A Tale of Three Children

2e3304050e9fd53871c22891c4036db1I have tried more times than I can count to sit down and write a post. Every time. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I am interrupted by a baby that wants to be nursed, a toddler that wants to be fed, or a preschooler that wants a hug. And furthermore… I cannot seem find the time to edit my posts to (semi) perfection. So I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors.

Welcome to life with 3 kids 4 and under. 

I had so many different stories to tell you, and now I can barely remember any of them. I do not know what happened to my brain. It is like the third baby took what was left of my brain and completely absorbed it.

The other day my mom stopped by for a visit, and as I was talking to her, my kid started to be fussy. I grabbed him, threw him in my lap, whipped out the boob to breastfeed, and started to whack him in the face with it while I waited for him to latch. You know.. the usual.

It wasn’t until my Mom loudly said my name that I realized what I was doing: 

I was trying to breastfeed my 2 1/2 year old… not my infant.

My bad dude. My bad. 

And as I ponder why I have no brain left… I look back on the day I just had.

(It takes me a moment. I look at my phone to find out what the day is… what the date is… but I know the month sooo… win.) 

Today- 

Hudsy got a lego stuck in his mouth. Correction: Hudsy got a DUPLO lego stuck in his mouth. Duplo Legos are mid-sized legos. They are not huge, but they are not small either. Somehow my beautiful child got one stuck sideways in his mouth and was starting to have a little panic about getting it out.

Like a smart boy he came over to Mommy for help.

The kid could not close his mouth. There he stood, in his 4 foot glory, with a mouth wide open and a blue lego peeking out from behind those pearly whites, and that lego was not budging from behind those teeth. Poor kid would partly cry, partly laugh, and partly gag the whole time he stood in front of me.

I tried my best not to fully laugh.

That was until I started to panic because I could not get it out. How he got it wedged in like that … I have no idea. Every time I tried to wiggle it out his gag reflex kicked in. Great.

Meanwhile I hear a cry from down the hall:

“MOM I POOPED! PEEESE WIPE ME! MOM I POOOPED! I POOPED! WIPE ME NOW!”

I am so proud of you oldest son for using the toilet, but I am trying to save your brother from lock jaw.

“POOOOOOOP. MOM POOOOOP.”

Oh… and did I mention I was laying down trying to breastfeed during this entire episode?

Every time I attempted to be ‘Jaws For Life’ for my two year old … my nursing infant clamped down and reminded of my body’s limitations on how far it can stretch.

Chaos.

Constant need.

S.O.S.

This is my life.

Sidenote: I did finally get that lego out. By the end we were both laugh crying over this debacle. Glad I have a son who also laugh cries at inappropriate times. But I digress.

During my absence from writing, I also attempted to potty train my 2 year old. He was a wiz (pun intended) at peeing. Like my oldest, he wanted to pee everywhere.

Toilet. Front yard. Back yard. Park bushes. Dry dirt. Trees. Brother.

They are all the same. Indecent exposure does not apply when you are two.

Free the P man.

But why would one use the toilet when it comes to #2? 

The struggle is real people. My children fear releasing the deuce on the porcelain throne.

I tried to get him to do it. I bribed. But no.

Instead homeboy decided that he was an outdoor kind of man, au natural.

I mean poop is basically nature’s play dough right? 

Do I need to even say what happened?

Cue tired Momma finishing a nursing session, walking outside to check on brothers, and to her joy, a gift is presented to her.

A grubby little man hands to her… a pinecone. Not just any pine cone.. a very special, decorated pine cone. A pinecone with half of said toddler’s poop squished into it. I say half because I later found the rest. It had rocks and sticks stuck in it.  

Sweet.

Thanks little man. I will just save this trinket to hang on this year’s Christmas tree. I think that will be your special ornament. Maybe Mommy could even stick a date on it. 

Memories.

So I think I have updated you to the best of my ability. 

I mean in between the crazy there has been so many hugs and kisses. So many sweet brother moments. So much wrestling.

This transition to three has been-

Messy.

Chaotic.

Overwhelming.

A little gross,

But

Completely Wonderful.

I am going to do my best to keep you updated with our journey, but sometimes you may just get a ramble. Because that is all that is left in my brain. And I guess for now, that just has to be alright.

Thanks for listening friend.

 

 

 

 

A Tale of Helga- I Gave Birth to Goliath

Sorry for the absence, but I have been running a circus over at my house trying to figure out how to take care of three kids 4 and under. In case you have not heard…

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I did it. I gave birth to my beautiful not-so-little boy.

Hayden Blaine entered the world on June 25, 2017… weighing in at 10 pounds 3 ounces and a whopping 23 inches. The first measurement was 24 inches, but the midwife had the nurse measure again because… no way.

His head and chest measured in at 16 inches, and I was informed that apparently the average head is 13/14 inches and chest 12/13. Suffice to say Hayden is a big boy.

I was kept blissfully (sorta) unaware of the fact that my large, posterior (sunny side up) baby was quite the topic in the hallways while I was attempting to birth him. It was a long, hard labor. I had a nurse who fought successfully to keep me from a c-section (God bless her), and many bets were made about how big this kid was. The midwife would come in, feel my belly, and look at me with a look of pity. “Big boy” was a common comment.

When my water broke the nurse said she didn’t need towels.. she needed blankets.

So ya… with a ton of fluid and a goliath baby… upon entry to the hospital I was pretty much as big as a house.

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At 34 weeks they knew he was 7 pounds. For most ladies, this size would garner a discussion about induction.

Not for me.

Nope.

Not this delicate flower.

I am a viking woman.

Apparently, the doctor saw that these Scandinavian hips were made to carry life.

Push out a 11 lb baby?

Psh.. look at her.. she can do it.

I am Helga. Hear me roar.

An interesting thing happens when you give birth to a child the size of the average two month old. Somehow the social etiquette of strangers asking about your lady parts goes away. Once I reveal how big he was, I can see their eyes shift downwards and start to burn as they begin to internally process the moral quandary about whether or not it is appropriate to ask about what went on down there.

Ya I basically gave birth to the average can of paint or a large house cat.. how do you think it went?

When I was at my oldest son’s 4 year check up the doctor asked me how old my baby was:

Me: “A month.”

Doctor: “Wow. Wow. How big was he?”

Me: “10 lbs 3 oz and 23 in”

Doctor with big eyes: ” Oh wow… did you.. did you.. you know?”

Me: “Give birth naturally?”

Doctor: ” Um ya?’ *Stares at newborn baby the size of a 3 month old*

Me: “Yup”

Silence.

Silence.

Awkward. Silence.

Doctor: ” Oh wow. Well… I guess the other two just paved the way for him.”

Sure lady. Thank you for that. You know I could probably birth a teenager by the fourth baby.

And you can just duplicate this conversation over and over with other strangers, but add in some V tearing questions.

I mean I do not think it is completely normal for complete strangers to ask the state of your lady parts… or to have concern for their recovery… but hey.. maybe I will start being awkward too.

“Oh ya… we are all good… the next baby will probably just fall out.”

“I turned down stitches because I plan on giving birth to twins on the next go and pushing them out at the same time.”

“How am I doing? Pretty good, but you should ask my husband.”

Ok. Ok. I will stop.

We love our Hayden Bug. He was worth it all.

I also really love this blog and love to write. Feel free to add some suggestions as to what I should write about or any suggestions for this space. I want to create a space for dialogue about being a woman, a mother, a wife… with humor, laughter, and love. I would so appreciate your help in getting there!

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PHOTOS COURTESY OF ANGIE KLEIN OF REELS OF JOY PHOTOGRAPHY

 

Poopageddon- A True Story

SO I have been on a writing hiatus for the past six months. 

Less than a month after my miscarriage I discovered that I was expecting again. I am now 7 1/2 months pregnant with a precious baby boy. I took the last six months off from writing because I felt like my heart needed a season of silence as I worked through my grief, anxiety, and joy.

The last six months have been filled with many ups and downs, tears and laughs, and two growing boys who give me a run for my money everyday. I can’t wait to catch you all up on the many stories I have accrued during this time.

 Today I would like to share with you an experience I had during this past sick season… one I assure you I will never forget. Enjoy. 

I did it.

I laid both the boys down in the same room for nap time… or quiet time. Take your pick. I didn’t care what they did actually. Sleep or play, they were banished to their room so that we could all get some rest. Their pregnant Mamma was tired, and it was time for some silence. Putting them in separate rooms had created more tears so I decided that they could just enjoy their nap time together. I did not have the energy to do anything otherwise.

After laying the boys down, I relaxed on the couch ready to enjoy some Netflix and alone time. I basked in the quiet. When your life is full of noise- roars, grunts, growls, robots, animals, or even the occasional pirates- the sound of silence is so thick, so fluffy, you can almost wrap your arms around it and use it as a pillow.

I enjoyed this peace for all  of twenty minutes. 

That is when I heard a door open and the shuffled steps of a little one coming down the stairs. Hudsy was on the move.  I saw his face peak around the corner a few minutes later. I decided I would not make a big deal out of it and just let him play. His brother had apparently fallen asleep so at least I vanquished one.

But then I smelled something.

Great. A poopy diaper. I did not feel like changing a poopy diaper. I silently thanked the heavens that Holden had finally conquered his fear of defecating on the toilet, and used this gratitude to get off the couch to  change his brother’s diaper.c30ef99afdc6833cb6f6e1a50ebca8d4

I noticed Hudsy looked dirty, and I thought that was odd. I did not remember him being so dirty when I laid him down.

“Guess we will be having bath time for sure tonight” I thought to myself as I gagged trying to get his diaper off. But when I got the diaper off there was nothing in it.

NOTHING.

No. Please. For the Love. No.

Deep down I knew that was not dirt all over his hands and on his face. I looked closer. One thing I did know was that this “dirt” most certainly was the cause of the smell.

Did he find a dirty diaper to play with upstairs? What the heck? He was way too old for that. He has not done that in like.. six months.. at least. 

Gulping down my frustration I hurried upstairs to hunt down the dirty diaper and whatever mess its little finder had made.

When I could not find it in any of the other rooms, I slowly opened the door to the boy’s room, and it hit me.

The smell.

The smell always hits you first. 

No.

No.

This was not a dirty diaper incident…

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… before me lay a wasteland of feces.

Someone had gotten explosive diarrhea. 

I tried to piece together what had happened in this war zone.

I saw the starting point. A brown puddle on the floor now smeared on the wall.

I saw that the child, in a desperate attempt to clean himself, had taken off his pants and underwear. He had fallen over in the process and gotten it all over his bed on the ground. He decided that this would be a good time to try to clean the area and himself up… with his blankets.

At some point he was standing again and had another attack. It squirted onto the bookshelf and his books. He must have been horrified. As he walked, apparently while defecating the Nile river, he spread his feces over his play mat, toys, on to the mirror, and even into the closet. This was getting impressive.

Another puddle.

But where was this poor sick soldier?

Finally I made it to the desk, and it was underneath that desk that I found Holden huddled, covering another brown swamp of his creation. This is where it had ended. The last explosion had gone off here, and he had hunkered down over it.. afraid and covered in his own poop.

I looked around. I looked at all the smeared poop. Holden’s sphincter had impressive reach and breadth. Apparently I was not the only one who admired this because his little brother had decided to use this brown liquid as a type of paint- face, body, and all other manners of paint.

It was a Apoopcolypse. Poopageddon. War of Feces. Battle of the Butt. D(iarrhea)-Day.

I picked poor Holden up from under that desk and assured him that he was not in trouble and that sometimes we get sick- but when that happens we need to call for Mommy so she can help.

I took both boys and put them in the bathtub. While washing them I even found poop behind their ears. How is that even possible? 

Next, I surveyed the wasteland that was their room. How was I going to clean all this off without vomiting everywhere? That was key. When I called Taylor he had said he would help. So I decided that I was going  to play the pregnancy card, and Taylor was going to have to clean the carpets. I could not be in that room with that stench for an extended period of time.

But I would take care of the rest.

I gathered up the play mat, toys, blankets, and clothes into a basket and brought them to the front yard. I took the hose and hosed down all my poop covered belongings right there on my front lawn. My neighbors have seen my children use our lawn as a toilet multiple times so I figured this would not be surprising at all.

“Hey Paul, how’s it going? Going good over here. Just fertilizing the lawn with Holden’s poop. Oh you know… the usual.”

I would like you to know that it took three runs of the carpet steamer to get the poop stains out. Taylor was a saint and scrubbed that carpet. Also, Holden now knows that when he breathes fire out of his booty he must yell for Mommy before little brother decides to have his own personal art festival. Hudsy did not learn anything except that it is possible for Mommy to laugh and cry at the same time.

And Mommy has yet another memory to laugh at for many years to come.

 

A Tale of Miscarriage: Sharing in Joy and Sharing in Grief

I prayed for my baby.

My family, friends, and I prayed for this baby.

My baby.

The decision to have another child had come easy. Taylor and I thought we had wanted to wait until the next year to try for a little one. We thought maybe we needed a bit of a break, but on the way home from a family beach trip, I had this overwhelming sense that it was time. I looked over at my Tay and told him. I knew he had wanted to wait so I was unsure what his reaction would be. Would I need to wait awhile until he was ready?

His reaction was classic Taylor: simple, secure, and full of hope and love. He thought for a moment, smiled, and replied with a “Let’s do it”. He was ready, my partner in adventure, always willing to grab my hand and jump.

We sat silently for a moment relishing in our excitement over a new bundle. Boy? Girl? Who would this number 3 be?

I could not contain the excitement when I saw those two pink lines. Like I did with the other two, I told everyone within a matter of days.

A baby.

My baby.

Our baby.

Holden would rub my tummy and tell me it was a “Baby Doy/Dirl”. My family and friends all rejoiced with us when we told them the news. A prayer had been answered.

A baby. Living. Growing. Baby.

The morning I began the process of losing my baby I had a playdate planned at my house with a large group of women. My mom was in Mexico, I was on the verge of a panic attack, and I was minutes away from welcoming women (some who I did not know too well) into my home.

I began to text and call. Friends came to play hostess and make sure that Taylor was able to take me to the hospital. My sister in law came and told me she would stay as long as she needed to to watch the boys. My pastor’s wife called and prayed with me. My aunts left work and drove to the hospital to be with me because my Mom was out of the country. My sister left school and did not leave my side those next few days.

That whole weekend felt like I was frozen in a space of impending doom. I started to miscarry Thursday and did not officially find out I had lost the baby until Monday. I attended a lifelong friend’s wedding that weekend and enjoyed visiting with old friends while trying to ignore the fact that my heart was breaking.

It was a beautiful wedding.

I had been looking forward to that weekend for a very long time. It definitely provided the distraction I needed while I was waiting on the official diagnosis. I prayed fervently. I begged everyone I knew to pray. But deep down, I knew.

Spontaneous Abortion.

My body had betrayed me. I felt like I had been robbed of my innocence. My blind hope raped. Something precious had been stolen from me, and I would never be the same. I was angry. I was sad. I was anxious. I hurt.

I cried out to the Lord… and He answered.

He answered by carrying me through the fire.

I cannot explain it, but at times I felt like I was sitting in a dark, cold pit, seemingly all alone, and then suddenly there was warmth. I was being hugged and comforted in the midst of my despair.

In Psalm 34:18 it says, “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

I know this to be true because I experienced it.

He answered with the big hug that was my community. 6a06eca627b15cf92a6bb9aea7ec8467

My parents spent time with the boys, Tay, and I. They got me a necklace in memory of my baby. One sister in law took me shopping and the other bought me wine and candy. My sister sat in bed with me an entire day. My other siblings called me often. My father in law held me and prayed with me while I cried. My mother in law offered to watch the boys. After returning from their honeymoon, my friends brought me wine and flowers. Out of state family emailed, called, and texted condolences.

The same women who had prayed for my baby now prayed for my heart. Calls and texts to check in… they listened to me. They offered to take the kids. They sent handwritten notes. They hugged me. They brought me flowers and chocolate. They shared their stories of loss. I even made new friends.

They VALIDATED my loss, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Just the other day a friend hid a present in my trunk and when I opened it I found a handmade sign that I had been wanting, but didn’t possess the talent to make it or the money to buy it.

These people were the hands and feet of Jesus for me.

They had shared in my joy and now they shared in my grief.

Because I told.

Because I told them about you, my precious baby.

My precious little one, you were known. 

I wait anxiously for the day I get to hold you. I don’t know if I will get to count your toes or your fingers, but I know I will know you.

We loved you for seven weeks in my tummy and forever in heaven.

My little bean.

My little one.

My momentary hope.

My forever love.

My baby.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note- I realize that some people are very private or they keep their community small and thats ok! Please understand that this is a post to thank those who have loved me well, as well as a post to let women know that it is ok to talk about a pregnancy before week 12. But guess what… if that is outside your comfort zone that is ok too! Tell a few, tell a lot, you are the boss.  In summary, my personal opinion is that, in my experience, it is important to have a couple people you can tell (a spouse, a relative, a friend) so that they can love, support, and rejoice with you in the early stages of pregnancy no matter what the outcome.

Also, there is something I have observed in my own, as well in others, dealings with grief. I have found that there are always people who say awkward, non comforting things or people who don’t say anything at all. Shoot, I have been one of those people. I would encourage anyone that is grieving to give grace. Some people don’t know what to say, have a hard time with grief, don’t understand, or just don’t know. That doesn’t mean they love you any less! If it bothers you greatly, talk to them about it. Ten bucks says they never meant to hurt your feelings. Better yet, just let it go. There is no reason to add more hurt and a little bitterness to your plate. Love always wins. Grace always wins.

And if you need a friend or someone to talk to, I am always here. 

 

 

 

 

The Talent That Should Have Stayed Hidden: Annie’s Tale of Yodeling

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My eighteen year old sister Annie is tremendously talented. She is classically trained in the piano and violin. She takes voice lessons. She does worship at our church. She is fluent in sign language, and has translated for different events. When she was 8, she attempted to teach herself french. I think she has a 5.0 in high school. You get the point. She is awesome. So when she told me she was going to write a college entrance essay on a talent… these are the things I thought she would talk about. Then she told me she wanted to talk about her not-so-hidden talent. I knew this was going to be good.
You see… Annie yodels.
And since she is the youngest of four, we have made sure that everyone knows about this secret talent since she was little.
Here is that story in her words:  
A talent is usually thought of as an ability a person is proud of. This, unfortunately, has not always been always been my experience. In my oh-so tragic case, I developed a talent when I was too
young, too naive, to know it would plague me my whole teenage life.
Growing up, my world was filled with music. I started playing the violin when I was six,
followed by the piano at twelve. I grew up in a large Scandinavian family that often gathered
together. At each one, my grandma would sit at the piano and play old folk songs as her children
and grandchildren would all gather around and sing along. We would sing, and a select few
would yodel.
I was fascinated by the sound of yodeling. How they could crack their voices so
fast and with so much control, over and over, incorporating harmonies into their melodies,
flawlessly flowing from one riff to the next. It was so different than any other form of singing I
had ever heard. So I decided I would learn it. I would learn to yodel.
I downloaded a yodeling song, sat in my closet, and practiced flipping my voice. Yodelay-
*crack*-hee-*crack*. I tried to hide from all my older siblings, but there was no hiding the new
sounds I was making. Not only did they have to hear me screech away on the violin, but now I
was practicing yodeling, a sound that resembled a young boy in the trenches of puberty
attempting to sing a tune.
Finally, when I was probably twelve, I had done it. I had learned to
yodel. In the euphoria of my accomplishment, I remained blissfully unaware of the pandora’s box I had opened.
Every time someone came to the house to visit, a well-meaning family member would
have to mention my unique talent. “Did you know Annie could yodel?” followed by a “Annie, you
should show them.” This was the moment I always dreaded. The moment I just wanted to stick
my head in the sand and disappear.
“Great, now they too will see me as the awkward youngest child who obviously has no friends so she taught herself to yodel”.
It had seemed cool to me when I was ten, but not so much as a prepubescent teenager. Furthermore, as the youngest of four, I had become the showdog to all my sibling’s cool high school friends and their families.
Relatively shy and quiet, I turned about every shade of pink as my big sister would instruct mescreen-shot-2016-10-20-at-8-41-00-am
to yodel for all her friends on the football team. Even when all my siblings went to college, this
talent still followed me. Somehow my boyfriend’s family learned I could yodel, and all was lost. I
was soon yodeling at every one of their family gatherings. I am not exaggerating about this.
EVERY. ONE.
Just the introduction to his immediate and extended family that I had always wanted.
“Meet my girlfriend, Helga the Songbird, want to hear her yodel?”
People think they know what yodeling sounds like. They think they are prepared, but I am
telling you they are not. The look of complete bewilderment and surprise has never failed to
grace the faces of those watching my timid performance, always followed by a display of delight
and laughter. Though it felt slightly painful and very humiliating, people always seemed
pleasantly surprised and impressed by my yodeling.
These many experiences of feeling like a carnival act may have felt mortifying in the
moment, but they have shaped me into the woman I am. I learned to embrace a unique part of
my heritage. I overcame my timidity and fear of standing out. I have grown to be much more
confident and secure in my individuality. But above all, I learned not to take myself too seriously.
Helga the Songbird reigns forevermore. 

Monday Mom Talk- No Pants, No worries

screen-shot-2016-10-17-at-8-06-01-amFor this Monday’s Mom Talk, I want to talk about pants.

I have decided that my boys will grow up believing that one of the greatest injustices of their young childhood was that their mother made them wear pants. How two children 19 months apart can both hate the same thing so passionately will forever boggle my mind.

Have you ever tried to put pants on a baby who hates pants?

Imagine trying to stick a live fish you just caught into a sock, and that should give you a pretty good idea of what I go through every morning. You would think that having to somehow change a diaper while pinning the boys’ hands down so they don’t grab themselves would be punishment enough, but no, the changing table gods have decided that I must also have the pleasure of trying to get two flailing legs into two separate holes every time we go out in public.

There are times I have seriously contemplated leaving the boys looking like mermaids, with both legs in one pant leg, all day as punishment for defying my outfit choices. But I am merciful.

The other day my husband walked into a restaurant ahead of me with the baby. I was getting something out of the car so it took me a minute to walk in. When I walked into the restaurant, looked around the room, and found my family, what did I see? I saw my child sitting pantsless in the high chair.
The dialogue went as follows:

“Why is our child not wearing any pants?”

“He didn’t want to.”

Ya I bet he didn’t.

“So… Why is our child not wearing any pants? Furthermore, why is he pantsless at a restaurant? He looks motherless.”

“Someday he won’t be able to go out in public and not wear pants. Let him enjoy it now while he can.”

What?

That’s a thing?

I had only one response to this statement.

“Soo you wish you could still go pantsless in public?”

All I got was a smile.

 

 

 

How about you? Do your kids struggle with any particular clothing item? Do you? 😉

Panic! At the Library: A Tale of Dinos, Naps, and Fiction

In the weeks following my loss, I have made an effort to try and stay busy with the kids. In doing so, I have rediscovered an old love: the library.

On my drive to this magical place I daydreamed about my kids quietly thumbing through picture books as I sat cross legged next to them immersed in a book of my own.

Peace.

Quiet.

Escape.

Library.

All things I needed in my life.

Except who was I kidding? And what imaginary children was I envisioning?

On our first trip, we were all in awe of the kid’s section. I had never been to such a magical place. My boys excitedly ran around and pointed at all the teddy bear and pumpkin decor. We all squealed with delight when we realized that they had a toy section with dinosaurs and puzzles. Books, dinos, and happy kids? Sign me up. I only spent about half the time there chasing the boys through the book stacks so overall we were doing pretty good.

Every so often I would sneak a peak at the adult’s section of the library, daydreaming of being alone with those books. But today was a day for the kids, so we played and attempted to read in the big hot air balloon that was the kid’s room.

Take Two.

I was having a rough day, and Holden had just woken Hudson up from his nap. Irritated and not feeling like being home, I made the bright to decision to load them up, un-napped, and head to the magical place called the library. “For toddlers, they did decently well last time… why not?”

Why not? HA.

Hudson started crying the moment I got him out of the car. That should have been my sign. But like the Xena Warrior Princess that I am I continued on.

Who wouldn’t want to take two cranky toddlers to the quietest place on earth? I did not care. I needed to find a book for myself.

The kids darted for the kid’s room as soon as we entered the library. I looked longingly at the stacks of books. Somewhere in there held a novel with my name on it. I couldn’t wait to disappear into its pages.

These thoughts were interrupted by Hudson screaming at the top of his lungs. Someone had stolen his dinosaur. Panic ensued as that child started screaming. The silence that engulfed the library was now filled with sounds from a horror movie.

Quickly the other mother and I separated our screaming toddlers and gave each other the “I am so sorry” glare and our kids the “I will destroy you if you don’t be quiet” glare. It is an interesting procedure, tying to silence a screaming child without uttering a sound yourself. Kids really need a mute button, but I digress.

After this incident, nothing I did could get Hudsy to calm down. The kid just needed a nap, and I, in my determination to get a book, was ignoring the signs.

In my effort to calm Hudsy, I had lost track of Holden. While trying to tried reading Hudsy a book, I was interrupted by the sounds of Holden methodically taking books out of the bookshelf and throwing them on the ground. He was in search of a “racedar book”.

I could no longer ignore that we were the worst library attendees. Ever.

So I did what any mother would do. I took a deep breath, I picked up some kids books, and headed for the main desk. My kids started to sob. Why would they want to leave this magical cave of silence where they could hear themselves so well. I had interrupted their growling and roaring contest. Bad Mom.

As I was desperately dragging my children to the front, I saw that the library had some fiction they had featured on the wall close to the desk. The heavens parted, and I knew this was my chance. I desperately began to look at covers. I almost started to look for descriptions of the books when my kids started to play with the ropes in the library line. Time was of the essence, and I knew I had to move fast. I grabbed a couple novels that either had cool titles or cool covers.

Like a ninja, I practically threw the kid’s books and my newly chosen books at the poor lady, all the while grabbing my kids off of the ropes.

The whole time she was trying to do her thing I was desperately trying to silently scare my children into obedience. I have never willed fire out of my eyes before, but at that moment I wished that my children could see dangerous things in my eyes.

Finally, we were checked out, and I made a dash for the exit like a thief in the night.

Never again.

Later that night, I sat down to enjoy the books I had grabbed. It was then that I discovered that I had accidentally grabbed some highly pornographic erotic fiction.

I hope that the librarian got a nice giggle out of that in between checking out “Big Boys Use the Potty” and “Diffendoofer Day”.

Lesson learned: Next time Mommy wants a book for herself she is going to go by herself, or she is going to buy herself a kindle.  

 

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