The crumbs on my kitchen table didn’t get wiped away today.
The ground turkey I defrosted didn’t get cooked, either.
The little ones had to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on stale challah for dinner.
The older two and my husband and I settled for lox and eggs.
But I made a memory today.

I picked up my eight-year-old from school.
Our regular rider was sick, and my little one was playing at a friend’s. “Let’s get lost,” I said to my son. And we did.
Two scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream just for him.

We sat together on a bench in the sun as he happily licked his cone. I tenderly wiped ice cream from his chin with a tissue, and wondered how long he would let me do that in public.
The sun beat down and warmed us, and we spoke of things of little consequence.

We went to the bookstore for three “I Can Read” books—just for him.
He thanked me profusely, and all the way home in the car he sat quietly and read one.
Until, that is, we picked up his younger brother, Louie.
Then began, once again, the name–calling, bickering and punching.

When we got home, the crumbs were still on the kitchen table, along with the very much defrosted ground turkey.
We couldn’t find matching soccer shin guards, so once again we were late for practice.

But it was okay—because I made a memory today.