This post was originally titled: How I’m keeping sane with three kids. Now, almost three months in and after weeks of editing, it’s now called How I am NOT keeping sane with three kids. Here’s how my life is going since being officially outnumbered.
I am a person who runs on a schedule. I am not adventurous and I do not go with the flow. I need structure and a routine to keep sane and be productive. But since Danny, baby boy number three entered our lives, all types of scheduling and planning has shot out the window. This makes my blood boil.
I’m stuck on the sofa. After an hour of non-stop screaming and crying I have finally managed to rock him to sleep. Am I happy? No. Why? Because the remote control, my tea and phone aren’t within my reach. I suppose I could just close my eyes and take a little nap myself. Ha! Fat chance, Eleni. You have another child roaming around the living room. And the child safety lock on the fridge is undone…My eyes immediately dart to James, my 20-month old toddler. He’s looking at the fridge. He’s making his way towards the fridge. He looks up at it…20 minutes later, the baby is screaming, WHILE I AM STILL HOLDING HIM and now I have cream cheese and smashed strawberries all over the floor.
I spoon-feed James before bedtime. Breakfast, lunch and snacks in between he can take care of himself. But when it comes to supper, I’d rather fill him up with a big bowl of porridge or weetabix for his 12 hour sleep. It’s a system that has worked for me so I;m sticking to it. I used to do the same with Georgie up until he was 2 and a half years old. So it’s supper time for James. Danny also needs to be breastfed and guess what? Georgie has just produced a homework sheet from his bag that is due in tomorrow. My brain hurts. It literally hurts.
Do you know what I hate? What I loathe with all my might? Pushing a bloody pram around the house or back and forth. When my arms have tired and he won’t settle in the sling, this is plan C. As much as I hate it, it’s an incredible workout for my arms. And legs. Yes, I cook, clean and change James’s nappy while rocking that fucking pram with my leg. Back and forth. Back and forth. I then change legs just to make sure I get an even workout.
Even with two kids I would still make time to go out for lunch, brunch or an early dinner. It seemed doable and it was. Georgie is now seven years old so he can sit on a chair, eat his food and behave for at least an hour. So James had my undivided attention and assuming I was with someone- papa, friends, parents- if he got bored of sitting in the highchair I could continue eating while one of those lovely people entertained him. Now, with three kids… well let’s just say, papa and I make a spectacle of ourselves wherever we go. And do I dare venture out solo for food with three kids? I’d rather shoot myself in the foot.
I realise I am literally afraid to leave the house. I do the school run though. So I have to. But it’s a struggle. Getting both kids ready and out the house has to be carefully planned. I don’t wait until the last moment to get dressed and ready like I did just three months ago. If Danny has fallen asleep at 9 am I grab James and make a run for the bedroom where I race to get ready as best I can. I can’t get him dressed at that time though because he’s bound to do something by the time we leave which will result in soiled clothes so James stays in his pjs until we’re ready to go. Or in nothing but his nappy, depending on what messy ingredients he’s discovered that day. Once we’re in the car around 12.30 – 1 ish something magical happens. They both fall asleep and that, ladies and gentlemen, is my favourite time of day. I put on whatever podcast I’m listening to -right now it’s Happy Mum, Happy Baby– and I just drive, really, really slowly, savouring those sweet moments of peace before I am about to embark on a afternoon with all three kids.
As I write this, today has been a particularly shitty day. I have hardly slept since…actually I can’t remember the last time I slept well…so it’s a miracle I am even writing this. I have yet another spot on my face and the bags under my eyes are scary. Danny cried bloody murder ALL DAY LONG. Unless of course I was holding him, which is hard to do when you’re picking up one child from school and driving him to his guitar lesson. James did not nap in the car. Instead he spilt carrot juice all over himself. So technically today there was nothing fucking magical about driving.
I wash my hair once a week. I painted my nails last night after three months. Most of my clothes are in the laundry basket stained with poo squirted from Danny’s bottom and baby vomit. And last night papa and I laughed until I cried because I attempted to make burgers which needed a chainsaw to be cut.
After crying for the millionth time, over these past few months I realise that I feel better every time I do. There’s just something cathartic about it. I also know that all this won’t be forever. I know things will get better. I know it will get easier. I know I won’t be jumping from child to child, kissing boo boos and actually enjoying a cup of cold tea because at least I have managed to drink something that day. I know this because I’ve been there, twice before. But man, oh man, there really is no keeping sane with three kids. Not yet anyway.
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