I went to the grocery store yesterday. It was my first time venturing out anywhere beyond the pick up line at the school so it felt a bit like a grand adventure. Jordan was still at school, at Science Club, so I only had the five youngest with me. I strapped the baby into a front carrier, put Ivy in the cart, and urged the other three to stay close, follow the cart and keep their hands to themselves. We managed surprisingly well. Jack slept the entire time, Ivy didn't try standing up in the cart one single time, and I only had to remind the others to stay close 372 times.
In the checkout line, the man bagging my groceries looked, counted and then asked, "Are these all with you?"
"Yes, they're all mine," I answered.
His eyes grew wide. "Were any of them adopted?"
Funny, funny man. It IS funny because my kids aren't actually all that close together in age. I know women who have six kids in eight, even seven years. It took me 11 years to get this many, AND I cheated and had two at once.
Still, I do feel six kids has catapulted me into a realm of big families that even with five kids, we didn't quite reach. I feel this keenly when all 8 of us are in the minivan... every seat occupied, without an inch of spare space.
Or when I catch strangers counting my children as they see us walk by.
Or when I realize that I have a new baby, and a baby monitor in my bedroom, at the same time. BECAUSE THERE'S ANOTHER BABY SLEEPING UPSTAIRS.
I went to get my haircut the other day from a woman I was meeting for the first time. I told her I'd just had a baby a few weeks before. She asked me if it were my first. Heh. I try and answer as casually as possible when I say, "No, my sixth."
I've often joked that I'm going to make business cards, or even a t-shirt that says, "Yes, they're all mine. Yes, I have figured out what causes pregnancy. Yes, I had them all on purpose, and NO, I wouldn't change a thing."
I wouldn't change a thing. That I know most of all. I stood at the kitchen sink yesterday, washing the last of the dishes. The baby was asleep, the boys playing basketball and the girls jumping together on the trampoline. For a blissful, quiet moment, I was alone. The silence was interrupted when Henry burst into the house, red checked and breathless, his little fist clenched tightly around a handful of flowers and clover.
"These are for you, Mom," he said.
I thanked him and kissed his head, and he darted happily out the door. I remember as a kid, walking home from the bus stop and gathering the same white flowers, knowing how happy they would make my Mom. I imagine she tossed quite a few handfuls of sweaty, wilted flowers into the trash after I'd moved onto another activity and would no longer notice their absence. But I don't doubt what those simple bouquets meant to her, because I now realize what they mean to me. It's not life changing stuff. They're only weeds, after all. But they are a reminder that to be loved by your children is an incredibly rewarding, lovely thing. I remember how much my heart wanted to make my Mom happy with those silly flowers. It kind of makes me feel like a rock star to think that my kids feel the same way about me.
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And also, have you seen these yet? I shared them on Facebook already, but in case you don't subscribe to Facebook updates, (which you can remedy over in yonder sidebar area) I'll share them here too. This baby? He is a literal slice of heaven.
Photos courtesy of my amazing friend Destinee, of Destinee Blau Photography. She spent an entire afternoon with us last week and took pictures of the entire family. If you click over to her blog, she's already shared a sneak peek of the family shots as well. I'll share more on the blog in the next few weeks. For now, a bit of newborn bliss.
