Six

We are a family of six.

Father, sitting on a kitchen chair in our family room, holds our three-year-old in his lap,

her hair hanging down over his hairy arm. She sucks her thumb and holds her babydolly

It is morning. I sit in the middle of the couch with boys on either side of me.

They are fresh from their showers, so they don’t smell so bad right now

but when the youngest boy turns to me to say, “I love you mommy”

his face is close and his breath is so stinky. And I tell him so and we laugh.

The oldest boy, at the far end of the couch, is big. Tall. His jaw is starting

to look strong but his nose hasn’t started that strange pubescent growing. When does that start?

He leaps up as soon as we are done reading, puts his book away, and announces

“that’s the fastest we’ve ever finished our family scripture reading!”

I haven’t yet mentioned the middle boy, the redhead. But I haven’t forgotten him. No one ever could.

We are six and there is some chaos associated with such a family. I try to help that,

but bickering whining forgetting to do chores leaving a mess annoying each other all remain.

Day after day they remain. And day after day we squish onto our one couch,

the one that is 14 years old and has endured spit up potty training accidents jumping don’t put your dirty shoes on it. The one whose undersides have been cut into to retrieve legos coins combs pens cheerios and several other things we didn’t want back. We pile onto it with our books and we read.

We read about how we will be prospered in this land if only we will heed

the words of the prophets and keep the commandments of our merciful loving generous Lord.