Love + Family: The Birthday, Ashley Barron [philippa perry book .txt] 📗

ofchores I’d written out for myself this morning. Painfully few itemssport confidence-building checkmarks next to them.

At least I’d managed to accomplish the tasksI ranked as most important—groceries, delivering a forgotten fieldtrip form to school, and mailing thank you notes on behalf of asuccessful fundraiser held last week.

But the manicure? Never happened. I give alow whistle as I survey my short, plain nails.

Lunch with my best friend? Ended up beingcoffee and energy bars on the sidelines of little league.

The dog walks over and flings her body in asemi-circle around my ankles. My toes are instantly warm—andtrapped. She whines pitifully in protest, no doubt, that an hourago I swiped her favorite toys and tossed them in the washingmachine.

I suppose in the animal world, removing thestains and smells and slobber from my dog’s plush squeakercollection shows the ultimate disregard for all of the hard workshe’s put into making them unfit for human contact.

“Why did you take the toys away?”

For a second, I think the dog—alreadyconvinced she’s human—has finally mastered English. I look backdown at my feet and see that my daughter has joined her brother onthe cold tiles of the kitchen floor.

I don’t answer the question. I’m wondering ifI should make them get up and relocate to the family room carpet.But I don’t. They look so adorable, so relaxed, like sunbathers onthe first day of summer.

With time moving so fast I’m determined tohold on to all the sweetness I can find in a day.

“Don’t you love her anymore?” My son’s chinrests against the dog. His voice is muffled by her thick coat.

I wonder why he’s so focused on the questionof love, today. He’s fast approaching that age when boys discovergirls, and the first blush of hormones turns into trading notes inclass, sitting together at lunch, and calling each other on thephone.

I’m dreading it.

I don’t want him to outgrow childhood, andoutgrow the reach of my mommy role as Most Important Person.

“Of course, I love her,” I say. “That’sprecisely why I cleaned her toys. She can have them backtomorrow.”

The kids cuddle up closer to our dog,tangling themselves into a heap of limbs, pajamas and fluffyfur.

And they begin to sing. It’s a song I thoughtthey had long-ago forgotten. A child’s song, soft and happy. Istand completely still, afraid my slightest movement will end themagic.

I hear the garage door rising. As my husbandwalks through the door, I hold a finger in front of my lips. Henods, softly, and flashes me a smile. I want to relive this momentlater, much later, in life when we sit our old bones down inrocking chairs and hold wiggling grandchildren on our knees.

Our children finish the last few lines of thesong before calling out, in unison, “Hi Dad!”

His reply is drowned out by the chimes of thedoorbell. The kids and dog are up in a flash in a mad-scrabble raceto the front door. Their favorite babysitter has arrived. I knowall three are thrilled by the prospect of no parents for theevening.

My son will get to watch that absurd realityshow, thinking I’ll never be the wiser. My daughter, who greatlyaspires to be sixteen, will spend the evening being dazzled bystories about high school. And the babysitter, about to get royallypaid for spending the evening texting half the teens in our zipcode, will be adored by all present.

As I listen to hurried chatter of excitedvoices, my eyes remain on the now-empty spot on the kitchen floor.Is this what it will feel like when they’ve gone off into theworld? Will I still hear their laughter echoing in this house?

“I love you.” My husband’s words are soft inthe quiet room. I know the exact look on his face when he speakswith that tone—the tone he’s been using lately when he talks aboutus having another child, one more child, before no more arepossible.

I love this man. I love seeing his sleepyeyes in the morning. I love holding his body against mine in thenight. I love to hear him tell the same stories over and overagain.

And I love his children.

One more?

Yes.

The word crosses my lips just as the dog, hermood much improved, comes flying into the kitchen. She dances, andwhines, and slobbers until my husband relents and reaches for herleash. I always get a good laugh out of their little routine; asfar as I’m concerned, she’s the one taking him for a walk.

But I do wish, just this once, her timing hadbeen better.

“Cakes,” my husband says, using the nicknamehe gave me back when we were dating. “We can’t be late. We’ve gottheater tickets, remember?”

He says the words proudly.

I know he’s lying.

Today is my birthday. I am one giant stepcloser to a number that used to seem impossibly far away. Iremember all the penny-wishes I used up as a kid, trying to get todouble digits faster.

And now I keep reaching for a pause buttonthat doesn’t exist.

I don’t necessarily want to go back in time.Every now and again, I just want to stop it from moving forward.Too much is out of focus, happening too fast.

I won’t know what it’s like to live theseyears until they have long since passed me by.

Right now, I’m not aware of the backgroundsounds and smells, the details of images that will take centerstage when my eyes no longer see much, and my legs won’t carry meanywhere worth going.

Maybe that’s why life is lived onfast-forward. Maybe that’s why we’re not able—not designed—topause, to catch our breaths, to gain perspective. Perhaps we areeach walking around with giant nets, capturing every detail thatcan be collected. Somewhere along the line, these details areturned into memories that are so real we can touch them and holdthem, just as we ourselves used to be held.

They become the liquid gold of old age.

The healing tonic no lab can create, nodoctor can prescribe, no talent can fake.

“Cakes? The theater?” My husband points to myrobe.