The dogs and I ambled up the street for their daily drag — a much more apt description than walk — when squeals punctured the crisp, quiet morning.
A trio of kids busted out of a garage making their way toward the open van doors, most likely on their way to preschool.
One of the kiddos wiped out and the happy screeches turned to sharp wails. The mom rushed out, “What happened?”
She was trying to calm the crying one down while the other two bounced around the driveway.
“Get in your seats!” she ordered. “I told you we need to go.”
Then to the girl, she said, “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
“I need a BIG Band-aid,” the little girl sniffled.
I remember when that family moved in three years ago. Four? Wow, could it have been five? There were only two kids. One was even a baby.
I remember those days.
You got this, I silently cheered the mom.
That was us. Me. Once.
Everything in the morning that could go wrong would and usually 5 minutes after we should have already been on the road to three different schools. I remember trying to herd them into the car, only to discover I left my keys … in the locked house. There was another time the doorbell rang uncharacteristically early — it was the neighbor kids (4 and 2) toting little suitcases, announcing they would like to live with us.
Those neighbors are long gone and a new family, with a 5-month-old baby, is readying to move in. I remember when we moved into the neighborhood so, so long ago because it was a good ‘hood for kiddos and right by a top elementary school.
My kids are long done with the neighborhood school. And middle school and, gulp, almost high school. The youngest graduates next week.
It goes by fast.
I admit when I initially passed the crying chaos up the street, a part of me did the Nelson Muntz, “Ha HA!”
But more of me was like WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
If you’ve yet to go through this stage of parenting, this high school home stretch, let me assure you, it doesn’t matter how many times you do it, it does not get any easier.
But also, just as I was feeling misty and like my full-time momming was over and done, this text came through…
That afternoon, No. 3 thanked me again and said, “That was a gift. I wanted you to be able to be able to rescue me one more time.”
Somehow, I don’t think it will be the last.
*For an explanation, read this…
TheRealKristenCook.com 