End of an era

Change is good, right?  Change in routine, loose change for a gumball, a change of underwear on a daily basis, etc.  Some people struggle with change (all forms) and the more adventurous seek and embrace it.  I am not the latter with regard to 2/3 of the former, but I’ll leave that guessing game up to you.

My 3 year old son is currently transitioning into a big boy bed.  The transition went more smoothly than expected and now I wish I would’ve waited longer.  He’s my baby and is without a doubt the last one.  There is no turning back.  My husband has been clipped, has passed the Cup Challenge with flying colors, and quite frankly after having three children, I am damaged goods.  There is no turning back.

I’m fine with it on most days.  I certainly don’t want to be pregnant again.  I am not one of those expectant mothers who cherishes every single moment of pregnancy and documents it in a very heartfelt memory book.  My pregnancies went something like this…

First trimester:  Buy and take 10 pregnancy tests before they can reliably detect anything.  I hate waiting.  I also hate not knowing if what I am doing or not doing is affecting anyone other than myself.  Nevertheless, negative test = wine for me (Sorry kids).  Positive test = extreme nausea without vomiting (which for some reason just really pissed me off), adolescent acne (Yep, there you are you little bastard, and I see your friends too!), and the heightened awareness and anxiety that I have an alien-like creature growing inside of me whom I will have to put through college someday (I don’t even have a job!).    

Second trimester:  Big enough to not fit into my regular clothes, yet small enough to look like an idiot in maternity garb.  Boobs hurt (bad), nothing but Cheetos taste good (Mommy guilt begins), feel the baby kick (pretty cool, but maybe just gas), reluctantly perform Kegels once a day every other week (total waste of time), and watch my husband arrogantly crack open a beer before dinner every single night (jerk). 

Third trimester:  Boobs leak, other stuff leaks, and I develop a strong disdain for all womanly orifices to the point that I highly consider grabbing the expanding foam from the garage shelf to plug a few of them up.  Can’t walk without waddling, can’t sit without sighing, can’t breathe without struggling, and absolutely can’t stand it when my husband repeatedly tells me how beautiful I look.  “Save it asshole.  Not. Gonna. Happen.”

It was a means to an end for me, and I would do it all over again in a heartbeat, but thankfully, that ship has sailed.

Yet strangely, here I sit.  The crib is coming down after nine years, two packs of diapers and a box of unused baby wipes sit in the closet,  I am surrounded by three children who need their mother less and less each and every day, and I find myself secretly wanting to be miserably pregnant again, leaky boobs and all.

It’s not gonna happen, for several reasons, but most importantly, if it did, mommy would have some serious explaining to do.

Regardless, the first night my son slept in his big boy bed, I sat next to him on the floor, talking to him, holding his hand, encouraging him, and secretly hoping that he would ask me to put him in his crib.

His response, “Mommy, can you get out of my room now?”

“Don’t worry Buddy, it’s okay.  If you’re not ready, you’re not ready.  Mommy will not pressure you…” and so on and so forth, until I was very rudely interrupted.

“Mommy, I need to talk to you.”

“What do you need honey?  You name it.  Do you want Mommy to get her pillow and lay next to you?”

“Can you get out of my room now?”

Tail between my legs, I reluctantly did as asked (twice).  Before I even got to his door, the little shit curled up under his covers, closed his eyes, and went to sleep…for the whole night!

“Mommy has feelings too!”

This is not how I intended for things to go down.  He fights me on everything, all day long.  It was a sure bet.  Here’s a big boy bed, sleep in it, I dare you!  And then he did.

Kids are assholes.

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