*a homemade parachute, a windy day, and a boy with a dream
*a toilet-side game of Uno
*a police helmet: which reminds me of a certain beloved children’s picture book (I’ll give you three guesses)
*supper fixings: the celery and onions are for the potato soup, the glass of red is for me
*freshly dusted marshmallows
*restocking the jelly cupboard
*the first frost and the last garden salad, sob
*the blind piano tuner at work: within minutes of him setting up shop, I found my oldest daughter walking through the kitchen with her eyes squinched shut and a mop in her hand, tap-tap-tapping the floor, and my younger daughter was fumbling around the back hall, a large hankie covering her eyes. The kids are intrigued by the thought that they could take off all their clothes and run around naked and he wouldn’t ever know. (I didn’t let them try it.)
*the first piercings: a surprise for the girls, their papa’s treat (the younger daughter chickened out, but then, she hadn’t been incessantly begging for the adornments like her big sister)
*take it to the microscope: what any good princess does after getting bitten by a spider
*team work
*a rainbow!
*math lessons made easier by holding a sleeping baby
*eating breakfast while trying to stay warm: here’s to hoping he doesn’t topple

This same time, years previous: cheddar cheese fondue, apple tart with cider-rosemary glaze, my oldest son’s birth story

My son turned twelve on Sunday, though we celebrated it on Saturday.

Next year he’ll turn thirteen, the start of a new age in our house: six years later and we’ll have four teenagers. The thought both excites and saddens me.

I’m not scared though. I don’t buy all that hoopla about the teen years being such a trial and tribulation. Those were the toddler years, in my opinion. I’ll take teenage sass and smarts over unverbal tots any day.

Not that it will be easy, of course. Nothing is.

The main reason I’m sad about the new age dawning is that it’s one more sign that I’m growing old. It’s one thing to talk about getting old when you’re twenty. It’s another thing to experience it, or the twinges of it, when you’re thirty-six. I don’t mind the internal part of getting old, the build up of experiences, the collected wisdom, the accumulated friends and family, but the physical part of getting old? That part scares me.

Is there any way to age gracefully? Does anyone walk into old age willingly, eager to embrace the wrinkles and sagging upper arms and achy joints? Or are humans programmed to fight it, to push against it, to grieve it?

This same time, years previous: buttermilk pancakes

I hardly cooked all week long. One night we had scrambled eggs and toast for supper. Another night there was a hot dog roast at a friend’s house. And yet another night we had a sit-down dinner of caramel popcorn and apples and peanut butter. So high end, we are.

Here’s the bowl of peanut butter. A small child could drown in it.

I was mixing a big tub of whole wheat peanut butter (meaning, all-natural) with a jar of sugary store-bought peanut butter (so the oil doesn’t separate out as much) when supper time swung around, so I just plunked the whole bowl down in the middle of the table. The kids ate it by the serving spoon full. And they finished off a good six to eight (maybe ten?) apples and all but two cups of the popcorn. They were so full that no one even made mention of a bedtime snack.

What are your favorite snacky suppers? Or, “silly suppers,” as my husband grew up calling them.

This same time, years previous: brown sugar syrup (our standard syrup recipe)