I overheard a harassed sounding mother in the store today, tiredly scolding her rambunctious children. She was in the next aisle over so I couldn't actually see her face...but that kind of bone-deep weariness sort of projects in the voice, ya know? During a brief lull in the chaos, her daughter asked a question.
Mommy, do you like having three kids?
She didn't answer.
And I didn't blame her.
But it reminded me of my current indecision on when to have another child. Some days, the idea of a sweet-smelling, silky-haired little angel is SO appealing to me. And other days, it's all I can do to keep my
current children from killing themselves or each other.
My sister-in-law has
four very young children and puts in at least twice the parental effort that I do each day. You'd think this would make me feel a little better about my own situation, but I'm finding that my capacity for self-pity is nearly limitless.
I was asked recently in one of those silly e-mail questionnaires what my goal in life was. I answered "survival." I was trying to be funny but I suppose it wasn't far from the truth. I don't have time to sit around these days and think about my personal dreams. My whole
life revolves around my children now.
My dreams are always for them.
So my immediate goal really is survival. It's keeping these little stinkers alive and healthy long enough for them to realize their own goals and dreams. And some days are easier than others.
A few weeks ago, Evie climbed up on our couch.
I immediately purchased a pen light, a neck brace, and a first aid kit.
A few days ago, she climbed up on our kitchen table.
I started writing a eulogy.
Some people might call me a "Stay at Home Mom." I think a more accurate title would be "The Babyguard." Like that movie with Whitney Houston only without the romance and hazard pay.
Oh, and the intrigue.
Definitely no intrigue here.
But plenty of bodily harm. And more than enough peril to go around.
Luke has had less of a death wish in his old age, but he's more than happy to assist Evie with hers. Like a two year old Kevorkian, Luke has facilitated his sister's deadly stunts again and again.
That time she got up onto the table?
Luke was up there with her.
Every time she falls off her little push-car and cracks her head?
It's because Luke was propelling her across the room at break-neck speed and ran her directly into the wall.
And he's gotten clever about it, too. We've taught him (in no uncertain terms) that it is
not OK to shove his sister down. So now, when he wants her away from something, he turns around and nudges her backwards with his rear-end until she falls over.
As if we wouldn't catch on to
that.
So I guess there's really no dilemma after all. For right now, I think that two children are about as much as I can handle.
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And yet, every time I start to feel like I'm
in way over my head slightly overwhelmed...the little boogers go and redeem themselves.
I made the mistake of leaving Luke alone downstairs for several minutes today while I got Evie out of bed. He was naked.
Don't ask me why, it's just something that seems to happen with regularity around here. Naked babies, that is.
Anyhow, when I came down the stairs, Luke was waiting for me.
"Poo-poo."Oh crap.
I pushed him aside and ran into the living room, sniffing the air and baying like a hound. Scouring my eyes over the floor and furniture...dreading what I might find.
"Poo-poo!"His voice was coming from the bathroom.
Could it be?
I looked around the corner and there he was, standing (proud as a peacock) in front of the toilet.
I walked into the room, peered inside the bowl and nearly toppled over in surprise.
He had climbed up onto the potty and gone poo-poo...all by himself.
If someone would have told me, when I was pregnant with Luke, that my proudest moment in his first three years of life would be him making a poo-poo in the potty all by himself...
I would have shoved them off a table.
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