Going From Two To Three

Going from two to three has been harder than going from one to two. Intuitively this makes sense—you’re going from man-to-man to zone; you’re outnumbered—but somehow we didn’t expect it. There was a lot more trepidation going from one to two; we couldn’t quite wrap our minds around it. What do you do when they both want to be held? What if one cries and disturbs the other one’s nap? What if they both need you at the same time? Does the universe just end?

In retrospect, with two we still had a good amount of control. Three, on the other hand, heralds a whole new way of parenting. A mother of five once told us the toughest step was two to three. After three, she said, it was all pretty easy. D hypothesized it was because you learn a new skill set with three that you then more easily carry over to four, or five. I hypothesized that said skill set was, well, not caring. Letting go. Giving up control.

That’s what it feels like with three. The middle one cries on the ground for thirty minutes while you’re nursing, because the baby just has to feed. You leave the baby for the oldest one to entertain/irritate because you have to make sure the middle one gets more soup into his mouth than onto the ground. There’s more mess, more crying, more slightly weird outfits because you didn’t have time to debate whether purple polka-dotted tights match a grey striped shirt.

People remark on how the third baby seems so laid-back. Come to think of it, each baby seems to have gotten more laid-back. We always thought it was lucking out in the genetic lottery, but it’s probably also that we’ve both become more laid-back. My friend who’s a first-time mother doesn’t want to bring her baby out until he’s had vaccines—ours has already gotten sick twice courtesy of his siblings. I was trying to keep them from spreading their colds until I actually saw her cough directly into the baby’s open mouth, and then I gave up. We made our first baby adhere to a strict EASY schedule; we pretty much just remember to feed our third every three hours. Often he eats while two other kids are crowding my lap and stroking his head.

D cites a study which found that the moms who were most stressed were those with three kids. Moms of four kids were actually less stressed; the study hypothesized this was because they simply learned to care less.

Is this all a good or bad thing? Unclear. On one hand, we try to make sure we each get quality time alone with each of the kids. We still plan and prepare as much as possible and have learned it’s okay to hire more help. On the other hand, there’s a certain level of entropy and chaos we learn to embrace, and it doesn’t mean there’s any less happiness or joy. It just takes us thirty minutes to get out the door—can she bring her bunny? But then can he bring his doggie? He wants to wear his grey sneakers but can only find the left shoe and insists on putting it on his right foot. Why again does she have to wear a jacket? Wait; where is the baby?—but I guess that’s how it is these days.

On One Hand, They Self-Entertain. On The Other Hand, We Get Headaches.

She is four; he is two. With his rapidly improving verbal skills, we are now privy to long debates in the car like this one:

Eric: “Look! See geese-kuh!”

Ellie: “Dee-dee, it’s not geese-kuh. It’s geese.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Dee-dee, can you say, geese?”

“Geese-kuh.”

“Geese?”

“Geese-kuh.”

“Can you say geeee-suuuh?”

Pause.

“GEEEE-SUH-KUUUUH.”

Journal Excerpt

Probably top on the list of things I enjoy about him—right there next to neck folds, toes, and the way he curls up like a roly-poly bug on my chest—are his involuntary expressions. I enjoy making up monologues, since let’s face it, we spend a whole lot of time alone together these days. Sometimes he looks up at me like I’m God—eyes big in awe, lips pursed in shock—can you believe it? there she is again! Sometimes on the changing table he gets this look of bewilderment—what are you doing down there? And I actually feel like apologizing for intruding upon his privates.

Asking

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened. – Matthew 7:7-8

We’re going through Matthew this year in BSF, and lately I’ve been thinking about those verses. There is an element of escalation, from verbal query, to actual quest, to the point of risking disturbance. I can’t remember the last time I actually knocked on a door. These days, you text first, or if the door is closed—the door to a clinic room, to an office—and I don’t have the right to open it without knocking, I assume I need to come back later.

But here Jesus is saying, knock on the door. He is saying something so simple it seems childish. And I think in a way kids get this. I don’t know how many times I’ve thought to myself, wow, they are getting this because they don’t mind asking, and they don’t stop asking. There’s no shame, no shortage of imagination or gumption. I’ve already had a treat, but can I have another one? I know you said no movie, but please? Ten minutes? Okay, then tomorrow for ten minutes?

I immediately thought of all the things I don’t persistently ask for. There are things that fall in the “most important but least urgent” category, like praying for my childrens’ salvation, for their spouses. There are things that are less chronic but also often without immediate results, or often with disappointing results in the past, like praying for specific qualities in my children, for chronic struggles in our marriage, for habitual sins. There are things I don’t pray for because I don’t know to pray for it; because I am not thinking big or deep or wide enough.

So some of it is laziness or lack of insight—but there a lot of things that do weight on my mind. Why am I not persistently praying about those things? Why am I not more like the leper, or the centurion, stopping Jesus amidst the crowd with the confidence of complete faith? Maybe part of it is that I don't really believe there will be an answer, am afraid to risk disappointment. Maybe I don't believe deeply enough in my worth and God's love for me, not enough to have that kind of boldness. Whatever it is, it's probably worth working through, because there is something to the asking. God doesn't just want to give. He wants us to ask. Jesus didn't just heal or change the weather; he looked at people's faith, or lack of it. The way we ask, what we ask for, reveals our hearts, reveals something about our faith and understanding of God, and that is probably just as important as whatever answer it is we are looking for.