This week, in a move that has, I’m afraid, made pretty much everyone second-guess our sanity, I invited my cousin’s four little kids, ages three to ten, to come stay with us for a week right before we take off for Puerto Rico.

Actually, the kids were supposed to come last week, but then when MDS asked us to attend the leadership training, we had to push the cousin visit back a week. I knew we’d be fine, though: a week of training, a week of kids, a week of packing, no problem.

Besides, everyone knows that the best fix for feelings of overwhelmed-ness is to just add a whole lot more crazy, right?

Seriously, though. We are having so much fun! The children are absolutely amazing — curious, cheerful, independent. There have been zero discipline issues and no signs of homesickness. It’s been a dream, truly.

From part of an (edited) email I sent their mother this morning, their fourth day here:

There is a Lego station in our room (can’t walk in there), and the kids are on a paper airplane kick. On Wednesday night we took all four of them to the final dress for Jonathan’s play. The night before was Taco Tuesday at church. Also, we went to the library, and yesterday we made a trip to Costco. They spend hours on the trampoline. They are great eaters and they sleep like champs. The little one has cried a handful of times, but it’s always very brief and usually has to do with not finding the right shirt or having someone buckle her in when she wanted to do it herself. She is so cuddly, in and out of my lap all the time.

The number of children in the house hovers right around ten, though it has, on occasion, touched twelve. My brother’s kids have popped over a couple times, plus my son’s friend is in and out. This morning the neighbor kid wandered in and I walked past him without even noticing. When I did see him — “Oh hey, you’re here! — I told him to leave his shoes by the door and then walked off.

The first night the cousins were here, I pointed out to my husband that this would be our family if we’d continued to have a child every two years, can you imagine?? When I told my kids — this could be us — they were all suitably impressed.

My kids have had to up their game. They’ve been washing boatloads of dishes, providing around-the-clock entertainment, doing lots of tidying up, serving snacks (about which my older daughter was gleeful: It’s been years since we’ve had snacks!), and playing games.

My younger daughter has relocated to the guest room to sleep with the girls, and the boys have set up camp on my sons’ bedroom floor (when my younger son’s friend comes to spend the night, there are five boys in there, oof). I thought this week of cousins might cure my younger daughter of her persistant wish for foster siblings, but when I checked in with her this morning, she assured me that she still wants foster kids, “Because we’d get a baby, Mom, not actual children.” And so I give up. Because I am not about to borrow a pack of babies to make a point.

This afternoon, the children are over at my parents’ house. Tonight there will be pizza for supper, and then we’ll have a movie and popcorn, and maybe bedtime stories. And then, once everyone is in bed, my husband and I will cozy up on the couch with Netflix.

If I can keep my eyes open, that is.

This same time, years previous: what it’s like to write full time: an experiment, the quotidian (4.20.15), the quotidian (4.21.14), loose ends, therapy, chocolate ice cream, bacon-wrapped jalapenos.

I’ve mentioned before that our church has a mentoring program for children grade six through grade twelve. This year, all four of our children are in the program — our oldest in twelfth and our youngest in sixth — so to celebrate, we invited all four of the mentors, and their spouses, over for dinner.

What with all the schedules to be considered, finding a date was a minor miracle. First we settled on a date in May, but then when we decided to go to Puerto Rico, we had to do calendar contortionism all over again. Everyone hung in there, patiently batting around date possibilities, until finally we landed on one (one!) free evening that suited everyone, whew.

The meal was simple — soup, bread, salad, cake — and all fourteen of us smooshed around our dining room table (afraid that, extended so far, the table might cave, my husband hammered in a reinforcement at the last minute). We didn’t have enough soup bowls, two of the kids were in the middle of a silent war, and we ran out of regular-sized water glasses, but oh well. This was us, chipped plates, bad attitudes, and all.

Before the prayer song, I made a little welcome speech and promptly teared up. These four couples have been such an integral part of our life, even before they became mentors for our children. For example, here’s just a smattering of the ways they (in one configuration or another) have been involved in our lives:

Counseling us on whether or not to get married.
Attending our wedding.
Being present at some of the children’s births.
Supporting and advocating for us while we volunteered overseas.
Visiting us in Nicaragua and Guatemala, sometimes more than once.
Participating in the same small group.
Helping us find our house.
Traveling to see us when my husband was diagnosed with cancer.
Being feet-on-the-ground when we had parenting troubles.
Helping us move.

They have washed our windows and brought us food and written references. They have listened to us and counseled us and encouraged us. And now, on top of all that, they are taking the time and energy to mentor our children.

For these dear people, we are profoundly grateful.

This same time, years previous: in the night air, with an audience, joining the club, nutmeg coffee cake, picking us up, chocolate mayonnaise cake, chocolate-covered peanut butter eggs.

So last week my husband and I took off for Saskatoon, Saskatchewan for several days of MDS leadership training.

The entire time was spent in meetings (I stepped outside once, for about one minute), so it wasn’t exciting in the “Ooo, I’m in another country” sense, but we did hear lots of French in the airports and I got to have coffee and donuts (my favorite: the honey-dipped) at Tim Hortons , so there was that.

The trip home was brutal, thanks to a midnight-until-5:30 a.m. layover in Toronto. Sleeping (ha, yeah right) under a plastic tree on a dirty carpet in a drafty airport was so NOT glamorous.

And to add insult to injury, the two older men we were traveling with hardly even batted an eye at the sleep deprivation and travel conditions. They were like a pair of energizer bunnies. My husband and I could hardly keep up.

But the best part? Coming home. (Which begs the question: if I love coming home so much, then why in the world are we leaving for four months?!)

While we were gone, the older two kids stayed at home and the younger two rotated between my parents’ place, a friend’s house, and home. Throughout the week, our older daughter would send us photos: of the table loaded with pans of rising sweet rolls, of her dinner plate of steak, cabbage slaw, and purple cabbage, of the kitchen counters piled high with dirty dishes (and the caption: “Cooking is so hard!”)

She was the one who picked us up in town. On the drive home, she filled us in on their week. They’d eaten supper at my parents’ place, and another supper at my brother’s house. My daughter’s mentor took her out for lunch once. One of her friends was visiting from out of state and the three girls had a sleepover.

Our youngest lost a tooth, she said, so she’d bought him a Tooth Fairy present (though she hadn’t yet given it to him, since he promptly lost the lost tooth). She’d scheduled four riding lessons for the next week. And, she proudly told us that she’d cleaned the entire house. “When I’m in charge,” she said, “I keep my house clean,” and I laughed at her use of first-person possessive, and wondered: Have I made myself redundant?

When we pulled into the driveway, my husband sucked in his breath, “What in the world?!” and my daughter laughed and said, “Yeah!” but even though I was looking all over the place, trying to figure out what the big deal was, I couldn’t see a thing. My daughter kept talking — “eight tons … gravel … bobcat” — and I finally saw it: they’d redone the driveway!

Fed up with listening to my husband gripe about the mudpit that was our driveway, our older son had finally taken matters into his own hands. He, along with the help of his sister, borrowed a bobcat, graded the driveway, ordered the gravel, and paid for it in cash (their own — though we refunded them the majority of the money later because hello, they fixed the driveway).

The house was spotless (except for the upstairs bathroom that my older son never cleaned like he was supposed to…and that is still quietly, dirtily, waiting for him), the freezer stocked with sweet rolls, a big tub of leftover broccoli soup in the fridge, laundry on the line, vases of flowers on the table.

‘Twas glorious, utterly glorious.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (4.17.17), the quotidian (4.18.16), wrangling sheep, cheesy popcorn, take two: Omri, nutmeg coffee cake, and then he shot me through the heart, ground pork and white bean chili, asparagus walnut salad.