Tuesday Before Threesday

Today, I thought I would share an old story from 2000. Elder would have been four years old . . .

Several times on Tuesday, for one reason or another, I found myself explaining to Elder that it was Tuesday — as opposed to another day in the week, such as Sunday.  On Tuesday, Mommy worked and he went to the babysitter.

That night, while we were eating dinner, he told me, “Mom, tomorrow is Threesday and on Threesday, you don’t have to work.”

Well, he’s kind of right.

I’ve never worked a Threesday in my life.

Time and Again

Well, Younger is officially a senior.

When my children were younger, other parents warned, “Enjoy them now. They’ll be grown before you know.”

Then when I agreed to enjoy the boys while they were young, other parents would give me that smile — a smile that was not quite condescending, perhaps a little nostalgic, maybe even regretful, always knowing. And I know when the boys were little, some days seemed longer than forever and bedtime was really the only goal of the day.

But anyone finding a five-year-old where a toddler used to stand a blink ago cannot remain blissfully ignorant of the passage of time.

So, I always knew my boys would only be little for a very short time. I would close my eyes and try to imprint into my heart the feel of their arms around my neck, the softness of their breath in my ear, the absolute trust in the relaxing of their bodies against mine.

I wrote their stories so I wouldn’t forget those everyday little moments that get lost in the past.

A long time ago, not so long ago, Younger and I used to snuggle on the sofa and watch Blue’s Clues and Dora the Explorer. When we lived in an apartment, I took him with me to the laundromat, and we did puzzles while our clothes spun in a washing machine.  Every week, we would do our grocery shopping, and we settled at Applebee’s for lunch where he got macaroni and cheese and a balloon.

Every year before school started, I would take him back to Applebee’s for his “last supper” and spoil him with dessert.

We have one more last supper, I guess.

I always understood that time was slipping by me too quickly. I just never figured out any possible maneuver that slowed it down — wishing, arguing, throwing tantrums, begging. Time can ignore all attempts at manipulation.

Even greedy fingers can’t grasp the sand in an hourglass.

So, Younger is a senior.

And, somehow, still my baby.

Snow Fairies

I apologize for not posting yesterday. It was the last classes of the semester, so I was distracted with celebrations.

We saw our first snow Wednesday night. Big, fat flakes of white swirling lazily towards the frozen grass.

“I told myself I wouldn’t hope, I’m not hoping, I told myself I wouldn’t, do you think they might cancel school tomorrow?” Younger chanted, roaming from window to window.

The next day as he strapped himself into the seat next to me in the car, his backpack tossed carelessly in the back, he muttered, “This is the worst day of my life.”

He’s seventeen.

And is still being betrayed by the snow fairies.

Life is hard when even the fairies are out to get you.

Long Story

Apparently, Younger’s friend likes a girl and, also apparently, the girl likes him. But, despite the evident reciprocity, the friend wouldn’t “ask her out.”

And when I asked why, Younger just shrugged and said, with a heavy load of world weariness weighing his voice, “It’s a long story, Mom.”

This young man is thirteen and in the seventh grade. And he already has a long story. I didn’t have a long story until I was in my twenties and could share my labor experiences with whomever I could trick into listening.

One of us isn’t living our life right, and I’m a little concerned it might be me.