Good morning!

What is it about mornings? It's supposed to be a time of beginning again. A new start to the day. A second leash on life.

Okay, so that's pushing it a little. I'll stop being so melodramatic.

What I can't figure out though is why people always think it's so cutesy (for lack of a better word) to call themselves a "morning person". "Oh, I'm such a morning person!" someone might squeal, a sheepish grin spreading across their face as they do a little eye roll. They think they look endearing and that we are somehow impressed. They don't and we aren't. I just want to take my finger and stick it toward my throat and make a vomit sound. Seriously? I hate mornings. Most of mine start around 6am and they stretch on for at least 8 hours. Or maybe that's just how long it takes me to find the time to get in the shower and start my day. If you are thinking I'm just being bitchy right now, I'll give you my typical morning. You be the judge.

Just falling back asleep from my 14th pacifier treasure hunt in the baby's bed, I hear it. A noise. It's nothing I could definitively describe to you. It's either a squeak from Livy or the "thud, thud, thud" of her jumping up and down in her crib as she yells for me. It could be Riley silently standing next to me as I lay sleeping and then tapping on my forehead and scaring the living shit out of me as he points toward the living room and whispers "COFFEE!". It could be my littlest munchkin, the Natters as I like to call her, making "ba ba ba ba" sounds. Either way, I know that any one of these is my signal that sleep time is over... and will continue this way for many many many many hours.

If I've learned anything, it's that once one child gets up, they all do. I don't know if they have telepathy. I don't know if there is some secret sibling signal they send out. I don't know. But it sucks. If I could take them in waves out to the living room, that'd be great. Of course, if that were possible I wouldn't find the need to log my day in the life of three trials and tribulations, now would I? So once I change the girls diapers and ask Riley to go pee at least 3 times, we venture into the living room where I immediately turn on Nick Jr. Look, I know I shouldn't be sitting them in front of the t.v., but you see, I've got something on my mind. It starts with a "C" and ends with an "E". If you don't know yet, you never will. You obviously don't have quite the addiction that I do. So while I hear loud requests coming from the couch for juice and milk and all sorts of other things, I happily hum the "Best Part of Waking Up" song in my head and wash out the coffee pot. I don't hear anything but the pouring of water, the hushed noise of scooping grinds out of the Folgers container. The aroma overtakes me and I am calm. Once loaded, I hit the "auto" button and wait. Yes, I literally stand in front of the coffee pot at the kitchen counter and wait. My husband gives me crap for pre-pouring creamer into my mug. "How do you know how much you'll need?" he asks with faint curiosity. "Oh, I know" I say in total seriousness. As soon as the beeps start I grab the handle on the pot and whip it over to my mug. My mouth salivates and I fight to keep from drooling as I fill the cup to the top. I don't even stir. I just sip. And sip. And sip. Once I am convinced there is a significant amount of caffeine flowing through my tired body I make my son his own cup of coffee (mostly milk, touch of creamer, spot of coffee) and then I do the same for my daughter. They both think I should make one for the baby, but I'm pretty positive I should hold off on that for at least another year. Giving my 2 year old coffee is bad enough. So now that we've all had our drug of choice, we move on to breakfast. I do my usual run through of every single thing I could ever possibly offer for breakfast, including more complicated things like homemade berry pancakes and french toast. Do I want to make these things? No. Do I think the kids will even say yes to these choices? Nah. I'm just amusing myself by mixing up the menu list a little because I already know what they want. Toast. One with honey. One with cinnamon sugar. Given the fact that this family prefers white bread, this particular request for basically white flour carb boats smothered with butter and sugar just doesn't seem like quality "get up and get movin'" garb if you know what I mean. But, they'll eat it, and so I give in. I promise myself when school starts it will be nothing but eggs and turkey bacon and orange juice with whole wheat toast on the side. No butter. Until then, it's just too damn early to battle with them. Our usual fight of where to eat, the living room floor or the kitchen table, quickly ends with me as the winner. Again. And the kids climb up to the table and dig in to their food. I feed the baby her yogurt and fruit because she can't fight me on it yet, and it seems like everyone has just about gotten their fill. I personally don't even think about breakfast until about 10. It's only around 7:30am. Filing back into the living room for Spongebob or Max and Ruby, I take the opportunity to clean up the kitchen and get a second cup o' joe. After that it's time to get the kids clothes on and another round of diaper changes. Interject this routine with the occassional poop blow out by the baby in her bumbo seat so it goes nicely up her back or Riley building a tower of blocks in the middle of the floor which I promptly trip over while bringing the baby a bottle... and it makes for some interesting commentary. I break up at least 3 sibling fights and make at least 93 threats when they punch and kick or say things like butt head or stupid face or shut up to each other. All this and I am still trampsing around in my mismatched oversized pajama pants and t-shirt, my hair in a knot on the top of my head, my face feeling especially gross from lack of a chance to wash it yet and my glasses slipping off my nose with each toy I reach down to pick up off the floor. God help the person who decides to come visit me before noon. I'll warn you now, I'm not putting on a bra. I'm not putting on make-up. I'm not promising my teeth will be brushed quite yet. Deal with it or call before you come... and make sure you aren't visiting for at least 4 hours. Otherwise, the call is nice but there is nothing I can do timewise about my appearance. The morning usually comes to a close right around the time Livy takes a nap. Most days that would be noon. I put her to bed and peek in on the baby to make sure she is still sleeping. She made an earlier request to slumber as soon as she threw a temper tantrum and slammed her head back into my nose. She looks peaceful so I tiptoe out to the couch. I know I should use this chance to clean myself up or do a load of laundry or some other stupid useful chore. Instead, all I can think about is crawling onto my sofa for a power nap. Just give me 30 refreshing minutes and I'll be Super Mom again. I puff up a pillow and lay it at one end, pulling a soft throw up around my neck. I smile. A HUGE smile. "Ahhhhhhhhh" I sigh. Closing my eyes I think about how great this is going to be. Riley is playing in his room and lining up lord knows what. This means he's occupied for at least an hour. I can be asleep and back up before he even comes out to ask for chocolate milk. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I feel myself slipping into perfect blackness. "Waaaaaaaaahhhhh!!!!" I shoot up into a sitting position and pull my glasses back on. "D" - double "A" -double "M" - to the mother EFFIN "N"!!!!! Damn! I trudge off the couch and back toward the baby. It's blatantly obvious that not only am I never going to be a morning person for at least the next 18 years, but I'm also most certainly NEVER going to be a nap person as well. At the rate I'm going, a "night person" isn't looking so hot either.

To be envious or not to be... is it even a question?

I am not too proud to admit it. Some days I am filled with envy. I envy the young girls with their care free attitudes and abundance of time. Their cellulite-free bodies and lack of pregnancy battle wounds. Wearing the latest fashions which usually end up being on the brink of too short or too tight, they throw their bouncy hair up into an adorable knot and toss a pair of oversized sunglasses on (as a statement, NOT to prevent wrinkles) and they look like movie stars. Our husbands can't help themselves but steal glances their way when they think we aren't looking. They are men, I've come to terms with this fact and have actually graduated into a stage of humor about it all. Particularly when my own hubs thinks one is checking him out and then they end up calling him "sir" as they excuse themselves to step around us when they walk by. A little sign of defeat flashes across his face and I actually feel bad for him. Well, for a second anyway. I know the feeling. The confusion of human nature. Wanting to feel attractive, even just for the self satisfaction of knowing you still got "it". Eventually, if I'm given the opportunity to sit and observe this particular type of girl (or even more entertaining, a group of girls) for a bit, my envy usually dwindles down to nothing more than a laugh and shake of my head. With time I see a little deeper into this life and image that I found so appealing just a minute or two ago. I soon see the insecurity, the desire to fit in, to be cool. This girl who seems to have it all is clearly dressed this way to attract attention, to be who she thinks everyone wants her to be. The envy is fleeting. It is my brain's first gut reaction. I remember this stage. Even into my very early twenties I distinctly remember. The days when fashion, staying trim and social status all seemed to dictate your life. Don't get me wrong, I was never the girl with the pricey clothes and flippant moods, flirting with every male I came across. That's not where I'm going with this. I'm just saying that on the days that I throw on something baggy and comfortable, toss my own wet mop up into a knot (which never seems to have the same appeal as that of an 18 year old's) and put my big sunglasses on to keep the crow's feet at bay, I realize that I've hit a new era of my life. I've traded all that for something much more wonderful and rewarding. I can be my true self, no pretending or false pretenses. I know who I am. I am a Mother. I am a Wife. I am a vital member of a beautiful family. Sure, my husband might look at this girl for a second and think of his younger days. Hell, I'm looking at her and am having almost the same nostalgic moment. But then he looks away and back to me in a different way, a respectful and loving look resting in his face. My kids seem to have that same look too (when I'm not asking them to clean their rooms, of course) and I am content. More than content, I feel like those girls should be envious of me.