Me: Ok, put on your shoes, grab your jacket. No, please don't touch your sister's face. C'mon let's go.
Sleeping wonder: Why you say that? My touch her. She's ok. Look, she's ok. (he continues to rub his tiny little hands all up in her face-she's getting super annoyed and by the looks of things, is going to lose her shit at any moment)
Me: Listen, I told you to please not touch her. Now, get on your shoes and let's head out.
Sleeping wonder: But why you say that? She's my baby sister. She like it,OK? Mommy, OK?
My baby boy, oh I love him and all his articulate cuteness, but he tries to rationalize and explain everything. This is particularly grinding on my already fragile nerves when we are late and we have to get out of the door. Like 10 minutes ago.
How could we ever make a quick get away in an emergency?
Having my first child was life-altering. Gone were the days of spontaneous dinners, beach vacations, watching a movie with no interruptions, and any hope of ever going out on a Saturday night. Sure, as baby grew, small glimpses of our former life started to creep through, but parenting took precedent over any "unnecessary" luxuries. Hence, my worn three year old boots. Sigh. With baby girl, these changes, these sacrifices, these moments of chaos getting out of the door are nothing new. Friday nights spent watching 20/20? Yep. Been there, done that.
Her transition to our little family has been marked with moments of pure joy and absolute terror. My biggest doubt? How do I share me, my very tired me, with two little ones? Do they always get the best me? Absolutely not. But once we are out the door and the chaos returns to a relative calm, I give what I have and dream of a Friday night without Barbara Walters.
