The kids sent me out of the kitchen this afternoon. I headed to the laundry room since cleaning the lint filter and sorting whites is as relaxing as life gets lately and I was close enough to hear the little voices mix with the big.
Today was my first birthday as a mom that they all remembered without a reminding from their dad or someone asking for chocolate cake at 7 am. They planned a group hug for breakfast and their heads met under my arms and over them and at my cheek.
They dressed for decorating and dinner-making and didn’t ask me to open the fridge or button a button and someone even swirly-fake-tied the aprons.
Over the washing machine I heard discussions of whether I am 47 or 85 this year and how many more candles to draw and I sorted socks while they fought over the last yellow crayon that wasn’t broken and who could hold the tape.
I don’t remember much about my birthday last year but I’m pretty sure it consisted of changing diapers and food launching and no get out of the witching hour free card. But this one I will remember, the messy kitchen and the chattering voices and the “DON’T COME IN HERE!”s every time I stepped close to the door.
They led me to the table and let me pick my favorite chair and all kinds of food we don’t have from their menu and served me the best water dripped in a perfect path from the refrigerator to my seat.
I half-followed my instructions to put dinner in the oven but not look at it in order to avoid third degree burns before I turn 40 and was followed by the official Dinner Picture Taker, capturing everything at three feet.
We sat for dinner with everyone even taller than at breakfast and I decided that this growing up thing might be okay. There’s good stuff that comes with my babies turning into big kids.
I’m already looking forward to next year when their attention spans last long enough for clean up duty.
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