Being in the room with the mothers of forty-seven children and eleven grandchildren was sacred ground. I knew almost all of those children's names, even before their tired mothers said them aloud to us. Except for the one who makes an appearance next Monday. Some I had sewn projects with. Others had played guitar with me, or enjoyed Couples' Night Out while their parents went out for dinner. I had sung with a bunch of them, even earlier that day.  

The speaker held the mothers mesmerized with her words, and the flamingo pencils she handed out. She surprised us when, in true flamingo fashion, she pulled off her pink sweater and changed to white. The way flamingos do, when feeding their babies drains the color from their feathers. We remembered that a group of them is called a flamboyance. Which fit perfectly with how many of them talked about loving to dance. 

I ached with the hard work they had each plowed through that day. That week. Too little sleep, and too many demands, make even the bare-bones routines an ordeal. 

One woman shared the intuitive wisdom of her son. When she is overwhelmed, he will hold up a solitary finger. 

"One thing, Mom. One at a time." Then she will calm down, do each task in sequence, and remember that she is enough. 

I don't understand why this is the way it is. I wished I could hand around slumber sheets, like the box of tissues that amazingly had flamingos on it. Then each woman could pull a few out to replenish her weary heart. 

But in the absence of such sharable sleep, we cried, we laughed, and ate yummy apples and cobbler. 

And the next morning their beloved children woke up wanting breakfast.