Oh, it’s such a Perfect Day everyday at our house, just like Lou Reed sings (one of my absolute favorite songs); OK, maybe his song was about love, or the beginnings of fresh love was my feeling, but the way he sings it stimulates all those perfect less-than-wakeful moments from my mind that are made up of feelings and sensations rather than details and events. Fantasies. And so it is fantasy that as a mother of triplets (or as a former non-mother, for that matter) I’m laid back, patient, and chilled, but I thank you for your compliments, dear dear readers. I do try for all these things, and maybe we do indeed have our hands full as millions repeatedly tell us, although I still get a funny look on my face when I get the, oh it must be so awful, so glad it’s not me-related comments, since, honestly, I feel like I'm disappointing by not really relating horror stories. (At these times I’m usually thinking, do you know how lucky we are to have one child, let alone triplets!?) Rough days or moments happen, they do indeed, but it’s the perfect moments that matter and we have our hands full of these.
Clinginess, fights, biting, crankiness, sleepless nights, tantrums, willfulness, we get it all, but not usually x3 in a single moment. But man, we get that too! But why complain or fight it? We knew these days would come. Yeah, sometimes I lose it just a little, need a time-out, get that ugly mean-mama grimace, wanna scream, but I expected that too. But maybe you’re right about me, because things like laundry and ripped furniture aren’t the things to worry about. Unless my child is facing illness or otherwise serious problems, I can’t complain, I can only be grateful that my boys have adventure, mobility, and imagination; that they have each other and we have them.
I think sometimes being a triplet is more stressful than parenting triplets. How unfair that one brother never experiences undivided attention since the moment of conception. It perhaps hits Bereket the hardest who really hates sharing and wishes everybody would leave his car alone. If it gets bad and he really can't take it, he stays swaddled in my sling, sometimes grasping a meaningless object, just to claim something as his very own. He doesn’t like being trampled on so much either, so I’m happy to see the boys wrestling Tsega to the ground and taking horsey rides on him, not Bereket, because the big guy can take it. Hopefully soon I’ll catch their conga line dance on video as well.
I'll remind myself of this post and the perfect days next time that grimace shows up. . . like when we're cuddling before bed reading books, when the boys mimic animal sounds, sing, and dance; when they hug each other or give us a kiss, and when they're making each other laugh, playing happily together, or tickling each other's feet; when they're copying each other, inventing new games, running round the house, or finding new ways to unite and solve challenges. . .
Tickle, tickle, tickle.
They hug books to sleep rather than stuffed animals.
"Boo!"
Ring the bell.
Fun house.
