We ordered seven large pizzas Saturday night for dinner.
I’m not sure what we were thinking when we did it. We had an excellent coupon, and a gift card. We knew we didn’t have anything planned to feed that many, and so, with three sleeping over added to the six we already had (yes, nine children total), we had to come up with something awesome, and kid-friendly, and fun.
As I boxed up the remnants, compacting them to the equivalent of four whole pizzas, I stacked the empties with a bit of recycling and walked outside, in the dark, to the garbage cans. The moon sat over me, gazing with her night-smile as the wind eased a bit of coolness against me.
I could hear from the outside the laughter from behind me, from through the closed windows, my children having a blast. As I placed the boxes in the recycling receptacles, it just clicked within me – I’m supposed to have a lot of kids. With our six, and the everyday craziness it’s not just part of me, it is me. And having nine kids erupting the upstairs walls into the street right now? It may seem like so much to so many others, but not to me. Having so many children busting through the seams of our house just feels right in my heart-gut.
I’m supposed to have a lot of kids. I’m supposed to live crazily, laundry always to be done, mega-meals to be cooked, dishes to be run at least twice a day, with lots of hair pretties to put in, and diapers to change, and noses to wipe, and crayon marks to clean off walls. And oh, the hugs, the kisses, the snuggles, the wrestling-wars, the sport games and practices to attend. All the plays and awards ceremonies, and love. There is so much love within our large family.
Life is supposed to be this big.
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