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“Tomorrow will be the first day we’ve all been home since you started working, Mom.” We did buy pizza.
“A year ago today we bought our couch.” We didn’t have a party.
“We got our second flock of chickens three years ago!” No three-cheese omelets were made.
“That was the last time we were all in Massachusetts together.” We all became quiet and changed the subject.
“How old is Lucy (my truck)?” asked Baylee.
“I got her eleven years ago in May,” I answered. “Actually, twelve!”
“When was that Marine Corps. Ball?”
“Nine months before Max was born,” I answered smugly.
Dates mean something to us and I’m not sure why. All my boys and I make a big deal of everything. Maybe it’s the landmarks in our memories that we crave to keep alive, or maybe we just want a reason to say “cheers,” but it’s fun, and I join in because I started it.
We’re all like this, and I think especially Tyler. He celebrates everything. Little things. Small dates that paint the big picture.
That’s what makes up our lives, though. It’s not the impressive negative and positive funerals and weddings that are the guts of life, but the in-betweens, the Sunday morning pancakes and Tuesday beach trips.
So, cheers to the year anniversary of trying feta cheese for the first time and also cheers to the forty-seventh Tuesday you’ve had your new goldfish. Although she won’t remember to celebrate, you will.
We associate, we commemorate, we celebrate. Why not, right?