People are naturally curious about what life in a big family is like.

I get lots of comments wherever I go, especially now when all the kids are tan and super blond.

Yesterday I walked into a realtor’s office with the kids and upon entering, one of the women working in there looked at us and said,

“The Von Trapp family!”

Two different women in the last two days have commented on the kids.

One told me how beautiful they all were, and one told me how lucky I was.

And I am.

I really do love having lots of kids.

And very often they are playing so nicely together and I think about how fortunate they are to all have each other.

Number 3 and Number 6 had a really great time playing together at the beach yesterday while Number 4 and 5 have been spending a lot of time looking for sea glass together.

Last night as I was getting a head start on doing some packing, Number 4, 5, and 6 were playing outside and Number 3 and Number 7 were working on a jigsaw puzzle.

There are many moments that actually do resemble the Von Trapps where the kids are singing and playing and pretending (no marionettes, though).

And at those times, I try to just sit and watch them and burn the image of them all playing together so nicely in my memory.

Because there are just as many (way more, actually) moments where they are attempting to insult or injure or infuriate each other. Usually they are doing all three of those things simultaneously.

Sometimes there are moments at night when you put the kids to bed and they are quiet and calm and snug as a bug and you feel really good about being a parent.

And then there are moments like last night where you put the kids to bed and gently close the door to their room.

And as you are walking away, you hear your four-year-old yell,

“SHUT THE HELL UP!” to her sister.

And then you hear your six-year-old say, “Would you say that to your friends?”

And you hear your four-year-old say,

“Yeah, I’d tell Roxanne to shut the hell up.

AND I’D TELL YOU TO SHUT THE HELL UP.

SHUT THE HELL UP!

And then you hear your seven-year-old yell,

“IF YOU SAY THAT AGAIN, YOU’RE TOAST!”

And that’s when you silently curse the Von Trapps, walk quickly away from the bedroom door, and feel your uterus internally telling you to go fuck yourself.

 

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