Before we left for the cabin, my friend Meg dropped off a book she’d been reading, The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin.

I’d wanted to read it ever since I read in New York Magazine that children don’t make you happy. Which didn’t surprise me. When it comes to relationships, we always say, “Nobody can make you happy but yourself,” yet we put that expectation on our children and then act surprised when they alone don’t fulfill us.

But they sure are cute.

I wanted to read her book to find out what did make you happy. Because like the author, I am happy – I’ve got a wonderful husband, three adorable children, and a dog to boot – but sometimes I feel I get lost in the busyness, when what I want to do is celebrate the joy my life brings me.

One of her insights into being happy in marriage is, “Don’t Expect Praise or Appreciation.”

I’d been self-righteously telling myself that I did certain chores or made certain efforts “for Jamie” or “for the team.” Though this sounded generous, it led to a bad result, because I sulked when Jamie didn’t appreciate my efforts. — Gretchen Rubin in The Happiness Project

During our vacation, our 1-and-a-half-year-old got sick. While Matt was off drafting his fantasy football team with his buddies, I cleaned up puke. When I finished wiping up the floor, while comforting our toddler on my hip, I couldn’t help but think Matt owed me. Big time.

I felt myself simmering. Sulking. And I saw what Rubin was saying, how much resentment sours things. Because really that’s what parenting is about, being present in the moment. And sometimes the moment you get sucks but you’re there. You get to be there. And that, in itself, is reward enough for me.

When we first toured our current home, we fell in love with it in part because of its master bath. We envisioned it as our private retreat. I loved the idea of soaking in warm water after we tucked our children in bed. And Matt, I think, thought the walk-in closet would organize me.

At least nothing is on the floor.

But after we moved in, to our surprise our master bath felt cramped.

“Maybe we should build separate closets,” Matt said, as we talked about how to lay out our new home.

“Or an alcove for the bath,” I said. Because we always seemed to be bumping into each other.

However, after reading Sarah Susanka’s The Not So Big House book, I realized we’d fallen into a trap home builders and buyers often do: we think bigger is better.

But the issue wasn’t that our master bath wasn’t big enough. It was how we lived in the space.

Homes, Susanka writes, require both private and open spaces. “Sometimes we feel like being with others, and other times we need solitude.” Yet our bathroom has no door on it. Which makes it a sort of gathering space. And not a very sanitary one.

Well, this is awkward…

And by putting our only bath in our master suite, our children, their toys, and their towels are constantly underfoot. Before I bathe, I must clean. So much for a private retreat.

Mommy, can I get in, too?

Susanka says we often mistake quantity for quality. But size and volume do not equal comfort. A bathroom door does.

What room in your house works for you?

It just so happens that the North Pole isn’t where you thought it was. It’s here, in the Adirondack Mountains, alongside a steep mountain road. And today we drove through a sheet of rain to get there. Our 5-year-old stuck his hand out the window and, when the rain pelted it, announced, “We’re getting close. I feel ice.”

“This is really the North Pole! I thought it was cotton, but it’s ice.”

Our boys want a Wii, and for months now I’ve been telling them to write it on their Christmas lists, hoping they’ll forget about it. No luck. And so today they dropped by Santa’s house to talk to him. For $17.95 per person.

“I want a Wii, and a jumping motorcycle, and Lego Star Wars, and a doll for my sister…”

Only Santa was more interested in getting a group photo of us.

For $14.99, I ordered an “ornament” to surprise Matt for Christmas. But during pick-up I saw that that price was just for the photos; the globe ornament in which to house them was over $20. On principle I refused to buy it. So now I have 4 smaller-than-wallet-size photos of my family on Santa’s lap (me, included, because our toddler wouldn’t stay with Santa and who can refuse the big guy?) if anybody wants one. You can’t blackmail me with it though.

We walked over to the reindeer barn to feed Rudolph.

“Do they fly? Do they really fly?”

Each child got a bag of crackers for $1. I considered feeding those to the kids, rather than pay the snack prices, but the elves were staring at me.

“I’ll put our fire out to make sure you don’t burn your hooves.”

We walked to the blacksmith to see how reindeer shoes are made. They were only $3 each, but when you have three children, your mind automatically multiplies everything by three. Especially prices.

“Do they hurt when you put them on?”

Then I saw a sign for free face painting, so I went in. A freakin’ toy store.

“I want you to draw a bat on my face! …okay, a present then.”

I should have bought the damn Wii.

All joking aside, our children loved the magic of The North Pole and I highly recommend it.

Matt called yesterday to say his trial was bumped back by a week. Which meant he wouldn’t be home for another three. So today my sister + I drove south to stay at the Hotel Helix in Washington D.C. for the 4th of July to continue this endless road trip of ours.

I sort of like our experiment, you know – what life would be like had we married women, rather than men. Because there’s no arguing about who does more or whose turn it is to take the kids, as my sister + I prioritize the work the same way.

In fact, what we do argue about is how little we feel we each contribute, thinking the other does more. It’s that sense of community we women share, that ability to build relationships by pitching in.

That’s not to say we don’t fight or haven’t fought before. I’m sure we’ve given each other bald spots from hair pulling in childhood. It’s just that now as adults we’ve come to an understanding and it’s this: what’s best for our children is a community. And who better to build with than your family?

But if you do see two women rolling around in a ditch while driving, you will know how our experiment ended. For now, though, we’re enjoying our freedom, sort of like Thelma and Louise. With five kids between us.

How are you celebrating the 4th?

We took a buggy ride through Amish farmlands in Intercourse, PA. Our boys tugged on our driver’s beard and commented he looked like Santa. I guess you can take your children out of commercialism, but you can’t take commercialism out of your children.

Today on our East Coast travels, my sister and I took our children to Dutch Wonderland. She rode on roller coasters and log rides with my 5-year-old while I chased after my younger two.

And as we explored the park, I delighted in how easy two children are. Because it’s all relative.

With your first child, you’re overwhelmed. But when your second arrives, one seems manageable. And then, by your third, two is a walk in the park. Because two fit in a stroller; nobody tags along ten feet behind you so you can set the pace.

Sometimes I wonder what motherhood would be like if I had children in my twenties. I’d be less financially secure, but would I live more in the moment, be more willing to go their pace?

What do you think? Does age matter?

What I love most about visiting Ithaca is here our children play with their cousins. And it doesn’t matter who started it, or who had it first, because you’re bound by blood and you have to work it out.

And that teaches you to stand up for yourself when you’re right, and give in if you’re wrong, because if you don’t, your momma’s coming after you.

What memory do you have of cousins?

Today we’re leaving for Pennsylvania to spend a few days at Hershey Park and Dutch Wonderland. But first, a freshly brewed cup of coffee, thanks to our new Kalorik coffee maker, courtesy of CSN Stores and Lindsay Lou! Blogs.

I felt heroic, almost, traveling cross country alone with three. Installing three car seats in a taxi. Clearing security. Dashing from gate to gate on a layover. But then upon arrival he opened his back pack to show grandma his toys, and I wondered how I’d gotten so lost in the details.

A friend gave me a photo she’d snapped of me recently. She’d taken it before I’d had a chance to wake up. And I looked horrible. In it, I wear an old sweatshirt that had belonged to my mother, and I’m eating out of bowl while standing up. My hair is parted down the middle.

Not actual photo. That one has been burned.

What she gave me was a snapshot of my life. While I do shower most mornings and put on make-up, what I don’t take care of is me. My body. And as I looked at the picture, I realized that’s not what I wanted my life to look like.

I don’t mind aging; I mind weakening. While my body was never perfect before, I owned it. And what I find now is it’s hard to feel you can take on the world (or your children) when your body is failing you. (I’ve thrown my back out lifting our toddler from her crib.)

Earlier this year, I struggled with getting older. Now, somehow, that thought has freed me. Because I know that this is it; this is my one shot at life. We don’t get do-overs.

And when you take care of yourself first, the rest follows. Only like most women, I put myself last on my list of priorities.

So today I am running around the lake. And I’m taking the dog, too. (I took her to the vet worried she had arthritis, but apparently she’s just carrying around too much weight. Another casualty of three kids.)

How do you put yourself first?

Today our children refused to nap, and I was so tired I took it as some sort of mutiny against me. Not that they cared. So I filled my thermos with coffee, packed everybody in the car, and drove to induce naps.

While they dozed, I turned off into an exclusive neighborhood I was curious to explore. I’d heard about it from friends, but never actually been in it. The homes there intimidate. They stretch over the lawn and rise up above you, so I stopped and gawked. A car came up behind me, and for a moment, I felt foolish, as if the driver knew, just as I did, that I didn’t belong in one of these homes.

Homes that require you to shower. Or that he not wear his Batman shirt every single day.

When I first stayed home, I struggled to define who I was by fitting in because I had lost sight of myself. And I missed knowing who I was. My parents were the sort of people who cared more about what you save than what you show. Yet in today’s culture, sometimes I feel what you spend establishes your position in society. It’s your handbags. Your shoes. Your hair. And I took my spending cues from our neighbors.

But that’s not how true friendships form. What I’ve since learned is you can’t sustain a connection through a shared image. Because it’s your rough parts that define who you are.

And there is beauty in the chaos, reminders of our humanity: unkempt moms pushing babies in strollers with toddlers ambling behind them, bicycles toppled in front lawns, a plastic pool in a driveway, a hose accidentally left on. Because that is what life looks like. Life is not still.

Do you fit in where you live?