I stumble through the morning in a fog. After one of those sleepless nights that seems to be a gift of aging, I barely have the energy to shuffle through my morning duties. Tom is the last to declare a breakfast preference and skips alongside me singing a made up song about cereal. He looks up at my puffy, bleary-eyed face and says, “I’m happy, Mommy.”

And I smile. Because now I’m happy, too.

Sam, the Hobbit, is having his second breakfast. Because to ask him to eat only one, when there are both bagels with cream cheese AND a fresh box of Froot Loops, is simply unkind. It’s worth the extra trouble to watch him eat it, head bobbing approval even as his eyes are glued to morning cartoons.

Tom, who is not a breakfast fan, has managed half a bagel — toasted but not crispy —  while Will has powered through two huge bowls of cereal and would probably accept more if I offered, which I will not.

They sit on the floor of the living room in front of plastic t.v. trays painted with each boy’s name. They’re color coded, as things have been their entire life. I wonder if Will’s favorite color is actually blue, or if Sam truly loves red, or Tom green. Do they identify those at their favorite colors simply because every item belonging to them individually has been color-coded since birth?

These are the things you wonder as a mom of many. How much is their personality? How much is my doing?

And if my influence counts for so much…dear God in heaven, please help me get it right.

I refuse to let his ham go to waste. Simply refuse. Even though I’m sick of ham sandwiches and ham roll-ups and the ever popular ‘pile of ham’ — as in, “I don’t want any vegetables mom, just a big ol’ pile of ham.” So tonight I decided to try something I’ve heard of but never actually eaten, Deviled Ham Spread. I googled the recipe, and it looked pretty much like Tuna Salad only, you know, with ham. So I set to work breaking down chunks of ham in my mini food processor. This involved carving off large chunks, trimming the fat, then slicing them into smaller chunks, which I then pulsed into a fragrant pink hash.

It wasn’t nearly as much fun as I’m making it sound.

Tom walks in as I’m frowning at the processor, wondering why one large chunk is just floating on top of the rest and refusing to get chopped to ribbons.

“What kind of smoothie are you making Mommy?”

“Ummm…actually, I guess it’s ham,” I say wriggling my eyebrows at Tommy.

“Mooommm!” he giggles. “That’s not right!”

And it really isn’t. Something about the shredded ham is not working for me, and I’m starting to wonder about this whole undertaking. But I soldier on stirring in the mayonnaise (bleh!), sweet relish (ick!) and mustard. I’m okay with mustard. It’s never done anything to offend me. But the rest of it coagulates into a slimy, pink, ham-scented ball.

But I refuse to be defeated. Surely, once paired with a tasty, crisp saltine this whole mess will suddenly be transformed into a tasty — and most importantly, thrifty — treat.

I solicit volunteers, but apparently the boys have played guinea pig once too many times. There are no takers. I decide to take one for the team and slather a Triscuit with a hefty sample. I am NOT a fan. I try a different cracker with the same result. There’s just no getting around it, this stuff is gross.

But that doesn’t mean we’re not having it for dinner.

As Ice T says, Thrifty ain’t easy…but it’s necessary. Or something to that effect.

I sit here writing, wondering if what I’m doing is less writing and more fingers moving across computer keys, the soft clicks a pacifier, lulling me into believing I’ve something to say and am saying it well.

Sam wanders in and tells me he can turn his head far enough to see a little bit backward. I murmur my approval. He smiles and shrugs, then wanders over to the dog. I hope he’ll be distracted long enough for me to write another sentence or two, but no. Already he’s back. Asking me why dogs smell people. Asking if I like his new watch from Chick-fil-a. And informing me that 1-0-0 is 100.

He is thirsty, and talks about which cup would be most desirable for his drink. My new coffee cup with the shoes on it tempts him, but before he can make a decision, he’s distracted by our Christmas Elf who arrived last night, much to everyone’s pleasure.

Except mine.

But I gave in.

As usual.

“Mom?” Sam asks. “You know what I did one time?”

“What?”

“Bal-a-lay — ‘cause I’m learning to be like a girl.” He laughs at his own absurdity, then noticing the strawberry bump on my neck, demands to know if I have any more strawberries. He immediately begins a search of all my exposed skin — not much territory considering I’m wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and calf-length house-shoes. I let him poke and prod me in hopes of making it to my 45 minute writing deadline. But things aren’t looking good.

Sam loses interest in my blemishes and moves on to the Christmas tree, then back to the elf.

“Mommy, I love elves. I hope we can get another one.”

“I don’t think so. One’s plenty.”

Sam doesn’t argue, already bored with the conversation. He finds a dum-dum lollipop, and wonders if the elf would like it, or if perhaps he’d prefer a cracker.

“Mommy can I eat a cracker? Just one?”

Before I can answer, he steps on something with his bare foot. “Ouch!” He bends to examine the offending object. “What is this thing, Mommy?”

He shows me a fragment of plastic, broken from some unknown toy. I grunt and shake my head in disapproval.

“It hurted me,” Sam says, his eyebrows knit. “I’m going to go throw it away.”

And he does, then pads back toward the stairs leading down to the playroom. I feel a surge of hope. I’m 15 minutes in to my 45 minute session. If I can get the last half-hour alone, perhaps I can make that thousand word goal I’d made for myself.

At the last moment, he veers away from the stairs toward me again.

“Mommy? I still really want a cracker.”

“Okay,” I say. “Go get one out of the cabinet.”

“I can’t reach them, Mommy. They’re in the middle. When I’m six years old, I can. But right now I’m five, so I need you to do it. The square crackers mommy. They’re in the middle.”

And so I sigh, and close my computer and go get crackers. 17 minutes. 523 words. As I move to the kitchen, I hear a fight break out in the playroom. Someone screams my name, but before I can respond, the screamer erupts in laughter, all previous wrongs forgotten.

My eyes prickle, but my feet keep moving toward the kitchen and the square crackers. The ones in the middle.

So, this weekend was Christmas at my mom’s house. The boys and I slept over as Jason was on call.

“Are you sorry you’re missing out?” I asked him.

“On 40 people crammed into two overheated 10×12′ rooms? Yup. Heartbroken.”

Jason’s sarcasm aside, we had a great time with the family. But the boys’ take on my childhood home is always the best. Jack views trips to my old room like mini archeological digs and always comes back with some sort of souvenir of his journey. This explains the numerous 4-H trophies from the late 80s that adorn his dresser.

The triplets are kind of uncertain about the whole thing, still asking clarifying questions about my upbringing.

“So Mamaw Steadman is your mommy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Bubba is your dad?”

“No, he’s my brother. He just lives with mawmaw so they can take care of each other.”

“Oh, cause you’re dad’s in heaven, right?”

“Right.”

As they’ve gotten more comfortable in their surroundings, they’ve started digging deeper and noticing more. For instance, Sam spotted for the first time the GIGANTIC portrait of me at age 15 wearing an unfortunate black turtleneck that I thought made me look sophisticated and worldly — no small feat considering I was having my portrait made inside the J.C. Penney at the Jasper mall. But I digress.

Sam looked up at almost-life-sized-me and asked my sister why there was a picture of “that ninja girl” on the wall.

In a conspiratorial whisper, my sister Amy said, “Well you know, that girl is actually your mommy a long time ago.”

Sam turned to her, eyes wide and gasped, “My mommy was a ninja?!?!”

As for me, I’m neither confirming or denying my past exploits. I figure I need every bit of leverage I can get.

Josie always finds the BEST stuff!

Watch this video. The degree of your love for this girl is directly proportional to your nerdiness. Enjoy!

someone’s blown their nose in your hand. Extra points if it involves projectiles. Thankfully, the bristle from the hairbrush dislodged at roughly 75 miles per hour on the first try, saving us an evening visit to the OR. In retrospect, there was probably a more loving response than, “You idiot! Why on earth did you stick that up your nose?” In my defense, a palm full of mucous tends to hinder mommy’s sensitivity filter.