Together, we have made it 12 weeks. Every day is a huge accomplishment, and I have made it 84 days. It’s slowly getting easier.

Pepper is starting to suck on her fists and drool a lot, which … dun dun dun … means she is maybe starting to teethe. I had this thought enter my head a few days ago after a rough night with Asher, who is cutting his 2-year molars slowly and painfully. When it occurred to me, I immediately dismissed it because I am in a fragile state and literally couldn’t cope with the thought. 

After a few nights of rest, I revisited the idea and decided that if I’m really lucky, maybe the two of them actually will teethe together and I will finally have an excuse to start drinking at breakfast.

Just kidding.

Next week, Maverick will turn 5. The very next day, Asher will turn 2. We’re having a party at our house. I have absolutely no business hosting any sort of event right now, just so we’re clear. But … that’s what is happening.

We made a guest list, I bought invitations, and I sat down to crank them out while the little kids were sleeping. I’m awesome, I thought to myself.

It wasn’t until after I put them all in the mail that I realized that absolutely nowhere on the invite does it say the word birthday. It does not say what kind of party we’re inviting them to. Not even an inkling. When I went to Walmart for diapers and grabbed the invitations, I wasn’t thinking. I pretty much haven’t been able to think clearly for a year now, which has been demonstrated over and over and OVER again in various ways … but the important thing is, there will be cake. And a water slide.

I think. 

What the hell is this!?

I’ll just use it as a coaster.

This letter is to my future self. The one who has forgotten what life was like when she was 33 years old and living in The Blur.

Dear Future Harmony,

By now I hope you’ve gotten your shit together and started doing things you’ve been meaning to do like making the family attend church every week, and getting regular pedicures and starting a weight training regimen to prevent bone loss.

When you were 33 years old and the boys were a week away from turning 5 and 2 and Pepper was going through a growth spurt and you felt yourself slipping away — you may have forgotten that you did this, because you were living in The Blur — you wrote an email to some friends about how children are supposed to add to your life, not suck it away from you, and enough was enough. You felt like you were at a turning point: either you were going to fight for your sanity and take steps toward making your life the way you wanted it, or you were going to give UP and let the chips fall where they may, elastic waistbands and all.

I hope that you didn’t give up.

This letter is to remind you of how far you have come since that time. When you were in The Blur, time stood still. But then you would snap out of a week-long fog and realize each child was bigger than they were the last time you really looked at them. You didn’t know which way was up. You didn’t think you could do it anymore. And then the next day came, and you did.

If you have reached this point and no one has thanked you … I am thanking you. You carried on when you weren’t sure if any of it was WORTH IT. You did good. 

Here is a refresher of what you did when it felt like you were getting absolutely nothing done:

1. You gave this girl a bath almost every day like her dermatologist asked you to. You didn’t do any of the other things she said to do, but that’s beside the point, because it is a bitch to bathe an infant every day when you have a kid like Asher in the house. I bet the dermatologist doesn’t have an Asher in the house. Otherwise she wouldn’t have asked you to keep charts.

2. You take care of Asher. He fights you when you change his bandage over his stitches. He throws a complete tantrum when you don’t let him play in the dishwasher. He digs his elbow into your throat when he’s trying to get away from you. By now, I hope he’s outgrown this foolishness and you have forgotten how hard it used to be. THIS KID WOULD BE A LOT ON HIS OWN. And you wrangle him, plus two others, so good job.

Here’s a picture of him tuning a toy guitar before he tried to bash a hole through the sliding glass doors with it.

3. When you didn’t know what else to do, you took pictures with your kids. Some of them were BAD. And some of them were good. Because that’s reality.

4. You tried to embrace each child’s individual qualities, and show them how to be their very best self. Mothers are not supposed to change their children. They are supposed to guide them. Here’s a picture Maverick drew during his first weeks of kindergarten. You cried when you saw it. You’re the one in orange.

Who knows what you’re facing now that the kids are older. I’m scared to even think about it, honestly. I like to believe that things have gotten easier for you, that you and Husband found time to do P90X and develop more of a social life … but even if you haven’t, I know that you’re happy.

I’m going to keep calm and carry on like all the signs tell me to. And I hope that when you talk about the early years with your children, you do it with pride, because this is no easy task.

Hugs and Tequila,
Present Harmony

Asher … oh Asher.

I took him to have his stitches removed today. Stitches should be easy to remove, right? Just a little snip-snip? He did great when they took staples out of his head, which literally just happened. Maybe I’m becoming desensitized due to the frequency of events and this is why I assumed today would be easy. 

I took the baby with us, thinking she would just sleep the whole time, and we would be home before lunch. I was ill-prepared for what awaited us. I had no snacks. I had no fun and interesting anything in my bag. I had nothing I needed, including my wits. 

Today I learned (because I asked) that it’s not legal for the pediatric office to sedate a child. That’s unfortunate. My child needed sedation. He struggled so hard while being held down for the stitch removal that he busted his wound wide open again, and had to be re-stitched. They had to call in their two biggest nurses to hold him down while I fanned him (they thought he was hyperventilating) and willed myself not to lose it.

When it was all over, Dr. Patterson declared “I think we all deserve a cocktail!” And we all — me, the two nurses, and Asher — heartily agreed.

Then he said he’s never had a kid re-open stitches like that, and boy, is my kid strong. I think it shook poor Dr. Patterson up a little. Welcome to my world, good doctor. Welcome to my world.

After many tears were shed by all.

Next I would like to discuss the fact that Maverick has spent the past two weeks of kindergarten breaking my heart with reports that no one will play with him at school. I told him to give it time, he will make friends. He’s such a gregarious little guy, I honestly think he scares some kids with his loud voice and … zest. But that’s who he is, and it’s just right, and we would never tell him to take it down a notch. Things just take time to settle.

So … I put on my confident mommy voice and said “IT WILL BE OKAY! DON’T WORRY!” and smiled. But seriously, I died a little inside every time he talked to me about it. His eyes would get wide and his voice would lower to a whisper: no one will play with me, Mommy.

So. Incredibly. Sad.

Then he came home with this,

Which I can’t say for sure I understand, but it appears to be a note with some numbers on it. From a girl. 

Goodbye, maternity wear. I will not miss you.

I’m always looking for new and easy ways to entertain my children. My friend Lila mentioned several months ago that her kids like to take the cushions off the couches and make forts with them. At the time, I remember thinking that there is no way in hell that would work in my house. I’d never tried it, but I just knew. Kind of like how I know that if I buy Asher his own little potty to pee and poop in, it would be a gigantic,  pee-filled, mistake. I don’t have concrete reasons to back this up. I just have a gut-wrenching reaction of “NO!!!!!!!” when I think about it. 

In a moment of weakness last week, I blurted out to the boys that no, they could not cover each other’s heads with blankets and put each other in sleeper holds … but they could remove the couch cushions and play on them.

This is what happened. And what continues to happen, every damn night.

Someone is going to get hurt. And it’s all Lila’s fault.

A little glass in the ass doesn’t slow this kid down. 

Here is a picture of what I pulled out of him on Friday. It was in the garbage can, but then my Aunt Nancy said I should save it for the baby book. I don’t have a baby book, because I am a subpar mother, but I did wrap it up and store it so I can show him one day.

To review: no baby books here … but we do have bloody pieces of glass in ziplock bags. And a whole lot of pictures that look like this:

Waiting on stitches.

Yes, life is hard right now. It may continue to be hard for awhile.

BUT … my magical baby slept for 12 hours last night, and I’m ready to do it all again. And here is an example of what keeps me going.

I hate dinner time. 

And now you’re probably thinking, “Wow — that’s kind of dramatic. She must be on some kind of hormonal rollercoaster, because who hates dinner?!” 

I DO. ME. I hate it. Away from my house, it’s fine. But here, where I have to cook and clean … no. And if you don’t believe me, then by all means, come over and see for yourself.

Maverick started kindergarten this week and I finally feel like I’m getting some control over my life. I decided that I am maybe at the point now where I can start planning meals again and kind of cooking, although every night at dinner time, I swear to myself that I will never cook another meal for these ungrateful, horrible children. Then I have to remind myself that the oldest one isn’t even 5 yet so maybe I just need to alter my expectations a bit. And I do try, to alter them I mean, as I crawl around on my hands and knees picking up tiny bits of pasta off the floor. Did you know that pasta, if left to its own devices, glues itself with a mighty force to surfaces? Quinoa or rice, on the other hand, can be left overnight and then swept up like sand.

At dinner, Asher never ever eats anything at all. It doesn’t matter what I made, he finds a way to throw it on the floor. I’ve tried different tactics and basically I’m out of ideas, but after tonight I’m not sure I can handle cleaning spaghetti off the kitchen floor again because MOMMY LOST HER SCHIZZ. That is also exactly what I said out loud when Asher threw his plate like a frisbee. So if you hear one of my kids saying “schizz” you now know where it came from, and I’m sorry, but I can only pick food up off the floor so many times before I. Lose. It.

Maverick ate all of his food and used his manners so I told him he could have a cookie after dinner. Asher did not get a cookie because he threw his food on the floor and did not eat his vegetables … and … cue tantrum. 

Apparently Maverick felt really bad for his little brother because the next thing I know, he says “I’m done! May I be excused?” I nodded yes, and he jumped up and yellispered “Asher! I have to show you something!” as they ran down the hall. And that, dear friends, is when I discovered that Maverick was digging chunks of chocolate chip cookie out of his underwear and dumping them on the floor for his brother to eat.

I guess the bright side is that my sons are looking out for each other, which has been my goal all along. So even though I fell short in a bunch of other areas today, I can go to bed knowing that my children love each other enough to smuggle baked goods in their underpants. 

Nothing says love like a homemade cookie … right?