Maw maw and Sam discovered that Will’s third fish in two weeks had followed in his forebears footsteps and gone belly up. In an effort to keep Sam from running straight to Will screaming “Ding, Dong! The Fish is Dead!” She suggested that perhaps he was only sleeping.

About that time, Will rounded the corner and Sam said, “Hey, Will your fish isn’t movin’. Maw Maw says it’s sleepin’, but I don’t think it’s gonna wake up.”

It's a really deep sleep.

Sam enters the living room cradling two fists full of crumpled one dollar bills.

“Dad?”

“What’s that, Sam?”

“Jack wants to know if he can come out of time out if he gives you ‘dis.”

A snort escapes me as I watch Jason struggle to arrange his face into a suitably serious mask.

“Tell Jack he can come out when I say he can come out and not a minute before.”

Sam, troops back down the stairs to relay the message and return the loot. Jack eventually makes it out of time-out. And I wonder what on earth I’ll do for entertainment when there are no little boys treading the boards of our “home theater.”

Will, interrupting a conversation having nothing whatsoever to do with food, “Mom, speaking of ice cream…can we have ice cream?”

I guess when you’ve got a craving, all roads lead to Dairy Queen.

Y’all…I finally had to break down and tell Tommy that you don’t pronounce Giraffe ‘ga-jraf’. But just like Sam’s ‘lasternoon’ for yesterday, Jack’s ‘tie-yul’ for towel, I don’t think I’ll ever get over the loss of that last vestige of babyhood. As for Will…we all heaved a sigh of relief the day he finally worked out his issues with the word ‘fork.’

So, just for your information the Metamucil dosage cup is less than precise. And there is a VERY fine line between “gentle, overnight relief” and “near death experience.”

…but I’m actually too sick to read. Too miserable to pay attention to someone else’s plot. Too out of sorts to make up my own. The only thing I’m excelling at at this moment is sucking at numerous things at one time. Is there an olympic medal for that?

I’m contemplating asking a friend to drive my kids to school tomorrow…but that would mean she’d have to see the inside of my van. And NO ONE can see the inside of my van. We’re almost at the “kill it with fire” stage of clutter. And now, I officially have the boys’ virus.

There are dirty clothes mocking me from the laundry room. Dishes that need to actually leave the dishwasher and return to the cupboard. But honestly, the kids can reach them more easily in the dishwasher — at least that’s the excuse I’m running with right now. It’s overwhelming in the biggest sense of the word.

I’m accustomed to short bouts of sick. They’re rough, but I can bounce back with a marathon laundry session and simply attacking the rest of the house with a garbage bag. But this…this… ICK I’ve been dealing with for the past two weeks has floored me. I’ve been tapping out frantically, but it still won’t let me up from the mat.

I can’t even find it in me to blame February. February is my go-to scape goat for the feeling of helpless inertia that seems to take hold this time of year. But usually it’s been cold, bleak and miserable for a month or so by now. Usually, February has done everything in its power make me hate it with the fiery heat of a thousand suns.

But not this year. This year, February’s been warm and bright and surprisingly wonderful. There have been 70 degree days that have popped up like tiny previews of spring. There are flowers in bloom. The kids have played outside for hours. It’s been amazing — and vaguely annoying. Because now there’s no scapegoat…unless you count my uterus.

I suppose my broke-down, tired, and soon-to-be-late uterus is to blame for most of my misery, although it doesn’t feel nearly as satisfying for some reason. In the grand scheme of things, it’s just a tiny, disposable meatball. At least February has some stage presence. It’s an official Proper Noun, for goodness sake. [Note: I just deleted the exclamation point at the end of that sentence. Because I’m TOO LETHARGIC for exclamation points…but thankfully I still have ALLCAPS]

*sigh*

And so, here I am, just one more intestinal event away from a complete descent into chaos. The good news is, in 2.5 hours, a new day starts. And who knows? I might have a burst of competence.

It’s another sunny day in February, so anything could happen.

Now that we’ve finally come to the end of our life together, I find saying goodbye is much harder than I thought. I can’t say that I’m not pleased to see you go. Let’s face it, our relationship has been a rocky one ever since I first got to know you back in the 6th grade. You’re the reason my mother tried to force me to eat iron-rich chicken livers in high school, and the reason I sampled every birth control pill known to woman once I was married. Then, when I finally needed you to do your job, you had to be begged, bribed and cajoled into action.

But when push came to shove, you really came through for me in a big way. Together we endured 2 pregnancies in 19 months. And as the triplets writhed and flipped and generally tried to tear us both asunder, you held strong, cradling them safely for longer than anyone could have imagined or hoped. I guess that’s why relegating you to the hazmat bin seems kind of unfair.

Is this any way to say "Thanks for the memories?"

So I’ve been brainstorming, and have come up with a few alternatives:

I could have you cremated and made into keychains.

So you'd always be on the go.

Unfortunately, they only come in sets of three, and I don’t think it would be fair to leave one of the boys out. I suppose I could order a double set, then Jason and I could have one, too. But I just don’t see him getting on board with this idea without some serious cajoling on my part. Even if I did talk him into it, I have a strong suspicion his portion of you would be “lost” within 24 hours.

There’s always a memorial tattoo.

It's not like this guy's Pit Bull deserves more credit than you, right?

But…let’s face it…I’m just not a tattoo kind of girl. And I think I might become increasingly less fond of you if I had to see you every time I look in the mirror. Heaven knows I’m not on speaking terms with my stomach and upper thighs for just this reason.

When it comes down to it, I think my first inclination was by far the best and most appropriate — a Viking Funeral.

Picture this floating down the Cahaba River next week.

Really, the only downside I can see is the very real chance of your starting a raging forest fire. But other than that — genius, right?

Seriously, Uterus…even if I can’t wrangle a permit for the flaming longboat, don’t think your hard work hasn’t been appreciated. The boys are incredible — so healthy and perfect. Full of silliness and wonder. That’s a legacy you can be proud of. Heck, anyone would be. Goodness knows I am.

Sincerely,

Jodi

“Mom?” Sam asks, padding barefoot into the kitchen where I’m cleaning the breakfast dishes.

“What’s up babe?”

“Can I get a tattoo on my belly?”

“Of course,” I say as I place another dish in the wash. “What kind to you want?

“Two pirate swords that go like this.” He draws an ‘X’ in the air with his finger, and nods in satisfaction.

“Sounds good to me, babe. And you want a tattoo like that? Not just a sticker or something?” I feel obliged to offer an alternative.

“No, I want it to be there every day even when I take a bath.”

“Good thinking. How about we do that for your birthday?” That’s nine months away. What are the odds I’ll be held accountable for this particular promise.

“Okee doke,” he tosses over his shoulder as he pads out of the kitchen.

I love all my children, but conversations with Sam tend to add a certain lightness to the day.

“Well, this is a great day to stay home and do nothing at all,” I announce to the room, watching the wind and rain lash the trees outside our living room window. We cluster around the television as the weatherman discusses wind speed and the possibility of tornadoes.

“Uh huh,” Sam says. “This is a good day to be home and not struck dead by lightning.” He nods in agreement with himself, sporting the funny little smile he always gives after stating one of his bona fide, indisputable facts.

We stare at him in silence for a beat, and then burst out laughing. And maybe, just maybe, we’re a little bit more thankful to be here together, warm and dry, as the storm howls itself to exhaustion outside.