I did something very bad the other day. I told Robyn that I wanted her to have another baby. Somehow, she spared me the certain death I thought would come as I finished my statement.
See, she wasn't exactly ready to be pregnant again, with Aimee. She wasn't sure she wanted to have any more biological children. Toby has definitely taken multiple decades off her life, already, between the 10-pound-baby thing and the didn't-sleep-until-he-was-2 thing, not to mention the incredibly-hyperactive-and-exhausting-to-deal-with-at-all-times thing.
So when I confessed that I wanted another, oooooooooooohhhh lordy lordy was I expecting fire thrown in my direction. (Thank you, dear, for sparing me. Your mercy is new every morning.)
I take it all back. Aimee doesn't sleep. Toby has decided that EVERYTHING is going to be a fight. This most certainly includes pooping in the potty. Stress is completely out of control. Everything smells like poop. (Except you, dear, you don't smell like poop. You smell like roses. In fact, things are starting to smell more like honeysuckle, to be honest, thanks to that scented candle that is doing a fine job of masking the smell of the poop that is so unfortunately all-encompassing.)
So, sweetheart, take that birth control. I'm with you. No more natural-born babies*. I want your sanity more than I want more kids. You win.
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*I reserve the right to change my mind at any time.
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1 comment:
I swear 3's are worse then 2's!
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