There are some strange things that happen when you have more than one baby at the same time. You realize that some of your frustrations are not shared by other parents. For instance, my husband and I were griping about why a certain generic diaper brand didn’t differentiate between two different sizes (our boy has outpaced our girls in diaper size). The size three was identical to the size four in everything but width. The cartoon dogs on the front and the number of stars were all the same. Until it leaked. Then it occurred to me that most people space their kids out in a way that precludes them from needing to visually differentiate between their diaper sizes.
Bibs. When we first started unwrapping the seemingly endless supply of bibs from friends and family, I was certain we’d never run out. Until the kids started eating food. I’m using the term “eating” loosely, of course: I’m putting food in the vicinity of their mouths and they distribute it all over their faces, clothes, feet, etc. Cleaning out blueberry puree from between someone’s toes is a new experience. Now that veritable mountain of dribble catchers isn’t tall enough. If I don’t do a load at least once a day, we start to run out. Three bibs, five to six times a day is between 15 to 18 bibs. In one day.
Combine that with the linens from their bath days (math again! Three towels, three wash cloths, three new outfits) and you have a lot of laundry. All the time.
Also, there’s the societal aspect that is fun and interesting. It’s common knowledge that babies love other babies. But outside of books or day care there isn’t much of a chance for singletons to interact. But with the three beans, there is baby love all the time. They beam at each other, laugh at each other, then reach out with their razor sharp baby hands and grab their sibling’s face in an effort to eat the other one. The cuddling that was cute when they were larval little newborns that couldn’t move has now become dangerous. The minutes you could sneak away for a coffee are cut short by blood curdling screams caused by hanks of hair that are in the death grip of a brother or sister.
And they’ve learned about crime. As in stealing. Sure, they love toys, like all babies do. But the best toy is whatever the other one is holding. It does not matter that the brightly-colored plastic keys in one’s hands are incredibly similar to the brightly-colored plastic keys that brother is holding. She wants brother’s keys, dammit.
We’re at the point where at least one is frontwardly mobile. And we stand at the brink of pandemonium and smile while we hold the camcorder.