me. She is my alter-ego, my nicer part. My tendency to lean to the darker side of humanity is supremely challenged by her. She made my life BETTER. She brought more laughter to my life than anyone. We simply just get one another and there is no pressure either way. We understand our children, our husbands. We know that sometimes marriage is not what we planned or anticipated, but a conscience decision to make it work instead of an unconscious one to NOT. This person went on vacations with us, she was an integral part of my family. She watched my father die slowly with me. She stood with me on my wedding day as I stood with her on the evening she was married. Our children share the same school, the same sports and even the same bus. Our children are not close friends, but it's fine with us, because truly we don't expect anyone to have a friendship like ours, it's so in sync and whole and healthy. We laugh everyday. Along with her was our third partner in crime, who was undoubtedly the most popular girl in our school. This girl had a heart of gold and smile to launch ships. She was kind to a fault, never wanted to disappoint. She would tell anyone what they wanted to hear, because she just naturally liked people. She was fun, everywhere she went, people followed. The three of us shared many, many years of laughter, tears. We did all the stereotypical teenage stuff, the trivial and minute details that make being a teen an actual category. I have scrapbooks of memories. We had our disagreements, sometimes big, usually small. Both these girls married their high school sweethearts and live in our small town. As mentioned, the weddings we shared were events. Our pregnancies were shared. Our visits in the hospital, holding the new babies. Our trials and tribulations. All shared.

On the morning my father died, these two women came from their jobs, walked up the stairs to my bedroom and crawled in bed with me. We cried. They diligently sat through two viewings and one funeral. We laughed.

3/3=1. We will always have that. I can call either one of them at any time, day or night and any problem can be solved with them.

These women are my history, they know my insecurities and my strengths. They don't expect me to be more than what I can be. They love me for it.

I love them back.

As I previously wrote about, when a person has multiple kids, by association that person makes nice with other kids' parents.

This happened to be a windfall for me, for I met the fourth person that helps to define me. As chance has it, we even shared a boyfriend in college...not at the same time of course, but as the guy liked blondes....we fell into the category of 'old vs. new' girlfriend.

This particular woman married another young man from my town, and she proceeded to have five children with him. All of these children shared a nursery school with my own children. After several tense run-in's at the nursery school (because in the world of 'old vs. new' girlfriend, there is always a villain), we sat down over coffee and laughed our hearts out. She has become one of the best sources of comfort to me in the past few years. The obstacles she faces daily as a mother of five (as in FIVE ACTUAL OFFSPRING), all while maintaining her humor and sarcasm.

During the years of high school and college, I made many acquaintances, I shared many laughs and fun times with many different people. There are a few particular people that left imprints on my life, people who left a mark or maybe even a scar, that are not in my life anymore. Their impact was not less than those I have mentioned, just geographically challenged.

See, there are friends who bring the happy. Friends who bring the laughter. Friends who like to drink too much. Friends who bring the stress and sadness. Friends who have nervous breakdowns. Friends who inspire, who infuriate. Friends who need and are needed. They all intermingle and interchange with one another. It's our duty as friends to one another to move with the intensity of the changes of our lives. Holy God and crap: I cannot be happy every single day. There are days when I am dark and twisty and moody, days I feel like floating on air.

I'm not crazy. I'm just 35 and stuck in the middle of my life with four kids wondering where the hell the last 15 years went.

My friends know who they are. I do not have gray areas. I love when I love and while I may not always agree, they know where I stand. One night while sitting at our kitchen table, enjoying his whiskey and water...my father bestowed to me one of a million diamonds. He said, "If you grow up and really, actually become a grown up, adult human being and still have two friends to count on, you are lucky. If those two people have you as their friend, they are even luckier."

Indeed.

The holidays are over.
The tree is still up.

Does depression mean one is depressed? Does society understand how, just exactly, depressing being a mother can be at times? I think not.
Motherhood is this fairytale that is shown on TV as pushing a pink pram, or baby jogger..while staying trim, neatly pressed, fashionable in a 'Vera Bradley' matching diaper bag kind of way.
It's an illusion.
Anything that starts off with as much pain as childbirth should immediately send off warning signals.
"I'm dying!!!!"...oh quick, let's get a fun picture and "smile!" and "push" and "OMG I AM DYING"...not good.

I dreamed the dream! I did. I thought having a child would 'complete me' (gag) and make me 'whole' (double gag). Motherhood is an illusion that we as young mother's created, conveniently forgetting the fact that most of our mothers drank bloody mary's for breakfast and gin and tonic's for lunch.
I have the fortune of not working. Loosely defined as 'not working out of the home'..because you can bet your bottom dollar that if I had to herd my peeps out the door every day by 7 am, no one would be alive in this house.
I married a man who was raised with a mother at home, as mine was. This is kind of what he expected of me, which is just dandy with me because as mentioned five seconds ago, mass genocide is really not a good option.
Mothers who 'work outside the home' (I'm starting to find this funny) have it so incredibly hard that I cannot believe there are not more suicides.
The reality of motherhood is that is it supermegaultraomgcanihavecoffeefromanivdrip hard.
First an foremost, getting the child here in one piece is beyond hedonistic. From first pee on the stick, you are a vessel of life. A vessel. Nothing more, trust me. Do not drink. Do not take medication. Do not exercise. Do not have sex. Already, I'm sensing this person (or in my case, people) is more important than me. Now, for those of you who do not know me, no one is more important than ME. Many of my friends really love this about me. I do not pretend to be this earth mother/self sacrificing friend/wife/lover. I am selfish about me. I love my time. It's mine. I do not share well with others.
Enter fetus. After giving birth in front of every medical resident in the hospital (11 sets of eyes total on my cervix), I bring these people home and proceed to lose my mind. Hey guess what? Babies do not sleep, EVER. And I had two of them. The only human sleeping in my house was my husband. No sleep, again, it's all about me, means I cannot function in a way that society deems fit. Now, of course, in hindsight, I had postpartum depression, obviously. But 11 years ago, that was a new term and no one was really used to it. So, a young mother at that time struggled usually alone. Another part of motherhood that is neglected is the presence of the black death bellybutton. What is THAT? It's like some awful reminder that the baby was attached to you WITH said disgusting growth. It's a real bright spot in a mother's life when, after two weeks of wrestling with the lifeless stump, it finally falls off. Congratulations, baby, you are on your own now.
So, there is little to no sleeping. Hair is falling out. Boobs are foreign objects. Husband is a FOREIGN OBJECT.
These little beings begin to grow. And they grow and grow and grow and grow.
Beings are now walking. Goodbye privacy! I have not had a BM alone in 10 years. I have taken maybe 2 showers alone. They are everywhere all at once. Oh hey and guess what? They still don't sleep that much. Know what else? They get sick. A lot. This means coughing. This means vaporizers and cleaning vomit at 1 am. Right about this time is when mother's attempt to potty train said beings. Well, now that's just another domain of hell. So, along with the coughing, cleaning the vomit, now there are bed filled with urine to contend with.
I am not kidding.
There are battles. Time outs. There are reasons for things that need explaining. Because now, along with walking and shitting their pants, they talk. The questions! "Why" "why" "why"????
BECAUSE I SAID SO.
I learned as I got older and my kids got older to answer their incessant questions with a question or two of my own. "Is this seriously a question, child?" "Do you ask questions just to hear your own voice?" and my personal favorite "Do you want to live to see tomorrow?"...
Now that they are older there is much more food involved, as in I should buy stock in Wegman's groceries. The sheer food intake of a young boy is comparable to how much sleep a mother loses. Inconceivable.
By now, must of us have had more than one, or in my case, two kids. In my insanity, I added two more children to the already present twins.
Children, children everywhere!!! And if they are not actually physically present in a room, I can guarantee you that something of theirs IS. Shoes, backpacks, laundry, homework, football gear, toys, toys toystoystoys!!!
At this time, mother herself has little to no identity AT ALL, aside from sous chef and chauffeur.
All this time, there is still little sleep available. A mother has to be, at all times, alert to coughs, kids falling out of bed, pee incidents, etc. Along with this, a wife must be, at all times, ready to drop on the bed and have sex with husband. hahahaha....yeah.
There are friends. Even better, friends parents. You muddle hopelessly trying to find someone who can relate to the situation. There are some! Oh yeah.
The laundry is like something from a novel, in terms of one doesn't think it's real until it's actually walking itself out of the laundry room.
There are boo-boos. Broken bones. Hurt feelings. Slammed doors. Fighting siblings. Teeth knocked out.
There are complications, there are doctors, dentists, speech therapists.
There are teachers, there are coaches.

However. That all being said, these are only the parts that no one warns about.
The parts that people talk about are the good things.

The relief of carrying twins to a due date. The first cry. The smell and feel of their skin.
The first smile, the first tooth.
"Mama".
"Dada".
The feeling that you get when they are finally asleep and you collapse on the couch.
The feeling you get when two little feet, encased in fleece pjs, pad into your room, way to early to get up, and ask to sleep with you.
Pink cheeks. Messy hair. Fingerpaints.
"I poopy on the potttyyyyy!!!"
Reading stories. Watching Dumbo 62,000 times.
Trick or treating and Christmas morning. Riding a bike with no training wheels. Becoming a big brother.
Riding the school bus to school, only to find out that mom is not there.

There are the unmistakable signs of a mother. She is usually surrounded by a gaggle of children. Her purse is large enough to carry a change of clothes for a toddler, a sippy cup, a snack, wipes, and a wallet, perhaps a toy or two. Hair almost always in a ponytail. She has on little or no makeup. Hopefully, she is laughing.

It took me months to fall in love with my husband. Little bits at a time. It took about 2 seconds to fall in love with my children with all the emotion that one body can physically handle without exploding.
It's intoxicating, it's awful. It's tiresome, it's thrilling.
Your pride and prejudice will come out with a tiger growl. And no one will ever hurt my child as long as I'm around to protect him or her.

Welcome to motherhood.
Sleep is for wimps.