Yesterday I met my Hero.
You can see her, kind of, up there in that pic. Matt and I were out for a kid-free breakfast (it was actually a kid-free, post-birthday getaway weekend) and I spotted a table in the corner of the restaurant. Four boys (yeah, count ‘em), one little girl, and one mom. I couldn’t stop staring. Are those all her kids? Those boys all look alike, are some of them twins? Triplets? Is she here with all of them alone? Tackling public breakfast?! “Matt, is it weird if I go up and ask her what the deal is with her life?” “uhhhh—yeah. It definitely is.” “Okay, be right back.”
“Hi. Are these all your kids? I am obsessed with you.”—or something like that. She was awesome and quickly gave me the scoop while simultaneously breaking up an argument and cutting up her daughter’s pancakes. So it goes a little something like this—They are all hers. “The boys are Irish Quadruplets”---Irish Quadwhatits? Yeah---all four boys, each ONE fucking year apart. 8, 9, 10, and 11 years old. All sporting the same face and the same bedhead, each separated by a just a few inches in height. “Holy Shit! Oops, sorry. So, then you just went for it?!” “Yup! Five years later we rolled the dice, and we got the girl!” I told her that I felt like I was looking into a crystal ball when I saw her table, and that she was the biggest boss I had ever met. And then I walked away so she could finish her breakfast and I could continue to watch her from across the restaurant.
I soon as I got back to my table I snapped the above creepily inappropriate paparazzi photo, and got to thinking. How the hell am I so overwhelmed with my two twigs and berries while this badass had THREE of them, and was pregnant with another one at this same exact phase. No, I actually can’t even imagine that.
I watched in (creepy) awe. All the boys were entertaining one another. Somehow, no one was getting out of hand. The little girl sat at the head of the table, and brought eight of her favorite princess dolls to breakfast. Supermom didn’t even look fucking stressed. Her gaze just bounced around the table seamlessly as she periodically helped each kid open their straw wrappers, cut their food, or got them more ketchup. The table wasn’t even loud. Four boys—one girl—one mom. Shit very together. Quiet. Pretty. WHAT.THE.FUCK. At one point all four boys got up and went to the bathroom together while mom and daughter stayed at the table. Within a few minutes they all arrived back---all clothes were on, no one was yelling, no one was fighting. And #momoftheuniverse even had workout clothes on. Did she workout this morning? Was she going to workout later? How the shit is she squeezing a workout in when she is in charge of all these little people?! That’s it! Damn it! I cannot un-see this. I now have no excuse for anything. Ever.
As she was leaving I said to her, “Seriously, you are my hero! How do you do it?” “Well, I basically threaten their lives several times a day.” “But you have it all together. And you look so awesome and rested. Were you in the weeds at one point? Because I only have two and I feel like a zombie with a mental problem.” “Oh girl, I just got out of the weeds around a year ago!” So, there it was. Boss lady spent 8 years in the weeds fighting for her sanity, like all of us with small kids. And even with four boys, and five kids, she has fought her way out! She is alive, looks like rockstar, has a sense of humor, and isn’t (currently) being institutionalized for any reason. I wish I had asked for her name so that I could stalk her on social media and take our relationship to the next level—but I was too shocked to prioritize my questions correctly. So I will just keep her badass-ness etched in my memory for all those moments when I wanna whine about how tough it is to have two boys two years apart, or when I get all anxious that I won’t be able to handle a third kid. And maybe after I have my fourth boy, I will wait a while, remember my breakfast hero and say, ‘What the hell, let’s roll the dice!’. No way. I’d have triplet boys.