OK, so maybe having three children is a BIT mad

I know I've vented on this blog before about people (especially Londoners) treating you like a freak for having three kids. OK, so it means you have more children than you have hands, say, or eyes. OK, so the kids outnumber the parents. OK, so it's just not as neat and tidy and compartmentalised as having two. But I like it, OK? I like the mess, the chaos, the general zooishness of home with three kids in it. I like the ever-changing dynamics between the kids. I like it when they all laugh together; when they invent games together; when they sing and dance round the living room together. Lately, however, I've been beginning to realise why perhaps so many people pursuing careers as well as trying to maintain family lives stop at one or two. Having three kids seems to have tipped me over the edge on the control front. Over the last week I've been desperately trying to get back on top of an overburdened email inbox and attempting to start at 5,000 word article on the future of publishing for a US-based journal at the same time as managing Ava's first birthday celebrations, circumnavigating the world of children's entertainers (in preparation for Eden's sixth celebrations), planning Nathan's start at nursery and trying to stay on top of Eden's new school requirements (in Year 1 they get Homework and have things called School/Home Contact Books and have to learn Spellings. Yikes). Things crystallised further tonight as I picked up some random hair clips of Eden's from the bathroom floor and mused, for the millionth time, on where all the missing hair clips go. It's the same with missing socks and the tiny parts from toys. These all seem like small things, I know, but the cumulative effect of not being in control of all these seemingly insignificant things adds weight to the other more serious challenges. Maybe it was having No 3 that sent me over the edge. Or maybe it was child No 3 that just stopped me from being a hideous control freak. Instead I am only a mild control freak. Or something. A Mum pal was regaling me the other day about how she carefully pairs all the socks for her and her kids, but refuses to do this for her partner. He throws them on opposite sides of the room when he takes them off, so he doesn't deserve the full sock-pairing service, she reasons. If only I ever got round to pairing any socks! Sigh.