I’m drowning. I swear I’m trying not to write about it often, partly because I like that you’re reading my blog and don’t want to scare you away, and partly because I don’t want my children to read these posts in twenty years’ time and go, “Man, Mom! You complained a LOT!” But I’m drowning. In kids, I mean. I can’t keep on top of anything. I’m not inviting your children over for a playdate not because I don’t want to hang out–trust me, I WANT to hang out–but because no one would be able to get in the playroom door for all the crap blocking the way, every day, no matter how many times it’s cleaned up. Of course, I guess they could play in the living room. Enough toys have migrated there. Or the bathroom. Or the top of the dining room table.
I thought having one child was tough. I was overwhelmed, and panicked, and so so stressed all the time. But maybe that was just the shock of it all. Because the transition from one to two was nothin’. Cake. I could do that any day. Heck, I still even steamed Quinn’s baby food half (okay, a third) of the time.
But three? Nope. I only have this body, right? And now that I have three kids? My eyes are outnumbered. My hands are outnumbered. My brain? Let’s not even go there. Forget steamed baby food. Sometimes I forget to feed Cian entirely.
I just read a great blog post about these early years. Rants from Mommyland calls the vacuum that is this time The Blur, and if you have young children, I recommend you read it. You’ll feel better. Misery and company, and all. Another post I’d read (this may be why the dishes are still in the sink, yes), said that three seems to be the hardest number of children to have. Two? Again, you have two hands, two eyeballs for a reason. Four children or more? They start to act more like a cohesive group, goes the theory, and are thereby easier to handle. It’s the three that’s the tricky number. The oddball number. The triangle. The disproportionate number.
People like to stop me in the store–especially the ones who initially think I have just the one child because they don’t know I’ve corralled the other two in the grocery store childcare room so I can shop without somebody trying to shoplift a bag of marshmallows–and say, “What? You have THREE?! I don’t know how you do it.” And really, I think, what’s the difference between one and three? Once you have a kid, your life is not your own anymore. Your calendar is managed by someone who can’t even wipe herself in the bathroom. It’s hard no matter what.
That being said: Quinn just scuffed her knee, Saoirse is whining because I won’t let her play with my iPad, and I just went to check on Cian, who was fussing instead of napping, and discovered he caught Quinn’s stomach flu and turned his entire crib into a scene from a horror movie (when you smell it before you see it? Kinda gross).
But still. I’m so far in The Blur I don’t even really know what I’m trying to say. Just…I love my life with my kids. But I wish I could start enjoying it again, on a consistent basis. Because right now I’m just trying to get through, and not even doing a very good job at that. I know it gets better–you don’t have to tell me, I do really know–but right now–just right NOW–I can’t see the forest for the trees.
Have you ever waited tables? You know how when you were really swamped, you’d say you were in the weeds? It’s like that. I’m in the holy-crap-why-is-there-crayon-on-my-curtains freakin’ WEEDS.
So bear with me guys, as I wade through the muck to the other side (oh, wait. That’s just the pile of shoes I just tripped over). One day I’ll be whining and nostalgic about these days. But right now? Right now The Blur is all I see.
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