Yesterday afternoon after about thirty minutes on the playground chatting with some of the other mommies, the girls and I were invited to a friend's house to finish off the playdating. M and I met a few months ago when she and her family moved to the area from a few towns over. Her daughter and mine are in the same kindergarten class and when shy G first arrived, Lily found a true mate. Lily, Virginie, and I have since grown to love the entire cast of characters in M's family. There are four of them. Eight and under. And then two parents, a dog (Lab), and a guinea pig. For all my talk about parenting and writing home about it, I have no idea on earth how M does it.
That afternoon, I sat chatting with M in her kitchen while she prepped dinner for her team, at least three times what I would prepare for the girls and myself, and watched her dole out advice, grapes, mixed peppers and carrots, discipline, rules and regulations to a constant stream of kiddies flowing through the kitchen. There were reports of beatdowns, lost iPods and homework, dress up dramas, easy and uneasy alliances, and broken chairs and toys. There was a quick release of the dog from his day room that brought Virginie shrieking and cowering between my legs while dressed as Tinkerbell. There was the return, just minutes later, of Virginie now dressed as Minnie Mouse being chased by O, the little boy bobbing and weaving through the house in the Tinkerbell costume.
When she thought she heard squeals from the guinea pig, M calmly washed her hands (as she was still getting dinner ready) and called upstairs, "Don't hurt the guinea pig!" and then went up to see that the thing was alright. He was fine, just being loved to pieces by six kiddies who wanted to pet him, pick him up, love him down, and repeat. She suggested they give the poor animal a break and put it back in its cage and waited for the next attraction. It came in the form of a construction or deconstruction project that saw four of the six children chipping away at the paint and plaster in an attic room with tiny tools in the hopes of "finding the iPod that was probably buried in the wall." The younger kids had been convinced to help the eldest find her treasured iPod with not one of them considering the absolute impossibility of it actually being in the wall. That one got some real rousing and M stormed upstairs to find small holes, chipped pain, and lots of noise as the busy elves got down to business. With all the kids lined up downstairs in the front foyer, she gave them the "what's what" and all of them, having been through this many times before, hung their heads and peered at each other. Only Lily kept chiming in to agree with her that they should have known better. (Funny that, she too had participated just minutes earlier.)
I tried my best to help straighten up the dress up box and toys in the hallway before rallying my troops to go home. Though we'd been invited to stay, I could not bear to put too much more on this dear woman's plate. I knew that just after dinner time would come homework, baths, teeth brushing, bath time, and all levels of menace and wanted to get her to her Zen place as soon as possible. Just didn't think that two more gals and one momma would help. I was super-grateful for the playdate.
Our week is pretty well planned out in part because I am an anal freakshow, but also because I believe that a basic routine helps guide us all, and by us all I mean the three year old who must have some structure or she will rattle us all to the ground. There are rituals for getting up in the morning, policies and procedures for the basic routine--up, dressed, make the bed, eat, brush teeth, get hair done, take a vitamin, toss back allergy meds, choose a toy for the car ride to school, jackets, backpacks, get in the car, music on as we pull out of the drive. This program runs like this pretty much every morning with the usual argument for a leotard or swimsuit for Virginie, no matter the weather, and an occasional mindfreak when Lily cannot decide which toy of hers should make the five minute ride to school. We just reverse the program for bedtime. I count on both girls sticking with the program. We have lots of time when we can just chill out, play, do whatever we like, but that time is not during the comings and goings from home. That time too is scheduled.
Each morning, like clockwork, as I round the curve that leads me to Lily's school drop off, I see them. M and one, two, three, four kids--three girls and one boy--making their way across the street to the drop off. All are dressed, all with hair combed and teeth brushed, some even on bikes or scooters. just two of the four go to the school, the other two spend much of their time with M with a little bit of pre-school thrown in there for one of them. Three days a week, I have the luxury of sending Virginie to her pre
I know a few other mothers of four. I see them juggling the schedules, the appointments, the homework, and the meal times. When the kids are further apart in age, I see how difficult it is to make everyone happy without either asking too much of the older ones or ignoring the pleas of the youngest. I have seen many either forgo extra activities for fear of having to take the entire family to the practices, games, and fundraising events, or taking everyone and having the littlest meltdown to the ground when staying out too late. I am able to put the two girls in the tub together and get much done with the two of them eating, playing, relaxing, and sleeping together and know it is not often the case with multiples.
In the face of this valiant effort, I must concede that parenting two sweet, curious, chatty little Princess Ballerina soccer-playing Mermaids can be crazy and hectic, exhausting and nuts, but it ain't four. M's kids are awesome. They are funny, intelligent, curious, athletic, adventurous, and creative. And there are four of them. And from what I can see, four is way more than two.
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