Over the last three months I've done my fair share of reading about growing families, dealing with two kids, adjusting to life with a new baby again etc. and one comment/sentiment that seemed to come up a lot is that, apparently, two is the most difficult; the more kids you have the easier it gets.
Now I'm not one that needs any encouragement in this department. I've lived my entire adult life wanting four children. However, I don't know where this number came from, and because it is not a popular one in today's modern parenting culture, it's safe to say that I've seen every shell-shocked look and heard every (misplaced, I think) comment about this apparent insanity.
And when Sam arrived, I knew just what everyone was talking bout. The blur of madness that ensued those first few weeks was enough for me to swear of any more kids forever. I don't need to explain. Whatever you can imagine - it was worse than that!
And then it started to get better. I even did a whole week looking after both my boys and my three year old nephew, and while I was tired (okay, I was knackered!) I was actually fine. I didn't have a nervous breakdown. The kids didn't starve or get hurt. I didn't spend all day in my pajamas. We went to the park. We did a play-date. The kids even napped. Every day. And did I mention that while this was happening there were carpenters building cupboards in my room? (So perhaps I was so deep in busyness, I had no choice but to survive - it still counts).
So when I compare last week - when my cousin who's here from the UK stayed home with both boys and me one day, and Zac ran bloody circles around us - with today - when we had a productive and incident free morning, despite having two toddlers, a baby and a grandma to babysit - another kid or two can't be that bad. Can it?
Surely not. And perhaps my kids agree, because as I write this, both of them are asleep. Yes, you read right: both kids, sleeping, together, at the same time! Boom.