Transitions. Again.

I think it's time to enter the acceptance stage.

Acceptance of summer coming to an end. Acceptance that my 9-month stint at home has come to an end. Acceptance that these babies are like their own people. Like seriously their own people. With opinions and wishes and talents and attitudes. Oh, the attitudes.

I suck at transitions. I loathe them. Some people transition like ballerinas. So graceful, so seamless. I'm like a bull. In a china shop. It's not pretty. Ask my husband.

 I'm like Stella, people. I like my groove. I just do. And I was grooving being home.

But mama and papa have bills to pay, so transition it is.

The thing is, our summer was good. So, so good. And I didn't want it to end.

There was our annual "Family Smise" trip to the beach. 

And someone turned 4. A whole, whopping 4. How did that happen? He is a riot. A serious riot. And he thinks he is Russell Wilson. And he tells really long fabricated stories to his Melly about squirrels and stuff. We're rolling with it. Because he is perfection. It is what it is.

There was a birthday party to prepare for. A Captain America piñata was deemed a necessity.

There were outings to parks. Outings that sometimes seemed like so much work. Loading up three children is a lot of freaking work. But then Thing 1 and Thing 2 started to take over and we never looked back.

Feet were found. They were found and grabbed and chewed on. All. Summer. Long.

Parties were thrown. Enormous parties with friends and family and bouncy houses and lots of food. And Captain America piñatas and super hero cake, of course.

The World Cup was enjoyed. Perhaps even obsessed about. So. Much. Soccer. Trevor was in heaven. And Gabby was his good luck charm.

And selfies were had. Lots and lots and lots of selfies. It was the summer of selfies. I hate selfies. Seriously loathe them. But I did it. Anything for the children, people.

Oh, and there was sleeping in a crib. You have no idea how hard we worked to get here. Crib-sleeping is hard stuff when you've rarely been put down since the day you were brought home, but it's good stuff. We've come a long way, little one. A super long way.

There were hours and hours spent at the pool. Swim lessons and afternoons with grandma were quite possibly the highlight of their entire summer. Grandma was incredible. Incredible. They have her wrapped around their little fingers. And they know it.

Some of us, however, just hung out poolside. With our shades on. You've gotta do what you've gotta do to look good and stay cool.

The one in the middle turned 3. Three going on 30. I wish I was exaggerating. I'm not. The words that come out of his mouth never cease to amaze me. Sometimes they are of the potty variety. Like poop. And pee. And all sorts of really pretty words like that. I have no idea where he gets it from. I speak soooooo nicely all of the time. God I love him. Desperately.

Sometimes this happened. Maybe more than once. But whatever.

Cousins came.

Dairy Queens were visited.

Brawls were had.

Soccer was played.

And soccer was watched.

Babies slept.

And babies played.

Sometimes we even played dress-up.

And sometimes we brought mom flowers. To butter her up. And it works. Every time. 

While the boys camped for the first time ever...

...the girls played.

Oh, the girl. My sweet, crazy, feisty girl. She eats now. She eats and she sits and she swings. She has me mesmerized. She has all of us mesmerized. I am pretty sure she is the boss now. We'll have to hash that out a little later. In the meantime, she's in charge. And we all know it.

And just this week, preschool started. The second year for Nico and the first for Noah. It's all happening a bit too fast for this mama's heart. And yet, I wouldn't want it any other way.

These babies. These babies who are so their own people. They are my world. And damn, I suck at transitions. At leaving them every morning, even though they love to be left. They love to go to school. They love to see their friends and their Sandy and to have their own time to become their own people. Because they can. Because unlike their mama, they are little ballerinas.

And singers too.

Oh, how I love them.

Let's just hope Stella gets her groove back.

Mother's Day

 

Today was a day. A day redeemed by a pair of Sycamore balls handed to me by my 2-year-old son.

 

"I got these for you, mama," he said. I am not sure he will ever really know how much I needed to hear that. And so now they sit on my fireplace mantle. I am pretty sure they will stay there forever. The Sycamore balls that saved the day.

 

 

The thing is, by 11 a.m., I had been hurled on three different times by my precious 3-year-old. He woke up in a funk, that one. Now I know why. His tummy hurt, he said, so I cuddled him in the chair - me in the middle, and Nico and Gabby on either side. And he hurled for the first time. All over all three of us. My poor sweet boy just stared into my eyes, terrified. Terrified and hurling.

 

It happened two more times. There were baths and showers and too many loads of laundry to count.  And I was fine. Truly, I was fine. Because I am his mama, and being his mama and their mama is my greatest, greatest joy. Hurling and all.

 

But somehow, the husband's decision to go play soccer in the midst of all the hurling and the bathing and the laundry pushed me a little over the edge. Just a little.

 

Okay, maybe a lot. Maybe I had fantasized about a little break.

 

And so I sat back down in that puke covered chair with my son and thought to myself, "Mother's Day blows chunks." Literally.

 

Until my Noah brought me my balls (Oh, how I love that sentence.)

 

My sweet Noah went on a walk with his Oma and his Opa this morning in the hopes of deterring the stomach bug from taking root in him. And on this walk, he picked up the Sycamore balls and asked his Oma to hold on to them for me.

 

"I got these for you, mama," he said.

 

I almost allowed myself to forget that Mother's Day doesn't have to be wrapped in a shiny bow. Nothing about my journey to motherhood has, really.

 

And if it had, then I would have never had any of this -

 

Laying in bed in my Las Vegas hotel room with the baby boy I had wanted so desperately, convincing myself it was okay to put him down so I could go pee.

 

Welcoming this baby boy exactly one year and 13 days later the good old-fashioned way, staring at him for hours in wonder that he had actually been inside of me.

 

 

Reaching through the holes of that incubator to touch that little girl who fought so hard to be here, terrified out of my living mind that I may never be able to take her home.

 

They are my heart, these three. And nothing about three babies in three and a half years is ever all that shiny. Three babies who came in such different ways.

 

Shiny is overrated, though.

 

'Cause look at them. They're mine. My dreams come true.

 

 

"I got these for you, mama."

 

For them, a thousand times over. A thousand times.