Stephen and I often discussed the kind of home and family life we wanted to create. As our family grew and our lives became busier and more complicated, we realized that successful families don’t just happen. It takes every bit of combined energy, talent, desire, vision, and determination you can muster. Things you really care about take time, thought, planning, and prioritizing. You have to work at it and make sacrifices; you have to want it and pay the price.
People have often remarked to me, “You have nine kids. How wonderful. You must be patient.” I never could follow that line of reasoning. Why would I be patient because I had nine kids? Why wouldn’t I be a raving maniac? Or they’d say, “If you have that many kids, I guess one more doesn’t matter.” They say that because they never had one more.
Raising a large family has been hard work. I wanted life to be simple, the way I had remembered my own childhood, but Stephen kept reminding me that our life together would never be like that. It was more complicated. There was more pressure. The world has changed. Those days are gone—but they can still be remembered and treasured.
As Stephen was building his reputation as a consultant, speaker, and author, he had to travel a lot. This meant planning ahead so as not to miss important events such as football games, school productions, and junior proms. Whenever he was gone, he would call nightly to talk to each child and touch base.
“Somebody get the phone,” you’d hear. “You know it’s going to be Dad again. I talked to him last night. It’s your turn!” “Oh, brother! Tell him to call back when the movie is over.” “Is there no respect?” we’d ask.
When he was home, he was totally there. He was so much a part of their lives and so involved that I don’t think anyone remembers his being gone. Stephen has always been a great listener, a continual learner, and a perpetual student. He’s always asking questions—picking people’s brains as if he’s devouring the last of a Thanksgiving turkey, hoping to hear opinions different from his own. He values the differences. I admire him for trying to walk his talk. He truly tries to live all the principles he teaches and believes in. This is not easy to do. He is a man without guile. He has an uncommon sense of humility that touches, changes, and softens his heart, thus making me want to do likewise.
He is an idealist (which is a blessing and a curse). His idealism inspires and motivates me, the people he teaches, and our children; it makes us want to achieve and lift ourselves and others. He is also a struggler, as I am (and as most of us are).
When we’re trying to live what we believe, struggling but moving in the right direction, our children will usually accept our values. Our hearts and intentions are good—we have the vision and desire—but we often blow it. Our temper can put us in a compromised situation, and our pride can keep us there. We often get off track, but we keep coming back.
I remember an experience I had when our oldest daughter, Cynthia, was three years old. We had just moved into our first house—a tiny, new, three-bedroom tract house that we were crazy about. I loved decorating and worked hard to make it charming and attractive.
My literary club was meeting there, and I had spent hours cleaning so that every room looked perfect. I was anxious to show my friends around, hoping they would be impressed. I put Cynthia down for the night and thought she would be sleeping when they peeked in to see her—noticing, of course, her darling room with the bright yellow tied quilt and matching curtains and the cute, colorful animals I had made and hung on the walls. But when I opened her door to show off my daughter and her room, I discovered to my dismay that she had hopped out of bed, pulled all of her toys out of her toy chest, and scattered them all over the floor. She had emptied the clothes from her dresser drawers and thrown them all over the floor. She had dumped out her Tinker Toys, puzzles, and crayon box—and she was still going at it! Her room was a disaster. It looked as if a tornado had hit it. In the midst of all this, she looked up with a mischievous smile on her face and said sweetly, “Hi, Mummy!”
I was furious that she had disobeyed me and gotten out of bed; I was upset that her room was all messed up and that no one could see how cute it was decorated; and I was annoyed that she had put me in this embarrassing situation in front of my friends.
I spoke sharply to her, spontaneously spanked her little bottom, and put her back to bed with a warning not to get up again. Her lower lip started to quiver. She looked shocked at my response, and her eyes filled with tears. She started sobbing, not understanding what she had done wrong.
I closed the door and immediately felt terrible for overreacting. I was ashamed at my behavior, realizing that it was my pride—not her actions—that had set me off. I was angry at myself for such an immature response and shallowness. I was sure I had ruined her for life. Years later I asked her if she remembered the incident, and I breathed a sigh of relief when she said no.
Faced with the same situation today, I think my response would be to laugh. “That’s easy for you to say!” my daughters respond as they struggle with their toddlers. But what once seemed important to me has shifted and matured.
We all go through stages. Concern about appearances, making good impressions, being popular, comparing yourself to others, having unbridled ambition, wanting to make money, striving to be recognized and noticed, and trying to establish yourself—all fade as your responsibilities and character grow.
Life’s tests refine you. Genuine friendships sustain you. Being unaffected and genuine, having integrity, and facing problems squarely help as you try to reach out, make a difference, touch a life, be an example, do the right thing. You become motivated as you struggle to become a better person.
The struggles are ongoing. After raising nine kids, I think I’m just beginning to get some perspective. Many times I blew it, lost my temper, misunderstood, judged before understanding, didn’t listen, and acted unwisely. But I also tried to learn from my mistakes. I apologized, grew up, shifted my values, recognized growth stages, didn’t overreact, rolled with the punches, learned to laugh at myself, had fewer rules, enjoyed life more, and realized that raising kids is hard work—physically and emotionally. It’s draining as well as fulfilling. You fall into bed at night, totally exhausted, and like Scarlett O’ Hara murmur, “Tomorrow is another day.” Oh, to be half as smart as your child thinks you are and half as dumb as your teenager sees you!
Through it all I’ve learned that parenting is basically a life of sacrifice. I have a sign in my kitchen to remind me: “Motherhood is not for wimps.” Along with your children you go through lessons and practicing, carpools and braces, tears and tantrums, ages and stages, traumas and triumphs, homework, table manners, puberty, pimples, puppy love, driver’s licenses, fighting, and teasing.
But in the end (as in childbirth) you don’t remember the pain. You remember the joy of being a parent, of worrying and sacrificing for that remarkable son or daughter you love with all your soul. You remember the expressions on your children’s faces through the years—how they looked in that special dress or outfit they wore. You remember your pride in their success, your pain in their struggles. You remember the wonderful times, the fun of it all, the quiet moments of bonding as you gazed at the baby you were nursing, filled with the awe and wonder of your stewardship and your fulfillment in being a parent and nurturing a family.
It wasn’t until we had our seventh baby, Colleen, that I felt as though I was really putting it all together. I finally learned how to say no to the unimportant. As I sat in my rocking chair, looking out the window, nursing, bonding, glad to be there, savoring the moment rather than thinking I should be doing something else, a sense of joy and balance filled me. Finally I knew that for me this is what it was all about.
So I only remember the good times. But then, only seven of our children are married. We still have two at home. And Joshua, our seventeen-year-old high school junior, often reminds me (with a twinkle in his eye), “We could ruin you guys!”
Each of you has a very different and very personal family life, one that is unlike anyone else’s. You’ve probably discovered, as I did, that life isn’t simple anymore. Society doesn’t support families as it used to. Life is more technological, faster, more sophisticated, scarier.