Four

My second child entered this world four years ago. Six minutes later, her sister, my youngest and last baby, was born. Twins notwithstanding, it was an uneventful delivery.

Everyone was healthy, and soon headed home to the other baby, our two year-old son. Just like that, I had three kids in diapers.

And then for years, we lived in Baby House. Anyone brave enough to visit was immediately handed a baby upon entry. “Welcome, Guests!” I would say. “Thank you so much for coming. Have a baby. Please excuse the mess. I hope you wore washable clothes and don’t mind the sight of a bared human breast.” And then a glimmer of hope would creep into my eyes. “Did you, by chance, bring coffee?”

If anyone asked how she could help, we told her to send diapers. Many did, so we built Mount Diaper in our basement. It reached the ceiling.

We had a changing table in the living room, next to the swing, which was across from the bouncer – all permanent fixtures. We stored the car seats by the front door. The twin Breastfriend, a mint-green nursing pillow the size of a small pony, lived next to the couch. We had two cribs in our bedroom, and a glider, and occasionally another swing. A double snap’n’go, a stroller that fits two bucket seats folded into our now necessary minivan. We christened the stroller “Crazy Train,” and it went everywhere with us. It was like pushing a torpedo on wheels, but full of babies.

I did not sleep through the night for years.

The house itself had a faint cheesy smell, which embarrassed me but fell squarely into the list of things I was powerless to resolve. (Accept that which you cannot change, including cheesy smells, right?) I could have stored bowling balls in the bags under my eyes. Sometimes, overwhelmed with the screaming and the needing, the tantrums of a newly displaced firstborn, the mess, the chaos, I sat on the kitchen floor in my PJs and ate ice cream from the carton.

We had three high chairs around our table. A deep freezer, in our kitchen, stored a truly astonishing amount of human milk, frozen into rectangular Lansinoh ice cubes. Bottles parts and pump parts, which all require regular sterilization, littered the counter. All of my bras had clips at my clavicle, so I could unleash my personal Milk Maids at a moments’ notice. My real bras, which were pretty and a hilariously small size, were in a storage box.

I was Baby Lady, adult female resident of Baby House, a pair of boobs with a person stapled to the back. I had a baby attached to my hip, at all times, especially when charging after my toddler. I changed diapers one-handed, auto-pilot fully engaged, dozens a day. I’d have been a millionaire, if dollars were raspberries blown on baby bellies, or baby giggles, or munchable baby thighs and baby toes, or sleepy baby snores.

It felt permanent. It wasn’t.

I’m not quite sure when it happened, but there are no babies in this house. We ran through Mount Diaper in around nine months. The motor died on the swing; and we held a brief memorial service at the dumpster. They outgrew the bucket seats. I sold the Crazy Train on Craigslist. They started walking. We put up baby gates – everywhere. They started talking, and demanding snacks. We put them in bunk beds.

We took down the gates. We got them underwear, and bicycles, and helmets. My son turned six, and now his sisters are four.

It’s the oldest message in the book, and famously infuriating to those in the trenches. It goes so fast. The nights are long, friends; but the years whoosh. If you had a moment to listen, which you don’t, you could hear it.

I don’t remember the last diaper I changed, though I still have to wash the bed-sheets on the regular. I can mop up a skinned knee on auto-pilot: assess the damage, hug, wait until the sobs subside, wash, and hand over the Band-Aid box. They love tents, love to sleep in sleeping bags, road trips, and reading books. They want me to cuddle them in bed at night, which can be so annoying, as if I’m a warm cuddle with a person stapled to the back.

Don’t they understand how much laundry I have to do? And how many lunches I have to pack?

I’ll have kids forever, right? And did anyone bring…coffee?