I am preparing dinner. This means, of course, that 18-month-old Stephen is firmly affixed to my leg, piercing my ears with a high-pitched whine similar to an emergency-vehicle siren.

In a moment of inspiration, I abandon the browning hamburger, gather up my screeching am bulance and plop him in his high chair with a bowlful of orange wedges.

I have bought myself some peace, but it doesn't last long.

Next 3-year-old Juliette and 4-year-old Ambrose come tearing down the stairs, each trying to out-shout the other in an effort to give me his or her own version of an argument first. “He won't share!” I make out. Then: “She's ruining everything!”

Still feeling inspired, I decide to distract them with some music: a recently purchased, still-exciting Veggie Tales CD to be exact. I ignore the fact that they are making faces at each other as I search out the CD. I ignore the fact that Stephen is giggling and feeding the dog his oranges as I plug in the player.

In the next minute, my two oldest children burst through the front door. “We're soaked,” they announce as they casually drop wet mittens by the door and leave a slushy trail through the living room, kicking boots in all directions.

Then, upon hearing a stomach-turning retch, I turn around to find the dog has vomited on the rug. Oranges. And I notice a smell of scorched hamburger coming from the stove.

I am no longer inspired. In fact, I am prepared to sit down next to the vomit and wallow in what I consider to be a fully-deserved moment of self-pity, when suddenly: kick-kick!

It is the smallest, quietest, and least demanding of my children who now gains my attention. This little person, not yet born, kicks and squirms and rolls. It's not so bad, his motions seem to tell me now. How bad can anything be when you have a little blessing like me hidden away in here?

Encouraged by these thoughts, I put the dog outside, clean up the mess and make macaroni for dinner.

Days later, we are running late. Wet snow falls steadily and collects around the tires as I urge my mini-van along an unplowed road. My fingers grip the steering wheel as my glance al ternates between the clock and my blissfully oblivious passengers in the back seat.

I focus on keeping the van's tires within the faint snowy tracks before me while in my mind I scold myself for not having left the house just a few minutes earlier.

Why is it that, no matter how organized I think I am, there is always one more shoe to find, one more trip to the bathroom, one more face to wipe before we can go anywhere?

I am thinking these thoughts and wishing the weather would allow me to drive just a little bit faster, when suddenly: kick-kick! It's Baby again.

Without saying a word, he questions my priorities. Slow down, he admonishes. There isn't any place in the world you could be going that's more im portant than keeping me and the other children in this car safe. I relax, take a deep breath and slow down. We arrive at our destination late but unharmed.

As we are lying in bed early the next morning, Baby kicks hard against my husband's hand pressed against my belly. “Definitely a boy!” his father declares. “He's trying to bust out of there!”

Maybe this little one is a boy, but I don't think by kicking he is trying to get out. He is simply fulfilling the temporary role God has given him: He is my sweet, silent messenger from heaven.

Danielle Bean writes from Center Harbor, New Hampshire.