Yesterday I happened upon a recent survey conducted by TodayMoms.com reporting that three is the most stressful number of children a mother can have. Also, 60% of participants said raising girls is more stressful than raising boys.
I Immediately became suspicious that survey participants were exclusively my neighbors, family, the checker outers at my grocery store and everyone else who has seen my head spinning around as I publicly threaten to sell my kids.
The article then went on to explain that mothers with more than three kids become completely apathetic, stop caring about anything and lose the will to live (I’m sort of paraphrasing here) and thus, stress levels go down.
The article was especially timely for me; I read it just as I returned home from a 4-day solo road trip with the girls.
I spent the Fourth of July week with my sister who has two boys – ages 10 and 3. NOTE: Two is NOT the most stressful number of kids. As we were getting ready to go to the pool I wanted to show her what a well oiled machine looked like as I lotioned, swim diapered and suited them up in record time. Things were going especially smoothly and I thought she was going to give me some mad props when she said, “Wow. What a fucking ordeal, huh?”
I returned home and took a two day nap.
Judging by the number of random strangers who tell me I have caused them to re-think having children, I’m sure I’ve done an excellent job of communicating just how cray cray life can be with three kids. And it doesn’t help anything that they were all born within 30 months of each other. Because – people – GOOD GOLLY MISS MOLLY THINGS GET BIPOLAR ROUND HERE.
Each morning I give myself a little pep talk as I uncork my wine. “Patience. They’re only children. Prison would be worse.”
I don’t know if it’s the Zoloft talking, but I have to say that I’ve only been completely losing my shit like once a day lately. Maybe twice if we’re out of queso dip.
I mean – once you get past the fighting, tantrums, endless outfit changes, explosion of toys, food strikes and spontaneous pants pooping… this parenting thing might even be… fun.
P.S. Spoke too soon. As I literally went to hit ‘publish’ I was informed there was poop on the floor.
There you go. I could have skipped the picture, but I’ve never been known for holding back on this blog. Thank God we have queso.