"A Noisy Crowd of Love"

It's quiet now at 7:50 a.m. Twenty minutes ago, not so much. Some unwitting brother had apparently messed with the bed-making style of the four-year-old diva in pink that dwells here and was receiving the full brunt of her wrath. At this hour in the morning, I know better than to interfere with the noise outside my bedroom door when I'm at home. It probably means mom is out on her morning walk and can't hear it, or exercising in  her room and is choosing to ignore it. I'm beginning to learn that if mom is ignoring it, I probably should too. It saves me the headache of sorting out sibling problems, and I've gotten pretty good at just rolling over in bed and pulling the quilts up to cover my ears.

Right now, no one knows I'm up. Well, technically, I'm not "up" until I've shown my face downstairs, but I am awake, out of bed, and cognitive; in college terms, that is "up". I have been known to sleep till 9:30 when I'm home on break (which does constitute Sleeping In Late in the Peden family), and so I have about an hour and a half until they might start wondering about me.

As is usually the case before I start writing for my blog, I was mulling over a quote last night before bed--one of those quotes that practically defines your life; the kind that you have written in half a dozen journals and scribbled on the palm of your hand occasionally. From a historical-fiction novel I read last summer about a pioneer woman who survived incredible things, this quote expresses what I think about my family every time I am with them. 

"It seems as if I can only think if I write in my journal, it just connects the part of my head that is busy doing things with the part that is busy thinking about everything else. I know all these people are so busy because they love each other and me. We are a noisy crowd of love." --Nancy E. Turner, These Is My Words: The Diary of Sarah Agnes Prine

"We are a noisy crowd of love."

I just love that. 

I love that when I come home, there's always someone thundering down the stairs to greet me; half a dozen stories of what-we-did-with-tucker-yesterday are told all at once, along with the show and tell of the new arsenal of weapons the boys have acquired since I was last home. And of course, latched onto my waist is my little blondie, Fiona, who just repeats "hi Sarah!" over and over again until when helping me unpack she finds my heels and a decides to wear them around the house, clonking all over the hardwoods till mom has had enough of the noise. We're anything but quiet. But as a long standing member of this family, I'm quite used to it. Like Sarah Agnes Prine, the fictional pioneer woman of the novel, I've adapted to the noise and found my ways to survive, to keep my sanity. I read. I write. But mostly, I just try to keep perspective. 

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