My Weekend Without Kids

For my birthday, Jordan surprised me with a plane ticket to visit my friend Leslee in our hometown of Eugene.  A single plane ticket, meaning that he would stay home and take care of our three kids all by himself for an entire weekend.  I'm not talking about "by himself" with the help of grandpa and grandma.  No, our closest grandparent help is about eight hours away, so Jordan was truly doing this thing solo.  What dad agrees to do that?  Seriously, I can't think of another dad who would willingly send his wife away and watch three tiny kids by himself for a weekend.  What a hero.

Turns out, though, Jordan purchased my ticket for the one weekend that Eugene was hit by a freak snow storm.  The roads were crazy, and Leslee couldn't make the two hour drive to Portland to pick me up.  No problem, I'd take a shuttle down.  Then I discovered that the entire Eugene airport had been shut down, causing several flights headed to Eugene to emergency-land in Portland, causing the entire Portland airport (seemingly) to also need a shuttle down to Eugene.  People started to get tense, realizing that there might be limited seating on the few shuttles left.  Without saying as much, the waiting passengers began gathering in the loading zone, casually trying to get in front of everyone else, subtly fingering dollar bills, hoping a tip might ensure them a seat.  They shouldn't have worried.  Everyone made it onto the shuttle.  Yes, we all made it onto the shuttle, where we remained for six more hours.  See, the roads really were bad.  People from the Eugene/Salem/Portland area don't really know what to do when a snow storm hits.  Our cities are not prepared to plow the highways, our drivers are clueless as to how to drive safely, causing a lot of accidents, and when the Department of Transportation mandates chains, we look around at one another and mutter,  "What are chains?"

Our shuttle driver informed us that the shuttle had "automatic chains," meaning that when she got up to a certain speed, she could push a button and the chains would drop and wrap themselves around the tires by themselves.  What?!  Automatic chains?  Are we in the year 2050?  No, we were not.  The crazy, sci-fi automatic chains didn't work, which means that to ensure our safety, our driver did not go above 5 miles per hour for the next two hours (meaning that we made it from Salem to Albany in that time...normally a ten to fifteen minute drive).  I was tempted to lose heart at this point, until I began getting to know the passengers around me.  Every one of them had been traveling longer than I had, and yet most of them had great attitudes.  The cheerful couple behind me were from Texas, and had brought their little dog with them.  There were actually three pets on board - two dogs and one cat.  I (having never owned a pet growing up) learned so much about domestic animals in such a short amount of time.  I listened to a lively debate on collars vs. micro-chips, and I learned that the extremely large cat who was adorned with a hand-knitted sweater with a peace sign embroidered on it, actually had a rare type of bunny fur, according to her owner.  Well, the owners of the Pomeranian "Pom" Chihuahua one-upped the cat owner, informing all of us that the Pom actually had wool fur.  My mind was spinning, rapidly trying to take in cats with bunny fur and dogs with wool, and still trying to fathom the idea of automatic chains.  Meanwhile, the third pet owner had chimed in, letting us know that her dog had such soft fur that she could make a blanket out of it.  When an awkward silence followed her statement, she quickly added, "...but I would never do that!" 

Despite the competitive nature of the pet owners, everyone was friendly toward one another.  My seat partner, who ended up being a captain in the army, was quite welcoming: "Come on over and sit down!  I won't bite...unless you want me to." (we sat in relative silence for the remainder of the bus ride).  Despite the bus's thermostat being out of whack, causing the internal temperature to be at about 100 degrees, despite a two hour bus ride taking a total of six hours, despite the fact that everyone had missed lunch and dinner (we pooled resources, and I had an apple and chili-cheese fritos at 7pm, which was surprisingly satisfying), everyone remained in good spirits, honoring the bus drivers for their hard work and cheering when we finally reached our destination.  As the elderly owner of the Pom put it, "There isn't any use getting in a tiz over it.  We're safe, and God's good in all of it."

And He was good.  I arrived safely in Eugene, and the rest of my trip was just perfect.  I slept in, chatted over hot drinks, went shopping, and laughed until my stomach hurt with old friends who know me almost better than I know myself.  On the way back to the airport, I told Leslee that the most healing thing about the trip was realizing that I wasn't forgotten.  I still had friends (funny, clever, wonderful friends) who were excited to be with me, despite the fact that I'm a mom now, and we're all in different seasons of life, and I live far away, and most of us are terrible at keeping in touch.  My friends hadn't forgotten me, and neither, I realized, has God.

So many times, I have lived in fear that as I do this Mom thing, I'm going to miss out on other things.  I have been afraid that I will lose my closeness with God, because I'm unable to spend the same amount of time with with Him (or at least, the same depth of time with Him) as I used to.  I have been afraid that by the time I'm able to have a career in teaching, that I will have forgotten everything I learned in school, and no one will want me because I haven't been actively teaching in the school system.  And then, just before fear can take control, I'll get a wake-up call.  I'll find myself in a worship setting, and realize I'm closer to God than ever before, and He has been graciously instilling deep revelations about Himself in me without me even knowing it, much less striving for it.  Or, I'll be tutoring one of my students, and realize that I actually know what I'm doing.  I am actually a good teacher, not in spite of being a mom, but because I am a mom.

Leslee was reminding me about a mentor of ours, who always jokes that she missed out on the pop culture of the '80's because she was raising boys during that era.  But if you look at the incredible life of this woman, it's obvious she did not miss a thing that mattered (let's be honest - is it really a tragedy to miss out on '80's pop culture?).  I look at the life of my mother and see the same thing: a woman who seemingly "sacrificed" herself to raise children for twenty-plus years, yet today she is a country and world traveler, a person of deep prayer, an accomplished speaker and writer, a compassionate counselor, and still, my mom. 

Here is what I believe: if we, as mothers, give ourselves to this calling of raising our children, God will give us favor (spiritually, vocationally, relationally), and He will not allow us to miss out on anything.  He will catch us up in an instant.  Yet, if we're not careful, we will miss moments with our kids that are precious.  My hairdresser told me that many nights when she gets off work, she tucks her kids into bed and just lays there for awhile, sometimes so long that she falls asleep in their rooms. "I don't care, though," she said, "I don't want to miss a moment that I have with them." 

I don't want to miss a moment, either.  It was good for me to get away for a quick weekend and be reminded that I still matter to my friends.  But it was also good for me to remember that I matter at home, that I light up my kids' faces, and they light up mine.  It was good to remember that God has not forgotten me, and that He has exciting adventures in store for me when this season is done.  For any other moms out there who are worried or fearful that they are going to lose themselves or miss something while they raise their kids, I say to you what my friend on the shuttle bus said to me: "There's no use getting in a tiz about it...God's good in all of it."  He has not forgotten you. 

One Year Later

This time last year I was laying in a hospital bed, in labor with twins.  I knew I was about to give birth to double the babies I had previously given birth to.  I knew these babies would mean double the diapers, double the baby clothes, double the money, double the sleeplessness, etc.  I had no idea these babies would also usher in a season of double the joy, double the grace, double the favor, double the fruit. 

In the last year, we settled into a new city and state and Jordan settled into a new job, we got a new van, I got a job, we bought our first house, and I ran my first 5K (small potatoes to my many runner friends out there, but an accomplishment to me, as I have NEVER been a runner!).  On the flip side, our computer broke, my phone broke, and we survived our first stomach flu epidemic as a family of five (these three happened within the same week).  Lots of victory, lots of challenges, lots of change.  In my 27 years of life, in my 7 years of marriage, in my 3 years of motherhood, I have never had a year like this one. But the over-arching change, the one that surpassed them all, the one that changed the dynamic of our life, was the addition of Nora and Abel into our family. 

If you've ever read a funny blog, quote, or post about twins, you'll have likely read sarcastic accounts of how fed up twin parents are with being pulled aside and regaled with other peoples' twin stories.  "I had a cousin who was a twin" or "my mom had two sets of twins" or "my neighbor's cat just had twins."  It's true - everyone has a twin story, and if they don't, they are still incredibly enamored by the fact that you have twins
.  And it's true, there are moments when I long to walk into a store and not feel like a circus clown, with my three-kid shopping cart.  There are moments when I long to be invisible again.  But this is also true - it is an enormous privilege to get to hear these stories, and to have a way to identify with people from every walk of life.  Twins have no respect for economic class, culture, ethnicity, or religion. They burst into the lives of all kinds of people all over the world, and when one family with twins encounters another family with twins, there is a bond that transcends all the other differences that may be present.  What a gift.

And sometimes I kind of like the attention.  I remember when I had Asher, and was no longer pregnant, I would walk into a public place and feel a little bit ignored.  There was no more of that "oohing" and "ahhing" and stomach-rubbing that we all love to hate.  "What, I'm not special anymore?  Now that this kid is in my arms instead of my stomach I'm just another lady with a baby?" With twins, the attention remains long after the pregnancy.  I will always be a special kind of spectacle when I enter a public place.  Sometimes this is exasperating, but when I'm able to just shrug my shoulders and accept the chaos, it can become fun.

With your first baby, everything they do is original and exciting, because it's the first time it's happened.  The first time they walk (or let's be honest, the first time they blow a spit-bubble), you fall over yourself running to the computer to post it on Facebook.  With the second baby, or in my case, the second and third baby, I've found that there isn't the same exhilaration with each new thing, because it has happened before.  Instead, there is a richness that's felt.  I feel rich that I have had three babies, and that I get to go through each precious stage three different times (although with Nora and Abel, their stages are simultaneous, which adds an originality and newness all its own). 

I could continue to reflect and perfect this blog, but the reality is I have a new house to unpack, and limited time before the birthday boy and girl wake up from their naps.  Nora and Abel, it is your birthday!  I wish your birthday didn't have to happen in the middle of this crazy move. I wish that you were in really cute birthday outfits instead of just your pajamas.  I wish I hadn't spilled coffee down my shirt as I was composing this blog.  But that's just our lives, right?  You've never known any different, God bless you.  I promise not to let your birthday get buried under all of these boxes.  Because you're both precious, and original, and worth celebrating.  Thanks for all the sweetness you've brought to our family.  Thanks for making your daddy and me stronger.  You are dearly loved. 

Wedding Season

Yesterday afternoon we attended the wedding of one of my husband's coworkers.  There was a sweetness about her wedding that felt safe and familiar, maybe because it reminded me a little of our wedding, and of our story.  This coworker and her husband met in high school at The Melting Pot, where they were both employed.  Jordan and I met in high school at TCBY, where we were both employed.  She and her husband spent hours during and after their shifts talking about everything, both important and unimportant; so did we.  She briefly broke her husband's heart when she went to prom with another guy, as did I.  She and her husband have a box of letters they wrote to one another throughout their relationship that they've pledged to open in five years; we had a similar box of letters. They set aside a time during the wedding ceremony for their parents to bless them as they began their marriage; we did the same in our ceremony.
Our stories weren't identical by any means.  They had more of a legitimate reason for their box of letters, as they lived in different states for the majority of their dating relationship.  Jordan and I not only lived in the same state, but also in the same city, eventually attending the same college, where we only had to walk a few paces to get from my dorm building to his (and yet, we could still fill a large box with all the letters we wrote to each other.  This either makes us hopelessly romantic or hopelessly pathetic.  You decide.)  At the start of their relationship, they texted.  Jordan and I instant messaged (IM'd) using America Online (AOL).  Does that even exist anymore?  Another difference: at my wedding, I was able to fairly easily choose five close friends and family members to be my wedding attendants.  Jordan's coworker (if I counted correctly) had eleven.  My son Asher could hardly contain himself as the line of beautiful bridesmaids seemingly never ended. "Mom," he whispered loudly, "I think there are more than ten!" (which, for Asher, is new numerical territory.  Ten is the highest number in his world.  Ten more minutes of playtime sounds like blissful eternity to him.  If he sees a food he really loves - pickles, for instance - he asks for ten.  I say one cookie, he counters ten.  We are still working on the concept of realistic bargaining.)  "Mom, I think there are more than ten!  I think there are eleven. Or twenty-six!"
As their beautiful ceremony was followed by an equally beautiful reception, I continued to sentimentally reflect on my own love story, and I was not the only one doing so.  All around me, other couples were dancing, slipping their arms around one another, and holding hands.  Again, my thoughts were taken back, this time to when Jordan and I returned from our honeymoon and developed the pictures from the disposable cameras we'd left on the tables at our reception.  There were numerous self-taken pictures ("selfies," before "selfies" were a thing) of couples kissing, primarily older couples who had been married for twenty-plus years.  I remember thinking at the time that it was sort of sweet that our wedding had rekindled romantic feelings for these couples, and simultaneously being sort of grossed out, wondering what I was supposed to do with all these pictures of old people making out.
Now that I've joined the ranks of old people who make out at weddings, I get it.  Weddings make me fall really in love with Jordan again.  I love remembering what it felt like to be in the sweet beginning season of marriage - the season that the couple we watched yesterday are in right now, with the innocence and excitement and newness that is tangible.  That is a wonderful, wonderful season to be in.  But yesterday I realized that I also love the richness of the season Jordan and I are in right now.  The season of seven years under our belt.  The season of packing up all three kids, the double stroller, and diaper bag with snacks and games for Asher, bottles, baby food, and extra clothes and then taking all of this with us to this really classy wedding because, by God, we will NOT let having three small children stop us from having a good time!  The season of life where I have not one handsome guy that wants to marry me, but two (after the wedding Asher told all of Jordan's coworkers that when he turned five years old, he was going to marry Mommy).  The season of life that is less new but is honestly, no, I mean honestly no less precious and wonderful and romantic in its own way.  The season of being seasoned.  And what I love is that couples who have been married twenty or thirty or fifty years may read this blog and laugh because I'm still such a rookie, and because there is so much more seasoning to look forward to.  We have so much more to anticipate.

Our younger, more innocent selves, staring into the depths of my bouquet.

I did not intend to write this blog in honor of our anniversary.  I actually wrote it awhile ago, saved it as a draft, and forgot about it.  But I thought today might be an appropriate day to publish it, as today does happen to be our anniversary.  It's our 7th (just wait till we make it past ten; Asher will be so impressed!) Last night, Jordan told me he thought Asher would be lucky to find a woman like me: a woman who can cook well, who cleans the house really well, and who bears children really well.  Don't freak out, ladies and feminists.  While I may do these things moderately well (some of the time) and my husband does appreciate it, in this instance he was teasing, and he also supports me in a variety of other, more modern endeavors.  Actually, when he got to the last item on his list (bears children well), I thought he said a woman who buries children well, and things got really weird for a second.  In all seriousness, though, I spent a lot of time praying yesterday for the future marriages of Asher, Nora, and Abel.  I prayed that God would bless them with marriages full of joy, love, and laughter, like the marriage I've shared with their Daddy.  When Jordan and I got married, we were blessed to have parents and grandparents with solid marriages we could look up to.  My prayer is that when our own kids get married (in like 40 plus years), that they will feel the same about our marriage.

And so, happy anniversary, Jordan.  I don't think I could love you more, but I will always strive to love you better.

The worst and best Mother's Day weekend ever.

What do two sick parents, one escape-artist toddler, two teething and feverish infants, zero sleep, and a whole lot of snot equal?  My Mother's Day weekend.

Our weekend began last Thursday, when Jordan came home from work weak and nauseous.  He was still feeling awful on Friday, and needed to take a sick day.  In my naivety, I excitedly thought, "Yay!  It'll be like a three-day weekend, having Jordan home for an extra day."  Sure, Jordan was sick, but he's usually not down for long, and I would have an extra pair of hands to help with the kids. Well, my "extra pair of hands" was down for the count, along with the rest of his body, and what he needed was to rest and be nursed back to health.  Poor guy.  We both soon realized that I am the worst nurse in the entire known world.  Instead of sympathetically leaving him to rest in peace, I continually checked on his progress, sighing loudly when he said he still felt the same, and making it very clear (although never saying it out loud...oh wait...no, I did say it out loud) that his illness was incredibly inconvenient for me.

I began to feel guilty for my selfishness, and in an effort to make it up to Jordan, I offered to be on "baby duty" Thursday and Friday night.  If the babies cried and needed to be soothed, I would deal with it, and let him sleep.  Usually this would not be a huge deal, as they are typically pretty good sleepers.  Of course, Thursday night happened to be the worst the babies have slept since they were newborns.  They were up constantly, waking up out of a dead sleep, crying in a way that could only mean they were teething.  On top of teething, Nora and I both developed a head cold, which led to Friday night, when she couldn't breathe and woke up even more often (several times an hour).  I was so wired from being up so often that I just laid awake in bed, waiting for the next cry.

On Saturday morning, I didn't even feel like a human.  In my exhaustion, I pathetically sent out a cry for help on Facebook.  I asked for prayer, because I wasn't sure how we were going to make it through the day.  I was so envious of those lucky moms who have their own mothers or mothers-in-law living nearby who can come over and scoop up the kids so that they can rest after a rough night.  But here is where my story starts to turn around: within five minutes of my cliche Facebook plea, I received three offers from dear friends who offered to come take the kids so Jordan and I could nap.  People offered to bring coffee, to take Asher for the entire day, to watch, feed, and care for the cranky babies.  I received so many offers to help that I had to turn people down!

Until this season of my life I have subconsciously lived by the philosophy that people should help themselves whenever possible, and that it's kind of shameful to ask for help.  Well, moving to a new city where we knew nobody and had three tiny kids shattered that philosophy.  I have been forced to realize that we (human beings) are not meant to do life alone, and that when God seemingly takes us away from family, he always provides new "family" to step in and hold us up in our weak moments.

I could stop writing here, and neatly tie up this post with the moral of the last paragraph.  However, my weekend didn't end there.  The madness continued, because God had more to teach me.

Sunday was Mother's Day.  Although Saturday night had still been rough, we had scraped together some sleep, and we felt better due to our childless and restful afternoon the day before.  Our son Asher had been acting exceptionally hyper, probably because he was the only one who wasn't sick, and he couldn't figure out why everyone just wanted to sleep instead of play with him.  He couldn't seem to calm his body down.  He needed to run everywhere, and all he wanted to do was "play rough" with somebody.  Sunday afternoon we went to the grocery store.   This particular store provides childcare while parents are shopping, and we had just checked Asher out from the play room after paying for our groceries.  As Jordan and I were chatting with the childcare worker, Asher started wandering away.  In the back of my mind, I knew he had drifted a few feet away, but I continued to chat, believing that I was also keeping track of Asher with a portion of my brain.  The problem is, my sleepless brain was dulled to the point of not being able to multi-task.  Suddenly, Jordan said, "I really should go get Asher," and I saw that he had wandered pretty far down the aisle from us.  At that moment, Asher turned around, saw Jordan coming after him, and all of his restless energy from the weekend climaxed into one disastrous decision: he began running as fast as he could, giggling as though this was the wild game of chase he'd been longing for.  He turned a corner and was temporarily out of sight, but I wasn't too worried.  I assumed Jordan would easily grab Asher, never imagining that our normally cautious child would recklessly race out the store's entrance and INTO THE PARKING LOT by himself.  As I turned the corner with our full shopping cart and came into view of the entrance, I saw that people had frozen and were all turned toward a commotion in the parking lot.  A child - my child - was careening at a wild pace away from his father, who was running after him as best as he could while simultaneously pushing a double-stroller with two infants in it (and simultaneously fighting off a wave of nausea, although no one else knew that).  Asher made it past the area right outside the entrance where cars were driving, crossed that driveway and kept running past all the parked cars, and had almost entered the area beyond the parking spaces where more cars were driving, when Jordan finally caught up to him.

I can't describe the horror I felt in that moment, but those of you who are also parents can either relate to or imagine what I went through.  I felt like a terrible parent; I felt angry, relieved, terrified, shocked.  My exhausted brain scrambled to come up with a way to discipline Asher in a way that he would remember to never, ever, do anything like that again.

As I fell into bed Sunday night, sights and sounds from the weekend began flashing through my head.  At first, the horrific moments were at the forefront: the sights of Jordan's weak body laying on the couch, of Nora's feverish, miserable face as I picked her up for the tenth time in the middle of the night, of the back-side of Asher running into a busy parking lot, and the seemingly endless sound of crying babies.  But gradually, other moments began to surface: the sight of caring friends at our door, picking up our kids to give us a break Saturday afternoon, the taste of the soup our pastors made us for dinner that night, the sound of yet another text message coming through with someone checking to see how we were doing or how they could help, the feel of Nora's sweet, warm head resting on my shoulder when she became too exhausted to fight sleep anymore, the tears that Asher and I shed together after he was disciplined for running away, the countless surges of love I felt as I looked at my husband and thanked God for a man who selflessly loves me and his children even when he's at his weakest.  As these moments rose above and surpassed the terrible moments, a revelation sank deep into my spirit: desperation creates intimacy.

In my desperation for rest, I was forced to ask for help, and friendships and relationships deepened as a result.  In our desperation to protect Asher and keep him safe, what could have been an ugly moment turned into a sweet time of praying, crying, (yes, spanking), and holding each other closely.  Nora's desperation for sleep yielded a rare time of cuddling with me that I would NEVER have gotten otherwise (not because she's a twin, but because she is so busy and independent that she never stops moving long enough to be held or cuddled).  I realized that I had felt God's closeness, and encountered his love more directly during this weekend than I had in a long, long time.  I had felt closer to my husband, and cherished him more deeply this weekend than I had in a long time.  Desperation creates intimacy.

Numerous times during the weekend, I had bitterly thought to myself how this must be the worst, most exhausting Mother's Day ever.  But I had done my math wrong.  Two sick parents, one escape-artist toddler, two teething and feverish infants, zero sleep, and a whole lot of snot do NOT equal the worst Mother's Day ever.  They equal one of the best I think I will ever have.

Just for fun.

Whoever correctly identifies and lists the most baby items in this photo wins.  What do you win?  Umm...my admiration, respect, and most of all, you win the enormous sense of relief that you will experience when you realize this is not your living room.  It is mine. 

Our colorful, Canadian road trip.

We were at a Comfort Inn in Calgary, Canada.  Jordan and I were enjoying our complimentary breakfast when our son Asher dropped (okay, threw) his toy under the table next to us.  When we told him to go get it, he said in a stage whisper, "I can't get it!  I don't want that guy to talk to me!" "That guy" was a distinguished-looking older gentleman who was peaceably eating his breakfast and making no effort to talk to Asher at all.  In response to Asher's announcement, however, the man looked up from his meal and retrieved the toy, offering to share his fruit with Asher.  Appeased by this peace offering, Asher settled in and listened as the man proceeded to share a bit of his life story with us. 

"Beautiful twins," he commented in a voice that sounded like a Canadian Sean Connery.  "My babies are 55 and 52 now.  I lost their mother in 2007 after 57 years of marriage."  As we quietly offered our condolences, he continued. "Then, I took off in a brand new Chrysler for Vegas where I met that Filipino girl over there," he said, gesturing to a woman across the room, "and I've been with her ever since."  We continued to nod as he explained that he and his Filipino beauty (he never mentioned her name) have made their home in Southern California, but visit his home country of Canada three times a year.  As we left the breakfast nook a few minutes later, I marveled as, once again, my children had paved the way for us to meet another new friend.  I also marveled at the colorful past and interesting life story our newest friend had, and I began to think about what my life story might one day look like.

I may not be able to boast about adventures in Vegas, new Chryslers, and Filipino beauties, but my life does have color.  That color is largely due to my three children.  They add interest, humor, and adventure to my otherwise unremarkable life.  Our latest adventure was a 20 hour road trip to visit my family in Canada (during which we met our friend at the Comfort Inn).  My husband was attending a work conference in Baltimore, and rather than be at home alone with our kids for a week (I am honestly unsure whether we would have all survived), we made a massive trek across Washington, Idaho, British Columbia, Alberta, and finally, Saskatchewan, where you can find my family living among a few hundred others in a tiny, snow-covered town called Caronport (just outside of Moose Jaw, which is more fun to say).  My husband Jordan drove with us as far as Calgary, where he flew to Baltimore and passed the baton to my father, who had flown into Calgary from Caronport.  Dad then drove us from Calgary back to Caronport.  If you didn't follow all of that, don't worry about it.  Just picture mass chaos in a mini-van filled with screaming babies, a sticky toddler, and goldfish crackers everywhere.

Actually, that's not really fair.  It should have been mass chaos (and was, at times) but the trip was largely made successful by my Dad, a veteran road tripper.  We had to stop every 2.5 to three hours for me to nurse the twins, during which Dad would take two and a half year old Asher for a walk.  They would return from gas stations with popcorn, or they would play in a McDonalds playplace.  At one said playplace, I finished with the twins and entered to find Asher huddling in a corner, making the undeniable "poop face."  I started to ask my dad if he would watch the babies while I took my potty-resistant son to the restroom changing table.  Before I finished my sentence, Dad had grabbed Asher's hand and was headed to the men's room.  I frantically called after him, "but Dad, he's poopy," and, "Do they even have a changing table in the men's room?" to which he responded, "I have done this a few times before.  I'm sure we'll figure it out."  As I watched them from behind, I couldn't help but think that to me, my dad looked like a brave hero headed off for battle.  On that road trip, he did anything and everything to make things easier for me and the kids.  It's no wonder that when we said our goodbyes at the end of the week, Asher tearfully said, "I really love you, Grandpa." 

There were ugly moments on the drive, too.  I have hazy memories of myself muttering, "If you don't stop knocking your pacifier out of your mouth, I'm going to chop your hands off," and "Drop the leap pad on the ground one more time and I will drop you."  Then there were the moments when everything was so overwhelming that there was nothing to do but laugh.  On one long, snowy stretch of road, both babies had been simultaneously screaming for what felt like forever.  When they finally quieted, I turned around to check on Asher, only to find that he had taken his goldfish crackers and stuffed them into the cracks of the window, the cracks in his car seat, and even into the disc opening and inner circuitry of his leap pad.  I began laughing, letting out a rush of pent-up exhaustion and exasperation. 

The adventure didn't stop when we arrived at my parents' home.  The twins decided Canada was a great place to start teething, which meant extra fussiness, extra night wakings, and extra bites in extra-sensitive places.  Asher got in on that action too, letting out his own frustration and excitement by biting me on the shoulder, and, on two occasions, on my derriere.  For the entire week, Abel went on a poop strike, and Asher went on a nap strike.  Both of my parents walked miles in their own home, holding my cranky babies.  The rhythm and routine I had created in my home back in Washington had been stripped away from me, and my parents saw all of us at our very worst.

And yet, they sent me away at the end of the week with affirmation that I was a great mom.  My mom praised me for being "even-keeled" (ha!), Dad marveled at how great my kids are, and both of them congratulated me on choosing a wonderful, supportive husband.  My 19-year old brother and my 15-year-old sister both told me how proud they were of me.  When I left them, my body was a tired, crazy mess, but I had a peaceful spirit.  

When I am in my eighties and am reflecting on my life, many of my adventures will likely have been in Moose Jaw instead of Vegas.  I'll have traveled in a mini-van instead of a fancy Chrysler.  I probably won't be bragging about a Filipino beauty, but you can bet I'll be bragging about three beauties named Asher, Abel, and Nora.  Thanks to my kids, my life has color.  Thanks to my family and my husband, I can see beyond the crazy and enjoy that color in its full brilliance. 

An Introduction

I never set out to have three children under three years of age.  I thought I was being super adventurous when I convinced my husband to try for a second baby before our first son had turned two.  We were in seminary, and everyone around us was having babies close together (people do that; they have lots of babies when they're in seminary, even though it makes no financial sense since they are usually very poor and very busy). So, we decided to be like everyone else and have a second baby.  The joke was on me when I found out I was having twins.

I knew practically no one who either was a twin or who had had twins.  There were certainly no twins in my family.  The doctor's first question of, "Do twins run in your family?" was answered with an emphatic "NO," followed by a nervous laugh, followed by a shocked silence.  My husband's head was in his hands, and stayed there for the remainder of the appointment. 

Not knowing any twins or "moms of multiples" made me feel like I was the only person in the world going through this. Seemingly everyone can relate when you're pregnant, but I didn't know anyone else who'd experienced a twin pregnancy.  And what about when the babies were actually born?  Having THREE kids under three years of age?  That's crazy.  I might as well put on a long skirt and join the Duggar family.

A sense of loneliness followed me until I had the twins, when I realized that, in actuality, everyone either is a twin, has siblings who are twins, or has had two babies within a year of each other, which apparently is "practically the same as having twins."  One week I went to the grocery store with my two-year-old and the twins in a double stroller (always a fun way to meet new friends).  The woman behind me in the check-out line chatted with me about how her sisters were twins, and how she had hoped to have twins.  "Never had twins, but I did have six kids," she triumphantly told me.  As I loaded my groceries onto the belt, my checker said, "I was just telling your husband that I had my twins when my first baby was only 16 months old!" The previous week I had met a nice older couple whose twins were born and raised, who encouraged me that "it does get better," and the week before that, yet another woman approached me and simply said, "I had twins.  We all survived."  

When I wasn't feeling so lonely, I started to take a little pride in what I was going through.  Not many people are brave (crazy? blessed? cursed?) enough to have three kids this young, and that made me feel a little special.  I was quickly humbled when I realized that, again, I was in very good company.  The best illustration I can give for how common it is to be in my situation is to explain how hard it was to find a name for my blog.  My original (or, as it turns out, unoriginal) idea for the title was "Three Under Three."  This title, as well as the URL address, was taken.  Also taken were, "Life with 3 under 3," "Three Unda Three," "3 Under 3 and more" (yikes), and my personal favorite, "Three Under Two."

I was reminded of a prophet in the Bible named Elijah who became convinced that he was the only one left who was serving God.  When he cried out to the Lord, explaining how faithful he had been and how everyone else had turned away, God informed him that there were in fact seven thousand others who were still serving Him.  In other words, he really wasn't that special, and he really wasn't that alone. 

I've learned a lot of things in my nine months of pregnancy and my three months of having my three kids, but one important lesson is that, like Elijah, I am not all that special, and I'm not alone.  There are many other moms and dads out there who know exactly what I'm going through, or who have an even more challenging situation they're facing.

One thing all of those other parents can relate to is that there are good days and bad days.  On the good days, I look at my three diaper-clad sweethearts and feel so blessed I don't know what to do with myself.  As any Facebook friend of mine can attest to, I am crazy about my kids.  But my kids also drive me crazy.  On the especially difficult days, my mantra has been "if I can just survive this first year, everything will be fine." My occasionally wise husband (who did eventually pull his head out of his hands) reminds me that God didn't give me these children so I could just survive.  "God meant for you to thrive, Hannah."  He is absolutely right, and as this new year begins, I can't help but anticipate what it will bring.