I believe that our adult notions concerning birthdays are largely shaped by our childhood birthday experiences. I come from a family of 5 siblings. My mother had a tendency to bend over backward to make our birthdays nice, oftentimes to the point of adding undue stress to everyone’s lives. My father was her equal opposite. While he was always a solid with a $50 dollar bill on your B-day, I also distinctly remember him informing me that birthdays are like assholes. Everybody has one. I fall somewhere in the middle, which isn’t necessarily a good thing.
Micah’s birthday, May 27th, always falls on one of the busiest weekends of the year. Memorial Day Weekend. Baseball games, parades, picnics, camping. It’s been 10 years, you would think that we would have this figured out by now, but Chris and I pride ourselves on our ability to learn at our own pace…which is apparently rather slowly.
In preparation for Micah’s birthday, I had been probing Chris about gift ideas. Topping last year would be difficult considering we got him the exact 4 items that he asked for despite the fact that we couldn’t afford it. With Chris finishing up nursing school and cutting back on work we are trying to stick to a budget. Knowing that I have a tendency to jump on Amazon and make people’s birthday dreams come true to the demise of our one income budget, Chris was spearheading the gifts this year.
The week before the birthday we pull up to one of Flynn’s (12) baseball games. I remain seated while I decide what to do with multiple sleeping people in the suburban. Chris looks at his phone a moment and then proceeds to get out of the vehicle and approach a car that I don’t recognize. I watch from a distance while Chris performs a shady (not actually that shady, but creative license…) Facebook yardsale Rollerblade transaction. I was slightly impressed. Until I saw them. I know I don’t have to explain to any other moms out there the “constant awareness of the size of your boy’s goon feet” phenomenon. You are the first one to be alerted when shoes are too small and you are constantly on the hunt for future shoes at a decent price because they will most likely be disintegrated under the consistent pressurized force of BOYHOOD! So, really nice rollerblades, definitely too small. Chris argued me on the topic right up until Micah discovered them prematurely in Chris’ vehicle and tried them on. I was right. Insert Micah’s light disappointment [HERE].
I again pressured Chris to just let me have my way with the gifting. He insisted that he had another surprise up his sleeve. And that he did.
Saturday the 26th, the day before Micah’s actual birthday, Chris had all 6 kids while I worked my 5 hours a week at The Square Antiques in Schaefferstown. (This can affectionately be referred to as my weekly vacation.) Being the fabulous dad that he is, he took everyone to the Annville Memorial Day Parade. Afterward, they went and intercepted a gas powered scooter that was once again acquired in some type of backwoods trade. Some old scaffolding for a running motor scooter from a friend. I am falling more in love with my husband with every word I write. He called me at work to let me know it was done. The BIRTHDAY HAPPINESS had arrived! Chris told me the boys were all taking turns and Micah was thrilled. They were presently at our friends’ recreational camp land where we keep a camper parked year round. Multitudes of kids enjoying Micah’s birthday gift with him. My only regret was having not been there to see that initial joy.
I went home after work to prepare Micah’s favorite dessert. Dirt Pudding with gummy worms and flowers galore. When I arrived at camp I was surprised to find that there were no smiles. No birthday happiness. The scooter broke after only an hour. Insert Micah’s immense disappointment [HERE].
“Welp, this Dirt Pudding better be pretty fantastic, cause that’s it!” My words to Chris as I became almost as disappointed as Micah at the sudden turn of events. I softly cried in our camper while Chris and I did a crappy job of spooning dirt pudding into 30 plastic cups. Micah put on a brave face for the next 18 hours (no he didn’t, if he wasn’t sleeping he was frowning) until we left camp with the intention to go home, clean ourselves up and SALVAGE MICAH’S BIRTHDAY!
I think we are finally to the point in our child rearing that we recognize that for every “birthday budget”, there needs to also be an “emergency birthday disaster budget” for when every single thing we planned has tanked hard.
We headed to the Batdorf where Micah spilled and broke not ONE but TWO glasses of root beer. #1 reason our kids only drink water when we eat at restaurants, but it was the birthday salvage! SODA ALL AROUND! Poor Micah. You know when you look at your kid cause you’re like “Are you even kidding?!” but then you can see on their face that they are not, in fact, kidding and they did have two horrific accidental spills in a row. After the second root beer incident Flynn looked at me and said, “I feel like I’m on a roller coaster that I’m really scared to be on right now…like…in my stomach.” Welcome to my life Flynn. After our nerves settled, Micah was presented with a substantial dessert and the combined melodies of the Batdorf staff and his family singing Happy Birthday before we were off to Harrisburg to the trampoline park where we finished the evening with high spirits.
The next day we attended the Lebanon Memorial Day Parade. Micah is a parade enthusiast, so I do feel quite strongly that his birth on this particular holiday weekend was no coincidence. We watched Owen (7) and Flynn walk with their baseball teams in the parade and afterward headed in the direction of my in-laws home in Maryland. We needed to retrieve our daughter Iris (12) who had attended a wedding and was absent from all birthday festivities. My in-laws always make our children feel very special on their birthdays. A cookout, a cake, a gift. They are consistently a source of birthday joy for our kids and it’s nice to know that if we really blow it, hopefully, the grandparents can pick up the slack.
After blowing out his candles Micah was presented with a very large box. He was so excited to tear through the paper. There they were. Some REALLY NICE ROLLERBLADES! Having heard about the rollerblade debacle, my father-in-law went the extra mile and got him a pair from a real store! Once again though, while I watched him pull them from the box, I laid my eyes on them and knew they were too small. Not a big deal, because at least they could be exchanged with the receipt. I, however, couldn’t watch Micah go through one more light disappointment. I went to the bathroom for a moment. When I reemerged I heard Chris say, “OOOO, a women’s size 7.” Micah still left with a smile on his face, knowing we would be taking him to the sporting goods store to exchange his really nice women’s roller blades for a pair of really nice men’s roller blades. And we did, the next evening.
I guess Micah’s birthday has helped to re-shape my idea of “birthdays”. Going forward I believe that Krouse children need to fully expect their birthday to be the single most character building day of their year. While we, your parents will never intentionally fill the day with disappointment, awkward moments and broken gifts, we also admit that we just can’t make any promises. We had you and we’ve kept you around this long so surely you must know our great love for you, but we don’t do well under pressure so please forgive us for all of your past, present and future birthdays.

Writer’s block is alive and well over here on Cherry Street. So I decided to take all that lack of motivation and channel it into sharing that which I am holding closest to the heart right now. We all know that just because someone appears to be doing something crazy with some level of confidence, it does not mean that is in fact what is happening. Looks can be deceiving.

So I’m visiting my BFF in Steelton in mid-February. I last saw her in the flesh some five months prior (10 kids between us, we know we’ll hang out in our forties, for sure.) Noah (1yr) and Max (3) are settling in and pairing off with some of her gang. I use the bathroom. When I reemerge she alerts me that my phone rang twice. I look. Chris and The School. I call Chris.

“Hey, you get that message from the school?”

“Nope. I have one though.”

“Listen to it and call me back.”

I don’t know what to think. They’re alright kids so I highly doubted any of the four school-aged ones were causing trouble.

An automated message letting parents know that there has been a “vague, unspecified threat against the school district.”

Now, friends, we were a week out from the last mass school shooting. I know I wasn’t the only “helicopter parent” with that event pretty fresh on my mind.

I listen to the equally “vague” phone message to its end and then return Chris’ call…again.
We are like “Huh.”

“I’m at Mia’s. You think I should head home?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Probably not.”

We’re quiet.

“I’m sure its fine.”

We both know we don’t believe that anymore. That’s what every parent thinks, every day when they send their kid to school. It’s FRIGGIN SCHOOL! It’s FINE! Or was that more like 20 years ago?

Anyway, I chose not to overreact and Chris decided to do likewise, and I hold my breath through maybe an hour-hour and a half long visit with my friend, whose face I miss very much since she moved out of our fine county 3 years ago.

On my drive home I try to decide if I should get the kids or if I should let them in school for the remainder of the day. I choose the latter, but I definitely drove a lap around the middle school and the elementary school. Things seemed normal, other than what appeared to be a few kids being picked up. I went home and hung tough till dismissal.

Upon reuniting with my middle schoolers, they shared that there was a mild hysteria among their classmates. The elementary school did not experience this. I believe the difference between the two could be the number of kids equipped with smartphones in middle school. They’re a great tool, perfect for navigation and communication. Sadly, the information communicated through these devices isn’t always what we parents would hope for it to be. My kids weren’t seeing the Facebook post on the school’s page, so they were only hearing the news from other students. Doors were locked. Kids were denied access to the bathrooms. Apparently, there were even some exceedingly dramatic students, crying, screaming.

This is where I share the part of the story that I could most likely receive judgment concerning. Our kids never went back to school. Yes, we are aware that nothing happened. We know it was just some kid playing a prank. But we aren’t interested in receiving the next message, which could potentially be delivering less hopeful news. There was a time when Chris and I cared a lot more about what other people thought. We cared what our friends thought, what our parents thought, what other peoples friends and parents thought. Those days are in the past.

Every day we are faced with decisions. Hard ones, easy ones, unnoticeable ones. We spent the rest of that week really thinking about what our goals, hopes, dreams, and plans are for our kids. Rather than focusing on the negatives, the guns, the violence, the moral deficiency that is the most likely cause of our nations most significant problems… we decided to bask in the beauty of living in a country where we are free to do as we please with our children’s education. Within the week I reached out to a dear friend and mother of 15 who relocated to Ukraine to serve orphans with her brood. She writes curriculum and sells it on Amazon. She is the most outside of the box thinker that I have ever known. Her business, The Thinking Tree, is helping parents all over the world to feel more equipped for a task that can seem too overwhelming to want to undertake. She hooked us up with some fabulous workbooks, and we aren’t looking back.

I think that what I’m learning lately is that my kids need more guidance than I ever could have imagined. Our current school system has our children separate from us for the majority of the day and when they return we wonder why they can seem awkward or withdrawn. Thankfully my kids are still open enough to ask me questions they don’t know are horrible questions to have to ask. “Mom, what’s rape?”
I’m surprised but don’t show it, and I explain to my 6th graders what rape is.
“Why are kids joking around about something like that?!” my daughter asks with a disgusted look on her face. I don’t know how to respond.
“Mom, today I saw two boys grab the same girls butt…at the same time.”
I’m also without any real answers for my child. I want to just tell them, “Those kids have no parents.” …but the sad truth is that most of them do have parents.

I’ll be the first one to admit how hard being a parent is. I’m on the outs with one of my six children at almost all times, while I discipline them through some crap behavior. Teaching my kids how to be decent people is the most time-consuming task I’ve ever undertaken. It’s SO much easier to hand them a phone or turn on the TV and forget that they basically need molded and shaped 24 hours a day.

Perfect example. Chris’ parents gave him their old tablet for him to use for nursing school. Naturally, our kids use it for their 1/2 hour of gaming a day. One evening while we laid in bed, Chris started playing one of the games the kids downloaded. Bow Masters. He chose his character, a mime… his weapon was a baguette that he hurled through the air at his opponent. Seemed innocent enough. There were some definite math skills involved while you calculated the degree of angle needed to hit your target. It was slightly disturbing to watch the baguette impale the enemy, with the accompanying sound effect. I’m not old-fashioned or anything, so I observed longer… curious if Chris had what it took to win. He didn’t. And after he was hit for the 3rd time by the opposing robots’ sword, we both watched while his mime laid over and bled out excessively. I take that back. I’m old-fashioned. And I guess Chris is too… ’cause that game is gone.

I get it. It’s a game. Cartoon blood. No big deal. But like I tell my kids about their use of the words stupid, jerk, idiot, and shut up…when you’re 18, and you live on your own, you may fill your home with those words and many others. You may play bloody cartoon games. You can make terrible decisions and live with the results thereof. But until then, I’m your keeper peeps. So deal with it.

It’s nice to have our freedoms. It’s nice to have guns if you want guns. It’s awesome that we all have these screens that will show us ANYTHING we want and let us play whatever games we want. It’s great to be comfortable in your sexuality. It’s especially great to decide what’s best for your kid and have the freedom to act on it. I’m not sure what exactly is wrong in our country/world right now, but I’m finding its more productive to focus on what’s right. Here’s to finding hope, my friends. And hey, if you’re gonna do something a little crazy… may it be for your children’s sake.

Emphasis on the “hood” part of that word.

Tonight (morning actually…it’s 2 AM) while I stood in my living room and swayed back and forth wearing a baby carrier, that in this case could more appropriately resemble a straight jacket…I was thinking about this column and what I could try to muster as a decent introduction for my very first piece of writing in this publication. Hunched over 1 month old Noah, changing his diaper…poopy wet wipes landing where they willed in the darkness…the only word I could hear in my head was “Mothahood”. When I heard the word it sounded really badass, like I was talking about a hood with a ghetto and more than a few questionable street corners. It is from inside of this hood that I decided to write this piece, because frankly…it’s where I’m at!

When I take a step back and look at the full picture of my life I can see clearly that I am an extremely multifaceted person, as are we all…but the only facet getting to reflect the light of day (or night) at this stage on my life, is the motherhood facet. We are 6 children deep into the wildest ride of our lives and there’s no turning back or lessening the intensity of the ups and downs…I’m pretty sure we aren’t even allowed to loosen the lap belt on this ride. And so, while I would deeply enjoy writing a little something about vintage fashion, salvaged from local thrift stores, or the perfect formula for a crusty-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside loaf of sourdough bread or even a brief paragraph detailing some gardening tips that I’ve found helpful…I won’t be doing any of those things. Instead, please enjoy small descriptions of what mothahood has been looking like for me lately. These are only small descriptions because my life right now doesn’t allow me a free left hand (my writing hand) for anymore than a few moments here n there. If you can relate to these life snippets, cool…I’ll buy you a drink. If you can’t relate, also cool…I’ll buy you a drink anyway, cause I probably haven’t been out of the house in a while.

Mothahood is….

Hearing people crying on 3 different floors of my home and being able to decipher which of those cries requires immediate, if any, attention.

Smiles and laughter under air filled sheet tents.

A delicious plate of someone else’s cold, forgotten scrambled eggs.

A grumpy morning after a sleepless night of every two hour feedings.

Tiny wet kisses on the staircase after a much needed nap.

Attempting to donate items to the Goodwill…until I’m caught and this useless thing is now priceless!

Carrying a small person, kicking and screaming and punching to their room and gently depositing them into their crib…and then going and flopping down on my own bed in an effort to reclaim even 10% of the energy that was just exerted.

Jeans that don’t fit.

A crusty, soaking crock pot.

Enjoying sports…when I don’t normally enjoy sports.

Reading the same book 100+ times…or more!…until I have the book memorized, prompting it to be recited on long car rides that require that little something extra to make it bearable.

Accomplishing tasks that require two hands, but doing it with only one.

Kissing someones finger after it was bitten…by their own self.

Crying while I sit on the floor of my dark closet, hiding from all of it for a minute.

Finding a booger on my apron that I KNOW doesn’t belong to me.

Someone sitting on my foot while I try to make dinner.

Kindly bringing to someone’s attention that the dirty entryway area rug is not the best place to set down their handfuls of Cheez-Its.

Watching my 5 older kids interact with and enjoy the magic and beauty of a new born baby in the house.

Knowing that even though it is the cutest thing in the world and while I would like for my children to stay little forever, that is not the case. Therefore, my 11 year old daughter needs to know that she may NOT purchase candy from the confession stand, but she may do so at the concession stand.

Crouching down at the top of the stairs while someone yells, “PIG RIDE!” and hops on.

One lengthy bout of refereeing the most illogical argument known to the human race.

Embarrassing grocery store outings.

Coaxing a tiny, naked person out from the middle of a pile of wooden skewers and toppled canned goods after what appears to be the actual pillaging of my pantry.

Handling someone else’s poop SO much more than I ever imagined was possible. Were I to ever submit another resume again in this life, I might be tempted to site “poop handling” as a skill.

Playing soccer in the upstairs hallway.

A bandana strategically positioned over my greasy, unwashed hair.

Pushing people to be the very best version of themselves, while respecting their individuality.

Unloading an entire bottle of Oxy Clean in an effort to save an easter shirt.

Coming up with new and creative ways to discipline all these people, therefore alleviating the boredom and monotony that one might experience from dealing with essentially the same scenarios year after year.

A swift kick in someone else’s ass.

Having gentlemen pick me flowers…ALL the time.

The purest and truest muse that I have ever known.

Mothahood is no joke, but it sure can be funny.

The winter feels like it might be over today. I know it’s a trick, but today it is 66 degrees and it almost makes us forget what the last several weeks have been like. It is a welcomed change. Kids riding bikes and skateboards, rather than wrestling in the living room and begging for screen time.

Winter always seems to drive Chris and I into a monotonous, droning, low gear. We are doing everything that is expected of us. Paying our bills, working our jobs, fulfilling obligations in the order that they arise and by their designated priority level. Caring for sick children when the need be. Preparing the appropriate meals in accordance to said sickness. Keeping our house “sanitary”. I’d like to tell you that Chris and I are each others greatest cheerleaders, but that usually isn’t the case. Often times we are each feeling overworked and under appreciated and we know that the other feels it. But because we also know that this is part of the life we’ve created together, we realize that at this stage of the game the best thing we can do for each other is not make a big stink, about how overworked and under appreciated we feel. Sometimes we just say it to each other with our eyes, across a Sloppy Joe laden dinner table. “Hey you, you look rough. Thanks for being here.”

We are also really good at timing our emotional waves of hopelessness so that they never come at the same time. Him or me, never both of us. Like when he goes back to nursing school after his christmas break and he has to re-acclamate to the work load and the stress level and he’s freaking out before bed, “Why did I do this?! Why did I think this was a good idea? What’s wrong with me?!” And then there’s me after a long week of sick kids and I just run out the front door and don’t come back for 45 minutes and when I return maybe 1 out of 7 people missed me and little do they know I was trying to pretend to run away but lacked the balls to get the job done.

There are times when Chris walks through the door and there is so much I would like to tell him, but as it turns out…there are six other people in our house who want to tell him stuff also. Sometimes he calls me in the last 10 minutes of his drive home, and if I’m able to answer and step onto the back porch to talk, those ten minutes may be the only unbroken communication we have that day.

So this is where I share with you my absolute favorite moment of this otherwise desperately long and cold season. Other than those amazing ten minute phone calls, Chris has this other thing he does that he probably doesn’t think much of, but to me it represents an intimacy that I sometimes forget that we have. He walks in the door with a sense of urgency and purpose (knowing he’ll forget whats he’s doing if he lets himself be distracted) and heads right for a piece of technology where he can look up and share a song that he heard during the day. A song that perhaps made him feel deeply, or marvel at a musical dynamic or just made him happy. It’s like he’s inviting me into a part of himself that I love so much and frankly, it was one of his most attractive qualities when we met. His musical ear and his remarkable instrumental talent. He also knows that if I turn any music on during the day, its probably just songs about Choo-Choo trains or puppies and caterpillars.

The family was already seated around the table, mid dinner…Chris had worked later than usual. I was holding exceptionally fussy Noah on my lap while he pawed at a mess of food in front of him. Chris didn’t say much while he located the song he wanted to share. I remember feeling slightly melancholy as the baby reached his saucy hands up to make contact with my face. The song begins to play through the kitchen. The kids are muted enough that I can make sense of the lyrics. A Jason Isbell song, Chris informs me.

“I’ve heard this song a hundred times but only really listened to the lyrics today.”

“Huh.” I’m intrigued.

The first verse is a proclamation of the things the singer must love about his mate. Nothing that spoke to me personally. The melody was beautiful though. I keep listening. The chorus.

Its knowing that this can’t go on forever
Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone
Maybe we’ll get forty years together
But one day I’ll be gone
Or one day you’ll be gone

I’m not in the mood to let it all out in front of the kids, but I look up at him and he’s purposely looking at the floor…to avoid the eye contact that is going to remind us of EVERYTHING! We know we will be reminded that we’ve already been together 18 years and our life isn’t what we thought it would be, but its so good. Its rich in all the ways you want it to be.

He looks at me, I’m crying. He comes over and puts his arm around me and our saucy handed baby and he starts crying too. Some kid is like, “What? Whats this song about?” Cause you know, kid ears.

The next verse.

If we were vampires and death was a joke
We’d go out on the sidewalk and smoke
Laugh at all the lovers and their plans
I wouldn’t feel the need to hold your hand
Maybe time running out is a gift
I’ll work hard to the end of my shift
And give you every second I can find
And hope it isn’t me who’s left behind

We try to offer the kids so type of generic answer, but the words can’t match the moment. They are left staring on while we have a good cry and what we’ll call our first date in a few months.

I can’t instruct you on how to have an overwhelming moment of realization with your spouse of the frailty and preciousness of what you have. I can tell you that the road to appreciation station for us, involved a lot of crap that you don’t even want to talk about. The emergency hospitalization of our 10 month old. The unexpected sickness and stress of the holidays. A falling out with a close family member. Broken down vehicles and appliances that can’t be numbered. Sleepless nights. News headlines that seem unreal. The undeniable blase’ that the winter generously affords to dish out. Sadly, too many of us don’t linger long enough in that realization. We become caught up in the details and lose sight of the gift. Look around. Enjoy the gift.

I’m aware that you, the reader,  know that I am real. A real life person, existing in nothing but reality. Let’s begin with that understanding.

I’m most likely late to the game, but this past year I downloaded a walkie talkie app and I use it with 2-4 mom friends. I have given up hope that my own free moments will ever line up with the free moments of some of my closest friends. These are some busy ladies. Some working, some surrounded by chaos at multiple turns in the day, some trapped in a prison of silence, not able to use their own voice for risk of waking up all of the slumbering people that were just lulled to sleep by 30 minutes of driving, but maybe…just maybe,  she can hold a phone to her ear and listen to her pal expound on what’s going on in her own day. I’m just not at a place in my life that allows for a lot of unbroken moments of communication. As a dear friend once put it, “Its like listening to a pod cast…of your friend.”

So anyway, I’m sitting on the couch next to Chris, he’s casually studying some gigantic text book full of life saving tidbits and medication administering pointers. The kids are all in bed.  I pick up my phone and listen to Mia give me the down-low on her day. The kids, nap-time, tantrums, her well being at the end of another shift/day/week…depending on when we last checked in on each other . I guess you could call it “caring about each others souls”…if it needs a title. I respond to her previous message with tales of my own.  A toddler who only wants to wear his older brothers basketball t shirt, quarrels over origami creations left to be trampled, maybe I even mention the many times I’ve “Taken away the basement”, because they refuse to keep it free of trampled food.

At some point I sensed what felt like an eye roll from the man, but Chris doesn’t do that.  With Chris its more of a posture, but its been 20 years that I’ve sat beside him so I know what he’s saying.
“What?” I ask him.
“Nothing.” He lies.
“It’s something.” I’m right.
“I guess I just don’t think people wanna hear all the dribble drabble…”
He puts into words what I knew he was saying but that I couldn’t have articulated as well.  He’s a kind, loving, considerate man and he doesn’t mince words.  He listens to the dribble drabble from me because he signed up for it.  He helped me to create this dribble…that drabbles on…and on…and on.  But he could never imagine anyone outside our immediate scope wanting to hear about it.

“Are you aware that all my life is at this point…is dribble drabble?”

If you are in a relationship with me at this time in my life then you are aware that I have little else to offer than the hum-drum, the day-in and day-out, the dribble, with a side of drabble.

Sometimes I imagine what the opposite of the dribble drabble is.  Im aware that these are the “milestones”.  The things that you’re actually excited or eager or possibly dreading telling someone else.  So here is a list I’ve complied of milestones versus the dribble drabble. Enjoy!

We’re getting married! vs. I have to spend 600 dollars to repair my engagement ring because I punched a door jam while I was running to assist an injured child.

I’m Pregnant! vs I was startled awake by the kids fighting over the last of the cream cheese.

We’re Getting A Pet! vs. That cat that I adopted got sick and ruined my most favorite piece of vintage furniture of all time and will now cost more than the sofa did to cure.

I was arrested! vs. I got in a verbal scuffle with a cranky old man in a grocery store parking lot and at the end it didn’t really feel like either of us was the winner.

I’m getting a divorce! vs. I woke up in the middle of the night and the room smelt like farts and I wanted to get mad but quickly realized I wasn’t sure if it was him or me.

We bought a house! vs. We’ve never wanted to live ELSEWHERE more, but we’re hunkering down and investing in ourselves and therefore hoping to give our children more than a spacious home and some nice things.

We’re going to Europe! vs. The holiday parade was cancelled, now what are we gonna do with ourselves.

I’m going to jail! vs. What do I have to do to get myself a night in jail!

We went out last night! vs. We were in bed and asleep at 8:30 last night, like a couple of actual senior citizens.

He graduated from nursing school! vs. Nope. Still in it to win it!  Feels like the longest, hardest thing a family of 8 might ever do…support one of their own while they do that which they would be more likely to fail at than to succeed.

We bought a new vehicle! vs. Both our cars that are paid off…are WORTHLESS to us!  One doesn’t fit us all and the other is in the shop!

I went and saw such and such new movie! vs. HAHAHAHA! Nope, just been watching Thomas the Tank Engine and whatever weird YouTube vids the middle schoolers are into at the moment.

So here’s the deal.  If you’re giving a child, or six children an adequate foundation upon which to build a healthy, thriving existence, then chances are that your life is FULL of DRIBBLE DRABBLE.  You might even have some dreams that you’ve placed on the back burner until a time when people are less needful of your full and immediate attention. There are no doubt times in your day when you feel bored, lonely, frustrated, sad even.  But take heart, my fellow mother!  Our calling is a sacred and coveted one!  You are shaping the future of our world with the love and care of your priceless roommates. And if you have found yourself in the position to have an encouraging and long-suffering friend on the other end of a walkie talkie connection, Damn it! Don’t be afraid to S.O.S. when you need to!  Or just exchange the dribble drabble.