This week my baby girl turns eight years old. In some ways it seems as if she has been a part of my life forever. Yet, I cannot believe this little angel is already eight. After the birth of my two boys, my husband and I decided we were finished having children and our family would be complete at four. However, there was a deep longing within me that never quite left. Even though our family was happy and thriving, I always felt as if someone was missing. I assumed that was just how women felt when they decided their child bearing years were over. Basically, I chalked it up to “that is just how it is” and tried to make peace with that longing.

Then at a time when our family most needed a blessing, a time when we needed confirmation of goodness and life, I found out I was pregnant again. To say I was shocked would be the biggest understatement I could possibly make about this event. I took eight home pregnancy tests. (I do realize one would have done it but I knew this pregnancy was impossible and I had to be sure I was not dreaming it up.) After laying all of the tests out side by side seeing all of their various ways of saying that I was indeed pregnant, I sat on the floor and cried. They were not tears of sadness or shock or even disbelief. They were tears of gratitude and joy.

I realized last week that I have a very high tolerance for noise. I can tune it out as if I am lounging on a beach with a cool drink and the warm sun. I am the master of oblivious when I want to be.

You see, my sister and her two boys -- ages 10 and 5 -- came to visit for Spring Break. Add those boys to my three kids and you have a five-pronged catalyst of chaos. I will admit as the kids have become older, it has become easier to handle all five of them together but it has not necessarily become quieter. In fact, with kids ranging in age from 15 down to 5, I do believe it has become louder. Or so I am told.

The 5-year-old refuses to get lost in the shuffle and therefore must shout his every thought. (And I do mean every single thought.) The 8-year-old and 10-year-old get so caught up in playing Wii they tend to jump and shout and laugh at noise levels that must register on some sound-o-dometer somewhere. The teenagers? Well, they are usually loud when everyone else gets loud and they are screaming for quiet when they cannot hear the movie they are watching and therefore turn it up to ear bleeding levels. Yes, with five kids in the house that are not used to being together all the time, it becomes a bit rowdy.

I am the youngest of three children. Growing up I thought this was some diabolical plan hatched by my parents to punish me. I was convinced everything was just so unfair! My brother and sister had more freedom. They had later curfews. They were able to do things I could not. It was not until I became an older teenager that I realized that it was indeed unfair but the level of “fair” actually worked in my favor, not theirs.

I can see it happening with my oldest son. That poor oldest child is somewhat of a test model from day one. We, the parents, are thrown into on-the-job training immediately. There are times that I worry about the mistakes we make with him and how we will be able to correct many of them by the time my second son gets older and even more so as my young daughter grows up.

Living in Texas with its rather ambiguous seasons, it is not always easy to tell when spring cleaning time should fall. One day you are in coats and gloves, the next you are sweating in shorts and a tank top, wondering to yourself where spring went and how you missed it. Over the years, I have found small, subtle ways of finding that perfect window when I can finally throw open the windows, air out the house and start scrubbing down the crooks and crannies of my home.

I can see it all around me. No, not trees sprouting new buds. The first thing I notice is that the dust bunnies in the corner of the living room are planning a family reunion with the dust bunnies in the game room. Those small bits of dust have grown up and become like silent family pets. However, we can't have those bunnies hosting family reunions all over our home. Once I see the invitations go out, it is time for the eviction notices for those bad boys.

Just over a week ago my oldest son came to me before school telling me that he was not feeling well. I took one look at his pale face and felt his hot forehead and realized he was indeed sick. I sent him back to bed and told him to try to sleep it off. That usually works for him. My first thought should have been "My poor baby!" but that was my second thought. My first thought was, "Oh no --The flu has invaded our home and none of us are safe!"