Getting kind of down to the wire on Christmas shopping… and Sarah & Jen had someone land on Momalom by Googling “gift for mother of three boys.” Obviously there’s a need for some assistance out there. And I am here to serve. I’ve compiled a list of things that might be helpful, trying to take into account a variety of tastes and budgets. The Mother of Three Boys in your life will be thrilled to find any of the following under the tree on Christmas morning.

Holiday Gift Guide for Mothers of Three Boys

Pink. Anything pink, because there is a good chance that there is nothing pink in her entire home. Bubble gum. Handcuffs. Cadillac. Use your imagination. Just get it in pink. Cost: $0.59 and up.

The Idiot’s Guide to Pokemon and Bakugan and All Those Other Stupid-Ass Trading Card Games with Weird Japanese Cartoon Characters that Elementary-School-Age Boys Love. These games make absolutely no sense to adults. Or females. Cost: paperback $16.95; e-book $9.99.

Plane Tickets. To anywhere, provided they are one-way. Cost: $87 and up, plus about $302 in airline fees.

Four-Shooter Rotating Liquor Dispenser. I know, I said I didn’t want this. But as I thought about it, I realized it was The Perfect Gift for a totally strung-out mother who has three boys running around shooting Nerf guns and farting all the time. Cost: $17.88, plus booze.

Valium Salt Lick. I stole this directly from The Kitchen Witch, because it is an awesome idea. You could also get a Junior size, guaranteed to chill those boys the hell out. If you get both this and the liquor dispenser, you might urge her to exercise caution in using both simultaneously.  Cost: No idea. Maybe a little pricey. Couldn’t tell you what Valium is going for these days.

Georgia O’Keeffe Print. Let’s just say it: there are a lot of penises in her house. This might provide a little balance. And if you don’t understand this one, I’m not gonna explain it. Cost: $22.99; $129.03 framed.

Noise Cancelling Headphones. All she wants is a little peace and quiet, without the constant roar of boy-children yelling out of anger. Or joy. Or hunger. Whatever. Get her a pair of these and she’ll be able to relax no matter what’s going on. (Disclaimer: not responsible if mother fails to hear screams when boy cuts off his brother’s hand with a chainsaw.) Cost: $27.68-399.99.

Imaginary Bullet-Proof Vest. To protect her from all the imaginary bullets that the firearm-obsessed little Rambos are constantly shooting from their imaginary guns. Cost: Free.

Prostitute. For him, not her. To satisfy whatever needs he may have. Because when she goes to bed at night, all she wants to do is sleep. Trust me on this one. Cost: Varies by region. Check Craigslist for current rates in your area. I would advise you to avoid bargain-basement prices, however.

Bathroom Renovation. Toilet training one boy makes your bathroom disgusting. Toilet training two boys makes it unusable except in emergencies. Toilet training three boys results in the need for a floor-to-ceiling decontamination, and requires the use of biohazard suits to enter. Reclaim your home and gut the bathroom. Cost: I dunno. Probably at least a couple grand.

A Year’s Supply of Air Freshener. In case the renovation isn’t in your budget. Cost: $168.

So there are just a few ideas to get you started. Ho. Ho. Ho.

(Oh, and many apologies for the rampant gender stereotypes in this post. In my defense, there is a reason for most of those stereotypes. I know this for a fact.)

That thing I wrote the other day about not knowing if I regret having a daughter… remember that?

This is my fear (rational or not) about raising boys exclusively: I just don’t think, eventually, that I will understand them entirely. They are going to grow up with a different cultural reference than I have. There will come a day that Jeff will implicitly understand something about their maleness, and I will feel confused and left out.

Actually I think that day may have already come. On Wednesday, to be precise.

Within about an hour on Wednesday evening the boys:

· Used colored pencils as guns and ran around pretending to shoot each other (including the toddler);

· Upon being told that wasn’t safe, turned the pencils into swords and swash-buckled around the house;

· Rearranged the furniture (these are the same kids who claim they aren’t strong enough to carry in groceries, by the way), thus transforming the living room into an indoor football arena, and played a full-contact game with a regulation-sized football, using the Christmas tree as a goal-post;

· Cranked up the stereo and flattened an enormous cardboard box which they used as a dance floor, which was totally fine until they

· Turned dancing into a game called “Push Each Other Off The Box,” whereupon Caleb—at a distinct size disadvantage—was plowed into a wall and started crying;

· Turned the sofa into their personal stunt-man-training-facility, which also resulted in Caleb crying. And bleeding;

· Placed the flattened box at the top of the stairs and helped Caleb lay down on it and said something about “…sledding!” and were clearly planning on launching the poor baby to his death until I intervened.

They accomplished this destruction in under one hour.

The sledding incident pushed me over the edge. I may have yelled. Okay, I did yell.

And Jensen, offended at being told (in nicer words of course) that he was a complete bonehead, threw up his hands and rolled his eyes and said, “But, Mom, there isn’t anything to do that doesn’t involve hurting each other!”

I fell into stunned silence and looked at Jeff with pleading eyes. “What is wrong with your children?” I asked silently. And he smiled. And shrugged. And he understood them with absolute clarity. I was the only one not in the loop.

It has happened.

I am not a morning person.

This is perhaps an understatement.

But I get up early to beat the child-rush and to quietly come to grips with consciousness, and after 15 minutes and a cup of coffee I’m good. Sometimes I even like being up.

I sit at the table (coffee in hand) and watch the deck get brighter as the sun comes up. And the daylight brings the birds to the feeders. And if I’m really lucky, Evan will creep down the stairs and crawl up on my lap and watch with me.

“Mom,” he’ll whisper, “there’s a mother red-bellied woodpecker.” Except he says, “muddah wed-bellied woodpeckew,” and part of me hopes he never corrects his pronunciation.

Evan is my bird boy.

With Jensen, it’s football. We sit and watch football for hours and may not even speak a word and we are content. Together. I used to do the same with my dad. I didn’t even understand the game. But I sat next to Dad and watched him watch and I was satisfied. The memory still makes me smile.

I don’t know what Caleb will be. But I know that we will share something that will make us both happy to the center of our beings.

And if whatever he is requires me to get up early, so be it. I will do it.

Because that is love.

I’ve been out of the workforce for a few years. I have a college degree or  two and have some strong experience in my field. But if I were to try to piece together a marketable resume today, I’d be in trouble. Because “2004-Present: Butt-wiper” isn’t going to get me too many interviews.

I’m going to start calling myself a Human Waste Manager. Or maybe a Waste Behavior Specialist. Because dealing with toilet-training issues takes up a good portion of my day, and I may as well adopt a title that reflects that.

Take yesterday evening, for instance.  Poor little Evan was having a great time playing outside. Such a great time, as a matter of fact, that he forgot to come inside to go to the bathroom. He made a valiant last-minute dash, but alas… was too late. I heard a heart-rending cry of disappointment from the garage, and raced to find a puddle on the floor and a devastated little boy with soggy shorts. I went into crisis-management mode, trying to simultaneously comfort Evan, make sure he didn’t track pee into the house, and barricade the puddle so that nobody else ran into the garage and slipped in the mess. (Such a talent may or may not translate well into the workplace.)

He showered (an adventure in itself), and we decided to bathe Caleb while we were at it. I stripped him down and the little punk, who is a few days shy of 20 months old, waddled over to the toilet, lifted the seat, and did his best to imitate his big brothers. He made it abundantly clear that he wanted to use the toilet. My heart sank.

I hate potty-training. Hate it. It is the hardest parental task I have ever undertaken. I would have a million Sex Talks with my kids, would breastfeed indefinitely, would change diapers for the next 25 years… all before I would willingly undertake this last potty-training.

But I can’t really justify not potty-training the poor kid so we got out Caleb’s brand-new potty chair. (In our home, each child gets his own new potty chair. Because after teaching a little boy directional pee control, those chairs qualify as weapons of mass destruction and really should be incinerated so as not to pose a genuine threat to public health and national security.) He sat on it for a while and looked cute and then Jeff plopped him in the tub. Where Caleb immediately peed. Of course. (He probably drank a fair amount of contaminated bath water, too, but I left Jeff in charge and didn’t witness it.)

To summarize: Evan, who is potty-trained, peed all over the garage. Caleb, who is not potty-trained, seems like maybe he wants to be. It took a good 45 minutes to deal with the implications of their bathroom adventures last night. I perform some variation on this waste control at least a couple of times a day (don’t forget last week’s Case of the Mysterious Footprints), and probably will for several more years. Several more years of making sure all the pee and poop winds up in the correct place. Several more years of cleaning up all the stuff that doesn’t make it into the right place. Several more years of decontaminating the biohazardous bathroom where all their pee-related crimes against humanity occur. (I just threw up a little in my mouth.)

Along with being a master of preschool arts and crafts and my so-so (but improving) Guitar Hero skills, this is what I have to recommend me for a  job. It seems a little underwhelming. Something tells me I’m better off just staying unemployed.

Because this morning Jeff and Evan took me to their super-top-secret-wild-blackberry-picking place.

And because one of my very favorite childhood memories is picking berries with my grandma.

And also because I understand so very well that I can’t take moments like these for granted.

And, finally, because there is nothing in this whole world quite like a fresh berry. Also, there is nothing– nothing– as precious as my little boys, who smell of sleep and sunshine and fresh morning air.

The stuff has to be from outer space. It gives me chills. And it’s growing in our front yard. This yellow, spongy fungus stuff is taking over my yard and I’m more than a little scared that it’s going to abduct my children. So I asked Jeff to take some photos of it, so that when the kids go missing we’ll have something to show the FBI as evidence. Simple enough. And when Jeff told me he took the photos, I said “Thanks. I’ll look at them later.”

I checked the camera today, to look at the pictures of the fungus. Turns out he took pictures of some other stuff, too. Lots of other stuff. 359 pictures worth of other stuff, to be exact. Guess who gets to download and sort all 359 of them? It ain’t him, that’s a fact. So it is that I find myself sorting through all his photos today and cursing him under my breath.

But then I stop cursing and just look. Because his photos? Are beautiful.

(This is the yellow stuff in my yard. Is it not creepy?)

And so I sort through the photos and am overwhelmed at the treasures I am finding, at the quiet beauty my quiet husband sees in the world. And I am realizing all over again how much I love him. I’m already feeling sentimental, when I find this picture, and my heart leaps into my throat. Because this makes me happier than I can even imagine being.

And puppydog tails.

[steps up on soapbox. clears throat. meekly begins speaking.]

Shortly after my sister adopted her son, she called me. He was almost nine months old and he wasn’t sleeping. Aren’t babies who are that old supposed to sleep all night? What were they supposed to do? Some books said they should go in and comfort him when he fussed. Some books said they should go in but not pick him up. Some books said they should sleep with him. Some books said they shouldn’t go into his room at all. And each book not only offered its own method, it said that other methods were wrong. Just plain wrong.

Thus began my sister’s hazing into the cut-throat and slippery world of parenting. It is a judgemental world revealed in pediatricians’ offices and at playgroups and in hot-topic parenting books that outline a clear path to a perfect child. Parenting is easy, if you follow the advice you read and are told. But there is a catch. There is something that no doctor or book or well-meaning experienced mother will tell you. It is impossible to do it right. It is impossible to be a good parent.

When I had one kid, I read some parenting books. When I had two kids, I kept a couple of parenting books around for reference. Now that I have three kids, I’m not sure we even own a parenting book. We get by on children’s Tylenol, occasional phone calls to the doctor, our own judgement, and maybe a drink when things get dicey. There is the occasional day when my kid misses the bus and I have to drive him to school while I’m still in pajamas and I forget to brush my teeth and I take my other son to preschool looking like a freshly-bathed cat and the baby has crayon all over his face and other parents look at me and think I am incompetent and then later all the kids simultaneously start whining before dinner and when Jeff finally comes home I don’t even bother to say “hello” because I am too busy heading to the beer fridge to get a drink or three. There are days when I slam my kid’s hand in the car door. There are days when I have to take the baby to the emergency room. There are days when I am a bad mother.

And I have been judged. I have been judged for breast-feeding for too long. And for not breast-feeding long enough. For letting a child share our bed until he was quite old. And for making all of our kids sleep in their own beds. And for shopping at the natural foods store. And for not shopping there enough. And for swearing. And for not swearing enough (because, you know, that means I’m uptight). For letting my kids eat too much junk food. And for being too strict with what they eat. For working and putting my kid in daycare. And, later, for being a stay-at-home mother. I have been criticized for all of the above. And more. Much more. Just as everyone feels free to pat a pregnant woman’s belly, everyone feels free to comment on a mother’s mothering choices. My parenting is, apparently, everyone’s business.

I make some bad choices. And I make some good choices. And some days I feel so defeated that I don’t make any choices at all. No different than just about anyone. It is life. It is parenting.

And so the media has identified this embracing of “bad” parenting as a trend among parent-bloggers. I don’t know anything about it except that, as usual, the journalists are a little late to the party (and so am I, with this post). And as far as I’m concerned, I’m following a much more significant trend. I am a mother in a sea of mothers. We dare to hope for the best for our kids, try to find our way to that goal, and hope to survive until we get there. It isn’t always pretty and it’s almost never perfect, and maybe– just maybe– we should focus our energies on something other than criticizing each other’s choices. In the end, I am a mother, trying to identify the mother in myself and hoping to also recognize myself in motherhood. Good, bad, or in between, this is what I’m doing.

[steps down from soapbox. tells kids it is time to turn off tv.]

The exhaustion is delicious. It is deep in my muscles and my bones and I hold my baby boy against my chest and let his warmth melt into my tiredness until I can’t tell which is which. He nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck and I breathe in his sweet smell of milk and baby shampoo and sleep and I bury my face in his angel curls and let the fatigue claim me. I fall asleep holding my baby close.

I am awakened by a loud noise. I struggle to open my eyes and shake the sleepiness and I realize the baby no longer rests on my chest. It is cold where his body used to be. Disoriented, I look for the source of the sound that awakened me and see a restless boy, a boy with longish arms and legs and a thin body and a sun-browned face that has outgrown its baby fat. And he doesn’t smell of baby’s breath; instead he is gamey, ripe with sweat and outdoors and boyhood, but it is a smell that I instinctively love. This is the one: the one who made the noise that woke me to reality. He raises his curly head and smiles at me and my heart recognizes the eyes, the dimples, the smile.

He is my baby.

And my baby who is no longer a baby (but is he still mine? yes, and always, and please let this never change) smiles more broadly and says that he is going to play ball and that he’ll be back for dinner and then he bounds out the door with other boys who are growing into themselves quickly, too quickly, and he is gone.

And again I am tired. Motherhood is needy and her constant demands for unattainable perfection have left me exhausted yet again. I do not think there is enough sleep in the world to satiate her. My eyelids are heavy but this time I am scared and will not let rest come. Because I do not know. I do not know if I will recognize him when I awaken. I do not know if he will be here.

Sometimes motherhood hurts. I’m not speaking metaphorically or spiritually or anything. No literary device. I mean it physically hurts.

Like growing a human being inside your own human being: this hurts. And birthing them? No news here: it hurts. Cracked and bleeding nipples from new breastfeeding? Hurt. Mastitis? Also hurts. Having a handful of hair ripped from your scalp by a baby? Painful. Being knocked in the head with a cast-iron skillet by a curious toddler? Not so good. (Yes, this happened to me. Long story.) Lip split open on impact with a laughing child’s skull? Yeah. It all heals. But it all hurts. I’m not going to buffer that statement by saying, “But it’s worth every second of the pain because I’d go through anything for these little angels because I am the Best and Most Selfless Mommy Ever.”  I’m not so good at the Merry Martyr stuff.

Because today, this week, I hurt. My back? It. Hurts.

Last night I asked Jeff to ice it, but then he had to touch it to put the ice on it and then he had to peel me off the ceiling because didn’t he know that it hurt?! and then I swore at him for a good 10 minutes for not being sensitive to my pain. (He may or may not deserve a medal for living with me.) I cannot sleep for more than a short time and I cannot find a comfortable position in which to just be and I’m walking around half-upright, half-not because my back will not straighten. This is not a good look for me, by the way.

Today motherhood hurts so badly that I am going to the doctor. Who will tell me that I have a pinched nerve. Who will tell me not to lift anything , which is the dumbest advice one can give to a mother. And I will come home and promptly lift my 26-pound toddler because there is no other choice.

But the doctor will also give me a prescription for muscle relaxers and maybe some steroids and maybe some narcotics and after the kids are all tucked safely into bed I will take them and my back will probably still hurt but for the next few hours I will not care. Tomorrow I’ll get up and do it all over again and it will still hurt but I’ll have the bedtime medications to look forward to and maybe in another week it won’t hurt anymore. And that’s just the way it is right now, no martyrdom intended.

Am exhausted.

And not in a “oh, life is just so busy and I’m just plumb wore out and so happy and isn’t life good?” way. I’m exhausted in a “life in the form of three children wrestled me to the ground and sucked all semblance of motivation out through my nose and left me for dead” way.

Can. Not. Move.

This weekend we went to Pediatric Lollapalooza (that wasn’t the name of it, but that’s what it was, minus the intoxication and tattoos) and got really hot and played in fountains and ate ice cream and watched They Might Be Giants and some other fun bands* and stayed too late. And the next day we layered more sunscreen onto our sticky bodies and went back out into the sun to a gigantic barbeque competition where we ate our weight in pork ribs and beef ribs and brisket and chicken and some other meat and washed it all down with snowcones and somehow managed to drag our stuffed and burned selves home.

Throw in an extremely fun aunt and a pathologically energetic uncle (but I mean that in a good way, Greg) and an illegally adorable cousin and me losing my cell phone and me contracting a food-borne illness (shocking, I know, given our eating patterns over the weekend) and probably some other stuff I’m forgetting, and you know what?

It was awesome. Sure: today I feel defeated and lifeless. But I would do the weekend again in a heartbeat. Because that’s what parenthood is.

________________

*Fun bands to which middle-aged, suburban fathers who used to fancy themselves iconoclastic danced with reckless abandon, using their toddlers as excuses to get down. These are the same fathers who were too cool (or uptight) to dance with their brides at their own weddings, even after many bottles of champagne. I am not bitter. I am just saying.

**There is no second footnote, but because I included the first footnote I feel like I need to give credit to Literal Dan, the (exceptionally witty) parent-blogger who actually invented the asterisk. It’s true. I read it on Wikipedia. Or something.