Quick, the Volcano’s Erupting
My youngest daughter turned five yesterday, which means she starts kindergarten in the fall, which means every last one of my children will be at school all day.
They don’t fly into my arms anymore when I shout, “Quick, the volcano’s erupting!”
Or need my hand to fall asleep.
There’s less gang vocal belting out “Here Comes the Sun” in the car. I know they’ll find their way back to John, Paul, George, and Ringo after the lucid daydream of adolescence. But still.
A fresh West Coast IPA now comes with four frowns and cries of “Dad, you’re drinking again!” instead of little voices saying, “You really like those healthy golden drinks, don’t you, Daddy?”
No more squirming my way out of a sink full of egg-yolked dishes in exchange for the sacred duty of putting a child down for a nap.
No more plastic scooters nonstop up and down the driveway. Or wanting to slam three mai tais by noon because the toddler woke up the newborn. No more first words that sound Martian, or tiny hands and feet that could fit a hundred times into mine.
Playing Tetris with the car seats. Diapers, floaties, binkies, and midnight drives up the mountain to get the eight-month-old to close her eyes. Nursing pillows, Pack ‘n Plays, sippy cups, bouncer seats, infant swings, swaddling blankets, and teething crackers.
Yesterday my baby turned five. My eleven-year-old picked and purchased all her presents.
