Small Little Gifts

All in all, raising five kids is hard. In essence, there are five little, growing souls that are all vying for the upper hand, a slice of my undivided time, all pushing limits, all day, every day. They're expanding and exploring, developing relationships and learning. And making messes. And sometimes fighting. And enjoying copious amounts of climbing. Like this

and this

Things that drive me batty happen almost every instant and leave me to question the reason I even decided to get impregnanted with the first one, let alone FIVE. In. Six. Years. My body is still a little nervous around me wondering if I'm going to abuse it more by stretching it into ridiculously impossible shapes and then snap it back all in one wild ride of pain. Side note: skin is an amazing organ. Sometimes Most of the time life with a husband that is gone part of the time, five kids, two cats, two rabbits, a dog, seventy square feet of gardening, embarassing amounts of projects and hobbies, homeschooling, college, two additional correspondence courses, a bookstore worth of books and a huge daily dose of music is just, honestly,  insane.

And then there are the little things that push all the craziness right out the window. That make me whole and heal my heart. That remind me why I get up every morning -despite being chronically sleep deprived- and subject myself to what is sometimes flat out abuse*. Moments of perfection. Small little gifts.

Like when I hear this from the other room:

Emmy,  "Everyone be quiet. I telling you ah-tory (a story) in my book. I said quiet! Okay. One a time...quiet Ahl-yex (Alex). *audible sigh* One a pond a timed they has a duh-wagon (dragon). And then you turn the page and they all run away. And a duh-wagon is a mean. He say GRRRR. Just like that. Now, you try it. Quiet, I reading you ah-tory. And then one day he's no mean n-e-mow-ah (anymore) and then it de end. Quiet, Ahl-yex, I not done yet. I still looking at the pictures."

Oh, I love that little three year old. She's like a shaken little soda bottle when she's riled up. They all are endearing, every last one. I couldn't picture my life without them. Any of them. The craziness helps shape me. It makes me strong. It makes me cherish tiny bits of time that are peaceful and quiet. Too much peace and quiet and I get nervous. It means somethings wrong. Deep in my heart I love the rowdy, raucous, loud, crazy life I have, even as I reach for the ibuprofen. It takes a certain kind of person to delve into my world.

People sometimes think I'm amazing (some certain unnamed people better. You know who you are.) but I'm really not. I'm the same as every other mother out there whether they have one kid or nineteen. The second we find out we're responsible for life other than our own we're all essentially the same;

hopeful we're not screwing up
determined to make it to bedtime
focused on getting through the current fight/argument/mess so we can get back to doing the dishes
afraid we're lacking in some terrible way and we won't know it till it's too late
amazed at the life that sprung from us. From us!
sad that it's going by way too fast
graceful as we weave our way through life
flat out brave for just every single thing
forever beautiful in the eyes of our children
Thankful for their children, their own small little gifts

*teething babies like to bite. Hard. Three year olds in a tantrum fit don't care if they kick you in the mouth. Or anywhere else. Six year old girls will scream that you've ruined their lives.