It's funny to go back and read my column about having three kids under three years old. My initial reaction is, wow, I still had so much energy back then! I thought I was pretty tired in those days. I'm a lot more tired a lot more often now.
There was a column I wanted to write a couple years ago, but didn't, called "I used to be a nice person." It came to my mind one summer morning, my birthday actually, when I was arriving to drop my then-three-year-old off at a summer camp we were trying out.
I had been up into the wee hours of the morning trying to get this child to fall asleep in their bed alone. By the way, there needs to be a whole separate study done on why, in modernity, we seem to set things up under the assumption that small children are going to sleep alone in their own rooms, when in reality, they seem to want no part of that.
And this was a Monday morning, when I had to drop this exhausted child off at camp, get my exhausted self back home to do my morning work calls, deal with the reality of needing groceries and food and coordinating with my babysitter and taking a shower and so forth, all with so little energy that I barely felt safe enough to drive. I remember thinking, if anyone finds out it's my birthday, I'm going to die. I don't have it in me today.
Anyhow, we got to this child's camp—an outdoor camp—five minutes before it was technically open. I saw the ladies behind the fence finishing up some setup work for the day, and caught their eye. With the little energy left that I had, and behind thick sunglasses that were supposed to conceal how exhausted I looked and felt, I asked if my child could maybe just this one time come behind the fence early and get started. Nope, they replied.
So I stood there, so heavy I could barely stand up, with the child tugging at my hand, waiting for each second and minute to tick by until the staffers were ready to begin camp on time. Tick, tock. I did my best to smile and seem calm, but I was completely imploding on the inside. Could I nap? Should I just call out sick? They're going to be waiting for me on the show call. I'm going to be late again.
Finally, at the chosen moment, but not a second before, they opened the gate and let the kids in. No apology, no understanding smile. I'm sure I looked like some corporate checked-out mom who was just trying to offload her kid. At least, this was the internal dialogue that plagued me as I stood there, desperate to leave, watching them carefully set up.
I used to be a nice person, I thought. I used to have more energy for situations like this.
And so I can write about this now, because I got a little more sleep last night, even with the baby in our bed, and because we now have grocery lists and meal plans that tell us exactly what to buy and prepare every day of the week. We are better organized with each other, with the babysitter, and with my parents who live nearby now, and who are themselves overloaded trying to help us. And we can still barely make it through the day without losing it.
But I can write about this now, because it's all so worth it. Of course it is. Just thinking about my kids—whenever they're not around, ha, ha—brings tears to my eyes. They are so beautiful, and earnest, and they don't mean to be challenging, and they just love us so much. I would rather say nothing at all than give even the slightest indication of being ungrateful. They are also just plain fun, and I love chit-chatting with the older ones. Coming home to all of them is the best part of my day.
But it's also worth talking about all of these challenges because having babies, and toddlers, and little kids—even just one!—is hard. I'm not sure if it's always been this way? It's been great to see all these different parents from all walks of life all talking about the same challenges. Is this how it's supposed to be? Is modern life working here? How could it be better? The answer seems to always come down to "having more people around, pitching in from time to time."
A friend of mine once remarked offhand that "the first five kids are the hardest." That made me chuckle at the time, but I increasingly think it is true. Once the oldest kids hit seven, eight, nine years old, they can become those extra hands that we all desperately need, pitching in to help. It's definitely easier and more fun now than it was back when we only had three under three.
It would be awesome to see more people be able to get to and get beyond that point. But it's going to be hard. And in the meantime, I'm working on my future apology tour, once I can get through this crazy life phase.
See you at 1 p.m!
Kelly