My freedom only cost me 5 slices of cheese.

There were about ten things my mom drilled into my subconscious as a chitlin.

1.) boys only want one thing.
2.) your home represents you, if your home is dirty that means you are dirty.
3.) fake it till you make it.

I'll spare you this time from sitting through my entire therapy session on why I am the way that I am. So forget the whole list and only focus on #2.

Clean! Clean! Clean! That was my life. If I wanted to go out, better clean up first. If I wanted to have people over, better scrub. If I wanted s new shirt...or to make a sandwich...or to go check the mail....you get it. "Did you clean" was my dream killer. With all that cleaning, you'd think I'd have OCD, instead I have HIN. Hide IT Now. Junk drawer, trash, closet, another junk drawer...I didn't learn to clean, I learned how to make it appear clean. I probably just got confused between #2 and #3 on momma's list.

However, what I did become obsessive about is....people coming to my house. I stress about it. I need at least 2 weeks notice before someone comes over just so I can organize the medicines in the medicine cabinet (because I know nosey people look there!) or rearrange the furniture or hang updated pictures on the wall. I KNOW how horrible that is. I could run the gamut on sistah-girlfriend-talk here. "You can't let what other people think affect you"..."Perfection will kill you"..."Just DO YOU"..

I know...I'm working on it.

Back to the cheese.

We're in the middle of moving, which means everything is a huge mess. I'm in the middle of needing a touch up, which means I'm a hot mess. And guess what happens...

Ding Dong.

You gotta be shitting me.

Nope...Ding Dong again.

Its my neighbor. I hesitate to open the door because I was just cleaning out the kitchen and I have flour all over my shirt (mishap), I have on mismatched shorts, my hair is in uneven pigtails and the living room had become a breeding ground for unfolded clothes and boxes and shoes searching for their mate. Sigh...

I answer anyway because its my neighbor and I want to be neighborly...afterall, what would he think of me if I didn't answer the door? There I go again...

Me: Hey
Apt 4: Hey, sorry to bother you (his eyes are trying to stay focused on me and not the mess or the baby running around in a basketball jersey and no pants because he ran away too fast when I was trying to change him) but could you spare like 5 pieces of sliced cheese?
Me: Sure..

Cheese exchanges hands. Thanks are given. Door is closed.

For the next 5 minutes I start talking loudly like a jackass by the front door about PACKING and MOVING and THIS HOUSE IS SO MESSY BECAUSE I'M PACKING...you get the idea. I want him to hear me so that he knows I'm not messy...I'm moving! And then I catch myself.

I'm still alive. The walls did not crumble. My skin didn't break out in hives. I'm still here and I'm still me, albeit a tad embarrassed, but I'm here and living on. Life moved past that uncomfortable moment of shame. All these years I've been scared to death for someone to see my house in its "natural" state, when its not staged. I don't know what I thought would happen, but it didn't.

Which reminded me of what someone once said to me:

"You wouldn't be so concerned about what people thought if only you knew how little they think of you."

Five stinkin slices of American cheese....that's all it took to break the spell? Who knew!

And...what do I have to be ashamed about? I'm not the one borrowing "spare" cheese. Umph!

"Get to it now or I'll get to you"

I say. Feel mighty with parental powers. All those years of being on the receiving end of the "or else"s and now I am the master of my domain.

And you know what my child says?

A1: Are you threatening me, sloth?

Yes, she called me a sloth. But I couldn't be anymore proud that my 5 year old knew the proper usage of threatening. She asked me what it meant on Saturday while watching Ice Age 2 (hence why she called me sloth) and here four days later and she's using it like a pro!

I quickly slapped her and then smiled wide when I walked away, humbled by at her intelligence.

I'm kidding. I only smiled in my head. >:-p

(no, actually I am just kidding....calm down.)

While the whole world sleeps...

Well not the whole world, just my world. My 3 A's are all bundled up in their beds taking a nap. I hope. It's quiet, so I assume they are actually going to nap this time. But they've been known to stuff towels under the door to muffle their maddness. Tricky Hobbits.

Big A made it back in one piece from DC. Didn't rain, sleet or snow up there, despite my evil incantations. But he did say that he had a horrible time (lie!) because he was worried about us. The days following Saturday ended up being uneventful. No hospital visits, no major melt downs, no tantrums. I was still worn out though. Again, I give it up to you single super mommas out there. Because I had no one to bitch to (that's usually Big A's job, to listen) I started to become numb. I felt on auto pilot emotionally. Every time he called I would rush to get off the phone because I didn't want to really ruin his trip with my bullshit.Yet, I found solace in blaming him for not being here to help me. It got me through my day. I channeled all my weakness into hate and was amazed at how much more energy I had to give to the A's when it was dinner time. Doesn't that sound ass backwards? I was energized by hate... I wonder if that's how it works with the women doing on their own...? By Sunday at midnight I was hatching plans in my head to be MIA on Monday when he arrived. I was going to leave my cellphone home and take the kids to the park, then their Dr's appt, then to the movies, then to lunch, then to Disneyland, then Mars and anything else that I could squeeze into the day to make it longer before we got home. I laid there Sunday on a pallet I made on my Mom's living room floor (we spent the night at her house) morphing all my hate into revenge plans. I wanted him to see what it felt like to be alone. I wanted him to see how important we are. How important I am. Yes, I know and knew that he was fully aware of our importance, but hate is illogical. Mostly, I wanted to avoid making eye contact with him because I wasn't sure if I'd love him the same when he came back. I wasn't sure if I could turn the numbness off. As if love could just turn off like that, right? Basically, I WAS TRIPPIN.

Scorpios are vengeful. We hurt deep for the slightest reasons and we bite back aiming for the throat. You step on my toe and I'll want to cut off your foot. I know this and I try desperately to not give into that feeling. Like I've said in a previous post, there's always a moment...as cliche as it sounds there's always that fork in the road.

Monday morning comes and the A's and I get breakfast to go and eat it at the park. Funny that by Monday I feel in complete control. I managed to get every little body dressed without a fight. Combed three heads of hair (mine included), got out of the house on time and even beat the heat so that breakfast at the play ground was actually enjoyable. I was proud of myself and felt ready to execute the "Make Him Pay" mission.

A little back story here before we continue.

..Oh damn A3 is talking in his crib. Let me try to hurry this up.

Sweat still fresh on our naked bodies. We're tangled in bed. This is previous to marriage, to babies, to even living together. More so, this was the first time we had even had sex. Yes..the conversation will sound strange to you because I haven't told you the back back back story about how we met. Or the forward forward story about how I moved from Boston to Baltimore to be with him only 1 month after this conversation. But one day I will...

Me: I want a baby.
Big A: A baby?
Me: A baby....with you.

I remember him pausing. His hands were behind his head. I was laying on his chest. This is a vivid memory. He was staring at the ceiling. His free hand was cradling me close.

Big A: Would you ever take my child away from me?
Me: Of course not, that's when I would need you most.
Big A: Okay then, let's do it.

And so began the year long hump-a-thon to make A1.

I tell this back story because you need to understand what I understood sitting at the playground watching A1 and A2 chase each other around the play structure, and while I watched A3 waddle through groups of 5 & 6 year olds who don't look down when they run. Big A lives for his kids. They are the reason he comes straight home from work. The butterflies in his stomach when he pulls around the corner. His children are his world. His main concern has always been "don't take my kids away from me"....and here I was ready to unleash the beast and disappear for a few hours in limbo unable to be reached on the day he just gets back into town from missing his kids for 4 days.

I knew this and still I decided to go along with my idea. After the park was the doctor's office to check on A3's breathing. If we got the all clear, we were headed out to do any and every thing I could think of. And so it was...we got the clear! It was almost 12:00PM, and Big A's plane was set to arrive at 12:40. I promised the girls we'd get milkshakes if they didn't tear down the exam room and they didn't so we were in the drive thru of Arby's to fulfill my bribe. Driving off, everyone was smiles. First stop was going to be the movies to watch Surf's Up (which I didn't like!) and stuff our bodies with popcorn and skittles.

Then the moment hit me, before even leaving the parking lot. I am about to hurt the person who I promised to never hurt. This action could cause a permanent riff between us. This "mission" could be the one doesn't end, like Iraq. <-- that was a forced analogy, I apologize. But yeah, I always said I would rather myself hurt than to every see him hurt. And I never wanted to be that baby momma who withheld her kids as ransom to get back at the father for not doing what she wanted.

So..we ended up driving to the airport. We were there when he walked out behind the security blockade. I swear I saw him well up at the sight of us. He wasn't expecting us to be there. He had his car in the overnight parking garage, so he thought he'd just see us at home. He told me later that he had hoped we'd be there. I later told him what I was going to do....because that's who we are. Open and honest about even the ugly shit.

Everything I felt, every ill feeling I harbored, melted the minute I saw him walk down the stairs. He was not this horrible absentee father who left me to take care of everything on my own over the weekend. He was the man I married. The man I fell in love with in one conversation 7 years ago. He was the father I wish I had. The man who just went on a well deserved mini vacation. Again, I was trippin. I watched the girls run up to him screaming "Daddy!", A3 tried to run but ended up falling, pushing himself back up and walking up to Big A's leg with his arms stretched upwards. Big A knelled down and had three kids wrapped around him, taking up all his space. What a beautiful sight it was. A father and his children. We were all together again and suddenly in a flash everything was right.

There's always a moment. And I'm glad I chose the kids over my selfishness because we ended up having an incredible day at the movies with Big A.

Of course I want to write something to all the mothers out there who are using children as pawns to teach their fathers' a lesson...of course I wanna plead with you to make it right and make it work somehow for the babies because they don't know nor are they interested in what YOUR issue is with him. Of course, I want to tell you that every child deserves the right to decide for themselves whether they want their father in their lives or not...they deserve the right to see and judge their fathers under their own circumstances and not with your eyes and words and your experience. Of course I want to say all that...but I know it doesn't make a difference to hear it...and sometimes there are other circumstances. But..if you can...think beyond that moment. And think beyond the hurt.

Message!

Hahaha.

You must know that I am a knows-it-all and will try to give everyone advice. You don't gotta adhere to it..just hear me out.

Update: A3 went back to sleep and the girls have come out twice already, with non-sleeping eyes, to ask if its "morning time yet"...I predict that I have about 3 more minutes of me time. Whatever shall I do with myself?

"This goes out to all my baby mamas" - Fantasia

Yesterday's blog made me realize something..

Single mothers do the damn thing every day all day.

So, Happy Father's Day to you ladies.

I'm a sorter.

I fancy sorting clothes for the wash. Folded leg, silence and three target spots for each category. By the door, by the wall, by the closet. Boom. Boom. Boom. I become the Mickey Mantle of laundry. Quickly I make mountains into molehills in the hallway. Moving swiftly but with concentration. Speed plays a key part in my ritual. Every other care that would usually enter my mind is pushed out by: dark, whites, lights, mine, kids, his. Without speed my mind will wander. And, one misstep, one random worry about bills or futures and that lone red sock will sneak it's way into a bundled up white shirt.

I'm sure this doesn't make for interesting blog reading, but it's life @ 8:21 on a day from hell.

I am a worrier. An over thinker. Hopeful but pessimistic. I'm the girl who sees a glass and it's neither of the classic "half empty" or "half full"...I would sit and worry if the glass was properly cleaned (read: fear of germs), which would lead me to wonder if I turned the dishwasher on already, which would lead me to calculate the light bill into the adjusted budget, which would lead me to think why do I need to revise the budget again & when will I learn that "this amount left" means just that..not "maybe there's something more to squeeze in here". Within minutes, an innocent thought turns to a downward spiral & for the rest of the night I'm ruined.

Ruined. How dramatic of me.

Sorting is simple. I like simple. Or rather, I like the idea of simple. Truthfully, I live by the school of thought that says life requires a healthy (and sometimes an unhealthy) dose of complications and snags to make it much more interesting. I should learn to value peace over entertainment..but I'm an American born in the microwave generation. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.


So today...

Big A decides that this weekend, which contains father's day, last t-ball game, the end of the season t-ball party and the last weekend to pack before we move, is the perfect weekend to go on vacation. Gee...thanks! To be fair (in case he stumbles upon this), he did plan this out weeks ago and he only planned for this weekend because a college friend was getting married and the wedding was in his hometown (DC). I know his love for DC is a close second to his love for me, so dutiful wife (that's me) urges him to go and enjoy himself. But now that dutiful wife hopes it rains, snows and hails this weekend, while he's not in the sky mind you. That's pure evil, ain't it?

Today was hell, in case you didn't hear me before. A3 is sick. Not just sniffle sniffle cough cough sick. But every 4 hours needing a breathing treatment, not sleeping through the night, can't get down and run without wheezing sick. If you have a kid with asthma I know you feel me. But the misery only begins there. He's sick, I'm the coach of t-ball without an assistant coach to take over in my absence and my mom (my lone baby sitter) is NOT off today.

Me: Mom? (the question mark is to emphasis the sound of whinning...I'm an only child. So yeah, sometimes I whine to my mom.)
Mom: Yes?
Me: Can you.....
Mom: Of course, but....

And so it is. I can make it to the game and the party but as Cinderella because in 3 hours my baby sitter will turn into a nagging old lady (rightfully so, she has to go to work) and I must beat the clock. Did I mention that, beyond coaching, I still had to pick up the cupcakes from Target AND take someone lunch AND set up the room AND make it from the van to the banquet room without dropping everything because A2 can't pick up a bag due to the fact all of them, including the one with just CHIPS, is "too hebby" for her. UGH.

But I made. Made it all happen. In 90 plus degree weather nonetheless. Not one dropped bag, not one undone task, not one kid forgotten on the field and not one person there knew how deeply exhausted and hurt and horrible I felt inside. I did however come back home a little late. by 20 minutes to be exact.

^ That above is a confession from a person who hates to claim weakness. I hate for anyone to think, let alone SEE me need help. Shoot, I hate to see myself need help. But whenever the task is pulled off as a complete success....guess who sits in front of her computer far from rejoicing? There's no triumphant moment. No fanfare or trumpets at the finish line. This is just another day that Mom has to be Mom.

You know what I did when I got home? After I put the party girls to sleep and gave A3 his meds and watched my mom drive off....

I sorted clothes.

Darks, whites, lights.
Mine, kids, his.
Don't think. Don't worry. Don't cry.

Just keep sorting.

marriage is overrated.

A1 is a sponge & I know that everyone's child is a sponge, but allow me to think that my child is the most sponge-est just for the sake of this blog. It helps with the flow of thoughts...thanks.

"You let them watch that?" she says. She being one of my childless friends. That being Harry Potter baby-sitting the A-team.

Me: What are they supposed to watch?
No-Kid: I don't know...like Little Mermaid or something.
Me: Today they decided to watch Harry Potter.
No-Kid: Oh.

That was not an "Ok, I understand" Oh...but more of an "I'll be a better parent than you one day" Oh. The difference was loud and clear. I wasn't mad at all. In fact, I wanted to laugh. But more than that, I wanted to fast forward life and then laugh. I wanted to record the conversation, fill some sperm in a turkey baster, jab it up her Oh and then play the tape at her baby's 3rd birthday party. You know...nothing too evil or extreme. Just something to prove a point.

So...how does this tie into the hype around marriage and A1 being a sponge?

Everyone is dressed except me, as usual. And I've discovered that the best way to get ready without having to kiss a boo-boo or break up a fight or re-do someone's hair or find a new shirt for someone who has spilled juice all over themselves....is by putting in a dvd.

Wait a second, I'm getting ahead of myself and the story won't make sense in this order.

A1: Mommy, I love Andre.
Me: Does he love you?
A1: I don't know yet because he keeps running away from me.
Me: Do you think his running away from you means he doesn't love you?
A1: He won't know I'm his true love until he kisses me.

I don't flinch. Why? Because flinching means something is bad and bad quickly turns to taboo and taboo morphs into "that must be a good thing Mommy is trying to keep from me". I have nerves of steel dealing with this kids now. Flinch and its over. I'd be a cold beast at poker I bet.

Me: Does that make you sad?
A1: Yes because if he doesn't kiss me i won't find my true love.
Me: Why do you need a true love?
A1: Because I want to get married.
Me: Do you know what happens with marriage?
A1: You love each other and kiss each other.
Me: *I start to rethink kissing Big A in front of the kids now* Okay...but you know what else happens? You can't be selfish anymore. You can't decide to do whatever YOU want because you have to always consider the other person's feelings as well.
A1: Okay *I can tell that part just went over her head..*
Me: For example, what if Andre doesn't like going swimming? But you want to always go swimming and he gets mad because he doesn't like for you to always leave him home. Are you going to stop swimming for him?

She doesn't have an answer so I see this as the Achilles heel of the conversation...

Me: You know what is even better than finding your true love?
A1: What?
Me: Finding your true passion.
A1: *Again, over her head*
Me: Besides Andre, what else do you love?
A1: Mommy and Daddy and A2 and sometimes A3 when he's not hitting me in the face
Me: Okay, but what else do you love? Is there anything you love doing?

She thinks. I'm ready to go in for the kill and start hacking away at all this Disney princess bullshit that attacks the psyche of every little girl. The true loves, the happy ever afters, the singing crab/mouse/birds and the fairy godmothers (never the real mothers!).

A1: I like building houses with my blocks. But A3 always knocks them down.
Me: Do you know that when you grow up you could build houses that A3 can't knock down?
A1: I can?
Me: Yep but you've got to go to college first to learn how to do it,
A1: And then what?
Me: Then you can build your dream house, as big or as small as you'd like it to be.
A1: I'm gonna build a big pink house for me with 55 rooms. What kind of house do you want me to build for you?
Me: Anything you build for me I'll love.

She runs off to her room to get her blocks. And I make a point of not complaining about her spreading the blocks all over the living room. She's not making a mess.....she's building a dream.

Back to the previous story.

I need to get ready & its A1's turn to pick the dvd. She doesn't bring Little Mermaid or Cinderilla or Beauty and the Beast. She brings Harry Potter because she likes how he's going to school to learn about magic.

I explain none of this to No-Kid McClueless, I just make a mental note to buy her future daughter a Disney box set......and wait.

I'm patient.

I love your breasts, Mommy.

A2 stands proudly when these words come out of her mouth with clarity. She has a lisp and gets irate when she has to repeat her words. Luckily for me I understood her the first go round. Typically though, she's a loving child who lives to give compliments. And generally speaking, I love to receive them..

Here's the "but"....

When my darling, ever caring, wonderfully thoughtful daughter presents me with her gracious appreciation...she is no where near my breasts. In fact, I am standing up and she is standing in front of me (barely 36 inches tall) with her tiny little hands jiggling my....stomach.

Ugh.

The c-section pouch, the couch. I could rent this space to two or three NICU preemies should they ever run out of isolettes at Huntsville Hospital. Maybe I should patent that idea. I'll brainstorm on that later.

Back to me, the couch and A2.

For a moment, I'm stunned. Hurt actually. I've been working out four days a week. I've been "thinking thin", counting calories and even making plea bargains with the universe (ala "The Secret"). I've lost weight damn it, that's what I kept thinking while looking down at her grinning face. She's waiting for me to respond. I want to scream something foul in the kitchen. Curse out the cookies, fist fight the java chip ice cream cartons, talk shit about the chicken nuggets mother and had a girlscout been close I might have snatched off her badges in this fit of rage. But there was just me & A2. And, she's not a girlscout yet.

I take a moment.

I'm raising daughters. I have to remind myself of that fact when I look in the mirror in the morning sans shirt (and bra) or when I step on the scale and feel overwhelmed by motherhood. I can not go racing through the house wailing "Oh My God, I'm FAT!" ...though I imagine there's some sort of therapy in that notion. I can't cry or cringe at the sight of my reflection. The zig zag pattern of stretch marks, the love/hate handles, the after effect of breast feeding, the "couch". These are not scars from a war, but the accolades from birthing the scientist who cures cancer or the future ambassador who unifies the world. This "couch" is the pillow A1-A3 lay upon when they are sick. These love/hate handles are the cushion for little heads to lean against for a sense of security. These now sagging breasts are evidence that I am a real life super hero. And these stretch marks..well those are a post-it notes from beyond telling me that a mother of 3 should not be wearing belly shirts out in public.

Sometimes, you've gotta check yourself.

How will I be able to teach the A's to love themselves entirely, slight flaws and all, if I'm brushing my teeth in the dark to avoid the mirror. Which, I've tried before and ended up with a mouthful of prescription diaper rash cream.

There's always that moment...the second you have before responding. The space in time where you decide to either freak the hell out or ride the wave. And, since I've always thought it would be cool to learn to surf I simply responding by saying:

"That's Mommy's belly, silly"

And again, with all the clarity in the world, she turns to me and says..

"I love your belly too, Mommy"


I can only hope she grows to love her own as well.

You're not a writer, you're a mom.

So says A1.

side note here: I have A1 (girl, 5), A2 (girl, 4) and A3 ( finally a boy, 14 months).

We're sitting at the table eating a hodge-podge breakfast of oatmeal, Eggos and applesause, my half ass effort to make it healthy. A1 and A2 fight over which one of them can be a firefighter (or as A2 says it a "fighterfighter") when they grow up, as if only one person per family is allowed the prestigious spot. I don't interrupt, I'm learning to pick my battles and allow them to duke it out on their own. I only play referee if I see blood...and even then it has to be a certain amount.

A2: Forget it then. I don't want to be no stinkin fighterfighter anymore.
A1: *strikes a victorious pose*
A2: I'll just be what Mommy is when I growed up.
A1: Fine.

a precious but fleeting silent moment passes before..

A1: Mommy, what are you?

To understand my answer you'd have to know my back story. I was once before a glorious career-minded, ball busting wanna-be ankle-deep in college courses & tuition. And, because of the latter (and because of love, if I'm being honest), I became a glorious excuse making lazy bum web designer who was less "designer" and more insomniac internet addict who needed another title to fill the gap between unemployed and "stay at home lover". He ( Big A) gave me free range to figure out my dreams, all while in the comfort of our cozy ghetto apartment (Baltimore City living) with plenty of snacks, great music and 8 hours of boredom. And what did I discover of myself during this period? I could write.I quickly outgrew jeans. What else? My transcripts were blocked, stopping me from trying to transfer to another school, meaning my ball-busting business student title could no longer apply...and my web designs were constantly a work in progress because of dial up...so this new fangled title of "writer" just seem to fit perfectly. Exhale.

Me: A writer.

It's a comfy little title that I can always run to in a pinch. I liken it to my favorite tee-shirt. When all other outfits seem too boring or too revealing or too "I'm trying too hard"....I dig in my drawer for that one simple gray hanes t-shirt that slips over my head with ease and makes everything in life feel right again. That's what the job title of "writer" does for me whenever Big A and I are out at a company picnic or the company Christmas party. So, ummm, what do you do? Never fails, someone corners me and my insecurities of not finishing college to attack me ask me to explain what I've become in life. I'm a writer. I would get an eyebrow raise. Sometimes even a "wow" would manage to slip through tight lips. Then I'd look for a quick reason to escape...just in case more questions were in the barrel.

Remember all that spare time I had, the 8 hours of boredom, free range to follow dreams? Well boredom took over and so did hormones and scientific experiments to test out which of our two genes would prove to be dominant. Read: We had lots of sex and we're I'm competitive. Due to nature and throwing pennies in wishing wells, a year later I became a mom. Then quickly after, a mom of 2. Then after three years and a slight case of amnesia, a mom of 3 with tied (& retied & padlocked & hopefully burned into ashes) tubes. Perhaps I threw too many pennies in the wishing at once?

I was happy to have a new title, though. This was one that I wouldn't have to run from explaining. I knew I could weave in and out of conversations with ease because I became a member of the stretch mark society. I imagined we'd sit and compare diaherra tales and breast feeding mishaps. Being a mom was the ultimate job in my "fresh from L&D" eyes. I knew I'd be a great mom. I'm playful, imaginative, quick on my feet with responses, I love cookies and I know CPR. How much more would it require of me, I thought. I was right and wrong. I turned out to be a damn good mom. But I underestimated what taking the title of mom entails. How easily mom becomes "just a mom". How getting a gift card for your birthday becomes getting a giftcard that you'll buy baby clothes with. How relinquishing the last bite of every cookie to your baby birds becomes a fact of dessert eating. The title makes you a self-less shadow of you're former self...if you let it. And I did just that.

JeezyCrizzy...am I still talking? Moral of the story...I was (see above) then turned to (see about the middle) then somewhere along the way I became "just a mom" and the title depressed me..so I became "just a writing mom". But don't be surprised if you overhear me at the next picnic say "I'm a writer"...

Back to A1 & A2.

A1: You're not a writer, you're a mom.
Me: I'm both.
A1: What did you write?
Me: A book of poems and journal entries.
A1: Can you read it to me?
Me: One day...
A1: Is it good?
Me: I think so..
A1: I bet it is.

We share the same smile. Weak dimple on the right, deep dimple on the left of our faces, making our smiles crooked. Her curiosity is satisfied for a moment. I enjoy the succulent second of shush.

A1: So, you're a good writer and a good mom, hunh?
Me: I guess so..
A1: I want to be that too.
A2: *taking a break from the snowman she's building out of lumpy cold oatmeal* No I said I want to be like Mommy already.
A1: No, you be a fire fighter, I want to be like Mommy.
A2: I don't want to be a fighterfighter, I want to be my Mommy.

A3 joins the commotion with his cries, face covered in oatmeal. I assume he wants juice.

But maybe he wants to be a Mommy/Writer too.