So after my high-drama post about the arrival of my second son, I felt compelled to post again in case I frightened anybody considering another baby. I have muffins in the oven (if you do not have Amy Dacyczyn's universal muffin recipe, go right now to your library's website and reserve The Complete Tightwad Gazette (or volume two as originally published) so that you too can use leftovers profitably in eclectic muffin combos like apple-pecan-butternut squash), and a cup of coffee at my elbow, and...a toddler reportedly lying across the dining room table. Back in a flash.
...Okay, so while my older two are playing Attila, Scourge of God (always fun until somebody loses an eye), let me tell you that I spent a lot of time when I first became an at-home mother wondering when things would get easier. I thought, "It will be easier when he can hold up his head and isn't so floppy." Or it will be easier when he can stand up so I don't have to hold him on my hip in a dirty restroom stall while I refasten my jeans one-handed. Or it will be easier when he can talk and I will know what he wants.
Oops, someone lost an eye. (Figuratively.) Back after the re-insertion. You know, if I kept track of how many sittings it takes me to write these posts, it would be a depressingly large number. But I digress.
Here's the reality: whenever -- whenever -- babies take a developmental step forward that ought to make life easier, something else arises to make it more complicated at the same time. As soon as they can talk they say things you don't want to hear. When they're big enough to stand up while you use the toilet, they're also big enough to crawl across the filthy floor and into the next stall. I think it's a zero-sum game and mostly you have to roll with what you've got at the moment.
Part of my frustration with those first months at home was the way nothing stayed done. At work I could make lists and check things off. They stayed checked off. At home I would finally get the laundry put away and my baby would blow out his diaper all over both of us. I would get all the dishes washed and suddenly it was time to cook dinner. A Woman's Work Is Never Done, up close and personal. I decided to adopt a slightly more cheerful mantra: Everything Is Temporary. The lintless toy-free carpet is temporary, but so is the sink of dirty dishes. The annoying noise Alex made for his entire tenth month was temporary; so were those sweet round cheeks and the hair that was just the color of mine. Enjoy what you can and don't sweat the rest. If you can't not sweat it, figure out what needs to change.
Just as things got easier and harder at the same time with one child, they also get both easier and harder as our family grows. I tell you, I was afraid of having a third child after our experience with the second. One day in June of 2001 I was talking with a friend who was expecting her third. "I am not ready," I said flatly. "It is too hard right now."
But one day in August of 2001 I was feeling more ready and Alex said, "Mom, why don't we have any baby sisters at our house?" Absently I answered, "God hasn't given us any baby sisters yet. You could ask him for a baby sister." "Okay. God, please give us a baby sister." That night my husband decided maybe he was feeling more ready too. Nine months later our Joe was born. (Alex was fine with the explanation that sometimes God answers prayers in unexpected ways, and that maybe there's a baby sister somewhere in the future.) I was braced for a rough transition. I was in for a surprise.
As Marty's big brother, Alex was a terror. If he was not ignoring Marty, something bad was happening -- as in bloodshed bad. But he turned around completely when Joe arrived. One day when Marty went down for his nap and Joe was content I said, "What would you like to do? Read a book? Get out the Play-Doh? I am at your disposal." He said, "I just want to be with Joe." He got down on the floor and stroked the baby gently, singing, "Joe, Joe, your brother's here and your brother loves you."
These days I am never lonely quite like I was when I had one toddler to occupy: my children can be a lot of work, but they are almost always good company. I do a lot more laundry these days, but I have a lot more help with it. Even the youngest pitches in because his older brothers make it look like fun. (Having a 2yo put away laundry is sometimes a way to create additional work, both in refolding clothes this afternoon and in searching for them on Sunday morning, but we'll keep trying.) In our family you're expected to do your chores cheerfully; if you grumble, you get to do extra work so you can practice your good cheer. Slowly, it's paying off. Small things that plagued me when I had two, like getting the 4yo's shoes on when the toddler was running outside alone, or wrestling a double stroller into a restaurant through two sets of doors, are a snap these days. The oldest can watch the toddler for the minute it takes to get the 4yo's shoes tied, and he holds doors open without being asked so I can push the stroller right through.
After many many repetitions of "what is a better way to let him know you're frustrated?" the older two have a reasonable relationship. They play together harmoniously (if Attila, Scourge of God can be considered harmonious) long enough for me to write posts like this one. There are dishes to be washed and clothes to be folded (not to mention the Legos dumped all over the dining room floor), but today I am going to enjoy the 2yo who carries a small blue tractor everywhere he goes (including to bed, where it finds its way under my scapula reliably around 2am), and the 4yo who pretends to be Theseus slaying the minotaur when he is not asking to hear Bread and Jam for Frances, and the 7yo who wants to know if the resurrection of the body means he will have opposable big toes in heaven. Because I have learned something I won't forget: Everything Is Temporary.
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