Being Jane

So three kids is hard. Jane is crawling and eating everything and I find myself frantically grabbing things and saying the most bizarre things like, "No girls, Jane doesn't like to eat Polly Pocket Shoes! Please don't let your sister lick the bathroom floor! Jane isn't old enough to play on the computer - is that her sippy cup sitting upside down on the keyboard?!" We came home from a date the other night and our sweet and frazzled looking babysitter gratefully left. We didn't understand the extent of the carnage until I was cleaning up and found a half-chewed caramel stuck to the Wii remote.

Me: Who did this?

Anna and Elizabeth (casually): Jane

Me: Who gave Jane caramels (and the Wii remote, I might add)?

Elizabeth: Anna did. Jane was getting sad.

Anna: Yeah, it really cheered her up.

Me: Where was the babysitter?

Anna: She was cleaning up the water that Jane spilled on the rug.

Well, there you go. Caramels are an effective babysitting tool for eight month old infants with two teeth. I mean, if you're going to go that far, you might as well give the kid a beer and a package of cigarettes. Good grief (just so you know, I'm not foolish enough to actually say that to the oldest two, who would, no doubt, find a method of procuring said substances.)

Suffice it to say that finding time to blog has gotten harder. I find myself debating whether or not I am going to blog, go to the bathroom, or try to chip off macaroni and cheese from the counter. I can only choose one, so blogging has taken a back burner.

I'm not kidding - As I type, the kids are clinking together cups from my wedding china and shouting, "Cheers!" while Jane is eating dust from the floor.

But I can never be upset with this face (unfortunately for the other two, they don't have that kind of effect):


I mean, somebody has to look out for her welfare:


But I have decided that I need to blog. My journal is filled with all of the boring churchy things that my descendants will read and say, "We always knew she was old and boring; now we have proof." Where is the venue to discuss things like MacGyver reruns and how if you vacuum up another Polly Pocket shoe someone is going to get it? Where else can you mock your kids with impunity? I think blogging makes me a nicer mom. On those days that I want to assume the fetal position and weep, I find myself instead thinking, "What a great blog entry this will make." And that is a beautiful thing