They said my house was too small.
For a moment, I believed them.
They said I had too many children.
For a moment, I believed them.
They said I was too poor.
For a moment, believed them.
They said homemaking is for those incapable of having a career, that it is more important to make a name for myself than a legacy.
For a moment, I believed them.
They said kids will rob me of the best years, my figure, my energy, my health, and that pouring out my life for them would leave me empty.
For a moment, I believed them.
They told me I’d be too busy for self and sleep and even comfort (as if those were mine by rights in the first place).
For a moment, I believed them.
They told me I would not attain to the American Dream if I followed this path (as if the only alternative was a nightmare).
For a moment, I believed them.
They said it was foolhardy to risk having another handicapped child.
For a moment, I believed them.
They said let others raise them, teach them, tell them what to eat and how to dress and how to live based on the clock and latest trends.
For a moment, I believed them.
They said go with the flow, take the safe route, the wide and easy path, because the road less traveled is too rough and narrow.
For a moment, I believed them.
Then I looked around my snug little house full of laughter and the infectious joy of life and awe at simplicity. I looked at the little bodies covered in dirt and love with hearts on their sleeves and trust in their faces. And in that moment, I found it unbelievable that this is my life.
And I wouldn’t change a moment of it.
Believe it or not.
My guys