Actually, it already exploded LAST week, when I got the letter from MOLLY's preschool. It was long, overly chatty, and described a complicated orientation day I wasn't fully expecting. After that were a list of changes the preschool teacher has made to her typical day, a sample schedule, "additional opportunities for fellowship" (this is a church preschool), and then a whole separate page to discuss finances. I read this letter about three times, folded it back up, put it back the envelope and decided to homeschool. 

I happen to be a "more kids the merrier!" type of person. I expect mess and noise and rowdiness. Most of the time I like it. I think it's fun. This may or may not have anything to do with growing up in a large family with a large extended family and having to cram nine thousand people into a normal-sized living room on Christmas Eve. It's just what you DO. And it's FUN. 

But I live amongst people who had two kids and declared themselves done. I'm married to a guy to whom I can't even JOKE about the possiblity of a fourth child. Several of my friends' husbands didn't really get into the kid thing until they were walking and talking and became interactive people. And when we get together for birthday parties or even just dinner together, the weariness is all over their faces. It's too messy, too noisy, too rowdy. It's okay for an hour or so, but no wonder their eyes started to glaze over when I suggested three or four straight days. ESPECIALLY when I said, "I think it will be EASIER!"

When my doctor said, "Now's about the time in your pregnancy when we recommend patients go see our nurse practitioner to talk about breastfeeding and post-partum preparation," I chirped, "No, thanks!" And my doctor, because she is The Awesome, was all, "Well, I guess it IS your third baby!"

And I just want to say: the fact that this is my third baby doesn't mean I'm an improved parent. If you could have seen the chaos in my house today you'd agree. But I think it DOES mean I'm a more relaxed parent, easier on myself and my husband, and just generally not as WACKED OUT. (And everyone around me breathes a sigh of oh thank goodness.)

There's something a teeny bit sad about the third-ness (really, the not-the-first-ness) of New Baby. All that baby stuff was just a huge new world to Younger Worker Bee Me and it was FUN to go all crazypants looking at diaper bags and cribs and cloth diapers. There were so many THINGS! Walking into the giant baby box store was overwhelming, yes, but all that stuff helped me imagine what my life was going to be like. I could sit in our powder blue rocker and anticipate. Even things like bottles and pump parts and pacifiers and swaddling blankets and the nine zillion different creams and lotions and ointments you could buy to stock your changing table - it was all wondrous and exciting and fed my anticipation. People, I packed my diaper bag for our first outing MONTHS in advance. It's not like I believed a brand new baby NEEDED all those things or that we were required to have them, they just got me all excited and it was ME who needed them!

Now I'm all, "We spent HOW much on that stupid crib?"

The stairs are not a slide. Stairs are for feet, not bottoms or tummies. They are definitely not meant to be descended head first. I felt bad the first two or three times you ran to my side with rug burns on your belly, but now you're just being stubborn. Good luck with that. 

I don't KNOW where your puzzle pieces are! Here's the thing, kids: when MOMMY is finished playing with a toy, she puts it away. She doesn't leave it in the middle of the living room floor or underneath her bed or on the stairs or on the kitchen counter or outside. Mommy has a very difficult time drumming up any sympathy for you when she's told you multiple times to clean up and you suddenly act like you have wasting disease. Mommy is sleep-deprived, six months pregnant and just folded fourteen loads of laundry - she should not be able to move faster than YOU. Also, here's a secret: when Mommy has informed you eighty-seven times that Cinderella goes in your bedroom and the Buzz Lightyear Toy Blaster goes in the bin downstairs and yet, both items persist in blocking the path between the living room and the dining room, Mommy will make them a new home in the garbage. Now you know.