Parenting is hard.
Hardest thing I've ever done.
These beings that you love more than anything.
Can make you laugh so hard.
Bring such joy.
Shine from the inside out.
And yet simultaneously you wonder whether you can keep them alive into adulthood.
When they are little you are just physically surviving.
Wiping butts.
Tending to tears.
Not letting them ride their bikes off cliffs.
That sort of thing.
Suddenly, they are teenagers and you (sort of) trust them not to accidentally run out into the street and kill themselves.
But their hormones and social calendar has you nearly doubling over from exhaustion.
Four kids.
Four kids!
Who does that?
I continue to be a person who thinks: we should be fruitful and multiply.
If my husband and I only have two children, we really haven't increased the number in a multiplication sense.
And yet, I am not sure if I can, in good faith, recommend four children.
There are four children in my house with estrogen and testosterone raging. Four at once. Four!
I love them.
But I might kill them.
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