You know, life is a little interesting.
I have certainly evolved over the years. I grew up in a big family, and decided ’round about the age of 11 that I would NEVER have children. That lasted until I found two pink lines on a stick at the tender age of 19. Fast-forward, and here I am! Joyful, overwhelmed, outnumbered, and disorganized. I could honestly employ a household staff of about six and still have my doubts about how everything would get done in a day. I try to mother the Cubs, and my husband (lovingly referred to herein as the “PackDaddy”) works almost tirelessly to maintain the Den and generally looks bewildered by this all.
How did I come to be the Den-Momma? Now, I guess I don’t really know. I am the oldest of my siblings, and as my parents “aged” (a.k.a.= got smarter) the hosting of overnight guests, events, and gatherings just gravitated here. I think they figured that since this place was already such a zoo, I would’t even notice. They were probably right. My sister and I had already lovingly started referring to each other as “The Wolf Pack,” and during one teary late night talk-me-off-the-ledge-known-as-law-school phone call she sobbed “I just want to be back in the Den with you!”
This home…this crazy collection of children and friends and pets and random folk who seem to turn up here at dinnertime…this IS my Den. I am so very lucky to have this chance to provide my family with a safe haven. This is my chance to teach them how to survive in a crazy fool and unkind world. And every time they turn up their noses and bemoan what’s for dinner…every time they slam their doors…every tear that soaks into the floor…every ouchie that gets kissed to better…every laugh that echos through the open window and out into the world…that’s what makes this a home. A Den they can always come home to, and that one day-despite what they say…they will miss.