Happy Holy Cow Day and Post #1,000!

Today marks the 4th anniversary of the day we got the news that we were expecting triplets AND this is post number 1,000 on this blog!

To celebrate, here's a little glimpse at life then and now.

Oh sure, life is a little noisier and I've swapped out the ice cream for wine, but overall not much has changed. 

We continue to be overwhelmed by all of our blessings!

Thanks for being part of our journey from the initial panic to today's insanity and for reading my little piece of the blogosphere. I wonder what the next 1,000 posts will bring?

Christy

© Trippin' Mama 2012

A Diaper Cream Disaster

We have a cabinet in our family room that is full of games and puzzles for the kids.

Today Sam and Isaac reminded me that in the very, very back hidden behind everything else there is a basket of things left over from their baby days including diaper cream, Vaseline and calamine lotion.

Exactly how did they remind me, you ask?

Like this:

Sam and Isaac are a little too proud of their mess.

I totally blew this one. I'm usually tough as nails, but this one made me laugh. I tried not to. God knows I tried!

The boys caught me and immediately said, "It's funny, Mom!"

I told them they looked funny, but what they did was not funny.

They didn't buy it. All they remembered is that I laughed. I ask you: How could I not?

We were 10 minutes away from loading up to go to gymnastics, and cleaning a half inch of diaper cream off anything is no piece of cake.

Since there was no way around taking these two clowns smelling of diaper cream and with pasty hair, we stopped for a little interview. You'll hear Amelia in the background suggesting a bath and a babysitter. She is so helpful!



It was vaguely reminiscent of the baby powder explosion that marked Thanksgiving of 2009. But that was a LOT easier to clean up.

© Trippin' Mama 2012

The Real Truth About The Chicken Limo

We have a novelty limo company in the area. Among other things, they have a limo with a large chicken on the top. We often drive by it on the street and from the first time Amelia saw it when she was about three, she called it the Chicken Coop Car and insisted that it was only used to transport chickens.

Well today we saw it on the move, and Amelia restated her position that it is only used to move chickens.

"Honey," I said. "I'm pretty sure that people ride in that car."

"No, Mom!" she insisted. "It moves chickens. Only chickens."

"Tell me why you think it moves chickens," I said, curious to hear her theory on the subject. She's never been willing to elaborate, but today she gave me the whole scoop.

"Well, Mom, it's like this." (I was already grinning and trying not to smile as she oh-so-seriously explained it to me.) "Say we lived on a farm. And say we had 100 chickens. But we didn't want 100 chickens. We only wanted 10, but we got 100."

By this point in her word problem, I was trying not to laugh.

"So we would have, like, all these extra chickens," Amelia said. 

"Yes, we would have 90 extra chickens," I replied.

"Right, 90 chickens. And we didn't want those chickens. We only wanted 10. So we would call the Chicken Coop Car and they would come and get the 90 chickens we don't want and take them to another farm," Amelia finished. 

I was trying so hard not to laugh at this point that I am pretty sure I popped something internally.

So there you have it folks. The real truth about the Chicken Coop Car, and today's word problem courtesy of my five-year-old. 

Next time I'm going to ask her about the Hippo Bus...

© Trippin' Mama 2012

Of Sister Alexius and Socks

Tonight I was folding four loads of laundry all at once, and tossing socks into a giant heap to be dealt with last.

Seriously, I do not need variety in the socks I buy for my kids. I do not want two or three different styles in one package. Make them all white with grey heels and toes. Don't make some white with grey stripes on the top and some without. And for Pete's sake, don't toss two variations on the white with navy theme into the mix. I'll never make that mistake again.

Anyway, back to the point.

When I turned to tackle the mound of socks waiting to be paired up, I couldn't help but think about my great aunt, Sister Alexius.

Sister Alexius was my dad's aunt, and she was in a convent a couple hours away from the town I grew up in. A few times a year, she'd hop on the bus and come visit us.

Whenever Sister Alexius came she always wanted to help in some way, so my mom always had her pair and fold socks. So she would sit at the table with a giant laundry basket full to the top with socks (remember, there were eight kids in my family) and fold them for a couple of hours while she visited with my mom and us kids. It was a good way to keep her busy and out of the way at the same time.

That was the only time our socks were ever paired up and folded. Ever.

My mom would just pull all of the socks out of the dryer and toss them in that laundry basket, which we creatively referred to as the Sock Basket, in the back hall. When we needed socks we went to the basket and dug out two that matched.

This is further evidence that my mom is a genius. Think of all the time she saved!

Of course, we were always free to pair and fold our own socks, and we always did Dad's dress socks. He needed the help, since he's blue-black color blind. Otherwise, we had to wait for Sister Alexius to visit.

I wonder if she ever realized that her special job of pairing and folding socks was a job no one else in the house ever did?

No matter. The thought of it put a smile on my face tonight as I dealt with my own pile of socks.

And it made me vow to install a Sock Basket as soon as possible.

© Trippin' Mama 2012

Overheard

On Sunday I made homemade carmel rolls.

I know, I know, that's completely counter to the idea of losing the holiday weight, but I did tell you that I exercise so I can eat. But I digress.

The boys couldn't wait to eat them, and then eat them again later. As I was putting them down for nap Isaac and Sam were talking about eating more carmel rolls.

Isaac said, "We have to eat carmel rolls."

"Yeah! So we can get big and strong!" said Sam.

Then Isaac replied. "Yeah! So we can drive cars!"

Really?

I'm all for growing up (can we get a shout out for being potty trained?), but at three they are talking about driving cars?

At this rate I guarantee I'll be gray before they ever get their driver's licenses.

© Trippin' Mama 2012

A Blizzard of Toddlers

5:30 a.m. and three small boys are awake. I hate daylight savings time.

Misguided solution: Bring them to my bed.

If one toddler in the bed looks like this (so true!):

Photo credit: Pinterest

Then three toddlers in the bed is a blizzard of epic proportions.

I haven't been that uncomfortable since I was 36 weeks pregnant with triplets and had to walk around the bed and shove my hubby over if I wanted to lay on my other side.

A short night made for a long day. Long, as in at 11 a.m. I offered my children the option of an early nap or an early death. They wisely chose the former.

Here's hoping there are no little people in my bed before 7 a.m. tomorrow.



© Trippin' Mama 2011

Chief Executive Meanie

I am Mom. Laundry doer, meal maker, bottom wiper, and rule enforcer.

I love to have fun with my kids. Unfortunately, I also have to do some chores and enforce the rules or we'd be in total chaos around here.

Hence my new title: Chief Executive Meanie.

Somehow my kids just don't appreciate it when I put an end to their efforts to go down the slide on the scooter, or stop them from leaping from bed to bed so no one will end up in the emergency room.

They don't like to delay a trip to the park for 10 minutes while I scrape the remnants of breakfast off the table and get them dressed. Or leave the library so I can get supper in them before them turn into half-starved demons.

Lights out time is greeted with displeasure no matter how many books we read or how many snuggles we have together. Never mind that it's all in the interest of getting them a good night's sleep.

And now that we have reached the age and stage of "I'm mad at you, Mom!" and "I don't like you!" my role as Chief Executive Meanie is more apparent than ever.

I've heard it said that if your child says he or she doesn't like you you're probably doing something right. Based on that logic, I'm batting a thousand around here lately.

Yep, children fed and clothed, no one's eye has been poked out by a sharp stick, and the lights went out at a (relatively) reasonable time. Seems like I've got this Chief Executive Meanie thing down pat.

© Trippin' Mama 2011

Nearly Defeated by Shapewear

Saturday morning I went to Pilates for an hour. It seemed like a great idea at the time.

Then I chased my kids around the park, enjoyed a picnic and went for a hike with them and Jeff. In the middle of the hike I realized that should it be necessary for me to carry my children out of the woods we were going to be in BIG trouble. I had all I could do to propel myself forward, let alone carry one (or more!) of the kids.

After our hike I bought flowers to plant and heaved two 50-pound bags of new sand for the sandbox onto my cart and then into the van.

Um. Ouch. On top of ouch.

Saturday evening Jeff and I went out on a date. (Yay!) I decided to wear a shapewear tank. It takes care of the little bulges that Pilates hasn't conquered yet, and I wanted to look nice.

Oh, the price of vanity!

The tank is quite comfortable, but I paid the price when I tried to take it off.

I could barely lift my arms over my head, let alone stretch the tank enough to get it over my shoulders and head and off my body. This, unfortunately, became apparent when I had the tank about halfway off. In other words, about the time it was wrapped around my head and had neatly pinned my arms overhead.

To pull the tank up or down required that I stretch it with my arms. My arms that had suffered through a few too many similar stretch and pull motions in Pilates class early that morning.

Just about the time I thought I was going to have to cave and ask Jeff to extricate me from the results of my vanity, I managed to wiggle my way out. I may have possibly dislocated a shoulder in the process, but at least I didn't have to WAKE my husband and give him a story to tell for all eternity.

Who knew that working out and shapewear could be such a dangerous combination? Consider yourself warned. 

© Trippin' Mama 2011

Green Beans?

I shared before that the Easter Bunny brought "green beans" to our house. Here's the video of the boys with their "green beans."

This past week was a bit crazy, but things are settling down so I should be back to a more regular posting schedule this week.

© Trippin' Mama 2011

Calling Miss Clairol

Every night after I put the kids in bed I breathe a sigh of relief and say a prayer of thanksgiving that we made it through another day.

Every day these smart, curious children do something that makes my hair turn a little grayer, if not stand straight on end.

Here are a few things from the last week that have me calling for Miss Clairol (and praying, a LOT):

1. Sam: "Please we see the fire again."

2. Isaac from the top of the swingset: "This isn't very high. I can jump."

3. Alex, handing me the toilet brush holder: "I drink water from that cup!"

4. Amelia: "I need a prince to kiss me."

5.The boys upon watching workers on scaffolding around a multi-story building: "We need helmets."

Me: "So you can build?"

Boys: "So we can climb!"

6. Jeff: "I'll be home late from work on Monday."

While I'm busy covering the gray, maybe I should take a cue from Sam and become a redhead!

© Trippin' Mama 2011

The Adventures of Potty Boy, The Bandit And Mr. Footprint

Once again, names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

We are in the worst stage of potty training. Also known as the "Please, please Mommy is begging you to poop in the potty" phase. I've changed enough poopy underwear to last me several lifetimes.

Since the boys are pretty predictable, I've been putting them on the potty about the time they usually do the deed and trying to keep them there for 5-10 minutes so they can go in the potty. It reminds me a lot of the early days of potty training.

Unfortunately, the boys have the run of the house now and are into a lot more things than they were in the early days. Which means that the other two get into a lot more trouble when I'm in the bathroom doing tricks to keep someone occupied long enough to do the deed.

Which brings us to what happened the other day...

After 15 minutes on the potty and no results, I put a certain boy in undies and sent him on his way. Not two minutes later I glanced over to see he had "the face." I grabbed him and raced to the potty saying, "Don't poop, don't poop, don't poop! Let's poop in the potty!" When I got him there, he had the job partly done, so I put him on the potty and encouraged him to finish on the potty. (Please, please, I'm begging you!)

About that time I heard major commotion from outside the bathroom, so I told Potty Boy to stay on the potty and stepped out to see what was going on. It took me a couple minutes to break up the fight.

When I returned to the bathroom I found Potty Boy was no longer on the potty. And what should have been in the potty was everywhere. There was poop on the potty seat, on the wall, on the bath mat, on the tub, on the stool, and on the sink. There was poop everywhere except where it belonged.

AAAARRRRGH!

I grabbed for the poopy-bottomed, poopy-handed boy and started to clean him up. Then I realized that he had also unrolled the entire roll of toilet paper and put it in the potty.

That's when I heard a crash and laughing from the kitchen. I grabbed the now-clean, but bare-bottomed boy and put him in his crib for a time-out. When I came out of his room I found one of his brothers walking down the hallway chugging half and half straight from the carton. The carton that had been in the fridge.

AAAARRRRGH!

I took the carton away, grabbed the Half and Half Bandit by the hand and followed the trail of liquid back to the kitchen.

Turns out that the safety latch on the fridge had finally given out under excessive pressure. Sloppy joe meat and a trail of tomato-sauce footprints covered the floor.

AAAARRRRGH!

I hollered for a time out and the culprits sat immediately. Which was convenient, since I needed to clean Mr. Footprint's feet.

I told them to STAY RIGHT THERE while I cleaned up the worst of the kitchen floor and got Potty Boy out of his crib.

I sat all three boys on the floor and was about to deliver a stern lecturing about listening to Mommy, not opening the refrigerator, and a few other things when the Half and Half Bandit looked up at me and grinned.

"That was YUMMY, Mommy!"

 And I was forced to send them off to play before they saw me laugh.

© Trippin' Mama 2011

Jacuzzi!

Ah, nothing is quite as relaxing as a soak in the Jacuzzi.

Of course, we don't have a Jacuzzi.

Instead we've got this, which I like to call the poor man's Jacuzzi.



It may not be as relaxing as the real thing, but it's a lot more fun!


© Trippin' Mama 2011

The Pooper Scooper: A True Story

Note: Names have not been used in an attempt to protect the not-so-innocent. Not that they deserve such consideration, but I am trying to limit the amount of couch time they need in the future. Nice of me, isn't it?

So the other day the boys were running around naked, their new favorite pastime, when one of my precious boys yelled, "Look, Mommy!"

Given recent events around here like the farmer's blow fiasco, I cringe when I hear the words, "Look, Mommy!"

My cringe was well warranted as the next words out of the child's mouth were, "I pooped in the playroom."

Yep. Sure enough, there was a poop on the playroom floor.

"CHILD! Why did you poop on the floor? You were just on the potty five minutes ago!"

As I grabbed paper towels and talked with the perpetrator, one of his brothers came over to inspect the scene.

He said, "I can poop, too!"

And before I could even react, he squatted down and pooped right next to his brother's accident.

My eyes bugged out of my head. I couldn't believe he just did that!

"CHILD! What did you just do? Where does the poopy go? It does not belong on the playroom floor!"

The front of my brain was telling me this was not a good thing. The back of my brain was screaming with laughter.

I cleaned the bottoms. I cleaned the floor. I made the perpetrators tell me that poop goes in the potty. Then I shooed them out of the room so I could laugh.

Thank heavens they didn't exchange a high five after they did the deed. That would have put me right over the edge.
 

© Trippin' Mama 2011

Writer's Workshop: Parked for a Quick Getaway

Thank you Mama Kat for this week's prompt to write about a pet peeve that shouldn't drive you crazy, but does. Now I am justified in my petty complaining, right?

I am baffled, befuddled, curious, and also annoyed.

Why is it that everywhere I go these days people insist on backing into parking spaces? The other night I ran to the grocery store at 9:00. There were 12 cars there. Four of them were parked backwards. Why?

They are doing it at the drugstore, at the gym, even at church!

Are they concerned about making a quick getaway?

"Run Martha, the priest saw we didn't put anything in the collection basket!"

Perhaps their reverse lights aren't working and they are trying to prevent an accident from happening when they back out of their parking space?

A phobia about backing into a lane of traffic?

A need for the hood of the car to be pointing due north?

A desire for a parking challenge now that we rarely have to parallel park?

Seriously, what's the reasoning here?

I do understand that it is easier and maybe even safer, to pull forward into traffic, even slow-moving or completely non-existent traffic. (Case in point: The grocery store at 9 p.m.)

That's pretty much offset by the fact that the lady behind you in the parking lot (ME!) does not expect you to jam on your brakes and BACK UP after you've passed an open parking space, especially when there are four more open spaces in front of your vehicle. Nor does she expect to have to stop in the aisle so you can take up both lanes in order to back into a space, instead of simply staying on your own side and pulling in.

Don't even get me started on the people who insist on backing into a parking space, but never fail to take up two spaces because of their ineptitude. I drove around a parking garage for 15 minutes the other day trying to find something wider than half a space. If you're going to do it, at least learn how to do it right.

Finally, please don't glare and gesticulate at me and every other person following convention by parking nose first while you're busy creating your own set of rules about how to park. That doesn't just make you annoying. That makes you a backass.

And nobody likes a backass.

This post was inspired by the Writer's Workshop at Mama Kat's. Play along!

© Trippin' Mama 2011

It Was a Rookie Mom Moment

Today I was driving home with all of the boys in the van when a child, who shall remain nameless to protect him from future embarrassment, announced with great delight, "Look Mommy! I found another booger!"

I immediately gave the standard mom reply, "We don't pick our noses. If you have something in your nose you need to blow it."

Rookie mistake.

Next thing I knew all three boys were following my instructions and blowing their noses quite effectively. Without tissues. Straight down their fronts onto their coats.

All I could do was laugh while trying not to laugh. After all, they had listened and done exactly what I told them to.

I quickly handed back tissues, which they merrily shredded while giggling and proudly patting what they had blown out of their noses.

Luckily we were just a couple minutes from home so the damage was minimal. As soon as we pulled into the drive all three noses and six hands were wiped and all three coats went immediately into the washing machine.

Later when Jeff texted me to see how the day was going I replied, "I inadvertently taught all of the boys the farmer blow today."

Can you believe he didn't even respond to that? How could you not?

Must be a sign that crazy is the norm around here.

© Trippin' Mama 2011

Warning: Helmets May Be Required

A couple weeks ago I heard the boys giggling and giggling as I unloaded the dishwasher, so I went to check it out. They were all sitting side-by-side on one of their little couches doing this:

Further proof that we should wear our bike helmets at ALL times...

Sam and Alex

Isaac

...even when we're hanging out in our jammies!

© Trippin' Mama 2010

Another Rodent Trauma!

Today I did this:

Multiply by almost an acre. I ended up with 30ish bags of leaves. Each one representing roughly 287 square feet of leaves, give or take a bajillion leaves.

I am pooped!

I have been taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather this week to get the kids out in the yard and do the raking a little at a time. I was counting on a nice Saturday so the WBH could help finish the job.

But it's supposed to rain tomorrow, so I powered through it by myself today.

Of course, sacrifices had to be made. I threw the kids a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread for lunch. They are two and four. I figured they could take care of themselves.

Anyway, I tried to think good thoughts about what a great yard we have and how much we appreciated all those shade trees during the heat of the summer.

But by naptime I was running out of positive energy.

And that's when the rodent trauma happened.

I'm starting to think they have it in for me. First it was the dying mouse I mistook for a dust bunny and nearly picked up. Then there was the epic battle Jeff and I did with a bat in our first home. That's a story worth telling! It involves accusations of delusion, duct tape, a hungry neighborhood cat and a plea for mercy. That'll keep you coming back, won't it? I promise to share that story soon.

Anyway, today's rodent trauma looked like this:

It's a squirrel, I think. It was dead. At the bottom of a leaf pile. The remnants of which I was scooping up with my bare hands. I almost picked it up, but at the last second I realized what it was. I leapt back and stifled a scream while doing the heebie-jeebie dance.

Then I put on my big girl panties and scooped the thing onto a shovel and disposed of it. To be honest, I was sure if I left it there the boys would find it and play with it.

I should get MAJOR credit for finishing the second half of the yard after this trauma. After all, I'm still using the mouse incident as an excuse not to pick up dust bunnies, and that was 16 years ago. Who could blame me if I never picked up another leaf again?

© Trippin' Mama 2010

An Uninvited Guest

We recently eliminated an uninvited guest of the mouse variety from our basement. There's really nothing to say about it except that peanut butter makes great mouse bait. I learned that years ago when we had a major mouse incident.

It was 1996 and Jeff and I were living in married student housing while he was in his first year of his PhD in chemistry. It was not a luxurious place -- 400 square feet with linoleum floors and cinder block walls -- but the price was right and the location was great.

The weather had just started to turn cold. I got up early one morning and went to the kitchen, a full 10 steps away from our bedroom, to get a drink of water. Since I had just crawled out of bed, I didn't have my glasses on and I'm near-sighted like you wouldn't believe. Unless something's a few inches from my face, I can hardly see it.

As I was drinking my water and looking around the apartment, I spied something under the table and thought "Wow! That is the biggest dust bunny I've ever seen in my life!" I'm no neat freak, and even I couldn't go back to bed until I'd gotten rid of it.

I walked over to the table, leaned down, and when I was just inches away from picking up the "dust bunny," its tail twitched.

I stifled a scream and I'm pretty sure my feet didn't touch the floor on the way back to the bedroom. There I woke my soundly sleeping husband and demanded that he do something about the mouse, even though it was barely light out. Jeff got up and determined that the mouse was in the final stages of dying under our table, so he put a shoebox over it and went back to bed.

I called maintenance and left a semi-hysterical "Get this thing out of my apartment!" voice mail.  When the maintenance man arrived he discovered that there was a hole in the foam around the stove vent. The mouse had apparently chewed its way in, and died under our table from eating the foam. The very helpful maintenance man sealed up the hole, set a bunch of traps with peanut butter, and removed the dead mouse and cardboard box -- after asking if we wanted the box back. Um. No. Thanks. I can always get another shoebox. One that hasn't had a dead mouse in it.

By the time it was all said and done, we caught and disposed of seven more mice. And by we, I mean the maintenance man and Jeff. My contribution was to throw the phone at a mouse on our counter, to scrub everything in the kitchen multiple times, and to cover my ears while Jeff finished off a mouse that got its leg caught in a trap.

I did learn that peanut butter makes the best mouse bait.

And I've never picked up another dust bunny since.

Hey, some traumas run deep! And besides, what a great excuse for my less-than-stellar housekeeping.

© Trippin' Mama 2010

An Ode to Vomit

Vomit on the pillow,
Vomit on the floor.
Vomit in her pretty hair,
A peaceful night no more.

Crying in the bathtub,
Wailing in the hall.
Mom & Dad are busy cleaning,
not getting any sleep at all.

Laundry by the load,
Laundry by the ton.
Hope the laundry soap holds out,
Until this bug is done.

A request for breakfast,
We agreed and held our breath.
Whoops, here it comes again!
Guess we're not done quite yet

The washer kept on running,
We bleached and mopped the floors.
The afternoon was quiet,
The vomit was no more.

We hope this yucky virus,
has really run its course.
For while it was a long night,
It could have been much worse!


© Trippin' Mama 2010

The Minivan Mama

When we bought the world's sexiest minivan I had no idea the effect it would have on other drivers.

Specifically, drivers under 26 and men. Especially men under 26.

Most of them can't stand to have a minivan pass them. Ever.

I've seen 18-year-olds driving falling-apart Hondas that are older than they are floor it in a desperate attempt to avoid eating my dust. And you should see the effort they put in once they see that I have a triple stroller strapped to the back. NASCAR's got nothing on these guys!

But the guy in the SmartCar? C'mon, buddy! You bought half a car. What did you expect? In most countries they call that thing a rickshaw.

I might drive a minivan, but at least my vehicle came with an engine.

© Trippin' Mama 2010