Page 1 of Unexpectingly Happily Ever After

Chapter One

It’s my belief that children should be seen rather than heard.

A Young Woman’s Guide to Raising Obedient Children,

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid (1943)

“But Momma, we’re going to be late. Wehaveto go to soccer,” Sophie whines. “Now. Right now.”

“Yes, I know,” I say, hanging tight to the patience needed to corral three 6-year-olds into the liquor store. “But Momma needs to pick something up so we need to pop in here a sec.”

Sophie is right to be worried. Punctuality is not one of my virtues, but the LCBO is on the way to the soccer field, and it’s not like they start to play right away. For an hour-long game, the kids maybe play for thirty-five minutes. There are warm-ups and pep talks and some parents insist on plugging their kids full of this super-protein smoothiebefore the game because they think these drinks are going to make their kid a better soccer player.

They don’t work. I know, because one game I gave in to the pressure and mixed up a batch of this disgusting mess of ricotta, peanut butter, banana, beet, and chia seeds. And dark chocolate, which Lucy was

very excited about.

As I sent the kids out onto the field, with full bellies and hyper from too much of the leftover chocolate, I felt like I deserved one of the hard-fought Good Parenting awards. But halfway through the game, Ben was pulled because of an upset tummy, and then Lucy woke me up in the night with a bad case of diarrhea, so we don’t do smoothies anymore.

I do my best to ignore Sophie’s litany of complaints as we maneuver the minefield that is the parking lot.

“Hey!” I shout, grabbing Sophie by the collar to pull her closer as a car swipes by a little too close for my liking. “Jeez! Kids here!”

“Is jeez like cheese?” Ben asks.

“No, jeez is for Jeezer Christ,” Lucy corrects him.

I stare at my daughter who is full of self-importance. “Who is Jeezer Christ? Jee–I think all of you need to go to church!”

“Simon goes to church on the Holy High holidays,” Sophie informs me.

“I think you’re messing up your religions.” Holding Ben by the hand and Sophie by the collar, Lucy is relegated to dangling from my arm. Literally dangling; all fifty-one pounds hanging off my arm.

At least it keeps her away from the cars.

Sometimes I wonder how I got to be here–as a mother of three active, energetic, amazing and extra-lovable kids; Sophie, Lucy, and Ben. They’re mine. I did this.

I had help from J.B., but I did this. They came fromme.

Sometimes the realization washes over me, usually at the worst possible moment, and I have to take a breath.WTF.

Being a mother had been my dream since I spent all my time playing with my Rub-a-Dub doll, but I never really considered what it meant to be a momma, especially to triplets. I love my babies more than life itself, but just being around them is exhausting. No one told me how tired I would be, or how, even six years after they were born, I still wouldn’t be able to lose the last twelve pounds of baby weight, or even how my bladder seemed to have developed an incontinent stutter whenever I try to jump on the trampoline that

J.B. insisted we buy.

Actually, I think my sister might have told me about the bladder one, but I chose not to believe her.

“Lucy, wait! For once, can you at least try to walk at a normal pace?” I snap as Lucy breaks free and makes a run for the store, darting in front of a woman overloaded with grocery bags. “I’ve had a bitc–a long day, and I’m slow.”

When I’m not corralling these three, I’m a kindergarten teacher. You’d think being responsible

for eighteen 5-year-olds would have given me the inside track to dealing with triplets, but no, not really. I found it’s not something you can prepare for.

“But I’m fast because Momma needs her wine!” Lucy sings, pulling open the door and nearly taking out the woman with the bags.

“Sorry,” I apologize to the woman. “Yes, Lucy, Momma always needs her wine.”

Sophie takes my hand. “Is Momma tired?” she asks, surprisingly solicitous for a six-year-old.

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