Oh, sure, it started out cute. On the first night together, we decided to have a movie night and announced for everyone to get into their PJ's. The kids made quick work, with the 4-year-old boy emerging in Spiderman pajamas, the kind complete with webbing attached under the armpits so when he spread his arms out, he looked like he might be able to fly. He was at the top of the stairs calling for me to "hurry up" when I said, "Wait, let me get my PJ's on."
That boy put a hand on his hip, and said, "Don't tell me you have the same PJ's as me!"
And sure, there were some initial conflicts between child and adult. On the same aforementioned night, the 7-year-old boy insisted we rent out a slasher movie in tradition with movies he had thus far been allowed to watch. He could not understand why, there in the middle of Blockbuster Video, we were arguing against his gathered suggestions. We settled on "The Adventures of Shark Boy and Lava Girl". (In hindsight, Freddy Krueger would have been less nauseating.)
But less than a week into parenthood, my husband and I found ourselves cowering in our bed late one night wondering aloud, "Why the heck do people even have kids???!"
Being the intellectual I am, I developed some theories that went something like this:
1 kid = The adults thought it seemed like a good idea.
2 kids = The adults were absolutely stupid and did not use protection.
3 kids = The adults clearly have a mental illness.
4+ kids = The adults had given up hope of normalcy and allowed themselves to be engulfed by The Kid-Abyss.
There was no other logical reasoning.
Eventually, I outgrew some of my cynicism and revised the reason for "2 kids" to "The adults thought the first one needed a friend and 'maybe it won't be so hard this time.'" All the other explanations kicked down to the next number.
Several years have passed since I first developed my thoughts regarding kids. What do I think now that I have two beautiful children of my own, and David insists on a third?
I stand by my theories.