What it Means

Since L was born two months ago (guess it's time to change the blog name!), a lot of people seem interested in what it means to have four kids.

Does it mean this was an, um, surprise? (Does anyone really care about this? I mean, apparently they do. But I will never understand why. Get a hobby).

Does it mean you're going to be like that crazy Duggar lady and keep going until your uterus falls out? (To my knowledge, this has not actually happened. However, the possibility that it could happen is a frequently mentioned reason why random internet strangers think she should stop having kids. Also, we have four kids. I was never good at math, but to my knowledge, four does not equal nineteen. Or twenty-two, in case her uterus has still not fallen out and she's had more and I've missed it).

Does it mean you lost your mind? (Not yet. But soon.)

Some people think it means your life--or some part of it--is over. I guess that's true. The part of it that had briefly moved on from chronic sleep deprivation, and diapers, and crying--that part is over for now. But I know from experience that that part doesn't last that long. Not really. Not when you look back from the vantage point of a first birthday, or a preschool graduation, or a first day of kindergarten. That part doesn't last long at all. None of it does.

What does it mean?

It means our house got smaller. There is no baby's room, or nursery, no quiet place to put this baby that's all his own.

It means our house got messier. I don't know how, given that this baby can't really make his own mess yet. But somehow it did. God help me in a year or two.

It means things got louder. If you've been to our house, you may not have thought that was possible. I didn't either. Trust me, it was quiet here before.

It means our bank account got smaller, our car got more crowded, and my briefly clean clothes are now covered in spit up again.

It means that people look at you funny in the grocery store...sometimes with compassion, often with skepticism, occasionally with fear. I can't say that I blame them.

They say things like "You have your hands full", and "Bet you don't get much sleep", and "Wow! Four!", as if four really does equal nineteen or twenty-two. Maybe it's the new math.

They also say things like "Whose baby is that?" (Oh, I just borrowed my friend's brand new infant, because I thought it would be fun to carry a crying newborn through the grocery store while chasing a four year old and trying to remember what the hell I need here in the paper goods aisle).

They ask if we know how this happens (Ha. You're hilarious. As if I haven't heard that one four thousand times in the past six months. Also, did you learn the new math?) They also ask me if I need help out to my car more often. Help to my car? No. Help once I get home? Yes. Please.

Having four kids means all of these things. But in addition to all of the things that got harder, and louder, and smaller, it means that a lot of things have also gotten bigger.

My fears, my worries, and the bags under my eyes.

My need for coffee, my dreams of a nanny, and my butt.

My purse that doubles as a diaper bag as I stuff it full of diapers, and wipes, and pacifiers that he won't take. My diaper bag that doubles as a purse as I try to remember to bring my wallet, and my keys, and a hairbrush since I can't remember if I brushed my hair this week  today.

But the thing that's grown most of all is our hearts.

So yeah, we've probably lost our minds a little, and we have some adjusting to do. But when someone looks at me, does a double take, and says "Whose baby is that?", I just smile and say "He's ours. Aren't we lucky?"

Depending on where they are in life, they may not now how to answer that, and that's ok.

Sometimes the only answer that matters is your own. And mine is quite simple.

"What does it mean to have four kids?"

It means another person to love, it means a new little brother, and it means our hearts are fuller than we knew they could be.

What does it mean?

Quite simply, it means everything.

What We Shouldn't Have to Expect When We're Expecting...

It's amazing how a few years and a few children can change things.

Like the reactions you get when people learn that you're expecting.

When you're pregnant with your first child in your thirties, people are generally eager to share in your happiness, your excitement, and your joy.

Second child, pretty much the same thing. If maybe to a slightly lesser degree.

At the third child, a few people start to question your sanity. Some feel a need to clarify that you are, in fact, over thirty-five, right? But most people still seem to manage a heartfelt "Congratulations!" Or, you know, at least it seems heartfelt.

When you're over forty and expecting your fourth child, some people are still generally happy for you, and truly excited on your behalf.  They offer appropriate congratulations, and ask when you're due, and comment that the kids must be excited.

And sometimes, behind their kind words, you can see the look in their eyes that says "I am so, so, so, so incredibly happy that this is happening for you.....instead of happening to me".

And that's OK. Because we get it. We know that this isn't for everyone, and that some people feel strongly about having a certain number of children, or about being done by a certain age, or about not having more children than bedrooms. It's fine, because that's their choice. And it's also fine because, in spite of their own feelings, they don't actually say them out loud.

But then there are the others. And trust me when I tell you--they are a lot of the others. In fact,
the others seem to come out of the woodwork when you're over forty and expecting your fourth child. The others lose all concern for normal social graces, and completely forgo silly things like tact, and privacy, and boundaries.

Sometimes we know the others quite well. At other times, we barely know them at all. It's hard to say which type surprises us more. It's safe to say, however, that nothing that people say is surprising us very much at all at this point.

Here are just a few things that we really shouldn't have to expect when we're expecting:

Was it planned/a surprise/an accident?

I can assure you that none of our children--or anyone else's--are accidents. As for the other versions of this question, on what planet would this be any of your business?

Did you talk about it?

What does this even mean, and why would you ever think to actually ask it out loud? Please see the above response.

Do you know how old you are?

Yes. We do. But thanks for checking. Also, it's 2014, and Barack Obama is president. Oh, and apparently stupid people still exist. Did we pass the test?

What were you thinking?

Oh, this could be fun. Are we going to talk about all of your life choices next? Cause there are a few things from 1997 I've been dying to ask you about. I mean, what were you thinking?

Have you lost your mind?

Nope. Not yet. Maybe I will when I have a fourth child. Or the next time someone asks me a rude, obnoxious question. Guess we'll find out.

Are you going to have more after this? Because people will definitely think you're the grandparents then.

Thanks for this. It's so helpful. Are you going to continue talking after this? Because people will definitely think you're an idiot then.

In addition to the above, we shouldn't have to expect that you're going to give us condolences, tell us you really have no idea how we're going to do it, or tell us repeatedly that you just can't believe it. If you can't manage to keep your (baseless and unwelcome) opinions on other people's family size to yourself, feel free to walk away without saying anything at all.

Unless you are being asked to care for or financially support someone's child, other people's family planning is, quite simply, none of your business. Once someone is pregnant, you are also not talking about a hypothetical pregnancy that may occur at some future date. You are talking about an actual baby who already exists. Most of us maternal types tend to get a little offended when people insinuate that one of our children shouldn't be in existence.

On the other hand, here's what we should be able to expect to hear when we're expecting:

Congratulations!

I'm so happy for you.

You're so blessed.

Because we are.

The end.

(OK, so that wasn't really the end. The above recommendations--also known as "How to Mind Your Own Damn Business"-- also apply to conversations with people who have no children, only children, children ten months apart, children ten years apart, or ten children. Unless said child is a)yours, b) left on your doorstep, or c) the recipient of your physical, emotional, and/or financial support, you don't get an opinion).

The end. For real this time.

How Facebook Made Us Crappy Parents

I'm not sure when it happened, exactly. I didn't used to obsess over my parenting all that much. I'm far from a perfect mother--I'm disorganized, and sometimes impatient, and often over extended. I crave peace and quiet much more than I could ever hope to actually get it, I often have to run to the dryer to find my children's clothes for that day, and I happen to think that if I make home cooked meals involving vegetables five nights a week, that's pretty good.

And I'm OK with that. Pretty much all of it. At least most of the time.

Because these children--the ones who drive me crazy--know that they are loved, and cared for, and cherished. They know that we will get them to school (even when they would prefer that we didn't), and help them with their homework (but not as much as they would like), and that we make sure they have a warm house, and food to eat, and clothes to wear (even if they're rarely folded neatly in their dresser drawers). They also know that their family is not picture perfect, and that it is often loud, and chaotic, and yes, at times, insane. But in spite of that--or maybe because of it--they know how to laugh, and how to let things go, and how to improvise. And for that, I am grateful. Even if the laughter involves milk coming out of their nose at the dinner table. Even when the thing they're letting go of is their underwear, as they drop it out of their bedroom window, because they wanted "to fly it like a kite". Even when the improvisation involves making a "picture frame" with magic marker on their bedroom wall. I'm grateful for all of that because, in spite of the aspects of these adventures that drive me crazy, they are proof that we have children who are happy, secure, and joyful.

And some part of me--a rather significant part, fortunately--knows that, at the end of the day, that is what matters.

But then it started happening. I started reading. I love to read. In fact, I love nothing more than to get in bed early and reading for a couple hours before failing asleep. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen very often, for obvious reasons (and if they're not obvious, re-read the above paragraph). So I read here and there. I scroll through facebook, or click on a link, or browse through a blog. It's always interesting to see what my friends are reading, and what inspires them, and what entertains them. And since many of my friends are parents, they're often sharing things related to parenting.

Uplifting things.
Informative things.
Encouraging things.

And also, things that are making us completely and totally neurotic.

Things that talk about the dangers of non organic produce, GMO foods, aspartame, sugar, sodium, MSG, plastics, too much screen time, not enough down time, inconsistent parenting, global warming, spoiling our kids, neglecting our kids, coddling our kids too much, not coddling our kids enough, too much texting, too much yelling, not enough discipline, and not paying close enough attention to what our kids are learning at school.

All of which is totally valid, of course. To varying degrees. To varying people. In varying circumstances.

But, as everyone knows, those articles aren't addressing the varying degrees, or the varying people, or the varying circumstances. They are addressing you.

And me.

And at least for me, that information stays in my head, tucked away in some atrophied corner of my brain until something triggers it to come to the forefront of my mind. I might be in the grocery store, at nine o'clock at night, in jeans that are damp from someone splashing me during a bath, when it occurs to me that I can't buy that case of bottled water, because those bottles contain BPA, or BAP, or LSD. So I will stand there, searching the aisle--in vain-- for water bottles that don't contain BPA or any of those other things, because the article I read the day before told me we're all going to die if we drink water from bottles made from BPA.

And then I go home, disheartened that I have to give my kids water with chemicals in it, and I find two children-who I had put to bed half an hour before I went to the store--standing in the kitchen eating non organic granola bars.

Off of the floor.

I yell at them to get in bed right now. Yes, yell. Not scream. Not freak completely out. But yell. And then I glare at my husband who is watching football while his children eat non organic granola bars off the kitchen floor. And I thank him for helping. Of course, I'm not really saying thank you. I'm saying something kind of close to thank you. But he knows what I mean. And really, that is all that matters. And yet, the children have probably picked up on this communication pattern, and will take it into their own future relationships, which will no doubt end in divorce as a result of the fact that their mother said thank you to their father when that wasn't exactly what she meant.

Eventually, several threats later, the kids are in bed. (Everyone knows you shouldn't make threats unless you're going to follow through. So, if you feel that you have to tell your kids they're never watching TV again in order to get them to go to bed, make sure you never let them watch TV again. Ever. But get yourself some xanax. You'll need it since you won't have another moment of down time until they're eighteen). I'm putting our non organic, BPA containing groceries away, and thinking about how I just yelled at the kids. I mean, I yelled at them. To go to bed. An hour after I put them to bed in the first place. What is wrong with me? And at the same time I yelled at them, I was bringing non organic, BPA containing groceries into the house and watching them eat granola bars off the floor that could have bleach on it. Except that it doesn't, because I know how long it's been since I've cleaned that floor. Which means it has dirt on it. So, either way, two of my children just ate something really, really bad. And that's not even counting the non organic granola bar that probably has LSD in the wrapper.

And it dawns on me.

I totally suck.

And facebook, I blame you. It's bad enough that we have to be exposed to other peoples perfectly presented lives which some people seem to actually believe represent real life, or that we have to see the 17 layer cake that's an actual replica of Disney World that someone made for their child's six month birthday, but we also have a ridiculous amount of parenting advice shoved down our throats on a daily or weekly basis (yes, I know we all have the option of not reading. Some day I'll write a post about my impulse control issues).

It occurred to me recently that, pre internet, we had to actually go to a book store or library to find information about a particular parenting issue. Pre facebook, we had to google the specific information we were looking for. In other words, most of us had to have an actual problem before we chose to read about how to fix it.

Not anymore.

Now we can read all about the problems we have before we even know we have them.

There is, of course, a lot of good information to be stumbled upon, and as it happens, I do try to avoid BPA and  LSD when it comes to my kids. I buy some things organic, I monitor screen time, I try not to let them lick the floor, and I try not to yell. Too much. In one day.

But there is also such a thing as information overload, and--for me at least--all of this parenting "advice" stays dormant in every underused crevice of my brain, until one over stimulated moment when it comes to life, shouting "You! The one feeding your kids non organic produce, and BPA, and dirt, while you yell at them to go to bed, and make threats to that you'll never carry through with, and speak sarcastically to their father, and text your friends before the kids are in bed. You, quite simply, suck".

Fortunately, in calmer moments, I know better.

I know that the truth goes more like this:

Parenting is hard.

Being completely and totally responsible for three little-ish people is exhausting.

Life is hard.

No one is perfect.

Kids are wonderfully, incredibly resilient.

Love is not all that matters. But it matters above all else.

No day is perfect. Some days are better than others. Some days are so far from perfect it's almost funny.

When things are almost funny, we laugh a lot. And pretty soon, we've convince ourselves that they really are funny.

At the end of the day, if everyone is warm, and fed, and at some point during the day was mostly dressed, I know that it was a good day.

And that is all that matters.