I have talked a lot about having a third child. But I really haven’t thought that much about it. I have thought about the two children we already have and about money and about babies, but not actually about a third child. I have thought around it without thinking about it.
So for the past few days, I resolved to actually think about the reality of having a third child in this house. I thought first about logistics. About losing our guest room or forcing Brandon and Holden to share a room. I thought about how to transport them all and actually Googled if it is possible to fit three car seats in a standard backseat (sometimes, barely, rarely: you should probably instead invest in a minivan). I thought about money getting tighter and cringed at the thought of becoming one of those people who bitched about money but kept having kids (I know you know those people too – we all do. They’re everywhere).
Then I thought about how at HyVee today, Brandon shoved the whole sample cookie into his mouth at once and I had to retrieve it with his sweatshirt. I fucking unzipped his hoodie and covered my hand with it, grabbed into his mouth, took out the pieces of half-masticated cookie, then wiped around Brandon’s mouth with the sweatshirt. I thought about how last week I discovered Holden chewing on one of Tucker’s rawhides. Sometimes I can barely keep the two I have alive, I thought. What do I think I’m trying to prove by having three? That I am SuperMom? None of us are believing that.
A third child is not going to force me back into my unlazy parenting of one where I carried around a diaper bag, watched him every second, and never even considered the idea of “me time.” No, I will still be traipsing around town without any baby essentials, existing on my basic parenting philosophy of hope. I hope no one has a blowout because I didn’t bring any wipes. Hope doesn’t always prevail. We’re never so far from home anyway.
The jump from two to three seems like a big fucking deal. I mean, two is standard. Three is a little nutsy. Four and beyond, people start asking if you’re a Catholic or Mormon and have to bring religion into it as if there is no reason other than God’s divine will for that many children to belong to one couple.
But when I stop thinking about logistics and money and my own selfishness and shortcomings – when I think about a baby itself – I realize that if it happened, we would figure it out. I could have twenty kids (someone resuscitate Steve – this is hyperbole) and I would love each one and treat each one like he or she is the most special person in the world. But I am a responsible person. Logistics and money and my own selfishness and shortcomings are to be considered here. If I acted on every whim that traipsed in and out of this la-de-da little head of mine, I’d be in some serious shit. Like, quite possibly, literally swimming in shit. It’s hard to tell. It would be nutsy, that’s for sure.
So like the last time I blogged about this, I agree that I’m not ready to say “no” to having other children. But this time, I am sure as hell that I’m not ready to say “yes” either.
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