Toy ReOrg

In preparation for the upcoming toy-centered holiday and in reaction to a big ol' messy house, we've been reorganizing our toys. Most days our family room has looked like a toy store bomb went off with parts and pieces of every kind of toy imaginable strewn over, under and around the floor and furniture. In the past I have sorted like toys into their own little storage boxes, but when all the boxes are kept together they all seem to get dumped together.
My husband had the great insight to move some of the significant toys to the kids rooms. Now, when I was growing up my sisters and my toys were mostly in our room, save for a few that lived in our basement closet. But I don't know why it never occurred to me that our kids could have toys in their rooms and...it would mean less crap on the main floor of my house.
Apparently if you take the same amount of toys and spread them throughout the house, it looks like a bunch of smaller messes and seems so much more doable than if all the toys were dumped in one spot.

What do you other moms do?

• Do you keep all toys on the main floor of your house right in the middle of the action?
• Do your kids keep stuff in their rooms and therefore spend lots of time upstairs away from where you are cooking dinner?
• Do you have one of those mythical playrooms to where all toys are banished and you never have to look at them?

Things

Things Making Me Crazy:

My Dishwasher: I have run the same load of dishes 3 times yesterday and each time the soap cup didn't empty and the dishes now have a dishwasher soap haze all over them that I have to soak and hand wash off.

My Daughter: She is in one of those moods where she requires physical contact with me all day long just so she can whine from within close proximity.

Things Making Me Happy:

New Slippers: Costco is stocking up for winter and I purchased chocolate suede rubber soled Dearfoams. Ah, the glamorous life of a stay at home mom...

Eggo Waffles: I usually avoid buying these, but I need some more breakfast options for my sweet food loving boy. I ate two this morning in a butter sandwich.

New Frame: I bought a frame for my sunflower photo. I paid $12 at Bed Bath and Beyond for a 20 x 20 frame with multiple openings. Now I will just have to get the photo printed and buy matting. Then I may actually get something hung up on my walls.

"I Miss You, Da Whole World!"

This baby is now in a big girl bed. She has princess sheets and a butterfly quilt and freshly painted pink walls. And when it's time for bed, she finally calms down from the business of imagination and playing and tea parties and barking orders and driving her brother crazy, and snuggles with her mom.

She's always been a bit of a mama's girl (my husband would raise his eyebrows at this understatement), but at bedtime when we snuggle down in the pinkest of pink princess rooms, she is mine. Wholly, completely, adoringly mine. She wraps her little arms around my neck so that our faces are touching. She plants baby kisses all over my face and tells me, "you my best friend." Even though we've been together all day she declares, "I miss you da whole world!" She runs her little hands through my hair and says, "I braid you hair, a ponytail."

I know I probably won't hear declarations of best-friendship in 10 years, and I'm sure she'll roll her eyes at the thought of missing me even after a full day of togetherness. But for now, these are just about the sweetest times I have ever had in my life. For now, I get to be the intimate friend, the snuggler, the person who gets to feel her breath on my cheek as she falls asleep.


Best Shot Monday is guest-hosted at Melody's today.

Trying to catch raindrops on her tongue.

Go With the Grump

I have two tons of photos from this weekend to edit so that I can share them with you. Today was not the day for photo editing, laundry, emptying or loading the dishwasher, any of my Monday cleaning chores, putting away toys or generally anything that would work toward progress of any kind.

Today I employed a Mommy-strategy I will refer to as: Going with the Grump. Between the birthday and Easter celebrations this weekend, my girl was overstimulated, overspoiled, overwhelmed, overexcited, overplayed and all of this led to today being overtired. Today was the back to normal, but wait--we can't cause the excitement of the weekend is still reverberating in our walls--day. And so, I embraced the grump. There was a lot of TV on today, a lot of whining and crying and many, many changes of princess outfits. There were sibling arguments, bites, hits, pushes and pinches. There were tantrums with flailing arms, red faces, kicking legs, you-can't-hold-me jelly bodies, high pitched screams, and stomping feet.

I just gave up thinking that I could accomplish anything in the way of the house today. And so I held, patted, kissed, wiped tears, fed, rocked, snuggled, adored, doted on, and loved.

Question

So, let's say that you were standing next to the crib in which your two are children playing. And lets say that the 3 year old climbs in and out of the crib with no difficulty because he's tall and his legs can reach over the rail and he's agile and has more control of his motor skills. Then, let's say that the still-1-but-almost-2 year old tries to do it too. And let's just assume that it was only by the grace of God that you (me) were (was) standing right there to catch the plummeting little girl before causing a spinal cord injury.

Do you:

A. Assume this only happened because the mom-safety-net was right there, and gave her the courage to attempt it, and it will never happen again, certainly not when mom is out of the room.

B. Have visions all night about the broken arms and plan out how you would handle the resulting injuries in the middle of the night, like: visualizing where a magazine is to use as a splint, remembering where your jeans are for a trip to the hospital, maybe making sure your hooded sweatshirt is by the door.

C. Put the mattress on the floor and start shopping for a big girl bed.

D. Ask The Internet what to do.


I can tell you I am hoping for A, and I did B, and now I'm doing D in case I should be doing C.

A Few Things About My Boy

A few of things about my boy:

He had his first real "reading" this week. He can "read" his name and Sarah, Mom, and Dad. But he was coloring the other morning and pointed to the words at the top of the page and said, "go, go." He could read it. We've never studied the word, "go," I've never pointed it out to him. But he figured it out along the way and he knew what the words at the top of the page said.

:::

Also, he says letters have "uppercase" and "downercase."

:::

And with a heavy sigh, I tell you the next amazing thing about him. Jack loves to change his shoes. (This isn't why I sigh, that's the next paragraph; this is actually quite charming). He loves shoes. He changes shoes at least 3 to 4 or more times a day. In any given day he will wear flip flops, snow boots, sneakers and dress shoes. Some shoes are in the bottom of our coat closet and he often will sit in front of this closet debating the next shoe choice. I get impatient with him because when he sits with that door hanging open, Sarah butts in there and pulls random stuff out or Jack will catch a glimpse of something else he will want to get into and it will just cause more mess for me to clean up.

Yesterday morning I was impatient and had said several times to him to close the door already. He knew I was getting irritated and said, "don't be mad at me."

I stopped. I don't ever want him to think I'm mad at him. Of course, in his 3 year old way, he was very honestly telling me he didn't like the way I had spoken to him. He didn't think I was mad at him in the way adults get mad, saying mean things and sulking. But that was how it felt to him. And I need to be a little more patient with him. There will be a day when I'm not cleaning up the shoes from the closet ten times a day. So I'll just have to live with it until then.

Remember This

Jack loves his baby sister. Loves. Loves so much that he can't wait to see her when she wakes up in the morning, he pets her hair and gives her kisses. Yesterday was a lazy, grumpy morning. We all stayed in our pajamas and Sarah, especially, had trouble getting herself ready to face the day. Jack took her hand, led her to the toy box to find her favortie toys and helped her line them up and play.
I love that these pictures are kind of blurry and dreamy. These are some of the memories that I will hold very, very close.

See what other MEMORIES are over at Picture This.

T&G, We're All T&G

When I am tired and cranky I just want to crawl in bed, maybe snuggle a bit and veg out. How come when these babies are tired and grumpy they have to yell all. the. time? And then for good measure, they yell at Sesame Street. Apparently Nora Jones singing with Elmo is somehow not right. And then when it seems like a pretzel would help, why is it that the entire container of pretzels is critical to the happiness of the entire house?

Note: When I say "they" really I just mean Sarah. I just threw in "they" so she wouldn't feel bad. But she's now trying to dump the trash and yelling because it won't cooperate, so I'm calling her out on the grumping.

Goopy Love

Sometimes my eyes swell with tears because I have the most beautiful babies God could have ever thought to give me. And sometimes my eyes shoot out hot tears because these two monkeys are driving me bananas!

I recently read something Anna Quindlen wrote about raising her kids and how quickly these precious, chubby years go by. She says, "I wish I had not been in a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less." And while it was beautifully written and poignantly phrased, it left me swirling with anxiety, guilt, anger, frustration, goopy love, snuggly softness, and teary wistfulness. Which basically sums up motherhood.

I barked at Jack today for being loud in McDonald's while we waited for our lunch. And I growled at him this morning for flicking the door stop again, making an awful noise. And I still am sad that I feel like I didn't really appreciate Sarah's babyness because all I can remember is the loooong, grumpy nights of walking and bouncing and begging her to sleep.

But also, a soft, sweet snuggly boy came and woke me up with kisses this morning. And a precious little girl snuggled into my chest as gave me kisses before I put her down for her nap. And they both made faces and swayed to the elevator music while we munched our chicken nuggets. Sarah pointed out her nose and belly to me and Jack sang his ABCs all the way home.

These babies are the most incredible thing to ever happen to me. I just have to take a deep breath and push away the frustration and the guilt and the anger, and make more room for the soft snuggles, the brilliant baby games, and the overflowing goopy love.

Mom

I have been a mother for 3 years now. It's hard to remember a life when I wasn't. And it wasn't until I became a mother myself that I understood my own mother more. I get it now. I didn't get it growing up. I certainly didn't get it when I was twelve or fourteen, or sixteen, or even twenty-two. I have always known that my mother loves me, unconditionally, without question. But now, I get it.

I know what it's like now.
I know what it's like to be home all day with the kids, and to try and make breakfast, lunch and dinner for a family. And juggle the mundane chores and tasks that keep a house running.
I know what it's like to have my husband go out to work, and work really hard for our family. And I know how it's hard to lean on him sometimes when I need help because he does work so hard.

I know what it's like to question myself and my mothering, to doubt everything I have done and to not know where to go for the answers.

I know what it's like to feel the weight of these two little lives heavy on my shoulders. And to exhaust every bit of energy into these babies.

I know what it's like to figure it out, to do something that works, to teach them words, and signs, and songs. And to see them surprise me by learning something on their own.

I know what it's like to be consumed by the love for these angels, to see them change before my eyes, to watch them learn and grow and do new things.
And then to miss the smell and feel of the babies they were.

I know what it's like to feel little arms around my neck and to feel sloppy baby kisses on my mouth. And to feel the pride that comes from knowing that they have succeeded, they have learned, they have accomplished, they have grown.


I get it now, Mom. I get it. Thank you for being such a wonderful mother and for being the example of the kind of mother I want to be.

I Don't Want to be That Mom

I don't want to be that mom who gets angry because her potty training three-year-old peed on the floor. Again. And again. It's hard not to become that person when I start off the day at 9 o'clock in the morning to the sound of pee puddling on the floor. It's hard to put on a smiling face and not snap because these are the 7th, 8th, 20th? pair of pants to be peed on in the last 24 hours. It's so hard because I know he KNOWS how to pee in the potty. Or at least I know he CAN LEARN to pee in the potty.

I guess that really, I'm just angry with myself. I'm angry and frustrated because what I'm doing isn't working. I'm not doing the right thing. It's not working for me. If it was, I wouldn't be washing smelly toddler pants every day.

This is one of the things that is SO hard (and self-revealing) about being a mom. I have to smile and keep going, even though, now there is more work for me to do, and I'm already behind on the other stuff and clearly my potty-training parenting is not working.

I just want to yell and force things to go the way I want them to. Isn't that why people, parents, yell? To insist and demand that people listen to them and obey them?

That's why I want to yell. And scream, and cry and stomp my feet. I am frustrated and I don't have a better solution. What I was doing didn't work. So I want to insist and demand that he not pee in his pants or on the floor. Again.

But it doesn't work. Losing my patience just makes Jack push me more. He becomes an octopus in the bathroom pulling down the towels, unrolling the toilet paper across the floor, turning on the sink tap, slamming the door, standing upside-down so I can't change his pants. He tries to see just what I will do since I've already used up the very last of my patience.

So, I don't want to be that mom.

I want to be the mom who has the answers. The mom who can gently and encouragingly and effectively teach this boy to use the potty. The mom who can throw yet another load of toddler boy clothes in the wash with a smile--or better yet, the mom who only has to wash toddler boy clothes once a week!

I don't want to be that mom. I have to keep reminding myself when I start to turn into that mom. I have to just walk away and figure out another plan.

More Babies?

It seems like everybody has an opinion on how many babies one should have. I have met parents who are dead-set on only having one, many parents who like having two, and a few parents who are brave enough to have more than two.

My husband and I have always talked about having between 2 and 4 children. And right now we are very happy with our two. Even, I may say, a little overwhelmed at times.

I remember when Jack was born, thinking "please let me want to do this again, please let it not be too terrifying." And he was a delightful, charming baby. I wanted to have 10 of him!

And then we had Sarah not quite 2 years later and with the packing and moving and everything, it really hit me hard how much more difficult it was to have two.

It seems like people know if they are done having kids. I mean, I knew that I wanted to have one. And then I knew that I wanted to have the second. Do I know if I want a third? No, I don't know. At least not yet. I know I don't want one right now. I know I am ready to be thin for a while, I know that I want to sleep through the night for a while, I know I want the time to have a clean house for a while.

I haven't gotten rid of any of our baby stuff. I have full boy's and girl's wardrobes in tubs in the basement. I have their sweet baby crib bedding sets. I have my maternity clothes packed away where I can find them. I would love to use some of their things again. But not now.

I am not ruling out the possibility that in a year (or two or three) we might be ready for one last baby. I would be willing to put my body through pregnancy and birthing one more time. To put myself through the sleepless nights, the self-doubt, the long hours of crying (the baby's, I mean), and the pure and utter exhaustion of mothering an infant.

But then I would get this body back to myself. However, not my heart...that belongs to three other people now, and maybe, someday, one more.



I started thinking to write about this topic after reading Swistle's posts on Baby Spacing and then about having more than one (or two or three). I am fascinated to read Swistle's blog since she is the mother of almost five children. She has four children, including a set of twins and is pregnant with her fifth baby. I am amazed at how she gets up in the morning and keeps things running, taking care of four children and dealing with being untumfortable.

I Can't Do It All

Sometimes the seemingly obvious hits me and I can look around and suddenly see things differently. Like tonight, I was laying in bed thinking of all the things I hadn't done lately. We had a really really busy weekend, Jack had a birthday party, so a lot of the normal things got pushed to the side. Now the house is in complete disarray and I'm trying to match up the random pieces of clothing that are actually clean to make outfits for everybody.

And then that voice in my head starts playing. Why can't you just keep the kitchen clean? If you would just do more laundry you wouldn't have to scrape the bottom of the drawers for clothes. I can't believe the house still looks like this and you've been home all day!

And then the REAL voice chimes in while I'm laying there in bed cataloging all of the things I did with my time today. You played sidewalk paint with Jack. You played with the pretend food with Sarah. You made them each breakfast and lunch. You changed diapers. You changed 45 pairs of toddler underpants. You kept a timer so another human being could be reminded to pee in the potty. You put the baby down for a nap.

And you know what I realized?

I can not do it all.

I can not do the job of taking care of my children and the job of keeping house all at the same time. Sure, I can juggle them and squeeze parts of each job into and around the other. But if it takes an hour to dress and feed the kids in order to get us out the door, I cannot expect to also clean the kitchen, do laundry and scrub a bathroom in that time.

Most importantly, I can expect to be the best mama I can be. And secondly, I can try to be the best home-maker I can be. And when my husband walks through the door at the end of the workday, he will be happy and relaxed if he sees his wife and children happily playing together and full of stories of their adventures. (And then maybe he won't notice that he doesn't have any clean underwear.)

I Just Don't Know

I just don't know what to do with this baby girl. She only has two modes: happy and lovely or tired, grumpy, cranky, annoyed, back-arching mad at the world. If there is anything at all to make her unhappy, then she switches into red-faced, crying, tired-but-not-sleeping mode and insists that her mama be in physical contact with her all. the. time. There is no gradual escalating of the frustration. There is no little bit cranky because her teeth kind of hurt. There is no might be sick, so just be snuggly and sleepy. There is only straight to ten.

At least that's how it feels.

It feels like all I see and hear is the same deafening, cranky sounds and I can't interpret them to figure out what the problem is. I am clearly not understanding her. I don't get it, she must think I'm an idiot at this mothering stuff because I can't seem to do the right thing. Or maybe something is just bothering her A LOT and I'm too thick to figure it out. So I keep putting her down for extra naps and giving her more milk.

I wish I knew better how to help her. I wish I knew what ails her. I would be happy to hold her, snuggle her, put her to bed, give her an extra bath, give her medicine, let her watch her favorite show, tell her brother to leave her alone - whatever it is I would do it. I just don't know what it is. She doesn't want to play with her toys alone or with me. She doesn't want to be held, she squirms out of my grip. She doesn't know what she wants and in my infinite mommy wisdom, I have no. clue. what. to. do.

She is a delightful, lovely little girl. I want to play with her and enjoy being with her. I want to know what I can do to help her. I don't want her to be sad. I feed her, I bathe her, I dress her, I change her, I rock her, I bounce her, I walk her, I kiss her, I love her.

And What a Gift He Is

Jack: "I was in your belly. When I was a baby. Then I was a wee little present. When I was born."

Yes, my baby boy, you are one of the greatest gifts in my life.

Defending, Disclaiming and Declaring

Why must we defend or clarify ourselves and our choices as mothers? Why do I feel like I have to add a disclaimer sometimes when talking to other mothers so they will think I'm a "good mother?"

While with some other moms and kids today, Jack was singing the Sesame Street song. You know, "Sunny days, sweeping the clouds away..." Another mother looked at me over his head with a smile and said how cute he is.

So I said, "We watch a lot of Sesame Street, sometimes everyday," with a smile and shrug that said, "even though I'm not supposed to."

The mother was very nice and waved her hand and said, "oh, at our house too!" She didn't raise her eyebrows or give me an eye roll. So, why did I have to blurt out my TV confession and then add the shrug like I knew I was doing something wrong?

It's not wrong, not for our family. It works for our family. Sometimes it allows me to cook dinner uninterrupted or to redirect a grumpy toddler. And Jack has learned a lot from Sesame Street. He learned how to play hide and seek from Big Bird and Snuffy, he practices counting with The Count, he recognizes all of his letters. He loves to jump around singing the "J, J, Jumping J" song.

My children play outside, read books, play pretend, help me cook, pick up their toys, draw and color, play with Play-Doh, stack blocks and all sorts of other "acceptable" activities.

But you know what? They also watch TV. Sometimes every day. Sometimes more than one show in a day. And they are growing up just fine. I am a good mother. I am a great mother. And next time my children's TV watching is outed to another mother? I will confidently answer that they love Sesame Street. And if I get that eyebrow raise with eye roll? I will shrug it off and declare that it may not work for every family, but it works for our family.

Sarah's Birth Story

Sarah's birth was not what I had prepared for. First of all, she was unexpectedly born in our bathroom! At the time, I didn't really elaborate much on my blog, but here is the post from the time. My husband also posted about it to fill in family and friends.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006 I had been to the doctor's where the midwife decided I should be induced the next day. My husband, Jack and I went out to lunch for our last meal as a three-person family. My in-laws came down to stay with Jack in the morning when we went to the hospital.

That afternoon and evening I ran myself up and down the two flights of stairs in our townhouse doing every load of laundry I could think to do. For some reason, having a baby the next day meant that we would need clean clothes. And lots of them! My back hurt a lot, but, hey, I was nine months pregnant and was hauling heavy laundry baskets up and down two flights of stairs. Of course it was gonna hurt!

We went to bed and just as I had finally fallen asleep I was awakened by that back pain. It just kept waking me up to the point where I couldn't sleep. I woke up my husband and told him that maybe? I was having contractions. Soon, I realized that, yes, they definitely were contractions, and they were strong. I kept poking my husband to stay awake so he could time them. I barked strict instructions that he was to time the contractions, to remain completely quiet during the contractions, to remain still and not move the bed, and by no means was he to touch me during a contraction.

We talked to the midwife on call and she gave us the, "come in when the contractions are 5 minutes apart and strong for one hour" business. That was around one thirty in the morning. Around two o'clock, my husband was getting dressed and getting our bags by the door and calling my parents to make sure they were awake and knew to get ready.

I went to the bathroom and my water broke. I was relieved because that meant that we could leave to go to the hospital. I called my husband into the bathroom. That's when things started to narrow and time and other people seemed to disappear. I started to panic a little, but I knew I was fine. I told my husband to tell me I was okay. I said that I knew I was fine, I just needed him to tell me. He kept trying to get me to get up and get moving so we could go to the hospital, but I wasn't going anywhere. I stood with my hands on the sink and felt my body contract and push. I told my husband, I need to push. Both he and his mother said, "Don't!"

But you can't tell a laboring woman not to push. It just was not possible to stop. I was no longer in control of this body.

I couldn't hold my own weight anymore so I told my husband that I needed to lay on the floor. He called to his mother to call an ambulance because he didn't know how he was going to get me back up and into the car.

As he laid me down, he said, "the head is out!" And with one more contraction, our baby girl was here and in my husband's and my arms. The three of us sat on the floor of our bathroom and looked at each other in disbelief. She was here. She was healthy. She was beautiful.

And I felt wonderful! I was so relieved.

According to the time stamp on the 911 transcript, the baby was born 4 minutes after my water broke. At 2:15 in the morning Sarah Grace became the fourth member of our family.

The 911 operator instructed my mother in law that we should tie off the cord and my father in law graciously gave up his shoe string (we still have it in a bag, in case Sarah wants to see it someday).

The ambulance arrived and 5 or 6 very very young looking paramedics stuffed into my bedroom. There I was on the floor, wearing only a shirt with my bath towels surrounding me and a slimy, beautiful angel in my arms. And, I swear, these boys could not have been older than 18 (I sure feel old!). Luckily there was one in charge (maybe he was 18 1/2?) and he knelt on the bathroom floor next to me and talked to me and checked and made sure I was alright and that the baby was alright.

Then it was time to cut the cord. So, the paramedic pulled out a scalpel and handed it to my husband. I think my husband was a little intimidated holding an very sharp instrument next to his newborn baby girl who lay on his wife's belly. He cut the cord and then my baby girl was wrapped in my bath towel and laid on my bed so the paramedics could get me taken care of and moved onto a stretcher.


They moved me somehow down the stairs and then out into the parking lot where I got to hold my baby girl on the way to the hospital. It was a very bumpy ride. I think the route they took must not have followed the roads, maybe that's a liberty that ambulances have, but I think they drove over ditches and through rocks and over anything but smooth, even pavement. When we arrived in the ER, the staff stood around the desk and cheered for us as we came in.


I was taken up to a labor and delivery room (ha ha, I didn't need you!) and cleaned up and the baby was cleaned up and warmed up. The midwife said she was wondering where we were, she was here waiting for us!

After such a long and exciting night we couldn't wait to call everyone we knew and tell them about our experience. My parents, husband and I sat around my hospital room waiting for the time to be late enough that we could call and tell our story. I think we started calling people at 6 am. I know that sounds a little early, but after our night, I don't think anybody minded.

Back at home, my mother and father in law couldn't go back to sleep, so they busied themselves with laundry (how could I have had any left?) and other things around the house. As my mother in law passed the dining room table she saw that it looked wet. She knew she had cleaned up after dinner, but went to get a paper towel anyway. Turns out, the fluid from all the birthing going on upstairs had leaked from the bathroom into the light above the dining room. My father in law removed the light fixture and cleaned it up.


Sarah's birth went so quickly that I wasn't scared or really even thinking about anything other than the moment. My body just moved through one stage of labor into the next. My body and God took over. There was a strength that moved her from my body and into her own. And my beautiful baby girl was born.

Patience

Patience is the one thing I pray for most as a mother. After the health and safety of my children, of course. I like to think I am a pretty easygoing person. I like to think that I go with the flow and all. But when it comes to my children, especially if it is after 5 o'clock, I feel like sometimes I am stretched so thin, I just can't bend and give any more. I want to stomp my feet and cry and yell and throw a tantrum that I"M NOT GETTING MY WAY, WAAAHHH!

But, then, who would listen? It wouldn't make Jack stop licking flour off the counter. It wouldn't make the basket of laundry that's been sitting in the baby's room for three days get put away any faster. It wouldn't make my noisy angels go to bed any sooner. It also wouldn't finish my husband's homework so that he could relax and play with us.

So, I remind myself that it doesn't hurt anything if Jack licks flour from the counter or clean clothes sit in a basket yet another day. If I just sit and breathe, then, this too shall pass.

Before I can blink, I will be begging Jack to bake cookies with me and laughing about how he used to eat straight flour and tell me how it was so good. I will be barking at Sarah to pick up the dirty clothes off of her floor and reminiscing about the little pink dresses she used to wear.

This is hard. This is a hard hard job. I do menial tasks that glare at me, why can't you just get these things done? And I have little dependant people who need me for everything: eating, drinking, changing, playing. And I just can't seem to make everybody follow my schedule. I can't dictate when we do things, including going to the bathroom and going to bed. When I type it out it seems ridiculous. I certainly can't condition my family so that every hour goes as planned where I get plenty of rest and everybody has clean clothes and delicious meals to eat.

And so, I will have patience. Patience knowing that these babies are only babies for a short time. Patience knowing that they may not remember every single thing we have done together, but I sure don't want them to remember their mama snapping at them when all they wanted to do was play.