Dear Kids,

As you know, I am pregnant.

This would explain why I haven’t been myself lately. It is the reason I can’t stand the smell of milk and have a hard time keeping it together when I see commercials with dogs. It is the reason I have been eating Mexican almost every night and why I sometimes finish the entire pizza in the car before we get home. Do you want to know why I have been spending so much time in the bathroom? It’s because my bladder feels like it is going to explode or I might barf. It is the reason I look like an old woman going through late stage puberty. Let’s just say I am currently fighting a war against hormonal acne, and I am not winning.

But this is just part of the process that comes with Operation Family Expansion. I will be a disaster the next few months because I am growing your new best friend in my lady sac. Consider the baby occupying my uterus as someone else you can complain with about your parents. You will have someone else to help you move furniture into your apartment or pay for the deposit for our senior citizen housing.

Think of this as one more member of the team. We were running a pretty solid game with three of you, but now we are taking things straight to the playoffs. In fact the best thing we’ve probably ever done for you is to give you siblings. The four of you will be there for each other the entire arc of your life. Your own spouse and kids won’t show up until much later down the road. Sure, we’re here for you now, but you might not be able to count on us once we retire and figure out we really like golf.

I promise you things won’t change too much. Yes, we are going to have get an enormous car, one of you will have to share a room until I can find a compound to accommodate us, the amount you will receive in the will should be drastically reduced, and there will probably never be enough crackers or juice boxes, but this baby is yours.

So all I ask is that you bear with me through these next few months. I might forget to pick you up from ballet on time, the refrigerator might be stocked with strange foods, and every sentence might end with “because your father did this to me.” I may on occasion call you by the wrong name, enroll you in too many after school activities, or drop you off at the wrong birthday party. Please understand I will go back to normal when the baby is at least 6-12 months old.

All my love,

Mom

Kate is the author of You Know You Are Pregnant When... Funny Quotes From Women Who Have Been There