Rex, Rocky, Vivi, and Billy                                                                            

Guest Post Alert: 3 Under 3

Guest Post Alert: 3 Under 3

Hey now!  We're pretty effing excited to bring you our first guest post!  Our brave friend Jess decided to go for it and share her muthaf*cker of a day with all of us.  The title of her post really says it all, does it not?  We don't really know how she did it but she managed to carve out some time to write about it, so we could get a little glimpse into her crazy.  We raise our vodka/wine glass to you, Jess!  

No, you don't need your eyes examined, it's real. Three children (babies, really) under the age of three. All 17 months apart, which basically means I've been the designated driver for 4 years straight. Believe me, I'm not complaining, I just need a tiny break from baby baking to sleep a full 10 hours and blow dry my hair.

As I pen this (in Notes on my iPhone, I feel so resourceful) I'm 11 days postpartum, sitting on my couch with a sleeping infant still attached to my right breast. I hear you judging, knock it off. She's sleeping...finally. She must be tired, she's been awake all night and her umbilical cord stump fell off.

It's a gross little f*er, huh?

It's a gross little f*er, huh?

I was immediately overcome by a moment of excitement followed by a moment of sadness. The last umbilical cord. The last nourishment source for the growing fetus in my womb. My last baby. Cue the waterworks. Kind of like yesterday when I was cleaning out some boy clothes to make room for all the pink paraphernalia I now own, and cried over the cream anchor baby Gap sweater that will never be worn again by the boys. I smelled it and bawled my eyes out. I mean, really, it smells like the rest of the laundry, get it together.

It's adorable, right?

It's adorable, right?

In order to get through the day without crying every second, and balance out my last "x, y, and z", I am trying to remind myself that it also means the last time I have to endure the suck things. Like the raging heartburn every day for three months. The last time I have to wear three different liquid catching devices every time I get dressed (something they don't tell ya until after the baby comes). The last time I have to wrestle a baby in to a swaddle that they clearly hate. The last time I have to adorn curdled milk on my outfits for six months straight. Then, there are the firsts. First smile, first laugh, first words, teeth, crawling, walking, running, first baseball game, prom, OMG they are already graduating college and moving to Alaska. TIME! SLOW DOWN!

Phew. That was scary. My heart is pounding and I need a drink. But, I can't have a drink in case little missy wants to eat in nine minutes for the 75th time today. I think I'll just get a water and a nice snack (animal crackers), i.e., I'm basically a toddler.
 

I know, boy bib and burp cloth. I swear her pants are pink.

I know, boy bib and burp cloth. I swear her pants are pink.

I'm right on schedule for today's activities. My morning began with cereal (chocolate Chex, you're welcome) and cold coffee (not to be confused with iced) alternating light house cleaning (mental note: get a cleaning person when you go back to work) with feeding and changing my new girlfriend. I cried at every commercial (the Amazon one with the golden retriever lion - you know the one), attempted to eat lunch (pretzels, peanut butter, crackers, Nutella by the spoonful, hummus, cookies, yogurt), and shower. Now I might snag a quick nap and wait for the boys to get home so we can take a walk ("stop kicking your brother!"), enjoy a chaotic dinner ("stop throwing food," "food goes in your mouth!"), bath time ("keep the water in the tub!"), Chuggington, PJ Masks, and finally wrestle them in to bed.
 

#1, The King

#1, The King

#2

#2

An hour of mom guilt and crying followed by a 5 hour cluster feed sesh until midnight when I growl at my peacefully sleeping husband, kick the dog out of my spot, and finally crawl in bed.
As Gretchen Rubin (I don't know who she is either) said, "The days are long, but the years are short."

Preach, sister.

Maybe tomorrow I'll throw away the umbilical cord stump and figure out who on Etsy can turn the cream anchor baby Gap sweater in to a throw pillow or something.  For now, I'm on autopilot for the rest of this glorious (formerly thirsty) Thursday.  As some other muthas once said, "it's not always pretty, but it's pretty f*ing great."

Is There A Chance You Could Be Pregnant?

Is There A Chance You Could Be Pregnant?

$#&% Me.

$#&% Me.