Turns out, I don’t do enough stuff that I like. I mean that I ACTUALLY like. I sweep my floors because I like the way a clean floor looks, but I don’t deeply enjoy sweeping. I like to feel organized and like NOT a pig, so I take care of our home. I cook because taking seven people out to eat all the time is insane. But making a giant mess in my kitchen and watching 6 other people eat for 5-10 minutes before undertaking the chore of cleaning up said mess so that I can wake up in the morning and do it a few more times isn’t my idea of fun. I have gathered that my purpose in this life isn’t necessarily to enjoy myself ALL the time or to always get to do stuff that I like…but I’m serious…I’m losing myself over here. So this year I have resolved to do the one thing that I enjoy that I never get to do enough. WRITE.

I’ll do anything before I’ll sit down and write. I’ll clean our moldy, dungeon of a basement before I’ll sit down and write. I’ll try a new recipe that seems too difficult and ends with a lot of wasted ingredients before I’ll sit and write. I’ll go clean the litter pan before I’ll JUST SIT DOWN AND WRITE!!! WHY? Why wont I just spend an hour a week doing this thing that I enjoy. I think I’m afraid of how much I like it. I think that if I do it too much I’ll stop liking it. Maybe if I do it too much people will start criticizing it and that wont feel good.  If I sit down and write for an hour a week I might actually get the hell out of my own way and GOD FORBID…have a hobby that I personally really enjoy. So, welcome. I’m done back burnering this thing. I’m 32 friggin years old. If I don’t start taking this hour now, it might never happen.

At the end of the day, I’m doing my family a favor by spending this time writing.  Chris has told me that if our home were on fire, he would grab my journals.  Within those flimsy, mishandled covers lies a treasure that this family would probably never miss until some distant holiday when we realized how great it would be to read about the time when Owen was 2 years old and he pooped in Joy’s litter pan cause someone was using the only bathroom in the house.  (And I’m sure we’ll marvel that we ever existed with only ONE bathroom!) We have already sat around the dinner table and laughed until we’ve cried as we’ve let the everyday moments of the past come to life anew from the pages of what someone else might consider a piece of trash, a used notebook.  I am learning that every act we perform is either a favor or a disservice to our future self.  When I take my socks off and throw them on the floor beside my hamper, it will most likely be ME who has to bend over and pick those socks up on laundry day and put them where they need to be.  Life sometimes feels like a giant math problem, and investing in myself and in my family will never put me in the red.

I’m choosing this day to change how I think about “sitting down to write”  I’m done imagining that it is a difficult thing that a woman with five kids doesn’t have time for.  I’m done treating it like something that has to be perfect before it can be shared…my cooking certainly isn’t perfect and I’m forced to share that on a daily basis.  I’m done believing that if I have a blog, it has to be like other peoples blogs and be really polished and edited and everything has to be spelled correctly.  I’m ready to accept that I don’t like writing because it is perfect and lovely.  I like writing because it is the opposite.  It is the clearest way I’ve ever known to document the frailty and mistakes and brevity and majesty and complexity of the little stuff.  When I jot down a quick note about Micah falling asleep with gum in his mouth and waking up with it in his armpit and being therefore taken by surprise by what looked like premature armpit hair, I’m doing future Autumn the biggest favor that anyone can.  She will laugh and she will share it with her children and her husband and we will all be reminded of what love is and what family is for.

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)

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.”

It is early.  Saturday morning.  Only Owen and I are downstairs.  Surprisingly, we have had a fluid morning of getting dressed and shoed…unlike most other mornings, riddled with argument and bribery, that I’ve endured to get the clothes on the boy child. It simply isn’t natural for him quite yet.  But today, as I sit on the sofa sipping my coffee, waiting for the house to come alive, he is approaching with coat in hand…something on the agenda it would seem.  He convinces me to let him cross the alley and search our parked van for his “Karate Sticks”.  “I’ll look both ways, Mom!”, he excitedly announces.  We’ve worked up to this and the kids know they don’t walk out the front door without a parental heads up…not in this hood…not with the county probation office just down the alley and folks all stormin past the front of our house after a rough visit to the P.O. (I’ve overheard a lot of post P.O. visit phone converstaions…to some enabling family member or maybe a “used to being belittled significant other.” It’s not pretty.)  So I watch him out the front window while he searches the van.  He emerges back thru the front door moments later, clearly disappointed in the search results but holding a fresh, ice cold bottle of water from the floor of the van.  “They weren’t there.” His face having told the story long before words got involved.  I’m still fresh with the days beginnings and feeling my first cup of coffee doing its job, so I put my best foot forward.  “Bummer.  You want a drink of that nice, cold water?”

“No.”

“Well, I do.  Can I have a sip?” Im trying to seem excited about what he did return from his cold, friutless trip out the front door possessing.  I hold out my hand while he helpfully twists the cap off with his teeth, grasping the bottle in his two small hands.  He’s a little bit proud of this trick.  He holds the bottle out to me, eager for the exchange.  I enjoy a refreshing sip of the ice cold water.  He is pleased.  Until he has enough time (really only a moment) to remember his original disappointment at the disappearance of the Karate Sticks. Earlier in his search around the home I heard him lament “Now how am I gonna learn KARATE!” Please note: his Karate Sticks consist of a lone drum stick and the long side of a rectangle mini chalk board frame…both found on the floor of the storage unit.)  He chooses to take this disappointment out on me while I am cooling my insides with the icy liquid.  His shoulders slump.  His face turns down.  “Now it has your germs on it.”  He doesnt like watching me enjoy this sip of cool water while he remains so dissatisfied with recent events.  I have no choice but to laugh.  Im looking at his weather crusted, snot moistened, upper lip…despite the tissue we used not 15 minutes ago.  I look at the brown dirt across the front of his fall jacket…the one I keep throwing on the perpetual laundry pile to be washed, but then it is needed again before I get the chance to wash it.  I cant help myself.

Smiling with every ounce of my face I inform him, “It looks like you might have more germs than me right about now.”

Sensing his inability to get under my skin by alerting me to my “germiness” or motivate me to be more concerned about his cause, he turns to go wallow and interrogate siblings as to the whereabouts of his Karate Sticks.  Just another loving and itty bit dysfunctional interaction with my 4 year old.  Thank you Owen, for keeping me on my emotional toes.