Parenting the Third Child: Yeah, it's definitely different but don't beat yourself up

Two nights ago Jamis suggested that I read Ethan a book before bed. Ethan is one. I can recall only 5 nights that my husband or I have read to him at bedtime.

Flashback to 2002. Jamis is four months old and Dan and I have fallen into a routine of dinner, bath, books, bottle, bed. We alternate nights. We glide in the rocker, happy baby tucked into our laps. We read 1o books, sing 3 songs and crush him with kisses. He smiles. He drifts off to sleep. We walk through a clean and orderly house. Fall on the couch and enjoy our time together. Talk about the small accomplishments that day - Jamis's small accomplishments. We look through the daily photo reel. We listen to music. We read books. We have sex.

Wait, we had sex? I'm not sure I can even remember that. But, oh yeah, right, we did have two more kids so somewhere in there we definitely had sex. But before there were more kids than parents we really enjoyed the intimate moments. It had yet to become just a part of survival. The truth is that now, although my mind can really imagine... No, that's not true, my mind can't even imagine how great it would be if I just got my butt of the couch and jumped on top of him. What I mean to say is that I intellectually know that it's something that will, more than anything, help the mood of the house. But finding the energy is often impossible.

And so it is with reading books to infants whose sole interest is what they'll taste like and how easily they can eat them up. Poor Ethan. For books I just don't have the energy. Directly after he's finished shoveling down three times the amount of food as his 2 year old brother, he's at the bottom gate of the stairs whining for his bath. Then he's writhing and screaming as you put on his jammies. And then he's yawning, and sleep is the only answer. And I swear, if he weren't writhing or screaming or yawning, I would be, if not for the other two children I'm holding constant conversation with while performing said tasks for Ethan.

There's this running joke in my family that as the third of three siblings, I have one photo album of my entire childhood, compared to fifteen for my sister. While Jen had to go to bed promptly at 7 pm when she was young, I didn't even know that a bed time could exist. She should tell you the story of how my mother wouldn't allow her to stay up for the season finale of Little House on the Prarie because it was past her bedtime. She was devestated. Remembers it clearly to this day.

Maybe it's because I was also a third child that I am sensitive to all that Ethan misses of his parents. It boils down to one word, I suppose: time. I just don't have enough time, enough me, to give him all that I could give Jamis. And I look at Jamis now. He's at the end of first grade and so smart, so charismatic, so confident. I can see all the time that I had with him has molded his view of the world, and of himself. It's as difficult as it is joyful for me to think about the fact that Ethan will always have older brothers around. I will never know him without four hands and feet surrounding us. He will have very little time, if ever, with me alone. I will not be able to nourish him the way I did Jamis. His eyes will always be watching his siblings and learning and morphing his behaviors to fit in with them.

"Yeah. Maybe tomorrow night, honey. I have a lot of work to do tonight."

I lied. I had no work. I had no headache. No kinky sex plans. No cleaning, no laundry, no dishes. It's my policy that whatever doesn't get finished before bedtime can just as easily be done tomorrow. Bedtime is for me, not for them. It's the commencement of my time. It is very rare that I push back the start time I've been reaching toward like the finish line of my first marathon.

And for a moment I felt such guilt. I could have read to him. I could have squeezed in a board book or two. If I don't start now, when do I start? And then I realized that Jamis's impact on Ethan will, in many ways, be far greater than my own. He is the oldest. And they are all boys. The little guys already look to him for cues and characteristics. So instead of feeling guilt I guess I should give myself some love. Jamis is amazing. Really, truly, something quite amazing. And if it has anything to do with all the time we had together - before work, and brothers - then I'm expecting him to pass that on to his brothers and make me proud. When they see him curled up with a book in the comfy surroundings of mom's big bed, I hope they'll follow suit and jump on in.

"So You Had a Third."

This statement came to me at B's b'day party, and I can't stop thinking about it. A mom of two, whom I don't know well, just walked right up and said it. What all those other folks seem to be thinking, although with more of a question mark/exclamation mark sound. 

"Yes," I said. "We did." 

Turns out she wants more children. I've only had one other person ask me straight out what it's like to have three. The rest of the time I feel like I'm the anomaly in the town. Even though I can give you plenty of examples of moms of three if you ask, thank you very much. But hey, you asked, so here's what I'll tell you about wanting more kids. About going from having two kids to having three. 

You should consider how much control you like to have in your life. If control is something you need (and perhaps something you already feel as if you are lacking) another kid is probably going to throw you a teensy bit off balance.

Did you say you like to have sex? Well, enjoy it while you're in the "trying" phase, because after that kid comes, it may well be impossible to do the deed. Between the complete exhaustion (see below) and the fact that there are now THREE children who may need you at any point during the day AND night, well, sex just isn't that practical. 

Did I mention the total exhaustion? It is exponentially greater with the second kid, right? With the third you are off the charts. You may find yourself stumbling through the day wondering where you put those children. Not to worry, though, they will let you know with their neverending demands.

Don't worry about three more years of diapers. Really. If this is your only concern, go for it. The poop is so the easy part.

Chaos. Very similar to sleep, although inverted. The more kids, the more chaos. Off the charts. Know this.

Hugs. There is always someone to hug. (And someone who needs one...)

Noise. You will spend much of your time trying to regulate noise. Around nap times for the littlest one. And when no one is sleeping, someone will always be talking. Usually you. 

Your body. OK, folks, here it is. My body made it through two pregnancies, two births and two sessions of breastfeeding (28 months total). And then came the third pregnancy. I have not bounced back. And, it is pretty clear, I'm not going to. If I want that body back, I'm going to have to work for it. 

Longing. Do you long for another child? I did. None of the above had anything to do with it. I just knew I wanted one. I knew immediately after I had my second that I wanted one. I worried that maybe I was going to interrupt the zen of two parents and two kids (who are very sweet together when they're buddies and getting along). I worried that I was being selfish. That I was tempting fate to ask for another healthy child. But I knew in my heart and my gut that if I didn't have another child I would regret it and I would wonder What If for a long, long, long time. 

Em has completed our family. She was meant to be. And, ultimately, all that other stuff doesn't matter. I am lucky because I have a partner who is truly a co-parent. Who is understanding and supportive and funny. Who loves the children and didn't balk when I wanted three. Who knew, in fact, that I wanted a third without me telling him. It's hard sometimes (like, oh, say, EVERY DAY). But I know that we are all in this together. And that's the most important thing you need to know. It has to be the right decision for the whole family. Not just for you. I was lucky.

In response to Dr. Sears, Mommy Burnout, and the fight I had with my husband this morning

I am so terrifically mad at my husband right now that I want to spit. I shouldn't even be writing about this here. It's not a place to give people the wrong impression that I live with a terrible person or something. That's not the case, so please take it as only a moment in time, a moment in my mind that I absolutely must purge before it throws me down under where I can't think of anything else, where I breathe anger, eat anger and cry anger. And please be kind enough to deal with the run-on sentences, as that is how my mind thinks at a time like this - there is no rhyme or reason, just that crazy stream of consciousness that IS getting your thoughts out as quick as you can before they vanish and you move on to trying to be reasonable. I don't want to be reasonable right now. I want to scream. And it's not PMS, dammit, it's just me. Sometimes it's like this. Sometimes I'm mad. At people other than my children. At my husband. And at myself.

I no longer keep any kind of a diary or journal. It's always been my tendency to write in one when I was mad anyway, leaving the times of joy and satisfaction to speak for themselves. Using the pen and the paper to work through the madness and rage that come when you are truly in despair, or just need to vent. So I suppose this land of blog is the closest thing I have to an open book and an inky pen. The only difference being that I no longer write only when disturbed, and not only about the disturbing. Although I must say that an awful lot of what has come out so far is about how difficult and seemingly tortuous it is on most days to parent three children, while working, while wife-ing, while housekeeping... But it's not all tortuous. I realize I must be giving off the wrong impression. Oh well. It's one post at a time and this time it's about how it's just so easy to burn the fuck out.

I recently searched online for the identity of someone's mysterious rash, or the reason for their fever, or what it means when poop is yellow, or what will happen to me if I don't start getting a full night's sleep SOON (I'm starting to think my synapses will stop firing and I'll no longer be able to retain new information let alone access the facts I thought I already knew or the memories I told myself I'd never forget. Oh wait, that's already happening. Shit!) I found an article relating to my current problem at Dr. Sears and now I get a monthly newsletter. Monthly Shmonthly, who has the time to read more mommy tips? Not me. So I usually pause my finger on the delete button just long enough to read three or four words and then send the thing off to the land of Junk E-mails and Advertisements. On Monday I read the words, Avoiding Mommy Burnout. Hmm, I thought. What does Dr. Sears have to say about Avoiding Mommy Burnout? I truly imagined the article to be a compilation of all the things that other mothers would love to tell you when you were pregnant with your first babe: sleep when he sleeps and take lots of walks, etc. etc. etc. Read it for yourself if you like. It's not so bad, but I think it mostly applies to infancy, and ONE child!

Today I have my own special segment on what it takes to Avoid Mommy Burnout:

Part I

• Be honest with yourself and with your partner
• Resolve arguments with your partner
• Have more sex with your partner

Now, I know this excludes all single parents out there, and I apologize. And obviously these first three tips are directly related to the fact that everything I do and say right now is tainted with anger for my husband and our argument this morning. An argument, mind you, that was merely about whether it should be a rule or not that my oldest son always wear a t-shirt under his long-sleeved shirt. Yes, I know, you had to be there. How can I be so alarmingly upset over something so seemingly trivial? But with every argument there is a backstory, right? The feelings of stress and anger that rise up during one of these fights brings forth a flood of annoying moments that I never worked through. Reasons to be mad. Even more mad. Words that were spoken and hurt; words that were never spoken and should have been. And it all relates to feelings of overall burnout or, as I think more appropriately termed, burn UP, cause that's how I feel when it all becomes too much: over-fueled, breathing heavy, ashen.

There is an overwhelming responsibility in being the mother of a family. As Jen said, the appointed CEO. And no, I never wanted my own business either. But this business of family is quite serious. You are responsible for the lives and well-being of these little people. It's a good thing they make you laugh along the way because otherwise it might seem like a burden. (Okay, Nah!) So, tips to avoid Mommy Burnout? I'm gonna give it another go but would love to hear from others out there.

Part II

• Try not to stay mad - at anyone, including yourself
• Get exercise - mostly the kids so they're worn out by sunset, but you should get off your ass too and increase those endorphins!
  
• Have plenty of sex - again with the endorphins and, uh, the other parts of your body you can't always see
• Don't take any advice you wouldn't give
• Have plenty of popsicles on hand
  
• Speak freely and at great length with someone you feel most connected to - that's you, Jen
• Forget about perfection - use the word only to describe your children (on a good day)
  
• Remember that you are what you eat - if you eat junk, you'll feel like junk
• Let your mother feel guilt, fear and remorse, you don't have time for it
• Hire someone to clean your house if you can (thanks, ME, I think I might!)
• Breathe and believe - in yourself, in time, and in your kids

So I look at this list and I think that I should start taking my own advice. I'm worn out, you see, from this morning's argument. It has permeated every action thus far today - my angry driving, the extra cup of coffee, ignoring my growling stomach, buckling down at work and accomplishing the I HATE TO DO IT pile that I'm always accumulating. But I sit now and breathe out loud once, now twice, and feel, for a calm moment, that the whistling down the hall won't bother me, the ringing phones and the intercom will no longer jar me, that this anger I feel toward my husband for all the things he is and for all the things he is not will surely fade. And I will feel, once again, lucky for my life.

I think I'll tack this list to my cork board in the office.
I think I'll tack this list to my mirror by the bed, and by the kitchen sink.
I think I'll make it a point to add a similar list to our site, and continue to add to it.

Because I need a hundred reminders in a day just how to make it through with grace instead of by the skin of my teeth. And that I'm lucky. I'm oh so lucky to have a man and three boys share my world. Even if they make me spit flames from time to time.

Droopy

I'm just too droopy today. Is it because it's Monday? I dunno.

No, no. I think it's the contacts I'm wearing today. They are making everything appear a little cloudy. Cloudy -- droopy. They go together.

So here's the story about the glasses. Dan and I were cuddled on the couch Saturday night watching Twilight under a big huge down comforter. Crow Crow goes the baby over and over again. Okay, I'll get him a bottle (good god, he's GOT to stick to a pattern of sleeping through the night!)

I crawled back into the cocoon of the comforter. Since the movie was already paused I turned to Dan and make that goofy googly eye face that means, I can't believe we have to plan every intimate moment but oh well, Wanna Have a Go at It? Needless to say he was like, yeah, SHHHHHHHHHure! I oh-so-suavely pulled my glasses over my face and my hair and politely dropped them beside the couch. Softly thunking to the ground, we then buried ourselves even deeper under the blanket, fidgeted with clothes and limbs and came out from it all somewhat sweaty, touching each other sweetly and ahhhh (deep breath) calm.

The movie had been paused too long. We had to find the remote and restart it and fast forward and, oh, ick! where the hell is the damn remote. Mostly naked under the covers, okay, totally naked, and pressed against Dan, the ultimate heat machine, I wasn't so very happy to be searching the cushions, the tables, the floor for that dang remote. It was like 50 degrees in the house, but here I go throwing off the covers and tromping about - smoosh, crack, f--k! My glasses. Snapped em right in half at the bridge. Now these have lasted through countless pulls and tugs and scratches from the little ones, my own recklessness aside. And now, smoosh, crack, F--K! Every good moment just has to have a down side, doesn't it? I just picked them up and looked at them and thought, oh the f--k well. Oh well.

But here I am with 2 year old lenses in my eyes, the ones the doc could never get quite right, so everything is somewhat blurry most of the time. If I'm just walking around the house, all is well, but reading and focusing on small letters and numbers I'm squinching and squirching and wondering if I'll be a slave to my glasses for my whole life, if I should take the plunge and get the Laser Surgery.