I'm not quite sure how my large blue yoga ball became involved with cleaning up from dinner that night. While clumps of mashed potatoes and random forks still lay strewn about our kitchen table, the yoga ball, followed by all five of my children, tore through the house with deafening speed.
How would it end? Tears? Probably. Something broken? Maybe. With five kids I've certainly patched my share of drywall.
Two hefty winter squash slid off the counter and onto the floor, barely missing someone's toes. Hmmmmmm... NOT cool. But neither squash nor toes were broken so after shrugging off some minor irritation from their mother, they resumed their mirthful brawl.
Our high ceilings and mostly bare walls echoed with recklessness and high-pitched squeals.
Then, tears. In the kufuffle I couldn't see how Halle ended up flat on her back, but with her knack for drama it looked bad...for about 30 seconds.
Back to the chase.
It wasn't long before there were more tears and I was peeling away the outer layers of four older siblings from the yoga ball. Lyla was smushed between all of them and the baseboard. From the safety of my arms she narrowed her eyes, shook her finger, and gave her siblings a severe tongue-lashing.
(Some days my number one goal is for the youngest two to survive the oldest three.)
My tolerance for sibling shenanigans has gradually enjoyed a little more wiggle room over thirteen years of parenting.
As I see my children building strong, resilient sibling relationships- ones they can depend on, the occasional drywall repair seems less important.