It’s been a while since I wrote something. It’s been an even longer while since I wrote of my kids. And since that last time, they’ve done a lot of growing up. My eldest had his first teaspoon of beer this summer (a controlled experiment followed by gagging and spitting). My second is now wielding complex words like “metamorphose” and “vagina”. My youngest can now rat on what her older brothers broke while I was out of the house and where they hid the evidence, in a manner befitting a perfect courtroom witness. So when they give me curt doses of the remaining ounces of innocence in their beings, fluffy feelings come rushing like monsoon floods.
Weeks back, Mel and I were talking politics. We were discussing the pros and cons of a senatorial candidate named after a dairy product; while seven-year old sat in silent observation. We ended the discussion with a firm resolve: “We’re NOT voting for Chiz.”
He turns to us, his face stern and somber, eager to release his ponderings to the world, “Me too, Mommy. I like butter.”