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“Children ask better questions than adults. ‘May I have a cookie?’ ‘Why is the sky blue?’ and ‘What does a cow say?’ are far more likely to elicit a cheerful response than ‘Where’s your manuscript?’ ‘Why haven’t you called?’ and ‘Who’s your lawyer?'” —Fran Lebowitz

Sophie looks so old to me in this picture (taken September 1st). At first I thought it was her size compared to Owen and James. But then, on closer inspection, I think it’s her legs.

Her legs look long. And she’s wearing rolled up jean shorts, just like I did as a little girl. She has bruises and small cuts on her legs from falls, misjudged jumps, brushes against the rose bush, Tucker’s paw. Her legs are crossed, in that easy, relaxed way that comes with age. She’s now accomplished at sitting, standing, walking, running, jumping and climbing—crossing legs has become second nature to her whenever she sits down. There’s no hesitation. No wobbling. It’s a non-think act. She has toddler feet. I miss kissing them constantly. Now, when she runs, they get sweaty. They no longer smell like baby feet—they smell like little-girl-who-played-hard-outside-on-a-hot-day-in-leather-sandals feet. They smell lived in.

But I think my favorite part of her legs in this picture is how little she cares about them. She doesn’t care about her cuts and bruises (well, except when she wants an ice pack or a colorful Band-aid). She doesn’t have to shave them yet. Or moisturize them yet. She doesn’t care how big or small they are, how long or short they are, how many veins there are, how tan or pale they are, how rough or smooth her soles are. She minds when her feet are dirty (that’s just how she is) but she could care less about the dirt in her toenails. I think she would love toenail polish, if I let her know what it was and how to use it, but for now she remains blissfully ignorant. Her toes are bare.

I’m grateful for my legs and the places they take me, the body they carry, the way I can put my feet on Sophie’s stomach and use them to lift her up in the air (which always causes her to squeal).

But I hate shaving them (but also hate them not shaved). I have several webs of veins (gifts from carrying three children). I curse bruises and cuts. I take a pumice stone to my soles. My toenails have yellowed because of my constant use of dark red polish. I moisturize every day.

I love Sophie’s legs, her Little Girl Legs. I long for them. And even though she looks so much older to me in this picture, I hope, for her sake, her legs stay Little Girl Legs for a long, long time.

“We have to have faith in ourselves. I have never met a woman who, deep down in her core, really believes she has great legs. And if she suspects that she might have great legs, then she’s convinced that she has a shrill voice and no neck.” —Cynthia Heimel

I struggled nursing Sophie.

This time is even worse.

But, with Sophie, it got better—much better—and I nursed her for 13 months.

Now I’m at the four-month mark with my boys and we haven’t even reached the nursing stage yet. They get 100 percent breast milk—something I’m proud of—but I pump almost all of it and then give it to them in bottles.

It’s ridiculous, really. Before I had the boys I thought women who exclusively pumped were crazy. It didn’t make any sense to me. It’s double the work of formula (because you’re also pumping) and double the work of breastfeeding (because you’re also preparing and cleaning bottles).

But, even though I often like to stomp my feet and insist that things work out exactly the way I want them to, often, they don’t. My babies were born early. In the very beginning, when I was only producing a small amount of colostrum, Owen also was given formula. And James, because he was so small, qualified for donor milk—so he was given breast milk from another woman.

But I was lucky. My milk came in fast and plentiful and soon I was able to provide for them both. But because they were so small, I had to supplement my milk. So every bottle of pumped breast milk Owen and James received had a measured amount of extra high-calorie formula added to it.

When both boys were in the NICU, I was meticulous about pumping. I pumped every three hours, around the clock. I recorded the time I pumped and the amount I pumped. I poured my milk in small, plastic containers, which I collected by the dozens from a cabinet in the hand-washing room in the NICU. I wrote the time and date of each pumping session, and initialed each pre-printed label (also provided by the NICU).

While still in the hospital I’d pad down to the NICU, IV still attached to me, to drop off my milk and stare at my brand-new boys, even in the middle of the night.

Once home I’d store the carefully labeled milk in our refrigerator and then transport it to the NICU, in my parents’ old cooler. While visiting the NICU I’d always pump at least once in one of the area’s two pumping rooms. And always I’d keep track—date, time and amount—both on my spreadsheet and the pre-printed labels.

When visiting my boys, I’d try to breastfeed them. But because they were so very small, they had trouble latching. And because they were so very small, I was only allowed to try to breastfeed for 10 minutes. Otherwise they would become too exhausted and wouldn’t drink their follow-up bottle. And they had to drink their follow-up bottle because they had to grow. That’s why they were there. To grow.

Eventually, Owen came home. I continued to rent the hospital-grade breast pump and pump. I nursed Owen when I could, with a nipple shield to aide in the latching process. But nursing with a nipple shield required a follow-up bottle. Often, I found myself skipping the nursing and going straight to the bottle. Or someone else would feed Owen a bottle while I visited James in the NICU.

Then, James came home. And what felt like an already overfull plate seemed dangerously close to spilling. In the beginning I’d attempt nursing each of them at least once a day. A few months into it my mom helped me come up with a schedule in which each feeding session included a trial nursing session with one of the boys (Owen more often than James, because he was bigger and wouldn’t tire as easily).

But again, nursing required that follow-up bottle. And that follow-up bottle required pumping. Pumping required a clean pump kit. Bottle feeding required clean bottles. Cue the excuses: It was too much. I didn’t have time. Their not latching was too emotionally trying. I needed the help of other people come feeding time. I needed the extra time to play with Sophie.

Some of these excuses, perhaps all of them, are good ones. But still, they’re excuses. And because of them, four months into it, I’m in this ridiculous situation of doing the work of both breastfeeding and formula feeding.

I know that if I want out of this situation I have two (obvious) choices: (1) dedicate myself and time to teaching the boys to nurse or (2) formula feed. I don’t want to formula feed. It’s so expensive. I don’t know how the boys’ stomachs would handle it. I like the health and bonding benefits that come with nursing. And I’m so incredibly tired of washing bottles.

Our pediatrician gave me permission to go cold turkey—he said the boys are big enough. I think I’ll start with Owen. My mom volunteered to take James and Sophie for a day. And so, in the near future, I plan to spend a day in bed, with Owen, and simply try to nurse—no follow-up bottles, no cleaning, no laundry, no coloring with Sophie—nothing except trying to nurse. Our pediatrician warned me that it might not go well—Owen is four-months old. He’s used to a bottle. And he’s very impatient, especially when hungry (he gets that from me). So I expect a lot of frustrated tears, from both of us. But I at least want to try.

Maybe it will go well. Maybe Owen will get the hang of it and then James will get the hang of it and then I’ll actually get to use the awesome nursing pillow my in-laws gave to me last Christmas.

Or maybe it won’t go well. And I’ll continue this ridiculous cycle of pumping and feeding and washing, washing, washing. And I’ll have to pump, even more, because they’re drinking more. I no longer have a spreadsheet. I no longer keep track. And it’s so easy to skip pumping sessions. But with each pumping session I skip, the less milk I produce. And I know if I keep doing that I’ll have no choice but to supplement with formula.

If I do exclusively pump for the remainder of the year there will be some benefits. I’ll always have a supply of milk in the freezer. Andy and family and friends will always be able to help with the feedings. And at six months they’ll start to eat rice cereal and then maybe homemade apple sauce or mashed avocado. Slowly they’ll eat more, drink less. And before I know it a year will have gone by and I will have done whatever I felt like I could have done at the time. It will be the past, done with, and the boys will have grown in that very magical way that comes with breastfeeding (whether from the breast or the bottle): they will have grown very much because of a liquid part of me. And I love that.

Still, I often stomp my feet and want for something better—and on days when I’m especially worn and exhausted—something easier.

I hope this story ends like Sophie’s did. If so, great. If not, OK. And I know that. As long as the boys are growing, it’s OK. It’s OK. Only I always want more than just OK.

“No one could give her such soothing and sensible consolation as this little three-month-old creature when he lay at her breast and she felt the movement of his lips and the snuffling of his tiny nose.” —Leo Tolstoy

Happy birthday, Tammy! Wishing you 50 wonderful more!

“I have enjoyed greatly the second blooming … suddenly you find—at the age of 50, say—that a whole new life has opened before you.” —Agatha Christie

It’s so nice to visit with Julie, a fellow mom of three (including twin boys). And Sophie had a blast running and screaming outside, eating pizza and playing with all their toys. Thanks, Julie!

“One’s friends are that part of the human race with which one can be human.” —George Santayana

Several weeks ago my aunt Ellen and uncle Skip stopped by to meet the boys and see our house. They surprised Sophie with a couple presents, including a 3-in-1 SMART SPORTS toy, which she absolutely loves. (Tucker, who has now been hit by a baseball bat, tennis racket and golf club during Sophie’s, at times, violent swinging sessions has a differing opinion on the gift.) It was great to see them both.

“Each day comes bearing its own gifts. Untie the ribbons.” —Ruth Ann Schabacker

Sophie has asked me if she can “watch the computer” (meaning watch various Nick Jr. videos online) about 12 billion times today, in the following numerous ways:

“I went to bed so now I can watch the computer.”

“Please can I watch the computer, Mommy? Please, please, please, please, please?”

“Mommy! Watch! The! Commmm-puuuu-teeer!”

“I read a book so now I can watch the computer.”

“It will really make me feel better.”

“Watch the computer, watch the computer, watch the computer, WATCH! THE! COMPUTER!”

“I drank my milk so now I can watch the computer.”

“Say yes, Mommy! Don’t say no, Mommy, say yes!”

And my favorite:

“I’ll be your best friend.” (I blame Mo Willems and a particular pigeon for this one.)

“If you can’t convince them, confuse them.” Harry S. Truman 

Mandy and Owen

Evan, Rebecca and Sophie picking vegetables in Nick’s beautiful garden

Evan and Sophie taking over the Wiffle Ball field (along with Lauren and Chris)

Mike helping Sophie with her swing

Greg, Jenna and James

“You really can make Wiffle Ball your own game. Every field is different.” —Michael Benson

I called five Starbucks today. Five. It was 5pm. I could barely keep my eyes open. I wanted to surprise Andy by bringing all three kids, by myself, to his 6:30pm softball game. And all I wanted was a Frappuccino. (I had a gift card!)

The idea of driving to our closest Starbucks, which has no drive-thru, and unloading all three kids just for a drink, was exhausting. (And I already was so tired.) So I went to Starbucks’ website in search of a store with a drive-thru. The closest one was in Anderson. So I made a mental note of the address, and loaded all the kids, a bulging diaper bag, double stroller and quilt in the van. Forty-five minutes early. Just for a Frappuccino. But unfortunately, according to my Garmin, that Starbucks no longer exists. So I searched for all Starbucks and started calling them (my Garmin nicely supplies phone numbers as well as addresses for locations). “No,” “no,” “no,” I heard over and over again. And by now Owen and James were crying. And Sophie was lamenting the fact that we weren’t going anywhere.

I got mad. Then unreasonably panicky (I was so tired). Then determined. I drove. And drove and drove and drove in search of someplace with a drive-thru that would have something like a Frappuccino. I drove until I risked being late for Andy’s game.

Deflated, I drove through a Frisch’s drive-thru.

“May I please take your order?” a woman’s voice said.

“Do you have anything at all like a coffee Frappuccino?” I asked.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

I repeated my question.

“No,” she said.

I ordered a Diet Coke.

It tasted terrible.

We made it to Andy’s game on time. The boys drank breast milk and Sophie delighted in slurping water from the water fountain while I held her, getting soaking wet. But I was so bitter. All I wanted was a Starbucks with a drive-thru. All I wanted was an icy, cold, caffeine-filled Frappuccino.

What is wrong with me?

“It is inhumane, in my opinion, to force people who have a genuine medical need for coffee to wait in line behind people who apparently view it as some kind of recreational activity. I bet this kind of thing does not happen to heroin addicts. I bet that when serious heroin addicts go to purchase their heroin, they do not tolerate waiting in line while some dilettante in front of them orders a hazelnut smack-a-cino with cinnamon sprinkles.” —Dave Barry

our first outside meal at the new house

feeding goldfish, one (small) piece of food at a time, at Farmer Brown’s

visiting grandma

visiting the family’s full restored farmhouse, which my uncle Roger and his son Sam worked tirelessly on

“The family—that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.” —Dodie Smith