What’s kept me from the computer lately is that one of my friends and her children are visiting from out of town this week. This means we now have six children in the house, but the other night we had two other friends over, who also have six children between them, for a total of twelve — all of them age seven and under.
The same four moms and dozen kids got together again today at someone else’s house, which was more fun for them than my house, because that house has chickens. I’ve contemplated chickens, but I have enough trouble feeding the dog and watering the apple trees. I think chickens will have to wait at least until Portia is no longer crawling and trying to eat things off the floor.
Poultry or no poultry, I can’t begin to tell you how much I enjoy having so many children around. My kids have so much fun when there’s a houseful of children. I’ve written before about how people who dislike children, or believe people shouldn’t have them for the sake of the environment, and also about the bad advice women of my generation got to defer childbearing until it was, in all too many cases, too late.
I was thinking about this again recently because while Portia was in the hospital, I spoke with two women nearing forty, one a nurse and the other a nurse practitioner, who both told me they desperately wanted children, but couldn’t find a husband and thought it was probably too late.
It probably is. And that makes me angry. It makes me downright furious how many women have been robbed of the indescribable joy I’ve felt for nearly eight years.
Yes, it’s hard sometimes. Yes, they can wreak havoc with your figure. Yes, I have to face my darkest fears for their benefit. Yes, I often can’t blog because of them. And yes, I do like to get away from them once in a while.
But it all pales in comparison to they joy they bring me in a thousand indescribable little ways. Nothing worth having comes without effort, and children are no exception. They are the best thing that ever happened to me, and I thank God for them every day.