When I became a stay at home mom several months ago, I expected that it would be a hard transition. I mean, I already knew my children. And they have never been an easy bunch.

Now you may be thinking that all kids are challenging and that it’s hard for all moms, and I would say that you are 100% right. But right now, I could kind of care less about any of that. I’m far too busy jumping through my own fire hoops and running my own pee pee scented gauntlet.

My twins just turned three, and I think that’s explanation enough for their contribution the daily chaos. And my oldest isn’t just a developmentally delayed four year old – he’s a HUGE developmentally delayed four year old with sensory issues typically attributed to a toddler. So I spend most of my days chasing a naked three year old with a pair of underwear under one of my arms and another naked three year old under the other, while screaming at a toddler in a six year old’s body to “GET OFF the table, and for god’s sake what happened to your clothes?“

The question that dominates my every second when those monsters are awake: “Why is everyone always naked?“

I do put clothes on them every morning…

Anyway – you would think that after a few months, I would have created some kind of order and structure in our house. I mean, wasn’t that the point of me staying home? To eradicate the misunderstanding that home is a vacation from school and daycare?

But I haven’t.

You often hear the term “insane asylum” thrown around regarding homes with small children. And while it is hyperbole used for effect, I do think it’s kind of accurate.

When my oldest son Oliver became a toddler (a “normal” toddler who had not yet manifested any noticeable delays), I would say that it felt like we were living with a crazy person. He would fly into a rage over the smallest of things. He could go from angelic to demonic at the drop of a hat. And he was a complete egomaniac.

He was a toddler: a crazy person in a tiny cherub’s body.

So none of this anarchy is unexpected. When you give birth to three babies in 18 months, you have to know that you will have three times the amount of id dictating your home life. Your own fertility has committed you to extended stay over the cuckoo’s nest.

And of course I wouldn’t change a thing. I count my blessings every second of the day. But at the end of the day, I do realize that I’m the grownup here and I’m kind of failing.

I’m that mom you see in Target who crammed all three of her children into a shopping cart and is using the under carriage (is that what it’s called?) for the purchases. I’m that mom who regularly hands her kids “forbidden” treats as a means of keeping them quiet, and not as a last resort. I’m that mom who takes one potty user in training upstairs to the bathroom only to find upon her return that an entire room has been dismantled.

I have so little control over my children…it’s almost like I’m a dad sometimes.

And I’m not talking about primary care giver dads. I’m talking about the ones who come home late in the evening after work and really only spend two full days with their kids during the week. The ones who spend most of their daily life on the outside with (for all intents and purposes) sane working professionals who are able to manage every biological function without the help of others. The ones who become completely overwhelmed by the Lilliputian hoard raiding the house and can only hope that the person who “usually handles this,” will arrive in time to help.

But I’m the person who usually handles things. Which is a scary thought indeed.

Just the other day, I left – you guessed it – Target with a cart full of children and no purchases. I made it all the way out to the car before I realized that I had left all of my bags sitting next to the register. So after five minutes of putting shoes back on feet and trying to unwedge my younger son from under the driver’s seat, I finally re-loaded the cart with kids and returned to retrieve my abandoned bags. The cashier laughed as I blindly grabbed for them, apologizing for being so scatterbrained.

She didn’t know the half of it. When we arrived home, I discovered an additional bag that did not belong to me. It was full of cosmetics, and I immediately pictured a woman frantically rifling through her bags in a desperate search for her new false eyelashes. And I couldn’t even rush back to return the bag since Oliver’s school bus was scheduled to arrive in 30 minutes.

I’m a bit of a disaster.

I am also incredibly patient and kind, and I keep emotion out of any punishment that is required. If I yell it is just to be heard over the clamor or to project a very clear impression that I am, in fact pissed. I will always give a hug to a child in distress, even if I really want to stuff them into a suitcase and check them in for the next flight to Peru. I care more about their feelings than I care about my own.

I have no desire to escape. I just want things to be better. I want me to be better.

And I don’t think there is any chance of that happening anytime soon.

Put me in my husband’s body, and I’m Mr. Mom. And I don’t see a Rocky soundtrack montage of me getting my act together anywhere on the horizon.

Maybe I’ll improve over time. Or maybe they will. Unfortunately, there is no crash course in full time parenting.

Every day offers a new lesson. The most recent one being that the next time I use Vaseline on dry skin, I will remember to immediately put it back up on a shelf. Because trying to get Vaseline out of a child’s hair is about as enjoyable as rebuilding a product display at Target while the Dream Team who knocked it over watches from their seats in the shopping cart, eating cookies and guffawing over how that silly woman ever thought she stood a chance…