My son took a wife when he was already thirty-three. Nowadays, that wouldnt raise any eyebrows, but back then, it was thought quite late. He married when his sweetheart fell pregnant. We were delighted, as it meant our first grandchilda daughterwas on her way. Oh, how joyful we felt. Our daughter-in-law turned out to be a lovely woman: a gracious hostess; the house always spotless; young and comely. To my amazement, she could knit, something Id never had the patience or skill for. All in all, a pleasant young woman of sound character, and my son seemed contentwhat more could a mother wish for?
When our granddaughter turned three, they announced there would soon be another addition. A son was born, and they set about doing up the old family cottage my grandmother had left us. There was happiness all round. Yet not three years later, my daughter-in-law announced she was expecting again. And then, two years after that, she was carrying a fourth.
We all managed as best we could on my sons wages. He always found a way to stretch things further, fixing everything himselfeven handling the renovations singlehandedly. But as only a modest lorry driver, why the need for so many children, I often wondered? He was hardly ever home, always working some extra job. The weight of responsibility pressed on him.
One Christmas, my daughter-in-law handed me a long list of things needed for the children. Youd think it would be all about sweets and toys, but nojust necessities: massage oil, socks, tights, stockingsall those plain essentials you cant simply find in advertisements.
I asked my son where they planned to deliver the fourth child, but he brushed the topic aside.
Still, I am proud to have reared such a dependable and industrious son, a man who never shies away from hard work. His wife, almost thirty-five now, has never taken up employmenther work record empty. Perhaps by forty, shell bear a fifth, and I confess I wouldnt be surprised. But I wont go on forever; before long, age will get the better of me, and I wont be able to help as much as I do now. Her mothers passed, so theres no one to lend a hand but me. Thank goodness, at least, theyve finished making the house good.
Nevertheless, there they stay, the lot of them crowded in, four children full of life, and still its barely what youd call a home.
I once put the question to her: And when all the help runs out, what will you do? Where will you find work at forty, never having worked a day in your life? She replied shed find a way through, somehow. But what if misfortune strikes my son? What then? How would I help raise so many children all on my own?
Then theres my younger son, always gently chiding me for rarely seeing his child, since nearly all my time is spent tending to my first sons bustling family.
