Thirteen of us snuggled together in the living room to watch the Olympics. The boys came inside and took a seat on the floor in front of the fireplace. They had been “boffing,” or “LARPing” as the older boys liked to call it. Foam swords, daggers, and whatchamacallits flew through the air as the trampolines allowed elevated leaps and kicks. The oldest boy 29… no wait, papa G took his turn too – 54, the youngest 12… Helmets were brought out, football pads too. At one point there was a zebra belt, but I’m not sure what that was for.
The girls chatted and watched from the inside through the window with blue blinds. Our chatter revolved around babies, giving, birth, and breastfeeding. No wonder the boys went outside to play. The girl married to the oldest boy (other than papa G) is thinking about babies. I am a wealth of information, and not one to leave out any of the details. Mommy G knows best of course, birthing five of her own. I am quick to listen to wiser women. My bookshelves are littered with pregnancy and baby books, but I go to the moms for most of my information, because back before there were “how to” books, there was community and family… and this was how the knowledge of the world was passed on.
Back to the living room. The boys were sweaty, and there was floorspace only as we gathered to watch Michael Phelps win another gold medal. Three or four conversations took place during the commercials, but it never seemed noisy. The space was small for such a large gathering, but it didn’t feel crowded. I looked around the room, at family and friends, and felt the greatest sort of contentment… love and peace and joy overflowed in the living room we sat in. And as happy as I feltat that moment, I knew the happiest two people in the room were mommy G and papa G.
I finally get it. There is no greater joy than knowing your child is well taken care of and happy. And in that room, five of their babies had been well taken care of – and even though life’s circumstances hit harder for some than others – they all know joy. This is why Jesus tells us to ask for things, and assures us that our Abba in Heaven knows best… that God takes care of us like a parent for their child, only oodles better.
I told my husband during pillow talk that night, after the lightening storm died down and we walked back into the house, that I hope our family is just like that. Full of love and laughter and people. Family that is related by blood, and family that is bonded by kindred spirits.
I think it was this evening that made me forget how much I disliked being pregnant, how hard labor was, and just how insanely difficult the first two weeks (months?) of mommyhood are. I’ve heard it happens (the amnesia), but I didn’t believe it. Maybe I will re-read all of my preggo blogs to remind myself that throwing up every morning for at least six months should wait a few years. Yes?