Our son called last night to say he and his fiance are coming this weekend. They want to go the State Fair Saturday. “We’d like you and Dad to come, too,” he said. After our call ended, I went upstairs and asked Anne if she wanted to come, too. “Yeah,” she said. “I’d love to.”
When I went to bed, something James Herriot said in one of the books in his All Things Wise and Wonderful series came to mind. He was talking about the days when his children were eight and ten, the age when they were old enough to be good company on his veterinary rounds and young enough to still believe he was smart. “I didn’t know it at the time,” he said in his book, “but those were the best years of all.”
For a long time I looked upon our years of parenting our kids through middle childhood in the same way, especially when Allen was away from us and struggling. But now that he is whole and in our lives again, along with the wonderful young woman he will marry, and now that Anne’s on the brink of independence and values every little scrap of wisdom we share with her, I think an even better time has come.
These days of sharing life with our adult children are the best by far. They’ve been rendered more precious by having been denied them for seven long years, so precious, in fact, that I don’t have to wait until the future to realize what a treasure they are. I recognize now, today, what a treasure it is to have my children with me.
No matter how hot it is Saturday, no matter how much my feet hurt, no matter how tacky the butter cow may be, I will be truly grateful all day long.
