I'm Grateful, too!

Lately on Facebook, I've seen all sorts of friends posting about the things they're grateful for.  Apparently it's supposed to spread from friend to friend, until we are all forced to take a moment and remember the things in our lives that truly make us grateful.  I have yet to be nominated in this Facebook game, and I've got lots to be grateful for... so I'll share them here.

1.  I'm grateful for my husband, who loves me no matter how bat-crap-crazy I act.  I'm grateful he understands that, at this particular time in my life, hormones are raging, sleep is lacking, and I may act like a crazy psychopath without any real reason (although, to be fair, I'm pretty sure that in the moment, forgetting to take out the compost is a damn good reason to lose one's shit.)

2.  I'm grateful for my kids.  They are sweet and adorable and make me smile.  They also make me scream, cry, and feel like a complete and total failure sometimes.  So...

3.  I'm grateful for dark closets, where I can escape for a few minutes of silence and, perhaps, sneak a bag of chips that I don't have to share with my kids.  Sure, the smell of dirty gym clothes rotting in the hamper may make me gag a little, but not even foul sweat socks can deter a mom from a few moments alone (especially with a snack that is all her own)!

4.  I'm grateful for my friends.  Without their stories of how horrible their kids are, I would feel like a total failure and wonder if I somehow broke my own children.  Because of their supportive anecdotes, I realize that for the most part, as parents, we all suck equally.

5.  I'm thankful for my parents, who have yet to use the "serves you right for being the little shit you were when growing up" moral of the story on me.  Also, they think my kids are adorable and would happily share custody of them if I ever decided to check into a facility to regain my sanity.

6.  I'm grateful for my siblings, who remind me that there is nothing like the bond between brothers and sisters.  Which also reminds me... I should probably stock up on bandaids, slings, and rubbing alcohol.  Things are going to get messy.

7.  I'm grateful for my job.  Without it, I probably wouldn't have had an "oh-my-God-Danny-let's-have-another-baby-because-I-don't-know-much-longer-I-can-take-it" moment.  And then where would Jax be?  Also, because of work, I get maternity benefits from EI.  A full year of no work, with (minimal) pay.  And for that, I am also grateful.

8.  I'm grateful for Dyson vacuums.  Seriously, those things are the shiznat.  And with three kids, two pets, and a husband, I need a rockin' vacuum.  For my husband to use.

9.  I'm grateful for doors.  Particularly bathroom doors.  Because if I run fast enough, I can close one before my kids join me for a poop, and I may get 5 minutes all to myself.  Okay, maybe 3 minutes.  And there's always knocking.  And little toes sticking under that door.

10.  I'm grateful for Pinterest.  It inspires me to be a better a person, mother, and wife.

11.  I'm grateful for beer.  It makes me feel better when Pinterest has also made me feel like a total failure as a person, mother, and wife.  Who in the hell can make all those crafty things, cook all those healthy meals, stick to an exercise plan, have lunches pre-made for the week, decorate a cake to look like cookie monster, and clean their whole house with vinegar and blue Dawn anyway?  Stupid Pinterest.

12.  I'm also grateful for wine.  Because it comes in a box, ready to serve, and makes me feel like a "classy lady," even when I haven't showered in days and I'm covered in somebody else's throw-up.  Cabernet Sauvignon, anyone?

13.  Finally, I'm grateful for Facebook.  It gives me a sense of "keeping in touch" with people so I don't feel like a complete loser without any real friends, even though I haven't left the house in days.  Also, without it, I wouldn't see all the drama and horrible shit that goes on in other people's lives.  Because of that, I truly see all that I have to be grateful for: husband, kids, family, and friends; and, because of that, I realize how f'n awesome my life truly is.

Two years later...

It's hard to believe it's been two years since you were born, Ella!  I remember the anticipation of having a second child... worrying about what it would do to Gracie, wondering how we would handle a second kid, and yet we've made it through 730 days, 24 months, two full years!

You have been the most exhausting child at times.  I remember thinking that Gracie had a lot of attitude.  And then I met you, and realized Gracie's personality and attitude is one of the most dependable, unchangeable things in our lives.  You can be angry, sad, vicious, recalcitrant, whiny, and a steroid-infused version of a terrible-two.  But, oh my... you can also be the sweetest, gentlest, most kind little girl I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  You laugh at everything... and not a little giggle, but an out-loud, makes-me-laugh-too, kind of laugh. You wipe my kisses off and tell me they're yucky, but run to your sister to put your arm around her and rub her back when she's crying.

With you, we have to say everything at least twice.  Probably closer to five times before you decide to listen.  At bedtime, instead of sitting down to enjoy a story, you race around the house, thinking it's great fun and make us chase you.  Most times that ends with us yelling at you to get your butt to the couch and listen to a story.  But on the days that we remember that you're just having fun, we growl and chase you and you laugh and scream until we drag you, hanging upside down, back to the couch.

You throw yourself to the floor and refuse to get up in a typical toddler tantrum.  The threat of a time-out means nothing to you if you decide that your tantrum is more important.  If you do end up in time-out, you stand your ground with your arms crossed and your bottom lip so far out a bird could build a nest on it.  When made to apologize for your wrongdoing, you rarely uncross your arms, and yell "sorry" at us like that word itself is the most horrible thing you've ever had to say.

When we put you to bed, you talk and talk and talk and talk, and throw your toys on the floor, and then pick up your toys, then throw them again.  You bang your feet against the wall.  You yell at Gracie for falling asleep before you were done talking to her.  You drive us crazy when, an hour after putting  you to bed, you're still talking!  We've started putting you to bed first, before Gracie, and I now often find you 15 minutes later, passed out, feet on the wall, toys on the floor, and head hanging over the bed.  But every now and then, I find you tucked under your blankets, in the same position as when I first left the room, and I can't help but smile and think of how much energy you must have used up that day to fall asleep so fast.

You, my beautiful Ella, truly are the most exhausting child.  A real trouble-maker.  A little hellion.  But for every hellish little moment you create, there are a million other sweet ones, and that beautiful smile reminds me that, as bad as you can be, you are truly amazing, and I wouldn't trade you for any other two-year-old out there!  Because of all the Ellas in the world, you are my favourite!

 

Oh, Boy!

Well it's been a full month at home with the new little man, and I've already learned a few things... 

First of all, the penis is as scary a thing as I feared!  At changing time, I still just kind of stare it, not really knowing what to do with it.  The damn thing terrifies me.  And there are more cracks and crevices to wipe around than with a girl, I hate to tell all you "cleaning it is so easy" advocates.  I am proud to announce, however, that I have yet to be peed on.  I call that a parenting-a-boy success.  Danny, for the record, has been peed (and pooed) on numerous times.  Sucker.

Next, I would like to say that, so far, Jax has proven himself to be a typical man.  My boobs have never been bigger, and he enjoys them.  Every. Two. Hours.  Okay, so that's settled down a little bit since the first week we brought him home.  But seriously... every two hours?! When a friend of mine asked how it was going with him, and I mentioned this, she said, "Yup!  That's a boy for you!"  For those of you who don't know, I'm a great advocate of breastfeeding, but I'm the first to admit I hate it.  I hate every single minute of doing it, and every two hours made me want to chop them off.

Also, like a man, this little boy can fart.  I mean, the girls were all gassy at this age too, but Jax can clear a room!  More than once I've yelled at Danny, only to discover it was actually Jax's handiwork smelling up the car.  And once he pooped so loud, it stopped Ella stone-cold in the middle of a tantrum.

We've also had some of the regular poo blow-outs.  As a mother of an infant, you quickly learn to pack extra clothes and blankets and wipes when travelling in case your darling little child decides to shit right through their clothes.  We've experienced it with both girls, and we were pretty sure we had seen the worst of the worst.  Until Jax.  I had stopped at the EI office in Kentville, and had just finished feeding Jax (it had been two hours, after all!).  I heard him poop and immediately smelled the stinky little bugger.  I needed to cover myself back up, so I handed him to Danny sitting in the front seat beside me.  Danny was burping him while I was putting away "the girls" when he lifted one hand up and said, "Oh my God, I think he pooped through his clothes."  I laughed a little bit, and then got ready to change him.  Of course we were on the side of the road in Kentville, so we had to change him on the back seat.  I laid him down on a blanket in the back seat and unbuttoned his clothes.  I took a little peek and discovered, to my horror, that this little poop explosion reached the back of his neck.  I took a step back to regroup and started gathering supplies.  Wipes.  Lots of them.  Extra shirt.  Clean diaper.  Somewhere to put the dirty wipes (we were going to be using a lot).  We stumbled here, but then realized empty Tim Horton cups would work just fine.  It started out being a calm task, then it seemed like the poop just got everywhere!  It was on his feet, his elbows, his stomach... and I didn't even have his clothes off yet (which of course, were also covered!).  I started the roll-and-tuck manouever with his onsie, trying to get it over his head without smearing the stuff any further.  It was not successful.  By the time I lifted his shirt over his head, he had poop in his hair, his shoulders, and all over my hands.  We stuffed two cups full of dirty wipes, which Danny dutifully held onto while I did the scrubbing.  It took what seemed like an eternity to finally get him cleaned off, and when I was finished and he was smelling sweet like roses again, I surveyed the damage.  We had used every single baby wipe in our bag to clean him off.  Not to mention we now had coffee cups filled to the brim with dirty wipes, and not a garbage can to be seen.  Oh, and I had poop all over my hands and up my arms... and no wipes.  Fantastic!  I found some poop bags that we use when walking Charlie and quickly tied up his soiled clothes and the coffee cups. Luckily, we also had Lysol wipes in the car.  While too strong for baby's bottom, they did wonders for me.  I stood on the sidewalk, cleaning myself off and happened to take a look around.  Right behind us, watching the whole scene was a nice elderly couple on their veranda.  And they were laughing.  Yeesh, they could have at least invited us in to use their sink!

The rest of Jax's first month has been (thankfully) fairly uneventful.  We are still adjusting to life, and hoping desperately that Jax soon finds a better sleep schedule.  I took a good two weeks to recover from the labour ordeal, and am starting to get back some of the energy I lost.  Jax has begun gracing us with those first real smiles, and they are adorable!  He's a little camera shy, and I have yet to catch one yet on the camera.  But I will!

Overall, I would call month one with the boy a success.  Although new "boy" things surprise me every day, I'm getting used to having the little man in the house.   Life is slowly returning to a new normal!

Introducing Jax Daniel Ford...

The past 42 weeks seemed to fly by at times... and other times seemed to take an eternity.  I experienced things this pregnancy that I didn't with my first two, including being put off work due to extreme pelvic pain.  Already parenting two toddlers, combined with working full-time and managing the pain, meant that I was often physically drained.  I was very excited as the weeks passed by, and also a little sad, because I knew this would be the last time that I would experience being pregnant.

For those who haven't experienced it, there is nothing quite like the feeling of a little person moving inside your belly.  There's a personal connection long before the baby is born, something that is incredibly personal and private, and just between the two of you.  But the girls were growing more and more excited every day, and I knew they would just fall in love with their little brother once he was here.

After months of dreading "the penis," the end was near.  It was my third, and everyone was fairly sure that I would have that baby "any moment" as friends (and complete strangers) would point out as I walked by them.  I can't say that I felt huge this pregnancy... I certainly felt smaller than I was with Gracie, and I honestly didn't feel like I looked like I was ready to pop.  The baby certainly felt the same way, since at weeks 38, 39, and 40, I was "checked" for progress and was told that, although anything could happen, Dr. Rudd expected to see me at Labour and Delivery to discuss my induction on the 18th of June.

I was busy wrapping up my Sunday School program for the year.  On the evening of the 13th, I had Confirmation to get through, and the teachers of the Confirmation class and my program partner had been begging me to hold on until we were through with Confirmation.  That night, after everything was finally wrapped up, I said to the teachers, "I know you've been praying for me to hold on so I could be here tonight, but you can stop now!"  Someone commented on how funny it would be if I went into labour that night.  I went home, fell asleep, and woke up at 12:45 a.m.  It was labour.

I got out of bed at 1:30 and paced the upstairs of my house for an hour and a half before deciding to call the hospital.  Since it was my third, and I had a history of hemorrhaging, and the contractions were about 5 minutes apart, they told me to make my way in.  I paced another half hour or so before I decided to wake up Danny.  When I told him it was time to go, he informed me that he had heard me on the phone with the hospital, which meant he had heard me tell them I was in labour, and decided to go back to sleep!!!  What a man! :)

We made it to the hospital just before 5, where we waited in the ER for a good 10 minutes before someone showed up to let us in the actual hospital.  They hooked me up to the baby monitor, and at 5:20 my water broke.  The contractions were still about 4-5 minutes apart, which gave me some recovery time in between, but I have to say, they were stronger contractions than I had felt with either Gracie or Ella.  I insisted on an epidural (I had missed out with Ella) and relayed my story about having to deal with the hemorrhage last time without any sort of pain relief.  It had traumatized me, and I had nightmares about it for months afterwards.  As soon as the anesthesiologist was available, I had my epidural (success!!), and tried to get some rest while I waited for baby boy to make his appearance.

At 9:15, they brought in Dr. Hamm.  He was with me when I delivered Ella, and had dealt with the bleeding afterwards.  I was very happy to have him again for this baby, he is a very calming presence!  At 9:24 a.m., baby Jax was born, and I was surprised to find out that what I thought was my smallest belly actually held my biggest baby, weighing in at 9 pounds, 5.1 ounces.  After he was born, we all held our breath and waited... waiting to see if the bleeding would be controlled, or if we would have a repeat of Ella's birth.  We waited, and waited, and waited.  Nothing happened.  Which was not good either.  We waited some more, and Dr. Hamm repeatedly reefed on my stomach.  Still nothing.  Not a spot of blood, but also no placenta.  We waited some more and Dr. Hamm advised that he was going to have to take me to the OR to get the placenta out.  Thank God, I already had the epidural!

Once the OR was prepped, they took me down.  The epidural was numbing, but not enough to do what they needed to do.  My right side wouldn't freeze, so they kept upping and upping the medication.  Eventually the anesthesiologist said that he was going to flood me with the medication and if I still wouldn't freeze, he was going to have to put me out completely.  The rush of medication made me extremely nauseous and my whole body felt like it weighed 300 pounds... but it worked!  Dr. Hamm worked his magic, and I was in recovery 15 minutes later.  I wasn't allowed out of recovery until I could lift and bend both of my legs.  My right leg thawed within an hour, but it took until 1:30 in the afternoon before I could move my left leg enough for them to release me.  I was finally taken back to my room, where Danny and Jax had spent the last 3-4 hours bonding.  It was a rough afternoon, but by 4:00, I was feeling relatively normal again.  The girls came and met their brother for the first time, and Nanny and Grampy got to meet their first grandson. 

As the nurse told me later, after the retained placenta, followed by a pretty significant blood loss in the OR, I was not going to be feeling great.  By the time I got home from the hospital on Sunday evening, I felt like I had been hit by a truck.  My hands were aching from the IVs I had in each of them, my back was killing me, and my hips ached worse than I could ever imagine.  Yesterday I left the house for the first time since being home, finally starting to feel like a normal person again. 

Jax is fitting right in.  He is a voracious eater, which reminds me again how much I dislike breastfeeding, but so far is the most calm and laid back of the three.   Gracie constantly needs to be touching him, and Ella is amazed by him.  Every day gets better and easier, and we are so thrilled to have him here, finally, as part of our family!  We are officially complete as the Ford Family!

 

Nesting's a Bitch...

Towards the end of pregnancy, women go through this natural occurrence known as "nesting."  According to all of the pregnancy websites out there, nesting is a natural instinct whereby mothers-to-be prepare their home for the new arrival by cleaning and organizing the "nest."

I spent the better part of last week "nesting."  My mother came down to help out, and we spent all week cleaning.  We cleaned out the girls' room, organized the boy's room, sorted through six bags of boy clothes (thanks, Michelle!), organized the bathroom closet, the living room closet, and the hallway closet, cleaned out and organized the laundry room, cleaned up the guest room, and even got the oven and microwave cleaned (although, to be fair, we can thank my dad for those last two).  On Friday, after a 2-hour grocery shopping trip, we spent the better part of the next 12 hours cooking and stocking our freezer.  We made chicken noodle soup, beef barley soup, chili, pulled pork, chicken fried rice, cabbage roll casserole, dijon mustard chicken drumsticks, slow cooker cilantro lime chicken, balsamic vinegar glazed chicken, kobe glazed beef roast, hamburgers, three meatloafs, slow-cooker beef fajitas, potato and fish hash, taco meat, shake & bake chicken, and 18 breakfast sandwiches.  I even managed to get 5 dozen biscuits made for the freezer too.

Half of the groceries for our freezer-stocking adventure...

The other half of the groceries... 

My lovely assistant... plucking a chicken! :)

Don't mind the apron, it's Ella's.... and doesn't quite fit! :)

The first of my 5 dozen biscuits! :)

 Here's my problem with the nesting instinct though:  The instinct part.  I call bullshit.  There is nothing instinctual about it.  There is no "oh, I should get my house cleaned up before this sweet little bundle of joy arrives" urge.  There is, however, a "holy fack, I have two weeks left before this all time consuming booby muncher gets here and the house looks like a fuckin' pig sty" sort of feeling.  That's not instinct, that's panic!  I know that in roughly two weeks, I will arrive home with this little bundle of blue, and I will be mostly relegated to feeding, changing, and burping that baby.  When I'm sitting in my rocker feeding the little man for the 10th time in three hours, and I see a cobweb hanging from the ceiling, I know that it's going to stay there for approximately the next 4-6 months.  Because I will have better things to do.  Sure, the dishes will get done, and the floors will be vacuumed, and if we're really lucky I may even wash a load or two of clothes.  But the super dirty little stuff, like the piece of (what I assume is) apple that fell behind the couch sometime in the last 4 years that I only discovered while "nesting," or the pile of brown gunk building up in the door of the dishwasher, or the inch-thick layer of dust and dog hair collecting in every single closet... well, that shit will stay there until (a) this baby stops being such an energy-sucking force in about 6 months, or (b) nope.  There is no b.

The other thing about nesting being all "instinctual" is the fact that instinct brings to mind another word: Natural.  Believe me when I say there is nothing natural about my preggopotamus ass climbing up and down the stairs 15 times carrying different crap to different areas of the house, while sweating bullets, and grunting like a pig.  There is nothing natural about my preggopotamus ass literally getting stuck on the floor because I have been on my hands and knees scrubbing out a cabinet for the last 20 minutes and now I don't have the energy to lift said preggopotamus ass back into a vertical position.  There is nothing natural about any of it.  I hate every second.  I bitch and complain every single moment.  If it weren't for the fact that my mother was here to keep me inspired, I would probably still be on project #1, and break #246.  Not to mention that my mother is as old as the hills... not truly, but with the knees of an 80-year old woman, we were quite the sight, both moaning and groaning our way through the week.  Cleaning sucks.  Cooking sucks.  But deep cleaning and freezer-stocking-cooking sucks even harder.  Even with help and good company, it sucks preggopotamus ass!  Not to mention that every single night last week, my legs screamed at me and my back ached, and my belly contracted, all in protest of the extra work I was making us do!

There's an upside to the panic that comes when you are running out of time to get anything done... once you actually get it done, it's done.  It's clean!  My house looks fantastic, and I even finished a project or two that was on my list of nesting chores from when I was pregnant with Ella (that's right, I'm so incredibly lazy, some of these projects have taken another two years to complete!).  And the fact that I got the cooking done amazes me.  I certainly paid for it that night, with a couple Tylenol 3s and a night spent on the couch to ward off as much of the pain as possible.  But it's done, and I can feed my family when the lazy, exhausted moments happen in the upcoming months.

Things are cleaned and organized for the time being, and that makes me feel a little more relaxed in these final days leading up to Baby #3. But there's no doubt about it... nesting's a bitch!

In preparation for cleaning out the girls' room,  my mother and I built this lovely bookshelf together.
Elvis took over residence shortly thereafter! :)

The End is (Not So) Near...

Dear Stubborn-Ass Child:

Hmm... I guess with two already on the ground, and one on the way, that is no way to address a letter. To be more specific: Dear Stubborn-Ass Unborn Child.  That's right, Baby Ford #3, I'm talking to you!  You are my third (and final!) child.  You are supposed to be laid back, easy going, and listen to every single word I say.  You are not supposed to be difficult, stubborn, or even the least bit competitive.  Yet, I am very afraid that is what is happening...

I am, apparently, a baby-making perfectionist.  My lovely first child was 11 days late.  Due on the 11th of January, born on the 22nd.  My beautiful second child was 9 days late.  Due on the 11th of July, born on the 20th.  My third handsome baby is also due on the 11th... born on the... well, that remains to be seen.  Ideally, I was aiming for right around the 11th.  Or maybe even earlier!  My ideals are being tested.

I went for my 37-week check-up last week.  My family doctor was very excited to examine me, since by that stage in pregnancy, her patients have all been shipped off to obstetricians.  She very eagerly wanted to check my "progress" since I was 37 weeks with my third child and his head was "oh, so low!"  She was pretty convinced she was going to tell me I was 3 cms dilated, or some other "the time is coming soon" sort of news.  She let out a little "hmmpph," and said, "well, he's not nearly as low as I thought, and you haven't thinned or dilated even a milimetre!"  Oh well, still lots of time!

Fast forward a week, to today.  I'm back to see my regular obstetrician who gives the bottom of my belly a squeeze to make sure that baby is still head down.  He is.  Then doctor gives a little laugh, and says, "wow, for 38 weeks, he sure isn't very low, is he?"  Yeah, I get it.  The fact that I have had to literally push tiny little feet out from under my rib cage, and push back when his little bum starts to wiggle high enough that my boobs fit nicely under my chin, has led me to the conclusion that this stubborn-ass little child is quite content to wiggle and squirm as high as possible in my tummy.  Unfortunately, without the "bowling ball about to fall out of your vajayjay" pressure that comes when a baby decides to settle in for the last week or so, not much progress will be made in the thinning and dilation departments.  My ribs, however, will never be the same again, and the extremely attractive belching that comes when your food only has a few centimetres to travel before it stops, will continue.   Hooray!  

Of course, as Danny reminded me on the phone today as I was cursing out our little unborn human, anything is possible.  This stubborn-ass little man may also decide to be spontaneous, and decide it's time to be born tonight.  However, with a history of stubborn-assness running in my children's genes, I am not hopeful.

The bright side... more time to get ready.  Except that I've been off work for 10 weeks, and am actually quite close to being ready (especially since my mommy arrives tonight and plans to finish up the last of the crap that I am to exhausted to do myself).  I should pack a bag, of course, and maybe buy some diapers (I've been enjoying our diaper-free house), but that's all stuff that can be done at the last second, anyway!  

There's also the other bright side.  Potentially 3 more weeks of "wow, you're huge, when are you due?" and "looks like baby has really dropped!" and "aren't you ready to have that baby now?"  The answers to those questions, socially speaking, are *smile* "any day now," "he sure has!" and "uh-huh, am I ever!!"  The answers to those questions in my hormone-filled, sleep-lacking, baby-has-his-feet-in-my-ribs-again, oh my God when will this be over, mind, are "I'm not that freaking huge, I'm smaller than my last two, but thank you very much for pointing out my waddle," and "apparently this baby has not dropped, but I'm so glad you're an expert on the distance between this child's head and my vagina," and "Yes, I'm freaking ready.  I've been ready ever since I stopped being able to put on my own socks, eat a full meal, or sleep through the night.  Except that this stubborn-ass child didn't get that freaking message and is taking his sweet ass time!"

Of course, on the other other bright side... once this sweet little man does decide to make his entrance, there's no going back.  We will officially be parents to three.  So what's an extra week or two of waiting?  Patience, after all, is a virtue! :)

The truth about "Being Excited"...

I'm 36 weeks (and then-some) pregnant.  I'm super fat now and the belly cannot be hidden.  It causes people I don't even know to be super excited for me.  Like, super excited.  I'm not quite sure what it is about a pregnant woman that sends everyone around her into fits of happiness, but apparently a big, fat, baby belly will do that to people.

A baby belly has caused many a person to do crazy things... read here for my experiences the last time I was knocked up.  This time, I'm experiencing something a little different.  I have yet to have a stranger touch me, but it seems allllll the strangers want to know how excited I am.  I walk through the grocery store, and inevitably, someone will stop me with all the usual questions:

Stranger:  "Oh my goodness, look at you!  Expecting a little one, are you?"
Me: "Yup, sure am!" (Force smile)
Stranger: "Wow, you must be due any minute!"
Me: "Well, still have a few weeks to go yet!" (Thanks, for noticing how fat I am)
Stranger: "You must be getting excited?" or "Are you excited?"
Me: "Uh-huh!"
Stranger: "Oh, how sweet your life will be once that little baby joins your world!"
Me: "So true, so true." (Fake smile, wave, walk away)

It's an innocent enough little conversation.  Except when I'm out in public I seem to have it over, and over, and over again.  I went shopping in Halifax with a girlfriend the other day, and even she commented on how many people stopped to question me.  It's not that I'm an unfriendly person... I swear, for the most part, I am quite fond of the human race.  Except, as people keep pointing out, I'm big, I'm tired, I can't reach my own toes, and I'm freaking tired of all the questions!  Especially the last one... "are you excited?"  Excited?  Excited?!?  Let's see shall we...

I was in line at the grocery store the other day, and the clerk just began ringing in my groceries.  For some reason, Danny was not with me, but the girls were.  Ella was in the cart, Gracie was standing beside me.  The checkout clerk was carrying on the usual conversation with me.  I smiled politely, and nodded at all the right times.  In the meantime, Ella was grunting because I told her she couldn't eat the snacks I had just bought right this second.  Gracie was saying, "Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy."  I dropped my wallet.  When I stood up, Ella had one hand in a grocery bag, popping grapes into her mouth.  I told her not to touch the grapes, and she started crying.  Gracie said, "Mommy, can I have a treat?  I want a treat.  Last time you got me a treat cause you were nice.  Why can't I have a treat this time?  I just want a treat?" I told Ella to stop crying, and she screams at me.  Gracie tells Ella to stop crying, and since Ella hates to be told anything by Gracie, she screams "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" at Gracie at the top of her lungs.  "How much longer do you have, dear?" the cashier asks.  Gracie cries, "Mommy, Ella's not being nice to me!" and I scold Ella, "Ella, be nice!" and the same time, answering the cashier. "Oh, a few weeks," I say.  Gracie steps in front of Ella, who deliberately kicks her in the head from her position in the shopping cart. Gracie starts crying, and Ella starts laughing.   I rub Gracie's forehead and start to discipline Ella when I hear it, "You must be so excited." The cashier smiles at me. I stare at her with a look that I'm quite sure conveys that I think she must be out of her ever-loving mind, as Gracie screams and yells about Ella kicking her and Ella cries because Gracie has now hit her back.  My mouth kind of gapes open for a second, as I stare at her, and I struggle to answer her.  The kids are now both screaming and Gracie has dropped to her knees at the end of the aisle in her usual dramatic fashion.  "Oh yes," I say.  "So excited."

Don't get me wrong.  We planned this baby.  We want this baby.  But dealing with catastrophic meltdowns in the grocery store is fairly easy right now, because I have two hands, and two kids. For now, one of the three is safely contained... inside my belly.  He has no choice but to go where I go, and do what I do.  Soon, that beautiful little boy will be here, and the only thing I will have control over is which boob to offer him as a sacrifice when he screams at me. In a matter of weeks, I will still only have two hands.  But I will have three kids.  That scene at the grocery store will replay, except this time, Baby Boy Ford will also be in that cart, and he will be covered in a poop from a blow-out diaper, and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Of course, two years from now, Gracie will be even bigger than she is now.  She will be even more helpful and caring and considerate.  Ella will be growing into a little lady, and will have learned manners by then (or at least how to fake them!).  Baby Boy will be walking, talking, and will no longer scream at the top of his lungs when he needs something because he will have learned how to communicate.  The kids will be sleeping through the night, all of them, and Gracie will know how to pour bowls of cereal and turn on the TV on Saturday mornings.  Now that is exciting!

But the God's-honest truth of the matter is simple math.  Right now, there is Danny and me, and Gracie and Ella.  We're even.  In a month or so, there will be Danny and me, and Gracie and Ella and Baby #3.We are going to be outnumbered.  I know we will still technically be bigger and stronger.  But soon enough, these children will realize that they out-number us.  They will find a way to use it to their advantage.  They will team up. They will wear us down.  And they will win.  We will be weak, and overpowered, and exhausted.  We will rue the day we decided to have three of these little creatures.  Our friends will find us, after noticing we have been missing for a few days, collapsed on our living room floor, as our three children dance around us, their faces painted with war paint, candy, and chocolate sauce.  Giggle-bellies will be playing over, and over, and over again in the background in an effort to drive us completely crazy, and there will be a lego fortress built in the corner of the living room, where the children will have their tribal meetings while deciding our fate.  They will leave individual legos scattered across the floor for us to step on, to thwart any attempts at escape.  This is our future, as the parents of three children, I am quite sure of it.  And the truth is, I am terribly excited! :)