When I was eleventy-hundred months pregnant with Alexander, I got into a discussion with a couple of pregnant women in my OB’s office (as a rule, I avoid pregnant women like the plague because well, someone once told me that pregnant women were 3 doors down from the nuthouse, but I firmly believe that they are actually much, much closer than that). The subject: 3 year olds. The concensus: 3 was much, much, much worse than 2. I agreed wholeheartedly, 2 was great, 4 was great, but 3? 3 found my hands making repeated contact with his cute, ickle, tantrum-y, willfull, annoying, butt.

Just like I would never tell a woman pregnant with her second child that having 2 is much harder than twice the work of having 1 (follow me?), I remain mum with my friends who rapidly approaching the dreaded 3. Until they mention it to me, I have nothing to say about the matter.

I don’t mention to newly pregnant women how sick I got while pregnant, I don’t tell them that labor hurts like hell, and I pretend that having a newborn and breastfeeding is great fun. Once they’ve gotten past all of those milestones, I’ll commiserate, but not before that point.

Why would I avoid something that so many others like to blab about (especially to complete strangers)? I don’t want to be a naysayer and I don’t wish to make others fearful unnecessarily. It’s not fair and it isn’t nice. Just because those were my own experiences doesn’t make them universal.

Just like you cannot actually prepare a child fully for the arrival of a sibling (try as you might, but no child could possibly wrap their mind around it. You may as well tell them that you are moving to the moon in a couple of months. We bought Ben a book that was actually pretty scientific and read it over and over, which meant that we had to listen to a multitude of songs written by Ben which went “I’m the lucky spermy who met the ova and that became ME!” Thankfully, he didn’t ask how the sperm got to be there in the first place. Yikes.), no amount of naysaying will do any good to anyone else because their experiences will probably be different than your own, so why bother if you’re just trying to scare someone?

I’m using children as my example here, but fearmongers (thanks Al!) know no boundries. Have a puppy? (OhmyGOD, when *I* had a puppy, I was up *all* night! for weeks! It’s SOOOO hard!) Have a house? (OhmyGOD! the furnace went out and we had lead paint! and I HAVE TO PAY SOMEONE TO MOW THE LAWN. Why not rent instead? Owning SUCKS!)

You can smell what The Becky is cooking.

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7 thoughts on “Chicken Little

  1. I could tell you kid stories…but most of them would sound familiar to you…like maybe you were the one that lived them. That would probably be weird, but kinda funny.

  2. Dude, hilarious. You totally should. I need a pick-me-up today. Sir Grumps A Lot was up A TON last night and I am so shot.

  3. We have a working theory (based on GMB) that every third year bites – ages 3, 6, 9, 12, 15….

    I am totally the opposite in blogdom (oversharing/whining the hard parts) but I do sometimes shut my mouth in real life. Because how could they possibly understand?

  4. Oh, in my blog (which most of my real life friends do read) I say whatever I’m thinking at any time. But I wouldn’t wish to scare unsuspecting people, especially those who do not actually know me (Plus, most of my real life friends do not have children yet, so they only vaguely know what I’m talking about. I call it “free birth control!).

    But you’re right (at least so far) 3 was awful, 6 is pretty…well….know it all-ish, which is driving me insane.

  5. (I should probably stop commenting on reeeeally old entries but I don’t care. :D)

    I was told plenty of things about being pregnant and about childbirth. Unlike most pregnant women, I was actually very calm about this shit. “Oh, you’ll have hooorriiiblllee mood swings!!!!!!” What did I reply with? “We’ll see.” That’s basically how I approached everything I heard. I didn’t have those mood swings, I was still very much normal. My desire for my man? It technically never left…he did. He DID come home for the afterbirth for a week……and um…let’s say I went against doctors orders. ~wiggles eyebrows~

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