The Mexican grocery store has piles of dried chilies that tempt me. They had just opened and were vaguely empty with one young man in the back stacking limes and two old men chatting at the register. As I checked out, they talked to me and my three children in amiable broken English.
“Children,” one man said, “they are a gift.”
And I believe that, but never say it. Because I feel like an ass, I for whom children are a gift, when for some people they are not, when for some people children are a gift they are never given.
But when people see me with my children all stacked up, one, two, three, and instead of saying “Wow, have your hands full” tell me how lucky I am? I love them for it. Because that’s exactly how I feel.