A&P are 19 today.
I have tried to remember everything I could, down to every last tooth and curly piece of little fly away kid hair. However, that's impossible and I'm the sum of many parts and scraps of memory in entirely the wrong order.
There was the time that I looked at the wrong school calendar (wrong year, genius!) and scheduled a trip to Arizona for a week that was decidedly not Spring Break. We went any way. I think this was second grade. Peter may or may not have nearly fallen into the Grand Canyon.
Once they ripped down all the blinds in their room for the third time and I bought a shade. I was feeling super smart. They ripped that down and used the piece along the bottom of the shade to mutilate their faces. They were two.
Exhibiting early reactive behavior worthy of a talk show, they would stick their fingers down their throats and throw up at the exact same time to watch us race around like idiots trying to save the carpet, or couch, or random Grandparent. They were 10 months old.
Andrew woke up once when he was four to tell us through tears and screams that Jesus wouldn't stop calling his name. Shortly after Peter lamented that he was to blame for the crucifixion by denying Jesus repeatedly. We switched churches after that to find a Sunday school with a less literal curriculum.
We put them on planes to England, France, Spain, Morocco. We put them on trains to New Mexico and watched them hike down the Appalachian Trail. We skipped down trails in Montana and rode bush planes in Alaska. And they got checking accounts and left for college. Then, I disjointedly remember that time I overfed them saltines on Interstate 69 to Muncie and they erupted- two sleeves, each, of slightly digested flour, salt and gastric juices. We traded that van in shortly thereafter.
The consistent memory is awe that I hadn't left them behind at the grocery store, or forgotten to feed them, or to pay tuition. And awe that I get to be their Mom.
How cool is that?