Sometimes, Celestine Bahorel wondered why she had ever decided to have children in the first place.
It wasn't that she didn't adore her wild brood- she did, truly. Her children were wonderful; they were always eager to help around the house and outside on the farm whenever they were needed, and they were all happy, healthy and jubilant youngsters.
However, this did not mean that they were at all well-behaved.
And, if she were being honest with herself, there were days when she wished that she didn't have any children at all. Oftentimes she would find herself longing for the free, open fields of her youth, back when she didn't have to concern herself with propriety and family. The Bahorels happened to be one of the wealthiest families in their little town in the south of France, and with wealth came responsibility, as Madame Bahorel had so painstakingly learned. Sometimes, when her children made her wish to tear her hair out of her head, she could not help but dream of her carefree childhood, where laughter flowed like water from the well, and where she was free to run in the fields barefooted and be happy.
Today happened to be one of those days.
Baby Marie was weeping, and Madame Bahorel was trying to juggle her on one hip while pouring a small cup of milk for Suzanne, who was not quite two and was already eager to practice drinking milk out of an actual cup. Suzanne was following her around the kitchen blithely, not even realizing that she was causing her mother to trip and nearly sending the baby flying in an effort not to trod over her. Liliane had somehow managed to pull herself up on to the table and was now sitting in the center of it, singing a little song that one of the other town children had probably taught her, and Michel had just stomped in looking as if he had rolled in a mud pit, sporting an alarming bruise over his right eye but looking triumphant all the same. And in the middle of it all sat her husband, at the table and thumbing through one of his books, entirely unaware of the chaos surrounding him.
"Michel take off your boots," she chided, shifting Marie to her other hip, only making her howl louder. "What did you do to your eye?"
"Me and Gerard had a brawl," he announced proudly, grinning up at her only to receive an armful of baby, which he promptly deposited on his father's lap. Monsieur Bahorel didn't even look up.
"Who won?" Madame Bahorel asked offhandedly, only then noticing that Liliane was creeping dangerously close to the edge of the table. "Liliane, don't fall, dear!"
"Or if you do, at least give an impressive shout," Michel quipped, grabbing the cup of milk that had just been poured for Suzanne off of the table and draining it in one gulp. "And I did, of course. I wasn't going to let that brute whip me!"
"I should hope not," retorted Madame Bahorel, snatching the now empty cup out of his hands. "What do you think, dear?" She called over her shoulder to her husband, fetching the jug of milk from where she had just put it back. "Michel got in to a fight?"
"Did you win?" asked Monsieur Bahorel absently, turning another page. Michel nodded proudly.
"Of course I did!"
"Good boy, then," his father replied, quickly snatching baby Marie by the back of her little dress just as she was about to roll off of his lap, all the while still thoroughly occupied with his book.
"What are you reading, daddy?" asked Liliane, swinging her legs over the side of the table and frowning upon the realization that she was not nearly tall enough to touch the floor, and that by now she had quite forgotten exactly how she had managed to get up onto the table in the first place.
"Nothing you'd like," replied her father shortly, allowing the baby to nibble on his fingers a bit.
"I might like it," said Liliane, swinging her legs so forcefully that the table shook a bit and her shoe flew off, hitting little Suzanne, who was still following her mother around and pulling at her skirts, in the head and subsequently causing her to shriek. This alarmed Madame Bahorel so much that she immediately took several steps back, trodding on Suzanne in the process and knocking her to the ground, Liliane's shoe still stuck in her light brown curls. Suzanne immediately began to weep, and Liliane was so alarmed that she plunged straight off of the table and landed with a gasp.
Monsieur Bahorel looked up from his book at last, peering over the side of the table at the child. "No," he said, "you really would not."
Suzanne, to her credit, did not cry. Instead she pulled herself to her knees, using the table leg to support her, and trotted over to Suzanne, helping her up and allowing the child to bury her face in her chest, fishing her shoe out of her little sister's hair as she wept. "Shh, shh, it's alright Susie," she soothed, patting the child's back.
"Yes, it's alright," Michel conceded, getting down on his knees to look her in the eyes. "You're a Bahorel, Bahorel's don't cry. I didn't cry when I got this." He pointed to his eye, obviously eager to take advantage of every opportunity to show his battle wound off. It did the trick of Suzanne however, who hiccupped and regarded her brother's injury with wide eyes.
"Oh," she said softly, tilting her head, successfully distracted from her recent trauma. "Okay."
Madame Bahorel then took that opportunity to gather Suzanne in her arms and apologize fervently for nearly killing her. Suzanne giggled, already over the incident, and assured her to the best of her limited vocabulary that it was alright. Liliane, however, took this opportunity to tap her mother on the shoulder and present her with the glass of milk that her mother had never gotten around to pouring. "Here, Maman," she smiled, presenting her gift proudly.
Madame Bahorel, not understanding how a five year old girl would be able to reach the counter, turned her head to see Michel dragging a wooden stool back to it's original position by the door. Turning her attention back to her daughter, she smiled. "Thank you, Liliane, dear." She accepted the little glass of milk and handed it to Suzanne, who immediately proceeded to spill most of it on her new dress. Madame Bahorel sighed fondly, glancing back at her husband, who had abandoned his book entirely in favor of rocking the sleeping Marie, a small smile on his usually stern face.
Yes, sometimes she longed for the days of her youth, when she was free of children and free of responsibilities.
But some days she just was very, very grateful for what she had. And on those days, she wouldn't trade it for anything else.