I almost hesitate to disclose what I’m about to share. Will I jinx myself? Will I regret putting this out into the universe? Will my sweet, precious, darling babies suddenly rip through their tender shells and reveal themselves as some sort of spawn of satan? Let’s hope not!
It would appear that our family, as of late, has crossed the magical threshold in which parenting is suddenly more fun than it is work.
We had three daughters in three years, and yes, at one point, all three were in diapers. Sleeping for longer than 2 hours straight felt like a fantasy; something I had only heard about in fairy tales. Someone was crying almost constantly from 2014 straight through until 2018. Sometimes that person was me. Our house is loud. It is chaotic. It is messy.
But somewhere in the foggy haze of newborns and toddlers and preschoolers, my daughters started to grow up. I’m not quite sure how it happened so quickly and so slowly all at the same time.
A few weekends ago, our little family of 5 went apple picking at an orchard in North Georgia. No one cried. Like, the entire time we were gone. No tears. No one needed to be nursed or fed a snack mid-activity. All three girls seemingly enjoyed themselves! No one needed a bandaid, there were no potty accidents, and not a single kiddo complained.
By the time we were finished petting animals, eating cider donuts, launching apples out of a cannon, picking (and eating) apples, milking cows, and going on a pony ride, we climbed back into our car for the ride home. My husband and I looked at each other and were thinking the same thing: THAT. WAS. ACTUALLY. FUN.
My daughters are 2.5, 4 and 5.5. Are these ages the magical threshold where the scales have tipped to favor the fun of parenting over the work? I’m not holding my breath (but I am most certainly crossing my fingers).
