Running Over

At some point, we hit a lull with the amount of children populating our family. I use family in the singular sense because mine doesn’t count. It’s my family – all four of us – then that’s it. I’m an only child (which is starting to be a recurring mention in my posts – I’m sensing some hostility within myself). I don’t have nieces or nephews. What cousins I do have are second and third generation, and I rarely see them unless someone dies.

I don’t know what I was thinking marrying BFam. Not only is he the oldest of his clan (which, as I’ve read in various online articles, is not the greatest match with an only child), but he has a buttload of siblings, nieces, nephews, and cousins. I feel like I need a tally sheet talking to them. Because whose kid are you? And how are you related again? And I’m your what?

BFam’s siblings range in age. The youngest sibling is sixteen (and I’m probably getting that wrong but see my previous statement: I can’t keep up). There are a good mix of girls and boys. Save for the sixteen-year-old, almost all of his siblings have procreated.

And this wouldn’t be such a big deal, but I’ve officially gone from having hardly any family to HOLY CATS WHERE DID ALL THESE PEOPLE COME FROM?

And the birthdays?! Don’t even get me started on the birthdays. Sweet Georgia Brown, all these little people! As if I wasn’t having enough trouble already!

I’m going to need everyone to go on procreation lock down. What’s trickier than asking everyone to keep their legs closed than getting that word out to 1.5 million relatives.