My Kids are 4 and 5
Two days ago, I entered the four month period during which my kids are technically speaking, only one year apart. This happens every year, as of four years ago, between April 25th (Lena's birthday) and August 12th (Elias's). This year, Lena is 4 and Eli is 5. I must confess to you that it has been intensely gratifying to report their ages to someone, anyone, during these four sweet months.
It was the best, of course, when the kids were younger. When Lena was born, Eli was only 20 months old. In my opinion, simply venturing out into public during Lena's first months was cause for applause, and apparently countless mothers and fathers here in Austin shared that sentiment. All I had to do was go to the grocery store where I would be lauded by some stranger, usually a parent themselves, as some kind of supermom. I'd be waddling through the HEB in search of diapers or baby wipes or hemorrhoid cream when I would invariably hear "Oh my! Look at that tiny baby!" Then they'd greet Eli, "What a big boy YOU are." And to me, they always asked, "How close ARE they?"
My answer wasn't always received with reverence. Some people looked at me as if I were insane, and rightly so. Some people looked at me as if I must have been ignorant. (They have pills that solve that particular problem, you know.) People without children didn't particularly get it, but the parents among those who asked would almost always give me the most wonderful validation.
Women would wrinkle up their eyebrows, smile, and nod all at the same time, knowingly. They'd pat me on the shoulder or tell me about their children. Dads would shake their heads and laugh. "Yep! Gettin' any sleep? Don't worry you'll get there." Women and men. Some older, some younger, some richer, some poorer, some more educated, some less. All of them very kind and all of them a little tired around the eyes.
One woman, without ever stopping her shopping cart just looked at me and said, "Hard work..." It IS hard work. I had two kids very close together. Two in a row. For a couple of years anyway, two under two. Two in diapers at the same time. As silly as it is, the exaggerated response that has come after I've said, "My kids are 1 and 2," or "2 and 3," and so on has been proof enough for me that what I've been doing is hard. I am not alone. Everyone thinks so. I am not crazy. Well. Not much.
As the kids have gotten older, the fruit on this particular tree hasn't been quite as sweet. My kids are 4 and 5 now. They're big. They're damn cute but the picture I paint at HEB isn't quite what it was 4 years ago.
Then: I was a woman with an adorable red headed toddler on one hip and a cherub-like infant in a sling on the other, stoically pushing a shopping cart with one hand.
Now: I am the same woman, only more disheveled, with two vaguely pre-school-aged-looking kids arguing at the top of their lungs over who's gonna push the cart, and wrestling over a bag of goldfish that has not yet been paid for. (Not exactly something to fawn over.)
Still. If this is the first year I don't get to report the age difference to a stranger, and it very well might be, I will mourn the loss of that era. I'll do my best to enjoy the invisible years though. I have several coming up, I have been informed. And after the invisible years, the age difference will be noticeable again.
I have two kids very close together. Two in a row. Two under thirty. Two in junior high, then in high school at the same time. Two sets of braces, two proms, two college educations, two weddings...
It was the best, of course, when the kids were younger. When Lena was born, Eli was only 20 months old. In my opinion, simply venturing out into public during Lena's first months was cause for applause, and apparently countless mothers and fathers here in Austin shared that sentiment. All I had to do was go to the grocery store where I would be lauded by some stranger, usually a parent themselves, as some kind of supermom. I'd be waddling through the HEB in search of diapers or baby wipes or hemorrhoid cream when I would invariably hear "Oh my! Look at that tiny baby!" Then they'd greet Eli, "What a big boy YOU are." And to me, they always asked, "How close ARE they?"
My answer wasn't always received with reverence. Some people looked at me as if I were insane, and rightly so. Some people looked at me as if I must have been ignorant. (They have pills that solve that particular problem, you know.) People without children didn't particularly get it, but the parents among those who asked would almost always give me the most wonderful validation.
Women would wrinkle up their eyebrows, smile, and nod all at the same time, knowingly. They'd pat me on the shoulder or tell me about their children. Dads would shake their heads and laugh. "Yep! Gettin' any sleep? Don't worry you'll get there." Women and men. Some older, some younger, some richer, some poorer, some more educated, some less. All of them very kind and all of them a little tired around the eyes.
One woman, without ever stopping her shopping cart just looked at me and said, "Hard work..." It IS hard work. I had two kids very close together. Two in a row. For a couple of years anyway, two under two. Two in diapers at the same time. As silly as it is, the exaggerated response that has come after I've said, "My kids are 1 and 2," or "2 and 3," and so on has been proof enough for me that what I've been doing is hard. I am not alone. Everyone thinks so. I am not crazy. Well. Not much.
As the kids have gotten older, the fruit on this particular tree hasn't been quite as sweet. My kids are 4 and 5 now. They're big. They're damn cute but the picture I paint at HEB isn't quite what it was 4 years ago.
Then: I was a woman with an adorable red headed toddler on one hip and a cherub-like infant in a sling on the other, stoically pushing a shopping cart with one hand.
Now: I am the same woman, only more disheveled, with two vaguely pre-school-aged-looking kids arguing at the top of their lungs over who's gonna push the cart, and wrestling over a bag of goldfish that has not yet been paid for. (Not exactly something to fawn over.)
Still. If this is the first year I don't get to report the age difference to a stranger, and it very well might be, I will mourn the loss of that era. I'll do my best to enjoy the invisible years though. I have several coming up, I have been informed. And after the invisible years, the age difference will be noticeable again.
I have two kids very close together. Two in a row. Two under thirty. Two in junior high, then in high school at the same time. Two sets of braces, two proms, two college educations, two weddings...
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