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Hello and welcome to a peaceful, pretty content Saturday here at the Wannaskan Almanac. Today is August 23rd.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children, she didn't know what to do. 

As summer winds down to Ordinary Time (what I call the season from September to May), the oldest kids have all landed at our house on a brief layover before life resumes.

"How did we manage to fit eight 10-year-old boys into our living room for a sleepover?" I mused aloud last night, as our family of seven gathered in the exact same space. "Because they were small boy bodies," the Oldest answered.

And she's right.

With the growing up of the first group of progeny we call Kids 1.0, comes their full adult-size bodies. And not just their bodies, but their thoughts and feelings, which all seem so much larger than when they were home living under our roof. 

And the living room feels small.

1 - 2- 3 easy chairs, I count around the room. The 1 -2 - 3 spaces on the couch for my family to sit. Lucky #7 gets to sit on the single-butt keyboard bench that is sorely in need of a black duct-tape makeover or a new cover entirely. One of the girlfriends is hanging out with us, so I unroll my yoga mat and take a spot on the floor, resting my legs on the footstool - at a 90-degree angle per the advice of my adult son - my arms spread out to relax the pinchy spots and barking muscles under my shoulder blade and along my spine.

And we talk.

"Family!" I announce, like a royal trumpeter. The family settles down, preparing for my mom decree. "I have created order in the house. It's my job to make a home for all the stuff in our house. It's your job to put the things in those homes."

I've been saying it all week, but this time, our togetherness may finally make the message sink in and create the behavior change I desire.

As I relax on the floor, I enjoy the swirls of conversation above me. Easy banter, Laketrails stories, checking on the weather, what's the plan for tomorrow.

"Who made the best dinner?" the soon-to-be Eighth Grader asks. Down the line, from oldest to youngest, this week the kids have taken turns cooking dinner and Kid #4 wants to know if hers was satisfactory.

"It's not a competition," the Oldest councils. Instead, they settle on individual evaluations of each meal as a standalone. And then they rank them. Kid #4 gets third place.

"Family," I trumpet again. These are the last days we have together like this. Since College Kid 2.0 will already be at college, how about we go to him (in the Twin Cities) and go to the State Fair as a family?"

I get some oohs and aahs as they consider the idea.

"Plus," I add, turning to my husband, "we can get our Outback that's stranded at the CK 2's house and bring it back to Warroad."

That prompts a useful conversation about parking passes expiring at the end of the month and the logistics of doctoring our ailing vehicle. My husband explains his latest diagnosis and itemizes the parts and kits he has already purchased for the repairs. 

"I don't think the car can even make it back to Warroad," CK2 states, followed by a thoughtful pause to consider the weightiness of his assessment.

"We could donate the car to public radio," I say, reminding my husband of a friend's suggestion this past week.

"We could go bowling as a family," the Youngest inserts into the conversation. "Because this is one of our last times together as a family." He lays out a plan and talks about how great bowling is. He's just been to a bowling birthday party. We listen. A plan doesn't gel around the idea, but that doesn't mean that's a "no." We still have a week to come up with a plan. But what we all agree on is that we want to be together for one more weekend; one more day.

Then we pray - returning to the reason why we gathered in the living room in the first place.

And this time, no one jokes, cracks a smile, or burbles a giggle as we go 'round the room with our Hail Marys. My husband falls in line with the flow; no need to insert reminders to be serious during prayer time.

When we finish, my muscles and back have quieted. I roll to my side and rise, everything aligned. The kids disperse to do nohy, zuby, pyžamo (legs, teeth, pajamas), then reconvene in the living room to watch a movie - Puss and Boots: The Last Wish - together.

I join my husband downstairs to snuggle and doze while we (mostly he) watch the SCI channel.

Our house may seem small, but our home feels large.