So many

I admit, I don’t see it. The “large family” thing.

To me, this is a family of individuals. Even when we’re all gathered together, loud, taking up a ten foot long dining room table … it’s just a gathering of my people. I see each face, not an overwhelming collection. There’s John Mark, probably interrupting someone. Jude, banging his cup enthusiastically. Mathaus, taking as few asparagus spears as possible before passing the bowl.

I remember years ago, meeting a family with seven kids. This was four more than our brood at the time, and I struggled —mightily— to remember all their names. I wanted to. It was just … all those people. So many blond heads. So many little girls, all stair stepped and looking like, well … sisters. I wondered how the mother, a sweet, humble woman, kept it all straight.

Now I know. One day, one moment, one person at a time. There’s no special grace that allows Mommas of Many to remember who likes extra sauce on their spaghetti and who prefers theirs nearly naked, or who is wearing what size shoe right now. (That last one? I don’t even try anymore. If you want to know my kids’ shoe sizes, pick up a hoof and look for a number.)  Each child, every child, is simply themselves. How hard is that to keep locked in your mind, right alongside a birthdate and the name of their favorite lovey?

We’re on the receiving end of the bug eyes these days. The first time the new neighbor came to our door, it went like this:

“Hi. Can your boy come out and play?”
“John Mark?”
“Umm, no.”
“Phineas?”
“A bigger one.”
“Jack?”
“Yeah! Him! That one!”

That one.

Some of our kids have their own claim to fame in certain circles, and have secured their status as more than just “one of the Schwarzens.” Babita, the Nepali one. Phineas, the special one. Birdie, the little girl. Mary Hannah, the student midwife. Some can even tell the difference between Mathaus and Jack— something so very obvious to us, but not so clear when faced with two very tall, very lanky teenaged boys with buzz cuts in denim and hoodies.

But to the majority of folks, our children are simply a collective. People know —and form relationships— with one or two, and the rest are floating out there, nebulous siblings whose names come out in a jumble, if at all, when trying to count how many kids might be coming to the birthday party.

And that’s o.k. Really, I don’t mind, and the children don’t, either. They’re used to it, and they know that there’s no malice, just a grouping to make life easier. If you can’t remember their names, a pleasant, “Hey, you!” will do. As long as you steer clear of the cardinal sin of counting, out loud, with your jaw on the floor as we walk by, well … you’re totally within the realm of polite interaction.

But me? Yeah, I know them all. It’s no stretch to tell you that this one likes long, tight hugs, and that one prefers to sit still beside me and just be. They are people. Individuals. Part of a greater whole, yes. But unique, created being in their own right, each one.