Ow.

I've been working out in the hopes of getting a smaller butt, and my butt is the only thing that doesn't hurt right now. I have aches in places I didn't know I had muscles. (We'll leave it at that.)

I resisted the urge to throw makeup on and fix my hair all pretty just to exercise it away. It's not like anyone would notice, right?

Ha.

It's really very unnerving, as someone who hasn't visited an actual gym for a few years, to have people stare at me while I work out. And it's not that pleasant or at least amusing How you doin' stare. It's that weird stare one would expect to be accompanied with some kind of open-mouthed spit-breathing.

Like the cute guys next to me during my lat pulls. Or the middle-aged guy on the treadmill while I'm using the hip abductor. If you're not sure what that is, envision the thighmaster minus Ms. Somers. Or the nerdy guys (sorry nerds) who wore polos from the 1980s to the gym, staring as I did my bicep curls.

And they weren't staring at me because I looked hot. Trust me. There is not a person on Earth, even Rosie O'Donnell, who would've found me attractive today.

So why stare? Why? I ask you. This is why I hate the gym.

And why I'll probably feel obligated to make myself look nice every time I go from here on out. At least if they're staring, I wanna know it's the good stare.

Ugh. The hip sled is gonna be really awkward in high heels.

On a more positive note, I kicked some serious butt today. I pushed through all my reps even when I wanted to forfeit my body parts to the machine.

And the girls loved the daycare. To keep status as a triplet blog, I must mention the children at least once a week.

Quota met.

Time to go pee blood...

The NSA quit listening years ago

Me: So... how long do I have to be married to you before you buy me a 1-1/2 carat diamond?

Mike: No, how long do you have to be married to me before you go out and buy yourself a 1-1/2 carat diamond?

Me: Be back in an hour?

*

Mike: Why do I have to pause the movie?

Me: I've gotta call my sister and ask her how she wants her pearl necklace.

Mike: Wow. Let me ask her that.

*

Mike: Why is it so smoky in here???

Me: It's from the bacon I cooked this morning.

Mike: Wait... who said that? I can't see anything through the fog.

Me: Watch out because it looks like someone's about to hit you in the naughty bits.

*

Mike: I found the perfect birthday card for your sister.

Me (reading): "Because chocolate can't get you pregnant... eat the cake, you skinny bitch."

*glance up at Mike's beaming face*

Me: That's perfect.

Who's that man

On the way home from the gym this morning, I passed Mike on the interstate. I called him and asked in which room the girls were locked and if they'd eaten lunch.

Save the hate mail. I'm sure I'll offend you much worse at a later date.

He decided on a whim to take the girls in town starting at 11:00. It's now past six, and they're still happily shopping away. He even drove them all the way to a huge mall which is 40 minutes away. Can you imagine 80 minutes of Kristin singing to Gwen Stefani and Lady GaGa? Because you know they play that crap every twenty minutes now.

The man is a saint.

So I ask you: WHO IS THIS MAN???

I wasn't kidding when I said Mike was liking this makeover. For every hair I tweeze and Calorie I burn, he moves along the spectrum from I-want-to-chop-off-his-man-bits to How-you-doin?

Hmmm... maybe he's afraid that other guys are going to take notice of this transformation, and he's gettin' in while the gettin's good.

If that's the case, I love me an insecure man!

They work harder.

*evil laugh*

Insomnia: the bearer of strange gifts

The hours between 10 at night and 3 in the morning are hell.

Am I gonna fall sleep? When and for how long? What do I do until then?

There is only so much to do when you're by yourself and you have to stay home. (Hmmm... ask self: do I have to stay home?)

The last few days, I've tired of getting finger jabbed in the butt cheeks by my three 4-year-olds the whole time I'm trying to shower. You see, I was showering with the girls in an attempt to kill two birds with one stone. I need showers. They need showers. They make messes with water. I need to escape shower time without requiring an outfit change.

It worked. For a while.

Then I had an epiphany.

I am now using my ample nighttime hours to take a quiet, jab-free shower.

If it hadn't been for insomnia, I wouldn't know this joy.

And oh, it is joy.

I also learn fun facts like: radio stations play some damn good music when no one is listening. Not the same crap over and over again. Thank you, radio shower.

(I swear if I hear The Fray one more time I'm gonna drive my car into oncoming traffic.)

So I'm all relaxed now and ready for bed, right?

That would be too easy.

The other side of the insomnia coin is that you tend to read a lot of news articles to pass the time. Did you know that there is something called the swine flu going around?

Now, let's be clear. I'm not worried. I won't start worrying until someone near me gets sick or more people start dying in the US. It seems like once a year there's something going around that's going to kill us (um... West Nile, anyone?) and I have yet to meet someone who has firsthand damage from one of these killer mosquitos / birds / pigs.

No, I won't panic. We know more now about germs than we did in 1918.

Except.

Did anyone else think of me when they heard the symptoms of swine flu? Because I sure did. I chuckled when I read the symptoms: lack of appetite, sore throat, cough, fluid and inflammation in lungs and body aches. I was sent home from the doctor's office with an antihistimine and an inhaler.

Oh hell, call the CDC. QUARANTINE!

Hahaha... kidding.

But it does make me wonder if doctors are actually watching for this, and how many more people have had the swine flu but recovered on their own. It also makes me wonder how many people are turned away with a misdiagnosis.

I'm not worried for myself for one reason: swine flu targets people with awesome immune systems. Well, according to Mexican officials. With my insomnia (and lack of appetite) my immune system packed up and moved out months ago. I should be safe.

Mike, on the other hand, Mr. I Don't Get Sick EVER, is completely farked. Heh heh.

Quite a conundrum we have here. For every hour I stay awake, it increases my odds against that pig thing.

But I enjoy taking my nightly showers - something that knocks me out.

What to do? What to do?

Something I learned during the baby days: When the question is sleep or shower, the answer is always yes. You never know when the next one cometh.

Sleep it is...

Night-day

Is it any wonder Alison was running around the house yelling, "It's night-day! It's night-day! We need to go in the basement! It'll be cool, and it'll be fun!!!"

This is 7:00. With my flash. When it's normally sunny.

In case you care... here's some footage of the storm rolling in. You know it's a good one when your trained weather spotter / neighbor is standing on his porch watching for funnel clouds.

Hello, April, month of death and destruction. How I have missed you.

Needless to say, I'll be in the basement for a while. Good times.

Tornadoes are just God's little way of reminding us to clean the cat box.

Weehoo

Kristin just kills me. The girl loves music so much, and unfortunately for her, this is about as good as her singing gets.

Let's hope she learns to play an instrument.

How can I stay angry?

I woke up this morning to a child covered in blue Sharpie marks.

I swear they wake up and, silent as the dead, sneak around to find the most dangerous or messy object in our house.

While I was searching for the Sharpie that was certainly bleeding into the carpeting somewhere in my house, the girls got the honey off the counter - left there by daddy the night before - and fed themselves... and the couch and their blankets and pillows and the carpet.

These things are like fifteen car pile-ups. One after the other and there's really no way to stop the madness. All you can do is watch and hope the damage is minimal.

A person should be angry and exhausted after a day like that. I know I was.

But then I see them all snuggled in like this...

...and all is forgiven.

Besides, who could be mad at kids who think jazz hands are a requirement at the end of Jingle Bells?

Not-so-extreme makeover part 2 or 3

Dye hair dark brown and straighten. Check.

Manicure and pedicure. Check.

Rip out unsightly hair by any means necessary. This includes tweezing, waxing or shaving. Check.

Purchase hot new jeans for $100 (ouch). Check.

Wear heels every. single. day. Check.

Get checked over up and down by guys who know you but thought you lived in pajamas and ponytails. Check.

Convince husband you need a new tattoo and possible piercing. Emphatic check.

Next on the makeover tour? Joining the gym.

Today's the big day. I haven't been able to afford a gym membership until now (the babysitting costs never helped, either). This is an amazing opportunity through my mother's work, so I'm jumping at the chance to get in!

I'm gonna be buff again in no time. Notice I didn't say super skinny. I'm German. We Germans don't usually come in petite packages. Now my sister, on the other hand, got the frail-looking French-Canadian bone structure from my other grandmother. She's skinny now, but wait until she falls and busts her pelvis at the age of 60. Then who'll get the last laugh? Me, the buff grandma that gave her a shove, that's who.

I'm gonna be one sexy bitch, and I've got two months to see some results. Then it's time for my 10-year-reunion. Well, one of them anyway. (The next is in August. Can you imagine how hot I'll be by then? *maniacal laughter*)

This Friday I have my dermatologist appointment to remove that crappy spot that's creeping over my skin. While I'm there, maybe they can help me with the acne I received as a bonus the last month of pregnancy. Almost five years later and still breaking out. Oh acne... how I'll miss you!

Now if I could only get rid of this death rattle...

I'll give you a hint: it's sarcasm

It's truly a challenge to convey emotion through text. Some might say that's what separates real writers from wannabes. Well, let's see if you can figure out what mood I'm conveying here:

I love going to the doctor's office and waiting 30 minutes to have someone scan my insurance cards.

I love being called back to a "real" room, only to wait an hour for a doctor.

I love having to poke my head out and ask a passing nurse if someone is coming in to see me soon or if I should lie down and nap.

I love being told that my lungs are damaged from a previous infection or illness, and it's causing spasms and inflammation.

I love that my pleurisy is now making me more susceptible to future severe lung issues.

I love that the fast-growing spot on my face made the doctor shrink back in horror and schedule me for a biopsy on Friday.

I love that she gave me samples of medicine so I didn't have to pay a dime today, not even a copay.

Oh wait, I really did love that.

So, how did I do? Are ya feelin' me?

I prefer a port-a-john

You peed in the toilet, dear Emma, dear Emma. You peed in the toilet, in the toilet you peed.

So what shall I do now, dear Momma, dear Momma. So what shall I do now, dear Momma, do now?

Well flush down the urine, dear Emma, dear Emma. Well flush down the urine, dear Emma, flush it.

I don't like the flush sound, dear Momma, dear Momma. I don't like the flush sound, dear Momma, so I'm gonna get a cup and scoop out the pee into a bucket and then when it's full I'll dump it in the garbage making the whole house smell like a truck stop.

No wonder she was so easy to potty train in the outhouse.

The odd couple of kids plus one

Emma: It is so very chewy outside.

Me: What do you mean, 'chewy'?

Alison: It is so very chewy and windy outside.

At least they understand each other.

***

Kristin, upon seeing my parents' dog, Indie, after her spring haircut: It looks like Indie!

***

Alison: I like to lick lollipops.

Emma and Kristin giggling about a fart: Stinky poopy butt!

Alison: No, you don't lick stinky poopy butts.

Kristin: You lick lollipops, not stinky butts.

***

Emma and Kristin, to each other, getting ready for a shower: You have a buttcrack. I have a buttcrack, too!

Alison: Alison has a buttcrack, too!

In the shower, I turn around to wash my face, leaving the girls behind me. Suddenly I feel three or four fingers poking the side of my rear.

Mommy has a buttcrack, too!!!

Poke, poke, poke...

I'm making this year my bitch

Something in my brain is inalterably broken.

Not in the usual way that makes me swear like a sailor or that causes me to fantasize about completely inappropriate childcare methods. That's a common side effect from triplets, after all.

No, this is something different.

It became clear to me what happened when I spoke to some friends last night. I found out a mutual acquaintance became pregnant partly to avoid going back to work full-time since her child was approaching school age. In her mind, it was either be a mom or be an employee. I felt incredibly sad for her.

I never wanted motherhood to define me, but when you have triplets or even one child, it's easy to fall into that trap.

I went through the last four or five years trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect mommy.

I posted what I said yesterday because I knew this post was coming. I'm not one to look back and regret... well, most of the time. But things have changed. We are done having children. Sorry mom, we are done, finito, finished, no more kids. Clip those tubes or solder 'em shut.

My priorities have changed.

There's nothing wrong with being thrifty, but do you know that I bought - on average - one pair of jeans and two shirts for myself each year. That is unacceptable. Until two weeks ago, I actually hesitated to throw away a pair of jeans that had holes in the crotch, simply because they had cost me $80.

Holes.

In the crotch.

Where, exactly, had I intended to wear them? The strip club???

I realized that I have completely neglected myself, not only in aspects of my appearance but my personality. In fact, my blog is the only place that I've been able to let that side of me out. No wonder why I enjoy it so much.

The neglect has to end. No more. NO MORE. I feel wonderful. And I think Mike is more than a little optimistic with the return of the old me.

I must give some credit to my cousins in Milwaukee and their friends for showing me a great time two weeks ago. While it made the next week horrible after coming home and not being able to assimilate into my life once more, I appreciate them and whatever they did to wake me up. It was like life rehab.

I am myself again - the one I picture in my mind.

I am a little rowdy.

I am a little punk rock.

I am a little sexy.

Dark.

Kind.

Smart.

Opinionated.

Sarcastic.

Goofy.

Courteous.

Tomboyish.

Wild.

I have put off things for years because of being a mom. What exactly does being a mom have to do with it?

I can still be a good mom with straight, dark chocolate hair (and maybe a few pink highlights, heehee).

I can still be a good mom with another tattoo or tiny diamond stud in my nose - something I've wanted since designing one six years ago for a client.

I can still be a good mom while worrying a little about my clothing and hair. Hello? Did you know that Big Sexy Hair hairspray is big sexy awesome? [Somewhere, my sister is smiling.]

I like high heels. So shoot me. I like expensive underwear. Does that make me a bad mommy? NO.

I like to go out and have a few margaritas with friends and not talk about my kids once all night. Dads do it, why can't moms?

So while this all seems quite aggressive, I have always been this person.

Just ask my mom about the year I wore Vans skater shoes every day and owned only gray, black or white shirts. I spent the entire summer on the basketball court with the guys playing ball and listening to music. All that's changed is that I grew some boobs and figured out how to walk in high heels... sometimes.

Welcome back, me! Can't wait to get started.

In honor of the year of me, we are also packing our summer full of adventures. Lots of camping, big city trips, stuff like that. Maybe even a trip out west at the end of summer.

Of course, this means I've gotta get going with my jewelry business and make some dough to afford all these new exciting things. After all I'm no freeloader... hahaha.

I'm making this year my bitch, and she's gonna love every second of it.

A different life

Children have certain expectations for their futures, like becoming a great neurosurgeon or author, or marrying some brilliant man who would fill their evenings with laughter and smart cocktails.

Then the children grow up and life changes.

We see the world differently.

I had all these aspirations as a child. I envisioned myself a woman in a suit with spiked heels and glasses, in charge of hundreds or thousands of employees. Or maybe I would become a lawyer and practice criminal law. [I was so bent on this I was signed up for pre-law in my first year of college.]

I saw myself in a big city studio apartment with huge windows. I would be within walking distance to theatres and restaurants, and I'd visit the museum one day and go to a rock concert the next.

I also saw myself falling for a man in a suit - someone in the office who was handsome and smart but not cocky. Or maybe I'd meet someone while playing flag football in the park, and he would make his move after I made my big catch. He was going to be smart, but he couldn't take himself too seriously. He would make me laugh and I would make him happy.

I had this all mapped out.

But I never saw marriage.

Or kids.

Most girls grew up dreaming of their big day - their wedding - and I dreamt of my graduation from a prestigious college. I was a tomboy who was told to dream big and dream hard, so I did. But I forgot I would become a woman someday.

It made relationships confusing. Most of my friends were guys, so it was difficult to know what to do when one of my best friends declared his affections. He deserved more than what he got, which was an "I'm sorry" and an expanding distance between us. After that, most of my boyfriends were short lived or kept a secret.

I had no intentions of getting serious with any of them.

The waters muddied even more when I met Mike. By the time we started dating, he was one of my two best friends. It fit, and he was immediately part of the family. He was not a suit. He was not part of some extravagant flirting ritual in an office. But he was handsome and made me laugh. He made me feel important. And he made me feel like I could love someone more than myself.

But he was early.

Really, really early.

I was 18 years old and still in high school, well before my goals had begun to take shape.

There was a moment when I asked myself if I shouldn't just let him go and continue on with my life.

But I couldn't do it.

I said yes when he asked me to marry him.

Life changed and I never did go to law school. Instead, I became a stay-at-home mom.

I never did get that studio apartment, but I did get a nice little house in a small town with great neighbors.

I never did have that romantic one-handed grab for a husband, but I did get Mike who makes me laugh and cry to this day like he did the first time I met him.

I know that I can still have all those things if I really want them.

If I could meet that little girl, I'd let her have her dreams and I'd tell her to go for them.

Because I knew that someday she'd find a much bigger dream, and it'd be worth every one of the sacrifices she'd make to get it.

Wandering mind

The husband and I went to a movie tonight - my second viewing of I Love You, Man. I love you, movie.

We were having fun and laughing as we turned the corner into the empty theatre. One other couple was there, sitting in the back row.

I could hear their thoughts: Damn it, now we can't have movie theatre sex.

[Movie theatre sex is just like regular sex except you pay $9 a person and it's perfectly acceptable to eat snacks before, during and after.]

As Mike and I sat there foiling the young couple's plans, I found myself closing my eyes and daydreaming. Wouldn't it be fun to live in L.A.? Why did I ever sell my guitar? Why did I wear these completely uncomfortable pants? Do they ever wash the floors of the theatre?

I caught about half the movie and enjoyed myself, but I've noticed this is pretty common for me lately. I am completely distracted. It's nothing stressful or unpleasant, just unfocused and detoured from reality.

It's like a fantastic dream, and I don't want it to end.

So there we were, the new couple and the married couple.

The young girl spent her $9 to sit next to her boyfriend and laugh at inuendos and jokes about dog poop, as the older, more experienced girl spent her $9 to curl up in a theatre chair with her husband and daydream about days free of responsibility.

Return to better days

[Note the sign in the background: "NO PEEIN' OFF THE PORCH!"]

I went out with my sister to have margaritas on a Wednesday night, just the two of us.

It was a split second, life saving decision as I was ready to hang myself from the rooftop.

My two hours out were fantastic.

Did I ever tell you how I would visit Stephie in her tiny little apartment and buy pizza and beer or wine and just hang out all night (or polish her newly exposed wood floors to a shine with a professional grade buffer - yeah, we're some tough chicks)?

Then she met Jeff. And Mike and I got married. And we all got our own hobbies. And our own children. And then there was the relationship drama. And, in case you're really really new to this site, we were raising triplets.

So things have slowed down - no more kids for us, thank you - and I'm starting to have fun again. I don't have to maintain the title as "responsible adult" every second of every day. I'm still young, and at the age of 28, I think I'm entitled to some time out from under my life.

So I'm starting to see my sister again.

And that's fun.

Like always.

Cleaning house for dummies

Do you find cleaning a tedious, boring chore? Well, look no further! In five small steps, I can turn your cleaning "chore" into a cherished event.

1. Quarantine any children and / or animals and / or husbands* in a small closet, room, or attic, preferrably together to reduce the amount of cleaning they can undo as you work. *Feel free to substitute spouse or wife in place of husband for all you stay-at-home dads, although who are we really kidding here?

2. Throw some upbeat music in your stereo or MP3 player. Stay away from anything with a theme of longing or love. I find that sarcastic or sex or angry or angry sex lyrics work best for a cleaning tempo.

3. Dance. Dance your butt off. For every item you pick up and put away, shake your booty a few times. When doing dishes, you should always incorporate a few spins, and when vacuuming, the hose can and should be used as a microphone. Note: this is why it's important to lock your husband away. While the kids may enjoy your song and dance extravaganza, your husband is forced, through genetic disposition, to mock your every move.

4. Make a point to show your husband how sweaty you are. This will keep him from leaving his cell due to his fear of housework, leaving you free to take computer or lunch breaks without interruption.

5. When finished for the day, release your family and make a point to say, "Well, I'm spent. I don't think I can do anything else for the day. What's for supper?"

Sit back and enjoy the rest of your evening off!

Tit for tat

I'm not sure what the protocol on this is, so I need your input.

Mike took the girls from the house this afternoon. He dragged his unwitting work buddy with, and I'm sure the two grown men had a delightful time carting around three four-year-old girls.

While I enjoyed the two hours alone, I knew it would have consequences.

I was not surprised to receive a phone call halfway through his excursion asking if he could bring the girls back and go out with his friend.

So of course, not wanting to be the ungrateful wife, I told him to have fun.

And he did. For over four hours while I sat at home with the girls.

The same thing happens on the rare occasion that I take a nap. I sleep in for a few hours, and when I wake up, it's Mike's turn.

Where's the giving without the expectation of something in return?

Where's the act of charity with no strings attached?

If I let Mike sleep in, I don't expect anything from him, except that he be in a good mood when he wakes up.

I'm just curious if this is male thinking, or just human thinking, or maybe Mike approaches this whole thing like a business arrangement.

You scratch my back and I'll scratch mine, too?

Regardless, I'm grateful for the two hours of freedom. I did almost nothing and loved every second of it! Thanks, Mikey!

What turns you on?

What do you like in lingerie? I asked Mike tonight.

You see I am trying to motivate myself to lose weight. In my warped mind, if I had a visual of the kind of lingerie I might buy, I could visualize myself in that lingerie and make these 20 or 30 pounds disappear.

Turns out I may be the only one in our relationship that thinks corsets are hot.

Do you like leather?

Mmm... no.

What about lace? Do you like lace?

Mmm... no.

Thinks about what else is out there besides leather or lace. Do you like strings or straps or whatever? What do you like to see women in? Not necessarily me, I don't care. Just in general.

Laughs. Not necessarily you? Well, I do have a girl down the block... I don't know.

Do you even like women in lingerie?

No answer, but a smirk.

Do you like women?

Still no answer, but a huge grin.

Because now's the time to tell me.

Laughs again.

Do you like assless chaps on guys? You just got a visual, didn't you? Ha! I win.

I might have to make an executive decision on this one...

Easter is a time for family, fun, and fighting

"The Easter Bunny is on a rampage!!! RUN!"

"Don't get dirty, don't get dirty, whatever you do don't touch the dirt."

(Miss Emma on the end) "I once found an Easter egg this big, but I had to throw it back."

Easter egg coloring is much less fun when the chance to ruin clothing is decreased through the use of smocks.

Holidays give us a chance to appreciate family. The fighting during holidays gives us a chance to appreciate the fact that we no longer live with that family.

The same one bites the dust... again

To prove that I am smarter than a pair of shoes, I decided I wouldn't let an evening of falling on my ass stop me from wearing my 4-inch Vera Wang heels.

We went to Monsters vs. Aliens (rated "eh..." on the scale of "eh..." to "not as eh...").

Then we went grocery shopping.

I did great and the heels felt so incredibly comfortable.

I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I was more intoxicated the previous weekend than I had realized.

Just then, as if karma thought: time to step in and bitch slap this woman back to her senses, I hit a crack in the pavement.

Because I was in the process of pushing two carts to the cart corral, I didn't fall to the ground, oh no. That would have been at least quick and painless.

Instead, I stumbled forward, step after step after awkward step, like a newborn colt being dragged by a coyote. Clinging to the carts, I finally righted myself and looked around at two middle-aged men looking in wonder at the woman who couldn't walk.

And I smiled.

And strutted back to the car.

Like it was normal for a 28-year-old woman to do these things.

I will beat these shoes, yes I will. Next stop: the park.

Like ships in the night

It's 8PM and my husband is in bed. Did I mention he got home at 7:30? That was quick! He would have slept on the couch had I not derobed him and tucked him into bed.

Mike and I have an interesting relationship. We get along great. We rarely fight. When you see someone ten hours a week, it's hard to find time to fight.

I can empathize. He is a tired person. I am usually wide awake, at least between the hours of 7AM to 2AM. We're just built differently. Plus I can spend hours on the computer if I don't feel like cleaning that day.

(Unfortunately the kids have found my secret hiding spot, so I'm pestered constantly.)

Luckily we have one week every month to spend together which starts tomorrow. Most of it consists of Mike watching movie after movie after movie, but at least I have some company. Until 8PM. When he lies on the livingroom floor like a murder victim and sleeps.

At least for right now, we're more like roommates than husband and wife.

Friends without benefits.

Ships passing in the night with a little wave and giggle before sailing onward.

Because straight-laced is straight BORING

Can you possibly pick my mother out in this picture?

Look closely.

How about now?

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

I feel better already. I knew I wouldn't stay down for long.

It's difficult today. I can't really spell it out. I feel a little like curling up in the fetal position and going to sleep.

There's only so much anxiety and frustration a person can take before the bricks start crumbling from the wall.

That's NOT for eating!!!

A child with blue lips is never a good thing.

Either they've lodged something in their windpipe and aren't getting oxygen, or they've been licking black markers. Perhaps they've gotten ahold of the raspberry suckers that you'd hidden after the last trip to the post office.

But all that would be way too uninteresting to happen in our house.

Kristin pranced up to me about an hour ago looking like a goth child. Her lips were completely blue.

I laughed and asked her what she'd eaten.

"Candy."

Makes sense, I thought. They probably smuggled some of their Easter candy into their room.

She begged for a glass of water.

Things started to become clear when I found a dark navy blue spot - the same navy blue from Kristin's tiny lips - on their carpeting. Hmmm, interesting. That doesn't look like something candy could do.

That's because it wasn't candy.

Kristin had tried to eat a dye tablet from her PAAS Easter egg coloring kit, and when the vinegar taste hit her tongue, she spat it out on the floor. She promptly took the "evidence" - the other colored tabs - and threw them in the kitchen sink. It looked like a tie-dyed clown had drowned in the water by the time I found the tablets.

Because that's the sort of stuff that happens in our house.

And it would explain why she needed the drink of water.

After having a good laugh (and spending half an hour scrubbing blue dye out of the carpet), I put them to bed for their naps.

And since the story never ends there, at least in our house, I checked on Alison a few minutes later and found a child with cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk full of...

you guessed it - cough drops.

Today's theme: THAT'S NOT FOR EATING!!!

My newest personal ad

Frustrated white female seeking male OR female OR chimpanzee who enjoys giving free tax advice. Join me for a satisfying romp through my expense sheets and sales receipts. Must be competent or at the very least, literate.

If I don't get any responses, I may go absolutely psychotic. I HATE THESE F*CKING WORKSHEETS. If I pay them all my money, will they let me give up?

Musically inclined

My children are not coordinated. When I hear a loud thud or splat on the wooden floor, it's almost guaranteed to be Emma. The girl has the two left feet of a platypus.

I was pretty athletic as a kid, so this is hard for me to cope with. I would spend hours pitching a softball into a laundry hamper in the backyard. Or playing horse with the neighbor boy. Or swimming. Or jumping on the trampoline. Or riding my bike. Or climbing trees and perching in a crook. Or getting lost on trails and building forts. I was as tomboy as they came but with long sandy blonde hair, blue eyes and freckles.

Then I made my mom hack that hair off. It got in the way of my activities.

In an effort to make me a civilized girl, my mom sent me to my great aunt Violet's house for free piano lessons. I started somewhere before the age of 7 or 8. (I can't remember.) I just remember hating it. I rarely practiced, and I became pretty good at sight-reading music for when I had to play for auntie.

It wasn't that I hated music, or even playing the piano. She just never let me play anything fun. When she finally gave me sheet music to popular tunes it was stuff like "The Rose." Not exactly riveting to a pre-teen.

It dawned on me this weekend that I've been playing piano for over 20 years. I haven't exactly been practicing every day - the piano is at my parents' house - but that's a long time. My sister gave it up years ago, probably over a decade ago. It's strange to think that not everyone can play piano... it just feels so natural to me. It's the way I vent my frustration and sadness. When I'm feeling really amped up, I can let it out on the keys.

Thus, I became a tomboy who had a constant need for music. Some random song is almost always going through my head, and I drum my fingers and rap my nails so much in the car that I've chipped paint off the center console.

It's funny to think that's the one gift (or curse!) I've given to my children. They certainly haven't inherited any athletic ability. I say that with love.

The girls love to sing. They love to dance. We spin around the kitchen with the radio blaring. I catch them singing to themselves or playing Guitar Hero without supervision... you know who you are, Emma.

My parents recently told me that I could have the piano that I'd been playing on since my childhood. I am so excited. The girls adore that piano. Although, I won't have many moments of rest with that contraption in the house. It's worth it if I can foster a love of music.

They might not be the next superstar athletes, but they sure know how to rock with the best of 'em!

Change is not always good

I'm so bored since I got home.

I suppose it's because I have no one to talk to, no one to hang with, no one to sing and drink with, no one to laugh with.

All day long, the kids are so wrapped up in who has which toy and going to the bathroom that the noise blurs into the background, the individual voices resurfacing when it's time for food.

Mike's working, so I don't see him until late. When he finally walks in the door, we talk, eat and watch TV for an hour before he goes to bed.

Then I sit alone again.

What a contrast to this past weekend. It's hard to adjust back to my real life.

This ain't no Mexican donkey show

Wow.

Words to describe my solo weekend roadtrip to Milwaukee:

Wild. Painful. Inappropriate. Carefree. Fun. Drunk. Rockin'. Thrifty. Classy. Classless. Loud. Fast. Can I mention painful again?

And most of all:

Phenomenal.

Let's start at the beginning.

Once upon a few weeks ago, Mike took a vacation with a few friends that involved going to breweries and a strip club and drunk dialing my cousin Erin. In his defense, neither one of us had really let loose in a long time.

Jealousy kicked in. I told him he could take his vacation as long as I got to take a little roadtrip of my own. Of course he agreed to it because his trip hinged on his approval.

When it came to be my turn, I picked Milwaukee. My cousin lives there with her husband, and Ryan's band had a gig scheduled for this past Saturday. It was set. I would leave Friday and come back Sunday. Four-and-a-half hours of driving and car singing, and a whole weekend to relax.

I didn't get there until late Friday, so we went to dinner and saw some local attractions like the Trader Joes. Can you believe it? I finally saw one. And then we went there and this is all the closer I got:

It was closed.

We went to a 10:30PM movie - I Love You, Man (hilarious!!!) - at a luxury movie theatre. The kind of theatre that has assigned seating. The kind of theatre that has a fully stocked bar. The kind of theatre with chairs that rock, literally.

We went home, and since Erin is an early riser, we let poopy pants go to sleep and Ryan and I rocked out in the basement. He played guitar and I proved that I should never sing. Ever. Even in the shower. Please, think of the children.

Then we watched completely irreverent and childish skits like SNL's Jizz In My Pants and

Because yes, I am a 13-year-old boy and find these things funny.

Saturday morning, Erin and I took some girl time and went shopping. Crate & Barrel, Coach, Kohl's, Express... we caused some damage. With coupons. Oh yeah, we went shopping with coupons because we are awesome and would sell our mothers down the river for a new Coach handbag.

I found these Vera Wang shoes for $35 and thought, Hey, these look like great shoes to go to a bar in. What the hell was I thinking???

Ryan's band, Behind the Curve, is a rock cover band, and they are awesome. This video is loud and the vocals don't come through very well in a few spots, but they are a riot to watch in person.

Killing in the Name Of - Behind the Curve

I mostly hung out with Erin and Katie, and then a bunch of married - or so they said - men Ryan knew who thought it would be fun to keep buying us drinks. At about six beers in two hours, I turned to Erin and uttered those fateful words: I can't believe I'm not even buzzed yet.

Can you imagine that after three more beers, I was falling on my ass in those four-inch heels?

We were laughing so hard at my inability to walk. I could talk, think, see, everything... but my legs wouldn't cooperate. I knew I was in trouble as soon as we left the bar. They thought I was joking as I yelled for someone to help me: I need a chaperone!!! Then I fell down and started laughing hysterically. Five college guys walked by and started cheering at the fact that a guy was helping a drunk chick out of a bar. Classy. Then I started laughing at the guys cheering and fell down again.

We danced. We went to another bar and danced some more to 80s music. I fell down. We danced. I fell down. We walked on the sidewalk. I fell down. (By the way, Ryan is a terrible helper if I fell down all those times while he was "holding me up." Unless he found it funny, and in that case, you're a punkass mutha.)

As we drove home at 1:30AM, we debated whose responsibility it was to drunk dial Mike.

Since I wasn't yet finished with my evening, we had a nightcap and watched Dead Man On Campus. Mark Paul Gosselaar. Yummy. Then I passed out on top of my bed with my bar clothes on.

I woke up extremely exhausted, with burning rock-hard thighs (hahaha... I'm not kidding!), a stiff neck and a completely numb middle toe. I would do it again in a heartbeat!

I left for home at 2 o'clock. I was so sad that my weekend of debauchery was over, but I was happy to be seeing my monkeys... all four of them.

One more thing... If anyone has blackmail pictures, please send them my way before posting them online. Thanks for your consideration.

It's about time

Iowa just became the fourth state to rule that bans on gay marriage are unconstitutional.

Yay, Iowa! We got something right!!!

Funny how it all works out

Since we met, Mike had set his sights on getting a job at my dad's mill. The only problem was that they hired once every three to four years, and the first time Mike was eligible, he was only 19 years old. He almost made it... but in hindsight, we're glad he didn't.

This is the journey we took (in a nutshell)...

2003: Mike was hired for the water department.

2004: Mike lost his job after his 3-month probationary period was up, through no fault of his own.

2004: Mike started work with a concrete construction company the same day he lost his previous job.

2004: Found out we were having triplets.

2004: Met with Cathy, an Aflac agent. Her friend Andy, who had worked with Mike at the water department, told her we were having triplets. She immediately started calling us. She represented Mike's current employer, the concrete construction company, so we could sign up! We would never have found out about Aflac in time without Andy and Cathy both doing their parts... thanks!

2004: Had to quit my jewelry job right before our most profitable season: Christmas.

2005: Gave birth to the girls 12 weeks early.

2005: Took girls home after a long, emotional, expensive NICU experience.

2005: Received three large checks from Aflac, allowing us to support our family while I stayed home to care for our sick babies.

2005: Mike applied at the mill where my dad worked, and SUCCESS! He works there to this day.

Everytime something bad happens, something good happens. Big changes mean big opportunities. What opportunities will 2009 bring?

I'm cooler than Santa Claus

The girls and I met my dad for lunch at their favorite "restaurant" today. We sat down with our Happy Meals and salad (respectively) and about two-thirds of the way through lunch we were interrupted by a couple walking past. "Are they triplets?"

We did the polite conversation, and after they left, I turned to my dad, "That's the first of the day..." to which he snorted.

Maybe it's where we live. I don't know. I don't think high order multiples are all that common in our area - or maybe they're just smart enough to stay home. Whatever it is, we are a half-step away from having paparazzi following us when we go out. (And we have had many a person snap a cell phone pic, lemme tell you that I had more than once gotten pissed at people following me and my infants around with their phone at arm's length.)

Even with the negatives to getting all that attention, there are so many positives. Some of which I realized today.

1 - I can totally pick a wedgie or adjust my pants and no one even cares. They're too busy staring at the kids. I tried it today and it worked.

2 - People almost always see us coming in the parking lot, which I'm guessing reduces the odds of being hit. We'll see how well that theory plays out.

3 - We find out about cool things. Like our library having a super-short self-checkout that the girls are tall enough to use. Way nifty.

4 - Free candy. Although this could be a negative, we're thinking "cup half full" today. Post office. Candy and stickers. Target. Stickers. Target bakery. Free cookies. It's like we're in a perpetual parade but the onlookers throw food at us.

And the best one:

5 - We (bear with me here) are the bringers of sunshine, the mood lifters, the ultimate stress relief. We make everyone smile. We're like Santa Claus. But without the line of screaming children.

On the way into the store today, we had three separate instances of women waving to us from inside their cars. Once inside, we had the "awwww"s and "how cute"s. We had the questions. We had the "I love their hair" and the "you've got your hands full."

I was glad to do my part. I smiled and chatted and gave my witty comebacks and pushed my two child-filled carts around the store, tossing my items in while entertaining the locals.

Triplets turn the day around.

Is it a pain?

Somedays, to be honest, yes.

If my troupe can make someone's day better, even for just five minutes, it's worth it.

Plus, we get free cookies.

Just like Santa.