Im a picture taker. So naturally, when I got pregnant my little camera phone was never far from arms reach. My sweet girl came home from the hospital to face all her baby milestones with me armed to the teeth with an iphone, facebook, and a compulsive desire to document every last detail of our new life. From placenta to first poops in the potty, both from my daughter and from me post partum. I had this little family of three MORE than covered.
Soon we found out I was pregnant with little number two. My second sweet girl was still really well documented despite her sister dumping something, breaking something or flat out reverting to complete un-potty-trained-ness every. single. time. I touched the baby.
Then something amazing happened. Surprise (ish)! I became pregnant again. My wonderful husband and I flipped the positive pregnancy test over on christmas morning 2012, looked at eachother and said in unison “we need a bigger car”. Pregnancy and labor were completely unceremonious. They just were. My poor son. Its not that I dont want to capture all his sweet moments, I do! Its just that its so much harder! Where is my phone? Does the two year old have it? She learned how to take 46 selfies in a row by holding the shutter button down. Does the four year old have it? She’s probably camped out in her closet watching netflix.
Oh, hang on, its in the refrigerator… how did it get there?
No one knows.
Shortly after our son got here I learned something that every parent of three knows and actually anyone with basic math skills can tell you, we are outnumbered. The jump from two kids to three kids slapped me in the face, then poked me in the swollen perenium and then punched me in the boob.
You do what you can in situations like these, you have to figure out how to adapt and function like a normal human again and not just like a lactating, butt wiping, food prepping, laundry washing, never resting mom robot. For me, adapting looked like a trip to target. Dont ask why, I dont know.
In the car, my little chunkster screamed like someone was ripping his limbs from his body while my girls alternated singing “old macdonald” and yelling “shes singing ober MEEE!” the entire 30 minute drive. I would not be discouraged! This was my time! Back to normal! I crammed little dude into the front of my moby wrap and with the promise of popcorn and a slushie, I bribed my girls into quiet submission.I took each of them by a hand and led them toward those beautiful red doors. Thats when I heard IT for the first time. Ive heard it on an almost daily basis since then and I know that i will hear it frequently in the future, but I wont forget the moment that innocent and probably well meaning older gentleman said the five words that I have grown to hate… mostly because they are true.
“You’ve got your hands full!”
Every time I venture out into the world with my three beautiful little beasts, no matter if its a perfectly calm, peaceful, everyone is dressed and has their hair brushed kind of day or a “we’re lucky we made it out the door” kind of day, someone (or multiple someones) tells me I have my hands full.
*gasp* How did you know?!
Is it the crusted food/boogers on my shirt? Its my boobs isn’t it? They haven’t been supported by anything more fancy than a cotton sports bra since 2009.
Is it because you noticed that I only have mascara on one eye because I dropped the wand in the car at a red light while I was on my way here?
Oh I know, Its because you heard about the not one but, three potential housefires I prevented last week when I used kitchen tongs to remove crayons that had been shoved into envelopes from the baseboard heater.
I know I have my hands full! I have to drag two baskets around the grocery store if I actually want to do any decent amount of shopping. The kids sit in one and the food sits in the other!
I know I have my hands full because the majority of my makup, if Im wearing any today, was put on with my fingers and q tips because my children have repeatedly stolen the brushes to play with.
I know my hands are full because Its a special occasion when I get to take a shower! Special as in, there is vomit in my clevage and also in my butt crack.
I know that I have my hands full because well, they ARE full.
In my right hand is the hand of my mini me, my sensitive, sweet, hilarious first daughter who will sit for hours singing to herself while she draws pictures of her five person family.
In my left hand I hold the teeny little paw of my feisty, blond, cray cray second daughter who can, and will, sing “what does the fox say” a hundred times in a row if you ask her. please dont.
And strapped to my body somewhere is my amazing little man whom Im only beginning to get to know.
My hands are full but my heart is overflowing. So from now on when I hear those five words, Im going to choose not going to feel the slight sting of a stranger judging me and my full hands, Im going to replace the word hands with heart and smile to myself because yes, I do have my heart full.