My boss has one kid. A really great kid, actually.

Sometimes I see her kid, or talk to her kid, or watch her interact with her kid, or hear stories from other friends with only one kid, and I realize something.

I have totally screwed up my kids by having more kids.

Once upon a time, I only had one kid. It wasn't by choice. I wanted more, but my husband didn't. Something to do with me bleeding out in the delivery room and maybe some colic and postpartum depression and other unimportant shit that scars men emotionally or some such. He was very happy with one kid. Totally and completely fulfilled, he said.

I, on the other hand, had a uterus that sucker punched my intestines every time I saw a newborn. I had ovaries that rang like festive little jingle bells every time I walked by the baby section in Sears. I had breasts that would drip a drop of motherly love every so often to remind me that there was no baby to suck up the perfect food my body can create; a milky tear of mourning, enticing me back into sleepless nights and mustard-coloured poop.

But then my body rebelled against me, too. It sided with my husband, throwing my hormones out of whack and nearly dashing my wild hopes of reproduction. "Secondary Infertility due to Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome," they called it. I now call it an early warning detection system. My physical self knew what my brain did not yet know: having another baby would be dangerous for my sanity and any sense of household cleanliness.

I could have thrown in the towel, but that would have been rather defeatist of me. And we all know I'm not one for defeat. My couch - recently peed upon by gremlin #3 and still rather smelly - is paying the price for my reproductive drive. With a lot of work with a naturopath, I turned my body into a not-so-lean, mean baby-making machine. And voila, there was Gutsy.

Oh, and Spawnling.

And there went my sanity and any hope of being a decent mother.

Look, just like there's a gay scale and there's an autism spectrum scale, there is a motherhood scale. Science may not have clued into this yet, but I'm living proof. When I had one child, I was a super mom: we went to parks every day, took long walks, went to museums and galleries galore. We did crafts, sang songs, read tons of books, played toys on the floor. I was an incredible parent. Truly. I totally rocked at it. I deserved an entire observatory for the attention I gave to the one and only star in my sky. I was a solid 9 on the scale (it goes to 10, by the way.)

When Gutsy arrived I probably sank to about a 7, straddling the "decent" line.

By the time Spawnling arrived, I had my nails clinging onto 5 and was holding on for dear life. I've managed to stay here, more or less, but I waffle between a 3 1/2 and a 6. When I cook from scratch while calmly sorting out their endless disagreements over the PS3, I'm having a good day. When I'm crying in my room so I don't hear them screaming while I simultaneously dial the pizza man, I'm definitely far below par.

Having more kids has left me overwhelmed. And when I see the easy and calm interactions between other parents and their singular kids (or hear about their fabulous trips we could never afford to take, which I heard about over the weekend), I wonder just how amazing a life Intrepid would have been had I pepper-sprayed Mother Nature in the face when she came calling those many years ago. Would he have more attention? Less stress? More opportunities? A mother who doesn't yell as much?

I don't regret having the Gremlins Three. While they've certainly divided my attention and whipped up the chaos level to frenzied amounts, there is no denying that there is three times the unconditional love to make up for all of it; three times the hugs, three times the laughter, three times the sweetness, three times to mess-- oh, wait. I'm listing positives, sorry.

There are three boys in this house with three distinct and (generally) endearing personalities who are going to grow up and help shape the world in their unique ways. Three kids to be proud of, three to experience all those firsts with - from first smiles to first loves and jobs and babies. It makes my heart happy just thinking about it.

But what I worry about on days like today - when I'm tired and overwhelmed and over-scheduled and feel like there aren't enough hours in the day - is that I'm somehow failing someone by not being enough. I just realized that one of Gutsy's teeth is grey - when did that happen? How long have I missed this? And when was the last time I asked Intrepid about upcoming projects or about girls that he likes? Will I ever have time to read Spawnling a bedtime story more than two nights in a row? And this is when I start to feel really mediocre and not on top of my game like I used to be.

So yes, sometimes I do think life would have been a lot simpler with one, or even two. Sometimes I wish I could give that kind of attention to all three of them. I can only hope that any long term damage my children incur will be offset by strong bonds with their siblings (once they're old enough not to be fighting over Lego anymore) and hopefully a knowledge that mom and dad, while not the greatest jugglers, did their very best and loved them tremendously while dropping the more important balls from time to time.

And at worst, they can always use the meagre post-secondary education savings we have for them for therapy. A good therapist can make up for a lot. 


(Geekster would like to point out that, while Gutsy does need to go to the dentist, like, yesterday, a story was read to Spawnling tonight while I was out this evening. I feel better. Maybe. But please send chocolate and hugs anyway.)