49 Reasons We Don't Throw Rich Into A Volcano, Assuming We're Incan.

1.        He’s a lawyer, he’ll slow down the process with paperwork.

2.       He’s friendly.  He’ll have to stop and talk to everyone along the way.

3.       He whistles.  This is a solemn occasion.

4.       He’s got nice teeth, which practically counts as a carnival side show in our society.

5.       He doesn’t have a temper.  The gods are looking more for someone like that angry chef, Gordon Ramsay.

6.       He’s fairly flatulent and we’ve got enough explosives to worry about just with the volcano.

7.       He’s scheduled for a massage.

8.       His wife doesn’t know the value of his flashlight collection.

9.       He’s almost finished writing his novel, If You Sacrifice me, I’m Taking You With Me.

10.   He’s got court on Tuesday.

11.   He alone knows how to clean the drains in his house.

12.   He’s a Republican, his party needs him.

13.   He once ate a steak the size of place mat.

14.   Fantasy Island was filmed near where he grew up, and as child he did stunt double work for Tattoo.

15.   He considers himself a Brady Bunch scholar.

16.   He endured a few Saturdays so boring as a child he resorted to watching Hee Haw.

17.   The gods are looking for a virgin, and he . . . let’s just say we’d be stretching the truth.

18.   The gods hate it when we stretch the truth.

19.   He’s not fond of hot showers, let alone hot lava.

20.   He doesn’t swear.  We’d like a few expletives as he bounces off rocks on his way to the bottom.

21.   He doesn’t drink which is a total buzzkill at the pre-sacrifice party.

22.   He hasn’t picked up his socks.

23.   He’s got to get his hair cut.

24.   The steam from the lava would fog his glasses.

25.   He’s got ears cuter than a hippos, and how many of us can say that?

26.   He’s not caught up on Dancing With The Stars.

27.   He still perfecting his cha cha.

28.   He’s nice.  The gods don’t mind a lawyer, but they draw the line when it comes to a nice lawyer.

29.   He donates blood. (Not really, but he says he’s willing to if it will get him off the hook.)

30.   He’s got three kids in college.  Hmmm…maybe sacrifice one of them.

31.   The hike up might be a bit much for him, since his calves are still hurting from his bike ride across Oregon.

32.   He’s been banned for life from medieval festivals because he has a sword that slices through boulders like they’re butter.

33.   He’s sensitive.  Being sacrificed will hurt his feelings.

34.   He’s got tickets to Comic Con.

35.   He’s never thanked Barbara Streisand for going into retirement.

36.   He’s considering trying his luck as stand-up comedian.

37.   He’s a summer, which would totally clash with lava.

38.   He’s got blue eyes, lovely blue eyes.

39.   He’s just started learning the accordion, a dying art form.

40.    He’s available to play at weddings of the hearing impaired.

41.   He’s just started to shift from buying flashlights to those really long horns that they blow on the mountain tops in Switzerland.

42.   He says he’s afraid of heights.

43.   He says his tummy hurts.

44.   He says he’s just not feeling it.

45.   He hasn’t brushed his teeth.

46.   He hasn’t been to Branson, Missouri.

47.   He once started a bonfire made up entirely of Hall and Oates records.

48.   He wants to be around when David Hasselhoff makes a comeback.

49.   And the best reason of all . . . IT’S HIS BIRTHDAY!

Gone With The Wind

The first year Scarlett ran in the Red Ribbon Run she wasn’t exactly dressed for racing success.  Having somehow avoided this event with my older children—a competition in which kids from all the schools in our city race according to grade level—it didn’t occur to me that maybe she shouldn’t wear jeans, hand-me-down sneakers two sizes too small, or the adult-size race T-shirt they’d given her (child sizes were reserved for children with parents smart enough to preregister.)  Sure, seeing Scarlett and her fellow kindergarteners race was going to be cute, but to be honest, I just wanted to get it over with so I could go hit some yard sales.  I didn’t give her any running tips, didn’t bother with a pep talk.  As she walked toward the starting line with the other five year olds, I yawned and checked my phone for messages.

The Red Ribbon Run at that time was held in a stadium.  Beginning with a sprint across the field, the runners would follow their guides out the exit, and not be seen again until the final stretch toward the finish line inside the arena.  I lost sight of Scarlett  before the starting gun sounded.  As that sea of kindergarten cuteness raced to the exit, I tried to find her--the runner in jeans--but couldn’t.  I was too far away and they were, though moving, a jumble.  

And so they left the stadium and I chatted with a few parents sitting nearby, until it occurred to me that I should probably check to see if any kids were coming toward the finish line, and that’s when I saw that Scarlett had already crossed it.  Huh?  Had she missed the exit and never left the arena? No, she’d left the arena, she’d run the race, and finished in third place.  Wearing jeans, Scarlett had won her first trophy!

Scarlett liked winning that trophy and announced that the next year she was going to win another one.  I panicked.  Should I warn her that we don’t always get to win in life? Tell her that sometimes other people are faster and get the trophy, which is okay, because the important thing is participating?  I didn’t want her to doubt herself, but I didn’t want her to think she had another trophy in the bag.  Not sure what to do, I did nothing, and Scarlett came in second.

The second place trophy was bigger than the third place trophy, which Scarlett preferred, and so she told us she planned to win first place the next year.  I told myself I couldn’t do it—watch my daughter race and possibly come up empty handed, especially when she was so convinced first place was hers for the taking.  It was too much stress for a person with my delicate constitution.  Okay, my constitution wasn’t particularly delicate.  Still, I had been the one biting my nails at the last race; it was time for Rich to take over.  And so Rich attended his first Red Ribbon Run and saw Scarlett win second place again, while I, too scared to look, heard about it on the phone.

I knew it was the cowardly approach—using our four-year old as a reason to stay away, but as the next Red Ribbon Run drew near, that was my game plan.  Rich would go, and I’d stay home with Peter who would have ended up bored or lost if we’d taken him.  And I probably would have kept to that plan if I hadn’t run (literally) into Bob.  Out for my morning run, Bob, asked me as I ran by if I was planning on being in the race that weekend.  Since he didn’t have a serial killer vibe, I stopped, told him that I wasn’t, but that my kids would be running the next week in the Red Ribbon Run.

Bob explained that as a member of the local running club he would be at the Red Ribbon Run helping out.  “So I’ll see you there,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said sheepishly.

Bob cocked an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t you be there?”

And so I told him.  I told him about how she’d gotten a trophy every year, and that I was so worried about her coming in fourth or fifth or sixth that I dreaded the race.

“Disappointment,” he said with a wave of his hand, “she’ll face it at some point in life, but you should be there.”

Ugh.  I hate it when random strangers are right. 

Saturday, I went to race and watched Scarlett win third place.  She was happy, a little miffed that she’d been in first place right up until the last twenty five feet of the race, but still happy.  Later at the finish line I ran into Bob.  After reminding him of our previous conversation, I told him that Scarlett had won third place, and that I’d been here to see it.

He high-fived me.  “Now that’s the real victory,” he said.  "Her childhood will pass in a flash.”

Yes, it will, Bob, and I intend to see it, even the races.  

 

Making Room For Peter

I thought I was clever having Scarlett a few days before turning forty.  I was convinced she was my last, and I congratulated myself for sneaking her in before hitting my next decade.  Forty, as any OB will tell you, is when an expectant mother enters in earnest the danger zone.  Sure, Hollywood at forty is just getting started having kids, but when an average gal talks to her OB about having a baby in her forties, the doctor talk tends to get gloomy.  They throw numbers at you, scary numbers that left me resolute about one thing—child birth after forty was out for me.  And I was resolute, fixed in my opinion.  It was time to focus on raising our six children. 

And so that’s what I did.  For two years I focused on raising the kids we had, until one day Rich said, “I think we should have another.”  W-h-hat?  Now don’t get me wrong.  I thought it was sweet that Rich loved our kids so much he wanted another.  It annoys me when guys put the brakes on having more kids because, Hey, you can’t fit a car seat in the back of a Corvette.  Yeah, pal, that car only has room for you and your ego.  But sweet as it was to hear him say he wanted another, it was also infuriating.  I had crossed the threshold!  I was now forty-two!   There was no way I should try to have another child.  I showed Rich the scary numbers, rattled off all of Science’s arguments against such an attempt, and still he was convinced we should have another.

There was only one explanation for this:  Rich was delusional.  He wasn’t seeing things clearly.  I had the doctors on my side, some with open slots in their schedules to squeeze me in for a tubal ligation.  Not that I took a poll, but if I had, no one would have thought having another baby at my age was a good idea, no one but Rich. 

I dug in my heels and told him to be reasonable.  It was too late!   He remained convinced it wasn’t.  Some may say I was nuts to relent, but a marriage isn’t a cold-hearted corporation, making decisions that only make sense on paper.  It’s a pact, including not just the two who are married, but their God on whom they lean as they, hand in hand, navigate their way through this life.  With this understanding, I had to stop and ask myself if it were possible that Rich wasn’t just wanting another baby, but that he was sensing that another baby wanted us, to be a part of our family.

It seemed to me madness, but I knew that sometimes God’s ways appear so.  As Zechariah would have said (if he’d been able to speak) it was madness to assume his wife Elizabeth would have a baby boy named John.  And what sense was there in Sarah thinking she’d ever give birth to a boy named Isaac?  And so, though I didn’t agree, I consented to try, and when one miscarriage was followed by another, I still consented, for just a little longer, just in case there might be someone trying to make it here.

Peter made it here.  At forty-four, I gave birth to our fattest, healthiest baby ever.  The biggest danger to his life as a newborn was the constant threat of his siblings smothering him with love.   Yes, seven kids is a lot.  It’s expensive, it’s loud, it’s hard to fit in a car or vacation home.  But we’ve made due, made room, and Peter is here, just like his father knew he should be. 

As a post script I’d like to say that while Rich was right about Peter, I’ve been right about most everything else.     

Guardian Angel of Idiots, Patron Saint of Fools

 

Heaven must have a soft spot for stupidity, or so it would seem considering how things turned out Friday night.   Our plan had been simple--go to Disney’s Not-So-Scary Halloween party, just Scarlett and me, and celebrate her turning nine!  Our plan did not involve getting stuck in mud on the side of the road, but somehow I found the time to work that in.  It happened so quickly.  One second we were on our way to the happiest place on earth, and the next our wheels were spinning, burying us deeper in the spongy earth. 

It was all my fault, completely my fault.  Ignoring a well-painted double yellow line, I attempted to turn around on a stretch of road not wide enough for such a maneuver, particularly in my diesel Excursion. Fresh tire marks were telling me I was in good company.  Others had gotten lost and turned around at that point, and so though Jiminy Cricket was on my shoulder suggesting I find a better--not to mention legally permitted--place to turn around, I brushed him off and did so anyway.  Pumped on birthday adrenaline, I told myself I was justified.  We were cutting it close.  The park would only be open for a measly five hours and we wanted to have plenty of time to ride all the rides, except for It’s A Small World (Scarlett is opposed to world peace, if it has to involve the same song over and over.)  Besides, I always obeyed the rules of a standardized road system, so surely it’d be okay if just this once I fudged.  It was such a small oversight, practically like deciding not to floss before going to bed.  You know you’ll always do it, but just this once you’re going to make an exception.  The trouble about exceptions is that when your car starts to fish tail and not gain the ground you need it to toward a paved road, though your first impulse is to pray, you wonder if Heaven is rolling their eyes.

Nothing scares a soldier more than evidence of fear in its leaders. My little soldier in the backseat had plenty of reason to be afraid.  Her leader was freaking out.  Oh no!  Oh no! I cried, followed by a plea for Heavenly help—help that I was certain wouldn’t come, not for a rule breaker like myself.  I had crossed the double yellow line.  I had done something dumb, and was therefore undeserving.  Crushing guilt pressed in on me as I considered what this would mean for Scarlett’s birthday celebration.  Certainly everything was ruined.  We would traipse into the Magic Kingdom, if we traipsed in at all, near closing time, having spent the bulk of our night dealing with trying to get a tow truck.  Our prospects seemed grim, and then we saw Joey.

Before I could get out my car and assess the situation, Joey was there.  Having witnessed my stroke of genius, he pulled over to help us.  He could have said to himself that I deserved to be stuck after such a move and kept on going, but he didn’t.  As I called AAA and Rich to deal with my mess, Joey drove us to Magic Kingdom, and thanks to his speedy assistance we were only twenty minutes behind schedule. I didn’t get Joey’s last name, I was so rattled it took a few tries before I could remember his first, but I will never forget his kindness that he freely bestowed on one so undeserving as myself.  Joey, the nice guy who works in a bike shop in Orlando, he doesn’t wear tights and a cape (thank heavens), but he was our hero.

The night, however, of the Orlando Good Guys was just getting started.  Shortly after Rich arrived to wait for the tow truck, a Disney employee named Hector came to our rescue, not only pulling us out of the mud, but arranging for Rich to park the Excursion in the Contemporary Resort parking lot which meant that we didn’t have to wait in line for a bus or the monorail after exiting the park.  After a fun-filled night riding nearly every ride we wanted to, ours was a speedy getaway.  And as Scarlett, snuggled happily against her new stuffed animal, Sven, and fell asleep, I couldn’t help but say a prayer of thanks, for people whose motivation to help is simply that they want to.  My thanks to Joey and Hector.  Not only did you save Scarlett’s birthday night, you taught me how to serve others, even the dumb dumbs.

 

 

 

 

The Very Dead Caterpillar

If you head up American Fork Canyon in Utah, zig and zag, and zig again, you will find yourself at Cascade Springs, a little gem tucked into the Wasatch Mountains where verdant paths meander, merging at certain points with boardwalks that hover so close above the flowing, frothing springs as to overwhelm its visitors with joy.  Such was the case with our little live-wire, Julia.  Mother Nature had smiled approvingly on the scene before her, and it made Julia want to jump.

It was exuberance that Monster drinkers aspire to, elation reserved usually for Powerball winners.  Were she British and a poet she would have penned lines bursting with descriptions of the mountains, the wild flowers, the fish darting in unclouded water, but she was American and still in diapers and so she jumped and jumped and jumped, until she fell in.

This was unexpected, cold and unexpected, and for a moment her exuberance took a tumble. 

But who—even sopping wet—could stay gloomy for long surrounded by such beauty!  Swapping wet toddler clothes for an adult-sized pullover, it wasn’t long before Julia was back in business—jumping, running, rejoicing.  She was pleased by all she saw, tickled pink by its perfection, particularly when while scampering along she noticed a caterpillar.

Fat as her father’s index finger, the caterpillar had inched his way to the center of the path, making it easy for a nature lover, such as our girl, to notice.  Julia’s jumping stopped. 

This was something to inspect!

She leaned toward the caterpillar, noticing the spectrum of colors arrayed in its fuzzy, tube-like body—deep red and yellow, a hint of neon green, a splash of indigo.  It shimmered as it inched, glistened as it wriggled.  The Electric Light Parade at Disney was dull by comparison.

This was something to admire!

Others came to see what this astute little observer had discovered, and soon a circle comprised of old and young surrounded the caterpillar.  A hum of oohs and awes filled the air.  This was a thing of wonder, a sight to behold, a masterful creation, the answer to all of life’s mysteries!

No, thought Julia, this was something to step on.

And so she did.

Stomp went her little shoe, splat went the caterpillar, and somberly silent the oohs and awes.  The ensuing funeral was short and sweet.  Julia’s giggles were the requiem, and she paid her last respects by stomping once more.  For who could stay gloomy when surrounded by such beauty!  Not our girl!  And so off she went, jumping, giggling, and running, to observe (and possibly destroy) the many wonders to be found at Cascade Springs. 

Get Your Kid To Work Day

I’m fairly certain the McKendricks descend from a long line of aristocrats—well-heeled Scots dripping in diamonds, and above all, accustomed to having others clean up after them.  The diamonds have been lost to the roulette table, but the expectation that life comes with a butler and maid—that is still very much alive, at least in our home.  And when you add to this my cannot-do attitude about getting kids to do housework, what you end up with is a real mess.

After seven kids, I should be a pro at the chore thing, handing out assignments and making sure they get done, but I’m not.  Far from it.  I get stymied by their heckling.  Why do we always have to do chores!  Why isn’t he doing this!  Why does she get to do that!  This is so unfair!  We never have fun!  Worst day ever!  Where’s my yacht and polo pony!  The complaining drains me, makes me feel like giving up . . . or catching a plane to India.

Years ago, 60 Minutes did a story about child labor in India.  In it they interviewed kids who worked twelve hours a day in sweat shops for meager earnings.  The owner of one of the sweat shops was also interviewed.  He was a stern looking man, a man void of sympathy, and unmoved by complaints, and while disgusted by his heartlessness, I found myself wishing he ran a summer camp.  Nothing fancy, just a place where kids who don’t want to do their chores could come for a reality check.

Hi everyone, I’d say as we entered his workplace that violated every safety code known to man, this is Charlotte, and today she’ll be working alongside you on one of these pre-World War I sewing machines.  Okay, sweetie, I’d say, giving Charlotte one last kiss and prying her fingers from my waist, knock yourself out.  I’ll see you in twelve hours.  Be sure to watch out for those overhead sparks, and the vats of boiling dye. Wait, what’s that?  You want to clean your room and you’re willing to fold laundry.  Are you sure?  If you stay, he’s going to give you a twelve cents at the end of the day.  Okay, fine, let’s go home and do some chores.  I’m telling you, it’d be worth the price of the airfare . . . and the subsequent years of therapy.

Despite my daydreams of a drastic solution, just this past weekend we made progress getting our kids to do their chores, and, surprisingly enough, it didn’t involve a trip to Bombay.  My husband, Rich, is a fan of Dave Ramsey, a financial guru, known for his workshop series called, Financial Peace University, and his nationally syndicated radio show.   Last week Rich listened to Dave Ramsey, and Saturday morning when it was time to face the moaning masses and give them their assignments, Rich took charge and handled things differently.

“All right,” he told them, “you’ve got to get your rooms cleaned, and for every day it’s clean, I’m going to pay you a dollar.”

Charlotte’s eyes brightened.  “You’re going to pay us a dollar for every single day our room is clean!”

“That’s right,” said Rich. 

“Then let’s do this!” she said. 

And they went to work, even Peter.  All day they were at it, trying to get their rooms in order for their dad to inspect.  It’s been four days since Rich gave them this challenge, and so far he hasn’t handed out a single dollar.  And it’s not that he’s being tight fisted, although the man who insists we use expired toothpaste does have a tightfisted side to him.  Still, the reason he hasn’t put a dollar in the jars he had them decorate is that they haven’t yet met the standard he gave them.  When they do, he’ll pay them.  But here’s the great news:  their rooms have never been cleaner.  They still drop their clothes like Jeeves, dressed in a tuxedo, will be by in a moment to pick them up, but they’re making progress, which is great, because as it turns out, there are no cheap tickets to India.

 

 

Bad Opera

Rumor has it I once told my little sister, Laura, to quit breathing, which is a lie.  I told her that several times.  Her allergy-blocked nasal passages offended my tender teenage nerves, and after a stressful day at Corona del Sol High School, learning stuff and wheeling projectors to classrooms (my sole responsibility as media specialist) what I really needed was peace, a virgin margarita, and quiet, not my sister doing her best to stay alive. If I had known what cacophony awaited me in motherhood, the shouting matches over who wore what (You need to ask!  You weren’t around!), the endless piano practicing, the dog barking, the canned laughter from kid sitcoms, not to mention Peter yelling that he’s hungry AGAIN, my sister’s heavy breathing would have sounded as soothing to me as a wave machine.  I have mellowed over the years.  As our family has grown, my need for tranquility has lessened, and it’s a good thing since Scarlett, our sixth child, came into the world with a song in her heart—a joyful song, but also loud, screechy, and completely out of tune.  I like to refer to it as bad opera, and I happen to be a big fan.

My teenage self wouldn’t have seen the point in listening to bad opera.  She would have looked up from her homework, a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding expression on her face, and told (more like,

shouted at) Scarlett to knock it off.  And when Scarlett dissolved into tears, Teenage Lisa would have grabbed the car keys and headed for the library.  My young-mother self would have tolerated her for a while then asked her sweetly to try and see how long she could go without making a single noise, in the closet.  I’m joking.  Still, faced with bad opera, my young-mom self wouldn’t have lasted long.  But the experienced mom in me saw the beauty in bad opera, how it came from a cheerful place, followed no predictable melody, and was unfettered by worry about what others might think. Her song was music, at least to my ears, because of what it meant--Scarlett was happy. 

Wondering if singing bad opera could make you happy, I once tried my version of it in a grocery store and was quickly shown the door.  Apparently it is an art form intended only for adorable little girls, and that’s okay.  I’m just glad I got to hear it with Scarlett, but it leaves me wondering what arias I missed while my older girls were little.  I remember once sitting in our front room, a strained smile on my face, talking pleasantries with an out-of-town guest.  I was doing my best to appear at ease and happy, but truth was I was overwhelmed by the work of having four kids, particularly at a time when finances were slim.  When he gestured toward our four small children and said, “This looks like fun,” I was stunned.  Did it look like fun?  Was anything fun about four little kids in a tiny rental?  Of course there was, but the sweet music of that era sometimes sounded like noise to me.  I’m older now. All but one of those four children have left home for college, so you’d think I’d be a bad opera connoisseur, but sometimes still I can let worry, stress, fatigue, and even People magazine rob me of my “music” appreciation skills.  In the past this might have caused me to lose my cool, but I’ve learned from my mistakes.  Now I just down half a bottle of gin.  Again, I’m joking.  True, bad opera is an acquired taste, but appreciating it enriches parenthood.  After all, they’re only little once. 

The Wisdom of Ages

It was time for Charlotte to turn five and she was having none of it.  She hadn't balked at other birthdays.  Three had been lovely, four a treat, but as she approached her fifth birthday, Charlotte was resolute—there would be no celebration.  No party hats, no piñata, no clown twisting balloons into animals.  Like a middle-aged woman in Malibu, another birthday held no thrill for her.  She understood her fifth year was coming whether she like it or not, and she would greet it, but stoically, like the American people saying hello to tax season.  What had brought about this dramatic transformation?  What had sucked the fun out of a day meant to be a celebration of her?  I’ve got one word for you: Pops.

My husband’s father, known to all as Pops, is a happy guy.  He’s known for his explosive laugh, his jolly disposition, and for dispensing nuggets of useful knowledge like, If you get in trouble, keep on walking and talking.  If all of his grandchildren attempted at one time to sit on his lap, he would be crushed under their weight and given a quick eulogy.  We’re talking prodigious progeny, and to his credit, he’s pals with all of them.  So it’s not surprising that Charlotte and Pops would have chatted about her turning five.  Over the years they’d had all sorts of chats, the main difference about this particular chat was that it scared the pants off of her.  I wasn’t there, but from my understanding it went something like this:

 Hey, Pops.

Hey, Kiddo, go get me a Diet Pepsi, easy on the ice.  And while you’re at it, a little ice cream.  Whatever you’ve got.  I’m not picky.

Pops, are you kidding?  I’m only four!

[Takes off baseball cap for a second to rub his head]  Four?  You’re getting up there, kid.  Next thing you know you’re going to be five, then six, then seven, then one day one-hundred, and then you’ll DIE!

[All the spit in Charlotte’s mouth is suddenly gone, but still, she gulps]  Die?

[Leans back in recliner]  Yep, it happens to the best of us.  Marilyn, the Kennedys, Johnny Carson.  They’ve all bit the dust, cashed in their chips, bought the farm. 

[Charlotte’s expression is blank]  So I’m going to die.

[Points the remote at the TV]  Fraid so.

  That was all it took.  No longer did Charlotte view her fifth birthday as a day that should be celebrated.  Instead it was a marker indicating her steady advancement toward the grave.  She couldn’t be tempted by suggestions of bowling or bounce houses.  There would be no party, no hoopla.  Just a little get-together with the Ivey family and that was it, which worked out great for me.  I’m not a party thrower.  The lower key it is the better, which is why I need to schedule a heart to heart between Peter and Pops.  Peter’s turning five in March.

Farewell, St. Tropez

It seems the older children in our family can’t help occasionally feeling robbed.  If only our parents, they’ve all bemoaned, had had the good sense to stop having children sooner, life would have been so different.  And by different they mean awesome.  Quiet car rides, no babysitting, vacation homes in Hawaii and Vail—all of it could have been theirs, along with piles and piles and piles of money, if only we’d stopped having kids.

Don’t misunderstand; they love their younger siblings.  They’d just like the option of trading them in for vacation points.  As our family has grown, they’ve concluded that kids cost money and require sacrifice, and they’re right.  It costs roughly 200,000.00 to raise a child in a middle-class family to age 18, if you don’t hit Baskin Robbins after baseball games, and only watch movies on Netflix.  Times that a few times over and you’ve got a lovely cottage in Costa Rica.  What have we done!

When faced with this dreamy interpretation of life without little siblings, we like to counter by telling them they’ve got it all wrong, that we’re only motivated out of necessity.  If we’d had one or two kids, Dad and I would be taking pics at the DMV, occasionally scoring a gig on the weekends doing weddings, but mostly just putting in our time, heading home, and reconnecting with our avatars.  We tell them, as we hand them the keys to the beater car we’ve given them to drive, that we’re better off because we chose to have a big family.  And to this they blow raspberries.

They’re convinced that skiing in Switzerland, elk hunting in Montana, and cliff jumping in Mexico would all be checked off their bucket list were it not for our abundance of fertility.  And maybe they’re right, but one thing is for sure—the younger ones provide endless entertainment.  They are:
 

 talented

 

dapper



 

 

lovers of history

 

rough and tumble

 

style conscious

 

 

nutritionally conscious

 

 

And our family wouldn't be complete without them.