It can be awfully easy to get all selfish and self-pitying, can’t it?

No one understands what you’re going through . . . you’re somehow busier than everyone else . . . everyone gets what they want and you’re the only one who has to make sacrifices . . . right?

Blech. I hate feeling that way, and what makes it worse is knowing that the only thing that’s going to make anything better is me changing my attitude.

Now, this post is not meant to be an advertisement for birth control, but having two kids is hard. There might be some super-moms out there shaking their heads at me, but that’s fine. They can just watch smugly as their two-year-olds rub their feet and wash the dishes and shake their heads right on out of here.

The other day, Paul made some joke about hiring a nanny and I actually said something totally serious like “I just don’t think we’d be able to afford that.”

Do I actually want a nanny? No; I love staying at home and being a mom. Would I like to poop by myself every once in awhile? Yes, actually, yes I would. If we were bathing in money, I would pay someone to hang out with the kids for two hours, three days a week. I honestly would. I could get some work done, shower, blog, re-watch all six available seasons of Doctor Who on Netflix . . . whatever. I know that some people might call that “pre-school,” but, again, if someone can provide me with a bathtub full of money, I’d be all over it.

Here’s the dealio, yo’s: this is what we’ve got. This is the path we’ve chosen, and I think we all know that pretty much every path has its bumpy patches. Sure, I’ve been basically attached to the same little person for six weeks now, which means I’ve been completely alone for a total of . . . I’m going to say . . . four hours in the past month and a half. But, really, that’s okay, because now she’s started smiling real, non-gas-induced smiles and still does that awesome full-body baby butt-stretch, which is one of the cutest things in the world.

Sure, Charlie is going through what seems like a never-ending pants-peeing stage . . . but after he pees his pants he’ll smile and do this wiggly noodle dance and run away in order to diffuse the situation.

How . . . I mean, really, how do you even react to that? If you’ve never gone from seeing-red-pissed to almost-pee-your-own-pants-laughing in .06 seconds, babysit a toddler with potty-training regression. Looking for a trial subject? Have your people call my people.

Remember when you and your husband used to have all the time in the world to hang out with each other, go grab a drink, or even talk for more than five minutes without either a) hearing someone scream “You count to ten!” or b) falling asleep?

I vaguely do. Vaguely.

Back when we had that freedom, though, we had no idea what it was like to look at our two kick-ass/exhausting children and feel what it’s like to be that in love with that many people.

Right now, those quiet moments may be rarer than the frustrating, pee-and-puke ones, but, again, that’s what we’ve got. No one’s going to make me love my life but me, and the more time I spend feeling all “waaaaah, waaaah, waah” the less time I’m going to have to enjoy it.

So there, Self. Enjoy your 25 minutes of sleeping baby time and have another cup of coffee.