I'm writing this as one child sleeps upstairs and one child perches fifteen feet to my left, alternating laps of cheerio inhalation with sprints of intensive monkey role play. There are monkey noises, some freeform preschool rap, the clink of spoon against bowl, brief expostulations of "MOMMY!!! WATCH THIS!!!"
This is what passes for peace in this season.
I wonder if I really will "miss this," per the pronouncements of the universe's grandparent-aged contingent. I mean, I probably will, if only because the nostalgia is like a deep fryer, rendering palatable anything raised from its bath. But is this really the crispiest, tastiest, most unctuously delicious time in my life, as the grandfolk imply?
And if it is, would I be the better for realizing what I'm biting into?
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