Monday, Labor Day. Kids aren’t in school. The youngest two assume that means they don’t actually have to do anything, like clear their breakfast dishes, brush teeth or flush the toilet. The oldest one, on her own and without any screeching from me, rounds up all the laundry, sorts it, and throws a load in the wash. This is not her assigned chore of the day. This is voluntary. So in spite of the flying hormones recently, I think we’ll keep her. In fact, in the “who’s mom’s favorite” fight, she just gained some extra points.
The four year old asked me to open a portable doll house that she and her friends wanted to play with but couldn’t unhook. After I opened it, she went downstairs singing, “Look what my Mommy did! My Mommy, Mommy, Mommy did!” I am SuperWoman!
Last night, the Whislter, AKA 6 year old, snuggled up to me and asked if she could read me a book. Heck yes, kid. I’ll just close my eyes and listen as you giggle your way through Junie B. Jones.
I’m feeling sentimental. Must be the Delivery Hormones kicking in. My home is clean, my car is clean (I recently removed all the seats and spent hours vacuuming out the congealed biomass), my bag is packed, my church assignments are passed on to other women and my fridge is stocked. I didn’t can any tomatoes this year, in spite of the abundance, but we probably won’t starve anyway. I charged my Ipod and cell phone and camera(s). I have babysitters lined up. And tomorrow, I’ll have another child, regardless of what my body decides to do or not do on its own. I’m not excited about midnight feedings. I’m not excited about my end-of-the-day breakdowns that have come postpartum, every single time. I’m not thrilled about poopy diapers, moving my breakables out of reach, or all the diet and exercise that I’ll have to do to get back to the pre-baby weight.
But, then, my children do something sweet and unexpected and I think, “Ah, so that’s why.” And suddenly I’m sad that this will be my last baby.