Rachel Toalson with her six children, ranging in ages 8 to 3 months. (Photo: Rachel Toalson)

When I started my parenting journey eight years ago, my husband and I did not realize we would have six children.



Three was the “reasonable” number we’d decided on when we had that premarital conversation sitting outside his apartment in Texas.



I’m not sure what happened in the 11 years we’ve been married. We changed our minds. We were surprised by a set of twins. We were…a little crazy, maybe?

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I didn’t expect so many children to call me ‘Mama.’ But most surprising was that all of them are boys: Jadon, 8, Asa, 6, Hosea, 4, Boaz and Zadok, 3-year-old twins, and Asher, 3 months.

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When the sonogram revealed the first one was a boy, I thought, “I don’t know if I’ll be any good at boys.” I wouldn’t be able to fix their hair, give them dolls, or read them Anne of Green Gables and The Little Princess. I, once the official French braider for my high school volleyball team, was good at that stuff.



Eight years later, six boys destroy my home on a minute-by-minute basis, and while I do feel a twinge of disappointment when I see my friends with their daughters, after all this time, I wouldn’t know what to do with a daughter.



Here’s what I have learned from raising six boys:



There’s laundry, everywhere: Boys leave dirty clothing on the floor, no matter how many times I remind them where the hamper is.



I’m always buying new shoes: Three weeks after I buy them, the boys’ shoes are worn out, a result of kicking poles with friends at recess or using their toes as a scooter brake.



Toilet humor is hilarious: Each time a sibling farts (or pretends to), hysterical laughter ensues. And there’s pride in owning up to it, especially if it’s smelly.



Everything is a competition. Running down the stairs. Setting the table. Talking.



A quiet home is impossible: My husband and I bought a megaphone (yes, we have one sitting on our kitchen counter) in order to be heard.



Death-defying acts are a sport: Jumping from the ninth stair onto the bottom floor of our house, from the swing set in mid-air, and from couch to couch. Also, hanging upside down from monkey bars I can’t even reach from the ground, while I nervously ‘spot’ the boys.



Boys are obsessed with their body parts. “Put that thing away,” I say several times a day, most frequently when we’re eating dinner. Boys also have a habit of streaking through the house, especially when company’s over.



The home is full of makeshift weapons: If butter knifes are missing, I find them when I come downstairs and catch the boys in a “sword-fighting” match. PVC pipes also double as light sabers and scooters are for smashing slower brothers’ toes.



But for all the heart-stopping tricks and the mess that follows the boys, there is something else they offer, too: Love.

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They love like little hurricanes, pulling up the roots of scars I’ve carried my whole life, smashing windows and walls so I’m brave enough to bare the very heart of me, tearing off my armor and twisting me toward a height I could never imagine.



I did not expect this, either.



What these years with boys have shown me is that I am a woman beloved times six.



And I wouldn’t trade that for an impeccably tidy house, a heart that beats calmly, or children who sit still, which is what I imagine a home full of girls would be like (I know. Probably not).

The boys are already asking for a sister, three months after they got another brother. So I’ve had to tell them the truth. I’m just too worn out, kids.

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