Our local park has a wonderful little day camp that the YMCA heads up during the summer. It’s really laid back. You can participate some days, decide not to other days…show up late, leave early. Sometimes we take advantage of the program, cause frankly…any adult showing any amount of interest in any of my children proves to be a much needed break from the constant questions and requests and shoe tying and head nodding and guiding and coaxing that comes with the territory of being 100% invested in your kids childhood. Mostly I’ll drop the 3 older kids off and run 1 or 2 errands and return with the 2 little guys so Owen can participate in the end of day craft. I lay out a blanket and set the baby down and read or write or stare off or deep breath or pass out…whatever is needful, while the camp counsellors enjoy the mess my kids are known to make with paint. Today was no different. I sat enjoying Max’s giant, chubby smiles while the kids played freely on the playground. Iris and Flynn came and sat on the blanket…goofy, giggling. I sensed they had something to share with me. Iris begins, “Mom, Flynn set up a little prank for me in the bathroom.” She’s all smiles.
I turn my attention from blowing raspberries on Max’s belly…”Oh yeah? Like, what kind of prank?” My “super-furrow” fully in place.

Flynn won’t allow Iris to steal his thunder, “I put ketchup packets under the toilet seat…”

Iris eagerly chimes in, “and when I sat down…BOOF! Ketchup went everywhere!” They are both laughing.

“ARE YOU KIDDING!?” I forcefully inquire.

“Mom, we cleaned it up.” Flynn assures me.

“But we did set up another little prank for someone else…”

“What!?”

My attention is turned towards the bathrooms. There is a small crowd. Some children, a parent, a counselor, the lady who cleans the bathrooms. I want to crawl out of my skin…perhaps return at a later date. The woman in charge of the bathrooms steps to the center of the park and announces, “Hey guys! I don’t know who is making messes in the bathrooms with ketchup, but you need to come clean it up!” By this time the twins have resumed playing on the playground. They immediately climb down from the spiderweb and walk towards the woman. I watch from a distance…they have been turned over to the wolves. The mother walks beside Flynn, shaking her finger at him…saying something. I remain on my blanket…partial disbelief washing over me. I want to pretend I’m very preoccupied with my fussy baby, but he’s not fussy. He’s laying there like a little angel. He might as well be saying “Go ahead mom. I can see that you have something to take care of. I’ll be here, just behaving myself while you deal with your oldest children and all the embarrassment they have brought upon the family.” I let a few minutes go by. I call Chris. Surprise him with the news. He assures me that we are not raising delinquents but are in fact raising kids who aren’t afraid to “try things out” and “see how things go.” We decide that the twins will clean the bathrooms for the next 3 days of camp. I hang up the phone and approach the first counselor.

“Hey…So I’m sure you realize that was my kids that did the ketchup in the bathroom…I am so sorry. I really couldn’t be more embarrassed…”

He’s shaking his head…”Honestly, I never would have guessed it was them…”

“Ya, I don’t know if they realized that it was a bad thing to do…they came to me on the blanket and mentioned doing a little prank…I’m just so sorry.”

He assures me it’s no big deal and says how nice it was that they confessed and cleaned it up.

I approach the next two women that are owed apologies…I may not have been cleaning up ketchup, but I was instead cleaning up the aftermath of raising some free spirited, unknowing little pranksters. As I near the women I over hear “…what would ever make a child do something like that…”

“Hi! That was my kids!” (I’m feeling more confident as I recite the apology for the second/third time) “I guess Flynn read about it in a comic book and I really don’t think he considered the consequences. I am embarrassed and ashamed and I spoke to my husband and we decided the twins can clean the bathrooms for the next 3 days.”

“Oh. Well that would be fine. We have gloves and cleaning supplies.”

“Great. And again, I’m just sorry.”

The twins spent the next 3 days cleaning the bathrooms after camp and one of the overseers of the park let me know that they were very respectful, hard working kids and “all kids make mistakes, but the way they came forward and have followed thru with cleaning really said something about what kind of kids they are…”

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about “the things you didn’t know you were signing up for” when you become a parent. I had no idea that I was actually volunteering to walk beside someone while they build every ounce of character that their growing frame can equip itself with. I had no clue the amount of “witnessing of catastrophe” that would be involved. No one mentions the endless “we don’t talk about poop at restaurants” mini classes I’d be teaching. People fall out of trees while I’m in charge. They wreck their bikes. They fight with each other. They take each others stuff. They say “swears”. They PEE ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR!! They waste ALL the milk. They DONT eat meals but they DO eat snacks. They break dishes and lose their shoes. And all the while I am the ever present stand by…with band aids and Clorox wipes and freely offered apologies. Oh yea, when you’re a mom, more appropriately a mom of five, you better have a ceaseless supply of heartfelt apologies ready to be offered at the drop of a hat (literally…like when your kid stands up in a crowded place and makes some kind of sudden, sweeping arm motion and knocks a persons hat off their head..). Grace for miles. Sometimes I become tempted to “never take these kids out in public again!” But then I try to remember that it is my job to change my children’s perspective. I looked at 3 1/2 month old Max the other day and I was struck with the realization that wherever I set him down, that’s what he sees. He doesn’t get to decide he’s bored looking at the ceiling fan and walls in the living room and get up and walk to the kitchen or back porch. He does start crying, however. And it’s my role to be his “perspective changer”. The same goes for the older kids. By the end of the week at the day camp, after Flynn and Iris cleaned the bathrooms for 3 days in a row, I asked them, “So guys, after cleaning the bathrooms for a few days, how would you feel if you went in to do your job and there was a huge ketchup mess for you? Would it make ya smile real big?” I don’t need to quote them…they knew it would suck. Sometimes your kids suck. And it’s your job to help them to want to suck less. Even excel if possible…cause whether you know it or not…you signed up for this. Cheers!

It’s just been one of those days.  The kind of day where you need to look at the old man crossed eyed the minute he walks in the front door and say,  “Hello. I am not winning today. This day has completely overtaken me and it is only this thin layer of skin keeping me from disintegrating into one more mess in this house that will eventually need to be cleaned up before it turns into another one of those darkened “juice stain” areas on the kitchen floor. I’m only forming this sentence because of the mason jar of coffee I pounded like vitamin water just moments ago. Here is the baton (baby, rather). Beam me down when dinner is ready.” (Hover exits room)

Chris is at class. Maxwell is crying. The kids are in the yard. The neighbor twins are out and there is unbridled volume coming from their general direction. Owen falls from the wood pile as I instruct children to clean up shards of broken plastic…in an effort to keep the yard some what safe. (Ironic?) I go to him, assess the damage. Scraped knees. I help him out of the wood pile and we walk toward the house to clean and kiss boo-boos. While holding Max in the sling and wetting a paper towel for Owen’s scrapes I hear the unmistakable “pain cry” from Micah, just outside the back porch. I immediately leave the recently wounded yet stable child to assess new injuries to a second child. Micah’s eyes are overflowing as he tries to tell me that he hit his head on the side walk. Sensing my confusion, he tearfully continues to reenact the running…the golf club straight out in front of him…the edge of the sidewalk that catches the golf club…the catapulting action that flipped him over the golf club, landing him on his head on the sidewalk. He is seated on the back porch now, applying Ice to his head while I make sure his pupils are dilating. Owen approaches, clearly jaded at how easily distracted I have become. I return to the former task of caring for his scuffed knees. Meanwhile the kitchen counters and table are covered with the days grocery booty…waiting for someone (whoever you are) to put it all where it belongs. Per the consistent request of the children, I had also previously started making a batch of powerballs or as the kids call it “bird food” (an oat, seed, peanut butter, honey, chocolate chip, ball shaped snack). Within minutes all the children have congregated around the bowl to help add ingredients. Micah sitting to my right, still applying ice to his head. Owen sitting on top of the table among some grocery bags and a banana peel. Iris holding a measuring cup, waiting for instruction. Flynn, casually distancing himself at the end of the table. A day of touring the county’s finest discount grocery stores for camping snacks for the upcoming weekend has left him exhausted and uninterested in sous chef duties. Sensing an opportunity to put all our energy in an organized and positive direction, I give orders from the handicapped paradise that is swaying back and forth with an arm load of 3 week old baby love. As we read the recipe, I alert the kids that we are doubling the quantity and ask them to tell me how much of each ingredient we will need accordingly. We are half way thru the recipe. Everyone taking turns. Scooping. Pouring. Measuring. I ask, “Micah, can you tell me how much honey the recipe says to use?” Micah is propping/icing his head with one hand, he is staring down at the recipe. Unenthusiastically he responds, “I can’t read it. It’s in Chinese.” It is actually hand written in my slanted print. With such ease he has quenched our worn spirits with a moment of much needed laughter. I am once again reminded that for every ten horrific parenting moments in a day, thankfully there is usually one that takes your breath away…or allows you to start breathing again. (Cause maybe you’re like me and you’ve been holding your breath in anticipation for the next “running with golf club” incident) And those moments help dissolve the prickly, threatening words exchanged in a grocery store bathroom while you tried to scare your kids into behaving. They disintegrate the inadequacy you feel when you’ve lost track of how long your 4 year old has been playing gameboy. These moments span the chasm that is full of all your failures and overwhelmed, ill advised parenting catastrophes. It is in these precious, candid, spiritual snippets of life that we need to remain. Lingering in the reality that we DONT want to escape, believing that these are what are flavoring this cooking experiment and the rest is just to keep us appreciative and grasping at the flavorful entree that awaits. Like when healthy food tastes good and the kids are surprised. Yeah, there are lentils and kale and whole wheat pasta involved, but they aren’t making up the savory undertones of the stew. Understanding that when things taste bad, it’s only because they are waiting to get good. Really, REALLY, good. But maybe one ingredient is missing, like timing or a right attitude or a soft heart. And being brave enough to taste it all, even while the recipe is still in its infancy and there are lessons to be learned about what flavors to never combine and what ones work well together. And also keeping the sobering understanding that at any moment a child helper could over salt the whole pot or add an eggs worth of shells and you’re still going to pretend it’s delicious…cause it’s what’s for dinner.  It’s reality.

Chris is doing his marathon evening of classes (5:00-9:30) while the kids and I do bath night and laundry and nothing too especially spectacular, but this being our third one of these Tuesday nights this semester, I realize I’m beginning to really enjoy them. The kids are all a little easier on me in this the 8th month of what feels like a perpetual pregnancy…sensing that with dad away in the evening, I might be a bit more fragile than usual. Iris runs a bath for Owen and reads him a book. Micah brushes his teeth and puts himself to bed. Flynn comes in my room while I hang up laundry and chats with me…keeping me company. After retelling me what he most recently read in his Calvin and Hobbes comics, he asks if I want to see the injury he sustained earlier today while whittling a small block of cedar wood. “Yeah. Lemme see that”…realizing that when he told me about it earlier, he had already cleaned and bandaged it and therefore I never actually saw how bad the wound was. He holds out his finger. I said “You cleaned it? Right?” Both of us observing the dried blood around the small wound, he says “I did. But maybe I should clean it again.”
“Yeah. Go wash it. It’s gonna be fine.” Not immediately acting on my advice, Flynn drifts onto the next topic. “Mom, have you ever had a huge blister?”
“I can’t recall one lately, but I’m sure I have.”
“Like, did you ever have a blister from a burn.”
“Oh. Definitely.”
He stops bouncing on my bed long enough to reminisce…
“I remember once I had a big blister on my hand from the wood stove and this kinda weird kid in my first grade class said to me ‘Hey, could I get a little peek at your infection?'”
We both start laughing…mostly because of the weird, small voice that Flynn used to impersonate the boy…but also because at the ripe young age of a first grader, there is no awkwardness yet in expressing a compulsive interest in someone else’s “infection”. May he take that compulsion into some medical profession and be the very best in his field!

After finishing the lunch buffet at Taj Mahal Indian restaurant in Lancaster, ALL children needed to use the bathroom. Upon entering the hallway to the bathroom, they became enamoured with the beaded curtain separating the dining room from the bathroom corridor, adding several minutes to the already laborious bathroom routine that sweeps thru their small, overly efficient digestive systems after a meal. By the time everyone returned, the table had been cleared and the restaurant was almost empty (it had been completely full when we arrived). I asked a waiter if we needed to pay at the register or if the check would be brought to the table. She walked away to get our check and stayed away for another 5-7 minutes (which feels like forever when you’re keeping your kids from running their customary post lunch laps) She returned and told us in broken english that our bill had been paid. Surprised, Chris asked by whom? She motioned to the only other table of people left in the restaurant…a family of seven…with teenaged children…a set of twin girls in there. After the redness in our faces subsided (as the kids kept loudly asking “Who paid our bill!?”) we approached their table to thank them. The mother and father (of 8 kids total, their married children weren’t present) told us we reminded them of themselves not that many years ago. They said what a delight all their children have been to them and they expressed understanding that a large family isn’t always something people have positive opinions about, but that it’s such a special gift, and so worth it. While it was delightful to leave with our 60ish bucks, it was even more delightful to leave with their kind, encouraging words…especially in my 8 month pregnant “here we go again” condition. In a world with four person max capacity hotel rooms and food products featuring the words “family sized” that feed only half of the people you’re trying to sustain through another meal…and yes, most people with an opinion about “all those kids”, it’s nice to know that there are other crazies out there who have made it to the other side of raising a big, occasionally unmanageable family and can look back with enough fondness on the years that we are currently in to want to bless and encourage us in a profound way. Their actions spoke volumes to the kids, and I can’t wait to do the same to some overwhelmed, unsuspecting family someday. In the words of Michael Scott, “When I grow up, I wanna have a hundred kids…that way I’ll have at least a hundred friends.”