In fact, it’s not his fault. If there’s anyone to blame for the larger-than-desired number, I’d blame the twins. I was fit and happy with myself when I got pregnant with them six years ago. I had just completed my first (only) half-marathon and was in a size 8 (in one pair of jeans). While pregnant with Thing 1 and Thing 2, I gained 52 pounds. My doctor had given me a range of 40-50 pounds, so I was pretty happy with that number. After having those two little bodies pulled out of mine, I pretty quickly dropped back to within about 10 p0unds of my pre-pregnancy weight. Then I weaned the little tykes but unfortunately, I didn’t wean myself from the extra 300-500 calories a day I’d gotten so accustomed to while first pregnant and then breastfeeding. Slowly but surely, the weight crept back on.

Or I could blame my husband who is still the exact same size he’s been since he was a freshman in high school. And still manages to eat a bowl of ice cream every night. EVERY night. Ice cream with whipped cream and chocolate syrup. Sometimes I hate him.

I can’t blame myself. I didn’t make myself eat 2500 calories a day. No. Not me.

Anyway. I guess it’s time for some gut wrenchingly honest numbers. When I got pregnant with the twins, I weighed 160 pounds. Which is technically on the high-end of normal for someone of my height, but I’ve always been pretty muscular. Like I said, I was happy with the way I looked then and wasn’t so concerned with numbers. I just wanted to feel good about myself and fit nicely in my clothes.

Four years after having Mac and Omi, I still struggled with an extra 20 pounds, which, if you’re keeping track (and if you’re a woman, I know you are) put me at 180. Way past the high-end of normal and bordering on the obese side. I wore a size 14. I was incredibly unhappy with my body, but not unhappy enough to give up ice cream and milk shakes.

Then I got pregnant with E. I gained right at 25 pounds, which is what the doc recommended. So, that put me at just over 200 pounds. I was mortified. Seeing that slider on the scale keep moving every week at the doctor’s office was so embarrassing. And even though I know I was pregnant and supposed to gain weight, I most certainly was NOT supposed to weigh over 200 pounds. At some point near the end of the pregnancy, I made a conscious decision to get back to where I had been, no matter what.

I joined a gym when E was 3-months old. When I joined, I had a complete work-up done from one of the trainers. He performed all kinds of tests with those nasty calipers that gauge body fat as well as putting me through stress tests that determined what my optimum aerobic heart rate is. I wasn’t shocked at the numbers. Embarrassed but not shocked.

At that time, I weighed in at 183 pounds. I was actually pretty happy with that number because it meant that in 3 months time, I had lost almost all of the pregnancy weight. My clear goal, at that time, was to get back to 160.

And here’s where I quit hiding behind the numbers and start shouting them from the rooftops.

Last week, 6 months after my initial work-up, I had my follow-up appointment. The trainer re-weighed and re-measured me. Turns out, I’ve lost exactly 20 pounds. That means I’m 3 pounds from my initial goal. I say “initial” goal because now that I’m that close, I realize that it’s not enough. Six years ago, 160 might have felt good, but with three kids and gravity taking it’s toll on this body, it doesn’t feel so good now. My new goal is now 150. Hopefully, the next 10 pounds will come straight from my gut and thighs.

The thing I was most happy about was not the weight, but the other numbers. Turns out that all the hours at the gym have actually done something other than decrease the number on the scale. My total body fat has gone down 5.5%, and every girth measurement dropped by a significant amount. My waist measurement has gone down almost 5 inches. My hips a full 5. My forearm and calves a whole inch. My thighs, 2 inches.

In celebration, I took down all my old pairs of pants that have been in hiding in my closet for 6 years now. And guess what? They all fit. Even the one size 8 that I never really liked but kept just because it was an 8.

So now, I’ll keep working and praying that when I wean this baby (if I ever do), the same thing won’t happen again. It’s going to be hard giving up those extra calories! As a matter of fact, I may just go ahead and ditch all the 12s and 14s from my closet so I have no alternatives.

And I may look into becoming a professional wet nurse for when E is in middle school and getting the side eye every time I go to nurse him.

Then, just a few short months after I dropped close to $150 on a new nano, I see that Apple is recalling all first generation nanos. Something about the battery overheating and being potentially hazardous. Great. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, now my music player can come to life, catch me on fire, and beat me to death.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that dramatic a recall, but it was a recall. I wasn’t sure if mine was even covered under the recall since it died a while back and I had no indication that the battery was at fault, but I figured, “what the heck.” I’ll send it in and see what happens. It was just sitting in the junk drawer anyway.

So I sent it in and a few short weeks later, a tiny FedEx package arrives on my doorstop. I open it, expecting to find a refurbished 5-7 year old nano, but no. It’s a brand new, multi-touch silver, clip-on-style nano. In short, an exact replica of the one I dropped a few short weeks after purchasing it. Except that the new one is silver and my old one was pink. Oh well. We all have to make sacrifices.

After I dropped it, I almost replaced the screen on my pink one. It would have cost almost $100 to fix it, and that’s why I never did, but I came really close to doing so.

I’m really glad I was a cheap-skate and that Apple admitted to making a defective product. If you too have one of these dinosaurs of an iPod, check out the website to see if yours qualifies for a replacement. Who knows, maybe they’ll run out of the new nanos and send you an iPad. Probably not, but we can all dream.

Mac and Omi, after being slightly disappointed that there was no bouncy house, enjoyed their cake then ran off to the church gym, where they spent two hours playing with their cousins and having a great time.

E spent time playing with his cousins too. One of which was born on the same day as him and the other only two weeks later. Melanie, his birthday twin, spent most of the time trying to get away from the two boys who were bound and determined to play with her.

The last time we had all three babies together, none of them could move on their own and they just laid on the carpet while we all snapped pictures of the three beauties. Yesterday, it was almost impossible to get them all in a single frame…much less, have them all smiling or looking at the camera. Here’s one of my favorites, but we couldn’t coax Mel to get any closer to those annoying boys.

Especially after Jaxon took a dive at – and a chunk out of – Mel’s pretty hair.

All in all, even with the hair pulling incident, I think all three had a good time. The moms, dads, and grandmas sure did. And I know the great-grandma had a wonderful birthday – being able to share it with all these generations. On the way to the church, Mac asked what we got MaMaw for her birthday. When I told him nothing, he was shocked. But I was wrong. I think that having the oldest seated next to her on the couch while the youngest crawled at her feet was the best birthday present she could have asked for. Happy Birthday, MaMaw!

Now here’s a few other pictures of the smallest members of the family enjoying the day, and plotting an escape.

Mom, can I go play now?

Come on, Mel. If we work fast we can get out of here!

Let's move!

Dang it. They caught us that time. We'll have to try again. I think I see a door over there....

Okay, Jaxon. You grab Mel and bring her. I'll distract the adults.

Did you guys make it??

Now, for my move! Be captivated by my huge blue eyes!

How did this happen? Didn't we just escape?

Oh well. Might as well make the best out of a bad situation. Hey Jaxon, wanna play with my toys and eat my shoes?

Have I mentioned lately that I love my life and my family?

Basically, the doctor said he may have an allergy to amoxicillin, but they’re not sure because the reaction is atypical. (Leave it to my kids to be anything but normal!)

We’re thinking the rash is eczema, but that could be caused by the medicine too. Or it could be totally unrelated. To be on the safe side, the doc put a note in his chart stating that he has a possible allergy and they won’t prescribe it to him anymore. We left with the proper dosage for Benadryl – which is safe to give him – and some prescription cream for his skin. Hopefully it’ll all be cleared up in a few days.

And when they weighed my 8-month-old baby, he’s over 20 pounds now. Geez. How did that happen??!! Wasn’t he just born?

So, I bought the medicine but I’m not going to give it to him right now. He’s sleeping soundly, and for those of you who know us, you know that that, in and of itself, is a small miracle. I have a pallet made on the couch right by his bedroom (not that the five steps doing that will save me in the walk to his room will really make a difference, but it makes me feel better to be a little closer to him).

I’ll check on him throughout the night and hopefully, we won’t be making any mad dashes to the ER. If we do, it’ll be my first as a mom. Mac and Omi are five and thus far, we’ve avoided all emergency room visits. Maybe my lucky streak has run out. We’ll see. For now, I guess I’ll go back to paranoidly asking the Google quirky questions about rashes on babies and counting down the hours until the doctor’s office opens in the morning.

For me, the class times have gone through several different stages.

The first was amazement and rapt attention. When they first started, I watched everything they did. I didn’t read, play Words with Friends, talk to other moms or go to the bathroom for fear that I would miss my children’s first flip or tumble. That lasted for about an hour (one class period).

By the next week, I had moved into the stage two: quiet time for mommy. I realized that here was an hour of uninterrupted time when I could relax and read. I still watched the class and cheered when they did something new, but my attention was primarily focused on my book.

A few months later, I entered stage three. One of my friends joined the gym and scheduled her son’s class time at the same time as Mac and Omi’s so I had one of my best friends to visit with during the hour. An hour of mommy-time. Divine.

Then, Baby E was born and my friend moved away (yippee to the former, boo to the later), and I entered stage four. Being sad that I was now all alone again and too tired to read.

And now, I am in stage five: wondering what in the world to do with a very mobile, active baby during an hour and a half class when he can’t get down on the floor and crawl around. He refuses to sit in his car seat. He loves to be held, but he hates sitting still, and he’s too heavy to walk around with for ninety minutes. Baby classes don’t start until 18 months, and I’m not sure I can put up with this for another 10 months.

Any suggestions on ways to keep him happy or at least, not miserable?

I get that. I really do. And I don’t know if the comment was directed at me with my recent rants about sleepless nights, or if it was a generic comment aimed at the cosmos, or if it was for someone else entirely. Being the OS person I am (that’s over-sensitive), I took it personally.

And like I said, I get the rationale behind the comment. I’ve had several friends who have had fertility problems and would do just about anything to have a baby. I’ve witnessed first-hand the emotional exhaustion that comes with not being able to have this one thing you most want in the world.

But that said, I feel a need to defend myself and my momma friends who do occasionally complain. I don’t need to say that being a mom is hard. I don’t need to say that it’s sometimes a thankless job with no rest breaks, vacations, or lunch hours. I don’t need to say any of these things because if you’re a mom, you know these things. (And don’t you like the way I just said all those things…without saying them?)

As with anything that’s difficult, I sometimes feel a need to vent and complain. Does that mean I don’t love being a mom? No! I can’t even imagine my life without my children but I admit, sometimes, I do get frustrated. I love my kids more than anything, but I do get impatient at times. I yell. I spank. I lose it more often than I should (which is never). I’m not proud of these less-then perfect mom moments. But they happen.

When they happen, I get mad at myself, and then I need to vent. And sometimes, I just need to vent because my kids are driving me crazy. My girlfriends hear it in person. My Facebook friends here it via internet. You hear it here.

So yes. I will complain when my kids have colored all over the kitchen floor. With Sharpies. Industrial strength sharpies (they DO exist). I will complain when I step on the hundred-millionth lego of the day…that just happens to be lying sharp-pointy side up in the middle of the hallway when I’m walking to feed the baby at 3:00 a.m. I will complain when I walk in the bathroom to find that my 5-year-old son has missed the toilet yet again and failed to mention this to me so I could clean it up before it dries and makes the whole house stink.

Complaining doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate my kids or my life. It’s just a part of coping with the way my life is. All the good and the bad. When good things happen in my life, I don’t hold them in and keep them private. I share them. I want someone to rejoice with me and be happy with me. It’s the same with the not-so-good moments. I need someone with whom I can commiserate. I need to know that I’m not the only mom who’s fleetingly considered tossing one (or all) of her kids out of a moving car window. (And if you’ve ever had this thought, rest assured. You’re not alone.)

I know that my life is beyond good. I am blessed more than any one person deserves. I know that and I daily remind myself of my blessings. I thank God every day for every person in my family and I pray for them every night. But I think that even God gets exasperated with us  – his children – at times. I can seriously imagine him throwing his hands in the air and exclaiming something to the effect of, “Didn’t I just get you out of this mess?!”

And if that’s totally sacrilegious, I don’t want to know. It would just give me something else to complain about.

Unfortunately, our house only has three bedrooms and with the recent addition of Baby E, we lost our guest room. Since we didn’t want a small thing like lack of a bed deter our family from staying with us, we moved Baby E into our room and set up the air mattress in his room. Not the Ritz, but it seemed to work fine for everyone involved. And the main bonus was that it gave us all a bit of extra time together.

With Baby E in our bed, neither Jed nor I got a ton of sleep these last few nights (well, I haven’t gotten a lot of sleep these last few months, but that’s another matter….). To compound the issue, E got sick Friday night. When I checked on him right before crawling into bed myself, I noticed he was burning up with fever. A quick check of his temperature led me to the phone where I found myself trying not to panic as I explained that my 8-month-old had a fever of 103.6. The doctor reassured me and told me to bring him in the following morning if he still had a fever. He did, so to the doctor we went. A blood test revealed that he either had sinusitis or bronchitis – they couldn’t determine which, but either way, it was a bacterial infection that was treatable with antibiotics.

He’s run a fever every day since then, but when I’ve given him his ibuprofen and acetaminophen regularly, he’s been his normal happy self. What also seems to be back to normal is his night-time routine of crying himself silly in his bed.

Which is understandable. For the past four nights, he’s been cradled between mom and dad. One of those nights, he literally slept on one of us the whole night so we could better feel if his fever spiked again. So he’s been cozy, had his back rubbed, his pacy popped back in his mouth immediately if it comes out, talked to in the middle of the night, nursed on demand as often as he wants. He’s had the good life and now, he’s been thrown back into solitary confinement.

Jed and I both agreed that it’s been really nice having him in bed. IF we didn’t need a lot (any?) sleep, we’d let him sleep with us every night. After I got over my initial fear that Jed or I would roll over on him in the night or he would somehow crawl over us and off the bed, I loved having him right there beside me. I swear I could wake up a hundred times at night and never get tired of looking at his precious face. But, in the real world, I do need sleep. And with him in the bed with me, I get none.

So it’s back to his bed. We put him to bed at 7:30. (Jed and I, by some miracle, actually got all three kids in bed by 7:30 tonight!) After eating a late kid-free dinner and watching The Return of the Planet of the Apes, he and I went to bed a little after 11:00. By 11:30, I was almost asleep. And then, right before I could take the final plunge into neverland, the baby monitor went off and the cries started. Jed, in his all-compassionate way said, “bye bye” and rolled over. I thought about punching him, but decided to save my energy for the battle I knew was ahead and headed out to the nursery.

And thus began the ordeal. I fed him, gave him the next dose of his medicine, rocked him to sleep, and ever-so-gently laid him down in his bed. I swear he looked at me and right before the water works started said, “What the hell?! This isn’t your bed. Stop kidding around and pick me up.”

I lovingly but firmly refused and left the room. I imagine the rest of the conversation would have gone something like this…you know, if he could talk:

E: After crying for 10 minutes. Okay, I get it. You made your point. Now, come get me and put me back in your bed.

Me: No, baby. This is for the best. You need to learn to sleep in your bed. This is your room and it’s a great room. YOUR bed. Mommy is just down the hall in her bed if you need me.

E: I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE! I WANT TO BE THERE TOO!

Me: No, sweetie. You need to stay here. I love you, but this is for the best.

(I walk out of the room right before he throws something at my fleeing head.)

And the night continues in this fashion for the next hour. Actually, it’s ongoing right now. I go check on him every ten minutes. And every ten minutes, he quiets down while I rub his back and then starts screaming again the minute I step away from his crib. This is absolutely no fun, but I do know he needs to learn how to put himself to sleep. I just wish it weren’t so damn traumatic for both of us.

But we’re still opposites in others. Jed is of the opinion that, “If I don’t see an immediate need for something, I won’t buy it” (or take it, if it’s something that’s freely given). As he’s said of himself more than once, he throws around coins like manhole covers. This is really good in keeping us from making impulsive purchases and buying things we don’t need. I’m sure our house would have much more expensive crap and we’d be in a lot of debt if I were in charge of all the purchases.

So I am more apt to spend money on things than Jed, and I’m also never going to turn down something that is given to me. My thinking is, “Even if I don’t need it right away, I might in the future and I’ll always regret not taking it when it was free!”

Take a recent trip to the grocery store. I was in line buying a frozen pizza and a box of gingerbread cookies. The man in front of me suddenly turned around and asked, “Do you need a turkey for Christmas?” I immediately smiled and nodded my head. (Speech being impossible because a certain cute little baby had his hands firmly tucked inside my mouth.)

Did I need a turkey? No. Jed doesn’t even like turkey. (For Thanksgiving dinner, we had shrimp and oyster poboys this year and neither of us regretted it.) I wasn’t even sure the turkey would fit in our freezer, but it was a free, 14-pound turkey. How could I turn that down? So, I walked out of Brookshires with my frozen pizza, gingerbread cookies, and 14-pound Butterball turkey…for under $10.

The very next day, Jed came home from work and said, “My principal gave us all iPads but I told him that I didn’t want mine.” Yes. You read that right.

I just brought home an unneeded, free turkey worth $18, just because it was free, and my husband said he didn’t want a $400 iPad – just because he didn’t think he needed it. After I calmed myself, I told him that even if he didn’t want it, I certainly did and could think of a million ways to use it.

He did bring it home the next day and – I just love saying this – he was totally wrong. After I and the kids finished playing with it, he sat at the kitchen table playing with it and deemed it “pretty cool.” Since bringing it home, we’ve all spent ample time on the thing.

Now, while this free stuff streak is going on, where can I go and get free clothes?

Guess not. Tonight, we’re going on 30 minutes now and he sounds more pitiful than ever. I swear he keeps screaming, “Momma” and trying to climb out of his crib. Maybe I’ll just climb in with him so I can sleep.