I'm involved in taking pictures of the little ones as they throw themselves happily around our leaf-covered yard. My oldest (Professor) approaches me and says, "I really don't think they should be doing that. The leaves are full of mold and bugs." Crash runs past and shouts, "I don't care!" as he throws himself into another pile and lands on top of Jellybean and Button (who scream in protest). Cookie sits on the porch reading a book. I stand happy and speechless amidst these familiar strangers.
I usually fail to understand most of them. I occasionally understand one of them. I often wonder if any of them were switched at birth. Or temporarily left here by aliens from outer space (although this option seems improbable). I am frequently reassured that they are indeed mine as I see my own...ahem...unique personality in their behavior; generally accompanied by a serious desire to plead for God's mercy and forgiveness!
Beautiful children. So full of life and creativity. God's brushstroke is so different for each of them. His little masterpieces that I sometimes fancy are creations of my own. As Crash frequently says after I do something particularly foolish: Silly Mommy.
"Not all are called to be artists in the specific sense of the term. Yet, as Genesis has it, all men and women are entrusted with the task of crafting their own life: in a certain sense, they are to make of it a work of art, a masterpiece." John Paul II