can't steal my happiness

The kids and I woke up hacking and uncomfortably dry, cracked, raw, scratchy. What we need up in here is an industrial strength humidifier and a big old vat of Lubriderm. Our weekend was the kind of busy that might leave a visitor under the assumption that our house had been rifled through by vandals or torn asunder by a tornado touching down in our living room. I'm not exactly sure where to begin, as usual.

Now don't get me wrong, MANY, many times I have greeted a brand new day with the less than optimistic realization that, Oh my gosh, these four kids aren't going anywhere! And then the whining starts over school assignments, chores, being breathed on by a sibling, and I second-guess that mammoth decision I made to educate the children myself. But for some inexplicable reason, I am presently being blessed with the capacity to actually appreciate the boisterousness and aliveness of my environment.

The bulk of us are still in our jammies. We've been snuggling on the couch reading history books and snacking on pretzels. Mom! Where are the Kleenexes? they ask me every five minutes or so. I stroke their hair; press my palm on their foreheads to check for fevers. The truth is, I really, really like them.

I could dwell, I suppose, on other scenarios involving me in a silent house organizing my spice drawer but why in the world, if you really stop and ponder on it, would I think that would make me happier than being all wrapped up and invested in the lives of my incredible, outrageous, family members? I have six more hours to go until my husband gets home from work; I'm praying now, as I write this, for the strength to make the most of them, to keep my thoughts and "what if?" daydreams from betraying me.