One person's cacophony is another's symphony

I’m sitting in the dining room, waiting for the writing to happen. I’m listening to bacon frying in the kitchen, unattended, and Anita trying to corral the kids upstairs. Devina, our six-year-old, is singing something, as usual, which makes it difficult to eavesdrop from the comfort of my computer chair.

Now Anita is in the kitchen, presumably turning the bacon with a fork, and reprimanding our eight- and nine-year-olds, who have come downstairs to tattle on each other. Saturday mornings are not conducive to writing in this house. They’re not conducive to anything that doesn’t involve attending to the needs of four demanding preteens – their need for attention, supervision, food, entertainment, more food, and more attention.

It’s weird. Most of the time nine-year-old Bryant and eight-year-old Maya fight like two junkyard dogs who must protect their territory or else the world will end, and yet I’ll catch Bryant fixing Maya’s bike chain or Maya getting Bryant a blanket without being asked while we’re watching a movie.

Eleven-year-old Nikita will hole up in her room behind a closed door 98 percent of the time, but every once in a while I’ll find her helping Maya make a birthday card or asking to go on a bike ride with her brother and sisters while adjusting Devina’s helmet.

If the kids say they want to make breakfast together, I’ll steel myself for drama and bickering only to witness them cooperating and being courteous, each handling their assigned responsibilities without complaint and no one fighting to be the person who gets to stand up on the chair. (In our house, only one child at a time is allowed to pull a chair up to the island and watch the pancakes/French toast/eggs/omelette/whatever cook on the stove from above.)

I wish they would display respect and appreciation for each other more. I wish the love each of them has for their siblings would manifest itself more regularly and obviously.

In this house you’re a referee, teacher, redirector, first responder, and breaker-up-of-fights whether you want to be or not. If you had other plans or intentions or desires, too bad. Being a part of this family is all-encompassing, completely engulfing. If you try to withdraw and let the other grownup handle things, you find yourself managing a frustrated grownup as well as four rambunctious youngsters. It’s mandatory, obligatory, compulsory to engage.

And these are good kids too – the kind of kids who want to behave and do the right thing and be praised and earn positive reports at parent/teacher conferences. (Parent/teacher conferences with these stellar students are one of my all-time favorite treats.) I can’t imagine if we had to deal with four disrespectful hellions running around, destroying furniture and wreaking havoc. Trying to maintain order and steal time to post on a blog are challenging enough with four sweethearts.

Sometimes I wonder if I belong here. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing and making the right decisions. I, like most parents and partners, constantly question and second-guess myself and wish for do-overs. I’m doing it right now.

“Listen up!,” Anita just shouted to the arguing children upstairs. “Work together!”

This is my Brahms, my Mozart, the music that accompanies my fingers tapping on the keyboard.