Dear Jen,

I know you're tired. Really, really tired. I don't know how many times the baby woke you up last night, but I know it was a lot. I know that sometimes you fall asleep in the rocking chair and wake up with her still attached to your breast and wonder how long you've been in that position, and whether or not it is worth it to even go re-join your husband in bed or if you should just sit very still right here, since she seems to like it pretty well.

I know that you've got two kids in diapers at the same time, and that you change so many of them each day that you currently feel completely nonchalant about poop. And there is a little part of you, somewhere in the back of your brain, that tells you this is a bad thing--that one ought not to be quite so at ease with excrement--but you ignore it.

I know that it feels like every time you sit down to nurse the baby one of the other kids is begging for a sandwich or crying because someone stole a pony from someone else. I know you could care less if they all steal all the ponies in the world, you just want them to not yell while you're trying to nurse the baby.

I know that you have calluses on the palms of your hand from carrying around that bulky, heavy car seat everywhere you go.

The kids, in 2008.

I know that your only chance of getting away for an extended period of time means that you'll have to leave a bottle with someone, and that leaving a bottle with someone means acquiring breast milk, and that therefore you try to find time in the day every day to strap a plastic contraption involving cords and tubing and an extremely noisy motor and little things called "nipple shields" onto your breasts and try to ignore the loud, grating sound and uncomfortable tugging sensation and close your eyes and will yourself to produce enough milk, just so that you can in good conscience leave your baby with someone for longer than an hour.

I know that you secretly eat the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets off your kids' lunch plates when they are done with them because those stinking breaded fake-meat chemical-filled things are so tasty. But that you feel too guilty about this to actually just make them for your own lunch.

I know that the kids follow you everywhere, even into the bathroom while you're on the toilet. Even into the shower, sometimes. I know that sometimes you think  you will never be alone again, ever.

I know that sometimes you're lonely, and you just want to get out of the house, but the only places you can think of to go are the grocery store, or the library, or the park, and you've been to those three places so many times that you would rather sit inside and stare at your messy house than go there again.

I have news for you.

In just a few short years (yes, short years--you were right about that blog title) all of that will be gone. Gone, gone, gone.

By 2012, you will not remember the last time you changed a poopy diaper. The only time you will have to deal with your children's excrement is when you view it from (relatively) afar if they forget to flush. The toilet. That's right. All your children will poop on the toilet, every single day.

By 2012, you will no longer use sippy cups. At all.

By 2012, you will be able to answer a phone call with your children right there in the room, talk to an adult for a few minutes (note that I said a few, not a lot) and your children will know that they are not to disturb you.

In 2012, your children will make their own beds (when you remind them to).

And they'll get dressed all by themselves, every single day. Even coats and shoes.

In 2012, you will no longer own a diaper bag. Or a breast pump. Or a pacifier. Good Lord, the pacifiers. You will have actually forgotten how you used to stash pacifiers in strategic places all over the house, and in the car, and your purse, and the coat pockets, and the diaper bag, all for fear that you will need to quiet your screaming child and you won't be able to because you won't have that crucial little piece of plastic.

Nobody will spit up on you, in 2012.

You will be able to take your children out in public with no special equipment at all. Nothing other than a pencil and whatever scraps of paper you find in the bottom of your purse, and they will actually be able to entertain themselves with these things, and sit quietly and behave in polite company. (Not always. But it has actually been known to happen).

The kids, four years later (almost. This was fall 2011. Close enough).

You will be longing, mentally begging, for a day when you can just stay at home all day, but that never happens, not ever, because not only do the kids have schools, sports, and social lives, you yourself will have work, and a lot of volunteer stuff, and a lot of friends that you enjoy spending time with.

You will still be tired, but it's because you never slow down enough to let yourself catch up. You can't really blame it on the kids anymore.

All those things that completely consumed your life--potty training, and pursuing a coordinated nap schedule, and fretting about whether or not your baby got enough milk at her last feeding--you won't think about them anymore, at all. They will go from 100% of your brain capacity to zero.

So don't worry, Jen of 2008. Right now you feel completely overwhelmed, pulled into pieces, like there just is not enough of you to go around. But I'm here to tell you: they get bigger. And life gets easier.

With love and empathy,

Jen of 2012