I got a text the other night from The Husband that said, “Taking the Bigs for ice cream.” I was at a playdate (for moms and kids) with the littlest one and his classmates so my husband had the older two at another event (the story of our summer-scattered here and there). He referred to them as The Bigs, because that’s what we call them. The two oldest are either The Bigs or The Kids (dubbed by the littlest when he was The Baby). The youngest are just The Boys and the The Girl and The Baby are The Bookends.
No matter the arrangement, we have nicknames for our groupings of children because no matter the arrangement, we have groupings of children. Three kids means you have groupings.
I know a few women recently who either just had or are pregnant with their third. A few years ago, I used to look at these women and try so hard not to show the terror or pity I felt for where they were about to go. Three kids, a few years ago, seemed the worst thing one could choose.
Clearly, I was overwhelmed with my choice back then. And let’s be clear, it was a choice. I was certain after two babies that my family was not complete. I chose three and it nearly killed me. Three under five is just not easy. If someone tells you it is, they’re lying or heavily drugged.
But now, just a few short years later, I feel so grateful for our family of five and can’t imagine it any other way. I love our Bigs and our Boys and our Bookends. I love them one on one. I love them all together and I love them in pairs. The groupings of three mean endless personality possibilities and it’s fantastic for everyone.
Now, just to be sure you don’t leave here thinking I am either lying or heavily drugged, please know that three is still quite challenging and often terrifying and always loud. Always. Loud.
Three is a crowd more often than not, but no matter the mess and noise and awkward seating arrangements in restaurants, and the chronic need to drive a damn mini-van, I think three is a pretty perfect odd number. Odd suits this gang of fools just fine.
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