confessional stories from a mother of three

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This post is for the women who question their ability to parent: you are not alone. And for any of you who have commented about me “always having it together,” this 16 hour period should prove otherwise.  

Part One: (Sunday evening) Mark and Liam are at church. I’m at home alone with Burke and Blythe, waiting for our friends Lynn and Totila to arrive. I head into Blythe’s room to change her diaper; Burke disappears somewhere to play (not uncommon). After changing Blythe’s diaper, I call Burke’s name trying to figure out where he is. No answer. Uh-oh. I’m now running around the house still calling Burke’s name and looking for him. Bingo! He’s in his room with his back to me. In the 2 minutes I was changing Blythe, he managed to swipe the children’s ibprofen from the counter, open the child-proof lid, dump it on himself, the rug, the table, and of course, drink some himself (about 4-5 times his normal dosage). 

Part Two: (later Sunday night) Mark and Liam are home, and Lynn, Totila, Kristen, and Tim are over. It’s past the boy’s bedtimes, which I haven’t noticed because I’m enjoying seeing and talking with our friends. Liam is chasing and “tickling” Burke around the house, when — BAM — his head busts right into my chair, moving me and the chair about a foot. (Good thing he had such a large dose of ibprofen.) He had a 2″ x 1/4″ gash above his head, and although he did cry initially, this guy was so cool. He took it like a champ. Meanwhile, Kristen finds Liam sitting in the living room crying because he unitentionally hurt Burke and feels really guilty/responsible.  

Part Three: (Monday morning) Someone used our debit card info to buy something online. So, I’m on the phone with the bank trying to get it all sorted out. After an annoying run-around with the bank, I realize that I don’t hear any of the kids. So, again, I’m calling their names, but this time I’m looking for all 3 of them. Nothing. Epiphany: Liam probably let them all outside. As I’m walking to the door, the doorbell rings. It’s an old, sweet man letting me know that my children are playing in the front yard by the street. As he’s speaking, Blythe is CRAWLING IN THE STREET. Nice.

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