Today my little brother's daughter was born. As happy as I am for him to become a first-time father, I felt my own self shudder at the thought of what he has in store in the coming months and weeks. I don't miss having a newborn baby for one single second.
I am so thrilled to never have to change another diaper, wash another bottle, sing another Elmo song, watch another Baby Einstein video, attend another Mommy & Me class, change my shirt five times, clean up spit up or pump my breasts like a cow. I'm so happy I can run into a store without lugging a giant stroller, don't have to plan my day around naptime, and don't have my living room littered with musical toys.
Now that my kids are older, I can enjoy what I like more often. I like my sleep. I like having my nipples back for my own edification. I like putting on only one outfit per day. I like showering. I like the ability to hop in the car with my kids and take off for the day without a forty-minute planning session that includes schlepping sippy cups, jarred food, a change of clothes, diapers, diaper cream, a dozen toys and three different types of snacks. I like that my kids can give me some "me time", even when they are awake. I like using adult words like "go to the bathroom" rather than "go pee-pee". I like going out to eat and actually tasting my food.
Not that having older kids doesn't present its own challenges. Sex, for one, is not as fun when it has to be moved upstairs all the time. I can't have private conversations freely anymore. I always have to be on my best behavior or else I'm called on it now. I can't curse. I have to share my jewlery, favorite lipgloss and even sometimes my best purfume. Now I'm criticized, judged and blamed. Either way, it's still waaay better than cleaning up another poopy diaper.
