Life with Four....

A friend asked me recently if having four kids is much different than having three.

I didn't answer right away, because it was one of those (many) moments when the words in my brain just couldn't seem to make it to my mouth.  I may have just looked at her and laughed maniacally while I tried to find the words. In fact, I'm not sure if I ever found the words. For all I know, she's still waiting for an answer.

See, that's how it's different. Things...elude me. Sleep eludes me. Memories elude me. Sometimes, knowing what day it is eludes me. I have entire conversations--or non conversations--and don't remember. I send a picture of an Ostrich for "O" week at school. When it's "P" week. I show up at basketball practice and can't figure out why no other parent will sit near me. Until I realize that I'm sitting in the team seats. You know, for the actual members of the team. You would think I might have been clued in when there were thirty parents sitting across the gym, trying not to stare at me and the baby in the stroller, occasionally leaning over to ask the person next to them what was wrong with me.

Nothing. Things just elude me. I'm sure some of them also have more kids than we do, and they still manage to sit in the right seats and probably actually send pictures of penguins for "P" week. Overachievers.

(Not that we'd send a picture of a penguin, anyway. We have mostly boys in this house, and they get to pick their own pictures. So we'd send a picture of a penis. See! The fact that that was very inappropriate almost just eluded me. But I'm leaving it here anyway. Because it's funny).

That's another thing. There's no pretending anymore. It's all just out there now. All of it. We used to be able to contain our crazy. At least a little bit. I think.

It dawned on me the other day that we can no longer contain our crazy.

Actually, no, that's not right. It didn't dawn on me. That sounds so...gentle. Like a soft, quiet realization. This wasn't like that. Because really, nothing is soft, quiet, or gentle around here. Except maybe sweet, baby coos from Milkman at 2 am. But they're usually followed by someone bounding into our bed, crying, or sneezing, or throwing up. But I digress.

Anyway, this was no soft, quiet, gentle realization that dawned on me.

 It was more like a loud, boisterous, painful realization that smacked me in the face.

Our crazy can no longer be contained inside our walls, or inside anyone else's.

It spills out, overflowing, everywhere we go. Like the water bottles, and the matchbox cars, and the children that tumble out when we open our car doors. It's like clowns in a Volkswagen. A large, over sized, gas guzzling but very safe Volkswagen. Well, except that it's not a Volkswagen.

I took Archie to pre-school the other day, and in spite of taking an hour to find and put on one shoe before we left the house, he wasn't quite ready to get out of the car when his teacher came out to get him. When his attempts to give me kiss number five failed, he started grabbing things from under the car seat to show his teacher. "Look! We have a blue car in our car! Have you seen this before?"

"Or this McDonald's cup?"

"Or this french fry?"

I smiled my sweetest mommy smile, though my teeth were starting to hurt from clenching them. I had no idea what may have been under that seat.

"Just go with your teacher now, honey".

"How about this? Have you seen one of these before?"

I glanced back and tried to identify the object in his hand. No idea.

Please God, don't let there be anything embarrassing under there.

"Archie, get out of the car now, sweets".

I briefly flash back to my purse spilling on the floor of the car a few days earlier. Did I get it all? What was in there, anyway? Did we ever take all the leftover booze into the house after New Year's Eve ? (I know-leftover booze! Good one, right?). I decide it's not worth chancing it.

"Get out of the car now. Right now. Just go!"

Archie and his teacher both look at me, surprised.

"Love you! Have a great day!"

Archie eventually went into school, and as I drove away, I thought how silly I'd been. I'd briefly forgotten one of the most important aspects of having four kids.

Nothing embarrasses me anymore.

Not nursing in public. If this baby's hungry, he's eating. I don't care where we are, who else is there, or what I'm wearing, or not wearing. Deal with it.

Not being inadequately dressed. Are we all wearing...something? Great! Let's Go!

Not even, for the most part, a preschooler's meltdowns. If your child has never thrown themselves on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably because their lollipop has a piece of lint on it, then consider yourself lucky.

And then have another child.

And certainly not the unidentifiable and/or inappropriate objects under my car seats. If nothing else, they make really great conversation pieces.

Yes, our crazy is now OUT THERE. For everyone to see.

That's not totally new, of course. We've had our past moments in the grocery store, and at Target, and in the middle of church.

But the thing is, with four kids, I no longer care.

You might say the ability to care somehow eludes me.

So what if we're four times as messy, four times as loud, and four times as crazy.

I wouldn't want it any other way.