My husband and I have three kids. I don’t recommend it. I actually wanted FOUR KIDS my whole life. I can’t really recommend or not recommend that, since I only have three, but I can’t imagine it’s easier. But that’s what I always wanted, four kids. Craziness.
You see, I was an only child. My parents couldn’t have more kids. So there was just me. And I love kids, absolutely love them. Well, unless they live in my actual house.
When we go to stores or restaurants or Disney or the library, I am always making “friends” with little kids. I wave at them, say hi, talk to them, give encouraging nods at their pictures or toys or finished plates, whatever they show me. Other moms will approach me to “hold him for a second” or “clip this stupid carrier” or “wipe the face of the baby in my backpack”. We moms know who to seek assistance from when we’re trapped somewhere alone with our little ones. Many times, small children will come up to me to chat, even if I haven’t initiated the contact; I must give off that “nice lady” aura. At family events--weddings, graduations, funerals, holiday parties--I’m the one holding someone else’s baby until my arm falls asleep. I love, love, love kids, like I said, unless they belong to me.
Because here is the thing my mother never told me (and she KNEW, because she was the oldest of eight kids): parenting is like being slowly pecked to death by a hummingbird. No, seriously. If you don’t have kids, or you only have one or two, or you have some of those irritatingly wonderful Brady Bunch Sunshine Day kids, you probably don’t believe me. But I am quite sure the rest of the population just said, “Yes, that’s it! Pecked to death by hummingbirds! Perfect!”
These people, these children I longed for, will never leave us alone. I haven’t gone to the bathroom without someone beating at the door, screaming for something, in sixteen years. The second my heiny hits the chair at the dinner table, somebody needs a drink, or more ketchup, or cheese on the side, or another carrot peeled and cut. Sleep? Ha! I took my two youngest to a Sleep Doctor and they’re both on CPAPs. The doctor suggested I get a sleep study and my response was, “It’ll only be accurate if I bring my kids and the 16-year-old dog who wakes me up to go out.” Countless nights of sleep are interrupted by “I can’t sleep,” “I had a bad dream,” “I didn’t make it to the potty,” or “I don’t feel good.” (That last one will get me out of bed in a split second. You don’t want to lie in bed for a minute while the face of a person who “doesn’t feel good” is aimed right at you, believe me.) Work? I love to write and would love to finish my novel, work on another one, maybe stick my foot into this pool of publication, but that’s not going to happen for 13 more years. Every time I enter my writing room (my delightful husband even made me my own WRITING ROOM), there’s an eruption of screams and thuds that can only be explained by Genghis Khan-like torture of limbs being separated from bodies (usually it’s that someone is sitting too close to someone else’s side of the couch). Ever tried to cook or do dishes or fold laundry while a small person is wrapped around your leg or--even better--shoving his/her head into your, um, private areas? Hard to accomplish anything that way. And why--someone please tell me--why do they love to do the one exact thing that really gets under the other one’s skin? That’s constant. Daily. Minute to minute. He took my __. She said __. She’s __ again. He won’t stop __. It’s like a Groundhog Day of irritation in my house. Just because.
Here’s the most incomprehensible part: I have a wonderful husband. He does the laundry. He pays the bills. He makes dinner. He does kid stuff. He would never, ever say he was “babysitting the kids” or that something was “the woman’s job” (except opening those pop-open cans of Pillsbury rolls; but that’s only because he’s terrified of them!). So, life should be easy, right? Wrong. If they can’t get a rise out of me, they all run over to him and start pecking at him. Dad, Dad, Dad, Daaaaaaad. Holy moly. I will say this--we are raising some tenacious people.
So, listen, if you’re considering having kids, all I can say is, DON’T. Play with somebody else’s. Save yourself. It’s too late for me.
** Note: Please take this blog in the satirical voice in which in was written. I obviously love my children more than anything (except my husband).
