There aren’t many aspects of parenting triplets that isn’t mind-boggling.
I learned early on (though I struggled for a while before learning) that thinking ahead will only send me into a panic. I probably sound blasé, but my approach on most future endeavors is “I’ll figure it out when I need to.”
Not only is parenting triplets different from parenting a singleton, twins, quadruplets or more, but parenting any single kid is different from parenting any single kid. Then you multiply the unique characteristics by three, factor in how each different kid builds from or feeds off two other different kids … you can see where I’m going. It’s the mother of all math problems. It can’t be figured out until it’s staring you in the face.
Toilet training. Holy mother of God, how does one toilet train triplets? SPOILER ALERT! You don’t. You toilet train three separate kids kinda sorta not really but maybe kinda sorta at the same time.
One was self-motivated to succeed. One was self-motivated to wear underwear but had no clue how to not keep them clean. One wanted nothing to do with underwear but was completely, independently successful at the toilet if left naked.
To sum up our 15-week journey to ditch wakeful-time diapers (one is out of naptime diapers, but all three are still in diapers overnight), we waited on them. That’s right, I basically let my triplets toilet train themselves. Is that a parenting win, or a parenting cop-out? Since they’re still months away from age 3, I’m calling it a total win.
The first jumped the gun and started asking for a dry diaper each time it was wet.
They say kids in cloth diapers toilet train sooner and with less difficulty, but we blew past that legendary (mythological?) average age of 18 months a long time ago. Despite attempting to bring down the length-in-cloth-diapers average, my kiddos stayed true to the claim that cloth-diapered children don’t like feeling wet and learn from that preference that wetness has no business in diapers, underwear or clothing.
I’ll admit. I tried all three at once when the first was ready. It was super duper extra special clear that the other two weren’t, so I amped up the energy and prayed peer pressure and jealousy would take effect.
Again, I’m either a parenting winner or loser, depending on how you look at it.
Once the first mastered the art of underwear time, we moved to diapered outings with the promise of using the bathroom on request, then to no-diaper outings. When waking from naps happened with a dry diaper, we ditched diapers then, too. We’ve had a few successful dry overnights, but I’m not that ambitious. Yet. Especially if that means setting an alarm to wake in the middle of the night for trips to the bathroom. Soon. Eventually. Not yet.
Twelve weeks after the first started her training attempts, the second started demanding underwear. No diapers would do, but no amount of encouragement or attempts could squeak out a success. Then the stars aligned, the angels sang, and a random attempt WORKED. Suddenly, lines got connected in that little brain. Point A goes to Point B goes to SKITTLES!
And then jealousy hit Triplet Number 3, who made us all say, “I TOLD YOU SO,” when the disdain for underwear took a back seat to 100 percent success and a steady flow of treats.
It took each kiddo about a week to go from diapers to full-time/day-time underwear. We had one solo adventure and one duo adventure. The accidents were few, considering the amount of liquid three bladders can hold, and HALLELUJAH, my wash load of diapers is dwindling.
We aren’t totally done with this adventure, but we’ve pretty much conquered the worst of it. MULTIPLIED BY THREE!
It’s been a noisy morning. Demands, whines, tantrums, cries, reprimands, general fussiness – you name it, I’ve heard it and performed it myself.
Three 2-year-olds often provide a constant soundtrack of noise. It’s seemingly endless, and I keep waiting for it to turn into a pleasant white-noise buzz, but it hasn’t happened yet. Rather, it sometimes reaches the point of white-hot picks in my ears.
While praying for a fade-to-buzz this morning, my crew started asking about our plans.
“Where are we going today?”
“Crazy.”
“I don’t want to go crazy.” “I don’t like crazy.” “We get in the car and go crazy?” “I don’t want to go crazy. Crazy is far away.”
It’s closer than you think, kiddos.
“I’m going to exercise! WOO HOOOO!”
No, that’s not a direct quote from yours truly, but it is a direct quote from Eleanor seconds before she launched into running laps around the playground structure at the park where I run. She clearly was modeling the behavior she sees from me, and that’s a better reward than the 16 pounds I’ve lost so far this year.
Yesterday before my workout, Callista asked, “Mommy, why do you exercise?”
“I exercise because it makes me feel good,” I said.
My inner monologue was cackling so hard it gave me a headache because NO, Virginia. Exercise does not make me feel good. Quite the contrary.
It makes me feel inferior. I’m constantly battling my own body. I’ve added custom inserts to my properly fitted running shoes. I have compression socks I either wear while running or for recovery. I experiment with rest days. I’ve been video-analyzed and am working constantly on my posture, landing, stride and cadence. My legs scream for days if I attempt running on asphalt or a treadmill, so I can only run on local park trails, only during open hours, when the weather isn’t trying to kill me and the stars align with my kids.
Despite all that, I keep trying. I’ve taken a few short breaks – two for hurthurthurt legs and one for so much rain in a short period that I now I have Noah’s autograph – but I’ve been on the fitness train since late January.
I notice in my physical being. I feel better. My clothes feel better. I look healthier – my cheekbones are emerging from not-so-round cheeks again!
But the biggest difference is that my kids notice. They mimic me during regular play when the thought of my workouts randomly pop into their heads. “I’m going to exercise!” “I’m stretching.” “I need my foam roller. My legs hurt.”
But the best part was that “WOO HOOOOO!”
I wish I actually felt that way about exercise, but to hear that attitude reflected back toward me – oof. My perseverance must say more than my red, tired face when I return after a workout. I may not say, “WOO HOOO!” about working out today, but maybe I will tomorrow. Or next month. Till then, my feelings are a little more, “I’m going to exercise. Woo. fucking. hoo.”
Internal monologue only, of course.
These silhouettes aren’t the impressive works of art done by real silhouette artists, but they work in a time/money/availability pinch. All you need is a camera, Photoshop and a bit of time and patience.
The frame I have my silhouettes in is a 13-inch Johnny from The Organic Bloom in Sunkissed. My video tutorial is featured on their blog. My love for OB frames is no secret, but now it’s quite public! I hope this tutorial – or the frame recommendation – makes some of you happy today.
I buy most of ETC’s clothing at our multiples club’s twice-annual consignment sales. They’re still young enough that the selection of barely used clothing is outrageous for a teeny tiny price.
I knew going into this summer season that I’d need to eventually replace the girls’ swimsuits because I only found one rash guard and boy shorts set in their current size. I bought a couple one-piece tank-style suits for backups and planned to hang onto last year’s shirt/short suits for as long as we could, then cross the new-swimsuit bridge when we got there.
Hello, July. We’re there. And guess what – swimsuits aren’t easy to shop for. In July. In North Carolina. Where we have approximately three-four months of 80F-plus days ahead of us.
I’m not being entirely truthful. I have a plethora of bikinis from which to choose, but since I don’t want to set my girls on a conveyor belt in America’s Sexy Girl Factory, I’m left with slim pickings. Now maaaaaybe the bikinis are what’s left of the season’s supply, but I highly doubt they just quit making anything but skimpy swimsuits for girls.
I honestly never gave much thought to swim fashion and the differences between what we’re sold for boys or girls.
Then I had three two-year-olds who are strong voices in Equal Opportunity Living, and I agreed with them – if Toby wears shorts and a shirt for swimming, so do the girls. Why should I expect my girls subject themselves to extensive sunscreen application (“I don’t waaaaant lotion!”) and risk butt-cheek exposure? Or how do I convince them that peeling off a wet one-piece swimsuit to use the bathroom them struggling with wet material and wet skin to put it back on is fair when pulling down wet shorts looks so much easier?
Thankfully, they don’t understand the argument over sexualizing children with skimpy swimsuits, but I do. Why are boys dressed modestly while girls – starting as INFANTS – are offered rack after rack of skimpy bikini bottoms (absolutely no shorts or skirts were to be found), skimpier tops and oh, here’s one or two modest, full-shirt options. One-piece suits or tank top options cover more, for sure, but if short-sleeve rash guards and knee-length shorts are the norm for boys, why are the girls’ options so much more revealing?
I watch kids out in public and didn’t think I’d have a sexy-clothes battle until they reached the tween years – you know, when there are screams and door slams and You’re-The-Meanest-Mom-Evers and But-Whatsername-Is-Allowed-To-Show-Her-Cooters – and I expected the battle to be with angry children. I had no idea I’d be battling The Man over the availability of modest swimwear at the ripe, old age of TWO.
What gives, America?
p.s. Shout out to Lands End – your coordinating rash guard and swim skirt combinations are going to look ADORABLE on my little ladies. Your 50% off sale is also pretty rad. Otherwise, Mama would be BROKE.
