The way I see it, middle-class America is designed for a family of four. Restaurant tables almost always accommodate four, most sedan-type cars will seat four most comfortably (try squeezing three in the backseat when 2 or more are still in car seats – not happenin’). Even amusement parks are best suited for parties of four.
When I was young, four was the “in” number in a family. I had one brother, most of my friends had just one sibling. Back then, the American dream included a house, two cars, a dog and two kids, preferably one boy and one girl. These days, though, it seems that most families are opting for three kids. It seems that a lot of couples have decided that five is a good family number. Have you noticed? I’m not sure about other parts of the country, but down in Texas, three kids is definitely popular. Whenever I see a family of five – especially with three boys, I can’t help but stare longingly and wonder about their family dynamic… who’s the shy one?... who’s the athlete?... which one is more like dad?
When Terrill and I first got married, I wasn’t sure how many kids I wanted. Right after Jack was born, I wasn’t sure I even wanted the one I had :-) But when Paul was just a couple of weeks old, I knew I wanted at least three. I can remember one night in particular when I had gotten up with him, sitting in one of our red chairs in the living room while I held him. Of course, he was adorable and precious, and right then, I was convinced I wanted another Saxon in our family.
I loved having three boys. I loved the reaction I got when I told people I had three. Eyebrows would go up and they’d say something like, “Wow. You must have your hands full. It must be chaotic around your house.” I’d have to agree, but then I’d always add that I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I loved the noise and the chaos of three boys. (Well, most of the time, anyway). People always expected that I wanted a girl. I have to admit that early on in our family planning, I thought a girl sounded nice, but once I started having boys, I was hooked.
In some ways, being a family of four is much more convenient. We no longer have to wrestle with decisions like: Do we opt for the bigger hotel room (and bigger price) or settle for the inconvenience of a roll-away bed? Can we squeeze a chair on the end of our restaurant table of four, or do we wait for a bigger table to open up? Every time we easily slide into a booth at a restaurant, I miss Paul. I thought longingly of him when we qualified for the discount rate at the resort because we were a party of four. No more squabbling over who sits in the far back of the car and who gets the middle. No need to spring for the extra set of headphones for the car DVD player… it comes with two.
Even though four is convenient, it isn’t right. Not for our family, anyway. And every time someone asks me how many boys I have, I wrestle with all the variables and who this person is, and do I want to put them through the details of how complicated that answer is, and do I have the emotional fortitude today to answer fully, or could I just say that I have three and not go into any details, and then my heart screams out, “THREE! THREE! I HAVE THREE BOYS!” but with my mouth I reluctantly say, “Two.” It breaks my heart every time. And no one ever raises an eyebrow or comments on how chaotic my house is.
