I have too many kids.
There, I said it. Except in saying it, I don’t mean I would trade any of them in. (Unless, of course, it were for a private island and a gazillion diamonds. KIDDING, ohmygod, I jest.) I just mean … well … having three kids is sort of like playing at life while wearing two left shoes.
I remember my aunt, who also has three kids, telling me if I was going to do three, I might as well go all out and spring for the fourth. I thought she was a lunatic at the time.
I now know she is the sanest person alive.
For starters, having three kids means my husband and I are outnumbered. I swear to God, they’re sitting in their rooms right now, plotting a coup, which shouldn’t be too hard to enact given we’re so frazzled and exhausted that they could parade a herd of circus animals through our living room and we’d just mumble something about not stomping around so loudly and making sure they play with the vicious tigers in the kitchen and not on the carpeting. You know, in case somebody bleeds or something.
And then there’s the fact that someone is always the odd man out. Roller coasters, tandem bicycles, and square dancing are all off the table, which is too bad, really, because I’ve been itching to dust my checkered shirts off and do-si-do around a barn somewhere.
Also? I’m always forgetting something or someone. Even if my kids were all old enough to remember their own crap, they wouldn’t, which means in my desperate attempt to make sure nobody leaves the house without a lunch for the day, I forget to make sure everyone’s wearing underwear.
Spoiler: At least one of them is not. And I’m pretty sure I left him on the toilet.
Don’t even get me started on how our once-oversized SUV now feels like a super compact Smart Car once we get everyone and everything strapped in. I swear my oldest rides with a seatbelt lodged in his butt crack in the middle back there. Poor guy. I feel bad. Not bad enough to take on another car payment, but bad. You understand.
Of course, actually getting anywhere on time, butt crack seatbelts notwithstanding, is nearly impossible. I’m lucky if we get there before an event ends, to be honest. Getting everybody ready and out the door in an orderly fashion is impossible. (See underwear problem above.)
If we get psychotically brave and decide to have dinner at a restaurant, we either have to squeeze into a booth made for four and risk wearing more food than we actually eat or take up a huge table for twelve and pretend not to notice the large party trying to murder us with their eyes so the wait staff will discard our lifeless bodies and seat them already.
And the extracurricular activities. Somebody kill me now so I don’t have to deal with the extracurricular activities. Because as hard as I try, I simply can’t be in three places at once, which means someone is always left feeling disappointed or hurt, and I’m always left wondering where I can find a scientist willing to perform human cloning with only dog hair and table crumbs as payment.
The youngest child looks like a ragamuffin because the oldest and middle children have worn a hole in every hand-me-down before it reached him, family photos look more like portraits of insane asylum patients than a happy family because nobody will look in the same damn direction and smile for once in their lives, I can’t remember anybody’s name until I’ve called them each by the dogs’ names twice, and if I hear one more joke about how we look like we’re trying to birth our own sports team I’ll scream.
We’re so exhausted over here that we really should have just sprung for the fourth. Except then I’d require more wine, and I don’t have any room in the car to haul it home.
Source: Scary Mommy