“I’m pregnant,” I tell my husband, matter-of-factly. By the fourth kid, the announcements get a little less creative and a little more impromptu. We stand in the middle of the kitchen, dirty dishes piled high in the sink and a stack of unopened mail next to us. I can see him start to lean on the corner of the counter, trying to gain his composure.

His eyes grow wide. “No… you’re not. Seriously?”

We’re planners and preparers, prone to meticulously calculate my cycle and predict when pregnancy can and cannot happen. This one takes us both by surprise.

I show him the positive pregnancy test, revealing those two pink lines like a confession. I always wanted one more; he was content with three. I’m unsure how to interpret his stunned silence.

“Are you mad?” I ask, trying not to cry.

“I just need to lay down for a few minutes,” I tell my husband, Colson, as soon as he walks in the door from work. It’s been a day, and I can feel the exhaustion in every muscle. The head cold making its way through our home seems to have camped out with me longer than everyone else. I also feel like I’ve been on the verge of throwing up pretty much all day long.

I collapse into bed, basking in the quietness of my room. Not three minutes later, I hear screaming.

You know the kind—it’s more than a tantrum and more than a bump or bruise. I should probably go see what’s going on.

I throw off my comforter and stomp down the stairs, a bit too annoyed at the audacity of my child to interrupt my precious alone time with her yelling.

“What’s going on?” I ask Colson, with more than a hint of frustration.

“Izzy fell. I think it’s bad.”

“This is the best day ever!”

My kids have taken to shouting that hyperbolic statement nearly any time they do something they enjoy. Eating ice cream, riding bikes, going to a friend’s house—these all apparently deserve the title of “best day ever.”

The pendulum swings just as far in the other direction, of course. There are about a hundred activities that can cause them to declare any given day the worst ever—eating cooked carrots, having to clean their rooms, not being allowed to play with the hose at 8am when it’s 50 degrees outside, wearing shoes that fit. Who knew that last one could so easily result in a three-year-old naming an otherwise normal Thursday “the worst day ever.”

"Every night before I get my one hour of sleep, I have the same thought: 'Well, that's a wrap on another day of acting like I know what I'm doing.' I wish I were exaggerating, but I'm not. Most of the time, I feel entirely unqualified to be a parent. I call these times being awake."

– Jim Gaffigan