Psst, It's Me, Jerseygirl89. But Not.

So, welcome to my new home. Where I can actually do things to the blog without resorting to help forums and chocolate. And of course, my new name, TripleZmom. Where I can be different from the throngs of proud Jerseygirls flooding the internet and not be reminded that I'm nowhere close to a girl anymore every time I look at my internet handle.

You can even email me at triplezmom@gmail..com. Because all my kids' names start with Z, get it? And the 'mom' part is nice and ageless. However, for the purposes of the blog, the 2 older kids will still be called Ironflower and Lovebug. Because they don't need middle school classmates Googling their names someday and finding out about all of their embarrassing moments. ChunkyMonkey, though, needs a new name too. Because the hefty nine pounds he was at birth? Not so true anymore. He's not quite as skinny as the other two, but he's so not chunky. Not that there's anything wrong with that. He is kind of a monkey, in that he likes to climb on things but he's also a tornado who can destroy a room faster than any kid I've ever seen. He's got a magical smile, a huge vocabulary and a piercing scream. I'm looking suggestions on his new blog name. It's got to have 2 parts like his siblings'.

Ideas?

Four!

I always thought I'd be one of those really creative moms, the kind that do amazing art projects with their kids on rainy afternoons and let them dress however they wanted. I thought I'd just quietly walk out of the room when angry, or quietly lecture them until they apologized and never did it again. I thought I'd always be happy to read a story. I thought I'd be good at this.

Which just goes to show that life must really begin at 40, because before I had kids, I certainly didn't know myself very well. While it's true that sometimes I liked to draw or color to relax, the only time I ever did amazing art projects was when I had to do them to make examples for my students, and even then I only did them while I was watching movies and talking on the phone. As for dressing, well, I tend to conform. And the only time I've ever been quiet while angry is right before I've exploded. With regards reading stories, sure I LOVE to read and I do enjoy quality children's literature, but that's not what my children want to hear. They want to hear Thomas stories and rehashings of Disney movies.

And as I struggle to convince my fiercely independent children that nose-picking is gross, that vegetables will not kill them, that they can let me direct the imaginary play just once and that matching socks are fun, I kind of want to laugh. Not at them.

At me.

How on earth did I think two stubborn, loud parents would produce quiet, malleable children? And turn flexible and quiet upon parenthood? What the hell was I smoking?

What's really funny is that my belief in an easy child and my subsequent ideal motherhood were going to happen with ChunkyMonkey. Like any third child in our family wouldn't realize that he'd have to yell just to be heard each day. And like adding a third child to the mix wouldn't increase my older children's independence and my own willingness to encourage them to entertain themselves.

And that's how I know I'm done having kids (aside from the realities that we don't have enough money or room to have another, of course). I may be a little sad to realize that I won't be buying baby stuff anymore and that I'll never nurse again, but the bloom has worn off. I know if we had a fourth s/he would be even more passionate and loud than the other three and that I would become even less of an ideal mother, possibly by barricading myself in my room during play time and letting them all fend for themselves.