Yes, I Do Know All Their Names

The line at the airport this morning stretches out like a long woolen scarf. I’m shuffling toward the check-in counter at the pace of a slow eating toddler, on my way to eagerly anticipated R & R on a sunny beach in Florida.

Warmth and sand are luring this tired-of-the-cold momma along with the other Minnesota folk from a mid-winter glacial freeze. “Good thing we got here early!” complains a voice behind me. I take in the young gal with a blonde pixie cut and cat’s-eye glasses--perhaps a college student on spring break?  I smile and agree that early is good. She discovers I have eleven children. Then she learns about my collection of grands, 40 and counting. Her jaw sags in earnest amazement. “Do you know all their names?” she queries, eyes wide in astonishment.

It isn’t the first time I’ve heard that question. I’ve fielded all the questions many times. Yes, they’re all mine. No multiple births. Canadian Man is dad to all. Seven girls and four boys. Christmas gets really crazy sometimes. I don’t know how many loads of mismatched socks and itty-bitty onesies the ol’ Maytag chugged out every week. Maybe 15? 20? Or more if the barfs went through the house. I loaded 2 huge carts with groceries at Sam’s Club each month. Perhaps 8 or more gallons of milk went down little throats every 30 days. I know…it’s a little hard to wrap your head around all that. 

I don’t blame those who aren’t buying toilet paper for a small army for feeling dumbfounded, perplexed. I understand that they might even think I’m stark raving crazy or missing a few French fries. The same thoughts have crossed my mind in the middle of the night or when six kids have chicken pox. Until I have a child warmly snuggled against my side with their chubby hand clutching mine asking, “Are you scaewd of the dauwk?”. Until the independent and I’m-not-afraid-of-anything middle-schooler comes barreling through the door after school and the first word out of his mouth every. single. day. is “Mom!” Then I have a feeling blossoming inside that everything important is right here. I get a realization that spreads and warms like caramel on hot apple cake that being a momma of all these littles doesn’t bankrupt me. Being a momma of so many isn’t craziness. Being the mom of many fills my van, my home, my life and much more. Yes, Ms. Mod, I do know all their names. Every single one. They are etched on my heart.

 “Wow, how did you do it? Ms. Mod asks, peering attentively into my face, “Was it hard?”. I inch forward another foot, my suitcase obediently rolling behind, the queue of fretful travelers around me fading from my vision. I find myself back in time draped over the familiar upholstered mauve Lazy Boy in utter exhaustion, cranky teething babe in arms. Canadian Man was whistling as he tossed toothbrush and shaver into ditty bag for another 3-day road trip to Bismark, ND. Resentment choking my words, I said bleakly, “Have a good trip.” “Hope all goes well here, Hon!” came the cheery voice back. 

Geez Louise, did he have to be so happy? Didn’t he realize how much I wanted to go somewhere, anywhere? I would be whistling too if I were going to North Dakota to Peace and Quiet. I could read my book all evening, no wailing baby to shush. I could fill the tub without running out of hot water and blissfully slide into scented bubbles to my chin, no little knuckles rapping at the door, no little voices calling out “Mommy! Mo-o-om! Tan I tum in?” A little time to myself would be golden. Men sure have the privileged life! North Dakota sounded like Paradise. 

Jouncing Baby Fussy, I seethed. I felt stuck with no end in sight. Endless diapers and mountains of dishes, sticky floors and runny noses. My bed wasn’t my own, my time wasn’t my own, not even my dinner could be eaten without sharing with one or more of the tots. When was the last time I drank a hot cup of coffee? 

I blink and realize the line has moved again. Maybe we would catch our flight yet. I smile wistfully at Ms. Mod and say, “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” 

Of course, it was hard. It was incredibly hard at times. But you know what? Somewhere along the way I realized one thing. These children are a precious gift. It is a deep honor and privilege to be given the task of nurturing these innocent souls who are “the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” Matt 18:1-4 These little bits of heaven that come into our home bring immense joy. Milky breaths, baby babbles, sleepy yawns and wobbly first steps are beyond delightful. Nothing compares to sloppy kisses, contagious giggles, kindergarten colorings and a hug from a teenage boy.  Can a heart melt any softer than when small faces light up like a sunbeam seeing Mom from the crib in the middle of the night, bursting in after school, coming in for warm chocolate chip cookies. Why was I complaining of cold coffee when I had heaven visiting me every day? 

I also realized that Hubby’s life wasn’t a stroll in clover. I learned that motel rooms were lonely places. The stress of the work world was really, really hard. We need to support each other. 

Ms. Mod’s crystal blue eyes soften behind her trendy glasses. Does she have a glimmer of what I see? Does she comprehend in a minute way what a blessing these little ones are? She grasps my arm and says fervently, “You are a saint.” 

“No,” I gently correct Ms. Mod, shaking my head, “I’m no saint.” I touch her hand, hold her eyes with mine. “Do you have a favorite little person?” I ask, images of epic toddler moments filling my mind. Even a small experience could change her life. “Go share some Crayolas with a three-year-old,” I tell her, “He’ll color you a whole new perspective.”

“Next!” comes the call from the ticket counter. 

Pulling my suitcase to the gesturing ticket agent, I lift my hand to my airport friend. Ms. Mod’s eyes follow me thoughtfully, reflectively as she waves back. White sands and blue seas await. And a hot cup of Starbucks.