I don’t know how many people can claim this, but I am extremely rich in sisters-in-laws. My brothers married some amazing people, that’s all I can say, and it struck for the hundreth time this weekend as one more family party swirled through my house. 

Years ago, as a joke, my dad got my aunt to embroider, “Busy Hands are Happy Hands” on a pillow for my mother, who promptly tossed it in his face. It was their little joke because her hands would have been happier playing the piano, not doubt, but she was up to her armpits in other things and after a few decades she told me she had forgotten how to do for herself anymore.

So as Colin clung to me and whined, I watched as these generous women prepared and served the meal, then cleaned up afterwards, as they have so many times before. In an era when so many of us are protective of our free time, their endless ability to give always inspires. Thye make me think of my mother’s friends; they say yes to helping out because they like to help, and what are the odds that I’d get a whole batch of such wonderful women as my relatives?

Several of them are at the other end of the parenting spectrum, with children who are in their 20’s, working or in college or grad school. They are still as busy as ever, but they have gradually turned their extra energy towards their jobs and volunteering and helping their vast net of relatives. Over the years, they have brought me countless meals and groceries, provided rides and clothes and books and toys to my kids, and even, while I was on bedrest during my last trimester with Colin, actually moved me out of my old house and into a new one. They are those unsung heroes who keep fundraisers going and supply bake sales and keep the school planters filled with flowers. They take my ailing mother to lunch and hang her pictures and reorganize her closets. They drive all over creation to help their parents and siblings and children with anything from painting to writing wills.  

 

Admiring as always, I said to one of them once, “How do you manage all of this?” She has her own business, a husband whose job makes his presence unreliable, and an extremely ill parent in another state. She laughed, as she usually does (they all have a great sense of humor) and said, “Those intense years of having the kids underfoot make everything else seem really easy. Once you get a few of them out of the house, the impulse to relax is so beaten out of you, you’ll be amazed how much time you have.”

“Yeah,” another one chimed in. “I couldn’t read a book if I tried at this point. I’ve been rewiring lamps I find at the dump. It’s sad. I’m so used to reacting to people’s needs, I need some time to de-program.”

They cheerfully kept wiping dishes dry, but something changed for me then. I realized how much I had assumed about their willingness to help, and how happy their busy hands were. Maybe I’ve had it all wrong.