It’s so ironic to me the way the boys can fight like alley cats one minute, then you separate them to different rooms, and they cry like they’ve lost a limb. The past couple of weeks have been much, much better at bedtime, but tonight the 4yos needed to be separated, b/c they were picking at each other and being loud in the bedroom. Lane sent Ry to the living room couch with a pillow, blanket and stuffed animal, and Ri laid in his bed crying because he didn’t have anyone to sleep with him. Thankfully, they both settled down in a matter of minutes, but it was hard not to laugh a little.

Growing up with just one brother, we had our own rooms in a 3br house. We shared a room when he was a baby and we lived in base housing, but for as long as I can really remember, I had my own room. That’s why it’s so funny to me when the boys get upset about being in their rooms alone. None of our boys have had their own space until very recently, when we gave the 10yo his own room. Of all the kids, he’s the one who likes solitude. He still occasionally has someone sleep with him, but it’s usually a weekend treat for that other person, and we don’t impose it on him to permit them to invade his space.

I do remember having to share a room with my brother when we had company. I had a larger bed, so when company came, I had to sleep in my brother’s room. I remember hating that very much. Given the choice, I probably would have preferred the couch, but I don’t remember having the option.

There was one night I remember very vividly. We were sleeping together on his twin(?) bed (lol – we were much smaller back then!), and he had a nightmare about ants crawling all over him and biting him. He flailed and kicked and punched, and before I could scramble out from under the covers and off the bed, he’d gotten a few good hits on me. We laughed about it later … well, he and everyone else laughed; I mostly rolled my eyes.

We weren’t very lovey during those years, but oh, how I wish I could hug him now.

I had a very realistic, albeit odd, dream last night that I was on the public speaking circuit to promote awareness concerning prescription drug abuse. My slogan was: “If you use, you abuse — yourself.” I don’t remember the specific locale, but I was in an arena of some sort, on the stage talking to the crowd.

This issue has been heavy on my heart lately, partly because of dear folks I know who have family members dealing with this very addiction, but also because a certain someone hasn’t phoned in three weeks. This sort of behavior makes it hard not to question her level of sobriety. I can’t imagine going so long [voluntarily] without talking to the kids. Anyway, I figured perhaps that’s why my subconscience was working out those thoughts in my sleep.

I disagree with the cliche that “time heals all wounds,” but I will say that some things become more routine over time. As we were getting ready to head out the door for church yesterday morning, it dawned on me that overseeing five boys getting dressed, brushing teeth and having breakfast has become – dare I say – the norm.

I’ve resisted saying “normal” for more than eight months now, but today marks 90 days since our household officially grew by two. Three months is long enough for the honeymoon period to end but not quite long enough for there to be no comparisons to “the way things were.”

(For clarification, I gained custody of the boys a little over four months ago, but most legaleze purposes start counting when the children begin actually living under your roof.)

Bedtime is much better than it had been, and that alone is enough reason to celebrate. Mornings are a pretty well-oiled machine with the occasional hiccup. We try to have folders signed and check homework before bedtime so that everyone is set to go in the morning. The two oldest come home after school now, so they have their work finished before I even get home from work, most days.

Paper is my nemesis; it always has been. The boys bring home stacks of worksheets, art and flyers that it can easily overrun the study. This weekend, I labeled clear tubs for everyone to pick & choose if they have something reallyreally special that they want to keep. Otherwise, it goes in the blue tub, which is for recycling.

I also have five small, plastic laundry hampers for each one to keep his backpack &/or Awanas bag for safe keeping. We’ve been using those for a few weeks now, and they seem to be working pretty well. The larger backpacks are a tight squeeze, so I’m debating how long we’ll use the hamper system, but it’s a start.

Much of my sanity is derived from trial & error. It doesn’t necessarily have to work perfectly the first time, but it makes me feel better to at least TRY to keep it organized. So, when people say they don’t know how I do it, I just shrug, smile politely and say: “one day at a time.” Any other way of trying to handle things is a recipe for anxiety.

It is Autumn, 2025. The “little” ones have just turned 20, and we are gathered around a crowded dining room table celebrating and reminiscing during Fall Break. They are sophomores in college. Big brother No. 3 is a senior at the university, and Nos. 1 & 2 have taken a long weekend from their respective jobs to come home for the party.

No. 4 pops open a DrPepper while No. 5 digs into the chips and salsa. “Hey, remember how Mom and Dad never let us have caffeine during the week?” No. 5 asks no one in particular. “Yeah,” No. 4 says, “they always said it made us bounce off the wall.”

I chuckle and add, “You boys never needed anything to help you in the rowdiness category!”

“Hey [No. 4],” No. 5 muses, “Remember that time that you and I followed [No. 1] as he rode his bike to Nana and Granddad’s house? Dude! No one even heard us leave the house.”

No. 4 pipes up, “Yeah, Mom sure didn’t think it was funny when she discovered we were missing! We snuck out the front door while [No. 1] went out the back to get his bike. Man, I can’t believe we pulled a stunt like that – barefoot, even! We got totally lost a couple of blocks away. It’s a good thing Granddad found us before Mom did, or she surely would’ve tarred our hides.”

“Speaking of getting in trouble,” No. 5 notes, “remember how you used to constantly wet your pants? Man, that was gross. Our bathroom smelled like a locker room, [No. 4] . And when you hid your dirty clothes in your dresser? Dude, that was just nasty. I don’t know what got into you.”

No. 4 shrugs, “Me neither. I feel bad about that. Sorry, Mom.”

I give a half smile and ruffle his thick, short hair. “I love you, guys.”

No. 3 cuts in, “Man, what was our deal? I remember getting in SO much trouble for saying ‘buttcrack’ all the time. I guess I thought it was funny. That first time Mom brushed my teeth with soap, though – blech! – that was awful.”

Everyone laughs in unison, “Yeah, that was pretty nasty stuff. Glad you learned that lesson the hard way for us, [No. 3]!”

“Mom, do we have any more chips?” No. 5 interrupts.

I shake my head as I notice the empty bowl. “You boys never stop eating, do you?!”

No. 4 laughs, “Nope – we’re growing boys, remember?” as he places his elbow on my shoulder. I look up at him and smile: “I remember when your Daddy used to do that. He always called me his little-big sister.”

“Remember when we had those plastic snack boxes with our names written in masking tape?” No. 1 asks. “For some reason, Nos. 4 & 5’s were always empty faster than anyone else’s! My room was near the kitchen, and I swear I never heard them sneaking into the cabinets. I don’t know how they did it.”

Nos. 4 & 5 exchange a glance. “Well,” No. 4 admits, “I used to eat one snack while everyone else was getting ready, then when Mom or Dad said we could get a snack from our box before school, I’d go back over there and get another one.”

“Yeah, we thought we were sneaky, but it stunk when Mom wouldn’t buy any more until the others were out,” No. 5 confesses. “We thought we were getting more, but then we had to wait a few days with empty boxes while everyone else still got snacks.”

“Remember that awesome bunkbed I had?” No. 2 asks the group. “I loved it, but man, it was so tempting to do pull-ups on the safety bar, and Mom got so aggravated when I would reach over to the ceiling fan from the top bunk. Now I know why she always called us ‘monkey boys!'”

I run my fingers through my cropped, gray hair and quip, “Yep, I earned every one of these gray hairs because of you boys!”

They laugh, “Aww, Mom!”

It’s been a rough several days, discipline-wise. The younger four have acted up at bedtime, school, daycare, church and/or with a sitter. It’s as if they make it through one and let it all out at another.

I praise Ry. for being a big helper with something-or-other in one breath, then he’s shoving Ri. and making him cry in the next. I praise Ri. for behaving nicely at dinner, then he pees his pants for no reason whatsoever. D. reads his little booklets for class (w/o complaining, for once) and then sticks his finger in his behind and puts it under someone else’s unsuspecting nose. J. acts like an amazing, helpful big brother one hour then gets caught doing something toddler-esque the next hour!

I don’t mean to single out A., but other than staying awake after bedtime (largely w/o incident, which is the HUGE difference b/w him and the rest), he is very seldom a problem. I may be setting myself up for disappointment, but I look at him at ages nine and ten and think to myself, “Ok – just make it five, six more years, tops – then things will settle down.” Then I laugh at my stupidity and realize that when the little ones are 10, the rest will be 12, 14 & 16!! Oi vey.