Must I also add to the fray a 2 1/2 year old who is channeling the devil (or at least roadrunner) and seems to have gone deaf to my pleading voice for her to please, come back, come here, don’t run away, stay with the group, mummy can’t run after you, please put your shoes on, please put your pants on, please sit for two seconds so I can brush out your rat’s nest of a hairdo, ok, no snack/park/show/train store/special treat for you. (She could care less, by the way. Off she goes.)
How about if I mix in a little bit of visiting sister and niece, who I begged to come and be here for the birth, but right now are baring the brunt of my super-pregnant impatient control-freakyness, because they do things differently than I do, and right now that is simply too much for me to handle graciously. So Jen, my sister that I love and adore and rely on so much, just humour me, and put only beverages on the top shelf of the fridge, and clean up the kitchen as you go instead of leaving it until later, and just let me pack the groceries the way
I promise, I promise, once this child finally, finally decides to vacate my body, I will go back to being my only-slightly-insane usual self. Except for on Day 3. Because those Day 3 vacating hormones will get a gal every time. Consider yourself warned.