Recently my mother, who is forever purging her house so it will be organized in case she unexpectedly dies, unloaded some of my childhood toys on me and I rediscovered a beloved doll about the size of my thumb. This miniature baby was particularly special because she came with a slew of crocus-sized of dresses with matching bloomers. To my six-year-old mind she was everything I thought a baby girl would be. At 39, she’s a reminder that I don’t have a daughter and stirs up all those ‘are we finished with the baby phase yet’ feelings. It’s a question that’s always simmering in the back of my mind, particularly when I don’t have a lot of deadlines looming. I’ll watch the boys playing well together and I imagine an invisible infant gurgling next to them and I think that’s what my complete family should look like.  Then about two hours later, my life will unravel as it tends to do. I’ll realize I’ve left dog in the car for the entire afternoon or I forgot to deposit a paycheck and bounce a stream of checks I’ll mix up a birthday party start time and arrive just when it’s over causing Conrad to sob loudly, very, very loudly. It’s those moments when I know I couldn’t handle 100% more of a person in my life.  Yet, three days later, I see a pink tutu and my fugue-state-fantasies start all over again.

So when I found my old tiny doll, I took and ironic stance, named her Third Baby and I let the boys play with her like the sister they never wanted. One night found her naked on the bathroom floor when the boys were in the tub. I picked her up and in mock scolding, I said: “What have you done to “Third baby?”
They looked startled and from my tone they weren’t entirely sure if I was kidding. Then, I accidentally dropped Third Baby in the tub, screamed, and frantically tried to save her from drowning which caused a lot of silly splashing and the boys burst out laughing.

It was fun to play with Third Baby.

I upped the ante by taking Third Baby and pretended to put her in a “safe place” on the floor in the doorjamb when all of a sudden (whoops!) I closed the bathroom door and Third Baby got crushed.

The boys erupted in hysterics.

For my final act, I soothed Third Baby and explained she needed a rest. I placed her on the sink and told them it was time to come out and brush their teeth. But instead of getting out their toothbrushes, I did my best impression of Mr. McGoo and grabbed Third Baby and covered her in Strawberry Explosion toothpaste.  Dashiell laughed so hard I thought he was going to vomit.

Third Baby kills.

Now, night after night the boys beg to play with Third Baby, never tiring of my half-baked take on The Mr. Bill show. Third baby is a source of joy in our house, probably more than an actual third baby really would be. Even funnier is hearing the boys chant: More Third Baby! More Third Baby. David is also in on the joke and he’s far better at slapstick than I am. He crushes her in the laundry basket. Nearly drowns her in the toilet and can eat and spit her up better than any hired clown.

The other night all four of us were deep in the throws of a Third Baby tub session and the boys starting to pretend to kiss Third Baby and say: I love Third Baby. Naturally it became a competition, “No I love Third Baby more,” said Dashiell. “No me,“ said Conrad. “No, Me!” said Dashiell trying to grab her from his brother. But when Dash went to grab her he slipped and splashed me with a Tsunami of water.  The floor, the bathmat, the shower curtain, the mirror as well as my hair, my t-shirt and leggings were drenched. It was such a bad mess that everyone just cracked up. David broke out a bunch of towels and while were drying everything off and I was crying from laughing so hard, I hoped this hilarious little moment would congeal into a memory for the boys, because I wouldn’t forget it. If I’d been looking for completeness, it was staring me down in the form of soaking underpants and two giggling little boys. Third Baby let me know that what I have is indeed, enough. I don’t need to imagine invisible gurgling babies anymore—at least not for a while. I have a full house now. We just can’t ever lose that little doll.

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 26th, 2009 at 12:15 pm and is filed under Random acts of mothering. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.