I received an interesting piece of advice from friends (who have four school-age kids). Right now, I am supposed to be in survival mode. SUPPOSED to be in survival mode? At first I was totally put off by this, sure some days are better than others, but it’s not like I’m doggy paddling to keep myself above the surface. Okay, sometimes I am but not all the time. We’re good. I’m good. We’re fine. It has been on my mind for the past several days. What did they mean by that? Am I supposed to hunker down and just accept my fate like a tribute in the Hunger Games? Should I hole up in my world of unwashed messy hair, milk stains and spit up on my clothes, and whiny toddlers who refuse to nap and eat and put on my fake smile for everyone when we venture out? I mean, what kind of advice is that for a mom who just had her third baby? I prefer to spend my days avoiding survival mode parenting. Because of Alex’s schedule, I’m often parenting solo and I’ve had to get good at dealing with change and and challenges on my own. (This isn’t something that I’m naturally good at, by the way.) I usually am able to bring my mom A-game and the transition from two to three kids has so far been a walk in the park, this advice was whack. But I couldn’t let the advice leave my mind. Why should I be in survival mode?
Let me explain how I came to understand their advice. In the last two months I’ve learned the following: Potty training and potty training regressions suck. Feet can substitute as hands when you need to pick things up and your arms are full. After a nine month hiatus, wine maintains its charm. Middle children will eventually let you know that they need extra loving. In letting you know this, said middle child may or may not incorporate ransacking everything they are not supposed to get into followed by the world’s most epic tantrums to get your attention that they need extra loving. No, not may or may not. They will.
However, in the last two months I’ve also been reminded that I love the newborn stage very very much. The froggy legs, curled toes, sleep squeaks, milk breath, flour sack cuddles and that wonderful newborn trait that can only be described as smooshy.
So now I have three little ones who all need my attention in different ways. It’s a juggling act to say the least. Someone is always waiting, I clean up poop constantly, it takes strategy to get everyone successfully buckled into the car, they never nap at the same time, I don’t trust anyone to babysit them and feel like nobody would want to anyway, Owen and Della aren’t quite old enough to help as much as I’d like them to, we’re a three ring circus everywhere we go.
Life does not lend itself to smooth transitions. You just dive in and start swimming. It works for the really hard challenges and the monumental celebrations life brings. So we brought Greta home, put the hospital bracelets in her new keepsake box and I tried to pick up where we left off.
But that’s not how it works. I blame the full moon because that’s when it all started – it felt like I was swimming down a dark hole. Owen and Della were waking up multiple times in the night and were pushing my buttons to the max, Greta might be just a little bit colicky, the laundry got away from me, the bathrooms got nasty, I couldn’t even remember to set out the frozen meals, we couldn’t play outside or go for walks because the desert wind was literally blowing all of New Mexico over to Arizona so they destroyed the inside of the house. I was overwhelmed, swallowed up and spit out. I just couldn’t be myself.
These days aren’t common but they do happen to me more than I’d like to admit. I just couldn’t be the mom I want to be and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pinpoint why. I started to unravel – supermom had left the building. I just wanted to shut down for a week to sleep and collect myself and then try again.
But I can’t do that because things have to get done whether I am mentally up to the job or not. The reality is that these adorable little people need me.
On days when I’m really out of control, cranky and feeling like the worst mom ever, I pray for God to help me find my focus. As long as the kids are fed, (mostly) clean, and feel loved, I’ve given them the things they need most. It occurred to me that it’s okay to parent in survival mode, and that’s what my friends meant. That it’s okay not doing all the things that I usually do with my children. They meant that you don’t have to go an extra mile to create memories for your kids – an inch is all it takes. So I’m going to love these kids fiercely without expectations and by golly, just have fun. Now we have bubble baths in the middle of the day so I can sit down for half an hour. Dance parties can also help rock/bounce the baby to sleep. I’m okay with asking my husband if he can leave a little early from work or take Owen to school because I’m about to climb the damn wall.
My chiropractor told me as she worked her way through my upper back realigning everything from my butt bone to my clavicle that the week prior another patient had witnessed me with the kids in the waiting room and commented to her how “good” and “patient” of a mother I was. She told the doctor this. I couldn’t help but smile while my face was smashed down into the adjustment table. All this while I thought I was falling apart but in that moment I was literally (and physically) put back together. Like the supermom my chiropractor and that other patient thought I was, I apparently am doing something right. In fact, probably more than I ever imagined and I have so much more ahead of me. Life with three kids is hard but survival mode is a normal part of parenting. I’m gonna carry on as a work in progress. In survival mode or not, I’ve got this.