I come from one of those Mormon families.

No, not one of �those� Mormon families (i.e. HBO�s �Big Love�), which technically aren�t Mormon families at all — at least, not in this century (although if you go back a few generations I guess I am from one of �those� families, since great-great-grandfather Henson lived The Principle during his pre-Manifesto days in Pleasant Grove, Utah).

I mean one of those Mormon families. I�m the youngest of eight children. My son, Jon, is the youngest of 54 grandchildren. Nobody is exactly sure how many great-grandchildren there are because the number changes almost daily, but about a month ago little Lilly Jean Hyer became the 1st great-great-grandchild. Of course, this is not all that unusual among LDS families. But to the rest of the world we�re a living, breathing poster for Planned Parenthood.

We may not be �Big Love,� but we love big.

And, evidently, often.

The thing is, it could have been worse — or better, depending on your perspective. Mom wanted 12 children — 12 red-headed children, to be precise. Before she would go into the Salt Lake Temple that May day in 1937, she made Dad promise to give her 12 red-headed children — six boys and six girls. Since Dad was himself a red-head, he was confident he could deliver the goods in that regard. And if she wanted 12 kids . . . well, he was certainly willing to make his contribution to that process. So he promised: 12 red-heads.

He failed to deliver on all counts. Not only was none of us red-headed, but their first child, Jean Ellen, came way early and didn�t have any hair at all — not even eye lashes or eye brows — for a full year. And as for having 12 kids . . . well, I kind of ended that dream. Mom was 39 when I was born, all 10 pounds and 14 ounces of me. Dad said that when he saw me in the hospital bassinette for the first time he laughed because it looked like I had been held over from the last class. Mom just said �ouch!� — or words to that effect.

And that was that.