The face of the third child

There are many things that could be written about a third child and what this baby does to a family. The beauty of what they add. The chaos of what they add. The fact that this third miracle takes the current arrangement of a 1:1 parent-child ratio and throws it right out the car window, probably along with his shoes. And the parents are too busy to notice or even to care. Barefoot he shall stay, which is a good thing, because it's one less thing to lug back inside the house. 

Once you have adjusted and accepted that you will forevermore be outnumbered by these short creatures, you soon realize that there is a reason for stereotypical birth order traits. Our third child is exactly what he is: the third child. It is simultaneously all about him and never about him. He is dragged around town whether it suits him or not. He is woken up from the deepest of sleeps because someone needs to go somewhere for the ninth time that very day. He is loved to the point of being strangled and played with to the point of being trampled. He rolls with it because he has no choice. He's chill. He's crazy. He's stealth and ninja-like. It's survival of the fittest, and he's doing just fine.

The third child is...

The third child is taken to the park during nap time. He is then photographed first, comforted second.

The third child plays near the cool playground but not actually on it because it's just slightly out of acceptable T-ball spectating range...

...so he makes do and plays with a garbage can.

The third child forages for food when he is hungry.

The third child does things his own way.

The third child is often gated like a zoo animal...

...and carried around like a koala.

The third child must use his foot to jockey for space, because the older brothers think nothing of hitching a ride on his stroller. (Toes - mini yet mighty - may be located just to the left of the Count's creepy facial hair.)

And in the end, the third child naps when he can, tucked in happily and peacefully. With his favorite shaving cream cap.

Oh, little Oliver. Mama loves you. Thank you for being so patient with us as we go about our crazy life that you have no choice but to be a part of.

Always stay so sweet. And only punch your brothers if they deserve it. We both know they probably do.

The month my brain stopped working

Someone asked my husband how work was going the other day. "Crazy," he said. "I mean, I was gone for five out of seven weeks."

So. Yup. That's pretty much the gist of it. As I look back now and contemplate why I haven't written a word, why my house looks like someone broke in just to throw crap around, why my kids have worn shorts to school yet still have their winter coats in their cubbies, this is what happens when he goes. I feel like I am drowning in a sea of mess and chaos and can barely keep the boys fed and dressed...so anything beyond basic survival? Ain't gonna happen, my friends. I need to set the bar lower so as to maintain achievable living standards during these weeks. For example: did I forget to pick up a child from school? No? Good. Have all of the children had a bath at least once in the previous six(ish) days? Possibly? Awesome. I am rocking this.

The tactical side of his travel is stressful. But the emotional fallout on the kids is harder. We have three boys who adore their daddy. He's the rough and tumble. He's the silly. "Mom, you know he's the funniest one in the house," says Andrew. (He is.) He's the last piece of the puzzle that wears these guys out before it's time for bed. And because I'm used to being part of a (mostly efficient) team, it's jarring to have half of that missing for weeks on end.

And when he's gone, he's gone. Like, other-side-of-the-world-can't-find-coordinating-time-zones-to-video-chat gone. The boys miss him like crazy. We have constant conversations involving what we think he's doing at that moment, if he is or isn't currently on a plane, how many days until he comes home. Double digits make for hard conversations. Back-to-back weekends are the worst. This past global spree had it all.

The end of the day is where this whole arrangement really bites me in the ass. A normal bedtime routine involves one of us restoring partial order to our first floor and cooking our grown-up dinner and one of us herding/chasing/brushing/reading/kissing the two older boys. It works well enough, and it's what we're used to. Which is why, when he's gone, I herd/chase/brush/read/kiss and then make my way back down to find the clock reading 8:15, the house a mess, and guacamole and beer a viable dinner option if I haven't already eaten with the boys.

The worry on my part is draining. He has stayed at the Marriott in Indonesia that was bombed out a few years ago. He's been instructed not to hang out in certain hotel lobbies so as not to draw attention to himself. He has flown out of the Malaysian airport where the airplane went missing last month. And while I fully understand that there is a .036% chance of anything happening to him, I still worry. And then I eat cookies. Ya know, to cope. And because something needs to accompany the guacamole, as it were.

He's been home for a few weeks now, and the fog is just starting to lift. Leaving a nice, clear view of the devastation that is "too many toys and not enough storage." The boys are thrilled to bits that they have their "funny one" back, and I'm happy to have my co-parent extraordinaire hanging around again.

Don't get me wrong. There's still a ridiculous amount of crap on the living room floor, but as long as The Hubby's here to help me kick it out of the way at the end of the day, I'll take it.