Baby Juggling. Brooklyn, Sept 2010

As many of you know, I am not one to shy away from talking about my struggles with anxiety and depression. I’m always glad to talk to someone who has dealt with similar issues, so I figure it’s helpful to others, not just therapeutic to me, to share my experiences. I also think society as a whole needs to suck it up and start being comfortable dealing with mental and emotional health issues, just like it is with medical issues. We shouldn’t feel embarrassed to acknowledge that we struggle with anxiety any more than we should feel ashamed to tell others we have high blood pressure. Privacy I can understand. But shame, never.

BJ, the Rebel and Emily, the Good Child. California, High School-ish

Over the course of my adult life, I’ve sought help through psychotherapy a number of times. I started in college, my freshman year, when I was having a really hard time making the transition. I also sought help on my mission, when I was in Texas, waiting for my visa to allow me to go to Venezuela (which never happened but that’s another story.) The anxiety was so bad, that it was all I could do to put one foot in front of each other as we’d walk the streets near UNT. It took me six months and a transfer to Florida (and the subsequent sunshine and friendlier folk) to feel slightly normal again. The commonality of these and other events in my life that caused me to seek professional help is that they all brought on anxiety and depression.

Blurry Mission Pic. Florida, 2003

If you’ve ever experienced either, and maybe you didn’t even know that’s what it was, you’ll know what I’m talking about. The feeling of nameless but impending doom. The tightening of the chest. The aching pain of nausea in your stomach. The numbness. The feeling of walking through water. And the despair. The complete and total despair—that no one understands; that God has abandoned you; that you’ll never feel good again; that you are going insane.

In my time in therapy, I’ve figured out that a lot of my anxiety comes from an irrational, though deeply rooted fear that I am not worthy of love. Or, to put it another way, I am not a good ______ and therefore not worthy of love. So all my life I’ve tried to be a good daughter, a good student, a good missionary, and now, a good mother. 

So now, here I am, the mother of four under four, and my life is filled with stress. And I get angry. Very angry. All the time. In fact, it was only recently in therapy that I figured out that the anger is almost constant because I am almost always anxious. It’s not the crippling anxiety I felt on my mission; it’s not anxiety attacks that come and go; it’s more of a baseline anxiety that simmers just below the surface and boils over anytime I get provoked. And living with toddlers is, in case you didn’t know, very provoking. So I lose my temper, I do something I regret, and then fall into the pit of shame and despair over how terrible a mother I am. One time, it got so bad that I had to put all the kids in their beds, for their own protection, and then had to talk myself out of taking the pile of sleeping pills I held in my hand. (Google helped. You can’t kill yourself with 12 sleeping pills. You can only make yourself violently ill.) At any rate, that’s the depth of the pit of shame and despair.

The “Good” Mom. Brooklyn. 2009

Several weeks ago, when I was telling my therapist about this incident, I was saying something like, “I used to be such a good mother! With Elizabeth, I was such a good mother! Now I’m a monster!” followed by a lot of sobbing. But then I stopped as I thought about what I’d just said. Wait a minute. I was a good mother? That sounds … actually … really prideful. And that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t a good mother when it was just me and Elizabth. I was just a mother with more time and more resources. Now that I have the triplets, I am still a mother, but with less time and less resources. OH. MY. GOSH. You mean, all my accomplishments, all the things in my life that make me feel like I’m so awesome … THEY DON’T MAKE ME A “GOOD” PERSON!??!?! I just am!?!??!?!?!? I. JUST. AM! It’s ironic, but it took me looking at all my successes, not my failures, to realize that they do NOT define me! Think about it. I graduated from college with honors. Does that make me a “good” person? NO! It means I made good choices, yes. But it doesn’t increase my worth in any way. I lost my temper and yelled at my daughter. Does that make me a “bad” mom? NO! It means I made a bad choice, yes. But it doesn’t have to throw me into the pit of shame and despair, because, it doesn’t take away from my self worth!

Graduating with Honors. BYU, 2006

Another way of looking at it is through the Atonement—the sacrifice Jesus Christ made for us. God loves us—every last sinner of us—and his love doesn’t depend on how “good” or “bad” we are. He loves us. Period. End of sentence. And by falling into the pit of shame and despair, I was only telling myself, “You are BAD. You can NEVER change. You are not worthy of God’s love.” What the WHAT?! That’s not true! That’s a LIE! Jesus gave his life and suffered for our bad mistakes—our sins—so that we can change and improve and so we’ll have the chance to make our actions match the incredible worth we ALREADY HAVE.

BJ, Em, and Reb. Utah, ca. 1985 

Sitting in the therapy session, figuring all this out, I felt a physical weight lifted off my shoulders. And it didn’t end there. When I got home and I, once again, got angry and lost my temper, I didn’t fall into The Pit. I took a step back, saw my mistake for what it was—something wrong I did, not something bad I was—and could move forward from there. Incredible.

This, my friends, was an awakening. It’s set me free. Stay tuned for Part 2.   

Whose birthday is it?

Labor day, we celebrated the babies’ second birthday. Guess we can’t call them “the babies” anymore. But “the toddlers” doesn’t really roll off the tongue. And I know a mother of teenage twins who still refers to them as “the babies,” so …

This is what the babies (there I go again) are up to as new two-year-olds.

Charlie

Charlie is always moving. Whether he’s moving his hips to shake the feeding table (hate that) or barreling full speed at me to fling himself into my arms (love that) he is go, go go. And he’s fearless. He was the first to figure out how to climb out of the cribs. And he loves being tossed around by his daddy. His chipped front teeth give him just the right “impishness” to his grin to reflect what’s truly behind the smile: a mischievous but affectionate little boy. We love you, Charlie!

Eddie

Eddie is the biggest and strongest and he knows it! Many of you know we’ve been struggling to keep him from pushing other kids around at the playground (and at home.) But like most bullies, he falls to pieces if you’re aggressive back. His whine could power a whole city, I’ll tell you what. But his laugh is infectious and he loves to be tickled. He’s also taken to trucks and trains and cars. And anything the color green, he instantly presumes is his own. We love our Eddie Bear!

Lucy

Lucy has already started talking in sentences and can name all her letters. (Go girls!) She loves nothing more than sitting on your lap, making sure you’re looking at her by putting her chubby hands on both sides of your head, and jabbering away. She also has an awesome sense of humor. She will look at you and cross her eyes, say things incorrectly if it gets you to laugh, and will comment, “I so funny!” She’s still tough, rolling with her brothers’ punches, but if you try to take something away from her that she wants, watch out! She is as stubborn as her hair is red! We love Lucy!

The day of their birthday, we started out with a balloon free-for-all

Which lasted for exactly 0.5 seconds before all the balloons were popped. Next came a trip to the Rutherford Labor Day street fair, where we were joined by some new friends who live nearby and have two sons, ages 2 and 1. 

There was a bounce house, face painting, games, and a free puppet show by Rutherford Bible Church. We got to sing along to their take on REM’s “Stand.” Stand in the place where you live! For the Lord!” It was my first exposure to non-LDS worship music. Seriously gave “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” a run for it’s money! See how mesmerized they are?

Afterwards, we came back for PB&J’s and then cake and ice cream.

We saved opening presents until after dinner, so we could do it live with G-Ma and Pumpa. But they were delayed so we recorded it. And then, as time wore on, the babies got more and more cranky. You can hear Eddie around 0:18 starting to hit maximum capacity.

By then end, they hit overload and finished the night in true two-year-old fashion, with an enormous, off-the-charts meltdown. 

Happy birthday, guys!

What did we do over the summer? 

We took trips!

Trips to IKEA!

(This is what happens when you forget the strollers.)

Trips to Grandma and Grandpa’s!

Trips taken by G-ma and Cousin Isaac to see us! (Cousins Week 2012!)

S’mores!

Her first s’more!

And if you think that’s piggy, check out the babies eating watermelon. I think they lived on that alone this summer: 

Trips to Japanese restaurants that were takai desu! (Thanks, Mom!)

Trips with G-ma and Isaac and the gang to Van Saun Park to ride the carousel and ponies!

(Okay, so this isn’t Van Saun Park. I have no idea where this is. But it is a carousel. And it is my mom!)

Another trip taken to see us in NJ! (Maybe you all should think of doing it, too!)

The lovely Anderson family joined us for a Fourth of July bar-b-que. It was SO GREAT to see them. Here’s a video to illustrate what the day was like: 

Trips to County Fairs that turn out to be just carnivals with over-priced rides and food and no livestock!

Trips to the local park for free concerts! (All thanks to our live-in babysitter and Best Sister Ever, Kim!)

Trips to Brooklyn for free concerts by the Metropolitan Opera!

Did I mention that my SIL Kim came to stay with us for over a month? And this is what she got for it:

And this:

But we didn’t just abuse her all day long. We took her on a …

Trip to the zoo!

Trips to our old nabe in Brooklyn for the block party!

And every day that wasn’t raining, we took trips to the playground! 

More playgrounds!

Still more!

That’s right, more!

Okay, last one.

I seriously think I’ve found every playground in a 15 minute drive of our house. Too bad there’s only one in walking distance and it’s deeeeeesgusting. (And that’s saying a lot, coming from Brooklyn!)

Whew! What a summer! Bring it on, Fall!

Guess what? We moved to New Jersey! Okay, so none of you are surprised, considering this happened over THREE MONTHS ago. I haven’t blogged in for-e-ver. But I think I’m finally in a place (figuratively and literally) where I feel up to the self-reflection that blogging entails.

So let’s start off with a little reminder of what life was like for us back in Brooklyn:

I can’t imagine anyone was happier than Yaya, the little Greek lady downstairs, to hear we were finally moving out. We found our new rental, after much headache and searching online, and only one day looking in New Jersey (b/c who wants to pay $25+ in tolls more than once?), in a town called Rutherford. If you’re scratching your head, it’s north of Newark, east of Midtown Manhattan, and just a few minutes away from the stadium where the Jets and the Giants play. (Not that we’ll ever go to a game. NFL fans we are not.) 

My Dad flew out to help with the packing and the moving. (Read about his take on the whole circus here.)And the day of the the move, the whole ward came out in force to load the truck and help me with the kids. Besides the handsome, hardworking men below,

… we had half a dozen women helping me clean the apartment and taking care of the kids at the playground down the street. It was an overwhelmingly generous gift, but pretty much par for the course for the Bensonhurst Ward. They really were (and still are) our family.

Dad and Adam drove the van to NJ, and I followed a little while later in the mini-van with the kids. I need to give a special shout out to Brother Soriano, who drove with Adam and Dad all the way to NJ, paid for the truck’s gas, and helped unload the truck when they got here. When it was all done, he refused a ride back to Brooklyn, but just got on the train to make his way home. Maybe we should stop calling him Brother Soriano and just say, “Saint Soriano.” San José!

Speaking of saints, here’s my dad posing outside our new home. The weekend he came to visit was one of the hottest, muggiest weekends of the summer. What a trooper!

Looking back, I can say that trying to move with three one-year-olds at home was the stupidest thing ever. The next time we move, I’m shipping them off to Grandma’s for a WEEK!

But we survived, and after about a week or two, things were mostly unpacked and in place. (Adam is like the Tazmanian Devil, but instead of a path of destruction, he leaves a path of tidiness.) After a few tries, Adam figured out his commute to work, including his awesome Razor scooter that he takes to and from the bus. And I found myself living the life of the suburban mom. I do my laundry AT HOME. I park in my DRIVEWAY. I can let the kids go outside and play in our YARD.

Isn’t it beautiful? At first, it was actually quite surreal. I remember standing outside my mini-van in the parking lot of the Stop and Shop on a bright, beautiful Saturday morning. I had one of the babies with me, sitting in the shopping cart, and I just paused and looked up at the sky. Is this my life? Is this real? I felt like I was playing a part in a movie. I grew up in the burbs, and much of my ideas about being a mom came from watching my mom be a suburban mom. But then I had all my children in the city and I had to learn to do the urban thing. Being a city mom was all that I knew, first-hand. But now that we’ve left Brooklyn, I’m living the lifestyle I’d always imagined when I pictured my future self as a SAHM. 

Sometimes people we meet ask if we like living in New Jersey better than in Brooklyn. I have to stop myself from shouting, “YES!” Not that we don’t desperately miss our friends in Brooklyn—we DO!—but life has just gotten so much easier. I mean, look at all this space!

Living room!

Dining Room! Note our new (to us) dining table!

Kitchen! Do you see the dishwasher? Hallelujah!

Finished basement! AKA the Playroom AKA the Guest Room. Around the corner is the laundry room and the second (!) full bathroom.

The office!

Upstairs are three bedrooms and a bathroom in which I can stretch my arms out and not be able to touch both walls! We even have a covered porch and an attic! We’re still renters, but this place truly feels like home. Sometimes, I go for days without going into the laundry/bathroom in the basement, and it makes me feel like a wealthy millionaire, who goes for weeks without going into some of the wings of her mansion. 

Our 1100-sq-ft mansion:

The other night, Adam and I were reminiscing about life in Brooklyn, and we both looked at each other and said, “How did we DO that???” It will probably take a lot more time and thought and writing to fully understand the purposes and results of our time in New York City, but for now, we’re just happy to have a little more room to stretch out.

Things aren’t that different, though. We still run crazy circles and trip over each other a lot. But I guess that’s life with triplets, wherever you are.

In a desperate attempt to catch up on my blog, (since it’s almost May and I’m still doing January/February) I’ll just sum up the rest of our time in California. 

My mom and I watched way too much of this:

And not nearly enough of this:

I went to a zumba class where I got to wear one of these:

We saw a lot of these:

With this guy:

I got to spend time with awesome friends like these:

And we did a lot of this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

We had a wonderful time with G-Ma and Pumpa. But when the time came, we were all ready for this:

I will be forever grateful to my parents for opening their home to me and the kids, especially for such a long time. You can read my dad’s take on the whole experience here and here. I don’t know if he quite knew what he was getting himself into. But my parents were, as always, helpful and loving and forgiving and just plain awesome. Coming back to Brooklyn was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Maybe because I didn’t have a mother’s helper lined up already. Or maybe because I thought that Adam would get a job in California so I wouldn’t have to go back. But life in Brooklyn picked up where it left off, and we were all glad to be back with Adam. So until the next time we go to California, (you know, when they invent teleportation or flights become dirt cheap due to the invention of cold fusion) we’ll content ourselves with looking at photos, Skyping with the grandparents, and California dreaming. (Of In-n-Out.)

March 13, 10:00 PM

This morning, I sat on the rug in my kids’ room, watching them play with their Mega Blocks. After three or four attempts to help them build a tower (the only thing you can build with Mega Blocks) followed by one of them knocking it down with glee, I was ready to scream. Or cry. Or run screaming and crying into another room. Which is what I did. (Okay, so I was screaming and crying on the inside.) I laid on my bed and was overcome by an immense feeling of boredom and despair. Then my eldest popped her head in the doorway and asked if she could come in. “Just close the door behind you,” I pleaded. But no. Three more little heads bobbed towards the bed. Back to the Mega Blocks we go.

The official Church position, and for my intents and purposes, the word of God himself is this:

By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children. In these sacred responsibilities, fathers and mothers are obligated to help one another as equal partners. Disability, death, or other circumstances may necessitate individual adaptation. Extended families should lend support when needed.

So this, translated in my mind, sounds like this: In ideal circumstances (ie. the parents are married, alive, and able-bodied), the dad should work to pay the bills, and the mom should take care of their children in their home. At least while the children are young, mom’s primary focus should be on taking care of them, not on making money. That’s dad’s job. Both work for the good of the family focusing mainly on their own spheres of responsibility. But obviously, this can overlap. Dads are expected to pitch in w/ the kids and household chores. And if mom can manage to get all her stuff done and still have time to make some extra money on the side, well, then more power to her.  Maybe you agree. Maybe you don’t. But for me. this has been my understanding of How Life Works since I was a kid. And I’m not saying I disagree with it now. But I was thinking about this whole idea tonight and something struck me.

You see, the men (and by “the men” I mean Mormon men. In the USA. Who are middle class. So maybe none of this really applies outside of my little world…) Anyway, the men go to college where they spend all this time and money to figure out what career they want to pursue, get the education and training they need for said career, and then work in it for the rest of their lives. They may change careers at some point. But ultimately, and hopefully, they work at a job they enjoy while fulfilling their duty to provide for their family. There are a million different jobs out there. And any of them are open to them. The women, however, no matter what they studied in college or where they worked before having kids, all end up doing the same thing. Sure, some excel at baking. Others take on quilting. Some even learn photography. But we all are doing basically the same job: cooking, cleaning, caring for the children. We are all wiping bums and noses, making grocery lists, and picking up toys. My husband had endless choices when it came to deciding what he’d be doing with the vast majority of his time each day. I had one. 

I’m not saying this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. I’m not saying I disagree with the church leaders who have taught this concept. I’m not shaking my fist at God (not over this, anyway.) I mean, if you take this line of thinking far enough, you start thinking, this isn’t fair. Why can’t I choose something else? I don’t think I would. I couldn’t imagine putting my kids in day care. It would kill me. I couldn’t imagine leaving them with a nanny, or even a close relative. Not all day, five days a week. It’s going to be hard enough sending my firstborn off to preschool next fall. So obviously, on some level, I chose this as the best (if only) option. 

And it’s not as if I cried with boredom and despair this morning because it’s all simply too easy for me. I’m not so smart/capable/awesomely talented that I’m bored with being a SAHM. In fact, I’m not a very good homemaker. At all. My husband recently pulled the bed away from the wall to reveal a huge patch of mold. Growing on the wall. I didn’t even know you had to check for things like mold. On walls. Behind beds. And there it was all this time. So you see, I’m not very good at this. And that’s only a part of the job description. There’s this whole “shaping of the future generation” aspect of my job description. Isn’t that amazing? I’m doing the most important work a person could do! Ever! SO IMPORTANT, PEOPLE!!!!! (How many times have I heard that in Relief Society?) All sarcasm aside, it does make me feel great when I teach my daughter a new concept. Or when the babies start to do the little hand motions to the “Five Little Monkies” song we’ve been singing every day for weeks straight. I am trying to take this seriously. I even thought about coming up with a curriculum to follow each day. I wrote it on my to-do list and everything. But every time I looked at it, I found something else to do. Because just looking at it made me want to simultaneously cry and fall asleep. 

So where does this leave me? I know that choosing to stay home with my kids was the right choice. I know that giving my time to the nurturing of my children and the upkeep of our home is very, very important. I also know that all this esoteric contemplation may come across selfish at worst and annoying at best. (So thank you for not leaving snarky comments.) But I still am left with the fact that tomorrow, I’m going to have to get up and do everything I did yesterday, Mega Blocks and all, and I really, really need to figure out how to be happy doing it. Or just not consumed with boredom and despair. Any ideas on how? And bonus points if you avoid using phrases like, “count your blessings” or “positive attitude.” I have an uncontrollable reflex that makes my eyes roll when I hear GospelSpeak. 

Okay, friends. Ready, GO! 

I wrote this last night, after a long, hard day. Today has been better. So maybe that’s my answer: just keep swimming.

Being in Southern California in the middle of winter definitely had it’s perks.

Some days, it was so warm out (85℉) that we’d turn on the sprinklers and let the kids run around. More than once, I wished I’d brought their swimsuits. But each time, I thought, “I won’t have Adam send them. There’s no way it will get this warm again.” And then it would.

Pumpa would wait for unsuspecting babies to cross his path. 

I had to include this picture because, well, just LOOK at that chub!

Warming up in the late-afternoon sunlight.

Another perk of staying with my parents (you know, besides the round-the-clock help, the washer/dryer, the yard, etc.) was scoring tickets to the Tournament of Roses Parade. My mom gets tickets through her work, Pasadena City College, and they really treat you well. We got a pancake breakfast, goodie bags (with things like duck noisemakers and sunglasses), and a pre-parade show led by the wackiest english professor ever. He’d lead us in cheering things like, “Hooray for the pooper-scoopers!” and “PCC loves you!” to the passing celebrities. It was a hoot.

Like I mentioned before, a really big plus to staying with my parents was having access to a yard. We’d take the kids out every morning and every afternoon. But there’s a dirt patch running down one side of my parents’ house. The first few days playing outside were spent corralling babies to keep them out of the dirt. As you can imagine, this got really old really fast. In fact, I hate, hate, HATE taking my kids anywhere where I have to put significant amounts of energy into keeping them out of harm/trouble. There are few things more stressful for me. Anyway, one afternoon I got fed up and vowed that the next day, we’d find a way to block the side yard. “So enjoy it now, babies!” I said as I let them have at it for one, final dirt orgy.

And, boy, did they.

Eddie would just sit and pile dirt onto his lap. Then he had Charlie and Lucy throw fistfuls of dirt on his head.

Charlie, would bend down, open his mouth and, I kid you not, take a mouthful. I caught him in the act:

The result:

Lucy, thank heavens, was not stupid, feminine enough, not as interested in playing in the dirt. 

After the dirt fest, I hosed them all off then G-Ma gave them baths and put them in clean clothes. And the very next morning, we put up a ladder/chair combination that successfully kept them out of the side yard for the rest of our visit. 

Stay tuned for more California Adventure!

Christmas Eve

The night before Christmas was one I’ll never forget. The Saturday before, BJ had gotten permission to leave his rehab center to see us all while my sister would be in town. But then Doug was late and BJ had to leave early unexpectedly. So we never got to have the whole family together. And we only got an hour or two with BJ. He felt so bad about it that he asked for special permission for us to come see him on Christmas Eve. The center was putting on their annual Christmas variety show and he was going to be in a few acts. Trouble was, it would be over an hour’s drive away, and it wouldn’t start until the babies’ bedtime. But it was Christmas. And BJ’s been in rehab for almost two years. So we threw caution to the wind and decided we’d make it work.

So that’s how we found ourselves on Christmas Eve having family dinner at the In-N-Out in San Pedro. Cuz what’s more Christmasy than a big, juicy Double Double and Animal Fries?

Waiting for the goodness to arrive. Not that they ate much besides fries … 

Don’t let my expression fool you. I really was ecstatic to be there. Just not to be there with all my kids.

When we got to the center, I spotted a Santa and persuaded Elizabeth to go say hi. She’d been asking to go see him all week and I felt really guilty I hadn’t braved the lines (and paid the cost) to take her see the one at the local mall. So this was a win!

Here we are waiting for the show to start. I think it really meant a lot to BJ that we came. And brought three babies. Everyone around us in the audience was thrilled, too.

Just kidding. Everyone was really nice. In fact, everyone was super nice. Most of the acts were skits where they riffied on their past lives as drug and alcohol addicts. It was a little off-putting at first. (Charlie Brown’s Christmas in which he sells Snoopy for dope, Santa dealing “snow,” etc.) But my brother explained that if they can laugh at it, then it has no power over them. So more power to them. 

The best part, besides just getting to be with BJ, was watching him do his thing. He played the keyboard in one song, then rocked a 311 song on the guitar. And to top it all off, he played a super-hyper gym instructor in a skit. He totally stole the show.

I can’t begin to say how happy I am for my brother and proud I am of the progress he’s made. It’s been a long, difficult journey for him and we’ve been through the hope of “recovery” before, only to watch him fall back into his old destructive habits. But I really think this time it will stick. He’s really figured it out. He’s an amazing man. And I love him to death.

Christmas Day

Note the bottom third of the tree … 

Since Christmas was on a Sunday this year, we had to work around church. (Hooray for one-hour church on Christmas!) In usual Davis tradition, we opened gifts in two installments: the stocking stuffers/Santa gifts before church … 

… and the family gifts under the tree after church and naps. 

Uncle Doug and Cousin Daniel got to join us on Christmas morning. Hooray!

You see, it can take a while in our home, because everyone has to take turns opening gifts while everyone watches. I think it’s great. Adam on the other hand … Well let’s just say that the first year we were married and at my parents’ house for Christmas, we were opening gifts until 5 PM (b/c we didn’t start until 1 PM.) I think he thinks we’re nuts.

We also continued another Davis tradition of putting all the bows on Pumpa’s forehead.

It’s always a little bit of a letdown to finish opening gifts and realize Christmas is over. But I really enjoyed being able to go to church on the actual day and sing carols and think about the birth of the Savior. It’s obviously just one day of many that I celebrate and thank God for the gift he gave us. And every day, too, gives me the opportunity to thank him for the birth of my little babes. So, even though I’m a few months late,

Merry Christmas to all! With love from the Johnsons. 

Months and months ago, I was sitting in my (former) shrink’s office, listening to her beat the same dead horse over and over. “You’ve GOT to get more help! You need help from when the babies get up to when they go to sleep! You’ve GOT TO GET MORE HELP!”

Sheesh.

Since we, nor our immediate family aren’t made out of money, like this life-long New Yorker must assume we are (since, I assume, she is) there really was no way for us to pay for full-time help. But then my mother got an idea …

My mom, who’s a math professor, normally teaches a class during the short winter term in January. But this year, she decided, when she heard about my therapist’s directive, she would take a break so that all of us could come stay with her and my dad in Los Angeles. She would be home to help me with the kids, I would have a house with a yard and a washer/dryer, and Adam, when he went back to NYC after Christmas, would have more time to focus on his career. You can see her logic, right? Instead of her day job, she was offering to wipe bums and noses all day for eight weeks straight. Cuz who wants to work with adults and professors and deans all day when you can do that, right?

So that’s how we found ourselves on a windy Friday morning loading the kids into the two strollers and walking into the doors of JFK thinking, what the bobby have we gotten ourselves into???

Here is Elizabeth, the night before, foreshadowing the flight experience for us all. We were lucky enough to see my cousin, Philip, fresh off his mission in Brazil, when he and my wonderful Aunt Jill stopped by on their visit to NYC.

So, back to the flight. We checked our bags at the curb. Easy! And even figured out how to hook the car seat to the back of the single stroller. Yay! Then getting through security was also surprisingly easy. And no nudie scanners! Hooray!

When we got to our gate, we found this random little alcove that was perfect for corralling the babies so they could run around and get the wiggles out.

So excited!

So here is us at the beginning of the flight. Adam was on the aisle w/ one baby…

And I was on the other side w/ Elizabeth, a lap baby, and a baby in a carseat. Sound fair to you? I look like I’m okay with it, don’t I? But seriously, we did rotate who sat where and on who.

Did I mention that our flight was delayed an hour and a half? Because they found a MOUSE on board the plane (luckily it was before we’d all boarded.) Mice on a plane!

So that was us at the beginning of the flight.

And this was us after:

Just kidding! It really wasn’t that bad. Okay, so it was. Charlie screamed. They all threw their binkies everywhere. (Try bending over in an airplane seat to search for something on the ground while holding a 15-month-old.) Elizabeth spilled an entire cup of ice and I just let it stay down there. Eddie didn’t sleep at all. Elizabeth wouldn’t put headphones on and therefore wouldn’t be entertained by the TVs. And you can only go so long with a 25 lb baby tap dancing on your lap before you want to scream and hit things. At one point, I looked at the map on the TV of our flight’s progress. When I saw we were only over Iowa, I cried.

But we survived. We were the dead LAST people to get off the plane, but the captain himself carried our car seat for us. (Yay JetBlue!) I was never so happy to get off a plane in my life.

So was it worth it?

Cousin Isaac and Cousin Elizabeth (say it with a Mr Collins accent)

Adam, Me, my awesome friend Mel, and her awesome husband, Marshall

My sister holding the triplets.

(Almost) all the Davis Family under one roof.

Yeah, it was worth it. For these moments alone.

With the traveling and holidays and constantly using someone else’s computer, I have, as you can see, dropped the blogging ball. But this is something I’ve been writing in my head for some time. And tonight, it just needed to come out.

I’ll post about Christmas and California and flying with triplets and all that later. I promise.

Dear Elizabeth,

I often find myself tip-toeing into your room before I go to bed and wishing I could wake you up and tell you how much I love you and apologize for all the stupid mistakes I made that day. But that would be profoundly selfish. So I’ll just blog about it instead. If the internet exists 15 years from now, maybe you’ll read this and it will touch you. Or maybe I’ll someday get my act together enough to actually create a hard copy (that’s millennial-speech for making a physical, paper copy) of my blog posts.

My sweet girl, I love you so much. Before the babies were born, I worried that I would never love another baby as much as I loved you. Lucky for them, love doesn’t work that way. But you’ll always be my number-one girl.

I’m sorry if I don’t always show you how much I love you. I’m sorry for the days when you get from me more negative feedback than positive. I’m sorry for the withering looks, the terse words, the ugliness in me you are forced to deal with every day. Each night I think over the day and wonder if, through all the “no’s” and time-outs and chaos, you still felt loved and valued. I’m terrified that my own hang-ups and insecurities and character flaws will damage you beyond repair. I know it’s supremely unfair that you have to deal with your parent’s own … crap. But I don’t know of any kid that hasn’t. What I do know is there is a way to undo the damage I’m doing to you. I just pray you’ll grow to have faith in him and rely on his healing power.

My dear Elizabeth, I want you to know that I didn’t ask for you to have three younger siblings thrust upon you at once. I’m doing the best that I can, but I know that it is often dismally and tragically inadequate. I’m sorry for all the times you needed me but I had to tell you, “I can’t right now. I’m feeding/changing/bathing/wrestling a hazardous object out of the grasp of the babies.” Learning to deal with not being the center of attention all the time is good and a natural part of having siblings. But this? This is above and beyond what most 2/3 year old’s have to deal with. And you’ve adjusted really well. I’m very proud of you.

I love you, my sweetheart. I love when you smile, when you make me laugh, when you play with your siblings, when you put your “babies” down for a nap, when you dance and sing. You are so smart, so observant, so gregarious, so curious. I want nothing but the best for you. I wish I were a better mother to you. I wish you never heard me fight with your father, or say ugly things, or raise my voice. I wish I was stronger and didn’t have to take you away from your daddy for so long so I can have help with the babies. I know you miss him terribly. It breaks my heart to see you suffer. But being parents means making choices that are good for the whole family in the long term. And this is the choice your dad and I felt was best.

Elizabeth, I don’t know if you’ll understand until you have children of your own, but as a parent, you fall short every day, but you never give up because your children mean the world to you. It brings out the very best in you, and the very worst. But you keep going. You keep getting up every day (and every night) and do the best you can because there really is no other choice. You are my daughter. I love you more than my own life. I just pray that you will be resilient. And that my best will be enough.

Love,

Mommy