The Neverending Rant.
It happens ever so often. I walk into the grocery store, and some stranger’s eyes fall onto one of my children. They smile because of the adorableness oozing out of his or her pores. Then as they realize there are four of them, not one, their smile quickly fades. They actually look at me like I have committed a great offense against them; and usually mumble something that resembles, “You know what causes that, right!”
Or when I’m talking to someone and they ask, “Do you have any children of your own?” I respond, with a smile, “Yes, I have four!” Then they make their sour face, and say, “You don’t even look old enough to have four children. Your hands must be full!” Which wouldn’t be a terrible thing to say, if they weren’t belittling me with their tone and the expression on their face.
Then there’s my favorite, “Brandice must have taken the Bible literally when it said, ‘Be fruitful and multiply!’”
I always wonder what it would be like if I went in the store, and walked up to someone with one kid and started walking around their grocery cart, and picking up their groceries like I was searching for something. Then, when I couldn’t find another child, I would say, “OMG! You only have ONE child?! What is wrong with you? Ohhh…do you not know how to make babies?” In a perfect world, I would just happen to have some Childbirth Education charts in a bag that resembles the one Mary Poppins carried. I would spitefully educate this unsuspecting person on how one gets pregnant, and just for kicks, I’d throw in some parenting advice too.
I know that sounds like a ridiculous scenario. But when someone walks up to me and starts making their opinion known about my choice to have 4 children, it’s ridiculous to me. What do they expect me to say? Do they want me to say I regret it? Because I don’t. Do they want me to say how hard it is? It’s worth it. Do they want me to cry because of the financial strain? We have everything we need. What response are people looking for when they say that kind of thing?
Every morning, I wake up to at least one child in my bed. They usually have one leg across my face, and an elbow in their dad’s ear. As soon as my eyes open, a whistle sounds that only children can hear. The next thing I know, they are at my feet, telling me what they dreamed the night before. I receive hugs from sun up to sun down. I hear 154 Knock-Knock jokes a day, or 154 renditions of the same Knock-Knock joke. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I laugh till I cry. I feel privileged to stay home with them. I feel honored to teach them. I choose this. It’s not a curse. I don’t feel unfortunate. I love my kids. They love us. They love each other.
I don’t expect my little rant to cause a domino effect of politeness and an understanding of boundaries to go roaring through the south; but getting this off my chest may keep me from yelling at an unsuspecting, well intentioned, Windbag.
