It seems that each milestone in modern life is marked by a predictable query, hiding an underlying assumption about your projected next step.  It’s true.

The moment you marry, the first question is posed.

“When are you two lovebirds going to have a baby”,  neglecting to highlight that perhaps that baby might push those lovebirds right out of their cozy little nest.

 And as soon as that baby bomb comes along, a new spin on the question is posed, although still slyly shaded with the same hopeful enthusiasm.

“When are you going to make that little one a brother or sister”, neglecting to acknowledge the exhausted eyes of midnight meals and the multitude of other battle scars of baby #1.

 But then the second comes along, and the tone suddenly shifts.

“Are you done”, as if two tiny people constitutes some sort of litter, facilitating a need for neutering.

And then the third arrives, and a subtle switcheroo in sentence structure, changes the question altogether.

“You’re done, right”, in a tone more clearly categorized as a threat or warning, than an inquiry at all.

And then…then, in those rare occasions that you dare to step past the crescendo of chaos that is three, and enter into the mysterious beyond, clinging to the hope that once you hit three, you’ve already hit bottom and the only way to move is up, folks no longer bother with the effort of a formal question at all.

Instead, they just shout, “REALLY? REALLY”, as if you’ve committed some sort of unforgivable crime.

Well,  the answer is yes, really. We really are having a fourth, and we really are excited about it. The fourth, and often even the third, often emerge as “unexpected blessings”,  like a sudden, unexpected hurricane, that clouds your vision and terrifies you as it hits. But once the storm breaks, you realize the wild rain is just what you really needed…maybe. So the answer to your question is yes, really.  We really are happy about our newest little hurricane.

 And to answer the other question you are now too afraid to even ask the owners of the sideshow, for fear of inspiring another act…yes, we are really done. The soccer team, although more benchwarmers then olympians, is complete. Our battered minivan is filled. Our hopes of college funding have officially collapsed. We are really, really done.

And to explain the audacity of our smiles amidst this insanity, I am reminded of a memory of a time when our manageable mayhem consisted of a measly Baby Bjorn plus one,  when hopes of containing the chaos still seemed falsely achievable.  At a social event, back when we had few enough offspring to still be invited to social events that didn’t involve bounce houses, I was chatting with a mob of other masochists, I mean mothers, all several inches deep in makeup to mask the sleepless circles of midnight mealtimes and the sophisticated sweeping side bun, characteristic of the half-minute hairstyling conducted in their cars.  Please note that I am no longer a participant in the mommy masquerade, as I have long sense given up on…well, everything. But on this day, confessions were clear, as we talked about the tortures of four a.m. feedings and refereeing pint-sized fist fights,  and the pressures of pretending to fit the Pinterest mold of manufactured motherhood that now lines the shelves of every self-help section and social media forum. And  then there was that one friend with the audacity to avoid the pressure of the preliminary question on presumed procreation. Smiling at the satisfaction of her offspring sobriety, she shared, “Well,you are sure not selling me on this motherhood thing. I think I will stick with a boat instead.” And while  everyone chuckled in amusement, I hoped the shock of my silence was heard, as the idea that this miracle could be seen as anything less than, well, a miracle was something deserving of a defense. So I explained it to her like this.

Anything that is this horrific, this exhausting, this down right tortuous, that can still be described as the miracle of your life, so much so that you would welcome that diapered destruction again and again, must be miraculous. How magical these little snot-nosed, soul-sucking miracles must be to balance out all of that snot. Unfortunately, having not experienced the hallucinations of maternal love, she remained unimpressed. So, I said this. “Kids are like crack. Even though you know they are bad for you, you can’t help going back again and again.” Because although I have no personal experience to confirm this correlation, I do know that the pull of nature’s alluring oxytocin has got to be right up there with the most dangerous of addictions, because I have never loved anything as much as those little leeches.

So in conclusion, the answer to your question, “Really?” Yes, really. And I thank the Lord for every one of my little soul suckers and the battle scars of mommyhood that they bring. At least I say this now while the littlest parasite is still in-utero. Remind me of the allure of that oxytocin when I am waving my white flag at 2 a.m. in a couple of months. But preferably not gloating from your boat.