Oscar Wilde wrote: “In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.”
I consider this as I walk upstairs to put the finishing touches on our guest room. A soft, fluffy blanket I spread at the foot of the duvet. A framed photo of Cami and Drew’s wedding, I prop on a bookshelf. Lacy’s maid-of-honor bouquet, I hang on the antique wardrobe; the dried roses and hydrangeas one of the few belongings Lacy hasn’t packed to her new apartment.

After straightening the room, I sit down on the bench at the end of the bed and cry. I never expected the girls to leave the nest so soon, designating me the lone female in the house.

Downstairs, dressed like vikings, the boys stick each other with Styrofoam swords. Cruz yells up the stairs, “Mommmmma!” It’s not a sweet summons, but a bellowed demand. I pad down the stairs into battle. A sword smacks my shoulder. “You boys settle down.” Thor’s hammer flies past my head into the wall. “Someone’s going to get hurt…”

Cruz grabs my legs, nearly toppling me speechless onto the tile. I’m always amazed at how strong he is, this tiny Samson with tangled hair. I catch my stride, scoop him up, thirty pounds of baby brute now balanced on my hip. The three little middles continue to beat each other senseless with their toy weapons. I give up scolding and head for the kitchen. Food always calms these warriors-in-training for awhile. Fixing dinner with Cruz on my hip has become my lot in life. My arms are stronger than they’ve ever been, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you I fall into bed bone weary most nights.

As far back as I can remember, I wanted five boys. Before marrying, before even meeting Scott, I used to dream about these sons. How they’d look like their handsome daddy. How they’d grow big and strong and brave, and adore their mommy. How I’d teach these boys to ride ponies and play pinochle and pick wild flowers for their grandmas.  

Never did it dawn on me five boys would be hard. In my dreams, there was no cooking, cleaning, and laundry up the kazoo. No muddy messes or broken windows or graffitied furniture. No egg bruise in the middle of my forehead from a baseball batted in the living room. It never crossed my mind I’d ultimately become Jane Goodall, the patient, persevering woman who lived with wild Chimpanzees for several decades. And never did I dream a Bible would get me by. That my knees I’d about wear out. That Sunday church would become my sanctuary where I dress like a lady and feel like a peasant begging before a King. And that I would pray until I was blue in the face for God to make me into a calm, compassionate, and, above all, content mother in this boy jungle.

When dreams become reality, Hollywood stars go into rehab. We imagine our dreams fulfilling us, but nearly everyone I know has been emptied by their dreams. It’s no small thing to live one’s dreams. I wouldn’t trade our five boys for anything, but they really are my everything. My every waking hour. They’re what I do and who I am these days: not a monkey’s uncle, the monkeys’ mother.
I realize it won’t always be this way. Once Cami and Lacy hit high school, I was shocked at how fast it was over. A few short years and our girls were grown and gone.

Dreams are like this too, cresting like a wave, then washing out to sea. The measure of a dream fulfilled is who it makes us see. If we only see ourselves, rehab is likely around the corner. But if we see God, we realize dreams don’t define us. They refine us.