That is one big number. In this case, it is, though it’s not so large when one is discussing, say, cups of coffee consumed in a week or the number of socks lost in a month. Then it seems perfectly reasonable. But when the topic is children, 19 is a very big number.
I’m referring to the television show, “19 Kids and Counting.” It’s based on the Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar family from Tontitown, Ark. As the name says, they really do have 19 kids, and they really are “still counting.”
I used to think that having four children made us a good-sized family, and to the folks who hold to the old American average of 2.3 kidlets, it is. When rubber-tipped arrows are flying, Air Soft pellets are denting the blinds and the dining room’s become the new Indy 500, it feels like a legion.
I’m not the only one. A sister-in-law who has her own quartet reports a disturbance in the force there as well. Thanks to the Winter That Never Ends, her own tribe has grown increasingly restless, and they’ve taken to playing basketball. Not outside, of course, ‘neath God’s great, blue sky where the wild wind blows free. Of course not.
No. Her living room has become the site of the Final Four. Using a small, rubber ball, they carom and thunder about, shooting at a hoop the size of a saucer that hangs on the back of a door. Naturally, the, uh, “playoffs” spill into the dining room or down the adjacent basement steps.
You can see, can’t you, why she calls them her “final four” and why they’re no longer counting?
Funny, how kids think that they must eat. Especially boys, and especially when they hit a certain age. My brother morphed into a food furnace overnight, eating everything that couldn’t crawl away. Any food within a 2-mile radius suddenly developed a magical property called evaporation. As my father said once in wonder, “He gets hungry eating.”