Kimberlee Conway Ireton

Doug was at the men’s retreat last weekend. I (mostly) held it together on Friday night and Saturday.

Sunday morning I managed to get all four kids fed, dressed, and ready for church in plenty of time (well, in plenty of time for the later of the two services…).

I even tried to get the boys to nap beforehand, but they refused. So I left a little early, hoping they’d fall asleep in the car. They didn’t. And – big surprise – they didn’t nap in the nursery either.

By the time we got home, they were hungry, exhausted, and crazy cranky. They cried. A lot. They didn’t want the fish sticks I made, even though they love fish sticks. Ben chucked his on the floor. Luke wailed. I managed to get a few bites into them, but clearly they were more tired than hungry.

I cleaned them up, popped them out of their high chairs, and took them to their room. They kept crying. I rocked them. And rocked them.

And rocked them.

They just cried.

Through the bedroom door I could hear Jack and Jane chasing each other around the house like whirligigs, laughing and shrieking. I thought bitterly of my mom-friends who have two-story houses. With playrooms. I thought even more bitterly of my single friends who live alone in condos that are as big as my whole house.

“Hey!” I shouted at Jack and Jane above the babies’ crying. “Knock it off!”

The babies quieted down, looked at me with wide eyes. But out in the living room Jack and Jane kept running and yelling.

“Jaaaack!” I shouted. “Jane!”

Clearly, I was wearing a little thin, since hefting two babies out of the rocking chair in order to walk to the bedroom door and speak to my older children at a civilized decibel level was beyond me at that moment.

Jack threw open the bedroom door. “Yes, Mama?” Jane was right on his heels.

I looked at them. I expect I had my what-is-wrong-with-you-were-you-raised-in-a-barn look on my face. “Do you understand that I’m trying to get the boys to sleep right now?”

They nodded.

“Then why on earth are you yelling to wake the dead?”

Jack furrowed his brow. “Wake the dead? What does that mean?”

“Jack!”

“Sorry, Mama.”

“You are welcome to read or write or draw. Quietly. Got it?”

They both nodded again and backed out of the room.

“Close the door on your way out, will you?” I said.

I rocked and sang to the babies, who were blessedly quiet. Jack and Jane were blessedly quiet, too.

Luke dropped off to sleep on my chest, his little whiffling snore in time with the soft squeak of the floorboard under the rocking chair. Ben babbled awhile before his eyelids drooped and shut.

I rocked them a bit longer, enjoying the feel of them leaning heavy and trusting on my chest.

Then I managed to stand up with one baby in each arm and put first Luke, then Ben, into their cribs. They whimpered a bit, but I covered them with blankets and patted their bums and then crept quietly out of the room.

“Hi Mama!” Jack and Jane, sitting at the dining room table (writing and coloring, respectively) greeted me.

“Hi,” I whispered. Then, “Shh.”

Too late. Both babies started to cry.

*****

Boy oh boy oh boy did I wish in that moment for a bigger house, one with a children’s wing and a soundproof room. Maybe two. One for the babies and one for me.

Here’s the thing, though: now that I’ve been naming gifts for 22 months, I can see how small a thing a small house is.

Maybe not in that exact moment, I admit. But even when I want desperately to feel sorry for myself, I need only think of people I know who cannot say many of the things I am about to say because, for them, they are not true, and I know my small house is the smallest of crosses to bear.

Still more of God’s good gifts:

2132. A house to live in.

*****

If you’d like to start counting your gifts, I invite you to head over to A Holy Experience and join the gratitude community. Or you can simply start your own list of the daily gifts. If you do, would you let me know?

Tags: in which I wish I had a larger house