. . . or maybe I simply have too many children.
I think three children is absolutely my limit and perhaps, I was a bit optimistic in how this would all work out.
Anyone who knows me well, knows that I never:
- Ask for help
- Admit defeat
- Say no
- Believe something is impossible
And that I am often known to:
- Bend time
- Find extra hours in a day
- Knit a blanket while breastfeeding and participating in a conference call
At present, I cannot even find the phone. Or a blanket. Or a clock.
I am now sending up my white flag and telling everyone who is considering a third-baby-simply-because-Nicholas-is-so-cute-and-now-I-have-baby-fever-and-maybe-it-would-be-amazing-to-get-my-boy/girl-or-whatever to borrow my children for a week. I'll even throw in a few boxes of wine and a bag of lollipops.
The combination of a 7-year-old with 7-year-old things and a 7-month-old with one tooth and a bad latch (my nipple might actually fall off), plus the middle child who has a whole set of middle-child-Jan-Brady-type issues going on, has led me to go out in public wearing my Victoria Secret Pink shorts from 2001.
These shorts should not even be in my possession.
I simply cannot even think about what to wear or find a quiet moment to brush my hair and frankly, I am not able to consistently find an operational hairbrush for humans or even one suitable for a My Little Pony.
I think my house is haunted. And the poltergeist has a hairbrush fetish.
Or maybe, I simply I have too many children.
Whatever the problem, I need help. Or more time. Or therapy. Or more lollipops. Or Ghostbusters. Three children is hard – it is harder than one, it is harder than two and it is quite possibly the hardest thing I have ever attempted to do in my life.
Those people who climb tall mountains, those scientists who found the God particle and those hostage negotiators have an easy ride. I bet none of them have been pooped on this week.
And I bet they've brushed their hair.
The only thing that makes all of this worthwhile is this:
And this:
And this:
And especially, this:
Because so what if I look like a homeless woman when I have a home made by these three little loves and maybe, just maybe, one little ghost who loves hairbrushes?
Trish Adkins is a South Jersey mom. This post is adapted from blog, Yoke. 
