The husband has been away for a few days and the solo parenting gig has not been kind. Not one itsy iota. I’d love to blame the general funk from the girls on the rampant allergies plaguing all of us, but that might be a bit too lenient. And Tatey? I will give someone a million dollars if they can figure out exactly what is causing him to scream for 9 out of the 10 hours in his day. Just, speak up when you figure it out, because I’m pretty sure I’ve gone at least partially deaf.

Anyways . . .

As I often do during these stints on my own, I made an overly ambitious list of projects to complete during all my “free time.” Yes, now is when you’re all welcome to laugh at me. I fully recognize the crazy. But, instead of slowing down that roll, I busied myself with making a complete mess out of the house, with tools and half completed parts everywhere. Today I spent part of naptime and an hour before dinner trying to scrape off all of the clear caulk on my new shower and tub, which was only installed three months ago. It sounds entirely crazy, but I swear I had a good reason. Apparently, the tile install guy decided to use a clear silicon caulk to seal everything which, in addition to turning yellow over the past few months, was not something we could paint over. This left a weird line around the top of the tile where the paint was uneven and didn’t meet up right. Soooooo, it needed to come out.

Long story turned extremely short, it was a nightmare. Absolute nightmare. If silicon could turn to cement, this did. My hands are ripped to shreds from digging and bashing them against the tiles and 8pm found me in tears on the bathroom floor as I struggled to curse quietly enough to let the kids keep sleeping. An hour later and I had it all finished, looking amateurish but completely functional. I, of course, started the project fully expecting to be completely dazzled with the professional results I’d see at the end of the night.

Sweaty, exhausted, covered in caulk, I went downstairs. The garbage had to go out to the curb, along with 7 bags of grass clippings that weighed nearly as much as I do, thanks to the rain today. Then there were dinner dishes to do and laundry to switch and lunches to make and, oh yeah, heading back upstairs to clean up the giant mess I’d left in the bathroom when I originally came down meaning only to get a drink of water. Somewhere along the way, the phone rang.

We’ll start with the moral of the story. Men, when your wife is complaining of some great accomplishment being incredibly difficult, a giant pain in the ass, and it not turning out absolutely perfect? Do not, ever ever ever ever, proceed to suggest that she just call and hire someone to come out and do it better.

Don’t do it.

I normally have so little to complain about with this guy. Piddly stuff, here and there. But oh, oh boy, did he ever walk right into this one. I talked to him twice during the day while Tater was screeching and screaming bloody murder in the background. He had fair warning when I answered that that had been the soundtrack of the day. I even prepped him at the beginning of the last conversation, letting him know that the only thing I wanted to hear as he returned home and saw the finished bathroom was “That looks wonderful, dear!” I even said I would settle for, “My, that looks better than it did before!”

Instead his alleged attempt to console me over the terrible time I’d had while accomplishing something we’d put off for three months, was . . .  to advise me to simply hire someone to do it over. To take down my blood, sweat and tears and do it better.

Oh, husband.

I’m going to just chalk this one up to you being a completely clueless man and not picking up on all those hints smacking you upside the head about me wanting someone to listen to my woes, and not fix my problems. Thirteen years in and we still haven’t bridged that occasional speed bump in the communications department. I completely forgive you for this terrible oversight in judgement and promise to move on from this little incident. But . . . I still fully expect to hear that it looks lovely and how you can hardly see the imperfections and it would have been a complete waste of money to hire a handyman for something like this and oh my goodness it’s so awesome to have a wife that can do these sort of projects in the first place whatever would you do without me.

Or something like that.

I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot of this in the next couple months.

Just, without the lush green grass and blooming peonies.

Enjoy it now, baby!

Last night was another ping pong night. One by one and then two by two, they came up with every possible middle of the night thing they could. We even had someone wet the bed for the first time in months.

That someone had three servings of asparagus at dinner.

Mmm-hmm.

It was as awesome as you’d think.

Around 4am, the sound-asleep-through-it-all husband whined that all the ruckus was keeping him awake and he neeeeeeeded to get some sleep.

I didn’t tell him until tonight how much I wanted to punch him in his junk right then and there.

He laughed. Even though he knew I meant it.

Honesty.

I’d say that’s the sign of a good relationship. Especially when one of you can sleep through nearly anything.

I thought about switching sides of the bed with him. That way, it would be like a bit of a speed bump when they come in the room and dive into bed.

But then I realized that only one of them really makes it in there on her own, and that’s powered by a sleep walking radar that could probably find me five miles up the road at 2am. The others prefer to yell until I bend to their will.

Instead, I’d be the one tripping out of bed every half hour and having to navigate the extra trek around the foot of the bed.

Yep.

I’d probably miss getting kneed in the bladder as they all climb in with the sunrise.

Tonight we made a bet, the husband and I.

Only, I don’t suppose it counts for much considering we never finished the conversation on exactly what the winner ended up with.

After being nagged dangerously near to death over an earlier bedtime, I dramatically claimed that it didn’t matter a damn what time I went to sleep, because someone would be up within a half hour. The whole cycle would just start earlier in the night. There was possibly a bit of arm flailing and bravado with this statement.

So, we bet.

I climbed in bed at 9:38. First siren song from the kids’ bedroom at 10:01.

I win. And lose.

They’re so tired. I’m so tired. Why the fuck won’t they just sleep?

I know it’s allergies and teeth and plain, old, stupid sick and wet diapers and that pesky bit of lifelong midnight wandering. I do. But that changes little when they bound into my room with the sun, an hour before the alarm clock. I grumble so much as we struggle to get out the door, despite that extra hour. I snap and complain and loose my precious last bits of patience as we all come together to jab tired whines at each other in the afternoon. I want nothing to do with anything and feel so guilty when I count the minutes until we start the whole night routine over again.

But then the sun shines just right on the lawn after dinner. And they run and yell and shriek and fall over in giant heaps of giggles.

All that joy in them that I fear I’ve lost under the sleepy haze, it’s there.

Sometimes all it takes is grass-stained knees and shouts of laughter as we run, fall and get up once more to just keep moving on.

Just one year ago, I worried that we were about to enter the Terrifying Threes with you, the most adorable, firecracker-worthy, freckle-faced redhead I know. Somehow, that stage never seemed to come through. We skipped right past it and things went on as status quo for the last year. We still see you nightly, awake or not, and your green-now-sort-of-brown-too eyes still flash indignantly far too often, but the Terrifying never showed up. For the last few weeks or so, I’ve been convinced we were about to see a bit of the Fearsome Fours start up, but instead, we’ve had our easy-going Mare-bear nearly all of the time.

Three was an amazing year for you, sweet MJ. So many firsts, so many ways to watch you grow and shed every last bit of being a toddler. Three brought pierced ears and a new love of gymnastics, flying in airplanes and meeting a bunch of princesses. You conquered mountains and grew into an even more wonderful big sister. You enter four as someone that thrives on preschool, both a social butterfly and a complete angel for your teachers. Still as impatient as ever (I have to mention it again, I don’t think there will be a birthday that goes by when I don’t tell the story, at least once, of that incredible day), still as sleepless as ever, still as wonderful as ever, you’re going to rock this year, my dear.

Four. Let’s do this.

“Hey, MJ, what do you want for your birthday?”

“A . . . sparkle noonacorn!”

“MJ, sweetie, you just got a rainbow unicorn for Christmas. Isn’t there anything else you’d like?”

“A . . . rainbow hamster! To play with Ellie!”

“Mm-hm, I’m thinking that one isn’t going to happen. Anything else you want for your birthday?”

“A . . . building! A really tall building with lots of rooms and a big pool to swim in!”

“Okay, MJ. Keep aiming high, darling.”

**************************

As she gets older, the words all start to come out clearer. There are a few phrases that we’ll all be sad to see go.

Bathing suits are “bay-bing soups”

A drink of water is a “wink a watta”

Granola bars are often “gorilla bars”

**************************

We recently read Guess How Much I Love You a couple of times and she started repeating parts of it. So, we went a little above and beyond.

“Mommy, I love you way up to the sky!”

“Well, MJ, I love you past the sky and up to the moon!”

“But I love you aaaaallllll the waaaaaay to the next ga-wackseeee!”

“Aww, I love you all the way to the next galaxy too, MJ!”

**************************

Tonight, as I leaned down for one last goodnight kiss, I whispered in her ear that she was going to wake up four years old in the morning.

She turned from where she was cocooned under the covers and gave me a huge smile.

“I know, mommy! I’m excited like AAAHHHH! I just love birthdays!”

Not only did I come in under my “cheaper than the Bouncy Place” budget, I scaled back on my usual over-achieving, made it through the day with little more than a five second disagreement with the husband, stuck to my schedule to be ready ahead of time and . . . oh yeah . . . I even had fun.

Woot woot!

When Miss E and I were deciding what sort of a party she wanted, we went through the whole list of possibilities. Make-up and nails (nope!), swimming (brrr!), Bouncey Place (hell no), princess dress-up (ugh), Bouncey Place (hell no), hiking (hahahaha!), Bouncey Place (are you still serious, kid?), Bouncey Place, Bouncey Place, Bouncey Place . . .

Looking back, I’m pretty sure she was dead set on that Bouncey Place.

Eventually I suggested a Hawaiian themed party and she ran with it. The grass skirts and hula hoops were the biggest selling points though.

I designed the invitations and we went through the arduous task of handing them out to each girl in her class. Not a small feat, since not everyone was listed in the student address directory and she wasn’t allowed to bring any invites to class since everyone wasn’t invited. But, they went out and the replies came in. Before long, I was dashing around on Saturday morning to get everything done in time to take pictures before the girls came along and enjoyed it all to pieces.

So! Hula on over to Miss E’s party with me!

We turned the play house into a tiki hut where E greeted all her friends as they came up the front lawn. Everyone got their very own hula skirt and they ran off to play, shrieking as only 6 year old girls can do.

After running loose for a while, I had E help me bring her friends over one by one to our “Catch a Wave” photo station. The week before, I had grabbed an extra canvas drop cloth we had in the closet and raided our leftover paint stacks. Lucky for me, we had plenty in there to paint up some waves. The worst part of the project was handed over to the husband, and he rigged up a temporary frame out of scrap wood. A big voila! and we now had a unique bit of decoration and, as an added bonus, we managed to cover up two dead evergreens that didn’t get pulled out in time.

Once I get them printed, we’ll tuck each of the pictures E took with her friends into the thank you notes that E writes.

Before long, the level of controlled chaos was getting a bit dangerous, so it was time for a few organized games. Our favorites were . . .

Hula hoop pass – The girls stood in a circle and held hands. One hula hoop was placed around the first girl’s neck and they then had to pass the hoop all the way around the circle without letting go of the other girls’ hands.

Musical hula hoops – Same thing as musical chairs, lots more running if you spread the hoops out in a wide circle.

Digging for treasure – We buried enough flowered leis for all of the girls in the sandbox (in ziploc bags) and turned them loose. It’s a fun study on how girls will behave when they don’t pull up the color they want. I’d say to make them all the same to avoid this if some of the girls are sensitive.

Once everyone was properly tired out and getting thirsty, we herded them over to the table. Cold lemonade was waiting in the pink coconut cups and every girl found a flowered hair band at her place. One thing I didn’t plan for was being immediately needed to put those flowered hair bands onto 8 different heads of hair as they sucked those drinks dry.

Something I did differently this year (which turned out to be my favorite decision of all time and saved me so much stressing over where they’d all sit), was to rent a table and a few chairs. The table fit 10 and was only $7 for the entire weekend. So easy. Aside, of course, from hauling it to and from the rental place.

Sensing a bit of a mutiny on our hands, we quickly declared it time to sing and EAT CAKE!!!

The top part of the cake was an 8″ round, covered in crushed vanilla wafers. I was a little wary of that part, but they stuck beautifully to the room temperature icing. The hula girls on top are from solar powered bases that made them dance, which we just popped off before sticking them on the cake. E was a little concerned that they all looked alike, so there was a late night trip to the beauty shop, which resulted in three different hair colors. The green iced cupcakes are topped with plastic hibiscus rings and the blue iced ones are topped with assorted colors of Swedish Fish. A few palm trees, surfboards and an umbrella complete the beachy look.

At the end of the day, after everyone was gone, the husband and I sat down for the first time. We looked at our three children, still running around like complete lunatics and smiled. Everyone survived, no one cried and we worked together to put on an awesome party.

I’d say you can measure the awesome by how many minutes the husband spent in a hula skirt, but he saved that for just us.

Still. Plenty awesome.

They won’t care a bit about the way the color of icing on the cupcakes matches the paper hanging lanterns just right, nor will they be impressed by the perfectly themed decor. Sugar and games, games and sugar. Six year old priorities. Yet, there are all those things on my lists. Things like “finish tiki hut roof” and “fill coconut drinks” and, my personal favorite, “paint hula girls’ hair.”

I’m not entirely sure who I am out to impress. The kids don’t care and the mothers will probably never come over here again once school is out and these girls all become first graders in different classes. Even Miss E herself could care less about the whole thing, as she demonstrates on a regular basis by bitching that I won’t let her have a Bouncy Play party at the ridiculously overpriced indoor jump house. She’s even been kind enough to take things a step further and tell polite strangers that she’s terribly sad she can’t have a Bouncy Play party because we don’t have enough money for it. Cue well timed trembling lower lip on her end and utter mortification on mine.

We’ve had a couple of *conversations* about that whole grateful for what you’ve got thing.

Six year olds are awesome at that concept.

Ha!

Perhaps I throw myself overboard into these birthday extravaganza deals out of a deep need to create something, anything. Or maybe it’s a hope of showering them with even more attention than what they get everyday through brightly colored graphics and perfectly shaped pieces of fruit. It could even be some repressed lack of girlish fluff from when I was growing up. I have no idea. All I know is that I thrive on this stuff. This afternoon, as we were about thirty seconds from having to follow through on a threat to actually cancel the party, I was scheming on how to bundle all my hard work and sell off this little party package to recoup a bit of the cost. This thought led me right down the daydream path to having an awesome party planning job, being given a theme and a budget and just running with it. I could totally do that. Every day.

But, as for right now, we’re still on for tomorrow thanks to an early bedtime with a side of repentance. I have a cake to “sand” and “aloha”s to print and pineapples to core. One by one, off the list they’ll go. Party on, into the late night, with my bad color-coordinating, floral-arranging, photo-backdrop-staging self.

Party on.