Wormhole

The older my chidlren get the harder it is to believe in the construct of time.

They are doing things I did yesterday.  Like losing their teeth and writing notes to the Tooth Fairy:

Wrestling each other until someone gets rug burn or steps on someone else's throat.

It was a week ago, Eric and I were racing just for racing's sake across a blacktop to an undefined yellow pole over the horizon.

And practicing good sportsmanship because, like Abby's brother, mine runs like a cheetah also smokes me every time.

Wasn't it yesterday, I was following my cheetah anywhere on the globe.  Believing he would protect us both because there is nobody braver than a cheetah with a trusting cub behind it.

Kathleen, Lindsay, Lisa, April and  I just spent a summer digging out the bubbles from the bottom of a rusting toy chest in my garage.  Right next to the folding spaghetti string lawn chairs.   And a slippery bottle of tanning oil.

Because when Operation was finished, Feely Meely was over, and Kroft Superstars got boring, bubbles are always the best show in town.

Especially when the audience is captive and ever smiling.

I can still hear my own mom reminding me with her serious voice to get my Face.Away.From.The.Dog.

(I never did either.)

No way was it decades ago that we left all the caps off our paints because we weren't sure we were finished painting yet.  No way was it 35 years ago.  Impossible.

There is a wormhole in my house, letting time pour in from years ago.

My kids are mine and I'm pretending to be their mom but really?

I'm this little girl  playing with curlers in her hair and a camera in her hand.

Wondering...

If growing up is just something they say. 

Not something we do.