Apparently, having four kids is haaaaard.
At least for me.
I really don't know why this should be. I mean, when I had Chloe (#3), things went as smooth as if I had taken a bottle of Xlax. Exlax? Whatever. You know the joke.
The transition was so good. Cohen and Kembry accepted her like a sister. Ha.
Is it because this time around I have a two year old?
Is it because she screams over every, teeny, tiny little thing?
Am I simply less capable than most people?
Is it me?
The problem here is that I made this goal to be more patient with the kids. Yeah, I think that's the problem. Who makes a goal to be more patient with their kids when they're only getting, on average, 4 hours of sleep at night. Interrupted sleep, no less.
Not smart, Kelly. Not smart.
So now, I'm being more patient with the kids. But all that annoyance builds up, and all of the sudden I'm taking it out on my husband.
He's the same man as always, I think. But now I want to slug him in the face when he tells me he's tired.
You're tired!? I want to wail. You're tired?!
One night I actually whacked him in the face in the middle of his dead sleep.
With a pillow, calm down.
On the plus side, I absolutely love my family. I feel it when I pray to ask for forgiveness for my murderous thoughts. I feel it when they hug me despite being so unhuggable. I feel it in the middle of the night, when I'm nursing sweet Kian, and he grabs my hand and stares up at me. I even feel it when Chloe gives me loves after a 45 minute tantrum.
I feel the love. And it keeps me going. Even if it doesn't help me bathe more often. Or do the dishes. Or take care of that weird smell in the house I can't identify. Or change diapers. Love is still pretty magical.