I’m reading an article on my phone as I hurry from the parking garage into my office building. It’s showcasing a mother explaining proper alignment of nap schedules for young kids – parenting requires “agility and grace”, she says. I laugh.
My morning has already had a blundering, although not unordinary, start. One of my twin babies decided, after a fitful night’s sleep, to cry incessantly starting at 4:45 am. Too weary to continually trek upstairs to comfort him, I defeatedly bring him into my bed. My (probably psychotic) fear of SIDS means, while he drifts to sleep, I lay awake listening to his congested breathing. I check my phone; my first meeting starts at 7:30 am. I pray for a smooth morning. At 6 am, my husband returns from his morning run and we begin getting ready for work. The baby happily taking part by crawling around us on the bathroom tile. Soon, his brother is awake and crying for breakfast, while almost simultaneously their older sister, who is 22 months old, is now standing in her crib yelling, “Mommy!”. I’m only halfway through putting on my make-up, but at least I’m dressed.
I turn for our toddler’s room as my husband heads for the twins’nursery, forgetting for a split-second the little guy at our feet. Quickly, I nestle him up into my arms. Upon the sight of me holding her baby brother, the jealous nature of toddlers takes hold and unleashes its fury. “No baby, no baby. My Mommy!”, she yells throwing herself down and kicking the bars of her crib. “Good morning darling.”, I reply. As I take a deep breath, building my patience, I feel a
The minute’s tick by, as I work to negotiate my tiny tot out of her crib and eventually into her school uniform, while the baby wreaks havoc on her bedroom floor. As I go to lift him, I hear, “No Mommy, me up!”. To avoid another tantrum that we certainly don’t have time for, I seize them both awkwardly and stumble into my bathroom to finish getting ready. My husband, coming back from his own misadventure with our third, gently adds him into the pile of babies on the floor. They look like a litter of puppies crawling around, knocking each other over.
Now dressed and ready, it’s only one more toddler fit (she wanted the blue sippy cup, not orange), and then I’m in the car racing through traffic to the office. I enter my meeting at 7:35 (just late enough to feel embarrassed).
This is where I’ll work for 10 hours, before rushing to retrieve our daughter from daycare then hurrying home to cook dinner (let’s be honest I mean microwave chicken nuggets), prepare bottles, give baths, and get three babies ready for bed. My husband will play with our toddler, while I clean up the now disastrous kitchen and family room. Finally, with lights out, I’ll sing a lullaby and they’re off to sleep. Once the house is quiet, I’ll strap on my running shoes and knock out a few miles in the dark. After my run, I’ll log onto my laptop for another hour of work. Eventually, I’ll fall into bed, close my eyes, and inevitably one of the three will begin to cry. I’ll throw the covers back, sigh, and head to the nursery.
Parenting requires agility and grace, the article wrote. Is that what I’m supposed to have? Because graceful seems the antithesis to my current life. While some parents may feel agility and grace, I just feel tired. If there is something glamorous in running ragged I have not found it. Perhaps, I’m doing this parenting thing wrong? But no matter how little I relate to their sentiments on parenting I admit I do have one thing in common with the mother in that article – I’m utterly in love with the three beautiful souls that ensure the only time I feel agile is in my ability to jump over the pile of them on the bathroom floor.