Twenty years ago, my husband and I sat down and decided it was time to begin our family. (Okay, maybe I decided and then told him . . . but that’s irrelevant.) We decided on four children. There was no immense logic in the decision, four was simply a nice even number and would work out well at amusement parks – nobody would have to ride alone.
Ours would be a good-sized family, but not too large. After all, we didn’t want to be one of those families. You know the ones. They require two booths at the Dairy Queen and the youngest cries constantly while the parents squirt ketchup on everyone’s napkins.
Four would be just right. We would have them close together so they would all be great friends and grow up in blissful harmony. Ideal. And their birthdays would be staggered throughout the year (but none near the holidays) so they would each have their own “special” time. And since we lived in Texas, none of them would be born in the sweltering summer months as that would mean an uncomfortable pregnancy for me. And besides, we wanted to send cupcakes to school, so summer birthdays were definitely out. Come to think of it . . . wouldn’t it be nice to have boy-girl-boy-girl? So orderly and predictable. Boys in one room, girls in another.
God, of course, had other plans.
We were mistaken in thinking it was time to start our family. Our first child wouldn’t come along for another two years. And we were mistaken about having four. We ended up with five. And we were mistaken about having them close together and mistaken about their staggered non-summertime, un-holiday birthdays and mistaken about boy-girl-boy-girl. There’s nothing orderly or predictable about girl-boy-boy-girl-girl. I won’t even begin to explain what the children were suppose to look like and be and do and say and think. We were mistaken about all of it.
However, it’s odd. In spite of our plans that went awry, the kids are great friends. And while I can’t say there is always bliss, I can honestly report that there is harmony in our home on most days. And even though two kids share May, one has summer, and another has Thanksgiving, birthdays are special times for each of them.
And no, we don’t fit in one booth at the Dairy Queen. And there is always an odd number at amusement parks. But as a baby, if the youngest cried, there was always someone handy to love on her. And actually, for a while, we really did have boys in one room, girls in another. (I don’t recommend housing a teenager with two toddlers, but for the record: it can be done.)
So . . .
My husband and I sat down the other day. We talked about life and all the unexpected turns along the way. We talked about our vain, immature attempts at scheduling our future and the unfathomable blessings we had received instead.
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