My Babies Are Boys!

Happy Halloween! It’s rather surreal, because Peter and I can’t figure out where September and October went. Without a doubt our boys are quickly turning into boy boys, with the tastes and opinions of stereotypical males. They can’t be coerced by their parents to wear adorable costumes such as the cards I made them all last year. I wanted them to be Peter Pan and Captain Hook with Nina and Jocleyn dressed as little Tinker Bells this year. A package deal, but they actually had an opinion on what they wanted to be, and were very adamant about it. Samuel, of course, wanted to be a dinosaur. I thought, “Great! We’ll have a little family of dinosaurs!” But Ethan, in the way that is so Ethan, decided to be Spiderman no matter how much we tried to convince him to be something else. Then when we tried to convince Samuel to be a superhero so we could match that direction, we had zero luck. So for Halloween, we have three dinosaurs (Nina and Jocelyn were easy to convince to dress up alongside Samuel), and Spiderman.

When I take a good look at Samuel, my heart fills with joy and it breaks a little. He's so big, uses such long words for a four-year-old, and all signs that he was ever a baby are gone. He just looks like a little boy now. The lines in his face are trim, the baby fat is gone, and the muscles flex and bend in his abdomen when he runs around shirtless. He has the words to express his feelings, whether they be joy, anger, sorrow, or frustration. He has also learned to roll his eyes. That never goes over well. Ethan is much the same. My saving grace with Ethan is that he still has a little roundness in his cheeks, and he still throws a championship tantrum when he's angry. He hasn't figured out that eye rolling is almost as good and irksome as a tantrum to his parents like Samuel has, however.

But what has become most astonishing is that they really are boys down to their very core. Sometimes I just don’t get it and certainly can’t relate to it, although I try. Last week, I walked out onto the back deck and discovered Ethan peeing in a sand bucket and then he proceeded to dump the pee into the sandbox. The entire time he was yanking down his pants and carrying out this mischief, I was yelling and running down the stairs, "Stop! Stop!" During his chewing out, Samuel confessed that he had done the whole act first and Ethan was merely copying. Shovels in hand, digging out their pee saturated sand that the babies were trying to crawl through, I gave them a good scolding describing that our babies and other people's children do not want to play in their toilet box. So we dug all the wet sand out of the box and dumped it into the corner of my garden. I generally don’t mind if they pee outside...but Nina and Jocelyn and every other baby that comes along eats the sand. Enough said.

Along with this foray into becoming real thoroughbred males, they have a complete fascination with all animals and have started begging Peter and I to buy a pet for them. I agreed that we’d start with worms, being a win-win for everyone, because worms are truly amazing in boy world and easy to take care of in mom world. Excellent boy-material because they are gross, require you to dig though dirt to acquire them, and they squiggle and freak many of the opposite sex out. I spent hours digging worms, researching worm farms, creating said worm farms, and explaining the life of worms to Samuel and Ethan. The two worm farms sat on my kitchen counter for nearly a month, but we made a discovery. Worms are rather boring once established. You only water them about once a week and rarely have to feed them. The worms were returned to my garden. So we decided to take another step into pet world and adopted fish.

We promised Samuel and Ethan that since dad is allergic to cats, since we so don’t want a dog right now with two babies in the house, and since I refuse to house anything that resembles a rodent, we would get fish. Deciding to start small, we settled on goldfish in a plain gallon goldfish bowl. While we were at Walmart picking out the fish, the Walmart employee explained to us how they have to take special courses in order to take care of the fish at Walmart. After this explanation of his fish expertise, we trust him when he says that without a doubt, we can buy 6 goldfish and they will be fine in a 1 gallon bowl. We buy all the goodies and head home with our tank. Following the directions as two educated people are capable of, we discover that you should give each 1-inch fish at least ½ gallon of space and each 2-inch fish at least a gallon of space. Considering the size of our purchased fish, we shouldn’t really be able to house more than 2 of these fish. Whatever. We throw them all in there. They are only 28 cents each after all. So much for fish experts at Walmart.

For the next week or so, about every other day, we had to announce to Samuel and Ethan that a fish had died. Thinking they might be devastated, we were surprised when they just shrugged. On about day three of having only two fish left, we realize that there is a small crack down the side of the bowl and it is leaking nasty, stinky fish water across my kitchen counter. Who knew goldfish could smell so bad? We have no idea how the crack occurred, perhaps when I cleaned the overcrowded fish bowl? For the next week, with two sad little fish left in our bowl, the goldfish sat on one side of our sink and did dishes with me every day. Why? Because despite the fact that every other week of my life I have to go to Walmart at least fifty times, that particular week I had absolutely no reason at all to enter Walmart. Finally after about a week, new fish bowl in hand, I created a new habitat for the two fish left swimming.

Two days later I announced, “Samuel and Ethan, another fish died.” As testament to the boys that they’ve become, instead of sobbing or asking for more fish, they exclaimed, “Cool! Can I hold it? Ooohh!! Look at his eyeball! Rub your finger on it! It fills mushy!” Ahh yes. There they are, my boys.

This Treadmill We Call Life

Time flies. My mom always told me it would, and I never believed her, but she was right. Time flies. In the weeks since my blog regarding our applesauce adventure, we've done so many big things.  We celebrated my 33rd birthday and Nina and Jocelyn's first birthday.  As they get older, their personalities get farther and farther apart and their little faces look more alike as their weights get closer.  They are walking, talking and are truly one-year olds in so many ways.  They are curious, busy, enamored by everything and pros at throwing wicked tantrums.  Happy Birthday baby girls.

Ethan started his first year of preschool and loves that he is such a big boy.

Samuel started his last year of preschool.  I can't believe he'll be gone all day, every day next year.

Samuel also started soccer a few weeks ago, which means Ethan did too.  At least Ethan suits up and plays with Peter every practice and game while Samuel is with his team.

Peter has recommitted his time with the fire department now that the girls are older.  He's been responding to many more fire calls.

Which means that Samuel and Ethan are back on the fire department as well, or at least hitching a ride for themselves and their friends whenever possible.

I also had arthroscopic knee surgery this week.

And we've eeked out about as much summer as we can.  We visited Reptile Gardens.  AGAIN.

 

 

 

We've canned and frozen veggies, salsas, pickles and jellies as fast as we could during the last days of summer.  Then four days after my surgery, we managed to squeeze in a few hours hiking around Orman Dam.  Nina and Jocelyn are fully walking, and rarely in the same direction.  This is Nina walking on the beach at Orman Dam.

And here is Jocelyn walking across the top of Orman Dam.

Those are very long stairs.  I climbed up and down them with a baby and a backpack, despite my knee.  I'm so darned proud of myself.

About three weeks ago, I was a total ditz and overscheduled myself.  During my apology to Jen, one of the overscheduling victims, I described how so often I feel like I'm on a treamill that I can't escape.  She kindly said, "Sabrina, that's because you ARE on a treadmill that you can't get off of!"  And it's true.  In our wonderful, crazy and exhausting life we go from one thing to another.

To illustrate this point, I'll tell you a little story from my last few weeks.  During my preoperative phone call regarding my health history, all four children were going nuts in the background.  The boys were fighting incessantly and the girls were in major drama mode.  The interviewer asked me, "Overall, how would you describe how you are feeling now?"  You can imagine my response, tongue in cheek as it was.  When I got to the doctor's office for my preoperative appointment a few days later, they had me review the records for signature.  At the bottom of the records in the notes section, the records stated, "Patient feels poorly.  Has four small children."

Did I feel like the Class A Loser-of-the-Day?  Oh yeah.  My medical records will forever have that small notation in little black letters, despite the enormous amount of love and adoration I truly have for my four little ones.  It reminded me of what Jen said, and also gave me a huge urge to step back and take a deep breath.  I suppose it will be a long time until we get off of this treadmill.  Thank goodness I had my knee repaired so I can get ready for the sprints ahead.  But how could you not enjoy the run when you have kids like these to make it all worthwhile?

Making Applesauce

I’m a bit old-fashioned for my generation in that not only do I enjoy gardening, both flowers and vegetables, but I take it a step further by canning and freezing anything I can get my hands on.  Usually come mid-July, once the green beans start coming on and the apricots arrive, my kitchen is overflowing with produce and the aromas of boiling water and food preservation.  This process goes on through September as various fruits and vegetables are ready.  The whole effort is exhausting and at the end, there is not anything more satisfying than looking across those brightly colored jars in your pantry and knowing you did it all.  You are feeding your family the best food that they can get, because it is usually organic and free of preservatives.  I’ve been doing this since I was a child, early on with the assistance of my talented grandmothers and my mother, and now as an adult I’ve branched out on my own.  After nearly 12 years, Peter still makes fun of me when I pull out a fresh jar of salsa and say, “You know, I made this.”  I get the “Yeah, yeah, just hand me the chips” look.

Two years ago, when Samuel was about two and a half and Ethan was one and a half, I managed to put away quite a shocking amount of goods.  Last year, I did nothing in the preservation department as I was flat on my side hoping to keep two babies locked up tight for a few more weeks to avoid NICU.  This year I had high aspirations to get something done, and it has been comedic.

On our one acre of land, we have two apple trees.  Last week, it was time to pick the apples from the largest apple tree.  Not only were the apples finally changing to that lovely crimson on the sunny side of the tree, but the bees were literally starting to chew apples down to the core and the deer were leaving behind extensive evidence that the apples were prime.  Every year, since we’ve lived in this house, I’ve split my apples with my friend Vicki.  So she came with her baskets and children, and I was with my baskets and children, and we started picking apples.

During this time, Jocelyn and Nina tried to eat deer droppings, not once but at least fifty times before we found a poo-free radius.  Nina sat in the wagon at one point, then Samuel walked by, accidently stepped on the wagon handle and flipped Nina out, head first.  Imagine how that turned out.  It was 94 degrees, so the four boys had nothing to say except, “Mom, I’m hot and thirsty.”  I did the responsible thing and grabbed piles of popsicles and ice water and started the sprinkler for them to run through, which they chose not to do.  We even encouraged them to visit the inside of the house, where it was nicely air-conditioned, but they wanted to participate in the apple picking.  Why?  Because they are boys and there was a tree and ladders involved.  Nina and Jocleyn started crying out of frustration and heat until they discovered they could suck water into their mouths from their sippy cups and launch it out onto themselves which turned into a soothing and amusing game.  Eventually our boys gave up and went inside and Vicki and I took turns carrying babies around the yard, full of apples and water, while the other finished picking.

Late that afternoon, I was feeling ambitious and thought I’d get started on the slicing and dicing.  As soon as I was in the middle of it, Nina and Jocelyn became bored with their toys and started dumping apples out of the basket onto the floor.  Before each toss, they would take little bites out of each apple.  Not knowing when I’d get to all of the apples, I ended this game because I didn’t want a bucket of bruised, slimed apples to deal with later in the week.  I plopped their little tushies on the counter, with the big pot between them.  At first they would each take an apple out of the pot and take a bite, throw it back, and choose another one.  Pretty soon, they discover a great game.  They begin tossing the apples onto the floor, laughing at each kerplop, and then both saying “UH-OH.”  Thinking, “Fine, I’m cooking them and still have to rinse them,” I continue chopping and slicing and let apples fall.  Then the “duh moment” hits me.  Every time they drop an apple it has a little “splat” leaving the floor a sticky mess and my bare feet are just about stuck in place from the fifteen or so apple slices littering my floor.  At this point, I’m up to my elbows in babies and apples and I’m so close to filling the pot for the first batch of applesauce, I just close my eyes and cringe.  Then I join in the “Uh-Oh!” and cringe with them, because it really is pretty fun and very cute.

Shortly after the pot of apples reached boiling point, I remember that just last year Vicki gave me a brand-spanking-new, all-in-one apple peeler, corer and slicer.  I hadn’t even tried it out yet!  I took this baby out of the package, and for a canning mama, this was like sliding your hands down a sleek new weapon.   I attached it to the counter and starting turning the crank.  Holey Moley.  I’ve never peeled apples so fast.  I discover I can peel, core and slice 10 apples in 4 minutes (that’s fast folks), which fills one quart freezer bag.  This is exciting.  I holler, “Samuel!  Ethan!  Come check out mommy’s new toy!”  They run into the kitchen and after watching it, I can just see delight in their eyes and imagine whistles coming out of their little mouths.  “I want to try it!” they say.

Those boys took turns destroying apples for nearly two hours.  And it turned into a gruesome adventure as I’d listen to them say things like, “No!  Don’t take my skin!  I’m an apple!  An apple!  I won’t be an apple without my skin!  Ugg!  You took my guts too!  Now I’m a dead apple!  You killed me! ” Aside from the grotesque images created during the great apple annihilation, it was highly entertaining.  And did I tell you how fast it worked?  I reported to Peter that I think we need to invest in three more of them.  That way, when Nina and Jocelyn get older, we can have an assembly line of little peelers right down the counter. Just think how many apples we could put away?

In the end we finished one basket of apples and had two more to go.  We’d managed apples with cinnamon on the dehydrator, six packages of frozen apples in the freezer, and a batch of applesauce on the burner.  Then the fun was done and things went downhill from there.  Nina and Jocelyn were ready for bottles and a nap, it was time to cook dinner, and I wouldn’t let the boys peel any more apples because we had piles of apples going one place or another.  It was cleanup time, but between the bottles for the babies, and dinner, the mess sat and sat.  I managed to clean up about half of it that night and get the applesauce in the containers and put away.  But Peter finished scrubbing all the pots the next day.  I love that man.

We’ve already broken into two packages of the frozen, sliced apples and made scrumptious apple crisp for dessert one evening.  I’ve also been peeling apples here and there and tossing them in the dehydrator, but I think I’ve given up on the applesauce endeavor this year.  After all, Mott’s makes a perfectly good applesauce.  In the end, I broke down and gave lots more apples away and probably won’t be hauling home truckloads of produce this year.  And you know what?  I didn’t even feel defeated.

Goodbye Lost

Last night, I parted ways with a commitment that I’ve had for the past eight months. While I felt a bit sad and empty that such focus had come to an end, I realize that good things will come of this. Peter insists that I’d get more blogging done if I’d write instead of watching Lost episodes. I look at the dinner dishes and know that I could do them before the next morning, but then I’d have to determine which was more important, Lost, sleep or those dishes. I finished the 100th episode, and have to say, wow. At the risk of ruining it for those that I know are catching it through streaming Netflix, I won’t say any more. But wow. Since January I have watched an episode whenever I had a moment of childless time. Lost was truly something that only I did in our household, a little me time, even though I tried to convince Peter to join me at least a thousand times.

Now that my relationship with Lost is over, I’ll have to find other ways in the evening to provide balance in my life. Just about anyone who has truly experienced parenthood can acknowledge that it isn’t all cute little handprints, giggles and adorable pictures, snuggles on the chest, the smell of baby, or tiny little booties. It is those things, but it’s also filled with temper tantrums while you are walking through Target, ear infections when you have that big presentation the next day, handprints on everything and not just Mother’s Day cards, curiosity about how that milk got there, nefarious body fluids wreaking havoc on all textiles with 100 yards, the loss of privacy for years and years, and children announcing a family “secret” in the checkout line at Walmart. Things that never piled up suddenly do – like laundry, dishes, the mowing, and to-do lists. So it goes, and so it goes. Therefore, my adult brain seeks out reprieve here and there, and I blissfully found it in Lost for quite a span.

Besides indulging in Lost for myself and True Blood with Peter, there are many other things we’ve found ourselves doing more and more over the last year to maintain a touch of sanity. Since our first year of raising multiples is coming to an end on the 22nd, I’ll share some of those with you.

At least once a week we find ourselves taking what we call “Sunday Sanity Drives.” These are fabulous days where we mutually agree that we will pay for fuel and lunch out instead of therapy. Essentially we make sure all children are fed, comfortable, and exhausted. Then we buckle them into the van, drive until they fall asleep, grab lunch on the road, and Peter and I get to drive through the Black Hills for at least an hour or two with uninterrupted conversation. It is a rare occasion when all four children sleep, so this is truly an extravagance.

In the effort for peace of mind I’ve also sacrificed some of my health. I know that wine, chocolate, coffee, diet coke, pumpkin pie spice lattes, frappes and pizza are not good for you. But they taste so darned good and they make my mouth and stomach smile. At least once a week, I load the kids in the van and do a drive-through beverage pick up. My favorite is the frappe in summer and the latte in cooler weather. If nothing else, it stops the afternoon-before naps fights between our kids. Note that many of my treats of choice are highly caffeinated. Enough said.

I’ve also refused to give up some of “me” for the sake of my family. Reading is something I just can’t part with. My tastes have probably matured these days as I read fewer and fewer trashy romances and mystery novels because I’m tired of the same old plot and it is getting harder and harder for me to relate to the twenty-something heroines often portrayed. Maybe it is a sign of my age or motherhood, but I read less fiction and lean toward history books, gardening and cooking books, health books, parenting journals and my favorite these days, columnists. Since I can only squeeze a page in here or there, I have recently found extreme pleasure in collections of columns because they are brief. My favorite right now is Anna Quindlen.

Another ridiculous sanity trick I’ve discovered is that repeating mottos is as good as counting to ten when I’m doing this whole parenting thing. If I’m feeling a bit chipper, I quote Dori, “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.” If I am having a rough day I think of my mother saying to me year after year, “This too shall pass, this too shall pass.” My personal favorite on a truly bad day is to sing the lyrics to Rodney Atkins’ song, If You’re Going through Hell. It rarely fails in calming the red monster the creeps up my spine when my children do things such as spill three cups of milk in a row. After all, towels and washcloths are wonderful creations.

At some point I’ve also developed a hint of realism where I’ve accepted that I’ll be behind on everything until my kids think I’m not cool enough to hang around with anymore. Why stress? Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.

And of course, a sane mom develops a support group. Mine is amazing, and I have such a variety of friends. A support group serves many purposes including having other experiences to bounce ideas off, having ears to rant and rave at, having someone to have a girls night out with, and have each other to swap goods and share childcare. This great circle also gets you out of the house for those Girls’ Nights Out, often for a round or two of drinking in our case. Though it was a while ago, we even went (shhh…) dancing one night at the local college dance club. The next oldest woman there was probably 23, but we 30+ ladies can still shake our booties.

It’s been a busy summer, and like the kids, now that it is wrapping up it is time to get to work. Samuel and Ethan will both be in preschool this fall, we’ll be celebrating Nina and Jocelyn’s first birthday next week, and I’ll be a dedicated blogger again. I’ll be able to pay closer attention to things now that I’m not buried in thoughts of Lost. But if you know something as fabulous as Lost was to fill the gap in my nighttime so that I can avoid the dishes, do tell. I’m always looking for good things to entertain me and Peter. After all, happy and sane parents are better parents!

It'll be a Miracle

Nina and Jocelyn turned 10 months old this week, and I've decided it will be a miracle if they make it to their first year. We've had some mishaps recently, mostly courtesy of Samuel and Ethan, that make me close my eyes and shake my head. Will they survive this minefield of preschool creativity and activity they were born into?   About three and a half years ago, I learned a very important lesson as a mother that I still sometimes forget.  Samuel was very efficiently crawling about this time, and I was lounging on the couch, so proud of myself that he was entertaining himself on the floor.  I thought I'd read a page or two of the mystery novel I was working through when Sonja, our dog a the time, came sauntering into the living room.  Sonja was a completely black lab mix and suddenly she had little white dusty hand prints all over her body.  Where in the world did she acquire those?  I jumped up out of my lazy state, and looked over the back of the couch.  Samuel had crawled into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, pulled out the powdered sugar, and managed to tear open the Ziploc bag.  Of course he proceeded to spread it all over a large sprawl of the kitchen, give Sonja a good pat-down, and had now discovered that it tasted wonderful!

The little monkey had powdered sugar all over his face and hands and was shoving powdered sugar in his mouth as fast as he could.  This event was when I first learned the, "When all is silent, something is wrong" rule of parenting.  I don't always remember this lesson.  Why?  Because a second rule often overrides the first rule.  The second rule is, "If kids are entertaining themselves, take a break!"  The second rule sometimes gets me in trouble and leaves me with extra chores.  Add to that two helpful preschoolers who want to entertain their sisters and introduce them to the world as they know it, and life gets interesting.

Two weeks ago, I had finished feeding the kids lunch.  The boys were playing happily in the living room with dinosaurs and the girls were digging into the toddler puzzles.  I thought - whew - finally time for me to eat!  Instead of sitting at the table where I could see the children, I leaned over the counter and perused a Pottery Barn magazine and munched.  The kids were quiet, but I kept eating and reading.  A few minutes later, I freaked, "Why are there bits of my spider plant all over the couch?!  Who destroyed my plant!?"  Samuel reports, "Ethan did it."  Ethan says, "No I didn't.  Triceratops and Brachiosaurus did it.  They were hungry herbivores."  Sure they were.  Meanwhile, Nina and Jocelyn's four little hands were stuffing decapitated plant in their mouths as fast as they possibly could.  We've kept the mangled spider plant and are nursing it back to health, but the jade plant moved away with the philosophy that one less plant equals one more year for my daughters.

Samuel and Ethan have discovered the incredible thing called a knot, which they exercise with their jump ropes on their stuffed animals and dinos.  I'm putting laundry away in the boys' room when Samuel runs up to me with his excited voice, "Mommy!  I saved Jocelyn!  She was all tied up and almost fell against the railing!"  I respond, "Samuel, how did Jocelyn get tied up?"  He says with bright eyes, "She wrapped the jump rope around her legs and tied a knot!"  I smelled a tall tale.  "Jocelyn wrapped the jump rope around her legs?  All by herself?"  He says, a little more cautious this time, "Uh-huh!  I saw her do it."  Raised eyebrow from me.  Downcast look from Samuel, and then his confession, "No mommy, I tied her up."  Then we had to have the conversation about how ropes and babies just don't mix.  Our babies need to continue to breathe.

A third rule I'm finding as a mother is "Just accept the chaos."  This rule exists because in absolutely no way, will my two hands ever, ever be as fast as the eight little hands running around my house.  It seems that no matter how hard I try to keep up, keep everyone safe, how much sleep I lose, or how much I try to settle them before I go do something such as dishes, chaos surround us.  I fight it, or I accept it.  I'm learning slowly to accept because motherhood is less frustrating that way.

Chaos is around us everywhere these days.  Whether we go to the store, try out the park, are eating breakfast, or just putting on our shoes.  One night I bathed the girls and dressed them in their PJs.  I put Samuel and Ethan in the tub and checked on the girls in their bedroom where they are banging on their leapfrog table and baby piano.  I decided I would run downstairs and fluff a load of laundry to fold (yes, we have a LOT of laundry).  I literally walk to the stairs, shut the stairs gate, walk down the stairs when I hear, "Mommy!  Mommy!  Help!"  In the time in took me to get to the bottom of the stairs, Nina had crawled from her room, into the bathroom and had flipped herself into the boys' bath.  The boys had swooped her up and and were holding her up on the edge of the tub.  Nina was soaking wet and had eyes the size of silver dollars.  She was so freaked out and I was so proud of my boys.  My ten month old babies can't seem to swim.

See?  See what I mean?  It really will be a miracle if Nina and Jocelyn make it to their first year!  They have a mother who can barely get a sandwich in her mouth and two very helpful and creative brothers.  Amidst our efforts to be good parents to the boys by having fires and supporting art through an art easel we've suffered in the baby department.  Nina and Jocelyn have both eaten charcoal out of the chiminea.  They liked it, and we fight them every time they are on the back deck.  Both girls have sucked on paint brushes from the art easel.  There is a reason they make things like children's paint, crayons and markers non-toxic.  Those reasons are named Nina and Jocelyn.  Samuel has tried to feed them carrots and sunflower seeds because he likes them, so why wouldn't they?  Ethan has turned the water on in the bathtub so they could go fishing.  Samuel has let the babies on the back deck because they like the fresh air, despite their other love of charcoal.  Ethan has been a very good sharer and passed his play-doh to Jocelyn and was very impressed when she ate it and she liked it.

Only two more months?  Will they make it?  Or will they be poisoned by plant, folded up in the dishwasher, drowned in the tub, choked by charcoal?  Maybe tied in rope, or buried in toys?  It truly will be a miracle when August 22nd rolls around.

Bring Home the Bacon, Baby

At the risk of shocking personalities like Rachael Maddow, never has it been more apparent than this past weekend that in our marriage, Peter and I have succumbed to traditional roles in just about everything we do in our day to day lives. I was so stinking sick that my temperature reached 104 on more than one occasion and I became a shivering, teeth chattering mess. I was in so much pain, my teeth hurt. During this delirium, Peter was one-hundred-percent in charge of taking care of all four children for nearly 36 hours straight, alone. The babies cried the whole time. No really. The babies cried the whole time.

“I don’t know where a goddamn thing is!” To which I replied, “It’s where it always is.” To which he exclaimed, “At least it isn’t where I would think to put it!” After the tempers abated, I explained that the diaper rash cream and all the baby goopy stuff was in the drawer in the bureau immediately below the diapers and wipes…where we change the babies. “Okay, that makes sense.” Peter changes diapers occasionally, but obviously I am the one who has always taken care of diaper rash issues.

Without going into all the trauma and drama of the weekend, the end results were that:

• Everyone survived
• Peter was incredibly stressed out after this debacle. His job, which he loves, he loved even more by Sunday night and couldn’t wait to return.
• I realized, I KNOW I take care of the children 85% of the time, but are we really this delineated in our chores and household responsibilities?

Yes we are.

Much of our gender centered chores result from our own ridiculous obsessions. In other words, our tolerance of the other person’s way of doing is to just let him or her do it. I’ll give you some examples. Peter always mows the lawn. Always. Why? Am I capable? Certainly. Did my parents make me do it in an effort to make me a well-rounded adolescent? You can bet your butt they did. Peter doesn’t let me mow the lawn, because I don’t mow straight enough lines. I’m completely serious. Another example is that I always do the laundry. Always. Why? Is Peter capable? That depends. My whites must be white. My towels and dish cloths must not smell like mildew. Add to these obsessions, Peter’s just made some bad laundry decisions so he’s just not allowed near my machines unless I’m bedridden. Consider the time that I had a white load in the washer ready to go, he looked down at the rug in the laundry room, decided it needed to be cleaned too and tossed it in, turning everything a lovely shade of lime green. I can also agree with him that it is faster to just toss it all together, but colors really should stay the color they originated. You know, white instead of smoky gray, yellow or pink instead of that subtle hint of blue in a certain light.

Many of our other gender based roles have resulted out of the necessity to live more comfortably. Frankly, unless you dig omelets and pasta, Peter’s culinary skills are rather limited. While I will admit publicly that while on bed rest with the ladies, with much grumbling and words flying out of the kitchen that I’ve never heard, he did manage to put together the most amazing tuna casserole I’ve ever eaten. He promised it was a once in a lifetime achievement and he has stuck to that promise.  In general, he struggles in this area so I do all the cooking, and no he doesn’t do all the dishes.

Then there are finances. Peter has a head for numbers that I just don’t have and am not putting in any effort to attain. I always paid my bills on time, occasionally stole from Peter (the nebulous one, not my husband) to pay Paul, but I kept it together. My parents, while they did teach me to change the transmission fluid on their pickup, mow the yard though not in straight enough lines, and be brave enough to cook almost as adventurous as Emeril, they didn’t teach me much about finances. The lesson basically boiled down to, “This is a checkbook, this is a bank. Make sure you have enough cash in that building before you write on that paper.” Obviously this was before debit cards. Peter. Well let’s just say his financial charts and planning are out there. So I just hold out my hand on payday, the necessary money falls into it, and it works rather amicably for all involved.

Isn’t it just so ideologically 50s? Peter prepares to go to work and I make his breakfast, coffee and pack his lunch. He gathers his briefcase, kisses me goodbye and I proceed to wipe our four childrens’ mouths from dripping cereal as they kiss him goodbye. I spend the day raising babies, cleaning house and doing laundry.  He spends the day bringing home the bacon.  I choose the décor, he puts it up. I clean the house, he fixes all the broken things around the house. He makes the money and pays the bills, I stock the pantry and pick up the dry cleaning. On, and on we find ourselves in these traditional female/male roles.

It was never planned this way, and I never spent my days dreaming about a sugar daddy who would give me babies to raise.  No, I wanted an education and a career and I buckled down and accomplished them.  Then I looked into those adoring eyes of Samuel's and my life was changed forever.  Believe me, it's not all roses around here, but it works regardless of who changes the stinkies these days.

There are some blinding exceptions to this gender split household. For example, Peter is wicked fast at picking up toys, and even I can pump my own gas and get the oil changed. But the biggest and best exception of all is this: Peter does ALL the ironing. He even irons my table linens and the childrens' clothes alongside ours. Now what do you think of that? Don’t you want your own Peter now?

The Mostly True Adventures of Scary Moose

Samuel has an imaginary friend. Peter and I can’t recall exactly how old Samuel was when his buddy entered our lives, but we remember how it happened. Over the treat bucket one evening after dinner, we think Samuel was just around 2, Samuel tells Peter that “Scary Moose wants some daddy candy too.” Peter looks at me, I look at him and we both lift our eyebrows. Who is Scary Moose? Instantly, recollections of a movie called The Sixth Sense pop into our brains and we hear a little boy whisper, “I see dead people.” After Peter and I give each other a sideways glance that says “FREAKY!” we proceed to ask exactly who Scary Moose is. A few moments later, we deduct that Samuel has developed an imaginary friend, named Scary Moose of all things. Not Fifi Bunny or Timmy the Mouse. Really, truly, his name is Scary Moose. Over the last two years, we’ve learned a lot about this friend, and he is indeed, very friendly. He’s also well behaved, has a mommy and daddy, and listens to directions much better than Samuel does.

Initially, based on what I thought I knew about imaginary friends, I couldn’t help question, what have we done wrong? Is he emotionally maladjusted? Socially deprived? Having a hard time with transitions? Research into imaginary friends, however, indicates it is actually quite positive. Studies show that children with imaginary friends are usually extraverts, pretty well adjusted socially, very creative, think it is just good fun to have one, often idolize them, and explore new adventures with them. Overall, the concept of an imaginary friend is very encouraging. Thank the stars and moon, our son doesn’t see dead people (that we know of anyway).

What’s also interesting about Scary Moose, is that when Ethan grasped the concept of Scary Moose somewhere in his second year, he adopted him too. Both our boys share this pal, and the three of them often play games. They’ve hunted dinosaurs, trapped spiders, raced cars, rode horses and flown to outer space together. They both talk to Scary Moose, and seem to have a positive relationship with their furry friend. Scary Moose likes to travel, he eats excessive amounts of pasta, his favorite color is black, and he always holds his mother’s hand when he crosses the street. He lives at our house, shares a bedroom with Samuel and Ethan and sleeps on Samuel’s bed. I can’t help but think how uncomfortable bedtime is for Samuel with all his toys he refuses to sleep without and Scary Moose to boot. Ethan says to me the other day, “Mommy, Scary Moose gets to fly on airplanes. When we fly on airplanes?” And about a month ago, Ethan and Samuel had to save Scary Moose from the terrible lizard that inhabited our basement. They proceeded to trap the terrible lizard and free Scary Moose.

We try not to engage Scary Moose too much from the adult perspective, because after all, he is pretend and Ethan and Samuel grasp reality. However, just out of curiosity one day, we asked a couple of questions about what Scary Moose looked like. Ethan seemed full of contradictory answers, but Samuel proceeded to describe his big head and upright posture consistently. We figured he was a human being with an overgrown head and lanky figure. But no, none of our images fit the bill when we tried to illustrate the guy. Then one day I was flipping through old cartoons on Netflix to find new entertainment for the boys and Samuel, who was peeking over my shoulder, exclaims, “Look mommy, that’s a picture of Scary Moose!” You wouldn’t believe it, but it was reruns of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Loading this into our Instant Queue, we watched the cartoon and Samuel couldn’t believe there was an entire movie about Scary Moose! Now we had an image, he looks just like Bullwinkle.

Scary Moose has never been blamed for bad behavior, but is often used to negotiate why the boys should be able to do something that haven’t allowed. Just the other day, while we were at my parents’ house, the boys wanted to run out and see the horses. I told them no, that they’d have to wait because I was feeding the babies, grandma was cleaning rooms for her B&B guests, and Papa wasn’t home from work yet. Samuel insists, “But Scary Moose’s mommy is holding his hand and taking him out to see the horses.” I say, “Yes, but Scary Moose’s mommy doesn’t have two babies to take care of right now.” Samuel says, “That’s because Scary Moose’s baby sister is still in his mommy’s belly.” Ohh! Of course.

Recently I was a bit saddened that we’d lose Scary Moose. My grandmother was in the hospital in Sheridan and we went for a visit and to introduce her to the twins. Scary Moose rode along for this three hour, one way, sojourn. After our visit at the hospital with my grandmother, Samuel whispers then says to me, “Mommy, Scary Moose wants to stay here at the hospital.” I responded, “You better tell Scary Moose that if he wants to stay here, it is a very long way back to the Rossi House and I’m not driving back to get him.” Samuel literally steps aside, has a whispered conversation and then reports back to me, “Scary Moose has decided to come home with us.” And so the adventures continue.

Funny how I had a little pinch in my heart that Scary Moose might leave us. I’d miss him, truly. He leaves me in giggles and provides great entertainment for my sons. And with that, I’ll leave you with a poem written by Robert Louis Stevenson, who himself had many imaginary friends as a child.

Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850–1894). A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods. 1913.

The Unseen Playmate

WHEN children are playing alone on the green,
In comes the playmate that never was seen.
When children are happy and lonely and good,
The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.

Nobody heard him and nobody saw,
His is a picture you never could draw,
But he’s sure to be present, abroad or at home,
When children are happy and playing alone.

He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass,
He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;
Whene’er you are happy and cannot tell why,
The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!

He loves to be little, he hates to be big,
’Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig;
’Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin
That sides with the Frenchman and never can win.

’Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed,
Bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your head;
For wherever they’re lying, in cupboard or shelf,
’Tis he will take care of your playthings himself!

Questions, Questions, Questions

Samuel received an amazing book for his birthday this past March called The Children’s Planet Earth Encyclopedia by Jen Green. It has colorful and interesting pictures and extensive, but kid friendly, information about this fantastic sphere we’re all spinning on. Reading about how volatile our planet is with phenomena such as earthquakes, volcanoes and weather patterns coupled with the weeks of rain and flooding we’ve endured have raised a lot of questions from two curious minds. Samuel and Ethan have really taken to this book for stories and I love it because I delight in learning new things as well, being reminded of other topics, and linking ideas together.

However, there was a time when we would read to the boys and they would take it at face value. Now they ask a million questions, challenge our thought processes, and give us lots of chuckles. After one night of reading about Mt. Saint Helens and famous earthquakes around the world our conversation went something like this:

Samuel: Mommy, when the earth shakes does the ground open up?
Me: Well sometimes. Are you thinking of the picture in the book with the big hole in it?
Samuel: Yes. And on the Land Before Time, Littlefoot’s mommy gets hurt in the earthquake after the BIG fight with the T-Rex. Do earthquakes make big holes like that? (Here he looks at the window with a bit of fear in his eyes). Is there going to be an earthquake here and the ground will open up?
Ethan: Is it going to be a BIG hole?
Me: No, there isn’t going to be an earthquake here. (Note to reader – I had to look up South Dakota Earthquake History from the USGS to make sure I wasn't lying.)  We don’t seem to have earthquake problems here. We have tornado problems and volcano problems.
Samuel: Tornado problems? Are we going to be sucked into a tornado? That would be really cool!
Ethan: A big tornado! Yeah, that be weally (really, Ethan speak) cool! Are we going to see hot, hot lafa (lava, Ethan speak)?
Me: No we are not going to have an earthquake, and it would be very bad to be sucked into a tornado. The only volcano we’re really worried about is Yellowstone, and if it blows, we’ll only see ash, lots of it.
Samuel: Where are earthquakes going to happen where the earthquakes open the ground up?
Me: California.
Samuel: Where Mickey Mouse Lives?

Oh no. I see where this conversation is going! Now I have to put myself in a four-year-old’s mind and consider the absolute catastrophe it would be if Mickey Mouse fell into the ocean. This conversation turns into a discussion about how Mickey Mouse is not really REAL, but rather a character which means he’s pretend, or fictional. Boy did that open up a can of worms.

Samuel: Mommy, is Tyrannosaurus Rex real?
Me: He was real, but now he’s dead. All dinosaurs are dead and fossilized.
Samuel: So he’s not real anymore?
Me: Well his bones are real, but he doesn’t live anymore.
Ethan: Is Manny real?
Me: Manny is a character in a movie. So he’s not real. But wooly mammoths were real and they are all dead too.
Ethan: But el-ah-pants (elephants, Ethan speak) are not dead.
Me: No elephants are real, and they are not dead.
Samuel: Is Spiderman real?
Me: No, Spiderman is not real.
Samuel: But he’s a man. A man is real.
Me: Yes, he is man, but he’s a made up man or a character.

The real versus fictional questions arise at least once a day now.

Additionally, not only have the questions started about this fascinating world around them, so have the complicated analyses. Previously, when I would “negotiate” with Samuel it was really one of us saying something along the lines of, “Eat your dinner or no treats later.” No other choices. Now “negotiation” is starting to mean that Samuel thinks through problems and comes up with solutions. Ethan’s a little behind him, and mostly parrots Samuel, but he’s not far behind.

Here is this morning’s conversation between Samuel and me. Before this conversation took place, Peter had been up and down with the babies until 2 am and I had essentially been up since 2:45 am. The ladies still have infections and we are visiting the doctor again on Tuesday. Around 4:15 am I finally had both babies down and it appeared they might stay for a bit. I snuggle into the couch. 4:30 am Samuel is leaning over me and says, “Mommy, I have a bloody nose.” Drip, drip, drip.

Me: Ughh. Okay, I’m getting up. Hold your head back, don’t drip anymore. Go to the bathroom.
Samuel: Okay. The babies are noisy tonight.
Me: Yes, they are. (Ya think?)

We fix the bloody nose.

Me: Go back to bed, it’s too early to be up. Take this tissue in case it starts again.
Samuel: Okay. Good night, mommy. I love you, mommy.
Me: Good night, Samuel.  I love you too.

Samuel climbs up his bunk, I return to the couch and snuggle under again. I feel the fog closing in and then I hear an electronic “rrraaarrrr…” I think – hmmm, Samuel must have rolled over on Spinosaurus. “Rrrrrarrrr…” Okay…twice?? I climb off the couch again. “Rrrararrr…”

Me: Samuel, it is 4:30 in the morning. You have to put Spinosaurus away.
Samuel: But why?
Me: Because it is early, you should be sleeping, and you’ll wake everyone else up (thinking, please, please don’t wake up babies). You can’t play with it. Give it to me.
Samuel: Okay.
Me: Now go back to sleep. It’s too early to be awake.
Samuel: But the birds are awake…

And sure enough…cheep, cheep, cheep, tweet, tweet. They were.

Night on the Town

Peter and I were able to go on a date this past Friday, thank you Jen and Bryce! We’ve had lots of offers to babysit our four children since our daughters entered the world, but then I feel this sense of guilt at leaving four children four and under with anyone and I can’t seem to make myself do it. It’s not that I don’t love and trust these brave souls, but I realize the all-encompassing work it requires to tend to the needs of these four children, particularly the twins. It’s especially difficult now that Nina and Jocelyn are going through a separation anxiety stage. I can’t even leave the room to refill my cup of Joe without one of them completely flipping out at the realization that I have disappeared from sight. I also know how draining the kids can be, because I get to look in the mirror every morning and think – oh my. When did those swollen eyes show up? I really do need a haircut. Is that another wrinkle around my eye?!

It’s truly chaos most of the time if you aren’t used to it. It’s my life, so it seems natural to me, but everyone else looks at me doing the grand juggle and I see the sheer panic in their eyes. Recently I had a play date with a fellow friend while Samuel was at school, which means I was at 75% motherhood responsibility for about 2.5 hours. This pal has two children that are nicely spaced out so one is in school full time and the other plays somewhat regularly with Ethan. She looked at me and said, “It is rather hard to focus and a hold conversation at your house.” Why I wonder? Ha! Every parent knows that adult conversations, if children are present, are littered with interruptions. The interruptions increase exponentially as the number of children increase. “Excuse me mom! Excuse me mom! EXCUSE ME MOM! My T-Rex just ate Buzz!” Such a terror requires the appropriate response. “OH MY GOD! Get Buzz out of T-Rex’s mouth!!”

Peter and I went on this date and we looked at each other and thought – wow. Do you hear that? Silence. We’ve had nights where someone took the boys and we went out together, but the girls stayed with us. Last summer, when I was pregnant with the girls we would leave the boys with my parents to make our regular trips to Sioux Falls. The reality of those nights alone boiled down to how could I look at anyone and feel wild and sexy and carefree when I was 23 + weeks pregnant with twins and just sat in a car for 6 hours across one of the least scenic places in the universe? For those of you who haven’t traveled I-90 across South Dakota, highlights include 1880 town, lots of road kill Chinese ring-necked pheasants, corn field after soy bean field after corn field, and crossing the Missouri River where being from land-locked states we must all say, “Dang – that’s a lot of water!"

Whew - back to our date night. In preparation for this date night, the girls were woken from their naps early and I had to do serious battle to get shoe and jacket commitment from Samuel and Ethan. I wondered the whole time I was getting ready if I could still pull off heals and thought, “Ugg. This is so painful for my feet, my heart and my ears, is it worth it?” The result of the short nap was that Nina and Jocelyn screamed the whole way to Jen and Bryce’s house and continued their ear pollution as I walked out their door mumbling, “Like a Band-Aid, like a Band-Aid” per Jen’s suggestion. Then 20 minutes later, I looked at Peter across the table and several miraculous things happened. The first is that I realized I do have two hands to eat with. At this point, I’m so excited I want to hold my glass of wine in one hand, my fork with the other, start to guzzle and stuff away. Next, I realize as I put savory bite after savory bite into my mouth that my food is warm. Fish and steak do taste much better at this temperature! I also notice that no one is screaming, “MOMMY!” and neither of us are negotiating a major treaty to convince our boys to eat…something.

All the parenting books, blogs, websites and so on say that one of the number one things to do as a parent is to take care of yourself and your marriage….you know…a happy mom is a good mom. But these sweet little books and websites usually seem to assume you are either on your first baby or that Mother Nature or God never involved themselves in your reproductive life and your children are spaced exactly at 2.5 years. These magical age separations often mean that your oldest is potentially close to important life skills like cutting their own food, grasping the concept of a napkin versus a shirt sleeve, buttoning their own pants, and agreeing that jelly beans are not one of the major food groups. These life skills add up to important things like easier babysitting, less worry for moms and dads, and communication skills for all parties involved.

All in all it was a fabulous dinner. We lingered over our beverages, savored our food, laughed at the foibles of our children, and missed them terribly. Then we played a few slots, won nothing, and returned home guilt free. What I learned though is that I’ll take all of you up on those offers and our munchkins will be coming to your house next. I figure if I can do it every day for 10 hours while Peter is out of the house, my brilliant friends could handle anything for 3 hours, even if the four of them scream the whole time!

Red Works

Good stuff came out of Mother’s Day weekend. Peter scored big points when he came home from Rapid City lugging a big ol' outdoor carpet for my back deck that I’ve been dreaming of for years. We essentially live in the yard after Memorial Day and I just wanted that extra touch to our outdoor space. Happy Mother’s Day to me! Sounds lame I know – Hey so and so, what did you get for Mother’s day? Answer - Why I got this lovely pearl pendant! Sabrina, what did you get for Mother’s Day? Answer – I got a RUG! Woo-hoo! And it is perfect and exactly what I wanted.

Our girls, also essentially sick since January with this indescribable nasty sinus thing and two ear infections, were diagnosed with chronic sinus infections. This super surprise rounded out with a 21-day dose of antibiotics. The directions on this new antibiotic indicate that one should not take any iron containing products 2 hours prior or 2 hours after ingestion of this drug. RRIGGHHT.

The patients here are two 8-month old babies on iron supplemented formula and you don’t want me to feed them milk for 4 hours at two different times of the day for TWENTY-ONE DAYS!? Upon calling the pharmacist and doctor, it was decided that this really is the best medicine for them since the amoxicillin did nothing for them and the augmentin just ate their guts and made them soil their diapers every 20 minutes for 10 days. 30 tubes of butt paste later, we’re all healed up from that debacle and headed down antibiotic lane again. Anyway…back to the non-iron junk. The caution, per the pharmacist, is that it does cause some absorbency issues and I’m just supposed to watch for effectiveness. Meaning if Peter and I ever get a decent night of sleep in the next century again, then the meds are working. The secondary caution is that such products mixed with this drug make their bowel movements red. I mean RED folks. Or maybe it tilts toward hot pink? This is all great and wonderful, because who really cares if their poo is pink or red or magenta or candy apple. They don’t have diaper rash any longer and they’re going to get better, right? I can deal with any red, blue or green hue you throw at me.

After the girls bath the other night, I laid them on their bedroom floor and was dressing Nina first. Meanwhile, Jocelyn crawled her naked derriere over to the Leap Frog table and started pounding keys. Those legs started wiggling, the woops and he-haws started flying out of her mouth. It looked like she was really doing a groove and she was giggling, jiving, shaking that booty and having such a great time in the nude, I thought, “I’ve got to catch this on film!”

I take off at lightning speed, return to the room, camera in hand, and pat myself on my back that I caught her still in Elvis Presley action. As I start recording her I realize that between her feet, on our light beige carpet, is a petite, Jocelyn-sized pile of magenta. As this is all sinking in to my sleep deprived brain and I’m saying, “No! No! Jocelyn!” she continues to groove and starts stepping in it and splashing it up and down her legs, through her toes and up the Leap Frog table. Down goes the camcorder. Forgetting to turn the camera off, I now have a great memory on tape of Jocelyn dancing in her hot pink poo and then 34-minutes of carpet with background noise including the re-bathing process, the diapering and changing, and then Samuel crying, “Mommy, I touched something I shouldn’t have!” as he shows me his hands covered in black paint. And since it’s an old school camera, and I’m too lazy to figure it all out, the memories and 34 minute carpet scene shall remain, including discussion of what exactly Samuel got into.

All in all however, we are 10 days into the meds and they are not working. The girls cough and hack and run snot, so they are not sleeping through the night.  Therefore, neither are we.  I talked to the doctor again today and they’ve decided to pull them off of the antibiotics to save their little intestines and we’ll revisit on Monday. So it goes, so it goes.

May you all have scored on Mother’s Day too – whatever your pleasure may be. The night Peter brought home my rug, we had a nice fire in the chiminea, roasted some marshmallows with the boys and drank a bottle of wine. A toast - here’s to you my boogie girls, perhaps you just have a dysfunctional nose like your father? In the meantime we’ll continue to spread our slimy noses around and hope for the best.

Up Next, Win the Lottery

Well it has been a while since I’ve posted, and it isn’t because of being so busy with four tiny children that I can’t see straight. Though that would be a believable excuse to the masses who think we’re crazy. And it isn’t because I’ve had the dreaded case of writer’s block. Everyone who knows me recognizes one of my strengths and my flaws is my ability to always communicate and have an opinion or pondering on something and mostly everything. And there is certainly a lot going on from day to day to chuckle at and share. My inactivity on my blog is more due to an analysis of how much of my life I REALLY want to disclose to the nebulous cyberspace. It will, after all, be around in some archive FOREVER.

See, something that takes your breath away and makes you evaluate your life with a microscope happened to Peter and I. After much contemplation, emotional upheaval and a few discussions with friends, I’ve decided to tell all. I’ve also read that great bloggers speak to the keyboard as if they are having a chat with their sister. I don’t have a sister, only two equally strong-willed brothers, but I’ll give it my best shot.

The short of it is that it turns out that Peter and I can reproduce nearly as well as the Duggars. You know. Those people with like 50 children?

About 4 days after the little ladies joined our lives, Peter visited the urologist and had any necessary plumbing for further procreation snipped. 2 tests later, 6 months later we thought we were good to go. Turns out, we weren’t. While Peter was in Connecticut in March, I was watching Lost reruns after all our angels were in bed. During Lost Sun takes a pregnancy test. As I was sipping my beer witnessing her revelation, I thought, “Hmm….that’s weird…it should be about that time for me.” Sure enough, examination of the calendar disclosed it was definitely time. Past time. A pregnancy test the next day agreed with my calendar.

WHAT!!! How could this happen?! I was shocked, angry, happy, sobbing, everything. Peter and I always said we would take whatever babies were given to us, but after the debacle we went through bringing our girls into the world, we weren’t ready for another episode of “See How Fast the Rossis Can Run.” And yet, through it all Peter was amazing. This crazy man with his over the top OCD, meticulous planning and organized life really rolled with the punches. He made it all okay. He held me and said, “Let’s make room for baby #5!” and he tore into our basement with gusto. Down came the rock wall, out went the old pellet stove and up went the new sheetrock and a new door.

During this pregnancy, while Peter was determinedly holding the world up on his own shoulders, and I was coming to terms with more chaos, I knew something wasn’t right. The whole pregnancy felt different. I know what pregnant feels like. At about eight or nine weeks, at my first checkup, I was miscarrying. I’d never miscarried before, so this was a new experience. Terrifying, heart breaking, and suffering such loss when you didn’t really know what you had. I found myself in surgery the very next morning. I lost Rossi baby number five on April 5th, or at least that is when I was under anesthesia. We had tentative names picked out and a new room in progress, but time marches on and there is certainly little time for a mother of four to be down and out.

It’s been an absolutely wild emotional roller coaster. After all was said and done, we found ourselves contemplating many important questions, such as “How much wine should parents be allowed to consume to work through these issues while still being responsible for their other children?”

In all seriousness, Peter says these memories will make us stronger. And this memory definitely has already. It made our marriage stronger. As good as Peter was through it all, it reinforced a truth that I already know. Peter is a good man, a strong man, and I love this man. An appreciation for life was reignited and we laugh a little more at the silly things. Some other really great things came out of this detour in our life. While we know it in our hearts, we really realized that there is so much love that surrounds us. My family was fabulous. My parents showed up with steaks and wine and said, “Let’s celebrate life!” And we did. My brothers called and we had a good chuckle. My friends were incredible and they brought dinner, fruit, chocolate, flowers, an ear and lots of laughter. We even started the remodeling project on the basement that we've been wanting to do for 3 years!

It hits me below the belt every once in a while. It’s only been about 4 weeks and I’m not quite over the shock, but I look at my four beautiful children and I think, this is really it. These are the gifts I’ve been given and I’m going to be the best mom I can be.

Oh, and Peter and I are playing the lottery these days. Just imagine the odds we’ve overcome! 3 in 1000 pregnancies ends up with identical twins, and the chances of having a vasectomy fail at 6 months? Having these two events happen to the same people, back to back? Who knows the odds, but maybe, just maybe we’ll continue to overcome such wild statistics.