Last night, we had my husband's sister, brother-in-law and their four kids over to celebrate Christmas. They have a toddler, and three other kids, aged 7-13. We had a great time, but maaaaaan, that is enough to get you thinking about what it really means to have children.
They are all good kids. The littlest has so much spunk that I think we could solve the energy crisis if we could just learn how to channel it effectively. At the end of the evening, my dogs were looking up at me with big, pleading eyes, as if to say, "Can we keep him? Puh-wease?"
And even though the kid slobbered chocolate all over my velvet couch, I was surprising ok with it. I was also fine when he jumped up and down on my leather ottoman. I was alright when he tried to open my antique secretary by clawing at the drawers, and when he knocked over a couple dining room chairs. I was surprised by how alright I was with it.
In fact, the only thing that really made my heart beat a little faster was when my husband picked him up and was playing with him. Big guy with a giggling kid slung over one arm, on their way outside to play with the dogs? Yep, that looked right somehow. And even though it was nice to have some quiet and a glass of wine after they left, the house did feel a bit emptier once they all filed out the door.
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