As I type, Baby Three is on my lap, alternately grousing and sucking her fingers. At almost seven months, she has quite a lot of catching up to her brother, sitting on the couch eating strawberries, and her sister, lying on the couch reading.
Baby Three was quite a surprise when we found out she was coming; my husband and I had always wanted more, but they never came along, and after more than eight years, we thought we were done having kids. People make strategic plans and God laughs, and we ended up with a bouncing baby girl, squeezing a fifth person into our small, barely-three-bedroom apartment.
She has changed our lives in ways we never could have imagined. Now we inhabit multiple worlds: two working adults, one self-employed at least part time; a tween girl, who embraces drama as her natural way of expressing herself and considers the disarray in her bedroom an ongoing work of performance art; a sports-crazed boy, who seems to take to any activity that involves hitting a small projectile with a long stick (hockey, baseball, golf); and Baby Three, who gets hauled from school drop-off to hockey practice to rehearsal and never seems to miss a beat.
Life certainly more disorganized now, but I wouldn't trade a minute.
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