Eight? Really?
My kids and I watched the first episode of the first Sesame Street ever th'other day. Although (due to some hippyish no-tv, no-Barbie tendencies of my mother that lasted through exactly one daughter) I never watched it before (OK, to be precise, I had never watched THIS episode before. Once I had children of my own, they watched the occasional Sesame Street. This is not about Sesame Street, really--why are we still talking about it?)--the people all looked familiar.
This is not about Sesame Street--it's about the clothes. And the people. The moms looked exactly like I remember the moms of the 70s to look like--sort of homely and comfortable, and not particularly beautiful unless you think big glasses and bushy hair are beautiful. And make no mistake, if that's how your mom looked, that was beautiful.
The Mom Image has gone through a lot of changes in my life--there's the 80's PowerMom who has a career, latchkey children, and shoulder pads; the 90's SoccerMom who runs her children around in a minivan, the 00's SuperMom who blogs about birthstories and shares pictures of homemade (and elaborate) everything from Halloween costumes to birthday parties.
So now I have, incredibly, eight children. All wanted, planned for, wonderful. And I am their Mom and they love me and think I'm wonderful. Even with my near-constant directives to do this and that and the other, I am often the Most Popular Person in the Universe. We will take a family walk, and people will be shoving each other in order to get the chance to hold my hand (which, in a different generation, might well have gotten the Stinkeye of Death).
This family thing is pretty great. Wonderful little people who are filled with light and love and joy and freely share it with you in return for some food and hugs and not-exploding when they are eating sugar fist-over-fist.
And the new baby? Wonderful, Precious, Sweet (to quote the two-year old). Smiles that stop your heart. A good sleep-ethic. Every bit as special and wanted and needed as the first.
