Child Spacing Pros and Cons

At some point, every couple has to decide on the number and spacing of their children. Unfortunately, no one actually has any experience or expertise in the child-spacing arena at the time the decision has to be made, so it’s mostly guesswork based on those you can observe around you. 

Some couples want their kids to be born close together in the hopes that they will be able to play together and entertain each other. Maybe they hope they will be able to deal with the sleepless nights and endless diapering better if they just stay in the groove. Or maybe they’re thinking that they don’t want to deal with storing baby gear indefinitely, so they’ll get all their usage in quickly. Maybe one or both spouses are older than the average new mom and dad, so they feel a sense of urgency to “get this show on the road”, so to speak. Regardless of their reasoning, these couples opt to space their kiddos 2 or less years apart.

Other couples feel they need a little more time in between babies. They might be wanting to guaranteed a potty-trained Baby #1 before introducing Baby #2, or have the older one be more independent before adding another helpless one into the mix. Maybe these parents are concerned that the first child won’t get to fully experience “being a baby” if another baby comes too soon. Regardless of their reasoning, these couples opt to space their kiddos 3-4 years apart.

Still other couples wait even longer—5 years, 6 year, 10 years! Some opt to stop after the first little one. And some do no planning at all, figuring they’ll just take what they get whenever they get it, if they get it at all. 

We personally did a little combo of planning and oops-ing, but our vision was to have our children spaced right at 2 years apart. We were successful with Baby #1 and Baby #2, but the math got a little off with Baby #3. He got here a mere 17 months later. And then our little Oopsy will be right at 18 months behind him. 

Now, obviously, since all 4 of our kiddos fall into the “Closely Spaced” category, I can offer absolutely zero advice on any other spacing options. However, I have constructed a quick little Pros and Cons List for those considering this same close spacing. 

PROS:

1.      They will be very close when they get older. Theoretically. 

CONS:

1.      Every child is in various stages of potty training simultaneously, from full-time diaper-wearer, to nighttime diaper-wearer only, to full-time underwear-er with wet sheets at least once per week. Know that book, Everyone Poops? True story. And at least 50% of the time, the poop does not make it into the proper receptacle. Other true stories include: Everyone Pees, and Everyone Picks Their Nose and Wipes the Findings in Random Locations, and Everyone Sits on Your Lap to Toot.

2.      No one is far enough removed from the baby stage to have much sympathy for the ACTUAL baby when he steals toys or knocks over someone’s Lego structure, nor to have any sense of what it means to share. So that play time that we thought was going to be so precious because everyone would be just the right age to play so well together? That was lunacy. Play time reminds me of the Cornucopia scene from The Hunger Games: everyone runs for the exact same toy, then the losers attack the winner and engage in a chokehold death struggle until a victor finally emerges. And again, there is no leniency for even the tiniest of contestants. So baby brother is only 12 months old and has toddled unsteadily into the brawl? Dude. It’s on like Donkey Kong. 

3.      Everyone is a mess-maker while no one is a mess-cleaner-upper. From sun up to sun down, it’s spilled drinks, dropped plates full of freshly prepared food, toys flung far and wide, shredded books, unrolled toilet paper rolls, dirty laundry taken from the hamper and redistributed around the house, etc. And while our oldest is able to now assist with some of the pick-up, he’s slow. Slow. As. Christmas. And while he’s moving at his geriatric pace, the others are sure to be creating new messes. In fact, he might create a new mess himself while in the midst of picking one up. For example, he recently accidentally pushed the wrong button on the vacuum. So rather than turning OFF the machine, he opened it up, spilling out everything he just cleaned up, plus extra. 

4.      Laundry. Laundry everywhere. Mountains and mountains of laundry EVERYWHERE. And no one old enough to fold neatly or reach the top drawer of the dresser. And this is not your everyday laundry. These are piles of clothes drenched in pee, smeared with blood and mud and snot and food, literally left outside in the elements for a week before anyone noticed. And due to all the extra substances that find their way to the children’s clothing, they sometimes go through 3 or 4 outfits in one day, none of which will be placed in the hamper without multiple reminders.  

5.      Everyone needs constant supervision, but no one thinks they do. Why? Because they’re not “the baby”, they’re “big brother/sister” to someone. Therefore, they are far too old to hold your hand in the parking lot, or ride in the shopping cart, or sit in a booster seat, or take a nap. “I’M BIG!” they insist. So as far as they are concerned, they can check the mail without you going with them, close their bedroom door and play without you in there, use the scissors and sharp knives and glue without assistance… And the actual baby? Well, everyone else is doing those things, so I want to, too!

6.      No one is fully sleep trained yet. The potty-trained-by-day child is a wet-the-bed-by-night child. Which means a wake-up call for Mom and Dad to change pajamas and sheets and calm a foul-smelling, half-asleep kid. The baby is either still eating throughout the night, or teething, or both. Mom and Dad might as well camp out in the rocker. Any paci-suckers are unable to function during cold season and allergy season because they can’t breathe through their nose NOR their mouth. In Texas, those two seasons cover about 10 months of the year. Another wake-up call for Mom and Dad. And any remaining children are woken up by the ones already mentioned. More wake-up calls for Mom and Dad. So basically, closely spaced children = no sleep for at least a solid decade.  

NAME THAT BABY!

Naming the baby. I swear it’s a more stressful job than birthing the baby. 

You’ve got to find a name that you and your spouse can agree on, a name that the baby will like, a name that will grow with them, a name that can’t be turned into a taunt, a name that doesn’t have inappropriate initials, a name that others can pronounce and spell… 

  

AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!

And that’s not all you have to think about. 

Is the name you are considering too popular? Too strange? Anyone’s ex or enemy?

Are you naming the baby after a grandmother? Well, what about the other grandmother? What if she’s offended? What if she figures out that you think her name is hideous? Or that she’s not your favorite after all?

And is it true that a child’s name can influence his/her personality? What if the name you choose today ends up being the name of the psycho killer in the next big horror flick? Or already was the name of a psycho killer in a flick you’ve never heard of but others will reference for the rest of your sweet child’s life?

The task is daunting.

And then, after you’ve considered Aaaaaaaallllll the possibilities and implications, when you’ve finally, finally, FINALLY landed on a name that you absolutely love and think is PERFECT, it is absolutely guaranteed that SOMEONE will tell you how much they hate it. 

I am currently in the midst of this hideous name-finding process for the fourth time. But rather than getting easier, it has gotten harder. 

For one, when you choose a family name for that first child and another family member gets offended that you left him/her out, you have an excuse: “Oh, this is just our FIRST child’s name! But we are going to have more children, so we’ll catch you next time!”

This justification does not work on Baby #4 when you’ve told everyone emphatically that this is most definitely the LAST baby you will ever birth EVER, EVER, EVER. Now, everyone knows that this is their LAST CHANCE to get their name in. And unless you intend to be one of those crazy people who give their kid 15 extra middle names, you are bound to leave someone out. And you will never live it down.

When we branch out of family names, we run into a new problem: name associations. After being a student for 16 years, then teaching for 7 more years, plus the hubster’s 20 or so years as a student and 7.5 years of teaching, we now have a grand total of 50.5 years worth of names that are potentially ruined for us for all of eternity. So while I understand that you are trying to be helpful when you throw out the name fill-in-the-blank, which you think is a perfectly lovely name, please understand that in my world, fill-in-the-blank is a smart-mouthed bully with equally obnoxious parents, or a snobby cheerleader that steals everyone’s boyfriends, or an adulterous drug user, etc.

We could, of course, try the creative route where we make a name up completely out of thin air, but then you end up with something like Lemonjello (leh-MON-jell-oh). True story. 

Or we could be those people who use random objects as names, like River, or Street, or Apple. I even know someone named Talon. I wonder if his mother understands that a talon is a claw, and therefore, her child is named Claw. Maybe she does know this and is simply an avid Inspector Gadget fan, so she named her son after Dr. Claw. Maybe. 

Perhaps we could do an adjective or descriptor name instead: Blythe, Precious, Rebel… My favorite of these type names is Brazen. Seriously, do people bother looking up the definitions of words before branding their kids with them? Brazen, if you don’t know already, means “shameless or impudent” (I realize you might not be familiar with “impudent” either, so here ya go—it means “impertinent”, AKA RUDE). So, in a nutshell, your child’s name is “Jerk Face”.  Good job, parents. 

See how I judge these names? That’s what people do! No name is good in the end. Someone, somewhere will think it is the stupidest, most gosh-awful thing they’ve ever heard. And they’ll tell you all about it. Or they’ll laugh about it in front of their kids, who will, in turn, taunt your sweet baby on the school playground. 

You know what I miss? I miss the days of the Bible. Where moms and dads just told it like it is. Sure, to us, it just sounds like a pretty name (or a not-so-pretty one…), but it was so much more! A full description of your mental state at the time. So you were having some preggie cravings for corn? Name = Abib, AKA Tender, green ear of corn. Feeling rashy? Name = Adummim, AKA Red spots. Think it’s funny that you’re preggers? Name = Isaac, AKA Laughter.

If only I knew the perfectly consolidated Hebrew word for “Oh, goody! more stretch marks” or “I’m scared of this girl”. Perhaps we will just name her “Heartburn” and be done with it.

You Just Can't

I know I said a couple of weeks ago that I am a super positive person, but that was clearly either sarcasm or a flat out lie. Today, I shall prove how incredibly NOT positive I really am by pointing out all the things one CANNOT DO with a broken foot and riding a scooter. 

1.      Operate a trash can that utilizes a foot pedal to open the lid. 

Who knew that trash cans were a two-foot device? I think this would be the perfect time to justify one of those motion-sensor cans...

2.      Procure your own motorized shopping cart. 

It doesn’t really matter if you’ve broken your left foot or your right because driving is not the issue. The problem is getting inside once you reach your destination. Sure, you can hop on one foot to the trunk, balance on one leg while you unload the scooter, then scoot your little self inside to the carts. But then what? Push your scooter alongside the motorized shopping cart back to the car? 

3.      Put down the foot rest on a recliner.

Unless, of course, your healthy foot is part Hulk. Then you’re golden.

I wonder if this is similar to the way that men feel when asked to put down the toilet seat...?

4.      Carry your own plate and drink to the table.

Just give up on hot food altogether because your kid’s not going to carry freshly microwaved food for you. But you can garner sympathy for something that won’t burn their fingers. Sandwich, anyone? For the next 6 weeks? 

5.      Stop your crazy toddler from jumping off the mini-fridge onto the futon.

You probably also cannot one-foot-edly get him to the ER when this little activity ends badly…

6.      Stop your crazy toddler from jumping off the train table.

Fun times! Another potential ER visit!

7.      Catch your crazy toddler when he runs away from you.

This one might be a positive if #5 and #6 happened first…

8.      Enforce time out for your crazy toddler.

Good news—you CAN put yourself in time out! 

9.      Wash the bottom of your good foot.

There’s just no good way to balance enough to scrub that foot. And there’s no pedicure to cover for this shortcoming, either. The best bet that I have found is to drop my loofah onto the shower floor, stand on top of it, and twist back and forth. Does that sound at all efficient, effective, or any other positive adjectives to you?

10.   Get a slick, wet baby out of the bathtub.

This task isn’t easy on a good day. While crippled? Well, the kids might just be a little more dirty than normal for a few weeks.

11.   Check a mailbox that lives at the end of a rock driveway.

The children will not understand this. They will blow past you on their bicycles and mock your geriatric pace. Ignore them. Allowing a competitive spirit to creep in and overpower the fear and logic is foolish. Speed up while on those rocks, and you will die. 

12.   Sweep up the piles of goldfish, animal crackers, poptarts, and other crumbly junk food you’ve allowed your children to consume while you’ve been unable to provide proper nourishment. 

Actually, that’s only half true. YOU actually CAN sweep up the piles of crumbs left behind by your children! But… you cannot operate the dustpan. So all you’ve really managed to accomplish is push the dirty, disgusting, stale food remains into an irresistible pile of temptation for the baby and toddler, who have no qualms when it comes to eating off the floor.  

My Broken Foot's Dream House

If I had known that I was going to break my foot, I’d have definitely made some preparations. Number 1 on the list would have been LOSE WEIGHT. 

People, let me tell ya-- there’s a reason Jillian Michaels employs so much jumping and hopping and push-ups in her workouts. It’s because lifting your own weight is a beast, especially when you truly are the size of some beasts. Within the first 24-hours of being confined to crutches, I had developed Crutch Burn under both arm pits and my entire upper body felt like I had just completed a week’s worth of P90X arm routines. Needless to say, I quickly discovered that crutches are more fun in 4^th grade than they are in adulthood.

But, being the positive person that I am, I refuse to dwell on the past and “if only’s”. I prefer to focus on the future. So over the last couple of days, I have made note of all the amenities any future homes that I might purchase must have, just in case I ever have a repeat experience with a broken foot.

If you are in the housing market, I suggest you pay attention, just in case.

1.      My next home will have ZERO stairs, steps, inclines, declines, or uneven surfaces.

It’s bad enough that this entire, hellish ordeal is due to steps, but now, after already proving I am incapable of navigating steps while in top condition, I have to navigate them while handicapped. And rather than a single flight of stairs that I could possibly just avoid by sticking to one level of the house, I have random steps scattered throughout my home. First, there are the 3 infamous steps leading from my kitchen into the back half of the house (that includes the living room and my kids’ room). These steps are evil. They are composed of slick, ridiculously hard tile. They are chipped and cracked and currently mended with duct tape. I hate them. In addition to those, I have 2 steps going down into my bedroom. Meaning there are also 2 steps leading OUT of my bedroom when I need to use the restroom 2, 3, or even 4 times every night thanks to Preggo Bladder. Speaking of restrooms, there are 2 steps leading down into my shower, or one small step (technically, it’s a “lip”, but what’s a lip, really, other than a mini-step?) you have to hurdle to get into my kids’ shower.

It is impossible to avoid the steps.

Every time someone needs a drink or a snack, I have to crutch my fat butt up and down the steps. Every time I need to pee in the night, I have to crutch my fat butt up and down the steps. Every time I need to shower, I have to crutch my fat, naked butt over that mini-step (more on that later…).

I’ve almost fallen to my death about 5 times now. Terrible, right? It gets worse.

Oliver, the baby, loves to climb the steps, but he can’t climb back down- a fact that I well know, but managed to forget in the midst of my own Battle with the Crutches. So there he went, right to the top of the steps, where he sat and reached for Mama to come get him. And I couldn’t because I can’t bend that far over with crutches crammed up under my pits. And I can’t put the crutches down and balance on one foot to get him because I’m a fatty with no core strength. And I can’t kneel onto the steps and get him down and then stand back up because that’s an unreasonable expectation for someone who can’t walk down 3 measly steps without fracturing a bone. So I went to Plan B.

I waved toys. I waved snacks. I clapped and cheered and begged for him to come on down. Seriously, I could have hosted The Price is Right.

Oliver cried and reached for Mama to come get him.

So I sent in the troops—Big Brother Andy. He pretended to run away and called for Oliver to catch him (one of their favorite games). He played with toys on the bottom step and cooed for Oliver to join him. He clapped and cheered and begged. He even tried to gently help Oliver scoot down on his tummy.

Oliver cried harder and reached for Mama to come get him.

After 20 minutes, I realized that the situation was hopeless. That baby was absolutely NOT going to come down those steps on his own. So I caved and sent Andy next door to get the neighbor to help. When Oliver was returned safely back to flat ground, she barricaded the steps with all of my living room furniture: the futon, the arm chair, a side table. It was genius.

Until someone needed a drink and a snack. Dang it. 

2.      My next home will have walk-in showers sans “lip” that are large enough to house a full-size beach chair.

How, exactly, are you supposed to clear that lip on crutches? If you put the crutches on the outside of the shower and try to hop in, you are basically hurtling yourself forward onto a slick surface with only one good foot to land on and no arms for balance. If you put your crutches on the inside of the shower and then hop in, your crutches slip on the slick surface and you fall over anyway. It’s a lose-lose scenario for a klutz.

I did make it (barely) just to endure a one-foot shower. Yes, we do have a small, built-in bench. But it’s gross. It’s slick and slimy from all the spilled shampoo, and it’s really only large enough to seat one cheek comfortably. So I just couldn’t bring myself to fully utilize it. I was concerned I might slip off if I tried. I did kneel on it a little with my broken side to give some relief to my poor, over-worked, fully-operational foot. But the water couldn’t reach the bench, so it wasn’t the most useful set up. I’m pretty sure that only the right half of my body got truly clean during the entire process.

And just so you know, being WET and one-legged is even worse than DRY and one-legged, so the shower exit was hideous. 

3.      My next home will have handicapped-height potties.

The hardest part of my day is going to the bathroom. Trying to undress while balancing on one foot is nearly impossible. (I have high hopes that Dolly Pop clothing will one day be created for humans.) But even after I manage that little chore, I’ve got to sit down on the shortest toilet in Texas, and there’s NOWHERE to put that injured foot. I can’t stretch it out, nor can I sit with my legs up, because no matter how I try to position it, IT HURTS. I really need to pee whilst propping my foot up. But, alas, most bathrooms aren’t equipped with footstools in front of the toilet.

But my next house might be…

4.      My next home will have cul-de-sacs in every room.

Day #2 went much better than Day #1 thanks to a friend who loaned me one of those knee scooter things. Good-bye, crutches! The only problem is that the turning radius of a kneel-and-scoot is not the best. And in my home, which is filled with large baby items such as the pack-n-play, the exersaucer, the walker, the high chair, etc, not to mention the teeny tiny kitchen and narrow hallways, the poor turning abilities are amplified. The only way to get turned around is to balance on one foot while picking up the scooter and repositioning it. 

I believe I’ve already mentioned my lack of core strength. So, a mere hour into my scooting and turning adventures, I managed to fall off the contraption. Instinct kicked in, and I caught my fall with my broken foot. Instinct kicked in again, and I yanked my foot back off the ground, managing to throw me even more off-balance. Thankfully, there was a chair nearby that I was able to stumble-hop-fall into before I totally crashed and burned on the ground.

Clearly, my instincts stink.

5.      My next home will have Panic Corners where I can be shielded from children on 3 sides.

One of the most crucial instructions I received from the doctor was to ice my foot several times a day. Even as he was saying it, I was wondering how in the world I was going to manage to sit still for 20 minutes at a time, multiple times each day, with 3 needy kids vying for my attention. What I did NOT anticipate was the fascination my kids would have with my ice pack. After all, it’s not like it’s fancy. It’s not colorful or textured or unusual in any way. It is ice cubes inside a clear Ziplock bag wrapped in a raggedy hand towel covered in mystery stains. And they LOVE IT.

The first time was, of course, the worst because I was completely unprepared for the fascination. I had the older two kids in front of a spell-binding show on Netflix, and the baby was busy running laps around them in his walker. Everybody was distracted and happy… until Mama got out the ice. Suddenly, everyone needed to investigate. Everyone needed to touch it. Stroke it. Request to lick it.

After a few minutes, Netflix called the older two away. But the baby was entranced with that ice pack. He could not leave it. He needed to have it for his very own. So for a full 10 minutes or so, he tried to steal it. And every time he grabbed the bag and tried to yank it away, my poor, sad foot jostled a little bit.

A.G.O.N.Y.

Eventually, I couldn’t handle it anymore. There was nothing I could do, so I called on Andy to build me a barricade by strategically placing some of the larger baby equipment around my foot rest so that the walker couldn’t come near enough for that ice pack to be disturbed. It worked remarkably well. But it just wasn’t quite good enough for Andy’s satisfaction.

Being a boy, Andy felt that the barricade needed to be bigger and more elaborate, so he got a few of his larger toys out of his room to add a second layer to the barricade. But, being a boy, he felt that the barricade needed to be BIGGER and more elaborate, so he got a few more toys out of his room to put on top of the original structure to give it a bit more height. But, being a boy, he felt that the barricade needed to be BIGGER and MORE ELABORATE...

The final barricade consisted of every, single toy from Andy’s room, along with the bedding from each boys’ bunk. The baby couldn’t have reached that ice pack again if he had tried—which he didn’t because he was so distracted by all the new toys to play with. Unfortunately, the barricade also effectively stranded ME on the couch.

6.      My next house will have built-in cup holders with key pad codes, cages, and an alarm system to alert me of intruders.

My children have really enjoyed the last few days of TV meals. Since Mama can’t maneuver the stairs with the baby, the dining table is out. So they’ve gotten to eat 2 out of 3 meals reclined in the theater chairs in front of a show each day. Bully for them.

I cannot sit in the theater chairs because they are too low to the ground, plus I cannot close the foot rest with only one working foot. So while the kids are lounging in their leather recliners, I’m sitting on the scratchy couch. And while the kids are perfectly entertained in perfect comfort, I get to choose between staring at the wall and getting a giant crick in my neck from watching TV with my head at a right angle. And while the kids have built-in cup holders and giant arm rests for their plates, I am stuck balancing my plate on my lap and cramming my drink in between the couch cushions so it doesn’t fall over.

Now, don’t get me wrong—we do own TV trays. But since Mama can’t get the baby into his high chair for meals, he is now fed from his walker. And from his walker, he is able to pull over TV trays. Able and willing. Able, willing, and on the prowl in search of unsuspecting TV trays, much like a hoodlum teenager looking for a cow to tip.

Despite my best efforts, including the ditching of the trays, I managed to lose two drinks to that baby yesterday and another to my Wild Child. That’s a grand total of three drinks spilled. Three drinks wasted. Three drinks that now needed to be replaced. Three additional trips up those blasted steps to the kitchen.  

THREE.

If someone has already taken the time to invent a lockable cover for thermostats, I see no reason why someone cannot invent a Drink Protector.