Dreams Coming True

Boys in Arkansas, ca. 1998

When I was a little girl, the only thing I wanted to grow up to be was a mom. (Or an ice skater a la Peggy Fleming, which I wanted desperately despite my lack of grace, athleticism, and ice, but that's another story.) I thought of this childhood dream last night as we sat in a restaurant waiting for our meals to arrive.

Tomorrow the Boys begin scattering to their respective schools. Two of them will head back to Texas, one stays in our home state but is four hours away, and Boy#2 and I will begin the three-day drive east to his new university. I was acutely aware of this moment in time as one that I'd like to preserve in amber.

All of us were there, and healthy, and laughing uncontrollably at a video of a tranquilized bear that Boy#4 replayed for us on his phone. Every time the bear went "Boingggg" off the trampoline we roared. Small Town is tolerant of this kind of behavior--the lovely couple at the next table have known the Boys since they were toddlers and instead of shushing us they walked past our table smiling and said "Isn't it wonderful to all be together?"

For once I was unconcerned that restaurant service was slow; I knew that when the meal was over the packing and the trombone practicing would begin again. We wouldn't be teasing Boy#2 about missing that one flight, that one time, leading us to say "Don't miss the plane!" every single time he travels. We wouldn't be reminding Boy#4 of that one little bike crash, that one time, that has led us to say "Drive carefully!" every single time he gets behind the wheel. Husband was underscoring to the Boys that a reputation is easy to build and hard to live down.

Eventually, finally, we finished our meals and left for home. I knew that in spite of the chaos and the occasionally too-high decibel level I will treasure these things, pondering them in my heart.

Being an ice skater could not be better than this.