14 Weeks, 5 Days

Today was literally a perfect day.
Everything just seemed to flow and it really highlighted what a "good day" consists of for me.

Round One:

School for Chas first thing.
School for Rhyse after that.
Littles loud but manageable.
A finished blog post.
A load of dishes, a load of laundry, a massive first floor clean-up.
Lunch.
A swift nap-time deposit for Creux.
A dance excursion for Greer.
45 minutes of rest for me.

Round Two:

I'm up, he's up.
Four batches of brownies, two helpers.
Another round of dishes and clothes.
A phone call, a birthday booking, a field trip planned, emails read and sent.
School for Rhyse.
School for Chas.
Dinner.
Playdoh making.
Some stories, some kisses, lots of "See you in the mornings!"
Tucking in.

Round Three:

A shower.
An online vacation hunt.
Clothes laid out.
Checks readied for classes.
Preschool snack prepped and ready.
Playdoh hardened.
Floor swept.
Dishes.  Again.
Goodnights.  Again.
Couch potato.

So you see, today was an easy day.
It was a home day, which meant I wasn't going out of my mind running here and running there.
Tomorrow is a horrible day, nothing like this one, but one I will spend in the car all day long.
Preschool drop-off, art drop-off, home, art pick-up, gym drop-off, preschool pick-up, home, gym pick-up, nap, tutoring drop-off, tutoring pick-up, MAYBE a darn pre-natal yoga class for us IF I have the stamina.
(I won't.)

The point of writing all of this is that in the first example, the day was perfect, fluid, busy, productive.
It was almost a dream day for me.
And in the whole bit of it, as I whipped myself from one thing to another, most of it, honestly, just home and kid management, I couldn't figure out where you were going to fit in.
I never once found a moment where I thought, "And here's where I squeeze in a 45 minute nursing, a diaper blow-out, an hour long snuggle with you snoozing on my chest, three minutes to marvel at tiny toes, an over-whelming consumation of love that renders me immobilized for half an hour."

I didn't find time for ANY of that.
I barely had time to drink a glass of water.

And that was BEST case scenario.
The tomorrow scenario?
That one will break me, WITHOUT you in the picture.

So, how do I do this?  How do I shift these days, this family around again?
Where do I cut?  Who loses in order for me to carve out your time?
Because it will happen.
You will move straight to the top of the food chain.
I always thought it would be the other way around.
Back when I had Chas and was pregnant with Rhyse, I just figured, "Well, the baby will have be accommodating..." but it doesn't work like that.
One squawk from you and plans are instantly aborted, consessions are made, classes are missed, the Martins are late.
For EVERYTHING.

And that's just the way of it.
I don't mind missing stuff.
But I hate disappointing any of my kids.
Looking at my crazy Wednesday, there isn't a cut that can be made.
Art is important to Rhyse.  Preschool is the highlight of Greer's week.  Gym is Chas' favorite thing ever.  Tutoring is a must.
I never do anything for myself like this but thought a prenatal yoga class would be fun with you.
But I won't make it there.
I've seen their weekly schedule and I can't make it to any of the classes.
Why not?
Because right now I'm just not willing to put myself at the top of the food chain.
I have four kids to take care of, one to grow, and a household to run.
I'm not complaining, just pointing out the facts.
I'd rather cut the thing for me than I would for one of them.  Somewhere, something's got to give so I just wonder...in the course of a "perfect" day, how can it be that I look around and think..."There's simply no time left here."

But strangely enough, I know it will work.
You're coming at the best time of year for me, a time with no school or sports, (both HUGE time sucks) so by the time I'm ready to rally, the adjustment to you will already have been made. 
And as far as there being enough time in a day, there already ISN'T.
So I'm just going to have to quiet my Type A, and roll better with the punches.

I want you to know this:

You were not a part of the initial plan.
I have wanted four children since I was little.
I made sure that whoever I married wanted a big family, too.
Four was our number.

But at some point, right after Greer arrived, my heart changed.
I knew, holding her, that four was no longer my number.
I am grateful that four was no longer Daddy's number either.

You are the addition that is built on a much-loved house.
A house that is SO loved, it can't be left, but more space is needed.
Plans are drafted, modifications are made, a green light is given.
A mess is made.
But the work is worth it.
And suddenly it's not remembered how it ever was before.

You are our addition, the renovation to our much-loved family.
Not in the initial blueprint.
But forever in the final plans.

I'll find room for you.
I will carve and steal and hoard.
I will move mountains and I will skip yoga.

And some day if I renovate again, I'll still make sure that I do all of these things.
For you.