Monday, January 22, 2007
Hickory Dickory Dock...
Several nights ago I had a bad dream involving a rattlesnake. When I awoke at 3 a.m., I heard noises. Overhead. Coming from the attic. First there was scratching (which my groggy subconscious could easily have mistaken for a rattle). Then there was squeaking. Then rustling and skittering and thumping like small animals doing a floor exercise in our rafters.
Last week's cold snap had all of the neighborhood rodents looking for a fireplace, a down comforter and a hot toddy. And evidently they're like homing pigeons--once they've got the map to your place, they just keep coming baaaaack.
In the morning I called the nice pest control people. They were due out this afternoon.
Yesterday morning, as I was getting ready to make breakfast, I noticed that our guests hadn't been content with the upstairs accomodations. Or maybe they just got the munchies in the middle of the night.
Because they'd made their way into our kitchen, where they'd left (ahem) evidence of their visit. On our stove. I'm teetering on the brink of Too Much Information here, but I'll just add one other salient point: the evidence suggested that we weren't dealing with your run-of-the-mill field mouse here. Nooooooooo. That would be too simple. Too tolerable. Too pleasant.
What we've got on our hands...no, thankfully, not our hands...what we've got in our midst is one...no, way more than one...several....I'm having a really hard time expressing this without resorting to expletives that I abandoned more than a decade ago...VERY BIG , NASTY, DISGUSTING NOCTURNAL ANIMALS THAT LIKE TO CARRY THE BUBONIC PLAGUE. Living in our house. With us.
After I finished screaming, I spent the next four hours disassembling the Viking range right down to the tubing and scrubbing every square inch of it with soap and bleach and a wire brush.
And I still may never cook on it again.
Anyhoo, I explained to the kids that we had unwanted visitors. Mice, maybe, or rats. That they could not, under any circumstances, sleep on the floor until the creatures were gone from the house. That they could no longer take food out of the kitchen (should have been a house rule, oh, about 5 years ago) lest they unwittingly become snacks. And that the Mouse Man was coming on Monday, and he would (surely...oh, please, dear God) make everything better. Even more than the cashier who carded me, I was tempted to hug him just for showing up.
For my five and three year old boys, the whole business of rodents in the house was electrifying. In a good way. The Mouse Man? At our house?
They had to tell the other kids in carpool.
As the news leaked out on the way home from school, I stole shamed glances in the rearview trying to gauge children's reactions. I could just imagining their mothers, shuddering with repulsion, forbidding little Johnnie and Stevie and Katy from ever, EVER setting foot in our house again.
The rodent disclosure was embraced with enthusiasm.
"We had mice in our attic once!," Johnnie said.
I'm embarrassed at how relieved I was.
"Yeah, and did you know that a mouse trap has a really strong pincher on it?" This from little Katy, no relation to Johnnie.
"And you put food in the trap and when the mouse goes to eat it, the pincher pinches the mouse's head." She was quite knowledgeable about the mechanics of a mouse trap. I began to feel a little giddy.
"And then the mouse goes to jail."
"No, it doesn't!," countered Johnnie. "It goes to heaven."
"Nuh, uh!," Katy insisted. "It goes to mouse jail."
Well, then. I guess that takes all the fun out of it for my kids.
By the time we arrived home, Max and Boo were still bursting with excitement over the Mouse Man. You'd have thought we'd gotten a new pet.
"Let's make a mouse trap!," Max shouted.
The kids have seen a mouse trap left over from my home-extermination job after the garage apartment was completed. I contemplated putting a few of them in the attic before bringing in the professionals, but the prospect of a very pissed off rat or opposum up there convinced me otherwise.
The boys vanished into the playroom.
A few minutes later, they were ready to show off their inventions: "Come see, mom!"
Max had positioned three pieces of wood upright and side-by-side, like toy soldiers.
"If one mouse walks in front of this piece of wood, and another mouse bumps into this piece over here, then the wood will fall and SMASH the mouse!" Max was clearly pleased with himself.
"Good thinking, Max." I examined the mechanism for awhile. "But what if there's only one mouse?"
"WELL, when the mouse squeezes through here, I'll push this piece of wood and it will be booby-trapped and it will knock over this piece and SMASH the mouse! It's kind of like dominoes."
"Wow! So will you have to be there in order to get the mouse?"
"I'll hide behind here." He demonstrated his mouse-hunting technique.
"Hmmm, mice are nocturnal...."
"But I'm not going to stay up all night...."
Relieved, once again.
Meanwhile, Boo had been sitting at the table, patiently cutting a rectangular piece of paper.
"Here's my mousetrap!" He held up the paper, creased in the middle, and worked it open and shut with his thumb and fingers. "It's called the Clam."
"Mine's called the Smasher Domino!"
"The Clam is really going to work."
"I think the Smasher Domino is better."
"Do you think the Mouse Man will need our traps?"
Maybe so, sweetheart. Maybe so.
Last week's cold snap had all of the neighborhood rodents looking for a fireplace, a down comforter and a hot toddy. And evidently they're like homing pigeons--once they've got the map to your place, they just keep coming baaaaack.
In the morning I called the nice pest control people. They were due out this afternoon.
Yesterday morning, as I was getting ready to make breakfast, I noticed that our guests hadn't been content with the upstairs accomodations. Or maybe they just got the munchies in the middle of the night.
Because they'd made their way into our kitchen, where they'd left (ahem) evidence of their visit. On our stove. I'm teetering on the brink of Too Much Information here, but I'll just add one other salient point: the evidence suggested that we weren't dealing with your run-of-the-mill field mouse here. Nooooooooo. That would be too simple. Too tolerable. Too pleasant.
What we've got on our hands...no, thankfully, not our hands...what we've got in our midst is one...no, way more than one...several....I'm having a really hard time expressing this without resorting to expletives that I abandoned more than a decade ago...VERY BIG , NASTY, DISGUSTING NOCTURNAL ANIMALS THAT LIKE TO CARRY THE BUBONIC PLAGUE. Living in our house. With us.
After I finished screaming, I spent the next four hours disassembling the Viking range right down to the tubing and scrubbing every square inch of it with soap and bleach and a wire brush.
And I still may never cook on it again.
Anyhoo, I explained to the kids that we had unwanted visitors. Mice, maybe, or rats. That they could not, under any circumstances, sleep on the floor until the creatures were gone from the house. That they could no longer take food out of the kitchen (should have been a house rule, oh, about 5 years ago) lest they unwittingly become snacks. And that the Mouse Man was coming on Monday, and he would (surely...oh, please, dear God) make everything better. Even more than the cashier who carded me, I was tempted to hug him just for showing up.
For my five and three year old boys, the whole business of rodents in the house was electrifying. In a good way. The Mouse Man? At our house?
They had to tell the other kids in carpool.
As the news leaked out on the way home from school, I stole shamed glances in the rearview trying to gauge children's reactions. I could just imagining their mothers, shuddering with repulsion, forbidding little Johnnie and Stevie and Katy from ever, EVER setting foot in our house again.
The rodent disclosure was embraced with enthusiasm.
"We had mice in our attic once!," Johnnie said.
I'm embarrassed at how relieved I was.
"Yeah, and did you know that a mouse trap has a really strong pincher on it?" This from little Katy, no relation to Johnnie.
"And you put food in the trap and when the mouse goes to eat it, the pincher pinches the mouse's head." She was quite knowledgeable about the mechanics of a mouse trap. I began to feel a little giddy.
"And then the mouse goes to jail."
"No, it doesn't!," countered Johnnie. "It goes to heaven."
"Nuh, uh!," Katy insisted. "It goes to mouse jail."
Well, then. I guess that takes all the fun out of it for my kids.
By the time we arrived home, Max and Boo were still bursting with excitement over the Mouse Man. You'd have thought we'd gotten a new pet.
"Let's make a mouse trap!," Max shouted.
The kids have seen a mouse trap left over from my home-extermination job after the garage apartment was completed. I contemplated putting a few of them in the attic before bringing in the professionals, but the prospect of a very pissed off rat or opposum up there convinced me otherwise.
The boys vanished into the playroom.
A few minutes later, they were ready to show off their inventions: "Come see, mom!"
Max had positioned three pieces of wood upright and side-by-side, like toy soldiers.
"If one mouse walks in front of this piece of wood, and another mouse bumps into this piece over here, then the wood will fall and SMASH the mouse!" Max was clearly pleased with himself.
"Good thinking, Max." I examined the mechanism for awhile. "But what if there's only one mouse?"
"WELL, when the mouse squeezes through here, I'll push this piece of wood and it will be booby-trapped and it will knock over this piece and SMASH the mouse! It's kind of like dominoes."
"Wow! So will you have to be there in order to get the mouse?"
"I'll hide behind here." He demonstrated his mouse-hunting technique.
"Hmmm, mice are nocturnal...."
"But I'm not going to stay up all night...."
Relieved, once again.
Meanwhile, Boo had been sitting at the table, patiently cutting a rectangular piece of paper.
"Here's my mousetrap!" He held up the paper, creased in the middle, and worked it open and shut with his thumb and fingers. "It's called the Clam."
"Mine's called the Smasher Domino!"
"The Clam is really going to work."
"I think the Smasher Domino is better."
"Do you think the Mouse Man will need our traps?"
Maybe so, sweetheart. Maybe so.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Playgroup
Max first dipped his toes into the educational pool when he attended a program at our church for two-year olds. The class consisted of ten children from nine families. Eight of the little royals sat confidently atop the birth order throne. Six moms were pregnant again (the mother of the twins with a second set of them, Lord help her), and a seventh had a babe in arms. Some of us stayed home with our kids; others worked (and worked and worked) both outside the home and in. Elementary school teacher, professional fundraiser, money manager, journalist, physical education teacher, office manager, attorney--we were brought together by our children. But we weren't especially close that first year, at least I wasn't. When one mom suggested we form a playgroup as the school year drew to a close, I participated more from lack of alternatives than enthusiasm. How could I have known that over the next two-and-a-half years, these women would save my sanity more times than I can count? With spur-of-the-moment babysitting when I was running a sick child to the hospital. With meals when my husband was incapacitated for weeks with a herniated disk. With confessions from the toddler wars. All slathered with self-deprecation and a thick shmear of laughter.
Here's what I just didn't understand: All mothers are not the same. Even within the relative homogeneity of my little sphere, there's a broad band of parenting practices out there, from sugar content to television content. So it's reassuring and restorative to find a handful of parenting soulmates, people whom you like and trust, people who don't compare and compete, people whom you'd entrust with your kids as surely as your own mother.
That's how the group came to be at our house this morning, whiling away the hours over coffee and bagels. The kids crafted flags, loosely interpreting (deconstructing?) the flags of other countries and augmenting them with Mickey Mouse and SpongeBob stickers. They decorated gingerbread men and ate some of their parts. All 15 of us squeezed into the playroom and danced--the Twist, the Monkey and the Swim, followed by an exuberant rendition of the Hokey Pokey. Nine children played one round of alphabet bingo; the girls stuck around for a second. And between the structured activites, the kids managed to invent plenty of spontaneous fun, with Legos and construction tools and a mystery box fashioned from a cardboard box, duct tape and old tennis sock. Granted, some of the entertainment involved walls and the PlasmaCar and produced a soundtrack much like a bowling ball making its way down Lane 8. All in all, though, I judged the morning a big, messy, glorious success. For a nanosecond, I even imagined homeschooling my kids, as long as the rest of the gang promised to show up, too.
One mom called this afternoon just to share her son's thoughts on the day. His feedback was particularly poignant because this child and Max have had their difficulties. Serious and shy, he became the frequent victim of Max's aggression. As each boy worked through his own inner dilemma, the other served as his perfect psychological foil. Max struggled with whether to dominate his peers or to belong, even as the other child battled his conflicting urges to defend himself or withdraw. But today that seemed like very old news. As they arrived home, the boy asked, "Mom, if we ever live somewhere besides this house, could we live next door to Max?" Truth be told, no compliment could have pleased me more.
Here's what I just didn't understand: All mothers are not the same. Even within the relative homogeneity of my little sphere, there's a broad band of parenting practices out there, from sugar content to television content. So it's reassuring and restorative to find a handful of parenting soulmates, people whom you like and trust, people who don't compare and compete, people whom you'd entrust with your kids as surely as your own mother.
That's how the group came to be at our house this morning, whiling away the hours over coffee and bagels. The kids crafted flags, loosely interpreting (deconstructing?) the flags of other countries and augmenting them with Mickey Mouse and SpongeBob stickers. They decorated gingerbread men and ate some of their parts. All 15 of us squeezed into the playroom and danced--the Twist, the Monkey and the Swim, followed by an exuberant rendition of the Hokey Pokey. Nine children played one round of alphabet bingo; the girls stuck around for a second. And between the structured activites, the kids managed to invent plenty of spontaneous fun, with Legos and construction tools and a mystery box fashioned from a cardboard box, duct tape and old tennis sock. Granted, some of the entertainment involved walls and the PlasmaCar and produced a soundtrack much like a bowling ball making its way down Lane 8. All in all, though, I judged the morning a big, messy, glorious success. For a nanosecond, I even imagined homeschooling my kids, as long as the rest of the gang promised to show up, too.
One mom called this afternoon just to share her son's thoughts on the day. His feedback was particularly poignant because this child and Max have had their difficulties. Serious and shy, he became the frequent victim of Max's aggression. As each boy worked through his own inner dilemma, the other served as his perfect psychological foil. Max struggled with whether to dominate his peers or to belong, even as the other child battled his conflicting urges to defend himself or withdraw. But today that seemed like very old news. As they arrived home, the boy asked, "Mom, if we ever live somewhere besides this house, could we live next door to Max?" Truth be told, no compliment could have pleased me more.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The Eye of the Beholder
Perhaps it would be like this even if Max and Boo weren't so dissimilar. Maybe it's how siblings start to differentiate themselves. Maybe, unconsciously, they're creating a Hobson's choice for their conflicted mother.
The bottom line is, if I ask a question of my kids, I'm guaranteed different answers.
Want peanut butter and jelly or turkey and cheese sandwiches for lunch?
Peanut butter and jelly.
Turkey and cheese.
Want to play outside or inside?
Outside.
Inside.
Want to go to the park or the zoo?
Park.
Zoo.
Nowhere is the kids' cosmic divide greater than when it comes to breakfast. Boo comes down squarely in favor of waffles; Max is unabashedly a pancake man.
For most of their rivalries, I'm Switzerland--don't take sides and couldn't care less. But in the breakfast wars, if I'm doing the cooking, I side with Boo. The world's best waffle recipe (I think from Food and Wine's 25 best recipes of all time) would tip the balance by itself. But the fact that any extras can be frozen and reheated in a few short minutes, with the same superlative results, makes any debate on the matter moot in my book. By doubling the recipe, I can bank on six ethereal waffles ready any day of the week.
We didn't budge an inch from the house this weekend, which gave us plenty of time for morning baking. On Saturday, Boo got first dibs. When Max learned his breakfast fate, he was nearly inconsolable. The only thing that salvaged our morning was the promise of pancakes on Sunday. This morning, he held me to it.
To increase the entertainment value, I sculpted letters out of the first batch of pancakes: M A X, B O O. The boys were tickled. Oblivious to the limitations of the craft, the boys demanded more: "I want farm animals!," insisted Boo. "An elephant and a lion and a zebra!," shouted Max.
For the next course, with Mickey Mouse in mind, I pooled two large dollops of batter on the griddle and tried to drip smaller blobs in the "10 and 2" positions. The "ears" weren't exactly symmetrical, nor were they positioned to resemble any animal I've seen recently, but with a gleeful flourish, I slid their flapjacks onto their plates: "Here are your animals!"
Both boys squealed with ecstasy. "It's a koala bear!" Max insisted. "Mine's a chicken, isn't it?," queried Boo. I might never have conjured up that description myself, but who was I to deny Boo his farm animals? "It sure is, honey!" Happily, they began lopping off fluffy ears and tails.
"More animals!," they demanded through their sticky lips. But I was reaching the end of my artistic rope, and I was ready for some pancakes myself. I poured three easy circles on the griddle, contemplating how to assuage their disappointment. Then I had another crazy idea. Even as I laid the golden orbs on their plates, I wondered whether they'd be on to my trickery.
"What animal is that, Max?"
"An elephant?"
"No."
"A snake?"
"No, look again."
"A chameleon?"
"What animal rolls into a ball, and we see them at the ranch?"
"An armadillo! You made me an armadillo pancake!" He couldn't have sounded more excited if I'd let a live armadillo loose in the kitchen.
"And what is yours, Boo?"
"A goat?"
"No, it's a kind of bug."
"An insect?"
"Close."
"A caterpillar?"
"Closer. It's a bug that rolls into a ball."
Max chimed in: "A doodle bug, like we used to see at the bakery!"
Now the boys turned their rapt attention to my pancake. Never mind that it looked 100% identical to both of theirs. "What animal is yours, mommy?"
"I know, I know!" exclaimed Max. "It's a turtle with it's legs and head in its shell!"
Like a Rorschach test, or searching the passing clouds, what we see is what lies within.
The bottom line is, if I ask a question of my kids, I'm guaranteed different answers.
Want peanut butter and jelly or turkey and cheese sandwiches for lunch?
Peanut butter and jelly.
Turkey and cheese.
Want to play outside or inside?
Outside.
Inside.
Want to go to the park or the zoo?
Park.
Zoo.
Nowhere is the kids' cosmic divide greater than when it comes to breakfast. Boo comes down squarely in favor of waffles; Max is unabashedly a pancake man.
For most of their rivalries, I'm Switzerland--don't take sides and couldn't care less. But in the breakfast wars, if I'm doing the cooking, I side with Boo. The world's best waffle recipe (I think from Food and Wine's 25 best recipes of all time) would tip the balance by itself. But the fact that any extras can be frozen and reheated in a few short minutes, with the same superlative results, makes any debate on the matter moot in my book. By doubling the recipe, I can bank on six ethereal waffles ready any day of the week.
We didn't budge an inch from the house this weekend, which gave us plenty of time for morning baking. On Saturday, Boo got first dibs. When Max learned his breakfast fate, he was nearly inconsolable. The only thing that salvaged our morning was the promise of pancakes on Sunday. This morning, he held me to it.
To increase the entertainment value, I sculpted letters out of the first batch of pancakes: M A X, B O O. The boys were tickled. Oblivious to the limitations of the craft, the boys demanded more: "I want farm animals!," insisted Boo. "An elephant and a lion and a zebra!," shouted Max.
For the next course, with Mickey Mouse in mind, I pooled two large dollops of batter on the griddle and tried to drip smaller blobs in the "10 and 2" positions. The "ears" weren't exactly symmetrical, nor were they positioned to resemble any animal I've seen recently, but with a gleeful flourish, I slid their flapjacks onto their plates: "Here are your animals!"
Both boys squealed with ecstasy. "It's a koala bear!" Max insisted. "Mine's a chicken, isn't it?," queried Boo. I might never have conjured up that description myself, but who was I to deny Boo his farm animals? "It sure is, honey!" Happily, they began lopping off fluffy ears and tails.
"More animals!," they demanded through their sticky lips. But I was reaching the end of my artistic rope, and I was ready for some pancakes myself. I poured three easy circles on the griddle, contemplating how to assuage their disappointment. Then I had another crazy idea. Even as I laid the golden orbs on their plates, I wondered whether they'd be on to my trickery.
"What animal is that, Max?"
"An elephant?"
"No."
"A snake?"
"No, look again."
"A chameleon?"
"What animal rolls into a ball, and we see them at the ranch?"
"An armadillo! You made me an armadillo pancake!" He couldn't have sounded more excited if I'd let a live armadillo loose in the kitchen.
"And what is yours, Boo?"
"A goat?"
"No, it's a kind of bug."
"An insect?"
"Close."
"A caterpillar?"
"Closer. It's a bug that rolls into a ball."
Max chimed in: "A doodle bug, like we used to see at the bakery!"
Now the boys turned their rapt attention to my pancake. Never mind that it looked 100% identical to both of theirs. "What animal is yours, mommy?"
"I know, I know!" exclaimed Max. "It's a turtle with it's legs and head in its shell!"
Like a Rorschach test, or searching the passing clouds, what we see is what lies within.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Unscheduled
Mindful of the pitfalls of overscheduling children, I've made a conscious effort to modulate the kids' activities. Last semester, Max had a group tennis lesson on Monday, and both boys had gymnastics on Wednesday, as well as swimming on Thursday until the weather turned cooler at the end of October. Maintaining this "limited" schedule meant that Max had to forego art, drama, baseball, soccer and Tae Kwan Do, all activities in which he has expressed an interest and in which a number of his friends participate.
For me, there were two primary benefits to the activities we did choose: (1) Someone else participated in my daily efforts to entertain and exhaust the boys, and (2) I got to see other moms, which sometimes served as my only adult conversation during the day (not including the cashier at the Starbucks drive-through). My kids had more unstructured time than some of Max's friends who have lessons and sports games five or more days a week. But even so, I sometimes questioned whether I was doing the right thing by them. It never crossed my mind that I might not be doing the right thing by me.
This semester, I'm taking a different tack. No scheduled activities. Not until March when we'll resume those all-important swimming lessons. When the time came for the kids to return to school, I wasn't ready for them to go back. (That's a first.) For starters, we'd had a wonderful Christmas vacation, with the boys better behaved than ever before. Moreover, it's the last semester before Max starts Kindergarten, which will more than double the number of hours he spends at school each day. So perhaps I'm feeling a bit clingy.
In just two weeks, here's what I've learned.
1. My kids are not pining for lessons. Max recently asked when he could go back to swimming, but other than that, they have not seemed to miss them.
2. I have ample time to play with the kids, grocery shop, make dinner, do the laundry, and tidy up the house because I'm not driving around the city several afternoons a week.
3. My kids find all kinds of wonderful things to do around the house, some of which involve me, and many of which do not. Making astronaut helmets. Building tents and teepees. Turning couch cushions into clubhouses. Painting rocks. Playing "rain" (clothing optional, umbrellas and hose required.) Learning to balance each other on an improvised seesaw. "Mountainclimbing" on the slide, with one of the boys on belay. Setting the table. Cleaning up their room. Making muffins. Baking banana bread. Reading books. Using their imaginations. Exercising their creativity. Participating in the sweet rhythm of family life.
4. My kids are tired and ready for bed earlier than when we were busy with activities. Some days they even ASK to go to bed. (I am not making this up.) Maybe because they've had plenty of time with each other and with me. Maybe because I have more time to establish a consistent late afternoon/early evening routine. And let me just add that when they kids are asleep by 7:00 or 7:30, it's all good.
5. The time I spent with other moms was not particularly satisfying--short in duration, with multiple distractions and interruptions. I don't miss spending time with them nearly as much as I imagined I would. And for those I really miss? We need to do lunch.
6. The people I've really missed are my kids.
For me, there were two primary benefits to the activities we did choose: (1) Someone else participated in my daily efforts to entertain and exhaust the boys, and (2) I got to see other moms, which sometimes served as my only adult conversation during the day (not including the cashier at the Starbucks drive-through). My kids had more unstructured time than some of Max's friends who have lessons and sports games five or more days a week. But even so, I sometimes questioned whether I was doing the right thing by them. It never crossed my mind that I might not be doing the right thing by me.
This semester, I'm taking a different tack. No scheduled activities. Not until March when we'll resume those all-important swimming lessons. When the time came for the kids to return to school, I wasn't ready for them to go back. (That's a first.) For starters, we'd had a wonderful Christmas vacation, with the boys better behaved than ever before. Moreover, it's the last semester before Max starts Kindergarten, which will more than double the number of hours he spends at school each day. So perhaps I'm feeling a bit clingy.
In just two weeks, here's what I've learned.
1. My kids are not pining for lessons. Max recently asked when he could go back to swimming, but other than that, they have not seemed to miss them.
2. I have ample time to play with the kids, grocery shop, make dinner, do the laundry, and tidy up the house because I'm not driving around the city several afternoons a week.
3. My kids find all kinds of wonderful things to do around the house, some of which involve me, and many of which do not. Making astronaut helmets. Building tents and teepees. Turning couch cushions into clubhouses. Painting rocks. Playing "rain" (clothing optional, umbrellas and hose required.) Learning to balance each other on an improvised seesaw. "Mountainclimbing" on the slide, with one of the boys on belay. Setting the table. Cleaning up their room. Making muffins. Baking banana bread. Reading books. Using their imaginations. Exercising their creativity. Participating in the sweet rhythm of family life.
4. My kids are tired and ready for bed earlier than when we were busy with activities. Some days they even ASK to go to bed. (I am not making this up.) Maybe because they've had plenty of time with each other and with me. Maybe because I have more time to establish a consistent late afternoon/early evening routine. And let me just add that when they kids are asleep by 7:00 or 7:30, it's all good.
5. The time I spent with other moms was not particularly satisfying--short in duration, with multiple distractions and interruptions. I don't miss spending time with them nearly as much as I imagined I would. And for those I really miss? We need to do lunch.
6. The people I've really missed are my kids.
