My 21st high school reunion was held over the weekend. I opted out of the "elegant dinner-dance" on Saturday night (I didn't think I could stand hearing too much music from the late 1980s), but Isaac and I went to the casual picnic on Sunday afternoon. I saw a few old friends, and it was more fun than I had expected.
One thing that surprised me, although it shouldn't have, was the wide variety in the ages of my classmates' children. They ranged from infants to college students -- well, of course, as there was at least a 20-year span -- but for the most part they seemed to be aged eight to 13. Isaac was one of two toddlers there.
And as I cut up Isaac's hot dog into choke-free pieces, pushed him on the kiddie swing, and tried to prevent him from coating his hands with mud and smearing it on the side of the picnic kiosk, it did briefly occur to me that if I had done things differently, I could be done raising children by now. But even as I took him home, desperately overtired, and failed to get him to nap, I didn't regret a thing.
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