There stood Tim looking tall and tan. And there stood little Ainsley perched on a stool.
The boy with the dark, shaved head. And the girl with the blonde bob.
The one conceived with all the naive over-confidence of the young and healthy who think,"Gee, it'd be nice to have a baby about now" and it happens. And the who arrived completely by surprise after years of longing and loss.
My first born. And my baby.
Whatever the number, it's excessive.
Whenever I confront our excess, I imagine standing before God and facing this element of life in middle class America, this element of my life.
And I start to imagine the excuses I'll proffer.
-- Well, you know, most of these were hand-me-downs.
-- Well, you know, of the few that I bought, most of them came from consignment shops. (I'll be sure to point out the brown velvet with the faux leopard trim that I snatched up for a mere three bucks.)
-- Well, you know, I always pass them down to other people.
And then I think, no, I'll dispense with all the silly excuses.
And, you know, I enjoyed every minute of her.
And God will say you're wlecome.