E. Coli? Sharp scissors? Pshaw!

When I tell people I have three kids -- or when they spot me at the pool simultaneously trying to pull my bathing suit top back on, wiping baby snot on the tiles and jerking the Tyrant’s head out of the water -- they inevitably comment that I must be very busy.
But “busy” is not the word I would use. It’s more like treading water -- I’m not doing anything other than flapping my arms and breathing. It’s exhausting, but not particularly productive, like an adaptation of the old “one step forward, two steps back” cliche. For example, just yesterday I saved $50 by taking the Diva to the library instead of the bookstore for books. But before we could check anything out, I had to pay $48.40 in late book fines.
The day before, after making the grand announcement that the Tyrant was potty-trained, she drank too much pool water and delivered a gross liquid-y poop that left gloopy brown puddles on the pool deck. (Hello, communitywide E. coli outbreak!)
Bringing my second child (the Pterodactyl) home -- going from one child to two -- was an adjustment, but it was manageable. The Tyrant was a game-changer. I distinctly remember one night after the Tyrant came home, after all three children were finally asleep, that Husband and I leaned against the kitchen counter and stared at each other.
“We ruined everyone’s lives,” I whispered.
I was so frazzled by the onslaught of chaos that I once let the Pterodactyl go for a playdate with the son of a woman I barely knew from the gym. I didn’t even know her last name. In my defense, she seemed very nice.
Anyway, the chaos didn’t die down so much as become tolerable and predictable. I now know from experience that I do indeed have time to run to the bathroom and wipe someone’s bottom before it’s time to flip the egg. In the time it takes to watch one episode of “SpongeBob Squarepants” I can put in a load of laundry, cook some noodles, take the dog out and post a status report on Facebook. Hey, a gal’s gotta have a social life.
And my standards changed. I used to interview babysitters with KGB-like acumen: References? CPR certification? Driving record? It’s a little different now. As long as they haven’t been convicted of anything, who am I to judge?
I once kept vigilant track of what my kids ate to ensure the ingestion of all necessary vitamins and minerals. Now I just want to make sure they eat enough that they don’t turn into cranky, wild-eyed maniacs. The Diva has eaten canned spaghetti for the past three days running, and I’ll be honest with you, I just feel grateful that the Campbell’s people were thoughtful enough to put extra calcium in each serving.
I also don’t freak out nearly as much as I used to. When the Pterodactyl pushed a little girl down the slide his first year of preschool and she broke her arm (I’m pretty sure she had weak bones to begin with), I went overboard with apologies. I wrote a letter to the mother, bought the girl a gift, and cried in the principal’s office. Yesterday when he packed a pair of kitchen shears for summer camp, I just told him Ms. Stacy wouldn’t like it.
So now it’s summer. I tread water daily -- both figuratively and literally -- and my arms have gotten stronger because of it. I can balance a glass of wine in one hand and a dog leash in the other, while counting the number of times the Diva jumps rope and scream at the Pterodactyl to pee in our bushes, not the neighbor’s. And you know what? Sometimes I even enjoy it.