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.