I am a perfect mother. I have boundless energy, a limitless supply of patience and a perpetual sense of calm about me. In fact, if I am not certifiably insane, I am a saint.

At least, that’s the consensus among the young moms at my children’s library. What have I done to deserve this premature canonization? It was quite simple, actually — I just gave birth to my seventh child.

Years ago, when I was pregnant with our second child, I lay awake at night tormenting myself with anxiety and self-reproach. How could my husband and I have done such an irresponsible thing? I could scarcely keep up with our one toddler: How on earth was I ever going to be able to care for two children at the same time?

I consoled myself with the thought that I might manage to love both children equally and hold them both in my lap at the same time, but still a nagging thought lingered: I was ill-prepared to be a mother to more than one child.

And then suddenly, despite my reservations, I was a mother of two. Somehow, miraculously, I was able to do it. Then, in due time, I became a mother of three, then four, then five — and so on. Amazingly, each subsequent addition to our family seemed to work out as well. In fact, over the years I have learned something about family life I wouldn’t even try to tell my story-hour friends: It’s easier to be a mother of seven than of just one or two little ones.

I suppose part of the reason life feels easier to me now is that I have been sufficiently “broken in.” It’s taken me a few years and many tears, but I now understand that sometimes a baby is just going to cry no matter what I do, and this does not mean I am a bad mother. Experience has further taught me that bad haircuts do grow out, potty training does eventually happen and most things (even tomato sauce and motor oil) really do come out in the wash.

The biggest surprise, however, is that it’s often the children themselves who make my life easier. Take yesterday afternoon, for example. When I had just two little babies, going to the store was an exhausting nightmare of buckling car seats, lugging crabby babies through stores, and struggling to carry groceries into the house while keeping everyone content.

Yesterday, when I piled my gang into the van and took them out to run errands, it was quite a different experience. The older kids helped buckle everyone in and then held the younger ones’ hands in parking lots. When we arrived home, everyone unbuckled, I handed the house keys to my oldest son, and everyone — right down to the 3-year-old — carried in the diaper bag, mail and groceries. All I had to do was waltz into the opened house with the baby in my arms. Even the dog was let out and fed before I took off my coat.

Someone once said “God doesn’t call the equipped; He equips the called,” and my life experience confirms that this is true. God did not make a mother of many because I already possessed perfect maternal qualities. He sent the babies first and then supplied the graces as necessary.

Today, newborn Baby Raphael and I sit in the living room as the chaos of family life swirls around us. I hold his warm, bundled body close, feel his sweet, tiny breath against my neck, and think: “Thank you, God, for calling me here.”

Danielle Bean writes from

Belknap, New Hampshire.