Merry Christmas

I hope everyone has a very Merry Christmas with many reminders of the true meaning of this season. Love to you all.

Loving my Big Family

 A few days ago, I took my kids to Walmart to pick up a few things. It was after school, late in the afternoon, everyone was a little keyed up, and really, I probably shouldn't have risked it. But we were there and we needed milk, and well, sometimes we have to do hard things. Shopping with children isn't easy. Shopping with five children along is a little like parental suicide. I felt it keenly after I lost one of the five, then had him returned to me by a friend who happened to find him at the jewelry counter and was nice enough to stay with him until they'd tracked me down. And of course, it didn't make it any easier when, while speaking to the friend who'd just saved my 8 year old from a sure to happen Walmart abduction, my children attacked a wrapping paper display, chose their weapons, and started sword fighting.

Yesterday afternoon, I jumped between Jordan who needed help with his Social Studies homework and Lucy who wanted a piano lesson, to the computer where I was trying to fix Jordan's flash drive so he wouldn't lose an entire semester's worth of work, to the kitchen where dinner was cooking, to Henry who needed help with his game, to Sam who couldn't find his missing worksheet, all with Ivy on my hip...

I don't have a problem admitting it. Big families are hard. My laundry is never finished. My floors are in constant need of cleaning. The house is always noisy, bustling, busy. My grocery bill is ridiculous. Back to school shopping can break the bank. My patience is constantly tried, tested, pushed to the limit. Many days, I fall into bed and wonder if it's worth it. Many days, I feel like there simply isn't enough - enough time, enough money, enough energy, enough of me to go around. Many days, it's hard to walk through the store with five kids, pregnant with another and constantly field the looks and stares and exclamations, while trying to keep the sword fighting to a minimum and the bickering at bay. Many days, it's just hard.

But.

Every day, even the hard days, it is always worth it. Worth it because my children are incredible, wonderful little people that love each other and love me. Yes, they bicker. Yes, they whine and complain and act ridiculous in the isles of Walmart. But they also teach me patience. They teach me love and compassion and generosity and they teach me to recognize God's goodness in every single aspect of my life. They are pure and good and oh, so much fun. And you know what else? I think they teach each other love and patience and compassion. They teach each other to be generous and kind and thoughtful. If anything is certain, you can't grow up in a family of six children and think you're the center of the universe.

Makes my mother heart happy, this one...

I know that in many ways, this life Josh and I have chosen will be more difficult because we've chosen to have six kids. But I'm certain, it will be more of the good too - more full, more rich, more entertaining.

Walking downtown, enjoying Christmas lights and 'open late' shopping... I have no idea what Henry is doing... and yes, Jordan does look a little angry. I don't have a reason for that either.

Notice the baby bump... determined to not let this pregnancy pass undocumented like all the others... even though I look like a goof and have soup in my mouth and Sam is... um, being Sam.

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How do you feel about big families? Comments have been oh, so very meager lately. So, let's discuss. I draw the line at six - for my health, both mental and physical. What about you? And also, I've linked this post with Chatting at the Sky's Tuesdays Unwrapped, because sometimes I have to unwrap the chaos of my life to find the joy always hidden on the inside.

Joyful Mothering Series: Sanctifying Service

Today was a hard day. It wasn't hard for any particular reason, just hard because I was tired and Ivy was cranky and Henry's thumb was sore and Sam was upset about his early bedtime even though his bedtime was only early because of his own behavior the night before and Lucy was upset because Sam got seconds at dinner and there wasn't enough for her to have seconds even though she didn't even finish her first helping and...

I could go on. Just one of those days - the kind of day when you quite literally consider putting in a set of ear plugs so you can't hear the incessant calling from one child or another... mom. Mom. MOM!!!

Sigh.

All is quiet now. Children are sleeping, rooms are straightened up, dog is sleeping at my feet. I feel at peace, and yet my mind still goes back to the previous hours, wishing I'd handled myself with a little more grace, a little less frustration.

I get frustrated when I forget that my mothering isn't a chore, a task in the middle of my to do list. I get frustrated when I forget that this mothering that I do is the most sanctified, glorious service that I can provide.

I often pray to be an instrument in God's hands. I pray that he will lead me to those that are in need, that I will be prompted to call a friend, make a meal, or even just smile at a stranger that might need a bit of kindness. I pray and I look and I hope God knows I'm here, if he needs me. I wonder how often I've looked clean over the heads of my children as I head out into the world to be God's servant. Do I fail to see their needs?

I believe, if I had a conversation with God on this very subject, he would remind me that while meals and smiles and phone calls are a nice, even important part of doing God's work, I must not fail to see that in this season of my life, kissing sore thumbs, solving silly disputes and hugging cranky babies is vital. And though it is often thankless, exhausting, and oh, so very hard, it too is God's work.

Doing service for others feels good. It feels good to be helpful, to reach out and support those that are in need. We cannot sell ourselves short as mothers. Because at the end of the day, even if we've done nothing but read stories and kiss thumbs and snuggle children; even if we've done it all from our living room while wearing our pajamas, we have still done much good. If we have loved, and lifted and taught, if we have fed or clothed or cared, if we have mothered, we have served God. And that is something to feel good about.

Sunday Thoughts and Gender, Revealed!

It's a quietly wonderful Sunday afternoon. My family is crowded into my living room, sitting around the Christmas tree and a roaring fire in the fireplace, drinking apple cider. It seems rather ideal, as long as you don't pay attention to the bickering about who can and can't help Lucy finish decorating her jewelry box, and who's feet are taking up the most room on the couch. All in all, still a peaceful scene, if not a bit chaotic to those unseasoned by housefuls of children.

I'm thinking about the baby boy that will join our family in April. (YES. A boy!) I admit, it would have been more convenient to have a girl. I've already given my baby boy clothes away and there is a spot in the girl's bedroom where another girl would have naturally fit. And yet, this still feels right. I love my boys. This last baby will successfully sandwich my girls in between brothers on both sides - brothers I hope they will be close to. His name is Charlie Andrew... due on April 15th. (Ivy's birthday) He's got a turned up nose like Sam and Ivy. He's kicking me all the time and will be born with pigtails if heartburn truly is an indication of a full head of hair.

I've just found this recipe for homemade monkey bread and I think I'm going to make it this afternoon. Looks delicious, doesn't it? I'll let you know how it turns out. I like monkey bread, but feel compelled to take the biscuit dough version to a different level. Mostly,  I'm just determined to make a dough better than what comes out of a can. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the convenience of biscuits out of a can, but really, that simply can't be as good as it gets.

Want to know what was fabulous about decorating our Christmas tree this year? Our kids are mostly old enough that they can follow general instructions about decorating, thus eliminating the need for me to re-decorate after they all go to bed. They avoided the lowest branches, they placed ornaments evenly spaced. And with so many helping, we were done in ten minutes. (Just with the ornaments. Getting our lights untangled was a little bit more of a Clark Griswald moment. HOLY COW did I want to throw something heavy at that mess of lights.)

Today, I've decided that the my favorite story from the New Testament is that of the woman with the issue of blood who touched the hem of the Savior's clothes in order to be healed. I am touched by the humility of this woman, who surely felt unworthy to speak to Jesus, to warrant a moment of his time. But her faith was such that she knew if she only could touch his clothing, she would be healed. And so she was, and what a miraculous moment it must have been when Jesus turned and found her, assuring her that her faith had made her whole. I hope I can teach my children not to limit the role of Jesus Christ in their lives.

This afternoon after lunch, after hearing Josh and I discussing the money we are saving for the baby's birth this spring, Sam brought me his piggy bank. "Mom," he said, "he'll be my little brother too, and every little bit helps." Never before has $2.85 every made me want to cry. Love that boy and his good, sweet heart. It was a tender mercy this afternoon, to have a moment of such love with Sam. Because at church today? I wanted to sell him to the circus.

Oh, the ebbs and flows of life's emotions...