Motherhood Uncensored

Third

There is very little that Margot can call her very own.

She's now completely in big sister hand-me-downs. Toys bought just for her are still ridden, used, and abused by her siblings - though not without shrieking protests.

And I'm pretty sure her vocabulary is based solely on what she hears the older two spout off. 

"Have an original thought there Margot!" I'll joke, as she rips off her shirt or blows bubbles in her milk, only seconds after her brother does the same exact thing.

But yet she is not a replica of her sister. Or hidden in the shadow of her big brother.

Her own presence is known. And owned.

Not to be confused.

Reminiscent, perhaps. 

Imitating, but never duplicating.

She's forging her own way. Making her own memories.

And taking up residence in her very own section of my heart.

Snapshot of 3

The irony of my post partum existence is that any type of alcoholic drink gives me a headache or puts me to sleep, neither of which I need a "tasty beverage" to assist me with at this juncture. But it seems like the only appropriate way to celebrate making it to "bedtime" (in quotes because with a 9-day old bedtime is terribly relative) after just barely surviving our days completely outnumbered by little needy people.

Taking two advil with a glass of water just doesn't seem as exciting.

We're all adjusting as would be expected. If you listen very carefully, you can actually hear our washer and dryer screaming for mercy, which is just slightly louder than my crotch's impression of a Godfather-esque Marlon Brando with a bad cough muffled by maxi pads.

Yep. It's just as bad as it sounds. 

The kids are doing well, at least when it comes to annoying the piss out of us so much so that I actually told my husband to go play golf before he lost it yesterday. My solution includes implementing a preschool version of "teens-gone-wild" boot camp and applying all of Cesar Milan's dog whispering techniques to my toddler, who clearly needs to be walked a good solid hour every morning just so he doesn't bounce off the walls by 4pm.

Based on how terribly we're scrambling, chasing our diaperless son around his bedroom while our daughter mumbles "bad mommy bad mommy" from her bedroom after my piss poor excuse for a lullaby was cut short due to a crying baby, you'd think we were brand new parents.

Someone asked me if by three you've completely got the whole parenting gig down. And sure, the tiny baby butt and rooting mouth is not as scary as it was the first time around. But managing three butts and mouths creates a bit more of a challenge.

So while we attempt to master the fine art of juggling, I try to remember that there will come a time when our house will be quiet, and I'll be sitting by the phone and checking my email, hoping to hear a mere peep from my kids, and wishing for the days when they whined about my too-short lullabies and begged me for the dreaded "big books."

And just the thought of that silence makes the cacophony music to my ears.