The Truth About Four Kids

Something we should get out of the way straight off is the fact that I have four children. There it is. For many of you, there will be nothing more than a shoulder shrug. “Pfft...whatever...I have six.” “I have eight.” But you need to understand that I live in an urban setting where having four kids can get you some raised eyebrows and gaping mouths. I am fairly sure I didn’t imagine that a disgruntled man in a grocery lineup muttered “Breeders!” under his breath as he glared at me with my gaggle when they were little. If I had a dollar for every time I heard, “Oh...four kids! You’ve got your hands full!” then I would be typing this article on a swanky MacBook instead of borrowing my daughter’s glitchy old laptop. It has stickers from skateshops I’m currently using it in a coffee shop and getting confused glances. I think they know I don't skateboard. Sigh.

Funnily enough, if I were to drive in any direction for a half hour, saying that I have four kids would get nothing more than a bored blink. The minute one leaves urbanity they are free to have as many children as they want; regardless of religious affiliation or lack thereof. They will not receive looks of surprise or judgement. They will not hear “Oh...didn’t know how to stop that, hey?!” (a poor person regretted saying that to me once). But of all the comments I receive in the city I so dearly love the one that stops me in my tracks is, “Four kids! You must be so patient and good with kids to want four!” Ouch.

At this point we will travel back in time to pre-children. I was babysitting regularly by the age of 13, teaching my own Sunday school class by 16, volunteering with inner-city children at 19, working as a camp counselor at 21. Of course I chose to train as a teacher at university as well! Can you imagine a better person to have multiple children? I couldn’t. And that was the chief problem.

Although my husband didn’t have the laundry list of kid experience that I had acquired, it was clear that he also loved children and we were eager to start a family. In the months of my first pregnancy we read all the “right” books on raising children. We talked lovingly about our houseful of children that would come (maybe eight!) but also talked about all the pitfalls that parents fall into whilst raising children and how we would avoid all of them. Yes, my friends, pride. Unabashed arrogance.

In those pre-parent moments what were the things I didn’t see? Endless sleepless nights, hospital visits, specialist visits, countless times the “prescribed” discipline had no effect, homeschooling that started to go sideways, anxiety, behavioural issues. I couldn’t have imagined an adorable 3 year-old who would scream “I hate you!” because I had tried to finish a unit on Ancient Egypt with her older siblings instead of getting her lunch and a nap. Perhaps the factor that surprised me most was my lack of patience and the temper that would flare up without warning.

Now, back to the present. I have three daughters and a son. They are 12, 14, 16, and 17. The stories I could tell. The tears, the laughter, the heartache, the prayers. Oh the prayers. Some other things I could never have seen in my pre-parent days? The moments of indescribable joy that occasionally breakthrough the ordinary pattern of the day to day slog. The moments when I get to pray with my kids. The times they are huddled up laughing about something together. The grace they show me. Most importantly, the opportunity to watch these incredible individuals growing up around me who love God in spite of my inconsistent attempts to point them to Him.
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Now when someone says, “Wow! Four kids. You must be so patient and great with kids to want four.” I usually laugh but if they push the point I tell them that I really needed four. That’s how arrogant and self-reliant I was. I needed four to remind me that parenting is deeply messy business. I needed four to remind me that I can't do this without the love, wisdom, and grace of Jesus.

The fierce pharaoh before the meltdown