I have got this baby thing down, can I just tell you? Four months into the third offspring, and I GOT this. Seriously, this is awesome:
I’ve got three kids, you guys. THREE. Three babies and three rounds of diapers and three times through every single stage and milestone known to the preschool-age-and-under crowd. I am breathing easy, living large, cruising down Parent Street with a tank full of gas (mainly because the baby needs to burp–Ha! Get it?! “Gas”??).
I was sitting in the glider with Cian the other afternoon, nursing him before his afternoon nap (always around one p.m., until about 3:30 or so. Set your clock by it). I was smiling, smug with the assurance of a parent who knows the other spit-up-stained shoe is going to drop but chooses to ignore it, because, you know, you only get about five minutes of peace during the day so DAGNABIT I’M GOING TO HAVE MY PEACE.
And then, from downstairs, the voices came.
“MOOOOMMMM!! Saoirse hit me!”
“No, I didn’t! She pulled my hair!”
“SHE TOOK MY CAR!”
“I had it first!”
Yeah, I got this baby thing down, all right. It’s just the other seventeen years I’m worried about.
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