The Tiny Toes Trifecta

That Time I Got Stabbed In The Face With A Pencil

2015-08-24T11:07:00.001-07:00

While on bedrest, I played a game inside my head called “worst case scenario.” I would ask myself questions such as, “What will I do when I lose one of the triplets in Target?” Then I would thoughtfully construct an answer inside my brain: I will scream bloody murder, lock down the store, call a swat team, and hold every customer and worker hostage until the lost child is found and returned. “What will I do if another child is mean to one the girls?” Answer: I will hire a squad of hit men to rough the mean child up until he or she swears never to come near any of my children as long as he or she lives. “What will you do if one of the girls refuses to wear hair bows and smocked dresses?” Answer: I will pay her to wear bows and smocked dresses on special occasions and let her wear what she wants the rest of the time.

Never, ever, in any of those 74 days did I ask myself, “What will you do when one of your children stabs you in the face with a pencil?”

As a former school teacher, I pride myself in the fact that I have the essential knowledge, skills, and training to work with the girls on an instructional level. As a mother human who feels a level of exhaustion unlike any tired I have ever felt every single waking minute of every living day, I will confess that I rarely use stated essential knowledge and skills to work with the girls on an instructional level. However, this summer there was a definite need to play “catch up” in preparation for first grade, so I committed to work with the girls 20-30 minutes every day.

One fine summer evening, I sat Baby B down at the table with handwriting paper and a pencil. Baby B is usually my most cooperative and obedient child. On this particular night, not so much.

Me: Are you ready to practice your lower case letters?

Baby B: Not really. I would rather go swimming.

Me: We are going to start with lower case a. It’s easy! All you have to do is make a circle. Then, pick up your pencil and draw a line.

I modeled how to correctly form the letter and then handed the pencil to Baby B.

Baby B: This pencil needs to be sharpened. Also, I think you need to brush your teeth. Your breath is horrible.

Me: Please go sharpen the pencil.

Baby B walked across the kitchen, sharpened her pencil, and then returned to the table.

Baby B: I hate writing letters. I want to go naked swimming at Granny's.

Me: I understand. I hope that with a little practice, writing will be easier for you.

Baby B: I don’t like the eraser cap on this pencil.

Me: You may remove the eraser cap. Then, you will need to write the letter a.

Baby B gripped the eraser cap with her left hand, while pointing the freshly sharpened pencil lead toward me with her right hand. As she forcefully pulled off the eraser cap, her right hand flew forward. Then, she stabbed me in the face with her pencil.

At first, neither of us spoke. We just looked at each other with very wide eyes.

I jumped up from the table and ran to the bathroom. I had a small hole in my chin region. The tip of the pencil was trapped in the hole. There was blood. The Trifecta trailed behind me, Baby B staring at me in stunned silence.

Chris: What happened?

Trifecta: What happened?

Me: Baby B stabbed me in the face with her pencil. It wasn’t on purpose. The pencil lead is in there though and I can’t get it out.

The Trifecta began to cry and scream in perfect harmony.

Baby C: I don’t want Mommy to have a hole in her chin!

Baby A: Are you going to die?

Baby B: I didn’t mean to do it! I’m running away to China!

Me (to Baby B): I’m not mad at you! It was an accident! I’m just worried about the lead in the hole in my chin.

Chris: Pencils are actually made from non-toxic graphite, it’s a common misconception that they are made from lead.

Me (to Chris): WELL, THEN, THERE IS NON TOXIC GRAPHITE STUCK IN MY CHIN!

The Trifecta began to sob uncontrollably, in perfect harmony.

Chris: Do you need some ice?

Me: WILL ICE REMOVE THE BLOODY NON TOXIC GRAPHITE FROM THE HOLE IN MY CHIN?

The Trifecta began to roll around on the bathroom floor while screaming, “WE DON’T WANT YOU TO HAVE A HOLE IN YOUR CHIN!”

Me: I am going to go to the after-hours clinic to see if someone can remove the non-toxic graphite.

Baby A: Are you going to die?

Baby C: I don’t want you to go to the hospital! Mommies aren’t supposed to get injured!

Baby B: I am going to run away to China!

Me: Don't worry! Daddy is going to turn on the television and bring you Cheetos!

Upon arriving at the walk-in clinic I was immediately assured that I would not die from lead poisoning. Because pencils are made from non-toxic graphite. After many failed attempts to remove the graphite from my face, I was told that I would need to make an appointment with a dermatologist.

The following morning I saw Dr. Junior Nelson. He removed the non-toxic graphite from my face.

All that is left is a tiny grey-green dot on my chin.

Soon after this incident, my Sunday School class had a discussion about Noah, the arc, the storm, and the rainbow. My class is full of some super smart people, and our teacher, Rob, is brilliant. He started talking about the role of God as parent. He shared that God could totally control us if He wanted to, but He doesn’t. He creates the space for us to breathe and live. With that space, we sin.

The first thing that came into my mind was a visual image of me, stabbing God in the face with a pencil. I do it all the time. I certainly don’t mean to stab Him in the face, but I constantly make choices that are different from those He has called me to make.

Each time I demonstrate my arrogance, my self-centeredness, my anger, my total sinfulness, God takes a non-toxic graphite pencil to the chin. But He loves me regardless. He sent His son to take away those sins, He cleanses my heart and my soul.

God doesn’t need to create “worst-case scenarios” for us. We are His children. He loves us, no matter what. Even when we stab Him in the face.

I Haven't Opened A Charter School

2015-06-20T10:21:00.002-07:00

Have I mentioned that I am reading Jen Hatmaker’s new book? It is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. There simply are not words to express my love for this literary work of heart wonder.

I just finished re-reading her third chapter, “On Calling and Haitian Moms” for the fifth time. For the last 45 minutes I have attempted to provide you with a synopsis of her biblical benchmark: If it isn’t true for a poor single Christian mom in Haiti, it isn’t true. Since I am not Jen Hatmaker, I have failed at this endeavor. So I will just tell you, for the nine billionth time, that you must purchase and read, For the Love. P.S. – She is also doing an audio book in her very own voice so if you are not a reader you can still win at life by hearing her words.

I have decided I need to re-read the seven pages from this chapter, every morning for the rest of my living, breathing days. Because I have struggled with my “calling” for most of my adult life.

In college, I dreamed of opening a charter school. It was going to be awesome and change the world and eliminate poverty for children and families everywhere. The children would love learning and the parents love everything and the teachers would love teaching and best practices would flow out of the air vents. There was a lot more to this dream, but I will leave you with that for now.

Instead I have done other things. I taught first and second grades (because I needed some experience for this charter school). I worked in an enrichment center (because I needed some experience for this charter school). I married a precious man. I earned my master's degree (because I needed some more college for this charter school). My precious man and me conceived triplets, I birthed them, and we parent them.

The parenting and keeping alive of triplets pretty much takes up most of my time these days. So there has not been much action in the area of charter school opening (or dreaming or planning) over the last six years. I love this life and would not trade it for the charter school dream. I believe parenting is THE most important job anyone could every offer this planet.

But sometimes I feel like a failure because I have not transformed this "calling" into a reality. And sometimes I feel unworthy of my education, my upbringing, the time and effort poured into me by my parents and teachers and mentors. I ask myself often, “What I have done with all that I have been given? How have I made the world better with all my blessings?”

I hope this paragraph from her book will help you as much as it has helped me:
A worthy life involves loving as loved folks do, sharing the ridiculous mercy God spoiled us with first. (It really is ridiculous.) It means restoring people, in ordinary conversations and regular encounters. A worthy life means showing up when showing up is the only thing do to. Goodness bears itself out in millions of ordinary ways across the globe, for the rich and poor, the famous and unknown, in enormous measures and tiny, holy moments. It may involve a career and it may not. It may include traditional components and it may not.
I will let you take a breath from that and let it sink in. Give yourself a minute.

What if all of us stopped worrying about the big gestures and started focusing on the things we can do EVERYDAY, EVERYWHERE? To all of you who struggle with the “calling” and the “worthy life,” let’s make a pact. Let’s love like God loves. Let’s listen to those who hurt when they share their struggles. Let’s agree to be present and near when those we love need us. Because according Jen Hatmaker, “Calling is virtually never big or famous work; that is rarely the way the kingdom comes.”

The Top Ten Reasons I Love Jen Hatmaker

2015-05-08T20:08:00.000-07:00

The Top Ten Reasons I Love Jen Hatmaker

Over the past several days, I have experienced something that is difficult for me to process. Apparently there are people in my life, people in my circle of love, people who I hold close to my heart, people who I trust with my children, people who… do not know Jen Hatmaker. “Who is Jen Hatmaker?” these people ask me at meetings and teacher appreciation luncheons and on Facebook.

I do not know whether I should hug these people or rush them to a care facility or sit them down in front of the computer for several hours of Jen Hatmaker therapy. It is just too much for my brain and heart and soul and eardrums to make meaning out of.

And so now I feel like this may be something I must share with America and other with countries. We all need Jen Hatmaker, people. Because this lady will make you laugh. A lot. And also teach you important things about being a good human and a “Jesus With Skin On.”

Here are the Top Ten Reasons I Love Jen Hatmaker.

10) Worst End of School Year Mom Ever

May 30, 2015. The day I read the first thing I ever read written by JH. This is the day, the moment in time when I said to myself, “I really like this hysterical lady. She is my new best friend I have never met in real life.”

I will share her first paragraph with you for free. Then you have to click on the link to read the rest. And you should totally do that.

You know the Beginning of School Enthusiasm? When the pencils are fresh and the notebooks are new and the kids’ backpacks don’t look like they lined the den of a pack of filthy hyenas? Moms, remember how you packed innovative and nutritional lunches and laid clothes out the night before and labeled shelves for each child’s work and school correspondence and completed homework in a timely manner?

I am exactly still like that at the end of school, except the opposite.

http://jenhatmaker.com/blog/2013/05/30/worst-end-of-school-year-mom-ever

9) Her definition of justice.

This quote, from her Love Wins speech on Tuesday, May 5, 2015:

“What is my definition of justice? Justice is when we take what we have been given, and we work to set things right. We must push and press and insist on justice. This is the way to live, being generous and helping other. ALL CHILDREN ARE OUR CHILDREN. ALL MOTHERS ARE OUR SISTERS.”

8) Chapter 4: Fashion Concerns

I know, I know. I haven’t blogged about For the Love, Chapter 3 yet. I am skipping ahead. In her new, not yet released book that I got because my friend Heather Adams is so good to me, she has a whole chapter dedicated to fashion concerns. It is everything that you are dreaming it will be and more, I promise. I will share the following paragraph with you for educational purposes related to my love of Jen Hatmaker. Her fashion concerns are the same as mine and yours and I LOVE THIS CHAPTER.

“Leggings-As-Pants (LAP) is permissible if the following rule is obeyed: Your privates are covered by a shirt, sweater, or dress. Privates are heretofore understood as areas north of upper thighs and south of muffin top. I don’t want to see your hinterlands.”

You will need to purchase the book when it is released. I’m serious about this.

7) Jen Hatmaker is on Facebook.

When you love her like I do, you will decide to become her friend on Facebook. And then you will read her posts. Sometimes she shares recipes. Sometimes she shares the gospel. Other times she posts things like this, from May 6, 2015:

That thing where your kid with a lot of words is telling a story and it is taking one hundred thousand years because every extra, tiny, superfluous, additional, extraneous detail is being included and it takes a superhuman effort to not give the "speed it up" gesture with your hand and so you sit there with a smile plastered on your face thinking you might ACTUALLY DIE before this story is over.

That thing.

6) She’s A Mommy.

You do not have to be a mommy to love Jen Hatmaker. However, if you are a mother, you need to get to know Jen Hatmaker. She has FIVE children. FIVE. She does not pretend to be perfect. Instead, she creates a wonderful community for real women with real problems who are really trying to be the best they can be.

5) Jen Hatmaker loves people.

She really does. I’m not making that up just. This is what she says about herself:

I love people. The messier, the wonkier, the further out from the bullseye...the better. I understand God best through people; their gifts and strengths, their love and compassion, their character and courage. I sincerely believe we were made in God's image, and when I evaluate the goodness of people, I love God more. I crave a world of justice where people are safe, loved, empowered. I plan to use whatever influence I've been given on behalf of edged-out people for all my days. If I loved well, I will consider my entire life a success.

Right? I know. She said, “wonkier.” Let’s high five each other about her through the internet.

4) She smells like baby angels and fields of happy.

I know this because I met her once. And I gave her a hug. She is as lovely in real life as she is on the world wide web.

3) Seven. Interrupted. For the Love.

These are a few of her books. She has more. I cannot copy and paste from all of these books. But I can tell you to read them. And you should. Because they will change your life.

2) She had a dream to write and she did and she does.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to write. Maybe you want to learn to sew or open a flower shop or a restaurant or go back to school or change the world? I do not know the specifics, but I know that everyone who is reading this has a dream. She recently wrote a blog about what it takes to become a good writer. I think this applies to your dreams too:

“Of course my kids wish I would devote every spare second to maintain their place in the center of the universe, but writers write and writing is work and work takes time. And it is good work. It means something. It is noble and important. It always has been. I remember crying a river when my mom went back to college when we were in elementary, middle, and high school because she was less available to cater to our every whim, but it very soon became a source of great pride for me, because I watched my mom do meaningful, hard work that mattered. She went for it, right in the middle of living life. As it turned out, I needed a mom who mothered, dreamed, worked, and achieved. We all did.”

The last part, “…I needed a mom who mothered, dreamed, worked, and achieved.” Process that.

1) She loves Jesus. And she drinks wine.

Good Shell Hunting and Turning Forty

2015-05-06T21:06:00.001-07:00

How appropriate that my best friend Jen Hatmaker would include a chapter titled, On Turning Forty in her new book, For the Love. Because guess what people? I’m turning forty on August 5, 2015.

And guess what else? I’m not dreading my fortieth birthday. How have I avoided the birthday blues, you may wonder? Two reasons: 1) My BFF Jen Hatmaker dropped some awesome words on me in her new book. 2) I went hunting for shells.

I’ll start with the shells.

In January my parents took our family to Sanibel, FL for a week of rest and relaxation. It was just about one of the best weeks of my whole entire life. If you know anything about Sanibel, you know that it is the shell hunting capital of the world. Visitors and locals rise before the sun wakes up with buckets and flashlights, following the tide and searching the shore for tiny treasures from the sea. Hunting for shells is a competitive sport in Sanibel, and I totally jumped on the shell quest bandwagon during our vacation.

Shell hunters have specific criteria for what makes a “good” shell. I noticed immediately the way serious hunters would lean down, select a shell, and then spend several seconds inspecting it before deciding whether or not to place it in their buckets, or throw in back onto the shore. They were searching for the perfect shell. A shiny casing. No cracks or chips allowed. The bigger, the better.

I started to imagine myself as a shell on the Sanibel beach. What would I look like after washing up on shore? After many days of searching, I found my shell-self. Here I am.

My thirty nine (almost forty!) years have been a cake walk compared to most people. I have two parents who have loved and cared for me since the moment I was born. My husband is devoted and patient and loves me without condition. I have friends that I do not deserve. I have never gone to bed hungry. I have a roof over my head and shoes on my feet. And don’t even get me started on my three little girls.

Despite my blessed life, I’m not a shiny, perfect shell. I’m damaged. I’ve been tossed around the ocean, lost underwater at times. Jen reflects on life in her twenties, “I lost much time in jealousy, judgment, and imitation. I just couldn’t find my own song. I struggled to celebrate others’ achievements because they felt like indictments on my uncertainty.”

All those things she just said, well those are the same things that have damaged my shell self.

And I have tiny holes from tiny hurts. We all have them. They are a part of living life with humans who make mistakes. I know I’m responsible for some tiny holes in other shells.

There is a crack from the loss of our first baby. I can’t fix that crack, even with glue. It’s not going anywhere. I can only hope at some point it stabilizes and stops getting bigger.

There are other breaks and chips: the sadness of saying goodbye to special friends with each move, infertility, personal sins that I have not forgiven, disagreements with friends and loved ones, all the tough stuff.

What does this have to do with my best friend Jen Hatmaker and turning forty?

She says, “(When you are forty) You get a decent handle on who you are, what you are good at, what you love, what you value, and how you want to live.”

I may not be there quite yet, but I learned a lot from those chips and breaks. It’s time for me to spend more time doing what I love with the people that I love.

Finally, JH sums up my hopes and dreams about entering my fourth decade, “I no longer tiptoe through my own life, doubting my gifts and my place, too scared to go for it, seize it, pray for it, dream it. When you’re forty, you no longer wait for permission to live.” That. I want THAT.

I don’t mind being one of the imperfect shells that wash ashore. Or a hermit crab, sometimes.

Chapter 1 - SO MUCH FUN!

2015-04-06T09:37:00.000-07:00

There was SO much great stuff in Chapter 1 of For the Love. I want to share every word with you, I really do. But I think that will get me in big trouble with the bosses of the publishing company. So I'm just going to share a bit with you. The rest you will get to absorb and enjoy when the book comes out in August.

How often do you rest your precious head on the pillow and say to yourself, "I can't believe I just pulled this day off. It's a bloody miracle." Last night? Me too.

While I was reading Chapter 1 of For the Love I kept wondering if my best friend Jen Hatmaker had been spying on me again. She says, "...we combine the best of everything we see, every woman we admire in every genre, and conclude: I shall be all of that." Yes Jen Hatmaker, that is EXACTLY what I do! How did you know?

Good moms cook. The internet told me so. My children are lucky if I nuke some steamed vegetables in one of those pre-packaged steam baggy thingys. Otherwise, we dine on a steady diet of Blue Coast burritos and chicken nuggets. It’s NOT what I want for my family. I laugh about it to keep from crying.

Do you know what happens when I try to cook? I will tell you. This morning I decided to prepare a crock pot meal for the girls and Chris Jackson because I have to teach class tonight. I placed the frozen chicken on the bottom of the crock pot and gave myself a fist pound. I drained a can of crushed pineapple and poured it over the chicken. "I'm crushing this meal like Dole crushed these pineapples!" I said out loud, to myself. I opened up the BBQ sauce and began squirting it over the chicken. “Why is this squirting and not pouring?” I asked myself. “Because it has a tiny squirt hole lid instead of a big open top, that’s why,” I answered myself. “This tiny squirt hole is too slow,” I announced, “Time for action.” I squeezed that bottle with my big muscles. “Winning!” I shouted to my empty kitchen as the BBQ sauce poured out over the chicken at the appropriate emptying speed. Then I realized why the sauce was pouring instead of squirting. Because that tiny hole lid had blown off into 40 ounces of BBQ sauce, that’s why! I spent the next 30 minutes searching for the tiny hole squirt lid in the crock pot. At one point I wondered, “What would be the worst that could happen if I left that tiny squirt hole lid in there? Will it totally melt or just get soft?” But then I decided that was a bad choice so I kept searching. If I smell like BBQ sauce for the next 4 weeks, you now know why. NAILED IT.

Real women create a welcoming home for their friends and family. Glossy magazines with children in linen sitting on white couches warm my heart and make me yearn for the same thing for my own family. When you walk into my home I have to say things like, "You want to sit down? Oh sure! But wait! I need to make sure you aren't sitting where one of the girls wiped a booger this morning. Sit here, this cushion is clean." I’m totally serious that this happens to me.

I’m not the best at my job. I don’t volunteer enough at The Trifecta’s school. And sometimes I have to say things to my sweet Chris Jackson like, “Please. Please do not say any more words to me today. My brain is broken. Just tell me what you need through interpretative dance or draw me some pictures. And also please fold these socks.”

So then that wise lady JH hits me with, "The only thing worse than this unattainable standard is the guilt that follows when perfection proves impossible."

Yes. Yes, that guilt happens to me. Has it happened to you? Does this sound familiar? I know it does. I am certain I’m not the only one trying to live this crazy life.

Jen Hatmaker says, "We need to quit trying to be awesome and instead be wise.” I’m going to say her words one more time. “We need to quit trying to be awesome and instead be wise.” This really punched me in the gut. Because I totally want to be awesome. At everything. All the time. But being wise would be REALLY awesome.

Because you know what happens when we figure out how to be wise? JH states, "Wise women know what to hold onto and what to release, and how to walk confidently in their choices - no regrets, no apologies, no guilt."

Doesn't that just sound WONDERFUL? Releasing what stresses us out. Walking with confidence in the decisions we make for ourselves and the people we love instead of feeling like we let everyone down, all the time. Being the best for the people that matter instead of giving our best to everyone EXCEPT those who love us the most.

How are we going to do this, Friends? We are going to listen to Jen Hatmaker, that’s what we’re going to do! She reminds us, “When you can’t trust your own discernment, you can certainly trust His. God has no agenda other than your highest good in His kingdom.”

I’m going to start asking God to help me stop trying to be awesome. I am going to ask Him to teach me how to be wise instead.

And then I’m going to read Chapter 2.

"For the Love" of Laundry Piles

2015-03-28T20:20:00.000-07:00

Guess what people? I got a copy of Jen Hatmaker’s new book, For the Love. It did not fall off a truck and I did not steal it, though I would have, if a precious friend had not gifted it to me. Because she knows I just can’t get enough of Jen Hatmaker. I count JH among my people. My best friends. But before you get so excited and ask me for an autograph you should know that Jen Hatmaker has never met me. I just love her to bits because she knows what to say to the hurting out there. And I count myself among the hurting, sometimes.

Here’s a spoiler alert, Friends. For the Love is amazing. A-MAZ-ING. I think it should sell no less than 762 skajillionbillion copies. Because if all the people in the whole wide world would just read this book there would be a lot less grouchiness and a lot more love, joy, and hugging out there.

Also, here is another secret. I have only read the Introduction. But I need to tell you about it RIGHT NOW. Because if the whole book only consisted of the first three pages it would be ENOUGH for us to take a bite out of and digest for a day or two until it became the fuel we need for our souls.

Here are a few things that GOT TO ME.

“I see a generation of people ON THE HOOK. Man, we are tough on one another, starting with ourselves. Folks who thrive in God’s grace give grace easily, but the self-critical person becomes others-critical. We love other people the way we love ourselves, and if we are not good enough, then no one is.”

Take a moment and just think on that one. What were the 954 ways you were hard on yourself today? Shall we start with the moment you woke up and the sweet morning sunshine hit your eyeballs?

Let me just share a couple of my personal favorites from the last 24 hours of my own life.

I have a pile of laundry that reaches to our ceiling. If it was not full of smelly socks and molded dish towels I would hide in there so the triplets could not find me while I took a nap. I looked at that pile today and almost cried “I give up” tears.

Did I mention that I have 15 years of teaching experience in early childhood, a master’s degree in education, and I still cannot get my own children to learn outside of school? Homework time at our house more closely resembles a prison break with a) Tears and cries for mercy. “Please, PUH-LEASE MAMA, don’t make me WRITE MY NAME on this paper!” b) Weapons. “Mommy, she just tried to stab me in the EYE with that pencil!” c) Threats and negation. “Girls,” I say, “If you complete your homework you will get to select a piece of candy out of the Halloween stash (it’s March, BTW). If you don’t complete your homework, or if you continue to fight and cry, I will take your stuffed animals into the driveway and set them on fire.”

And, for my final number, I arrived at our spring break location only to learn that I DON’T HAVE ANY CLOTHES ON THIS TRIP. They did not get packed. They are sitting on the ironing board at home.

My list of shortcomings, failures, and catastrophes is endless.

So, how does this influence the way I treat others? Because I think my best friend Jen Hatmaker is on to something. How can we truly be kind and accepting of others when we beat ourselves up?

It doesn’t bother me at bit to think that I spend most of my day in a hot mess of craziness, but I hate the thought that my self-criticism may impact my relationship with my husband, my family, my friends, and the precious woman who helps me at the local post office.

And since we are all so busy thinking right now, add this (from the Introduction) to your thoughtful deliberation, “I believe we can do better than this. I think God wants us off the hook, since Jesus pretty much already handled that for us. Can I tell you my dream for this little book? I hope you close the last page and breathe an enormous sigh of relief. I hope you laugh out loud because you just got free.”

ME TOO best friend, Jen Hatmaker. So I’m going to keep reading.

Reflective Reflections

2014-06-01T18:40:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago I had a conversation with a friend of a friend who learned she is pregnant with triplet girls. I had such a lovely discussion with her, but I know I helped her very little. I could not remember what kind of car seat we purchased when The Trifecta were infants. I could not remember where I found their triplet stroller. And how did I select my breast pump? I. Don’t. Remember.

After we hung up the phone I dissolved into a reflective state. How can I help this “mommy-to-be-times-three?” So I started writing down some notes.

1) Sleep.

When I was on bed rest with The Trifecta I had the following real life conversation with Chris Jackson:

Chris: What are you reading?

Me: A book called “Babywise.” It’s all the rage. It says here that babies should operate on a three hour schedule of eating, playing, and sleeping.

Chris: What about at night? Will we have to play with them at night?

Me: Oh no. We will set our alarm when we need to wake them up for feedings. Then, after we feed them and burp them, we will put them back in their cribs and they will fall back to sleep. I think that means we will have to set our alarms for 11 pm, 2 am, and 5 am.

Chris: That doesn’t sound too bad.

Me: No, and just think, my Mom will be here for a couple of weeks after they are born to help us. Maybe we can even take turns sleeping through a feeding.

Chris (kissing my insanely large belly): That would be great. I love you!

Me (kissing his head as he kissed my insanely large belly): And I love you!

They did not sleep for the first six months they were alive. My precious mother lived with us for 18 months. Hire a night time nanny; even if it means living off of mac and cheese and those packs of noodles that college students eat. I’m not even kidding about this.

(2) There are two N’s in triplet nutrition: nursing and nuggets.

When the “mommy-to-be-times-three” asked me if I nursed, I hesitated before I gave my answer. Nursing has become one of those ridiculous subjects in which we measure our awesomeness or catastrophic failureness as a mother. Yes, I nursed those babies for a year. Did I mention my mother lived with me for 18 months and only left on the weekends to visit my father? I had help, lots of it, so I was able to do what most triplet mommies cannot do. Diet is a tricky subject, so let me just share my humble opinion based on zero research and the philosophy that I just want/need to keep them alive:

I nursed them for a year. Fed them only homemade or organic baby food and milk for the following year, and then transitioned to a steady diet of Chik-Fil-A nuggets for the rest of their natural lives. Oh wait, they don’t just eat nuggets, they also eat chicken tenders. And Cheetohs. And also cheese pizza. And crackers. So I also feed them a lot of foods that start with the letter “c.”

(3) You will experience highs and lows.

I do not know how to describe this other than to share a personal experience from this morning. And this afternoon. And tonight. And yesterday all day.

7:45 am – The Trifecta and I find ourselves cuddled on the couch reading a book about unusual animals from around the world. We are discussing the countries in which the animals can be found in their natural habitats. The Trifecta giggle as I describe strange and bizarre physical characteristics and feeding patterns. “I am so good at this job,” I say to my brain, “I am so glad that I left my prestigious and high paying position as a school teacher to raise outstanding, brilliant citizens of the world.” I pat myself on the pack in my imagination and let out a sigh of contentment and delight as we finish our daily nonfiction.

7:46 (and 15 seconds) am - Baby C yells at me and rolls around on the floor, kicking and crying, because I did not stack the pillows correctly for the couch fort.

7:46 (and 22 seconds) am - Baby B wanders into the backyard wearing nothing but her underwear and starts a one-sided discussion with the teenage boy who lives behind us. After telling him that penguins do not urinate, but that they excrete white poop, she shouts at me to bring her book to her immediately so that she can show him a picture.

7:46 (and 26 seconds) am- Baby A reminds me that I haven’t made her an egg yet, that she has asked me 4 times to do so, and begins to refer to me as “Amy Jackson” in an attempt to drive home the message that she wants her egg. Right now.

And so on and so forth. All day. Every day. For a really long time. Unless they are watching, “Octonauts.” Then, things are quiet.

(4) Lots of good things will happen.

I never knew I could love so much. I never knew other people could love me so much. I never knew how good it would feel when I experienced the profound love other people have for my own children. I never knew a lot of things I didn’t know I didn’t know, but I am figuring that out along the way. And so will you.

Dear Brad Pitt...

2013-12-29T20:26:00.000-08:00

Today my Facebook page blew up with comments about Brad Pitt’s love letter to Angelina Jolie. Everyone really, really, REALLY loved it. Except me. This letter left me sweating in discomfort. First of all, is this letter even real? Did he really write it? Here is a link to the letter in case you have not read it yet:

http://couplesandco.blogspot.se/2013/12/i-lost-hope-and-thought-that-well-get.html

Let’s pretend he wrote the letter. Also, let’s pretend someday he wants to marry me. I do not want to marry him, though I would love access to his full time nannies, chefs, and choose your own adventure vacation homes. I love Chris Jackson. But we are pretending. And since we are pretending, here is all Brad Pitt needs to know to keep me happy.

Dear Brad Pitt,

1. You do not need “to pamper me with flowers, kisses and compliments.” Indulgence for me these days is a hot meal. Do you remember that one time in “Ocean’s 11” when you got to eat all those delicious nutrients in Las Vegas? Your character, Rusty, did a lot of snacking and meal eating. I want to sit at a table without having to: a) get up to fetch more ketchup, milk, strawberries, and/or cheese sticks b) ask the question, “what do you say after you burp?” c) referee a disagreement d) answer questions about human body functions and/or anatomy e) use the words, “please come back to the table and have ONE bite of food.”

2. You “gave Angelina lots of gifts and lived just for her.” The only gift you need to give me is the gift that keeps on giving. The. Gift. Of. Sleep. Do you remember that one time when you did the movie “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and you were born as an elderly man and then you grew into a baby? Didn’t you just love sleeping like a baby? I want to sleep like a baby too. I’m talking 8-12 hours of uninterrupted bliss in stage 5 of the sleep cycle. Take me to the land of Rapid Eye Movement dreamland.

3. You “incorporated all themes in her direction.” I do not even know what this means. However, I love themes. Specifically, themes in books and literature. It’s been a long time, Brad, since I’ve been able to sit and read a good book. Do you remember that one time in “Burn After Reading” when you pretended to be Chad the personal trainer who believed he discovered government information? I do not think Chad enjoyed reading very much in that movie. However, I love to read all sorts of glorious works of fiction and non-fiction. So throw some of those themes my way and let me read and read and read and read and read.

4. You “praised her in front of her own and our mutual friends.” I’m going to go out on a limb here and betcha that when you praised her she was wearing clean clothes. I recall in “Legends of the Fall” your character Tristan…was very fun to look at on the big screen. But I digress, I don’t need praise. I need a laundress. Someone to tackle the pile of laundry the size of Mt. Rushmore. Someone to collect it, sort it, wash it, dry it, fold it, and put it away. That would be awesome. That would keep my mental health in check in a BIG way.

Please feel free to contact me, Brad Pitt, with any additional questions about things that make me happy.

Love,

Amy Elizabeth Nichols Jackson

It’s a good thing I’m married to Chris Jackson. That guy makes me happy.

I AM JEALOUS OF YOU

2013-11-15T14:28:00.001-08:00

I’m super thankful Al Gore invented the World Wide Web. I am thankful for the WWW because without it, Mark Zuckerberg would not have invented Facebook. Some people want to stay off the grid. I am not one of those people (yet). I love Facebook. As someone who has moved 14 times in 38 years, it has allowed me to stay connected with friends I have left behind geographically. For example, I found my very first best friend from Charlottesville, VA on Facebook. We met in kindergarten. Our mothers taught school together. She is a brilliant photographer in New Mexico now. This makes me happy.

But I must confess; Facebook does not always bring out the best in me. I have found my skeletal system growing more and more jealous bones. It’s not something I’m proud to admit.

So, last week when I overheard two mothers discussing the concept of jealousy, I had to tune my eavesdropping ears into the conversation. They were not discussing Facebook though. They were discussing, “How do you help your children deal with jealous feelings?” One of the mothers had read, somewhere, the strategy of teaching children how to make “statements of jealousy.” She thinks it works. She believes it has helped her daughter share her feelings and work toward self-acceptance.

I’m going to try it. Here I go. I made a list of things that make me jealous on Facebook.

1) Status update: YAHOO! Couldn’t be happier that the University of Awesomeness just defeated our rivals 954 to 6!

Statement of jealousy: Sportsmanship is not one of my strengths. I can only feel happy when the Texas Aggies, Vanderbilt Commodores, or MTSU Blue Raiders win. I want no other teams to experience victory. If Alabama plays LSU, I want both teams to suffer defeat. It could be football, basketball, NCAA Women or NCAA Men. Or, it could be a United Nations simulation. When your team wins, I feel jealous.

2) Status update: Check out this nutritious and delicious meal I prepared in just under 6 hours.

Statement of jealousy: I feel like a champ when I microwave organic chicken nuggets. When you post pictures of the healthy meals you are preparing for your family from scratch using organic vegetables you grew in your garden with meat you cut from an organic cow, I feel jealous.

3) Status update: Enjoying a super fun night out with my closest gal pals!

Statement of jealousy: I don’t care if I haven’t seen you in 25 years. When you order food from a menu that someone else prepares for you and you don’t have to jump up 17 times to refill milk and/or cut up more strawberries and no one tries to steal food off your plate while you enjoy adult conversation and company, I feel jealous of you.

4) Status update: Just finished my morning run! Only ran 19 this morning! Got my long run scheduled for this weekend! May or may not make it to yoga after my boot camp class!

Statement of jealousy: I want to be a super awesome exerciser and fitness person. However, I am not. When you burn 10,000 calories or complete an intense isometrics and/or bodybuilding session, I feel jealous.

5) Status update: Baby Moonbeam just read her first Hunger Games novel! I can’t believe she’ll finish the trilogy before her fourth birthday! Maybe we can convince her to put down her algebra textbook long enough to analyze her wheat samples under the electron microscope!

Statement of jealousy: I want all children to achieve success to the best of their potential. When your kid reads War and Peace on her second birthday or counts to 1 million while he waits for his salad to arrive at the dinner table while The Trifecta run around in their underwear and build forts out of couch cushions, I feel like I gave birth to Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. And that makes me jealous. But happy for you.

6) Status update: Hubby and I having such a super great time together on our vacation to sunny Detroit!

Statement of jealousy: I totally own the fact that Chris Jackson and I have not been away from The Trifecta overnight since they were born. Chalk it up to the fact that I can’t stand vertically, form a complete sentence, or function properly by the time we tuck their precious bodies into bed at night. If I can barely make it, and I’m their mama, I don’t feel right asking someone else to live the dream. When you go on vacation with your spouse/partner/sugar-mama/boy-toy, I feel jealous.

7) Status update: Check it out! Baby on the way! Thor barely breathed on me and I’m pregnant!

Statement of jealousy: I want to live in a permanent state of pregnancy and have at least 20 children. This has not and will not happen for reasons both divine and logical. When you get pregnant, I feel a little jealous…but sincerely over joyed for you too.

So now I’ve done it. I’ve confessed my jealous feelings. I hope you still want to be my friend.

Brave Friend Beats Cancer

2013-11-04T19:13:00.000-08:00

I have a friend that I love very much.

In the fall of 1994 divine intervention placed us in the same pledge class in the same sorority at Texas A&M University. She took some stalking and convincing when she first met me, but eventually she came around and we became more than just sorority sisters, we became friends. The real kind and the true kind.

She’s the kind of friend that turns life in the sorority house into a comedic adventure.

She’s the forgiver of flaws, including the time at the age of 19 when you ditched your sorority sisters on Big Event day to paint a house with the Sigma Chis because the boy you had a crush on at the time said, “Hey, you want to paint a house with us?”

She exchanges the same, “are we allowed to think the offensive and inappropriate content of this movie is funny?” glances during There’s Something About Mary.

She flashes you at the top of the stairs during rush because she realizes rush chair won’t be the most important job you’ll ever have and she wants you to lighten up and smile before you open those big double doors.

She’s your roommate.

She’s the keeper of all secrets that begin with the words, “I can’t tell anyone else but you…”

She stands next to you on your wedding day.

She visits you in your new house even though it is far away.

She walks the road of infertility with you and compares drug induced hot flashes. She selflessly worries when she tells you she is pregnant and you are not.

She’s the guardian and protector of your darkest and most shameful places.

And so, when her husband calls you in March and says, “Christy asked me to call you. She has Stage 3 colorectal cancer. But it’s going to be ok.” You panic. Not the small kind of panic, the big kind of panic that moves from the top of your head to your toes in the blink of an eye.

And so you “Google” the words “stage 3 colon cancer.”

You learn about all the places her cancer may or may not have spread. You read about blood tests and biopsies and wonder whether she’ll have a CT scan or a PET scan.

You want to send her a text every hour to remind her to rest and eat right and you want to ask her “are you ok?” at least 10 times a day.

You want to call her doctors and get a list of their qualifications as health professionals including where they went to undergraduate school, medical school, completed residency, as well as a list of professional post graduate coursework.

You want to remind the doctors to get plenty of sleep and to eat a good breakfast before they see her because they have to be at their BEST on those days.

You want to explain to all the doctors and nurses and people in the hospital who see her that she has absolutely the most wonderful sense of humor and you want to ask them to make her laugh. A real laugh, not a fake polite laugh.

You want to threaten everyone who comes in contact with her during radiation and chemo to be kind and gentle with her or they will be sorry.

You read about treatment options and survival rates.

You pray. You ask God to stop the cancer from spreading to her serosa, her nearby organs, her lymph nodes, and anywhere…please don’t let the cancer spread anywhere.

You pray for her two precious children and her loving husband.

You know she will beat this cancer because, well, she has to beat this cancer.

And so, when she tells you on Wednesday, November 5 she will get her pump out and be finished with chemotherapy, you send up all your prayers of thanksgiving and praise to the almighty God who healed her. Because He is good, always.

And you feel so proud of her for being so brave.

Homework Help

2013-09-16T18:59:00.001-07:00

I’m doomed. Not a little doomed. Alotta doomed. Because you see, I do not think I can help my children with homework.

I have a degree in Elementary Education. I have a Master’s degree in Gifted Education. I taught children for over 10 years. So, I should have “the skillz,” right? No. No, I do not have the skills.

Our precious and perfect preschool sent home some worksheets last week. They are completely age appropriate and wonderful. I thought The Trifecta would blow a gasket of excitement when they saw them. They did not.

So, last week I fought the power. We didn’t complete the worksheets. I put them in a special stack. For “later.”

Today, I opened their take home folders to find a “letter F” handwriting sheet. I know this is totally suitable as most of the children in The Trifecta’s class are already writing their letters like total champions. We’re a little behind the curve. I sent a trusted and dear soul sister (you know I’m talking about you, Lexie Harding) a “911” text message: Are these worksheets homework? Do we have to return them to school? Are you doing them?

I just knew she would tell me she was using them as a coloring sheet and then I would be safe. But instead she replied: You don’t have to return them. I’m doing them for kindergarten prep.

I cursed inside my brain. “Girls!” I exclaimed, “Look! Homework! I’m so excited! Let’s practice the letter F together!”

Baby A came obediently to the table. Baby B continued to jump from sofa cushion to sofa cushion in her underwear. She was chanting something about yoga. She totally didn’t even hear me. Baby C looked me dead in the eyes. “Mommy,” she said, “I am NOT doing homework.”

No problem. I have a Master’s degree. I know how to do this. I’ll start with the child who is eager to complete the work. Baby A. Then I will snap Baby B out of her self-induced imaginative coma. She’ll like it once we get started. I’ll conclude with Baby C. It might take some bribing, but she’ll do it.

I sat down with Baby A. 20 minutes later we finished. I was sweating. I also think I threw up in my mouth a little. So that is when I gave up for the day. Babies B and C will not succeed in life and probably have to live with us forever. But 33.3333% is not a terrible rate of return.

How do you people do it out there? How do you keep from having a nervous breakdown during homework time? Why do they have to grow up and do all this hard stuff? Can’t they just stay little and jump on sofa cushions in their underwear?

So that is when I decided; we are moving to the mountains, we will raise goats, we will plant corn, and also we will make our own soap.

Summer List

2013-08-07T20:54:00.000-07:00

At the beginning of the summer I made a list of things to accomplish with The Trifecta. Because I love lists and I love to cross things off lists. Crossing things off of lists feels awesome. I will share my list with you:
1)    Provide The Trifecta with the opportunity to practice writing names each morning using a variety of modalities.
2)    Practice letter-sound correspondence with The Trifecta daily.
3)    Practice number names and counting in sequence with The Trifecta daily.
4)    Sign The Trifecta up for swimming lessons.

Now that summer vacation nears its end, I will share what I actually accomplished on my list:

1) Instead of working with The Trifecta on learning to write their names, the trio ran around in their underwear, daily, sometimes in the yard.

2) Rather than practice letter-sound correspondence, The Trifecta toured The Tweetsie Railroad no less than 20 days. During this time, the girls heard cowboys refer to Native Americans as “Indians,” took four photographs in which they wore can-can girl and/or Native American and/or cowboy costumes postured in bar while ingesting sprite, popcorn, ice cream, French fries, and cotton candy.

3) I failed to spend time working with The Trifecta on learning number names and counting in sequence. However, we constructed a boat load of block trains and castles using the manipulatives I purchased to practice stated skill. Manipulatives also doubled as weapons. I stepped on the manipulative minefield no less than a dozen times introducing Trifecta to a new language called “cussing up a storm.”

4) Swim lessons? Nope. Apparently it’s not effective to wait until June to contact swim instructors. Schedules fill up by March. We did spend a lot of time jumping off the side of the pool screaming words like, “GAS PUPPET!” and “MONKEY POOP!”

Yep, that’s what I have to show for myself as a stay at home parent with a Master’s Degree in Gifted Education.

During my time as a classroom teacher, I took it upon myself to educate parents on the importance of continuing the practice of reading, writing, and arithmeticing throughout the summer. I would conclude the spring conference with a little something like, “I have really enjoyed having Rainbow Bright in my class this year. Please make sure you continue to read, write, and arithmetic over the summer. Research states that if you fail to practice such skills over summer vacation with your child, her head will deflate and her brain will be broken.” I always gave those free spirited parents a little extra something like, “I’m serious. Seriously, I mean it.”

What have I learned from this experience? Don’t make serious lists. Make fun lists.

Police Intervention

2013-08-02T10:29:00.000-07:00

Somehow I failed to process the memo that tax free weekend began today. Otherwise, I would have happily returned home after working out at the gym this morning. Instead, I pulled The Trifecta across the Target parking lot and elbowed another mother to secure the cart that has the two seats in front rather than just the one standard seat inside the cart. I had an advantage over the other mother because she had an infant in her arms.

I managed to fill my cart with the items on my shopping list: two storage tubs, Greenworks spray, Murphy’s hand soap, naproxen, paper plates, and baby shampoo. I also managed to secure three pair of pink glitter shoes (not originally on my list). It was time to make the final purchases of the day: birthday gifts for a friend of The Trifecta. I pushed the cart through the toy aisles in search of gifts that the friend would enjoy without pushing his parents to the brink of insanity.

Baby A (pointing to bizarre gothic/hoochie dress up outfit for child): Mommy, I want that dress for dress up time.

Me: I don’t think that dress is the kind of outfit I want you to play in (replied the mother who allowed her children to play “dress up” in can-can girl outfits in bar setting at The Tweetsie Railroad).

Baby A: I want it.

Me: I understand you want it, but I my answer is “no.”

Baby A launched into a tantrum so insane that she catapulted her body out of the cart seat and threw herself onto the floor. Her screams were so loud and filled with crazy that other parents stopped to watch the train wreck. Because that’s how parents support other parents in this type of situation, right?

Me: Let’s go girls. We are leaving the store.

Disclaimer - I don’t mean this when the words leave my mouth. It is simply a threat tactic I used in the hopes the tantruming member of The Trifecta would stabilize so that I could check out with the items in my shopping cart.

Baby A: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!! I WANT THE DRESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BUY IT FOR ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WANT IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Perhaps it was the combination of glass shattering screams and the threat of bodily harm to Baby A that made me do it. I can’t tell you for sure. But, I picked up Baby A and started my walk of shame out of the store. Babies B and C followed with tears and screams.

Baby A kicked me in the face. Baby A attempted to wiggle free from my death grip. Baby A almost cracked her head open on the hard floor. Baby A continued to yell, scream, tantrum, squeal, squawk, and howl. Patrons of Target stared.

I made it to the parking lot.

A police officer approached me. A normal person might not find delight in this situation. I rejoiced. For years I have been threating The Trifecta with police involvement and intervention in tantrums, potty-talk, and refusal to nap. Today, the police were here.

Officer: Is everything ok, ma’am?

Me: No, sir. My daughter had a tantrum in the store. Children go to jail for tantrums, isn’t that right officer? (I gave him my best secret smile, smile, wink, wink.)

Officer (clearly shocked): No ma’am! We don’t put children in jail for tantrums!

Me (silently cursing police officer in my head and wanting to punch him in the throat): Thank you for your help. We’re going to go home now.

The police officer watched me load The Trifecta into the car. He watched me drive away. I feel 96% certain that my license and vehicle make and model have been entered into some sort of database for police observation.

At this point, any respectable blogger would offer some sort of advice; some kind of lesson; a quote from a psychologically balanced parenting study; a Bible verse.

I’ve got nothing. I’ll be rocking myself in cradle position in a dark closet if you need me.

Have a great day, y’all.

Mommy Movie Moments

2013-05-12T21:35:00.000-07:00

I have a new best friend and her name is Mindy Lahiri from Fox’s “The Mindy Project.” On the surface we do not have a lot in common. Mindy is an attractive Indian (South Asian American) woman living the single life in the big city. I am a disheveled, married, Caucasian Southerner raising triplets. We have one soul binding characteristic: we both love movies. Mindy searches Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan films for love advice. I have a mental file full of "Mommy Movie Moments" that I access when I need guidance in all things motherhood. So on this Mother's Day 2013, I share with you those silver screen selections that keep me from pulling all my eyelashes out.

(1) Aurora Greenway, Terms of Endearment: I believe in pharmaceuticals. If a member of The Trifecta is suffering from an ailment that can be cured with a drug, I want it. I'm not interested in what nature may or may not heal in time. Sometimes doctors say things to me like, "It doesn't look like an infection," or "It must be a virus." These are not words that ring well with me. Because when my little ladies are suffering, I WANT TO MAKE IT BETTER. That is when I transform into Aurora Greenway from “Terms of Endearment.” If you are not familiar with the fabulous Mrs. Greenway, please watch the clip below. And also try to picture my face on Shirley MacLaine’s head screaming, “GIVE MY DAUGHTER AN ANTIBIOTIC!” I love Aurora's character for many reasons in this moving picture, but mostly because of her total willingness to unleash her inner crazy in order to stop her daughter's pain.

http://youtu.be/A1AIroyiLEM

(2) Mrs. Parker, The Christmas Story: When I need patience and a glassy eyed acceptance in order to dull the chaos in my household I play Mrs. Parker from, “The Christmas Story.” Because that lady laughs and remains emotionally unabridged even when her son consumes his dinner like a “piggy in a trough.” Mary Ellis loves to slather her body in tempura paint from head to toe. She has an addiction to showers and she knows I cannot refuse her if she is covered in Crayola colors. Instead of crying, screaming, and running from our house I just find my Mrs. Parker voice.

http://www.tcm.com/mediaroom/video/62365/Christmas-Story-A-Movie-Clip-Mommy-s-Little-Piggy-.html

(3) M'Lynn Eatenton, Steel Magnolias: If you know me, you know I love me some Steel Magnolias. It is my favorite movie of all time ever made in the history of all screenplays. Sally Field's character, M'Lynn is the epitome of all Southern Mamas. I think one of the reasons I love her is because she reminds me so much of my own Mommy; as delicate as a magnolia and as strong as steel. I relate to M'Lynn because of her control issues. Throughout the story she's as solid as a rock. Host a picture perfect wedding in her home? She's the hostess with the mostess. Daughter needs a kidney? She's got one to give! I have not had the need to access my inner M'Lynn yet. However, I have three little girls with the big personalities. The day will come. And when it does I'm going to say, "Cooperate, please."

http://movieclips.com/LAcr-steel-magnolias-movie-too-much-insulin/

(4) Professor (Minerva) McGonagall, Harry Potter: I know, I know, Professor McGonagall did not have children. Technically. I look at her as the mother to many. All those little witches and wizards living at Hogwarts. I need a little more McGonagall in my Mamahood. I need her fairness and her sterness. I need her courage. Also, it would be awesome if I had a magic wand that I could wave around my house and say things like, "Clean my house!" and "Stop that tantrum!" and "Fall asleep!" and "Shower my body and blow dry my hair and put make-up on my face!"

(5) Edwina, Raising Arizona: I am not a police officer and Chris Jackson does not have a criminal record. But we there was a time when I didn't think we would be able to have children. And I wanted to steal one. I really, really wanted to steal one. But I didn't. At the time I wanted to steal a baby, this movie gave me the hope that I would someday have a family of my own. At the end of the movie Edwina's husband H.I., played by Nicholas Cage, has a dream. He dreams of a baby that they someday adopt. At the end of his dream sequence he says, " It seemed like us and it seemed like, well, our home. If not Arizona, then a land not too far away. This whole dream. Was it wishful thinking? Where all parents are strong and wise and capable and all children are happy and beloved."

Maybe that's why I love motherhood in motion pictures. Because I want a world where all parents are strong and wise and all children are happy and beloved.

Happy Mother's Day, y'all.

The Lottery

2013-04-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

Chris Jackson and I have a favorite game called, “When We Win the Lottery.” I will teach you how to play.

Chris: Did you know the lottery is up to 37 zillion dollars this week?

Me: No. Did you buy a ticket?

Chris: Not yet. We will take the cash option. After taxes we will be left with roughly 6 million dollars.

Me: 6 million? Wow! What do you want to do with all that money?

Chris: I will continue working for insurance benefits and because I enjoy my job. I don’t think we need to buy a new house or anything. Maybe a new car? We will set up trusts for the girls. Give a large portion to the church in a trust. We will put the rest in a mutual fund or some other investment vehicle.

Me: Sounds good to me.

But I just told my precious husband a lie. Financial responsibility pulsates through his veins and breathes life into his non-materialistic lungs. He means every word he just said and I love him for it.

However, I have made other plans for this money.

1.      Live-In Super Nanny. Think sober companion for a mother of four year old triplets. Super Nanny will be required to stay by my side all hours of the day and sleep in a cot by my bed at night. This will give me the freedom to pick and choose which tantrums, melt-downs, explosions of crazy, fist fights, scratch combats, and verbal prizefights to facilitate using my outstanding parenting abilities. When exhaustion kicks in (at approximately 8:43 am), I will allow Super Nanny to take care of the character building. Clearly Super Nanny has what it takes to raise The Trifecta into the prison free citizens I hope them to be. Nothing will bring me more joy than to someday reply to the question, “What are your girls doing now?” with the answer, “They are not serial killers.”

2.      Clutter Picker Uppers. Visualize the Tennis Ball Boys at Wimbledon. Much like Super Nanny, Clutter Picker Uppers, or CPU’s, will work from sunrise to sunset. They will wear clothes and face paint that camouflages their existence into the walls of our home. Once a toy, book, stuffed animal, article of clothing, shoe, or piece of food hits the floor, they are required to move faster than a speeding bullet across the room, sweeping up dropped item and returning it to the designated area. I understand that this may require some stunt moves. That’s fine. Now that I think of it, in addition to speed and willingness to wear “Everyday Khaki” paint color from the Sherwin Williams collection, CPU’s should probably know how to perform a back hand spring and corkscrew air spin.

3.      Car Robot.   A robotic engineer will construct an android to assist me in all things involving the car and triplets. Car robot loads The Trifecta into their car seats. This may involve temporarily stunning them (there are a lot of melt downs seconds before we have to leave the house) inside the house before carrying them to the garage. If a fight breaks out over who has to ride in the middle car seat, Car Robot manages the situation. Well, now that I think of it that may or may not fall under the responsibilities of Super Nanny. I’m not giving up on this dream. I’m getting a Car Robot.

I also may or may not have plans to cover every square inch of our home in Lilly Pulitzer fabric.

A Legacy of Lessons

2013-03-29T21:11:00.001-07:00

I met Dr. John Hoyle in the spring of 1998. He and his wife, Carolyn, agreed to escort twelve naïve females from the Texas A&M College of Education to our summer study abroad program in Italy. Prior to our expedition, we met with Dr. Hoyle each week to learn about Italian culture and to discuss the “need to knows” of our upcoming study program. At that time I did not know the important role he would play in my life or how much I would grow to love him and sweet Carolyn.

Dad and Mom Hoyle in Venice

Our summer in Italy provided adventure, escape, and amazing opportunities for exploring another culture. It also created a little Italian-American Aggie family. By the end of our journey Dr. and Mrs. Hoyle became Mom and Dad Hoyle and forever secured a place in my heart.

Dr. John Hoyle died on Tuesday, March 12 from complications of leukemia. The impact he left behind is wide and great. I have struggled with his death. I have been working on this blog post since I learned of his passing. I want to share some of his goodness with you. So, after sifting through my memories and my journal, I have compiled and transcribed five of the many lessons I learned from Dad Hoyle that summer in Italy.

Lesson #1: For our first assignment Dad Hoyle challenged us to write about our lives fifteen years into the future. He titled the project our, “future scenario.” When outlining our instructions he noted that our future scenario had to paint a positive picture of our lives because we were all amazing people. He said that when we look in the mirror we may not like all that we see but we should be pleased with most of it. Little came true from my future scenario paper I wrote fifteen years ago. I did not earn a law degree. I did not open a charter school. I can, however, continue to apply those instructions from Dad Hoyle each day when I wake up and assess the dark circles, crow’s feet, and smile lines. No one likes the wrinkles and the grey hairs. There are even some things about my insides that I don’t like. But I should be pleased with most of it. And so should you.

A Father's Day Celebration for Dad Hoyle

Lesson #2: The corridor that leads into Michelangelo’s David holds the four, fantastic, Unfinished Slaves. “The slaves” are some of Michelangelo’s partial works and they are trapped in their stone. We stood there gazing upon the cold, hard, unfinished rock. Dad Hoyle broke our silence, “These statues may also represent how some children feel about learning. Trapped! It is up to us as educators to free those children.” During my ten years in education I came across dozens and dozens of children who appeared ensnared in their minds, in their learning, and in their processing. Intelligent, capable, even gifted children; square little pegs that did not fit into the round holes of institutionalized learning. And now I have my own little work of art who sometimes seems trapped in her mind and it is up to me to do all I can to free her.

Lesson #3: Dr. Hoyle instructed, “Never build hurdles in your mind, because the hurdles on the track are much smaller than the hurdles in the mind.” What are your hurdles? I feel like I spend my whole day jumping over hurdles. Sometimes I can even visualize them in front of me. Some hurdles are taller than others. For example, the “how am I going to get them dressed and out the door” hurdle is slightly higher than the “what are we going to eat for dinner hurdle,” because usually we order out and the girls have chicken nuggets or PB&J. Anyway, I try to keep Dr. Hoyle’s advice in my mind at all times. And it helps.

Lesson #4: At the end of our study abroad Dr. Hoyle gave each of us a clear marble. He told us that the marble represented a crystal ball. He said, “You are all exceptional people. During your life, when times get rough, when you get kicked around, look into the crystal ball, think good thoughts, and know that things will get better.” I still get emotional when I think about his “you are returning to the real world and soon you will have to be grown-ups” address. From challenges in teaching and graduate school to the pain of infertility – it all got better. If you are going through a difficult time now I encourage you to find a clear marble, look inside it, think good thoughts, say a prayer, and tell yourself, “things will get better.”

Me. Crying. After Dad Hoyle gave us a crystal ball.

Lesson #5: “Three Coins in the Fountain” is a 1954 romantic comedy. In the film, three American women dream of finding love while working in the city of Rome. Dad Hoyle sang the lyrics to the theme song throughout our trip.

Click on the link below to listen to the song. You will like it, I promise.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8YxRNdgY5vg

Three coins in the fountain,
Each one seeking happiness.
Thrown by three hopeful lovers,
Which one will the fountain bless?

Three hearts in the fountain,
Each heart longing for its home.
There they lie in the fountain,
Somewhere in the heart of Rome.

Amy in the fountain

Our little Italian Aggie family found love during that summer. Not romantic love. I love my Italian sisters and my Italian parents more today than I did fifteen years ago. I think they will all agree that we have experienced blissful blessings following our coin throwing ritual into the Trevi Fountain.

There is not another soul like Dr. John Hoyle’s on this wide and wonderful planet. Maybe that is why I felt so sad when I learned of his death? In my heart I wanted him here spreading laughter and happiness and Aggie spirit. I wanted his GOODNESS here with me. But that is my own selfishness. I cannot imagine the party that took place when Dad Hoyle arrived in heaven. I cannot imagine the line of people who waited in line to embrace him and welcome him into God’s kingdom.

For now, I will keep his lessons in my heart. Until I see him again. I hope he’s singing “Three Coins in the Fountain” when he hugs me in heaven.

Join Me in A Journey

2013-03-25T20:57:00.001-07:00

Dear Family and Friends,

I need you to join me on a journey. On January 4, 2012 my precious friend Ginger Birnbaum told me her newborn son, Kenneth King, had Cystic Fibrosis. After she shared the news of his diagnosis she said, “Never in a million years would we ask for this, however we are prepared to fight like crazy for his health."

In 2012 King was hospitalized twice. He takes 40 enzyme capsules a day as well as a long list of other medications, receives between 2 and 4 one and a half hour breathing treatments of albuterol, hypertonic saline, chest physical therapy, and pulmozyme, and receives a 10 hour feed through a gastrointestinal tube at night. The Great Strides Walk gives their family hope.

The Great Strides Walk for Cystic Fibrosis is one of the many ways the Birnbaums fight for King. GREAT STRIDES is the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation's premier event nationwide that raises awareness and funds to treat and cure cystic fibrosis. Great Strides is a platform to bring together various individuals while giving them the opportunity to walk with community leaders and like-minded philanthropists in support of cystic fibrosis research.

I need you to join me on a journey. The first step is to become a member of Kenneth King’s Believers. Please walk with my family and me on May 18, 2013. The walk will take place at Central Magnet School in Murfreesboro, TN. If you are willing to participate in the walk as a member of our team please email me at amy_aggie98@yahoo.com. I will send you instructions for registration.

I’m always afraid to ask friends and family to donate money. However, fundraising is one of the most important components of finding a cure for Cystic Fibrosis. The money raised through the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation is directly correlated to King's health and well-being. I have set a team fundraising goal of $1,000. Please consider making a $10, $20, $50, or $100 (or more!) donation to Kenneth King’s Believers- Team Murfreesboro. To do so please complete the following steps:

1) Go to http://www.cff.org/great_strides/

      2)      In the boxes under Find A Walker enter Amy (first) Jackson (last)
      3)   For state of residence, enter: Tennessee
     4)      Click: Find a Walker
      5)      My information will appear on the page.   Double click my name.
      6)      You will arrive at a page titled: Welcome to Amy’s Great Strides Home Page!
      7)      Click the yellow button that says, Click to Donate.
      8)      Fill out the information and make your donation!

I need you to join me on a journey. In 2009, the median predicated age of survival for CF patients was the mid-30s. We can change that in King’s lifetime. Please sign-up to walk with me on May 18 in Murfreesboro at Central Magnet as a member of Kenneth King’s Believers. Please make a donation to our team.

Thank you in advance for your support!

Watch this to learn more about King!

http://www.youtube.com/embed/VsaxFlDomJg

Love,

Amy

Three Turn Four

2013-03-09T20:02:00.001-08:00

I have a stack of parenting books on my bed side table and also I have a little secret that I will share with you. Leaving the books in a neat pile on my bed side table has done little or nothing to make me a “better” parent. That really disappoints me. Apparently, you have to read the books and then make changes to current parenting strategies and/or implement new toddler tactics. I think that if one takes the time to search “parenting books” on Amazon, browse literature selections, place a paperback in the shopping cart, and then make payment…then the knowledge in the book should flow from the pages into the children, parents, and household. Who’s with me?

I did read something I liked once. It stated that infertility can lead certain parents to believe that God did something extra miraculous by finally bringing a child into their family and that belief creates a layer of crazy pants in the parents’ decision making process. I jumped on that faster than a Kenyan marathoner…because I love to blame infertility for my crazy pants.

I still battle the belief that I have to “show” God I can be a good parent. During our pregnancy struggle I heard people say over and over and over, “God has a reason for everything.” I took that to mean, “God doesn’t think you have the social, intellectual, and/or emotional capacity to parent and that is why He hasn’t blessed you with a viable pregnancy.” I know that is not true. But infertility is a naughty little bugger. She puts foolish thoughts in your head and a pair of crazy pants in your sock drawer.

So this week, when The Trifecta turned four, I found myself pulling on my XXXL crazy pants…and they felt TIGHT. Aren’t parents supposed to feel happy on birthdays? I did not.

All week long my brain felt broken. Every time I looked at The Trifecta my chest got tight. Because the time I have left with them at home before they start the rat race of formal education is ticking faster than green grass through a goose.

I went to Campus School to place them on the list for the 2014 school year, knowing that with our March birthday, we have little to no chance of three spots on the kindergarten enrollment list. But I went. The sweet lady behind the glass handed me a clip board and three forms. Name? Date of birth? Address? Phone numbers? Simple enough. All of a sudden my hands began to tremble and my palms began to sweat and I felt very shaky and some throw up crept into my throat. A stranger stopped, put her hand on my shoulder and asked, “Are you ok? Do you need a glass of water?” I declined her offer, tightened up my crazy pants and filled out the forms.

After the girls went to sleep I gave Chris Jackson a 45 minute presentation in which I shared my fears and hopes and also an awesome plan to move to the mountains of North Carolina and teach The Trifecta math skills through seed planting. My husband listened intently. He then offered a calm, rational, and thoughtful reply. I don’t remember most of it, because by that time of day my Adderall has worn off. My brain began weaving, “How does this man have such faith? How has he managed to remain un-medicated after all these years? He really has lost A LOT of hair. I love this guy so much. When he finishes talking I am totally going to kiss him on the lips.” Chris Jackson interrupted my day dream, “Amy?” “Yes,” I replied, “I have heard everything you just said and I could not agree more. We are going to pray about this.” Then I kissed him on the lips.

Currently, I’m ready Trophy Child, by Ted Cunningham. If you are a sane parent with reasonable expectations and high parenting self-esteem, this book is not for you. If you own one or more pair of crazy pants in size M-XXXL, I think you may find some comfort in the pages and words of this paperback. The author instructs me to attach my children to Jesus and not to me. I wrote, “I am not convinced of this,” in the margin. It’s probably true though.

I love my three little four year olds. I want to keep them close to me and I don’t want them growing up any more. Right now they are attached to me and I love it bunches and bunches. I know I’m not supposed to say that.

There may or may not be a book to “help” someone like me. I may or may not get over my feelings I have to prove my parental worthiness to God. I will probably always need Adderall. Someday I may or may not exchange my XXL crazy pants for a smaller size. But, I worry that I will always want my three miracles attached to me.

Happy Birthday, Tiny Toes Trifecta!

Momtastic

2013-03-04T08:20:00.000-08:00

I used to have a safe and peaceful place inside myself called, “The Shopping Zone.” I could sort through sale racks faster than a speeding bullet. I could fill the largest dressing room full of clothes and go back for more before the sales associate could ask, “How’s it going in there?” My Dad coined the term, “buying season” to explain the financial damage done to his bank account following a shopping spree with my Mom. We could have a twelve hour shopping bender and not even stop to hydrate.

The first time I went shopping after The Trifecta’s birth I felt tired before I even left the house. I had an event for Junior League. The girls were 5 weeks old. I had a belly the size of a woman in her third trimester (minus the baby/babies), and milk producing organs the size of a micro-planet. I also had nothing to wear. “Listen to me,” I hissed at Chris, “I’m going to ONE store. I’m going to buy a dress, shoes, and SPANX. I don’t care how much the items I need cost us. If I find something that fits, I’m going to buy it. I’ll be back by the next feeding.” “That’s a great idea,” he replied with a supportive hug.

That’s how I shop now. It’s a sprint race, not a marathon. I go to one store. I find what I need. I don’t even look at the price tag, because I cannot be distracted by the proposition to bargain shop.

And so, when I had to make a shoe purchase for an event several weeks ago, I did my best to prepare myself emotionally and spiritually for my shopping expedition. I would depart for Dillard’s following bath, story, and bed time. That would give me approximately one hour to venture into the shoe department, search for needed shoes, try them on, and secure payment. If everything went according to the plan I had mapped out in my mind, I could still be in bed by 10:00 pm.

The air of the automatic doors hit my face and as I bee-lined for the shoe department. I made my selection in record time. The shoes only slightly cut off the circulation to my toes and barely sliced into my heels. They would do just fine. I raced to check out and pay for them.

The young specimen working the cash register could not have been less impressed by my Momtasticness. Perhaps in was the frizzy hair falling out of my pony tail holder into my eyes. Or, maybe it was my worn yoga pants streaked with food, finger paint, and Trifecta mucus. I didn’t care. I just needed to pay and get home. I reached into my new Thirty-One handbag. It has 962 secret zipper compartments. I could feel my wallet, but I could not FIND my wallet inside the bag. I smiled at Young Specimen. “It’s in here somewhere,” I explained, “I bought it because it has secret compartments. I have to hide wallet from my triplet daughters. They are almost four. They like to look through my things. One of my girls likes to hide my paraphernalia. So I have to, you know, put my wallet and keys where they can’t find them.” Young Specimen continued to stare at me. I continued to search. Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes turned into a panic attack. I took my 007 purse off my shoulder and began to shake it violently upside down. No wallet. I turned the device inside out in hopes of finding another zipper. No wallet.

“Pardon me, ma’am?” said a soft voice over my shoulder. (And yes, the voice TOTALLY just ma’amed me!) “Are you talking to me?” I replied. “Yes,” answered Soft Voice, “I sell Thirty-One purses. I actually I have that bag. I think you are overlooking the zipper around the edge of the bag.”

I located the wallet, paid for my purchase, and left the store. By the time I got into bed it was 10:27 pm.

That safe and peaceful place for shopping lives in me no more. It has been replaced and filled with three precious little girls and the desire to build pirate ships, solve puzzles, paint pictures, and read stories. And I know it’s not just the shopping. I live in yoga pants and a ponytail. It’s my Momtastic season of life right now. And I’m totally ok with it.

Accidents Happen

2013-01-23T19:36:00.000-08:00

I haven’t written a blog post in 100 years. At least it feels like it’s been that long. I haven’t felt much like writing lately. I’ve been feeling a little Mommy-Manic. One minute I’m thinking, “We just assembled a pirate puzzle together! Motherhood is the best thing EVER!” And the next I’m all like, “I’ve been singing ‘Clean-up, clean-up, everybody do their share’ for the last ten minutes and no one is helping me therefore I am all alone in this world.”

Last week I hit an all-time low. The Trifecta had “Hibernation Day” at school and felt excited about wearing their pajamas to school. I selected a trio of cuteness… smocked pink pajamas. As I started to dress the girls a riot broke out; screams of discontent and opposition. They have a closet full of smocked threads, custom applique and monogrammed garments, and Lilly Pulitzer shift dresses. But what do they want to wear? Hendley will wear whatever I select for the day. Elizabeth wants mismatched leggings and torn tutus. Mary Ellis wants shorts and MTSU and ATM t-shirts. A harmonious parent would just go with it. But I fight them. I can’t tell you why. I may live in sweatpants and workout clothes, but I want The Trifecta to look tidy and together. So we bargain. I pick their clothes on school and church days. They pick the other days.

After several minutes of intense negotiations I decided to let them select their pajamas. I dressed them. I put on their socks and shoes. I announced the time had come to go to school.

I turned off the television.

Anarchy. Rampage. Revolt. Chaos.

I stood in silence for a solid thirty seconds as my precious angels WENT COMPLETELY NUTSO. My heart raced. My armpits began to sweat. My pulse hit the roof.

I snapped.

I threw my keys and purse on the ground. I clinched my fists.

And. I. Roared.

“GET INTO THE CAR RIGHT NOW!” It was one of those screams that made my throat sore and my ears pop at the same time. Somewhere in the house a light bulb exploded (probably).

And also I may or may not have threatened to give gypsy children all their toys.

Mary Ellis and Elizabeth started to cry and ran to the car. Hendley stared at me with her intense, honest eyes. “Mommy,” she whispered, “Don’t talk to me that way.”

I picked her up and put her in her car seat. We drove to school in silence.

When we arrived at school the excitement of hibernation day seemed to replace the events of the morning. I kissed Mary Ellis and Elizabeth good-bye. I pulled Hendley into my lap. “Hendley,” I began, “I’m sorry I lost my temper this morning. I shouldn’t have yelled like that. I felt overwhelmed. Can you forgive me?” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders at me. “It’s ok, Mommy. Accidents happen.” She wiggled out of my lap and joined her class.

Was my temper tantrum an accident? Accidents cause injury, harm, and damage.

As I drove away from the school I started to blubber…a big, fat, snot-spiller, soul cleansing cry. I cried because I haven’t had a solid six hours of sleep in seven months. I cried because a pile of clean laundry the size of Mt. Everest waited for me to fold and put away. I cried because the dishwasher is always full of clean dishes I have to put away and the sink is always full of dirty dishes that need the dishwasher. I cried because I REALLY want to be a patient, loving, and kind mother and at that moment I felt like the opposite of all those qualities. I felt reckless, irresponsible, and rotten.

And then I thought of Hendley. “It’s ok, Mommy. Accidents happen.” I spent summers working for State Farm Insurance in high school. One of my many jobs required me to take accident reports for auto policy holders. Some involved senseless drivers, another involved pit bulls, and this one time a brand new $100,000 Mercedes drove off the lot and crashed into a guard rail. I decided to file an accident report on my own self. I don’t have a deductible and there isn’t a body shop to repair the damage.

I want to do better and I want to be better. And also I hope to have less laundry to fold.

Worlds Collide

2012-11-15T20:46:00.000-08:00

The Trifecta entering the sanctuary...

Remember, that one time on Seinfeld, when George worried that his two worlds were colliding? Relationship George (the man who spends time with his wife) and Independent George (the George we know around Elaine, Jerry, and Kramer) clash when Elaine wants to get to know his wife. He called it his, “Worlds Collide Theory.” It’s one of my favorite episodes because George has a crazy tantrum in which he yells, "Anybody knows... You gotta keep your worlds apart!"

Today, as I watched The Trifecta enter the church sanctuary for their Thanksgiving Program, it occurred to me that my worlds were colliding. Not in the same way as George of course. Quite the opposite, actually…all the things I love the most were meeting head-on in one location, at one time.

My parents sat to my right, my brother and Chris Jackson to my left. I sat smashed in the middle, in a pew, in a church I adore to tiny pieces. First Presbyterian Preschool and The Trifecta’s teachers, Ms. Allison and Ms. Tasha…have I mentioned how much I cherish them today? And then, just when I didn’t think I could take it anymore, The Trifecta; Elizabeth, Hendley, and Mary Ellis, walked into the sanctuary.

And for a moment I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t take the happiness that palpitated inside me. My worlds were colliding; my parents with my brother with my church, with our preschool, with my husband with my precious children…things that I treasure, in one room, at one time.

But, unlike George, I didn’t have a tantrum. I did burst into happy tears though. Check out the show:

Join Them

2012-11-14T20:04:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time The Trifecta used to take magical naps. The kind of naps blessed by unicorns and sprinkled with enchanted sleepy horn dust. Then, the unicorn galloped away and naptime stopped.

No more time for Mommy to eat lunch. No more time to fold laundry while watching, “The Real Housewives of New York.” Or, “Bridezillas.” Or, “Law and Order.” Or anything on the Lifetime Movie Network. No more cruising EBAY for NWT Lilly Pulitzer or obsessively scrolling through my smocked auction pages on Facebook. Mommy time died when the magical unicorn ran away.

I tried all sorts of tricks. I sat in a rocker and told them I would call Santa if they didn’t sleep. Instead of sleeping they spent the whole time whispering, “You won’t have to call Santa on me, okay Mommy?” Or, “Hey Mommy, look at me, I’m sleeping.” Or my personal favorite, after not sleeping at all, “What a great sleep. I’m wide awake now!”

I Pinterested and found a glorious idea for nap boxes filled with books and “quiet” toys. This resulted in The Trifecta leaping from bed to bed, fighting over books, piling the “quiet” toys on the floor and eventual mayhem.

Then, one day, after my 26^th trip up the stairs and my 14^th personal depiction of the police banging on the door and threatening to cart away non-napping three year olds, I had an epiphany. If you can’t beat them, join them. I’m a fighter. I don’t give up. But this battle, this insane combat from 1:30-3:30 each day…The Trifecta had the upper hand.

“Move over,” I ordered as I climbed into Mary Ellis’ bed. “What are you doing, Mommy?” she asked. “I’m going to take a nap. In your bed,” I answered. Elizabeth and Hendley climbed into bed with us. I had a toddler on each arm and one on my stomach. Within 10 minutes, The Trifecta fell into sleep.

The mystic unicorn had returned.

The system is not perfect. It’s hot and sweaty when you have three bodies napping upon you. There is drool involved…lots and lots of drool. Most days two of the three fall asleep while I spend the rest of the time whisper-shouting, “Get still and quiet or you’ll wake your sisters!”

And one time, I fell asleep. And when I woke up there was not a Trifecta in the bed. There was a duo. The third had crept out of the bedroom and into the playroom. There was a big mess in there. But she was still alive so I didn’t worry about the mess so much.

Periodically, my limbs will endure such a smashing that my arms and legs will fall asleep. Leaving only my face muscles active.

I still love naptime. The snuggling. The laughing. The whispering. The kisses. I love hearing them breathe when they sleep.

Welcome home, enchanted unicorn.

Pumpkin' Paintin'

2012-10-21T19:57:00.000-07:00

The Trifecta loves Fall. They love all things scarecrow, hay, and pumpkin. After we purchased our pumpkins we decided to paint them. The Trifecta wore their uniform of choice...underwear.

Did you know that pumpkins are the world's largest fruit? Elizabeth does not eat pumpkin, but she loves Granny Smith apples because they are sour.

Pumpkins are 90% water. Hendley is 100% precious.

Pumpkin seeds are known as pepitas! Pepita was my Spanish name in high school.

Painting pumpkins is serious business. Various colors are needed as well as multiple brushes.

Pumpkin flowers are edible. Have you tried them?

The world's largest pumpkin weighed 1,140 pounds! Mary Ellis weighed 3.2 pounds when she was born.

Pumpkin seeds are small but powerful, just like The Trifecta. From a tiny seed grows a GIGANTIC fruit!

Trivia Tidbit: Dreaming that you eat pumpkin means that you will live a rich lifestyle. I have never had a dream about eating pumpkin.

Pumpkins are grown on six of the seven continents.

80% of the pumpkin supply in the United States is available in October.

Native Americans used pumpkin seeds in medicines.

Mary Ellis enjoyed mixing all her colors together.

Elizabeth used a lot of purple and blue.

Hendley Grace used green, of course.

In the end, Mary Ellis just painted her whole body.

Bono Says...

2012-10-16T20:23:00.003-07:00

BT (Before Triplets) Chris Jackson and I used to run together. We were both getting our Masters and I read somewhere that physical goals helped with academics so I made us run two marathons. Because I don’t mess around with goal setting.

We would have to get up between 4:15 and 4:45 am so that we returned by 6:45 am. That gave me just enough time to take a shower, drink two to three cups of coffee, pull my wet hair up into a pony tail, and make the 2 minute commute to school by 7:30 am. When you set your alarm for the early morning, you need some tough ammunition to prevent the pushing of the snooze button. Our first strategy involved placing the alarm clock clear across the room by the door to our bedroom. The second strategy was most effective. We purchased an alarm clock with a CD player and set U2’s “Beautiful Day,” as our wake up song.

When Bono greeted us with, “The heart is a bloom, shoots up through the stony ground there's no room, no space to rent in this town, you're out of luck and the reason that you had to care, the traffic is stuck, and you're not moving anywhere…” we somehow managed to crawl out bed, throw on our running clothes, bob our heads and point at one another (sometimes Chris Jackson busted out into a full dance sequence) and make it out the front door. We usually didn’t speak until we crossed the pedestrian bridge.

Now when my alarm goes off around 5:15, I crawl out of bed alone. The only marathon we’re training for together now is the long distance course of parenthood. I leave Chris Jackson in bed, usually with one of the girls, and sneak into the kitchen. Even though I complete my Bible study first, it’s still dark when I walk out the door. I send up a quick prayer before I hit the play button on my ipod. 1) Please allow the girls to sleep peacefully until I return home. 2) Please protect me while I’m out in the dark of morning. 3) Please keep all my post-triplet organs, specifically my bladder and intestines, from falling out of my privates while I run.

The first song on my play list? “Beautiful Day,” of course. Bono says, “It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away,” and I begin my slow drag (picture an injured dog) of a jog.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the verse:

What you don't have you don't need it now

I have a tendency to manipulate lyrics to fit my own personal wants and needs rather than listening to the artists intention. In this case, I think Bono is telling me to be thankful for what I have. Because I think Bono is a guy with deep thoughts.

Sometimes I grumble; I don't run as fast or as far as I used to, I don't get a solid 8 hours of sleep each night, loading triplets into the Jeep makes me sweat, I got a bad hair cut last week.

But I think I should listen to Bono about this when he sings to me. Everything in my life is a gift and a blessing. During my Bible study last week I came across the following quote. I wrote it in my study guide without crediting the source, “With thankfulness comes contentment, a satisfaction with what God has given us and where He has placed us.”

I want to think about where God has placed me in this crazy, glorious, sometimes confusing world. And I want to feel thankful.

I'm No Cream Puff

2012-09-25T19:18:00.000-07:00

Call me emotional, but I’m no sissy. I’ve described my fertility struggle. Let me provide a brief recap: Shots in the buttocks, hell like hot flashes, tubes and other uncomfortable devices in my privates. I’ve described the physical journey of carrying triplets. Let me provide a brief recap: Internal organs pushed into my ribs, flattened digestive system, insane bladder pressure, bed rest for three months, hip and back pain that would bring Earl Campbell to his knees, and the agony of my insides when The Trifecta decided to fruit basket turnover…in my uterus. Did I mention I breastfed triplets for a year? Have you seen a breast pump? Do you know how they work?

If you’re not yet convinced, I will message you photos of my C-section scar.

I’ve been writing this post for several weeks now on the pain of parenthood…because it’s not for cream puffs. I’m not talking about the physical stuff I described above. I’m talking about the stuff that goes on in my heart.

I felt it the first time I got to “see” my girls. Dr. Brody made an incision through my abdomen and uterus and then carefully removed three babies from my insides. Immediately, The Trifecta was whisked away from me and taken to the NICU. I had to wait 6 hours to see them. Chris wheeled me to the hand washing station and then into Pod 3. They were doing “great” according to the neonatologist. I had MUCH to be thankful for. But they were hooked up to breathing machines. And they had IV’s in their petite heads. Their minuscule hands were taped up with different tubes and devices. And they were SO small. It took my breath away. “Please God,” I pleaded, “If they are feeling any pain, take it from them and give it to me.”

Hendley

Elizabeth

Mary Ellis

How many times, as a parent, have we said that prayer?

I learned recently that one of my favorite students of all time (a spunky, brilliant, darling, little girl) was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. After reading the details of her diagnosis from one of her older sisters, (equally as precious) the world stood still for a moment. My first thoughts went to this insanely wonderful little girl; I will pray for her with all my heart. And then my thoughts went to her parents. Two of the most outstanding parents in the world. Because I knew they hurt.

Last week I learned one of my oldest and dearest friends is sending her two year old into surgery next week to remove tumors from her head. I pray each day for this little girl, but I find myself thinking about the heart of her mother, who I love so much. Because I know she hurts.

One of my little ones is struggling too. Nothing like what I have described above, please don’t think I’m even comparing. She may be on the autism spectrum. It may be Asperger’s. It may be “sensory defensiveness.” I truly don’t mind a label, but it’s the behaviors and the inner strife I see her demonstrate that I want to remedy. Transitions throw her. She won’t release her favorite lovie from her death grip. Sometimes she runs away from her teachers. She doesn’t want to join the group. She plays alone a lot. Her distress is bringing me to my knees. I’m no wimp, I’ll get through this. I’m researching every possible accommodation, modification, and behavior plan available to man. I’ve talked with the therapist who diagnosed her. But right now, it’s hard. Really hard. It hurts my heart. I can’t stop thinking, take it from her, and give it to me.

I was running last week. While I was running I was pleading with God, asking Him to show me how to help my daughter, questioning why one little girl has to have surgery and the other has to have chemo and lose her hair. All of a sudden, I pulled a muscle in my right leg and I was forced to walk. This irritated me because I don’t like to walk. It’s slow. It takes me longer to get from my starting point to my destination. But when my body slowed down, so did my mind. Then God slapped me with Psalm 139:14, “I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Marvelous are Your works, and that my soul knows very well.” It is the verse on The Trifectas’ birth announcement. They were engraved, Crane announcements. The same verse hangs in the room of their preschool.

When I first read the word, “fearfully” in this scripture, I wanted to change it. Yes, I wanted to change the Bible. Because I didn’t like the idea of the word “fearful” associated with The Trifecta. So, I looked it up. The third definition in Webster’s dictionary for the word “fearful” is “full of awe or reverence.” Reverence: A feeling or attitude of deep respect.

And then I thought and prayed and thought and prayed. I’m still thinking and I’m still praying and I don’t quite have a logical conclusion to this blog post. But this is what I’m working on today. It’s not easy for me. The pain I feel when one of my girls is hurting is so insanely awful that a tough gal like me can’t even find the words to explain how it makes me feel. (Did I mention I nursed triplets for a year?) But then God reminds me that He made these little girls. AND THEY ARE WONDERFUL. And there is a reason He formed them the way that He did. He didn’t just slap some cells together and call it a day. And, when He was finished forming my little girls, He loved the results. And so do I.

He loves all His children. He will give each of us, as parents, what we need to get through the tough stuff.