The following are frequent comments hurled at me and my boys when we’re out together…

1. “Oh My! Three boys. Mom, you sure have your hands full!”

2. “Oh, poor Mom. You sure drew the short end of the stick, didn’t you?”

3. “All those boys…I don’t know how you do it.”

4. “Here comes trouble!”

5. “So how many times a day do you want to kill yourself?”

OK, OK, that last one I’ve only heard ONE time but I think it’s worth a spot on the list of Comments Made about Boys…and trust me, I doubt that person will ever say that to anyone again. Usually, I just kind of smile or laugh along, as if I’ve never heard any of this before and how clever of someone to point out, like for the 5,000th time that yes, I do indeed have three boys. #5, though, I found incredibly offensive, especially because it was spoken in the presence of my three boys, two of whom were old enough to understand the meaning behind the words. I said something like, “What a horrible thing to say in front of my boys!” The person, a woman, by the way, and probably a mom to SOMEBODY, got the point and had nothing else to say, and if she walked away feeling more than a little dumb, then I feel more than a little satisfied.

Why does everyone assume that all boys are homicidal maniacs? Why does everyone assume that I am or should be disappointed that I don’t have a daughter? Why does everyone assume that my life would be easier with three girls or at least one girl?

Actually, what I want to know is…does this happen to other moms? Other moms of boys? Other moms of three girls? Other moms of three kids, mixed genders? Other moms of any number of kids? Dads with three girls? I’m curious.

Your thoughts please…

I have to vacuum my tub before I can use it.

Before you ponder all of the disgusting reasons why that might be, let me explain.

Allie has a pet gerbil.  Her name is Mrs. Gabbit (Allie made up the name and I adore it!  It sounds like a nanny!)  Well, Mrs. Gabbit apparently loves plastic as much as I love chocolate.  Or, perhaps she really hates her cage.  Because every night, around 10pm, she begins eating her way out of her cage.  She eats her cage.

Not only is this midly shocking, it is LOUD!  Her tough gerbil teeth gnaw gnaw gnaw, pick pick pick, shake shake shake her cage for HOURS!

So now, part of our nightly routine is to take her entire cage and put it into the bathtub and shut the bathroom door.

In the  morning, however, her bedding — little pieces of cedar — are strewn all over the tub!  So, I must move the cage back to the girls’ room, get the vacuum cleaner out, and vacuum the tub.

Every stinking morning.

(OK, avid readers of this blog know that I don’t actually SHOWER every morning, but I do have to vacuum the tub every morning because we can’t have those !@#$ cedar chips clogging up the works.)

The other day, I was vacuuming the tub at 6am and my husband walked by and stopped. We exchanged a look that seemed to say, “We’ve completely lost control,” and then he continued on with his morning.

A real mom knows the birth date of all of her children. She knows all of their allergies, their likes and dislikes. She knows the date of every major illness or injury ever sustained by each child. Real moms know their child’s height and weight, shoe size, and even shirt and pant sizes according to individual manufacturer’s sizing. Real moms know their children’s dreams and aspirations, she knows their fears and phobias. She knows what upsets each child, and she knows how to calm each one down. She can recognize her child’s voice shouting ‘Mom’ in a crowded room full of moms and children. Real moms can keep track of dates for all of the ball games and band concerts and coordinate it with her own work and household schedules.

A real mom know the names of the family doctor and dentist. She knows which child gets how much medicine at what time. She knows all the names, addresses and phone numbers for all of her children’s friends, as well as their parents names and work numbers.

In fact you could say that a real mom’s memory is quite exceptional if it weren’t for the teenie, tiny issue all real mom’s seem to have with their own childrens names.

“Mom~ I’m Zack, not Gabe”

“How many times have I told you not to argue with me? If I say you’re Gabe then dang it, you’re Gabe!”

I have 5 children. Most times I have to go through the entire roll-call before I get the right name. And those stinkers will ignore me until I use their name, even if they know exactly who I mean.

But this real mom has a real solution.

Name tags!

Every now and then, I get emails from other moms who have gone through, still are going through, a postpartum mood disorder.  Every single one has told me that they thought they were unique, mostly alone, often dismissed by people they know.  A common response, which also happens to be as debilitating as it is condescending, is “You just need to focus on the good things in your life. Be positive!”. 

The problem with a mood disorder, or at least one of them (there happen to be a few drawbacks), is it’s often very difficult to diagnose.  One way to see what’s wrong is to observe how a person responds to their initial medication.  While this sounds inocuous enough, what it really amounts to is spending months, even years, being experimented upon with different drugs, many of which can make the symptoms of a mood disorder more severe.  For instance, after every anti-depressant I took, I had a period where I got better, more than better- fantastic, excited, motivated, annoyed with the slowness of everyone else.  Then, I’d crash. On to another pill.  My therapist and doctor both told me the average time to determine a diagnosis, especially in a postpartum situation, is FIVE YEARS.  That’s half a decade of doubt, anger, despair, inadequacy, confusion, terror and even ridicule. 

Then, of course, on top of it all, there is the baby.  You cannot, as a reasonable person, blame an eight pound bundle of warmth and helplessness for something totally out of its control.  But it sneaks in nonetheless.  Before your pregnancy, you were ok.  Maybe not great sometimes, but it wasn’t like this.  Then, with the flip of a chemical and hormonal switch, your world falls apart. Ignoring the coincidence of motherhood and the loss of your most basic foundation, yourself, would be difficult in the best of times, and these are not the best of times.

I was lucky.  LUCKY.  My diagnosis only took 18 months, two hospitalizations and less rotating medications, barely, than I can count on my fingers.  When I fell, I hit a net of doctors, therapists, family and friends.  Some of these women with whom I’ve spoken not only have no net, but are still falling, no ground in sight. 

I am, for the most part, stabilized.   I know what symptoms are beyond my control, when it’s time to check back in for my official help.  This week I’ve been down, detached, overwhelmed.  Sunrise felt like a dawning battle knowing I’d walk through the hours, both on the verge of tears and the edge of completely blowing up at those around me (re: my children).  Quite frankly, though, compared to my bad moments last year, this week was cake.  Why?  Because I knew what to do. 

Minimize responsibilities, fall back on my strict routine.  Turn off extraneous stress: sounds, lights, computer, television, social pressure.  Drink barrels of water, move my body as much as I can manage.  And, of course, the most important thing- tell someone who knows.  My husband’s first question is always, “What can I do?” followed by, “I love you”.  The validation in those simple words is impossible to convey completely. 

What it means is that he doesn’t doubt me.  There is no under-lying judgement or implication that I am weak or irritation that I won’t just snap out of it.  Knowing that at least one person in this whole world (though I have many more than one) believes in my need for help is such an infinite relief, something which in and of itself begins to pull me through to the other side. 

I am LUCKY.  I know that I am not the only one. I know about being dismissed and under-treated, misdiagnosed and experimented upon, flying high on false fantasies and collapsing nearly fatally low.  I know the utter relief of finally feeling normal and, with a wealth of comparison, recognizing what “normal” actually is for me.

I am not the only one.  And you, those few I hear from and those countless others locked in silence?  You are not the only one, either. If there is nothing else, I hope that helps.

When I got up to get Silas this morning, Saadia was already in bed with me. It was still a little early, so Silas and I laid back down for a little while. When it was time to get up, I took him and went into the kitchen to get milk. I didn’t want to leave him in bed with Saadia because she was still sleeping and I didn’t want him to bother her. When the milk was ready, we went back into my room and woke Saadia up. I laid the boy down then went to get Saniya, but she wasn’t in her bed. She wasn’t in Saadia’s bed. She wasn’t on the floor. She wasn’t behind the door. She wasn’t anywhere. I called her name and she didn’t answer. I screamed her name and she didn’t answer. I went into my room to ask Saadia if she saw her sister when she got out of bed during the night and she said she didn’t remember. My heart was pounding! I called and called and looked everywhere! I checked closets that I know she can’t open, and under the beds where I know she can’t fit. I was freaking out!!  

Finally I heard a little noise, and some moaning. I ran to the other side of my bed expecting to see her on the floor in the corner, but she wasn’t there. I heard the noise again, this time a little louder. Silas and Saadia were looking at me like I was crazy (I probably did look a wee bit psycho!!). A little nervous, Silas crawled over to me and stood up. When he moved, I noticed that the blankets underneath him moved, so I pulled them back. There was Saniya sound asleep. She was completely under the covers, near the foot of the bed. If Silas hadn’t been sitting on her, causing her to make a little noise and move, I probably would have called 911, and looked like a complete ass!

I think it was probably only about 2 minutes before I found her, but I swear it took about 20 years off my life.