If you and I were talking, and you expressed equal parts FEAR OF and INTEREST IN having more than the standard 2-3 children, you would on most days find me an encouraging person. It’s my experience so far that larger families are not as intimidating as they can look, and that five children is not two-and-a-half times harder than (or two-and-a-half times more expensive than) two children.

But in the interest of fairness, I will mention some of the downsides of five kids:

1. There are days when correction and discipline and basic maintenance take up so much time, there is little or no time for playing and affection. Or at least, sometimes it feels that way after their bedtime: like I spent my whole day giving baths, making meals, saying “no” and “just a minute,” correcting manners, administering time-outs, and being increasingly stern about homework needing to be done NOW, COME ON, DO YOUR HOMEWORK, STOP DAWDLING!, and spent almost no time at all cuddling and reading and praising. Sometimes crowd control takes up too much of my available parenting time. …On the other hand, I remember feeling this way with two kids, too.

2. I can’t imagine going on vacation with them. I know some people do it, but the idea is overwhelming to me. Also: some hotel rooms only allow two children per adult.

3. In fact, I don’t even do shorter trips, like to the pool or to the park. There are just too many children. I know other people do it, but it’s too much for me.

4. Babysitters are a problem. Who can take care of FIVE children? And if you DO find someone, imagine what it would COST.

5. It is really, really boring making that many sandwiches every day.

6. The sheer space taken up by all those winter boots and coats.

7. Laundry.

8. Can’t keep their names straight. No, really.

9. You need a big car.

10. Certain reasonable expenses are no longer reasonable when they’re multiplied by 5.

11. The noise! The noise! OMG, sometimes the noise!

12. Baths. So many.

13. Let’s say on Monday morning you bake a double batch of muffins: 24 muffins. That’s no small task, and you feel like some sort of superhero for managing it. You’d think you’d be ALL SET for breakfasts for awhile. And yet the next morning after breakfast, a mere 24 hours later, there are only three muffins left.

14. You can use up an entire container of something in one sitting. Yogurt. Cereal. Strawberries. Ice cream.

15. Sometimes everyone talks at once. Or two talk, and then as you’re telling them you can’t listen to either of them when they both talk at the same time, two more start talking and one more starts crying. This can make your head explode.

16. Nobody gets much one-on-one time. Even a child who’s BLEEDING usually has to share the spotlight.

17. Playdates are challenging. For younger kids, I’d like to accompany them to someone else’s house—but I have such an enormous uninvited crew to bring with me. And anyone who comes to our house drowns in a sea of children.

18. People don’t feel like they can complain to us. Like they think we’d say, “You think TWO is hard? TRY FIVE!” Unfortunately there ARE parents of larger families who say crappy things like this to parents of fewer children. Not us, though: we remember how it felt to have two. (Hint: it did not feel easy.)

Well, and that’s a pretty daunting list. But I’ll bet we could make a similar-length list for ANY size family: the downsides of one, the downsides of two, the downsides of three, etc. …OH! uh, and the upsides! Yes, upsides. Just as long a list, I’m sure.

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Pay-it-forward updates:

Incognitus Scriptor has a new contest up.

Living Yellow is showing the giftie she got, and starting a new contest.

Oh, hey! Everyone EXCEPT Jess Loolu, please click here for today’s post. I asked Jess Loolu if I could post something secret on her blog that she would not be allowed to read. And she LET ME.

(Don’t worry, Jess. It’s a GOOD kind of secret. Also: we’ll tell you later.)

I DID offer the sheetrock guy some brownies. I put them on a plate and went out with them, and he said no thank you. But I liked what Denise said about how just because you don’t want to dance doesn’t mean you don’t want to be asked, and what Hillary said about how if you’re going to feel awkward either way, it’s better to feel awkward and shy (when offering) than awkward and guilty (when not offering).

And this morning I found it actually EASED some awkwardness to offer something: he came right in and started working, and I wanted to greet him somehow, but it was going to have to be through a plastic sheet so that seemed awk. But I called out “Good morning!” and then when he said good morning back, I said, “I’m about to put some coffee on—would you like some?” It made the greeting a little longer, which makes it more casual. Note: he said no thank you to the coffee, too.

About the floor for the dining room, I’m totally stuck. I’ve reached the point where I can’t even think about it anymore. There are too many choices: too many materials, and too many choices within each material. I have five new vinyl samples to look at (the first ones turned out to be from the most expensive “luxury” line), and they’re just sitting there in a pile because I can’t choose one: this one’s pretty, but too grey; this one’s nice, but too kitcheny. And we could also go with Pergo! Or with another highly-rated fake wood! Or with vinyl from another flooring place!

And then the prices vary so much. It’s $5.50, which includes installation. Or it’s $4.00 but you have to install it yourself. Or it’s $2.20 but you have to order it online. Or it’s $3.00 but there’s a $200 rebate. Or it’s $3.50, and it doesn’t look any different from the stuff that’s $2.50.

The fake woods look the best to me: I like the way they don’t catch the eye, but instead just disappear into being Floor, and they don’t have the problem of looking chilly and kitcheny. They look diningroomy to me. Paul thinks they look fakey, and so does everyone else. But ALL the vinyls are fake! There’s no such thing as vinyl that isn’t faking SOMETHING: it’s fake wood or it’s fake stone or it’s fake tile. I don’t see how fake tile is somehow superior to fake wood. How about this: let’s just have the plywood! I could put a throw-rug on it!

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Pay-it-forward updates:

Honest and Truly is showing the giftie she got, and starting a new contest.

Two Sticks and Some String is starting a new contest.

Our dining-room-to-be is being sheetrocked today, which is a pretty exciting step. Soon it will be time to decide on the vinyl (more on this later: all my favorites were not just the “good,” not just the “better,” and not even the “best” categories, but the “luxury” category. Um, no.), and on paint colors (likely to be cream, because that’s almost always what I end up indecisively choosing).

The sheetrocking guy is nice, too: he has the radio on and I can tell he’s restraining himself from singing along too loudly so he won’t disturb us, but he keeps whistling and singing in spite of himself, including a falsetto segment on a Faith Hill song.

I think of that kind of thing as a sign of an inherently happy person. Paul is the same kind of whistler/singer, although of course he belts it out because this is his own house. If I were ever in a position to remarry, I’d look for that singing/whistling thing again. Paul may have his tempers like anyone else, and he might drive me crazy sometimes like any husband would, but he’s about 1% tempers/crazy-making and about 99% singing along with the radio and doing falsetto on the girl songs, and that makes for a pretty happy life.

And now the sheetrocking guy can’t hold back anymore, because Tainted Love is on. Ha! He’s whistling the little boww-boww noises, then going loud for a few moments on the lyrics before remembering where he is and damping the sound.

But here is the point of this post: fretting! Should I be offering the sheetrocking guy some snacks or drinks or something? He’s been working out there for 6 solid hours, and as far as I can tell he hasn’t taken a break. I have brownies in the oven, and could offer him some when they’re done, with his choice of milk or ice water or Heineken.

But I feel so shy about it! What if he’s diabetic? What if he wants milk but only if it’s 2%? What if he thinks I’m hitting on him or something? *wrings hands*

What do you do, when you have people working on your home? Do you offer snacks/drinks?

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Pay-it-forward updates:

Move Along – There’s Nothing to See Here is showing the giftie she got.

The True Adventures of Axel and Outlaw is showing the giftie she got, and starting a new contest.

3Giraffes is showing the giftie she got.

Pickles & Dimes is showing the giftie she got, and starting a new contest.

This was mostly a sucky weekend. We were going to have a yard sale Saturday, but there were supposed to be thunderstorms all day long so we canceled it, and then it didn’t rain.

The stuff really had to be out of the way for the sheetrock crew coming this week, so we had a yard sale on Sunday instead, since it wasn’t supposed to rain. But it DID rain: just little bursts of it now and then, just enough to make things damp and unappealing. We made seven dollars in three hours, and at that point we just put out a big “free” sign and gave up on the whole thing. That was the utter suck—although we DID still get a ton of stuff out of our house, which was good.

One of the things we cleared out, though, was the exersaucer, and that made me sad: we bought that when Rob was a little baby, so it’s been in many a baby picture.

Elizabeth

Edward

Henry

I said to Paul, “But if we have another baby, we’ll just have to buy a new exersaucer.” And he said, “I’m willing to take that chance,” in a tone that communicated he felt it was a very low risk indeed. So THAT was suck.

Plus, this morning I was startled awake early by a loud cheeping alarm sound in the kitchen, which I couldn’t locate. Until I realized it was coming from a bird, which one of our cats had in his mouth. I’ve never had to handle that situation before. I didn’t know what to do. I’m pretty sure I picked the wrong way, but I’m pretty sure ALL the ways were wrong ways, because all of them involved the bird dying. I felt sorry that we owned and petted a cat.

What is your deal? There was PLENTY of Iams in your dish.

And then all weekend the two older boys were SO GIDDY, and Edward has started this screaming thing where he screams whenever he’s even slightly unhappy, frustrated, or thwarted, or if any of his siblings argue with him. And Henry is obviously and tactlessly preferring Paul, which on one hand I love (“Oh, he wants YOU! Guess I’ll have to hand him over and go read some blogs!”), but on the other hand I don’t.

And then Paul accidentally spilled my fruit fly trap (i.e., rotten fruit and apple cider vinegar—thanks to Twitter peeps who gave me the recipe when I shrieked about having fruit flies) down in the crack between the counter and the fridge.

But then I got the news that I’m going to be an aunt. I mean, clearly the real news here is that my sister-in-law Anna is going to be a mother and my brother Erik is going to be a father. But still! Aunthood for me!

I was very glad to hear that I am not the only one who suffers from Houseguest Awkwardness, where I WANT to help but feel too awkward to offer, or where I DO offer but then mess up what I’m given to do.

You know what I think the problem is, is that it’s REALLY HARD to help at someone else’s house, but it doesn’t SEEM hard. Like, they say, “Oh, um, sure! Why don’t you set the table?” That’s easy! Even the children can handle THAT. But a guest doesn’t know where the dishes are kept, or which set of dishes to use, or whether this is a “napkins under the forks” family or a “napkins in a holder on the table” family, or whether to put out the bread plates.

Or the hostess might say, “Oh, okay, you could get drinks?” But what are the drink choices I’m supposed to offer? And is this a “grab ice cubes with bare hands” family or a “use the cup to scoop up ice” family? Is it a “two ice cubes per glass” family or a “ice cubes up to the brim” family or a “dad hates ice and no one thinks to mention it because it’s automatic by now” family?

Or one time, the hostess asked me to tear the lettuce for a salad. And I had always, always, CUT the lettuce. So I didn’t even know what she was talking about! And the lettuce was right from her garden, and it was an unfamiliar variety to me—I didn’t even know which parts were edible and which parts should be trimmed. Should the thicker, whiter part up the middle of each leaf be included, or removed? And I tore the pieces way too large, so she had to go back and surreptitiously re-tear. Also, she assumed I knew it needed to be washed first.

Or, my mother-in-law asked me to make a pie. MAKE A PIE. I don’t, uh. I mean! PIE? And to her it’s easy, because she’s made that before, but to me it’s brand new! So I look like an idiot because it’s a frozen crust and a can of filling WHAT IS THE BIG DEAL? But I’ve never done it before, so of course I bumble around and look like the stupid useless daughter-in-law who can’t even handle a convenience pie.

I think the ONLY way for a guest to help is something like, “Oh, great, could you stand here at the stove for me and stir this sauce? It just has to be stirred constantly.” The thoughtful hostess could perhaps plan in advance to have something non-essential (water with food coloring and parsley in it, for example) simmering on the stove, to ask the guest to stir.

Some nights when I can’t sleep, it’s because of the Slideshow of Terrible Ways to Die. Other nights, it’s Horrifying Screenplays of Fires/Intruders. Tonight, it’s the Parade of Awkwardness.

I knew I was in serious trouble when my brain wanted to remind me of a houseguest experience where I was basically a fish flopping around on the tiles. I felt incompetent and bumbling next to my smooth and gracious hostess, and so didn’t offer to help when I should have—and when I did offer, I didn’t know what I was doing and messed things up. I misunderstood a question, and so seemed to be demanding to be served a drink. I’d gained weight recently and all my clothes were too tight for me, so I wouldn’t take off my cardigan even though it was in the high seventies. I tried to act all free-spirited and confident, and in doing so broke their pretty rope swing. She offered me a choice of an item from her collection, and I was so nervous I’d accidentally choose her favorite, I chose nothing—as if I were rejecting the gift.

This was more than ten years ago, but I have every moment carefully preserved so I can examine it in perfect detail. I do museum-quality work.

I SHOULD be sleeping beautifully, I worked so hard today on the playroom today. So many toys have so many pieces, and the pieces get everywhere so it was like an Easter egg hunt. I rooted around under bureaus, beds, chairs, the couch, the DVD shelves, the crib—and I found almost all the pieces to everything. I’m still missing a few puzzle pieces, but I need to deep-breathe and let it go or else I’m going to start ripping open couch cushions saying, “It has! to be here! somewhere!”

And I could almost cry, the way things were already getting messy again within an hour. One reason I don’t try to be a better housekeeper is that being a better housekeeper makes me a worse person: I’m on edge all the time, angry at my family for messing things up, finding someone to blame for whatever’s not perfect, finding fault with our whole house and everything in it, seeing every place where the hardwood is unevenly shiny. When I let things get messier, I calm down; when I make things tidier, I start snapping at people and not letting the kids play with their toys because I’m NOT looking for all those pieces AGAIN.

But of course, below a certain point, which is where we finally were, the kids can’t play with their toys because nothing has its pieces anywhere near it anymore. It’s a fine line, and right now I’m on BOTH wrong sides of it: parts of the house are too clean and organized, and parts of the house are too messy.

I’m trying not to let my “There’s too much to do, so I won’t do anything” impulse take over. I’m trying to keep chipping away at it, believing that each Skittle found under the recliner and thrown in the trash makes a tiny but cumulative difference in the overall household cleanliness. It’s like putting away a basket of tiny white laundry: it seems like you take out a hundred pairs of socks and there are still more socks, but eventually if you keep at it, the basket really does get empty.

Well, and then it starts filling up again, moments later.

You wanted to discuss my uterus, right? Oh good, me too!

I finally worked up the nerve to talk with my OB about the risks of having another baby: I’d be over 35, and I’ve had four c-sections. I’ve been wanting to ask about it, but I was worried he’d do what a lot of people do when I mention wanting a sixth baby, which is to suggest I have a psychological problem. I think this is funny when it’s kidding (one of the best moments of my pregnancy with Henry was hearing a librarian joyfully shout “ARE YOU CRAZY??” in a quiet library), but some people are serious.

This’ll vary from family tree to family tree, but in my parents’ generation, two kids is typical. In my grandparents’ generation, three or four kids is typical. In my great-grandparents’ generation, five or six kids is typical. A set of my great-great grandparents had nine kids, including twins twice. And a set of my great-great-great grandparents had eleven children like it weren’t no thing. On Baby #6, my female ancestors were just getting warmed up.

My OB earned points by acting as if it could be just as psychologically normal to have six kids today as it was 100 years ago. He opened my file and looked at the surgical reports and medical history. He said he didn’t see anything in my file that would argue against trying for another baby if I wanted one.

I tucked that information under my ribs. I keep peeking at it.

I am having SO MUCH FUN with a site Paul found for me called Postcrossing. I collect postcards, but I’d like this site anyway: you send postcards to random people, and different random people send postcards to you. Hm. That does not sound like so much fun when I type it out, but I LOVE this thing and think you should try it. Even PAUL is trying it now, after seeing how much fun I was having.

If you want to try it, I’m giving away a “starter kit” over at Milk & Cookies. And when I say “starter kit,” I mean I’m taking five blank postcards from my stash, adding five 94-cent international-postcard-rate stamps, and calling it a kit.