Parenting three children is oddly similar to carefully looking both ways before crossing the street, and then getting hit by an airplane.
And while I haven't technically been through the pregnancy and infant stages at three separate points in time, somehow over the past three years I feel as though I've been through it 6 different times, with 9 different children.
I suppose when your uterus starts favoring multiplication over addition, thereby bringing forth two children at a time into the world when your oldest is hardly two, then it's normal to feel this way?
And quite possibly, time to stop having children altogether?
Not sure, and I wouldn't know the difference anyways, but that doesn't change the fact that there is a peculiar normality that exists when you are parenting for the first, second and third time around.
In fact, I've discovered that the extent to which my heart enlarges, and my capacity to love noticeably increases with each additional child, it is also directly and inversely proportional to the degree to which I give a shit.
About the small things, that is.
A sequential parenting phenomenon, if you will, that conversely influences our ability to concern ourselves with the mundane things that once seemed so important as they were when we first became parents.
Like wipes warmers, for example --
what mastermind is decisively buying these?
That would be me.
Actually I'm kidding, but once upon a time I strongly considered it.
Because I knew nothing of how to co-exist with a tiny human, and I thought to myself "Surely the little chap would appreciate some warmed-up, ass wipes, right?"
Well thankfully, that purchase never actualized, because as it turns out asses do in fact adapt to how you treat them, and continually seem to adjust to the cold or warm circumstances at hand.
Because, of course they do.
But I don't want to talk about husbands right now, just parenting, so let's get back to it.