Mrs. Complainy Pants

I hate to complain. I do, really. Don't give me that look! But being a part time single mom of three is freaking exhausting. I don't know how my friends with jobs do this, but maybe it's easier with a job because someone else gets to watch the little energy vampires for awhile. Like yesterday, for example. I'm feeding the baby his morning cereal and I lick some off my hand. Aaaand that's a booger. Of course it is. There is something seriously wrong with my day when accidentally ingesting a booger not only doesn't surprise me, but doesn't gross me out as much as it should.
I think back to when it was just one kid and shake my head. I was an idiot to complain back then. Think chasing a 3 year old is exhausting? Now do it with a baby attached to your hip and simultaneously getting your 6 year old to stay on track with her homework. Think it's hard to get up with a baby during the night? Now do that a few times a night and get up at 6am for school. Oh, and you can't go to bed until midnight because you have shit to do when the kids go to bed at 8. Like eating dinner uninterrupted or showering or quietly doing the dishes when a baby isn't adamant about climbing in the dishwasher or emailing the hubby or paying bills. You get the idea.  Think going to the store is a challenge? Try it with three children on the cart while the 3 year old sees something shiny over there and the 6 year old inquires about the possibility of toys. "No you can't have this, you can't have that. You ask again I'll get you with a wiffle ball bat" I'll sing insanely as I walk through the store. Sometimes I forget people can hear me when I'm out in public.
So occasionally I'll lament at how easy I had it with one and sit on my pity pot, but then I remember how wonderful I have it. My six year old with her compassion and mother hen personality. She's always trying to make her sister and brother happy. My three year old with her wild imagination and big personality. I don't think I'll forget when she renamed her stuffed kitty, Wishy, to Fenga Fanga and when I asked what happened to Wishy her only reply was "Wishy got hurt" Uh-huh. Think I'll sleep with the doors locked if you don't mind sweetie.  And my baby. Oh, I am going to miss his sweet baby head when he gets bigger. As much as he keeps me up at night, I do love to snuggle his cute little butt.
I guess my point is I could whine and complain about how challenging and exhausting this is, but at the end of the day I couldn't be happier. Smelly, maybe, but happy.