My Birthday Present

We're just over a month into our new family ventures, and already we have established a hint of normalcy. Just a hint though….because it is an absolute madhouse here. Not just most days, but every day. Even when the kids are in bed. Madhouse. However, the boys seem to fit right in with the ebb and flow of our daily routines. Well, we think they are fitting in...but I'm sure they wonder what all the fuss is about when I have a panic attack and pass out each time they make a move from the table with dirty hands.

The middle sis is really coming in handy. If she's not leading them by her example, she's doing so with explicit and precise instructions. In a tone that is all too familiar to Keith…as well as my former students. Still, like siblings who have been together from the beginning, they are quick to publicize, though few they are, her every infraction.

I knew it was inevitable, but have already I added the title of “Referee” to my Motherhood resume. We are not able to make it downstairs in the morning without my having to set up boundary lines with objects, put someone in Time Out or physically restrain or remove a child from any given location. The honeymoon is definitely over for these 3.

After the kids’ “rest time” yesterday, which is never that for me, I had to clean up 3 sets of urine and rescue a child who had fallen in the toilet after slipping on the urine of a sibling.

I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I did pick up a child who was covered literally from hair to sock in pee. Um, not before grabbing a towel of course! I wouldn’t dare touch that without a thick absorbent barrier. After carefully wrapping him in the towel, I comforted and cleaned the little guy off while shooing away the laughing hyenas in the hallway.

On that subject, I nearly peed my pants one night last week when Keith put Garris in Time Out…and he actually sat in the chair the whole time, which for now is a whopping 2 minutes. No screaming, kicking or walking away. I am grateful and a little pissed that he will at least sit there for someone, even if it isn’t me.

Tomorrow is my birthday. While I make everyone around me celebrate the event for at least a month, I only made one request to Keith: a day off. Ahh. He is granting my wish and has arranged for me to spend the day with 2 of my favorite girlfriends while he and another brave soul take care of all 7 children.

I am scared.

Not scared so much of what will happen to the kids. I’ve already been informed of the day’s agenda. Krispy Kreme to get them in a great mood with all the sugar and fat of a couple dozen doughnuts…followed by dumping the kids at the gym’s child watch…then the pool and a bike ride.

I’m scared of the state in which I will find my organized house and life upon my return. Every bag, craft, snack, etc. has a particular “home” so that I can find it easily next time I want to use it. Yes, I’m that girl. Keith says he hates it but relies on me to know where everything is. Honey, it’s not my day to keep up with that tiny piece of paper you claim to have had in your hand last month.

I tried to pass on some information to him regarding food, our routine and the contents of all 18 pool bags it takes us for each trip, but he did not want to listen. So, I am relinquishing control. This is a good step for me, The Control Nazi. In the same way, he tried to give me instructions tonight…on how to fold his clothes! In 10 years of marriage, tonight was the first night I have ever asked Keith to fold his own underwear and socks. I folded every other piece of laundry during the time he balled his socks. I learned that, even though I have folded hundreds of pairs of boxers each week, because he wears at least 5 pair a day (one for each category or mood), I could have been simply tossing them into his basket of clean laundry. Hours later, I am still baffled that in all this time, I have given him neatly folded undies that he basically unfolds before putting away.

Have I mentioned our communication problem?

We have a sitter and dinner reservations for tomorrow night’s date, but I’m not sure I’ll want to come home for it.

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