I was nine months pregnant one hot June Sunday when I walked
out of church with an elderly member of our congregation. She had raised ten
children herself and inquired as to how I was doing in the heat. I told her I
was scheduled for a C-section in three days and she shook her head at
“technology today.” Then she asked, “What number is this one anyway?” It took
me a minute to understand that she was referring to what number child I was due
to deliver. I told her it was my third and she said, “That’s the back breaker
honey, good luck!” before ambling off to her car.
I puzzled at her remark, but a few weeks after I returned
home from the hospital with my new baby, I understood exactly what she meant by "back breaker." I have never been as exhausted as I was in those days. For some
reason going from two kids to three kids was an exponential jump rather than
simple addition. Suddenly I didn’t have enough hands or laps or food or time or
energy. And it certainly hasn’t let up. I don’t know how she managed ten. I was
done at three.
