We are so firmly out of babyhood, Internet. My littlest, my "baby", is pretty much potty trained. I can send the two of them to play outside on their own. I finally threw out all the sippy cups. We [usually] sleep through the night. I've signed them both up for preschool in the fall, as you know, and I'm SO looking forward to that extra time.
Which is good, you know, since in the fall we'll HAVE ANOTHER BABY.
This sounded like a great idea, to me at least, with my feet planted in the We Definitely Need A Third Baby (And Maybe A Fourth and Fifth!) Camp. My husband would have been happy with two, but I tend to prevail in these standoffs and not too much later I was giddily showing him the two lines on the white stick. "OH," Phillip sighed. "I can do this."
That's exactly what you want to hear, am I right new moms?!
But here I am, about seven weeks in (terribly early to blare the news across the entire internet, I KNOW, but HELLO, am BLOGGER, hear me not keep anything to myself!) and looking at my kids, my BIG KIDS and thinking... "oh... I can do this... right?"
A few days ago I was on the phone to my sister begging her to enter employment as my part-time nanny. I was nauseous, exhausted, and a big fat hormonal mess. Nine months stretched out before me like an endless barf-filled gauntlet with a Dora The Explorer soundtrack because what ELSE will Jack and Molly do while I'm incapacitated?
Suddenly all the extremely sensical ideas I had for how to stash another person in our rental house seemed insane. There was no way that could work. Uncomfortable misery all around! And of course there were no new house listings to drool over, not even anything I wanted to see.
I specifically signed my kids up for identical preschool schedules in hopes that I'd be using that extra time to bond with a new baby, but what was I thinking?! All those empty hours would now be taken up with - shudder - BREASTFEEDING! When I could be writing! Or, you know, eating Hershey Kisses in bed with Entertainment Weekly!
I feel sick. I feel wiped. My anxiety has skyrocketed to heretofore unbearable levels. I'm going to gain an ungodly amount of weight, I'm going to be horribly uncomfortable, and at the end I have to GIVE BIRTH. Worst of all, I'm going to have to dig all those bottles out of the garage and wash every single stupid piece, multiple times, for months and months on end. I HATE WASHING BOTTLES!
But then I look at Jack and Molly, who are no longer babies, it's true, but beautiful, fascinating, delightful, and amazing little people. I'm transfixed by them. They were both once this small, just seven weeks along, when we had no idea who they were going to be, what their names were, the things they'd say. And I watch my husband fix puzzles and find dolls and cut fingernails and hold snotty-nosed, stuffed up, not-sleeping preschoolers in the middle of the night. Everything is made meaningful because of them. Everything was worth it, is worth it. It's mind blowing to think about this time next year, when I'll wonder how we ever got along, how we were ever happy, without Third Baby in our lives.