Last night my kids had a sleepover with their best friend K who I call my third kid. She and my oldest have been friends since he was three and she was four. She's just the loveliest child. Last summer K went on vacation with us and I was possibly the biggest advocate for that. I enjoy having her around. She makes me a better father.
Her parents are pretty young for a thirteen year old, having had her when her mom was 16, and they don't have a lot of money. K's world is kind of small. I knew the trip would be an eye-opener for her and this proved to be true. She grew up a lot on that cross country, month long adventure to Maine and back and I'm glad we could play such a role in her life. For years I have secretly wished she lived with us, the daughter I never had.
But twelve and thirteen at different schools with different friends is a time to grow apart, especially when you are different genders. Watching them fall asleep to SNL reruns at 1am it occurred to me that this could well be the very last sleep over. It's a sad but inevitable transition. My instinct says they will always be friends but we all know how these things can go. By high school all bets are off, so it was nice to wake up to requests for blueberry pancakes and bacon and the familiar sounds of their play and laughter. Just like old times, even if for the last time. I will take it.
We were out of bacon and orange juice so I made a quick trip to the market on this cool, rainy morning while kids picked up the room they destroyed. "Please return all the pillows in the house to their rightful places," I reminded, closing the front door. Mornings like this are a gift of life not everyone receives. They help me take stock and remain humble, to keep in perspective the minor frustrations of raising children as well as the major frustrations. They remind me that each day is a last day and to live as much for the present as for the future. They admonish me to avoid as much as possible living for the past.
This market at 10am on a Saturday is a moderately busy place with a lot of mothers shopping for the week before a Sunday rush. People are relaxed, enjoying a last taste of cool before the heat returns in earnest. They wear shorts and light jackets and smile at passing strangers in the parking lot. A kid collecting carts has new iPhone earbuds. Grackles attack the doughnut a child dropped before his car door closed and are dunking pieces in a puddle before swallowing them. The collector passes the grackles with twenty noisy carts and they ignore him. Someone's car alarm goes off and the grackles fly into the trees then immediately return.
All of the small carts have been rained on and I laugh at the notion of wiping off a wet handle with wet wipes so I use my shirt tail instead. Bundles of oak firewood in excessive shrink wrapping are on sale by the door, making the entrance a little tighter than normal. The odd angle has me heading through the middle as the doors part and at this moment a handsome couple in their thirties is coming out with a small cart full of goods. Such a common grocery store moment of occupying the same space unexpectedly, I smile and he smiles. He has golden eyes and semi-blonde curly hair and I can tell he is a runner. Her smile is pursed and wary.
"Watchale!" he says to her as we jockey for space, his voice playful toward me but commanding of her. In this word I can hear a familiar but rare accent for my area. They are privately educated, upper-class criollos from Monterrey, Mexico. I wonder which department he works for at the University.
"It's fine," I say, shifting my cart to the right, "excuse me." She shifts to her right and we make eye contact. She is stiff and uncomfortable with his hand on her shoulder guiding her movement. I look at him and he smiles big, slapping me on the shoulder as we pass.
"Women drivers!" he says, pushing her out the door.