The reason I am mad (In the British sense, not the angry sense. Oh, how I wish I was British!)

First, I have nine kids—

Wait. Your eyebrows just went up, right?

Yes, I gave birth to each and every one of them. Started in 1990 and ended in 2011. (Those were loonng pregnancies.) 

So this is the part where I pause and you try to fill in that uncomfortable silence. Usually the response I hear is, “Oh . . . nine?”

The delivery of the phrase varies. Some say “nine” as if trying to clarify the number, since it sounds so similar to “three.” (Because no one has more children than that.)

Others say “nine” slowly and with shocked deliberation, as if just learning what the meaning of “calamari” is after they’ve eaten it. (“Oh . . . squid?”)

Still others say it as a question, with the unexpressed, “Don’t you know what causes that?” (Yes, of course we do. Figured it out after the fifth child. Duuhhh.)

And a few rare people respond with a smug smile: “Oh, nine?” (as if it’s as expected as sunrise), “Well, I come from a family of 10.” (They’re lying, course. Remember, no one has more than three children. Except the Duggars and their friends, and no—we’re not trying to catch up to them.)

(Because we only planned to have four.)

(They just kept coming.)

(Even after we figured out why.)

(Go figure.)

But this blog isn’t wholly about the nine kids, although they’ll appear frequently. Their presence causes for some random things to be said in the house. Just today the four-year-old shouted at her 15-year-old brother, “Bubba, kill me next!” (He didn’t.)

(No, I didn’t bother to investigate what prompted the demand, either, because after twenty-one years of motherhood, some things simply go without saying, and ignorance is just easier. And the headcount at the end of the day was correct, which is all that matters.)

I just make this announcement to explain why my mind is a little off balance at times.

I like to ramble about the news, pretending I know where obscure places like Djibouti and St. Petersburg are. (Africa and Florida. See?)

I’m a cheapskate because I have to be, pretending to quilt and cooking nearly everything from scratch and grinding my own wheat, but I don’t dive in Dumpsters (I leave that to my teens, who bring home fascinating objects d’art left at the church bins which show up later as Christmas presents).

I’m a geeky nerd (nerdy geek?) because of my husband who, since 1988 has exposed me to Star Trek, Star Wars, and British television. I made tribbles for my sons for Christmas and all of my children received a t-shirt that proclaims, "The angels have the blue box."

Only the truly nerdy understand.

And I’m fascinated by philosophers, thinkers, and historians who I don’t always agree with but say thought-provoking things even though I can’t pronounce their names 

(“All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking.” ~ FREED-rick NEE-chee). 

My name is Trish Mercer, and I’m a married Christian mom fascinated by the madness of the world and I feel an inexplicable need to explore it. I have four daughters, five sons, and a good reason for rambling because studies have shown that bits of women’s brains die off when they are pregnant.

It’s a miracle I can write a complete. Sentence. 

Feel free to join in my mad ramblings. There's always room for one more in the asylum.