Well, when you’re raising three boys under the age of six, time doth fly.
Wow… Here’s the tenth installment of my monthly “You Know You’re A Parent When…” series.Like previous editions – you can find the most recent here and here – it all happened and is based on my daily adventures as a happily married stay-at-home Dad J
You know you’re a parent when…
|Yes, I'm in the laundry basket. Papa was multi-tasking:)|
And, wouldn’t you know?
“Hah, I’d like to see Michael Phelps do that water move,” you say to sleeping No. 3 Son while rocking [him in] the hallways.
Your mood is brighter, your step lighter – until reading Phelps won his 22nd Olympic medal.
The tagline from Wayne’s World pop into your head as you ponder this awesome achievement :)
“An ATM Card Donation of $4Million US Dollars has been accredited to you from online draw. Contact Mr.Barnet Catford for claims.”
Sigh… if onlyJ
· Speaking of sleeping babies, you lay the little beauty down for his nap.
...Then spend the next ten minutes extracting your fingers from between the pillow and the head of No. 3 Son
… one false move and it’s all over…
Sweat beats down your brow as you listen to Twinkle, Twinkle (You’re Killing Me) Star… nine times in a row.
Once the extraction is complete (and you switch the "repeat one" button off,) you make a mental note to ask the local Bomb Squad how they do what they do…
Sung to the tune of 12 Days of Christmas, your version goes something like:
"Seven pukes a puking,
Six white towels,
Five. Changed. Outfits
Four hot showers,
Three new sheets,
Two year-old boy
And one too many glasses of milk."· Proudly, and with pride, you hold the new, $10 nightlight up in the air as if it was Excalibur. Tired of No. 2 Son destroying the “normal” nightlights, you review the packaging again:
“Guaranteed for 10,000 hours! Break resistant!”
Sadly, this Super Nightlight never had the pleasure of officially meeting No. 2 Son.
Seventy-two hours later, it lay at the bottom of the stairs, its resistance (and everything else) broken.
Later that evening, you switch on the laundry room light and leave the door open a crack.
I had hair that would make a 80s rocker proud, and now look at me: As bald as the eagle.
It’s tough being a parent. It really is, but I’d rather be in an empty room screaming through frustration, than frustrated and screaming because our home is empty.
This post is dedicated to the wonderful, loving couples who are all too familiar with Clomid, timed shots and unromantic rendezvous.
No. 1 Son and No. 2 Son arrived via God’s blessings – and fertility treatments – so Don’t. Ever. Quit.)