Instead I got, thought out and calmly perceived: “You know what mommy? You are only nice to Henry and not us.”

Okay. I asked why she thought that; my own theories were beginning to bubble.

I love all my children equally. This phenomenon is impossible to imagine before a second child is in the picture, and difficult to explain to someone anticipating a second child’s birth. We all worry we will somehow be unable to love any child as much as we love our first. And that does not happen. Love expands; it is time and attention we have to divide. And those are never equal.

Was that becoming obvious to my oldest?

Molly is the oldest by only 19 months. She asks sophisticated questions about where squirrels go in the rain. She loves treats, floaty dresses, her sister, and her brother. In that order. And she loves me “to that number that doesn’t end.” She wrinkles her face up when something doesn’t make sense, and twirls her long hair absentmindedly until it tangles. She gets excited each morning for school and never wants to be late. But she insists on wearing the ribbon flats that fall off her feet and short sleeves on the coldest days; she is bossy, moody, and insistent, exhausting all of us.

She is most like her mother. She wakes in the middle of the night asking about her playdate the next afternoon. Her sensitivity and intuition are painful. Sensitive girls notice, even at four years old, when friends make plans without them. Like magic though, a trip to Starbucks has can mend her broken heart. As compassionate as she is emotional, Molly is shaken to tears if she thinks her brother or sister will be left behind.

And Ellie may one day be that friend who leaves you wondering where her affection suddenly went. She’s full of dancing and kisses and jumping and explosive moments of fist pounding. She hasn’t any doubt the world will give her all the things she wants–lip gloss, cookies, a Barbie movie at bedtime, balloons climbing above the trees.

She’s clever and knows her audience; it is almost impossible to be angry with her as she raises her eyebrows and explains why she will not face consequences for refusing to put away toys. Ellie imitates everything her older sister does, yet it is obvious that she will very soon be the leader of the three. She speaks in paragraphs, not sentences, and will repeat her point until acknowledged just the way she wants. Her serious mood melts into giggles at the suggestion of a game of “I’m gonna get you.”

And Henry is the hardest to describe. Is it because he’s a boy I treat him differently? His sisters have a thickness to their bond, calling to each other from different rooms. They whisper and laugh the way little boys just don’t know how. Henry is slower to reach physical milestones and insecure in his abilities to balance and climb. Some days he gives everything to his physical and occupational therapy sessions; sometimes he hides in his room and refuses to participate.

The nannies in our neighborhood call him “handsome.” Charming and conservative with his smiles, he watches his peers on the playground before inching closer. But Henry follows the older boys on scooters–he’s almost as fast, and he sings to himself loudly as he speeds along. His favorite toy, “tiny bear,” is tattered, ripped and in every way a mess. This doesn’t stop him from cuddling and talking to it, rubbing its nubby arm while he falls asleep each night.

I understand why Molly thinks I am nicer to Henry. He is my baby while the girls are independent in their attitudes and ways. Minor scrapes and bumps send him crying to me, and as much as I demand he “shake it off”–I sort of like comforting him.

I am easier on him because he has unpredictable tantrums–and unlike the girls, he is completely unreachable when he is having a fit. When I need to be out the door with three children, I will do anything to avoid more screaming. Henry is, in some ways, the most difficult to keep happy. But he collapses easily into a hug and rests his head on my shoulder.

They separate themselves almost naturally. The girls play princess or “mommy” to their baby dolls. They take care of things, put order to their spaces and each other. Henry can drift into a world of trains and tracks and engines for hours by himself on the floor; there are names and places only he knows.

So Molly was reacting to something that had happened just a few minutes early that day. Henry was overtired and impossible, having half-napped in the stroller. I offered him the sofa or his bed to lie down, trying to calm everyone before baths and dinner. There was a point during this when I yelled at Molly “super loud.” I am sure this happened but I can’t recall why or when. I never want to be nice to one and not another. But it happens here. I don’t plan on spending more time with one child. I know this happens as well, and too often. The dynamics of three children are difficult for all of us to navigate through.

Each evening we sit together, watching a movie. The three fight over who sits next to me and where. One of the kids will remind me to put my phone away.

They point out who got an extra cookie, didn’t clean up, deserves to go to bed early. Sometimes I laugh at how bold and exacting their sense of justice is. Mostly I respond by reminding them I’m in charge. Because like them, I imagine the world the way I’d like it.

Being the over-thinking, sentimental–overly dramatic–person that I am, milestones such as anniversaries uniquely satisfy my craving to examine, regret, and wonder at the bizarre details of life.

This year, unlike most years, I did not have one or more babies; we did not move; no one changed jobs; and we didn’t deal with a major renovation, moldy wall situation, mice and/or bedbugs. (It would seem I have enough reason to celebrate right here.)

One year ago, I came back to writing and back to myself.  It was one year after we moved back to Manhattan. I was angry and frustrated. We had moved into a beautiful apartment and discovered bed bugs. My life was physically upside down–washed, dried and in sealed garbage bags; it mirrored my emotional confusion. Much of life was exactly what I had dreamed (bugs excepted)–I was back in my city, my family was thriving. Our friends and community were growing. And I was still chasing something that had long ago belonged to me. Once, I had been a writer; I had owned the frustration of demanding inspiration that won’t come, and the perfect joy of having given it all to the page. I was chasing something that hadn’t actually escaped.

Over the years, on the way back to writing, I have tried different ventures: tee shirt designer; commercial actor; dog groomer (this one never blossomed passed my initial research); nutritionist; online college instructor.

Although those were not careers I was meant for, I understand where my anxious searching takes root. I was, and am, always looking for a way in. I need to connect with people. Sometimes for comfort. Sometimes for validation. Often for laughter. Always to revive in me the knowledge that we are in this world together for reasons, for this moment in time.

Once, the work and craft and mystery and narrative of poetry connected me to the world and to my spirit. I have said I am a writer for as long as I can remember–in college, in graduate school, throughout my career, and then after my children were born when I was no longer working or writing. There was a long space in which I did not feel like a writer–telling stories–my story–with an audience and the hope of immortality in mind.

So one year ago, I sat in my living room, my children nowhere near sleep, surrounded by garbage bags holding our possessions, without any end to the bug trauma in sight, and I felt hopeless and without options. And I decided to go “live” with the blog I had been drafting for months. And this blog has given me, to an oddly large degree, power and hope. It has given me a world I never suspected–other moms, dads, writers and activists. My friends from blogging are truly friends. I think often of the women I wrote to and met and leaned on for advice. A few offered enormous kindness by just answering my emails. Several gave me opportunities to write for their websites. They continue to prove to me how relevant our small efforts are to both friends and strangers.

This is just a blog. Living proof of my family’s life in the city–our three small children  growing up with playdates and preschool and green markets; a marriage always tested and glued back together by humor, humility and desperation; a journey through the imperfection of motherhood; and an honest attempt to find those brightest stars in the dark skies.

And in that, are the life and the anniversary I savor.

Once Henry finally went to bed at 10:00, I felt the familiar stab after a bad day. I closed my eyes and thought about my yelling when Molly got pink lipgloss all over the white rug, and when Ellie laughed in my face as I told her it was bed time. I turned on the television. I was caught suddenly by something I saw: a mattress commercial during which The Beatles’ “In My Life” plays. Damn you, cheesy mattress company. Now I have to sob and post all these pictures. Because I wasn’t my best today. Because I was preoccupied with work and cleaning up and having some quiet in the apartment. Because my children should never go to bed sad. Because I love them more.

My babies turned three years old last week. My five-pound early babies can dress themselves (almost), use the potty (one of them), and offer their opinions on just about everything (constantly).

Ellie and Henry; three years old.

April 2012. Lunch outside.

As well, my 20-year college reunion is coming up quickly. How speedily the years go by; yet how little time has passed when I think of who I was 20 years ago, who I am now. The space of so many years collapses upon itself: I am still insecure at parties, still think too much about my weight, still cherish a late night with wine and girlfriends. And I still love some of the same people. I suppose that is the measure of time well spent.

A month before Molly’s first birthday, we took a trip to Mystic, Connecticut. The year had been long and dark at times for me–my husband and I fought a lot, and I cried over nothing often. Getting away to a room beside the river was a needed fix. Cover your ears if you are squeamish, but I am pretty sure this is where the twins were conceived.

Beer and milk bottles. Irish pub, Mystic, Conn. August 2008.

Ducks! Mystic, Conn. August 2008.

We found out I was pregnant the morning of Molly’s first birthday party (which was at an Irish bar of course). I remember thinking how grown up all the little ones looked–barely walking, shoving fists of cake in their mouths, still weaning from the boob. We were in a rush for them to become toddlers. What did I know as a mother of one?

Molly's first birthday. September 2008. Just found out we are expecting. We don't know it's with twins.

Molly was 19 months old when the twins were born. We brought Ellie home first with us and Henry the next day. It was cold and raining, and in our excitement, delirium and frazzled state of being, I forgot to bring clothes with us to the hospital–not just his “coming home outfit,” but any clothes.  The stellar nurses in Cornell’s Continuing Care Nursery put kimono shirts on Henry’s legs and layered him with blankets.

The twins were tiny; Molly was enormous to us. Just a year and one-half, and she looked different to me when we came back from the hospital. I couldn’t imagine her any bigger or smarter or prettier. She was almost a little girl. What did I know?

And they are home. April 2009.

Molly about 18 months, walking our late dog, Daisy.

I hope you can pardon the random arrangement of photos in this post. In my mind it was like this–we were parents of one baby whom we rocked to sleep in the glider each night; then there were three babies in diapers, each needing to be rocked and comforted. And then a memory of learning to nurse, of strapping Molly in her infant carseat, or of lying in bed with morning sickness comes in. Or of telling our families we are having twins when we could barely say the words ourselves.

Suddenly we are the parents of three little children who either know how, or are learning to write their names coherently and who ask for their breakfast on their favorite plates.

Ellie, Molly, Henry. The twins had been home for a few days.

I was early pregnant with the twins; Molly was just a year.

And then I am 21 again, at college graduation. Hungover from Senior Week, scared for the future, wanting with naive desperation to change everything about my world and myself. Saying goodbyes on a vast lawn in the shadow of centuries-old buildings, promising to keep in touch. Waiting for inspiration to begin my new adult life, not realizing my desire is always, even then, for things to stay the same. What did I know?

We are waiting now to hear about kindergarten for September. I am checking the mail with ferocious anticipation–as I did once for college acceptances, then from graduate schools. Nothing has come. But I am receiving notices of the reunion this June. Pictured in one brochure are alumni reliving the good times, renewing friendships and revisiting those places that haunt the memory for decades. I will not be at my reunion; a dear friend from college is having a baby and I want to be there instead. The past and the present occupy the same space at times.

April 2012

This week I signed a writing contract, I wrote a scathing email to the Department of Education; I sat with my three year olds on a stoop eating bagels and cream cheese; I napped as the sun was setting and my husband bathed the kids; I sent a note of sympathy that will change nothing; and I dreamed, oddly, of the black Mustang I drove throughout college.

As I write, alone in my kitchen this warm Saturday afternoon, NPR is on in the background; specifically, Paul Simon is singing “Still Crazy After All These Years.” And that is my point.

Thank you Galit at These Little Waves and Alison at Mama Wants This.

Even if that doesn’t sound delicious to you, the cast of The Big Meal (at Playwrights Horizons through April 29) offers up something along those lines, only better. Perhaps because the actors are exceptional at whipping through clever dialogue at dizzying pace while playing several roles over the 90 minutes. Or perhaps because they are not your family.

But they may be close. I found many reasons to laugh and a few at which to cry while watching family drama unfold over the course of four generations. Dan LeFranc’s moving picture of love, birth, sickness, death (which targets several characters, executed each time through a surly and silent waitress)–and every meal in between–is familiar without being cliche or maudlin.

Sam and Nicole are the first characters we meet. They are at a restaurant where Nicole works, meeting for the first time. Barely willing to become a couple, their story begins and continues as they fall in love, break up, reconcile, become parents, become grandparents, and–catch your breath with me–become great-grandparents.

And we are always at a restaurant–the greatest backdrop for all drama in my opinion. I have had my share of couple fights, family arguments and tense conversations with inlaws while waiting for desert to be served. Love begins, wanders, circles back at many tables in The Big Meal. Always there is the complication of family and the relief of a cocktail; lines like “Why don’t you have another drink?” stung Nicole the mother but also, maybe, a few of us in the audience.

As we are carried through the lives of Sam and Nicole’s family on the feverish pace of dialogue and character changes, we can’t help but experience their celebrations, their losses and disappointments, their fear as we remember–and anticipate–our own. Many of the audience at the afternoon show I attended were older–they were the grandparents; I was the mother of young children. Our reactions were different. Because they had been through it? Because watching your children marry and move away is their present, my future? Who can say whether it is harder to imagine, or to go through, life’s journey.

At the end of the play, the young have become old; the healthy, sick. Yet each character’s core remains (which is a tremendous accomplishment as the actors transform without costume changes into characters of different ages). When I was younger, my mother told me that she never felt her age–we get older, we get old, and we wouldn’t know it if not for our ailments, our families’ growing up around us.

The great American writer John Updike has a short story called “My Father’s Tears.” Toward the end of the story, the main character also reminds of us this.

But we don’t see ourselves that way, as lame and old. We see kindergarten children—the same round fresh faces, the same cup ears and long-lashed eyes. We hear the gleeful shrieking during elementary-school recess and the seductive saxophones and muted trumpets of the homebred swing bands that serenaded the blue-lit gymnasium during high-school dances.

For me, The Big Meal is also about time and family: the two things we clearly can never control.

{The Big Meal: Written by Dan LeFranc and directed by Sam Gold, featuring David Wilson Barnes, Griffin Birney, Tom Bloom, Anita Gillette, Jennifer Mudge, Rachel Resheff, Cameron Scoggins, Phoebe Strole, Molly Ward.}

My ticket was provide by the wonderful people at Playtime! I have become a very big fan of this program as my children loved it. Opinions are, as always, my own.

Playtime! provides an opportunity for parents to have an incredible theatrical experience at some of the best, most high-profile Off-Broadway theaters in town while their children have a cultural experience of their own, playing and being creative with real-live NYC artist, musicians, actors, dancers and more. A real New York cultural experience for parents and kids alike, and at an incredibly affordable price.

I had not been to World Disney World in a long, long time. And never with my kids. As we were planning our trip, my husband shared his vision of the children in awe at every Main Street sign, fireworks display, character singing in the street. After all, isn’t that what everyone says–to see Disney through your children’s eyes is the real joy?

And we got to see the fear and terror in our children’s eyes as they ran screaming from Mickey and Minnie Mouse as well as every other costumed dog, duck and rabbit we ran into during our Magic Kingdom vacation.

As I complained after our first day–that it was crowded, that the kids were eating crap, that everything in the park is geared toward spending–my husband reminded me of something. “It’s not about you,” he said.

Indeed it was not. While my own feelings about the pervasive and antiquated princess culture range from mild annoyance to disdain–I bought us tickets to a princess tea party knowing it would floor the girls. And that it did.

God help me, but there is something magical about watching a room full of tiny girls in puffy dresses drink from tea cups as they listen to stories about magic flowers, enchanted castles and a handsome prince.

Tearing up is an appropriate reaction to watching your four year old eat finger sandwiches, right?

Of course, Molly didn’t disappoint: her reaction to Sleeping Beauty was appropriately suspicious.

After riding “It’s a Small World” 25 times, we tried to get the kids on a few other rides–or any other ride. This was not a hit. Henry, Ellie and Molly screamed their way through “Peter Pan.”

My kids were at their happiest when we happened upon a lady blowing bubbles outside the lines to one of the rides.

Really. We could have gone to the park at home with bubbles, kids.

2. Easter

I am not so into holidays. I haven’t really observed a Jewish holiday in as long as I can remember. I usually forget about Hanukkah by the third night; this year I didn’t buy the correct candles to light and almost lit the place on fire with birthday candles in the menorah. But my husband is a nostalgic Catholic, and the holidays remembered from his youth are festive and precious; therefore, we decorate for Christmas and we put together Easter baskets for our little ones.

These celebrations, when they have meaning, must be wonderful. I am guessing this is why people go crazy with preparations, planning, traveling, cooking, shopping, baking and hosting relatives. Not one thing in that list is something I am good at.

Despite my ambivalence toward occasions that require hanging, trimming or hard boiling things, I remain tickled at the kids’ responses to all the silliness. My efforts may be minimal, but my children don’t know that (yet); most of the time they pay off.

Easter morning began around 6:30 after a night of zero sleeping for some of us. Notice the little boy on the sofa in the background.

And after a breakfast of chocolate eggs and jelly beans, the morning continued with a petting zoo, children’s outdoor concert and a sighting of the Easter Bunny–from a safe distance of course.

I get that these experiences, however meaningless they may have been for me at some point, hold a different place now. They must. This is more than any single moment, a trip or a tree or candles that burn to the wicks. This is our present and also our future as the kids will shape their traditions from here. We are living their memories. Today that is a morning of too much sugar, a sunny day with outdoor music and family, farm animals brought to my city kids like the gift that is an early, mild spring itself.

If there is one thing that’s true of my parenting style it is this–I do it free fall. Although I own many (oh God so many), parenting books do not work and have only made me question every bedtime, mealtime, stroller-time decision I have ever made. I do not use them and I don’t recommend them. There.

This is different. Jill Smokler, the preeminent “Scary Mommy” from her now-infamous website, has written down our thoughts–that is if you are like Jill and me and you have no issues with toddler ear wax,  cleaning butts with ice-cold baby wipes, and letting the other moms win all the mommy “prizes” (jokes on you gals, there actually ARE no prizes after all!).

So when the discussion with a dear mommy friend about having done tequila shots on the beach during spring breaks turns to how on earth are we going to survive having little kids who won’t listen to a goddamn thing we say and even worse: what will we do when they grow up into real people who no longer want to cling endlessly to our legs, arms, heads and hands… What else can I do but consult a real expert? As Jill says, when one no longer needs to lug a diaper bag, “I can actually get away with just carrying a clutch during short outings.”

This sounds truly liberating indeed. Yet, Jill speaks for so many of us who believe we are “done” (DONE, I said!) having babies when she shares:

So why is it when I spot a baby out and about I get the urge to just grab it and run for dear life? The ache in my ovaries is palpable.

Mine cramped up just reading this chapter.

“Girl Repeated” is my favorite chapter. And I mean favorite like Jill talks about having a favorite kid–they’re all really awesome, but this moved my heart one particular day. I have two little girls. I am already seeing glimpses of the young ladies they will be, along with the looming heartaches they will undoubtedly have at some point: periods, popularity, body-image, boys, the girls that like you one minute and snicker about you the next. Jill goes there and comes right back to how we, as moms who were once these girls, hold on to our darlings wanting for them the things we missed: “the date to homecoming and the close group of fun girlfriends and the popularity and the confidence and the acceptance.” And all the while, the wrenching desire to keep them “safe and sound and out of trouble.”

I hesitate to admit, another chapter that resonated with me was the one on cursing. OH HEAVEN, do I have a colorful vocabulary, and I admire a mother that keeps in perspective the desire to curse like a mad truck driver in the presence of her children. I have been known to respond to lost keys, sunglasses, checkbooks and wallets with “Shit!” So much so that I am certain my kids think that’s code for “help me look.”

Scary Mommy advocates using the really bad words at your children. But only in your head.

…Ben’s incessant whining can be blocked out by my silently asking, “Are you ever going to shut your little fucking mouth, you annoying child?” …just asking in my head always makes me feel better. It also makes me a hell of a lot less likely to lose it on them.

As someone who has lost it on occasion, I can say that this experiment does indeed work. And as long as no cartoon bubbles appear above my frazzled pony tail at the end of the day, who’s the wiser?

Jill picks up on something monumental as well–that “an occasional ‘fuck’ flown around” the house is less harmful than many of the things some parents say to their kids.

There are simply no circumstances when words like “fat” and “dumb” and “ugly” are acceptable when directed toward a child. A word like “shit,” on the other hand, is just another word for poop. Really, what’s the emotional harm in that?

This is the type of advice you are not likely to see in other parenting books. My point.

I rarely tell people to buy books that have anything to do with parenting. But if you have a sense of humor, a sweatsuit you’ve worn for at least one week straight, and your pediatrician on speed dial, you will relish this. I wish I could offer up experience with the empathy and humor Jill does on her blog and in this book. As my three-year-old would add, “God damn it.”

Pre-order Confessions of a Scary Mommy, published by Gallery books, before March 31! The book hits stores on April 3, 2012.

{CLOSED}I am keeping it simple. Win your own signed Scary copy by posting a comment below; tell me one of your own scary mommy moments. Contest closes at 11:59 p.m. (ET) April 3, 2012.

I was given an advance copy for review purposes. All opinions are, as always, my own.

Well, hello there. Oh, and yes, it’s Monday.

On my bulletin board above my “desk” (the slab of kitchen counter I call my office), I have a note that says “write about preschool and money!!!!!!” (Yes, I use that many exclamation points when writing notes to myself.) Recently we decided we would not, could not send Ellie and Henry to the same (awesome) private preschool that Molly has attended for two years. The tuition is just too expensive for us now that we have our (more awesome) nanny back full-time, and let’s face it, good God, there are TWO of them!

Manhattan schools are crazy money. We only applied to one private school for Molly’s kindergarten and that was sort of on a whim (tuition is 40 grand). We are counting on this public school thing working out. Molly has gotten some educational perks that her brother and sister haven’t gotten and won’t get. (Don’t tell them, okay?) That’s the fact of our dynamic as a family of five in New York City (and we all know that I am not leaving my city again!).

We love our preschool community. Seriously–they are our friends, and it embarrassed me as well as made me really, really sad to have to tell the director we wouldn’t be sending the twins in the fall. I am still cringe-y about it. Along with the deep disappointment, it stripped away a layer of self-preservation to admit to having “not enough.” Finances are an odd thing to discuss openly, and it turns out I am not so good with that.

The husband and I have had some painful discussions about budgets (ours) and spending (mine). It turns out he knew about my secret love. And I had to end things.

So the past week or so I have been feeling a little proud. I’ve been sticking to my promise to not indulge myself in things I cannot afford and do not need at the moment (really, don’t feel too bad for me, I do not need a thing). I’ve faced this disturbing fact about myself: I shop for distraction from my real problems. And it didn’t kill me.

I am not devastated at the options the twins will have this year–they are turning three. They are awesome and loved and have each other to practice sharing with. There must be a reasonably priced music or art class they can take locally. And I will try to talk to them more.

Hey, it turns out I am actually good at this saving money thing!

And then our tax bill. Once the kids were in bed, we sat on the couch, with the basketball game on the television across the room.

“Well,” I said.

“Well,” my husband said.

“Yeah…”

“No vacation this summer?”

“Probably not.”

“Hmmmm.”

I’m a little worried. Not about vacations. There are things we haven’t talked about yet; I imagine we will. That we’ll have to. So this is life. The constant movements between joy and panic, relief and disappointment. Ours have been measured out in what seem like fair amounts so far. I have been surprised before by the hidden graces that often accompany honest fear. And I am about to fill my glass to the top.

No? Well it can go like this. Elderly neighbor is enchanted, delighted, thrilled by the sticky hands all over the elevator buttons and the alarm that is now going off.  He has raised his four children in this building–boy has it changed over these years–and isn’t it a great place for the little ones? God bless them.

Or this. Complete silence and dirty stares at my children who are dumping cheerios on the floor and stepping on them.

I never expected this one. We were in the elevator coming up to our apartment with the kids, their scooters, the double stroller and everything else we’d been out with for the afternoon. Our neighbor, a sparky long-time resident of our building whom I never see without her lipstick or her walker, was in the elevator with us. She complimented us on the kids–how alike they all are, how fun they are to have on the floor because they’re so “feisty” (referring to every morning when my children run into the hall in pajamas screaming to press the elevator button when their dad and sister leave). This woman has always been friendly, and I like her. She’s sharp and optimistic; I’ve had conversations with her about television shows, the neighborhood restaurants, and of course, the weather. As we approached our floor, she looked at my younger daughter and said, “Oh, look at her! She looks just like you,” glancing at me. Then she added as the elevator stopped and the doors opened, “Poor dear.”

Good job, kind old neighbor. Keeping me on my toes.