Alone among men: someone always screeches

No, my first child didn't come when I was a student, but afterwards. Planned and eagerly awaited. Then I quickly realised that I didn't want it to be an only child. I succeeded. And somehow there was always a reason for the next child. The scent behind the ear. The first smile. The first doodle. So much oxytocin. So I got pregnant four times. Another deciding factor was the fact that I find nothing more boring than tables that aren't full and therefore somehow don't always remind me of Italy.
Now, after four children in eight years, the conclusion: there are no constellations. Everything is fleeting. Years of sleep deprivation have destroyed all the memorised rules of combinatorics and logical mathematics. What remains is a lot of madness, a little lightness and serenity that has been tried and tested over the years.
Before breakfast, the two youngest children play Lego together in harmony, only to fight over the honey at the dining table afterwards, while the two older ones talk shop about a book they've read together in a code that puzzles me. A little later, it must be before the minimum time for brushing their teeth in the morning, they argue. I hear the eldest slam the door with a bang, not without threatening his 21-month-younger brother first: «I'll spit you out!» The latter lets me know that he's taking the longer route to school because he doesn't want to walk with «that nasty idiot who's already annoyed me twenty-three million times today». Whereupon the third, a tried and tested expert, advises: «Why don't you ban him from the room? Forever! And for his grandchildren too!»
I pacify him a little, as it's still too early to argue and my inner self is busy nipping the exponentially increasing chaos in the bud. Whereupon the littlest one, with three older brothers and plenty of stamina, asks me: «What are they doing?» To which I, already relatively exhausted, reply in terms of quantity rather than quality: Walumwalumwalum! Dalum!" Then the child: «Kicheriki! Funny! Again!» Now would be the time for a few sips of Yogi tea. But I can't, because the dog has to go.
Anyone who sees me and my family - wife, husband, four children plus dog - out shopping, in a museum or in a café and learns that I not only work at home, but also earn my living writing in a real office, usually says nothing more for a while. Silence. Then a drum roll. Which in turn drives me to white heat. Because it implies that women with lots of children are something extraordinary: Like a rare species you see at the zoo: There, look, madness, boah! Why should I have more nerves than other mums just because I have more mountains of laundry to deal with and children's birthdays to get through?
There's always a bit of recklessness and excessive demands involved in bringing children into the world. Not sleeping through the night for many years, forgetting vaccination appointments and going to the cinema far too rarely. In these times, it is fundamentally difficult to bring up children properly and encourage their development appropriately, regardless of whether you have one, two or six children. I believe that love, trust and reliable structures are the best things for my boys: plus the chance to live out their terrible martial phases. Even if some of my neighbours still find the archaic howling and an estimated 243 homemade poison darts outside the door (original, isn't it?) gagging.
The youngest will soon be going to forest playgroup. That leaves some time for me and the yogi tea. When I told the younger middle one, the poor sandwich child, after lunch spent in Minne that we could do something together again, he reacted happily at first - because there are actually only exclusive hours with mum and/or dad on birthdays and once a year. I could see it working behind his forehead. He looked kind of shocked. «Wwwhow? But it's not my birthday yet, is it, Mum? And just the two of us? Isn't that getting boring?»
Walum, walum four children? Exactly dalum.