Now I sit me down to school, attempting to obey our number one rule—
Work then play, read then rest; then prop my feet up after giving a test.
I call all the children to sit on the couch. That’s not really easy as many can vouch.
After getting the kids all attentive and quiet, what do you know, out breaks a riot.
“Ouch! He pinched me!” yells the little one in tears. “Well, she started it,” shouts another of my dears.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” from the one trying to help. “That’s where he pinched her,” as he points to the whelp.
“Well, she broke my favorite CD last week, and she told all my friends that I look like a geek.”
As I called everyone’s attention back to our book, I was greeted by a collective blank look.
“Now where were we?” I ask looking down at the page. “Mr. Popper and his Penguins are out on the stage.”
“Brriing, brriing,” I hear from the next room – another telemarketer, I presume.
The child who loves to answer the phone, jumps up right away as the others sit and moan.
“Mom, it’s the pastor and he asked to speak to you!” I get up reluctantly, shushing the crew.
The pastor reminds me of a meeting and asks if I mind bringing something for eating.
I head back to the couch after hanging up the phone to find the two oldest went off on their own.
“Oh, well. I’ll just read with the youngest,” I think, when I notice in my vicinity something starting to stink.
I follow my nose to the source of the stench and find a rotten banana peel that makes me flinch.
After tending to the mess and returning to the couch, I notice the little one digging around in a pouch.
“Mommy, should I put on eye shadow or blush? For lip gloss I have iced pink or orange crush.”
I sit down and discuss how natural beauty is best, and how with blue eyes and curls she has been blessed.
At that point, the others come running back in, each of them wearing a mischievous grin.
I make an attempt to get back to our reading, when one of them notices another’s leg is bleeding.
The smallest one dashes off for first aid, and I realize my morning’s beginning to fade.
After the surgery on the boo-boo is complete, one child whines, “I need something to eat.”
“Me too,” says another. “And me,” says the last. “Okay. Get a snack, but make it fast.”
The dryer buzzes, meaning the clothes are dry. I pull myself up as I heave a sigh.
I shout to the kids, “Meet me back on the couch,” when I realize I’m beginning to feel like a grouch.
Twenty minutes later, we’re back to our book. I come to a picture, and they all need to look.
We get through two chapters, and then it’s time for lunch – peanut butter and jelly and bright red fruit punch.
I gaze at the faces stained with red, covered with jelly and crumbs from the bread.
And I think to myself I would never trade my life. My joy comes from being a mother and a wife.
