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The difference between one and five

With one child, the world is your proverbial oyster. You still own time and can blissfully waste minutes, ignorant to how quickly they will eventually come to pass. You find milestones in simple things, really... the first time they wear shoes, the first time they uncurl their tiny fists to wrap around your finger. You dress the child ever so carefully, donning adorable sunhats when the first days of spring peek around the corner, slathering sunscreen at the mere hint of a less than overcast day, tiny, perfect socks go on clean and shiny feet. You remember to bathe your child consistently, paying special attention to delicate parts and cradle caps and stork bites and chunky folds of pink marshmallow skin. You sing to them while you change them, and take care to Desitin those sweet, forgiving, ever- wet parts of theirs, and to buy the best diapers, the best wipes and the most expensive shampoo. You retain all words spoken to you by the pediatrician, and may even write them in a handly little book in your diaper bag (which is moderately neat and organized with more accoutrements than one baby could ever really need), and quickly jot down the measurements and immunizations to share with grandparents later on. (Oh my, she is __ pounds already?) Your every moment is delicious and kind, and you are pretty convinced they are infinite.
And then, mere seconds later, you suddenly have five. Your photo albums tell you that you had 2,3, and in some cases (not mine) 4 but you are abruptly here at 5, bewildered how it could possibly be so. You decide with severe finality that you will do everything perfectly this time, this very last time, as you have learned with the others how quickly it will go by. You buy every piece of baby equipment known to man and beast, and you even search on Amazon for supplies not even yet approved by the fda or cdc or ama. You fully stock the baby closet while you are still in your first trimester, you set up a nursery when in month four, and resign yourself to the fact that people just don't GET baby showers for their fifth babies, and whip out the credit card and pay for it all yourself. And then you sit and wait. For five months. Your stretch marks get stretchier and your boobs travel farther to the equator, and spidery little old lady veins span across your once lovely calves. But you are beautiful and sexy and round and perfect, and the baby (or babies) coming are miraculous and perfect and beautiful and will eventually be round, and all is truly well with the world. Your good intentions are paving the path...
And then baby 5 is here, and the chaos is loud and frothy and spills over the garbage cans and laundry baskets and car seats and high chairs. Report cards and school concerts and mom-can-you-bring-brownies-into-my-classes and doctor appointments fill the calendar and baby five turns out to be one of those intensely mother-adoring ones, who wants nothing more than constant love, and who really doesn't comprehend the madness unfolding around him. (and baby 4 is content to be the mischievous one that the old ladies predict will be trouble) and the diaper bag begins to resemble a nuclear waste dump, and the car looks like the local landfill (and you are pretty sure there is something living under the seats), and your trendy, urban, expensive equipment gathers dust in the nursery until you sell it remarkably easily on craigslist. And every night you lay down to sleep thinking the same thing- there are NEVER enough hours in the day. And on weekends, you luxuriate while your husband takes pity and lets you sleep in, and makes you breakfast, and you can cuddle nonstop for hours with all five of them- with no alarms screaming at you to get-on-that-damn-bus-because-i-am-not-driving-you-to-school or cell phones vibrating ringing texting emailing all at once to tell you you are late for so very many things. Your world gets to be slow for two full days, and you ignore the calls for playdates and updates, and instead you smell baby heads and make cookies and read Junie B Jones until you are hoarse and give your husband pedicures and forget to get dressed and giggle at the antics of your Five. Amazing. Kids. And every Sunday, you lay back, confident that you have again learned the meaning of life, and you are secure in the knowledge that you are doing exactly what you are supposed to be doing, and that there is no greater life than this. And you happily close your eyes and then....
beeep beeep beeep beeep beeep beeep beeep beeep

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