You know what’s difficult? Three kids, that’s what. Pat and I embraced one like champions, and two kids wasn’t much different. We felt, and maybe even looked like, superheroes. Well, God is now up there laughing at us because He has finally given us a taste of humble pie. After the night we had last night (more to follow), I told Pat, “I don’t think God will give us a fourth; I think He knows this is as much as we can handle.” Pat quickly disagreed, as he believes the Man Upstairs has a more vicious sense of humor than I do. I guess we’ll see in time. We will always be open to life, and natural family planning has worked as planned thus far, so we shall see how our future unfolds. In the meantime though, we’re navigating three, and the hardest part has been the older two. The drama queen and the opinionated, obnoxious, strong willed four-and-a-half-year-old girl who argues with everything are enough to put me over the edge. Add our newest bundle of joy (i.e., Peanut) to the mix, and we’ve got a three-ring circus. He is the most precious, snuggly, gassy guy who enjoys crying more than his sisters did and sleeping less too. We didn’t realize how lucky we were to have two babies come home from the hospital literally sleeping through the night. Both our girls were great babies, so it was our turn to experience the other kind of kiddo. Right?
While he really is precious (when he’s not losing it), he is a boy. He farts, grunts, burps (more like belches), snores, goes through diapers at an alarming rate and wakes up every few hours throughout the night. We have been using gripe water and gas drops like nobody’s business, and let me just tell you about the invention called the Windi. Our Aunt Katie now wants to know if it comes in an adult size for a gag gift, after I handed one off to my sister-in-law at her baby shower. I haven’t looked into it, but if it doesn’t then Fridababy has a new market they should consider targeting. This nifty little contraption is made by the same group who invented the NoseFrida (aka, snot sucker), and it’s pretty much a kazoo for the butt. The instructions warn you to be prepared for a messy experience, so now I’ve warned you too. The gist…you lube up and insert a one inch piece into your little one’s gassy backside, and if you hear what can best be described as a whistle, then you’re doing something right. It was rather frightening at first, but it helped out our Peanut and allowed us to sleep longer that night.
Sleeping, of course, is precious, but trying to find the right time to do the last feeding, get some alone time in there and get to bed in a timely manner takes a bit of juggling. On Saturday, we decided to head to bed around 10 p.m. to ensure we were in bed by 11. As I brushed my teeth, I noticed Pat grinning behind me. As I turned, he said, “Punkin’ had an accident. There’s poop on the floor.” The culprit wasn’t the baby this time. I followed him to the room with toothbrush in hand, gazed down at the trail of poop and chuckled. In hindsight, I wish I wouldn’t have chuckled because it was far from funny.
I finished brushing my teeth before dealing with the poop. I shouldn’t have given myself those extra couple minutes of brushing because that gave Pat enough time to pick up the pieces of poop without marking where they had been. Maybe keeping a pack of golf markers in the rooms would be helpful. Obviously Pat wasn’t thinking through the entire process before starting cleanup. Is that a male trait, or is it just my husband? In the long run it didn’t matter, but I’ll explain later.
As I peeled back Punkin’s sheets I saw what looked like a muddy puddle scene from “Peppa Pig.” I grabbed Sleeping Poopy and headed for the bathroom when Pat offered to take her. What a kind sentiment that was because he really wouldn’t have lasted two minutes with her. Again, I was thinking ahead, and he wasn’t.
