Several friends of mine have recently had little bundles of joyous pooping, crying, eating machines. What? I’m just telling it like it is. I’m a 3-time veteran of the baby and toddler years. My sis used to accuse me of lacking fashion sense even after I started buying my own clothes. Thing is, by the time I had money to buy clothes with any regularity, I was a mom. I learned pretty quick that silk blouses and jewelry do not mix with babies or toddlers.
For about six years I picked clothes based on comfort, their ability to hide stains, and compatibility with either pregnancy or breast-feeding. Besides, who can spare brain cells for things like color coordinating when you’re trying to outsmart a toddler that can find the brownies no matter where you hide them?
I recently read a Huffington Post blog article and it brought back
traumatic fond memories. Having three very different kids, I’ve concluded that there is no magically easy age or soul-sucking horrific age. Much like life itself, each kid has their ups and downs, times when they seem “easy” and times you contemplate that whole duct tape thing. Each child will find new and inventive ways to try your patience while managing to make you laugh, warm your heart, and debate the efficacy of banging your head on a wall.
A visual snapshot of my roller-coaster minions:
I fully expect each of those lines to take a sharp up-turn when they hit year 13. I suppose on the bright side, I’ve never had all three of them at full steam “drive-mom-bat-shit-crazy” for any significant period of time. This is likely due to their inability to agree on much of anything, including how to drive me nuts. I might ought to quit attempting to get them to work together. That could totally backfire.