Of a Boy with a Birthday

Tomorrow my older son turns three.
I remember how I spent five days in painful contractions and took three failed trips to Labor and Delivery just to be told that there was nothing they could do to stop the wildly painful and almost-irregular contractions.
I remember how when I went in the last time they finally believed me that I was in labor because I had magically dilated to a five and then jumped to a seven a half hour later.
I remember how I was entering transition by the time they wheeled me into the OR.
I remember sitting hunched over the table and wishing I would just pass out while they prepped my spinal.
I remember them finally ushering my husband in - bleary eyed because he had managed a single hour of sleep after working a graveyard shift before they decided to move my c-section up by a whole week because "baby ain't waiting".
I remember when they pulled him out it sounded like a suction cup.
I remember his head was already starting to point because he was way ready to slip through the birth canal. I remember his scream - oh, he was so pissed off that they had pulled him out of his warm womb.
And his big feet, and his wrinkly old man forehead - the way he latched like a pro - how long and thin his legs were.
Now he's turning three. He's running, jumping, arguing, laughing, singing.
That boy is pure energy - energy that always seems to emit a high-pitched keening sound and that manages to leave hand prints and broken things everywhere he goes.
My sweet little Brett.
Happy early birthday, Buddy.

In case you didn't know...

I am so bad at blogs.
I'm not even going to lie, I usually just redesign the blog once a year and make a few posts and then completely forget about it.
I just like to make things pretty. Is that so wrong?

Slate-wipin' time.
See all that other stuff I have on here? Let's pretend is doesn't exist. Well, most of it. If it's irrelevant, pretend that it's invisible.

Here's what you need to know:
-I'm a stay-at-home-mom-full-time-student-lazy-ass-blogger
-Three kids, one girl, two boys. Ages: 4 years, almost 3 years and 6 months
-Three kids in four years
-In the 5.5 years that we've been married, we've had 9 addresses
-I probably whine too much about how much we've moved
-We were married at 18
-I attend a university online full-time trying to get my Bachelors of Science in Secondary Education with English Emphasis
-Yes, folks, I plan on teaching your high school aged children English
-I read Shakespeare for fun
-Yes, fun
-Husband (Mr. Bees) is law enforcement (and for our safety, I won't go into more detail than that)
-The kids are named after video games, football, comic books and rock songs.
-We're pretty much the coolest ever
-No, you can't party with us
-I sew but it's mostly to save money and because I feel smarter than people who try to sell overpriced curtains (because, seriously, I love Anthropologie and I want all the things but I'm not paying $150 for a single curtain panel)
-Fudge
-So much fudge
-My Pinterest is so much cooler than I am

The Mommy Rage

What is Mommy Rage?
Mommy Rage is when it's 9am, you have yet to consume any substantial amount of coffee and all three kids are following you around the house demanding different things.
The oldest wants banjo music so she can dance and while you're at it, could you please get down a dress from her closet? No, not that one. Not that one either. Not that. No, the other one. No, I don't know which one I want, just pick one for me, please. No, not that.
The middle child is spitting and won't leave his underwear on - he won't finish eating the bowl of cereal that he demanded you make him - he has to constantly provoke his sister. He pokes her, he sticks his tongue out at her, he looks at her wrong. She whines, he gets told to stop, he whines, she whines that he's whining when he started it, they're both whining because you told them both to stop...
There's still not enough coffee.
The littlest won't let you put him down without a fight. He squirms, he yells, the swing is unacceptable, the rock and play is unacceptable, the crib is unacceptable, the excersaucer is unacceptable. All he wants is boob and he absolutely will not take it if there is any noise in the room.
His older siblings fight over shoes and legos.
There is not enough coffee in the whole world.
The house is littered with yesterday's debris - discarded clothes, papers that someone tore out of a notebook and threw about the living room, the toys that haven't finished making their way to the playroom yet. Half of the Christmas decor has been packed away, the other half is still out in a sad sort of way.
You remember that you still have an enormous project to handle today - a huge bit of organization, a work thing, a school thing... something with a deadline.
And where is the other party responsible for this chaos?
He could be at work, he could be sleeping because he works graves, he could be golfing, he could be at karaoke - that doesn't matter. Point is, he's not there - regardless of reason - and you have no back-up right now.
And suddenly, you're done. Something is finally the last straw, it drains every last bit of patience and happiness and ruins every single last shred of sanity that you were holding onto - you could stub your toe, you could drop something, someone could call your name just one more damned time... and you yell. It doesn't matter what you yell - it could be "Enough!" it could be "Everyone is going to bed right now!" it could be someone's first name followed by someone's second name (not necessarily a matching set, either).
But once you're finally in your quiet place - once everyone has been separated and the noise has finally stopped, what then?
What does your cool-off period look like?
Does it involve chugging water and popping some acetaminophen to ward off the headache threatening to melt your brain?
Does it involve you locking yourself in the bathroom for a few minutes, forcing yourself to breath deeply while you look at your face in the mirror and wonder how you managed to get through all the other days up to this point?
Does it involve scrubbing something - the floor, a pan, the bathtub?
Do you climb back into bed and enjoy those few moments of silence while you just stare blankly at the wall?
I usually take my youngest to the couch with his favorite blanket and see if he's interested in a bonus nursing session - if he's not then he just hangs out in my lap and we make faces at each other.
I think this helps because it reminds me that he's just a baby and he can't help his quirks and demands and modify his needs to meet my hectic routine - reminding myself of this removes one thing from the "what's making me crazy right now" list.
My other mode is writing - just writing for me. Not writing my next essay or writing up the next grocery list. Just putting my fingers to the keyboard and letting everything spill out.
I suppose the others are the same way. They're still little, they're just doing their daily thing and trying to learn to live with each other. They are just children, after all.
What I'm getting down to is this - Mommy Rage is a thing everyone deals with. We all get to a point where out meter is too high - the plate too full. We need to recharge.
Everyone recharges differently. You do you.
So if you're dealing with Mommy Rage this morning, I'm sorry. But I get it - and so do a lot of others out there.
Just find a way to recharge, to wipe the slate clean.
If you can.
Good luck.