One day when the kids were two, we were having a terrible day. I was cranky, they were cranky. I was feeling trapped and alone, overwhelmed, down. It was snowing and the barometer was dropping. And so was my disposition. I'd had about all I could tolerate. My patience was pushed near the point that I would stop being able to cope. So I did something I rarely did. I called someone to ask them to come and help me so I wouldn't lose it. I dialed up our good friend Linda, who had helped me with the kids since they were babies. I told her things felt bad, desperate, and I asked if she could come and help me. Unfortunately, she had a prior commitment and couldn’t come, but she said she would pray for me. I hung up the phone thinking, Great. That was my only idea. Now what am I going to do?
A few months ago one of my sons told me about a new show that I might like. I couldn’t remember why exactly he thought I’d like it, but one detail I recalled was that there were several timelines to the story that showed how previous generation impacted newer ones. I ordered the first season from the library and forgot about it. The queue was pretty long. In the meantime, I started watching two other series on Hulu. When the library informed me that a set of DVDs I’d ordered had became available for pickup, I couldn’t remember what they were. But I wanted to give them a try, since someone had apparently told me I’d like the show (I couldn’t remember anymore who’d recommended it).
When I decided it was time to start potty training, the kids were two weeks shy of their second birthday. I was tired of changing diapers. I was tired of paying for diapers. I wanted to be free. So I made a plan. We got up one day at the crack of dawn. Actually, it hadn't even cracked yet. It was pitch black outside. I wanted to make sure everyone's pants were still dry. I knew each and every one of them possessed the capacity to stay dry all night. They’d each done it, just not consistently or all four at the same time. After a long night, they’d hang out during those early morning hours (and on into the Sesame Street hour) when I was too tired to drag my exhausted body out of bed and tend to them right away, and their status from dry-all-night converted to oops-I-need-a-diaper-change. So to avoid any accidents, about three hours before Big Bird even woke up, that fateful morning I dragged out of their miniature beds four sleep-confused toddlers, marched them into the kitchen, told them to down about three gallons each of apple juice, then led them into the bathroom. We had four potty chairs. We had books. We had sippy cups. We had a jar filled to the brim with M&Ms. We were set.
I’ll give you a copy of my next book FREE if you’ll join my Launch Team. That simply means: read my novella (about 70 pages) and post a review on Amazon on March 16-17. (A synopsis is below. It’s a historical time travel, the prequel to Chloe’s Guardian.)
A few days ago when Jason was bicycling home from work, a dog attacked him and bit him in the leg. He didn’t know how bad it was—or wasn’t—until he got home, because he just kept peddling and got the heck out of Dodge. At home, he pulled up his ripped pant leg and found blood dripping down his leg.
Spencer took down the Christmas tree today, and put away the decorations and the lights. It's time to pack up the holidays for another year and move on to see what the new year holds.
This morning I went to the gym early so I could swim some laps. There were about twenty cars in the lot when I arrived at 7:30, a half hour after the club opened.
The new millennium arrived when my kids were seven. We checked out movies from the library and got snacks, and worked hard to stay awake, watching movies late enough to usher in the next century. When it was nearly midnight, we roused those of us who had dazed or dosed in front of the television screen and we bundled up in our coats and slipped on our boots over our pajamas to go outside.
When I wasn't salting the beds, pouring ketchup on the couch, or smearing Vaseline on the walls, I guess I could stand still long enough for a photo and pretend to be sweet and cute. After all, Santa was due and I needed to not pout, cry, or shout.
A friend of mine came up to me with a big grin to tell me she was pregnant, and she'd just found out that she was having twins. It was exciting and fun news, especially since I'm into twins (for some reason).
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Life with Quadruplets
As a mother of quadruplets, I've had plenty of crazy experiences raising "supertwins." I blog a lot of memories about my kids. Sometimes just my thoughts on things. I get those sometimes—when my brain works. Which is about one third of the time.