A year ago, I was pretty miserable. That pregnancy was my hardest, for a multitude of reasons, but now that the memories aren't quite so fresh, I'm feeling nastolgic. Isn't that insane? HOW can a person feel nastolgic about full-body swelling, constantly aching joints, 9 months of nausea, and a labour that leaves you sore, bloodied and bruised? But I get a baby afterwards. A yummy, sweet, snuffly little baby that's all MINE.
I had my fourth baby at home, in the middle of the night. The midwives cleaned up and left me sitting in our overstuffed armchair, holding my sleeping 2-hour-old baby and watching the sun come up. I couldn't sleep at that moment. Everything was too perfect.
And now, as if I've woken up from a dream, my brand-new baby has turned into a roly-poly, curly-haired, walking and babbling TODDLER. She doesn't even turn one until next week! I have a hard time comprehending the changes that have taken place. At least with the older kids, some years have more gradual growth, but that first year is almost on par with the metamorphosis of a caterpiller.
I love having so many kids. I feel like my skills have improved greatly over time, and the way I deal with my baby is so much more relaxed and easy going than the way I've dealt with things in the past. If she gets dirty, so what? If she falls over, she'll usually be okay. A little bit of ice cream won't hurt her.
Several friends of mine are either pregnant or have tiny babies. Now that I'm sure that I have this whole baby thing sussed, it doesn't seem like such a big deal to add another.
Remind me of the flaws in this thought process in 10 years or so, when I am inundated with teenagers and have more to come. Who knows, though; it may seem easy to have a teenager, too, when I get to my fourth. It's the first three that I have to worry about.