It’s parent observation day at ballet class.
Those around me observe with varying levels of attention. Some watch. Some text. Some whisper behind their hands. Some are attempting to corral younger children, finally giving up and leaving.
I stare at the not-so-little girl, fifth from the end, as she stretches gracefully at the barre.
I watch her raise her hand, Hermione-like, to answer every question, confident that she knows the answers.
I can’t stop grinning when she’s on the floor, body strong and head held high as she moves across the room.
And when she leads the group leaping across the studio, I tear up at the joy that fills her entire body.
It occurs to me that they’re wrong, those people who insist six children are too many.
Those harried-looking women who lift their eyebrows when they see me with my brood, wondering out loud about all kinds of things that are none of their business.
I could never have enough patience.
How do you ever afford it?
How is there ever enough?
I’m constantly caught off guard by the love I feel for each and every child. It sneaks up on me, much as the children themselves do, shocking me with the intensity of it.
And while it might feel sometimes like there isn’t enough of some things—time, money, sleep—somehow, miraculously, there is always enough love.