Motherhood isn’t what I expected. What was I expecting, you might ask?

Well, let’s start by telling you that I grew up with two brothers. We are triplets. Multiple children aren’t easy, but we were fun. At least I think we were. Unless you ask my parents. Their side of the story s different. When they sit around the dinner table and begin to recount our childhood, it sounds like Freddy Krueger, Chucky, and Hannibal Lecter reincarnated. The repertoire of horror stories they tell our significant others are infinite. I doubt they'll run out of them…ever.

It never starts with, “Ainsley was the most adorable little girl you have seen. The boys were so much fun.”

No, it goes something like, “Remember that time when they tried to prove that chickens could fly?”

We had a few incidents. Mostly Jacob and Matthew, my brothers. They almost burnt down my grandparents’ house on New Year’s Eve when we were seven. Who knew that you should never ignite fireworks inside the house? Everyone but the boys. Once I asked myself if microwaves exploded if we put aluminum foil inside. I said it out loud, and my brothers jumped into action. In my defense, it was a hypothetical question. I was young and naïve—well, just young. I confess that I knew my brothers would do something. They both loved fire so much. They obsessed over how to could start it without a lighter or matches.

Our stories sound like a warning to young parents. It should have been a warning to the three of us. But growing up with them, and having so many fun stories together, made me want to gift that to my children. A family, siblings with who they can play, confide in, and create havoc with.

I could see it, feel it in my heart. The happy home filled with children. Their laughter, energy, and sweetness filling the house with joy. That first dream led us to another. A much bigger, better and brilliant plan. Why not live right next to my brothers? That was such a great idea, we fought to take credit for it. We were geniuses. Our houses would share the same backyard. Our children would grow up together. They would be like siblings.

Please excuse me while I bang my head against the wall—again and again. And again.

What the fuck were we thinking?

We were drunk on love. Fuck the joy. Fuck the unity, every man for themselves. Who in their freaking mind thinks that having sixteen children so close together is a good idea?

Not me.

It was a fucking terrible idea.

I want to stab myself every morning when I check my calendar and it says, “stay at home with the kids.” If I could have a chat with my younger self, I’d tell her something like, “Move far, far away from your siblings.”

Or, “Only have one and procure a few playdates a month. Outside of your house.”

Some days I forget to eat, do my chores, or leave them half done. Like the days when I load the washing machine but forget to start it. My husband will remind me with a, “What the hell, Nine? You skipped your laundry day, and now I have to wash two loads. You owe me.”

“Sorry, honey. I was too busy doing something else, and so far, we still have a few clean clothes in the drawers.” So it’s tallied into my count of parental fails, but nothing will ever compare to the time when the smart, great, and always punctual Mason Bradley forgot what time to pick up our four-year-old boy from his piano lessons and instead of asking me, he asked our seven-year-old daughter. Who relies on the information of a seven-year-old? Needless to say, I had to pick our son because my husband was on the other side of town. “Well, Grace said he was done by five.”

Being a parent isn’t easy. I might laugh at my failures, but not as hard as I do when my siblings tell me their own. That’s when I pour myself some tea, sit back, relax, and start with a small chuckle that turns into full-blown laughter that can be heard across Washington Lake.

Can anyone blame me? Hearing that my brother had to explain to his twin sons—who thought the sound of a frying pan hitting glass was musical—that it was also dangerous and expensive. They experimented with wine glasses, windows, and vases. I couldn’t hide my amusement. God, I still chuckle when I see windows.

Jacob is paying for the havoc he created while growing up. My parents call it Karma.

Back when the internet was still new, Jacob bought an autographed guitar. He didn’t read the fine print. He believed it was a game where if he guessed the price, he’d win it. He cost my parents a lot of money. Karma reciprocated the favor when he took one of the twins, Gabe, to work with him. It was so simple to hand over his tablet for entertainment. Such a harmless thing, right? Except, when Gabe asked for his password, Jacob gave it to him. My nephew spent hundreds of dollars on apps. Parental failing is now our favorite sport. We are so busy trying to work, care for our children, and give a hand to one another that some days, we have no idea when the sun rose and set.

Our worst nightmare is when our children are silent and together. Or is it just whenever they’re together? Even with adult supervision, things can get out of hand. Have I mentioned Matt’s oldest daughter? She is a direct descendant of Genghis Khan. My family likes to say she inherited her evil genius mind from me.

Maybe I wasn’t a saint growing up, but that cherubic girl gives me a run for my money. I wanted to think that my past experiences have me in the driver’s seat when it comes to being a mother. Correction, I used to brag and swore that nothing like what happened to my parents would happen to me. Why? Because AJ Decker knew all the tricks. Piper Decker proves me wrong.

How can I function as a normal mother when I have to deal with my three children day and night, and with the kids every other day?

I have two different versions about motherhood. The one I tell strangers and friends; it’s such an extraordinary experience no one should miss. If I could, I would have a dozen more. It’s so easy and empowering. All that while showing the best candid pictures I have taken of them on my phone. They don’t have to know about those days when the sink is full of dirty dishes, the kids are still in PJs, and I can’t remember when I last washed the towels. I don’t show them the one where we caught Nathan chewing the ink cushion.

Some of those stories are not safe for outsiders.

Mason framed the picture of Grace sitting on the counter, poking all the jelly donuts I had baked for my father’s birthday party. Her face is covered with sugar powder and strawberry jelly. That’s the day we learned never ever to go to the restroom, and leave a child unattended. They acquire some kind of superpower when adults aren’t around and can climb, open, and smash at will.

At this point, I think my parents are still gathering stories about my brothers and me. I can see them talking to their friends about their three children. How our parenting is a perfect sequence of fucked-up events, and how resilient our offspring are because they have survived being under our supervision. We can’t get our shit together.

Maybe it isn’t as bad as I make it sound. It probably was that day. It was definitely one of those times where you have to pinch yourself twice, and hope you wake up from the nightmare. I’m a mother of three, have cared for my nieces and nephews. I’m a teacher. At this point, I should have this motherhood shit under my belt. I went from getting a master’s degree to diaper changing to driving lessons.

But I feel like my next read is Parenting 101.

It all began when I said, “Yes, Thea. I’ll be happy to take care of Winter.” That’s her newborn baby girl. Winter is the apple of everyone’s eyes. The most adorable little thing around this land. How could I pass the chance to cuddle her against my chest while I sniff that new-baby aroma I adore? It didn’t matter that my husband was out of town, or that I had to pay my assistant extra to work on her day off. I was going to have Winnie Belle with me.

Everything was great, until my day started. First Nathan, my youngest, complained about an achy ear. My oldest reminded me we hadn’t started the costume for her recital. Dress rehearsal was on Friday. How did I forget? I’m the freaking director of the academy. It occurred to me that I should switch the recital date. I didn’t because dealing with angry parents is worse than having sixteen minors under one roof. My middle child was the one who destroyed the morning. My sweet, quiet demon, Seth, showed that the movie Flushed Away had many flaws. You can’t flush things down the toilet to share them with rats.

If only I had known he was up to no good. There were clues. The toilet flushed more than once. The moment I heard, “oops,” I knew it was too late.

Too late.

I rushed to the bathroom, grabbed the towels, and dropped them to the floor, trying to contain the water within the room.

“It was Piper’s idea,” Seth said, reminding me of my poor brothers when my parents caught them in the middle of the typhoon I had created.

Cleaning took me about an hour even with the kids helping me. I bathed them, had them ready, and just as promised, Aspen, our doctor, came to look at Nathan. My little angel had a small piece of Lego stuck in his ear. How didn’t I notice? Once she cleared that up, we went to buy fabric for the dress. I bought lunch and fed the kids before noon. An hour later, I was at home ready to receive one of my favorite girls in the entire world.

“Everything is in the diaper bag.” Thea handed me the pink and purple tote bag. “Winter has been fed, changed, and she’s ready to take a nap.”

“When did you say you’re coming back?”

“I’ll be back at seven.” She opened the diaper bag, showing me an insulated cooler. “The breast milk is here. It has plenty of ice packs. Matt and Tristan will be back around the same time. The first one arriving will pick her up.”

I extend my arms to receive her. “Then, we are set. By the way, where are the boys going to be?”

“Greyson is having Daddy and me day. The twins and Tuck went to your parents’ house.” She kissed Winter’s forehead. “Be nice to Aunt Ainsley, dragonfly.”

“Go, you’re imposing on our auntie and me time,” I joked.

“I am almost sorry about the toilet incident,” Thea said, finally handing over the baby.

“Almost?” I arched an eyebrow as I caught her smirking.

“Matthew was in timeout too many times because of you.” She shrugged, turning around. “Karma is an evil mistress.”

The door to the backyard closed, and she didn’t see my finger, but Seth did. “That’s the bad finger, Mommy.”

I stared at my open hand, thinking of an excuse for my behavior. I tossed it up in the air and shook my head. It had been months since I’d lost this year’s nomination for the Best Mother of the Year Award. One more penalty wouldn’t hurt.

My house was finally quiet. We were solving puzzles and enjoying some peaceful time when Grace rushed downstairs.

“I think I need stitches.” She showed me her fingers, which were gushing blood.

Setting Winter on the bouncy chair I had for when she visited, I ran to find the first-aid kit. After cleaning the wound, it was evident she needed medical attention.

The next couple of hours in the emergency room were a blur. As promised, our doctor received her right away, and closing the wound didn’t take long. We walked to the car and had the children climb inside. My blood froze the moment I noticed the empty base of Winter’s baby car seat. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Where was Winter?

“Seth?” My heart started pounding against my ribcage. My mind was paralyzed, I shuddered in fear thinking of the things that could happen to my little ones. How could I lose not one but two children?

I tried to call Aspen, maybe she had them and thought I was an idiot for forgetting my kids. She didn’t answer. I called nine-one-one to report their disappearance. Then, I called Mason’s security company. Countries, agencies, and powerful people hired him to protect, find and defend them.

Oh, fuck. Everyone is going to kill me.

What did I do? I’m such a fucking idiot. Where did I leave my babies? We searched for them.

I walked back to the hospital, retracing my steps. Aspen, our pediatrician, was in the OR. No one had seen two children abandoned. Did someone take them and I didn’t notice? In a matter of minutes, Mason’s people arrived. My husband was already on his way back from whatever mission he had been on. Nothing made me feel better.

I lost my children.

Please let them be safe, I kept praying.

Time passed slowly, every second felt like a year. Hours later, or only a few minutes after I called my parents with the news. “AJ, sweetheart, when you left, Seth and Winnie stayed with us.”

It’s hard to believe it was all a memory lapse. A combination of stress, lack of sleep and my mind wandering everywhere else. Things might have gotten a little out of hand. Was that my fault? I wasn’t sure. I never intended for the news crews to arrive, or those fire trucks and all the people around us to show up. The search became a circus in a matter of minutes.

Mason, who arrived within hours of the incident, asked me, “You want me to believe that you couldn’t remember what you had done with the kids?”

I scratched the back of my neck, thinking about an answer. It sounded stupid and impossible. But my wonderful, loving girl was hurt, and I jumped into action. Did I forget that I sent Seth to my parents’ house which was right next door? Yes. Did I forget that Tucker, my seventeen-year-old nephew, ran to my house to rescue his baby sister? Hmm, yes, I did.

“Winter’s seat base threw me off kilter.” I exhaled, rolling my eyes. This is the thousandth time I’d recounted the story in the past few hours. “You know I dive into a problem first, find the solution, and then sit and take inventory.”

“That’s one way to put it,” my husband, whom I love dearly, said. Don’t let him fool you, he was just being a condescending asshole. This was ammunition he’d use for the rest of his life. Whatever he does will never be as bad as forgetting where I left my children.

“It was one little mistake.”

His chin almost hit his chest. He covered his forehead with his big hand. You asshole. I knew that man better than I knew myself. The way he breathed, the way he kissed, and the way he laughed at my expense.

“You’d have done the same,” I defended myself.

“Probably,” he confirmed, sobering up, lifting his hand and leaning closer to me. “The important thing is that they are safe, you’re home, and I’m with you.”

“Being a parent is hard.” I rested my forehead on his chest.

“Just promise me the next time you lose anyone, you’ll call me first.”

I couldn’t promise him that I’d think before calling emergency agencies again. I took my role as a mother and an aunt seriously. It was hard to remember everything while fitting all the activity into my day. But Mason and I tried our best.

Parenthood is unexpected. Some nights I needed a glass of wine to unwind; take a break, and forget that I was responsible for three children—or sixteen. But, I happily did it because I loved them. They taught me daily that I had no fucking idea what I was doing. Being a mother was hard. Receiving unconditional love from my babies was the sweetest reward in the world. I might not be the best, but I was theirs, and I gave them my all. Even when most days I felt like I was failing.