I’m sitting here with tired bones, only awake because I am 3 ounces short for tomorrow’s last daycare bottle and need to wait another hour to let the stock replenish, if you will. Surely this is the part of life I will look back on one day and just shake my head in an “Oh LIFE. Wasn’t that just the craziest time?” kind of way. Because if there is some other time coming up that’s gonna be that instead, no thank you.

Oh hello! It’s been a while since we’ve talked. Let’s catch up. I’ve started with my boobs. Next up: lice! Who’s excited?

Noah and Rosie had lice last week, which is exactly as horrible as you might imagine it to be. Noah’s hair is short, but he has MOUNDS of it, and Rosie’s hair goes on for miles. I think between the two of them they may have watched eight hours of movies, while L and I moussed and shampooed and combed and combed and combedandcombedandcombed through their hair. Which, one, is tedious. And two, the whole point of the tedium is to PICK TINY BUGS AND THEIR EGGS OFF THEIR HEADS. Full body shudder. I will spare you the gory details of the worst bits of it, but I will tell you that the way we discovered there was even a problem in the first place was that I saw a grown-ass louse crawling across Max’s tiny innocent bald baby head. And then I died, the end.

Speaking of Max, he is still juicy and delicious. (But not for bugs. DO YOU HEAR ME BUGS?)

He’s seriously the most contented little guy ever, which after the colicky days of yore (slash a couple of months ago) is both miraculous and fabulous. He’s started to figure out that the wavy things in front of his face can be controlled by his head parts, and so now puts on a pursed-lip concentrated look while he stares down his target and flings his arms in that general direction. It’s one of those things about babies getting older that I forgot I love so much. Which of course makes me all sunriiiiise sunnnnset over silly things like him successfully jamming a giraffe leg in his mouth to munch on. But you guys, he used to couldn’t do that! Next thing I know he’ll be waving over his shoulder as he drives his overpacked jalopy off to another year of college, and I will be OLD. Dear Max: Quit it with the getting big. (Just kidding, keep on keepin’ on. But no, really, slow down a little bit. But not too much. But …)

And while we’re on the topic of getting old, someone around here will be turning 4 in one month.

She’s already talking about what she’ll do when she’s 5. Because of course she is.

As for me, I can’t even figure out what I’m going to wear tomorrow, let alone what I’ll do with the next year of my life, so I’d better hit the sack. Or is it the hay that you hit? Who cares, as long as I go down swinging.

Editor’s note: We traveled back in time to recount the beginning of Rachel’s life as a mom of three. This post is from September 2012. She’s gotten the groove with her brood in Decatur. She blogs at yestertimeblog.com.