It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
No, that’s a lie. It was the worst of times and it was the WORST of times (because, toddlers).
This story begins shortly after Number2 was born and life was so horrendously chaotic (with a cholicky newborn and strong willed/destructive/manic toddler and all) that Mr. MotherOfDragons and I undisputedly agreed to not further our quest of additional biological children. Nope. Not gonna happen. Can’t do it.
I’m a strong-willed woman, married to a strong-willed man and together we create over-the-top, mega, extremist strong-willed children. NO MORE OF THESE WILL I BRING IN TO THIS WORLD. <—Spoiler alert: those were my famous last words.
Birth control became my passion. I was up to speed on the latest, greatest, best deterrent of fertilized eggs. Having a bad day? I’d double (hell, triple) my dose. At one point I was positive I’d ingested so many birth controlling chemicals I’d fried my uterus (which, honestly, gave me great feelings of self-satisfaction. Job well done, I’d pat on my own back). Never again would a spawn spring forth from my loins. Thank ya Jesus.
Fast forward to October 2016. We were on what was supposed to be an enjoyable beach vacation with my family. The dragons love the beach. They’re at their absolute best 24/7. It’s like the ocean puts them into some sort of tranquil, happy, unending trance. But this trip, however, both dragons got sick (because, of course) and instead of being the usual sweet, clingy, ‘mommy I need you, lets cuddle and watch movies on the couch all day’, they were in complete pissed off, furious, irate DRAGON form. Constantly.
Not even going to the beach made them happy. It only made it worse. The sand was too sandy. The birds were too birdy. The waves were too wavy (we were on the Gulf, there were no waves, it was a lake). But nonetheless, it pissed them off. Even the innocent by-passers walking by sent them into a fuming rage that couldn’t be pacified. I’m not sure which they hated more; the beach or the beach house. At the beach they hated, well, the beach. At the house they hated everything and everybody. The crying, the screaming at each other, the hitting, the biting, the throwing of food/juice/toys, the smearing of the bodily fluids, the list goes on. My need for alcohol was palpable but as luck would have it my parents are baptists so THERE WAS NO ALCOHOL OMG FML I JUST WANT TO CRAWL IN A HOLE AND DIE KILL ME NOW.
Even the all powerful, praise-the-Lord-it’s-bed-time couldn’t stop their enthusiasm for destroying our lives. They wouldn’t sleep. No, seriously. I drugged their angry asses and still, they wouldn’t STFU. I couldn’t soothe my own children. They didn’t want to be rocked. They didn’t want me to sing Sunshine. I furiously downloaded every white noise app I could find. That didn’t work either. They didn’t want my bed. They didn’t want their bed. Number2 kept screaming “JUUUUIIIICCCCEEEEEE!” But threw it at me when I delivered upon his request. Son of a bitch. Every hour we repeated this nuisance of a routine until the sun came up. AND STILL NO SLEEPING! I was literally in Dante’s 7th layer of hell. It couldn’t possibly get any worse than this. <<—HAAA! You so stoopid. It always gets worse.
By the grace of God we finally made it to our last night and I woke up (what? I was asleep? HOW?) to an epiphany. I was late. NO, no, no. Nonononononono. No, I’m just freaking myself out. We’re too careful. It couldn’t be. The universe wouldn’t do that to us.. Right?
The next day a dollar store pregnancy test (because I’m not paying $20 for name brand bad news) confirmed my suspicions. I had somehow managed to get myself knocked up, again. You’d think we would have learned our lesson the first time, but apparently not. I stood there, shaking, sobbing, not knowing what the hell to do or who to talk to first.
Apparently, a few weeks ago when we ran out of birth control and I literally said (in a moment of heated passion) “what’s the worst that could happen!” the universe took me seriously and said “challenge accepted.”
Eff you, universe.
So here we are. It took a few weeks for me to stop crying at the thought of the responsibility 3 dragons would bring.
The mother in me is utterly excited for a brand new baby to snuggle and the mother in me is also terrified because I know what’s coming.
Here’s to hoping I can somehow manage to keep three of these alive. Cheers!
For updates on how I’m raising two toddlers while pregnant (and sober), follow us on Instagram!