Happy Mother's Day

I was recently asked to address a group of women at their monthly meeting. Apparently I'd made some sort of positive impression on the coordinator. I can't imagine why, as I am still running around like a chicken with its head cut off after my three boys, ages 9, 6, and 4.

Two other ladies spoke before me. One was a practicing psychologist and another an ethsitician. When the mistress of ceremonies introduced them, she included their impressive qualifications, which included advanced degrees and their own business. Since I was a last minute addition (the original speaker wasn't able to make it) she hadn't had time to find out anything impressive about me. When she introduced me, "and our last speaker is Kirsten Kennedy...a ..." she hastily mentioned my past accomplishments, which I must admit, sounded impressive. The last one was finished over 10 years ago, and I've sacrificed myself on the altar of motherhood ever since then.

When I was preparing my speech the night before, I was filled with panic. What on earth could I say to a group of women of differing ages, education, and income that would be entertaining, inoffensive, and interesting? I was staring at the blank screen on my computer when the answer came in the form of my 4 year old son covered in sand, coming into the house to request my assistance with the finer points of castle construction.

Of course. Kids. Most of us had them. And those who didn't had probably seen some at some point or another. They definitely had heard them. My speech went like this:

Hi. I'm so glad to see so many of you were able to make it this morning. I was asked to address you and offer some practical advice of some sort. About what, I'm still not sure. I'm sorry I was running late today, but our boys had karate and gymnastics, and our dryer isn't working, so I had some trouble finding clean clothes this morning. I have three boys. The first two are separated by three years, and the middle and youngest are 21 months apart. Let me make it easy for those of you without any functioning brain cells after your sleepless night: at one point in my life I had a five year old, a two year old,
and a newborn.

We were living in a two bedroom house without a dishwasher. Less said on the size of my house, the better. Sort of like the size of my hips. When my youngest was 4 months old, at some point in the midst of the chaos which now passed for my day, I realized that something was wrong with me. I was fat, exhausted, and overwhelmed. In step with my generation, I ran out and got a book to help me with my problem. That didn't work, so I joined a mom's group. That only made it worse. I'd never seen so many thin, pretty, put together women with perfectly behaved children in my life. I quickly decided I needed to find out what they had, and get it, quick.

I got a "to do" list longer than my nursing tops. Depending on the source, the advice I received only made me more tired. I needed to work out every day. I needed to keep the house nice and the children clean. I needed to cook nutritious meals. I needed to get together with some other moms. I needed to develop a hobby. I needed to put on makeup every day. I needed to dress nicely. I needed to go out on dates with my husband. I needed to discipline myself to do a Bible study every day. The books and women all promised me, do this one thing (whatever their particular "thing" was), and you will feel better.

I have only one thing to say. Baloney. What I needed was a full body post partum epidural. When was I supposed to put on makeup, when there were some days I didn't even make it into the shower? Work out? I got a workout every day pushing the double stoller up a 60 degree hill. Keep the house nice, puhleese. By the time I got the dishes done from breakfast it was time to make lunch. Fold the laundry - why? Do you have any idea how much a new baby spits up?

What I needed as angel. And that's what I got. She knew, you see, what I was going through. Without my even asking, she flew across the country to my rescue. For one glorious week, I slept, took a shower unaccompanied, went for walks with my baby, and ate nutritious meals. Mama cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, and somehow kept the boys entertained during it all. She even stayed up all night once so that I could get a full night's sleep.

I closed off my speech with an exhortation to the assembled women to ask for help if they needed it. Even if they were a graduate of West Point and had an MBA in Finance. I was beseiged with women sharing their stories with me after the luncheon.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama. I love you.

The Sounds of Mother's Day

My Mother's Day began with a whimper and ended with a bang.

The whimper was from my husband, as 2 of our children awakened at 6:14 a.m. on Sunday morning. The sigh came from me, rolling over and burrowing deeper into the covers. (Hey, it was Mother's Day, I got to sleep in.)

The slam was from our bedroom door as my husband firmly informed our 6 year old Mommy was not to be disturbed. The whine and sniffle from the other side of the door was from said 6 year old as he went to have breakfast. The jiggle at the door was from our 18 month old, who apparently didn't understand or chose not to obey Daddy's edict.

The slap was the sound of aforementioned 18 month old's pudgy hand connecting with my cheek as he clambered up into bed with me. (Why do they always come to my side?) The whoosh was when Daddy retrieved our youngest son to redirect his considerable energy into something non mommy oriented: breakfast. (Since he hasn't been nursing for quite some time now, this wasn't as difficult as it once was.)

As I snuggled deeper into the covers, a sigh escaped as the muted sounds of breakfast dishes clanking drifted to my ears. No, wait, that wasn't clinking from the kitchen. It was our middle son, with his ever present Lego train (Toby). Our 3 1/2 year old had taken advantage of Daddy's momentary distraction and traversed the length of the hallway between his room and ours with stealth worthy of a trained sniper.

The thump was his foot hitting the wooden chest at the foot of our bed as he vaulted onto the small of my back. (I have to admit, the kid's coordinated.) The groan came from me as I accepted the inevitable and swung my legs onto the floor. As I escorted our son into the kitchen to join his brothers for a celebratory Mother's Day breakfast (Fruit Loops) I was greated with yet another wonderful sound.

The sizzle was the sound of my Mother's Day pancakes being cooked to perfection by my husband. He decided to spare me our 6 year old's recipe for pancakes, as dictated to and faithfully recorded by his Kindergarten teacher:

My Favorite Recipe

by

Matthew

Pancakes

Mix a lot of things like milk, water, and

strawberries in a bowl. Pour the dough in a

pan on the stove. Cook for 20 minutes. Take

a spatula and put it under the pancake. You

flip it over. When they are flipped over and done,

you put them on my plate.

The splash was the sound of the vase containing my Mother's Day flowers being overturned as our 3 1/2 year old hurried to get his share of the Fruit Loops breakast aperatif. Teh creak was from my knews as I got out the rags and towels required to wipe up the spilled water which made a melodic drip onto the floor.

Moving on to the afternoon....

There was blessed silence as our two younger sons settled down for naps and our oldest enjoyed a book. The peace was abruptly shattered by the announcement from our doorbell that there were visitors at our door. "I'LL GET IT" came from my oldest as he pounded to the front door. A debate ensued between 3 males between the ages of 6 and 8 as to precisely what activity the trio should engage in. A decision reached, my shout in the vicinity of my departing son's ears informing him when to return home echoed through the house as he raced off on his bike.

The thump was from the baby, who woke up and requested immediate evacuation from his crib by his usual method: tossing all the contents of his crib onto the floor. This didn't used to be a problem, as the items were all soft, cuddly, light stuffed animals. But when he figured out how to detch the toys we had attached to his crib in the vain hope of keeping him occupied until a decent hour of the morning (like, say, 5:30 a.m.) the thumps got significantly louder.

The giggling was from said 18 month old as I gave him zerberts during his upholstering (diaper change). The pitter patter of little feet came from our middle child as he woke up and went in search of an other upright members of his clan. He started giggling when I got a "surprise" from the baby during his diaper change. (What is it with little boys and peeing during the 1 1/2 seconds they're not covered on the changing table?)

The general chaos which precedes all five of us getting to leave the house involved the usual shouts, scuffling, and thumps as 2 adults located socks, shoes, and other paraphernalia required when actually transporting 3 children outside of their den. We picked up the oldest and his bike on our way to our hike at a nature preserve 4 minutes from our house (I love our house). Our hike was uneventful, just the usual squish as our children located and thoroughly explored every mud puddle along the path.

The splashing started from the baths that were necessary the moment we got home. I didn't even mind mopping up the bathroom floor from that, as it was accompanied by heartfelt declarations of "Happy Mother's Day" by my adoring fans. My husband's voice reading their bedtime stories was one of the sweetest I'd ever heard, as I was stretched out on the couch. (It even beat out the sounds of him cooking, serving, and cleaning up after dinner.

But the best sound of my Mother's Day had to be the sound of three little boys breathing deeply in their sleep after a busy day of making my day happy.

As I got into bed that night, ready to drift into oblivion, the final sound of the day was a crash from the kitchen. I got up to investigate, and found that one of the pots drying in the dishrack had succumbed to gravity. The perfect end to a perfect day.