I was reading Sallie’s post on her A Gracious Home blog.  She linked to this article: Sorry but my children bore me to death .  She warned readers that it was appalling.  I wasn’t prepared to be as appalled as I was however. The author drones on and on about how "mind-numbing" conversing with her offspring is and that they "have got used to my disappearing to the gym when they’re doing their prep (how boring to learn something you never wanted to learn in the first place). They know better than to expect me to sit through a cricket match, and they’ve completely given up on expecting me to spend school holidays taking t hem to museums or enjoying the latest cinema block-boster alongside them".  And what is so much more stimulating to her than the look of utter joy that crosses a child’s face at the park or when they strike it rich at Monopoly: "…thoughts of my own lunch and which shoes I plan to wear with what skirt. "

Whatever.

Frankly I find shoes mindnumbingly boring.  Food is a close second. You eat it, it’s gone.  Kids are forever. Although if you are unsure of the purpose of life then you are likely to be perplexed when faced with the ultimate reminder of same – children.

It’s ironic because all I could think of while reading was yesterday. A day not unlike all the ones that came before. We were rolling through downtown on the way to the midwife’s office.  We were late. Why are we always late??  Maybe because the goats got out of their gate at the last minute and the milk jar spilled and the baby had a diaper disaster. Any number of explanations!  Anyway, as I drive I am telling the girls to brush out their hair before we get out of the van. I see through the rear view that Kieran is sporting his new boots and tattered felt cowboy hat.  He is very pleased with his outfit but it IS one of those bite-your-tongue-mom moments. We call home to ask the big boys to check and see if the goats were successfully corralled and I miss my turn.  While I am backtracking the little ones notice Daddy is following us and they wave at him through the back window.  As I am thinking how crazy wonderful my life is at any given time I hear the words of Phil Vassar’s song on the radio:

The kids screaming, phone ringing

Dog barking at the mailman bringing
That stack of bills – overdue
Good morning baby, how are you?
Got a half hour, quick shower
Take a drink of milk but the milk’s gone sour
My funny face makes you laugh
Twist the top on and I put it back
There goes the washing machine
Baby, don’t kick it.
I promise I’ll fix it
Long about a million other things

Yeah it’s ok. It’s so nice.
It’s just another day in paradise.
Well, there’s no place that
I’d rather be
Well, it’s two hearts
And one dream
I wouldn’t trade it for anything
And I ask the lord every night
For just another day in paradise

Finally we arrive and shuttle everyone into the Victorian house turned midwifery office. The midwife squirts gel on this body of mine that has been down this road 8 times before while I say a silent prayer it will come through for me one more time.  We all squeeze around the ultrasound monitor and suddenly appears this teeny tiny hand flexing and stretching and truly all I can think is "Man! Does it get better than this???" 

I am firmly convinced "happy" is a verb.  As my friend Elizabeth says it is a decision we make everyday to wake up and do it all over again. Not only to do it all, but to do it with the acknowledgement of the blessing hidden inside every trial.  We have to decide if this is "monotonous, lonely, and relentless" or if is it an embarassment of riches.  We are swimming in blessing if we just open our eyes and embrace it. Shame on us when we neglect to notice.