A Quiver Full of Them

My brave mom brought all of the kids over to the hospital to see me yesterday. I knew they were coming and I almost cried when I first heard their voices and mild racket coming down the hallway (and my mom trying to hush them). As often as I have wished for a vacation ALONE, it's amazing how much I miss my animated, energetic, exhausting little brood when I'm actually forced into one.

They peeked timidly into the room to make sure it was really me and then barged right in making themselves at home. Immediately the boys got to work unloading their backpacks - pulling out and piling up schoolwork, folders, notices, and art projects (strewing paper and cut-ups all over the room), drilling me with questions about the hospital equipment and testing every button and lever on the bed, unfolding the pull-out chair into a bed and back again, tearing into the stash of jello, orange juice, and crackers from the snack room, clambering up and down the wall-length window, twisting, fighting over, and hiding behind the curtains, constantly jockeying for my attention, and everyone talking at once. Brigham and Clayton eventually got busy gluing, cutting, and assembling foam-craft creatures (each with it's own made-up language), while Isaac sat on my bed and (against his will) finished the schoolwork he was supposed to do in class but was too busy wreaking havoc. Eliza just wanted to be held again and again - but only in 30 second spurts. She spent the rest of the time driving the umbrella stroller into every wall and corner (and person), climbing "buh-up-up" on every chair, and exploring and prodding every door, cupboard, vent, garbage bin, button, and wire at arms reach. It was all my mom could do to keep her away from the bio hazards.

When the children left, Eliza (who didn't want to be in her stroller) was scream-wrestling her way out, Isaac was negotiating how many extra snacks he could take with him, Clayton was leaving the room backwards - still analyzing the baby's heart rate pattern on the monitor, my mom was instructing them NOT to get on the elevator without her this time, and Brig was holding the door wide open (for all the world to see). His backpack was on frontwards and he was yelling, "See, mom? now my stomach is big like yours!" And then before I could even say my last good-byes the heavy door swung closed and they were gone. And my hospital room was quiet again - all except the tiny heart beat on the monitor. The sweet sweet reminder of my youngest child. My fifth. Still here with me.

I looked at the clock. The kids had been here for one hour. Then I looked at the room. . . at the disheveled curtains, the left-behind schoolwork, the dabs and smears of glue on the table, snack wrappers and crumbs that didn't make it into the trash can, and about a hundred tiny cut-ups and foam pieces scattered about the room, I started thinking about my world back at home. A world that is constantly moving, thinking, planning, doing, deciding, helping, teaching, cleaning, researching, interacting, playing, practicing, reading, folding, preparing, cooking, buying, organizing, re-doing, recording, lifting, holding, soothing, fixing, disciplining, managing, tolerating, listening, loving. . . and cleaning again. And the reality of my life after the hospital started to settle in. A life that is soon (sooner than I thought) to be five kids. FIVE.

We live in a neighborhood where four kids is a ludicrous number. Our family is the biggest in our school. We're a novelty. And to be honest, more often than not, we're a spectacle. (Dealing with constant wrestling and meltdowns in public is not my favorite thing). I always feel a little self-conscious when people count my children out loud as they pass or make comments like, "My goodness! You have your hands full!" (oh, you have no idea. no really. you have no idea) or "This is your last one, right?" (so presumptuous. can you imagine how offended someone with one child would be if you asked them that?) or "Looks like after four tries you finally got your little girl!" (no. actually after four tries I have four amazing kids. and one happens to be a girl) or "You do realize how much it costs to send a child to college, don't you?" (um. yes. and if you'd like, we'll be more than happy to take your donations).

It's true that kids are social suicide and that they can be down right humiliating in public. It's true that they are endlessly expensive. It's true that children are time consuming - each one needing and deserving individual attention, emotional reserves, and work. Adding a fifth - a preemie - into the mix will definitely be hard. And I hope and pray that I'm up for it.

But despite my worries about what other people think and my own self-doubt,there is one thing I am sure of: I love my children. And that's what anchors me. It's knowing that they are all, including this coming baby girl, mine - ours - and meant to be in our family. We are bound. And that's where I find my strength. . . and my greatest joy.

"Lo, children are an heritage of the Lord: and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them."

Psalms 127:3-5