Ugh. We’re home.
The kids were so happy to see us, they almost lost their minds. (The feeling was mutual!) But after about 10 minutes of loving them up, I suddenly remembered why we’d left them in the first place: My shrieking, overtired little blessings were bouncing off the walls, bickering over the toys we brought back, whining about brushing their teeth, and pooping in their pants. (Okay, so maybe just Asher did that, but it was a really really gross one.) It wasn’t their fault. It was waaaay past their bedtime. But I also couldn’t help but notice the vague sense of foreboding setting in.
It’s amazing how after an entire week away, after all the myriad powers of sleep and spa and that other great "S" (shopping) have worked their restorative wonders, everything returns to normal in an instant. Not that normal isn’t good... it’s just that normal is so hard sometimes.
And now that vacation time is over, I guess I feel like I can no longer ignore the obvious:
I am about to have another kid. Delivery Day is in eight weeks, if I make it that long.
Jeez, am I really cut out for this? My patience level is pathetic. Always has been. Dan assures me that I’m just particularly exhausted and exasperated lately because of the kick-boxing little bun in my oven, and that once Baby’s on the outside, I’ll feel soooo much better physically that I’ll have more than enough energy to handle all three.
Yeah, sure. Because I’ll be getting so much sleep by then and definitely won’t have bleeding nipples or feel like a deflated beach ball in any way. Seriously. What were we thinking???
If there are any parents of three out there with wise words of comfort or wisdom – something along the lines of "There, there, dear. Three is so much easier that two!" – now would be the time to share them...