Today started at 4:45 am. Jack was UP. “Mommmmma. MaaaaaaMaaaaaaa. Mommmm.” He lays on the ground behind his and Carter’s door (which has one of those child-proofers on the inside doorknob to prevent 2-year old escapees) and calls me until I come get him. Carter sleeps through all of this from the top bunk. It’s a Monday — and the first day of school — but my 6am alarm setting was clearly unnecessary.

Jack eats two of Saturday’s leftover pancakes from a Ziplock in the fridge as I put the coffee on, toss in a load of laundry and unload the dishwasher. I rub my eyes and my right contact RIPS IN HALF. I spend a considerable amount of time manually peeling back my eyelids and rolling my eyeball around until the missing half plops out. Gross.

Elizabeth gets up at 6:06, eats, and goes back to bed. Jack and I watch Frozen on the couch. Well, Jack crawls on me while Frozen plays in the background. I brush my teeth and apply concealer on, uh, everything. At 6:30, we wake up Carter. More pancakes, on with the new school clothes, lunchbox packed. I take pictures. So many pictures. Wake up Charlotte and feed her. Wrangle Jack into his special “muscle” shirt. Load him and Carter into their carseats. Then load up baby carseats. Carry one into the car, click it in, return for the next. Drive to school. Navigate crazy first-day crowds. Drop off.

It’s 8am.

I spend the next hour and a half feeding one twin and then the next with my phone squashed between my ear and my shoulder, trying to get in touch with doctors and developmental specialists for Jack. So many waitlists.

We do Play Doh for a while. “Sensory work”. Squish, roll, stamp. We mold pancakes and tacos, pretend to eat birthday cakes and pizzas. We make blankets and helmets for Iron Man. “Imaginative play.”

I set Jack up with a snack and make another phone call while changing round three of  diapers. Meanwhile, he ditches the spoon, opting to eat his blueberry yogurt with his fist. Elizabeth poops on me. The receptionist puts me on another waitlist.

I load them up again (four trips from house to garage, not bad) and drop the girls off at my mom’s before we drive to toddler tumbling. “Heavy work”. When we get there, it’s cancelled.

Annnnd it’s 11am.


I’m writing this down because this is what the days are right now. Because it’s 9pm now and I’m laying awake after trying to go to sleep when the kids went down (except I can still here Jack laying behind his door). Because when tomorrow starts, today will be a blur.  Because even though “they” never told me that momming is this hard, they did tell me that I should write things down. Also because someone on the radio this morning said that marriages that survive having young children are more likely to last and all I could think was WHAT ABOUT MOMS? DO I LAST?

I am trying so hard to drive this truck, but gravel keeps flying up and getting all in my grill.

Actually, it’s a mini van. There’s a lady in my neighborhood that drives a truck with a “Silly boys, trucks are for girls” sticker, and I just — ugh. All I ever think when I see it is WHO HAS TIME TO LIVE LIKE THAT?!

Which is probably not a normal reaction to a bumper sticker.

I have lots of questions, and I am so tired, and I beat myself up inside my head and then Jack steps on my toes and someone calls or emails with bad news and the floor is a mess and I honestly think I’m going to explode or cry but instead I make dinner.

Every day.


(This whiny rant should be paired with these pictures. Because life is good, and because I’m doing it right, I think, and because if you had to read that, you deserve to see these.)



Here's Why, Uncategorized

TNT and 3 days short.

Tomorrow, Elizabeth and Charlotte will be 3 days shy of 6-months old.

They will be the same age Miles was when Megan died.

Tonight, I am thinking all of those thoughts that you think I’m thinking.

(I am always aware; my wheels are always making these connections.)

(It always hurts.)

My heart is built with a fuse that will surely one day burn out. Some days I know this truth so clearly that it scares me, makes me claw and cling to life in all its self-constructed value. Other days, I cheer that fuse on — beg it to burn as bright as can be.

(You do this, too. We all do.)twins

Letters to My Kids, Uncategorized

Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle — STOP.




Dear Jack,

You really, really loved the cauliflower at dinner tonight. You gave it a “Iz good” and a thumbs up — this is your official stamp of approval.

You wear a Paw Patrol hat every (EVERY) day, usually backwards.

You are two and two months.

This week, you decided to be terrified of the vacuum. You scream and cry unless I will hold you while  I vacuum. So I do. You are heavy; this is difficult.

You have lots of new words, every day.

You run into things all day, every day.

We keep working hard on changing that.

You say “OH YEAH” and clap when we go through Dutch Bros, because you know you’re in for chocolate milk with whip cream on the straw.

You just started giving me free kisses. I waited a real long time for this, kid. Also, when you see Dad give me a smooch, you tell us, “I love you” in order to join in.

You are anything but the easy way. You are loud. You are fall-asleep-behind-your-bedroom-door.

You’re as tall as a four-year old.

You love the small shovel you stole from Dad. You drag it behind you from one end of the yard to the other. And you tell it “nigh-nigh” before bed — every day.

Your favorite color is red. (Of course it is.) You will start fights over wearing a red shirt, drinking out of a red cup. You get mean over red.

You love holding hands across the table when we say dinner prayers and saying Ay-men afterwards. But sometimes, you bend down to lick the food on your plate while we’re praying.

You love Miles and JoJo and Sean and all of your cousins. You can do a somersault on your own. You are enthusiastic over everything, whether it’s EW BOOGERS or MMM DEE-LISHUSH or STEEEENKY POOP GROSH DEES-‘GUSTING. You are big round eyes and crinkled nose and crookedy grin.

We have watched way too many YouTube videos of garbage trucks.

You are the keeper of the yard; no birds will land in the grass on your watch from behind the screen door.

You are belly laughs and ugly whines, crocodile tears and backseat dance parties. Wiggle-wiggle-wiggle-wiggle-STOP.

You make my heart beat faster, and not always because I’m chasing you.

I love you, Jack Michael.