This week in Grace

Is it just me, or does time seem to speed up the older you get? Or perhaps this is some side effect of climate change. I mean, five minutes ago, Grace looked like this:

And then, I went to, like, go get a drink of water or something and she's this:

I swear, it's been the fastest nine months of my life. I know-- everyone says that about their children. But sometimes clichés are clichés for a reason, ya know? In the span of a few days, she's begun crawling and pulling up on furniture and eating paper (oops). Instead of napping, she practices crawling and stands in her crib. And when I go in the room to to lay her back down, she grins and squeals at me as if to say, "Shut up! Why didn't you tell me how AWESOME this is? I'm staaaannnding! Whoever invented this is a GENIUS!"
(This is cute the first ten times. And then I just want her to take her nap.)

I told Jason the other day, "It's all going so fast. I mean, I've been thinking. What if, in ten years' time, we wish we'd had a fourth? Some older couples we know wish they'd had more. I'm just thinking we should consider that." He looked at me and said, "Yeah, babe. You just keep thinkin'."

Not that I think I could handle four, necessarily. I am not a supermom. Really. I use television as a babysitter at least twice a day and our cupboards runneth over with Easy Mac. I don't make my own baby food. I hide from the kids. Sometimes, I wait till they go to bed and then I throw away their artwork. Otherwise, it would fill up the house! And I have a hard enough time corralling these three. Parenting Nate alone is like raising approximately 2.4 children. Nate, before you eat your dinner you have to put your underwear back on. No, Nate, I don't think God will turn you into a horse. Or a bat. Or a castle. Nate, don't bounce Gracie in the Jolly Jumper--when she cries it means she doesn't like it. Nate, no one wants to see your bottom again. (Public nakedness is an issue with the boy.)

So, the jury is still way, way out on whether we'll ever have another child. As far as Jason is concerned, the jury has been lovingly dismissed and sent home. But I like to think that the jury is just at lunch. A long, leisurely lunch. Like, they're sequestered like the jury in that John Grisham novel, all staying in a cheesy motel together and we could call them back if we needed to. We'll see. I should probably get this baby sleeping through the night before I think about another one.

Somebody slap me.