Celebrate Good Times, C'Mon!

So it's my birthday and the 1st anniversary of my blog.

TJ & Luke get along, if only for my birthday.

I started Chaos is the New Calm to meet a need I had for a certain creative release, even a level of mental discipline, lacking in my life. Days filled with laundry, meal planning, prep and cooking, cleaning, and, ultimately, caring for three small boys was making me a bit cranky, and I did not want to be a cranky person. So this blog was born to help me embrace the life I was leading, not the life I thought I should be living.

Though I sought order in my life, chaos was the norm. I gave up fighting it, embraced it and made it my calling card.

Andy enjoys today's picnic.

Today was no exception. Years ago I might have pouted or whined about not being wined, dined and otherwise catered to on my birthday. I think birthdays are a big freekin' deal, whoever is celebrating, and whatever birthday is being celebrated.

My day was chaotically awesome. The boys and I hit the gym early (where I got a workout and an awesome massage, just what the doctor ordered after a 3-week-long respiratory infection); we had a picnic at a local park, created DQ-enviable sundaes at home (on a Tuesdae, TJ pointed out), napped, hit the pool with our long-term b-sitter, Christine, followed by dinner at Noodles & Co., found a flower arrangement at home, left by my husband who was busy with in-town board meetings, dinner and other work chaos all week and read numerous text and FB messages from friends far and wide. After the little guys' baths and stories and bedtimes, Luke & I enjoyed the first hour of the sixth Harry Potter film (we've never seen them but are trying to get them all in before Friday's big game).

Life, and this birthday, are good and worth celebrating.

Cheers!

Surrender, Dorothy!

Back when I was a *Perfect Mother,* that is, before I had any children, I had several rules by which I planned to live my life when I did become a mother.

1. I would lose my baby weight within three months after delivering baby.
2. I would not yell at my children.
3. I would not wear sweat pants outside my home.
4. Only PBS would be allowed on the TV.
5. Snot would not be left hanging from my childrens' noses.
6. My children would not leave the house in dirty clothes, wearing their PJs or without shoes.
7. Toys would be relegated to a play room and/or the childrens' bedrooms.

That first one has become "I would lose my baby weight before my 25th high school reunion (coming up in two short months)."

I did ok with the second rule until the bonus baby showed up; yelling has since become the only way I can cut through the noise clutter around here.

Numbers 3-6 were dropped somewhere along the way.

I held fast to #7. I bunked two of the three boys together so that in our 100-year-old house, whose basement is simply that -- a basement, not a usable space for a kids' play -- we could use a large bedroom as a 'play room.'

But bunking together two boys, nearly five years apart, and centuries apart in personality, has proven, after two years of trying, to be a failed experiment in social science.

So a toy purge began in the play room. Toys and books were divided among the three boys' bedrooms, the family room, the living room, the dining room, the porch, the backyard, even the basement took a few donations. So now I have toys everywhere throughout out my house. Yes, they're in pretty baskets and behind frosted glass cabinet doors, but they are everywhere.

And as the middle guy, the guy who has moved happily into the former play room, said, "Now only you and Daddy have to share a room."