We are six. Ranging 34 years. Equally divided among genders.
Two sets of greens eyes. Four sets of brown. Blond boys. Dark haired girls. One mom who desperately clings to her redheaded identity.
Just when I think that I understand who we are as a unit, things change. Personalities shift. Relationships realign.
Gus and Sena bicker too much, but spend hours jumping off the diving board together. Arlo complains that Alamae pulls his hair, but encourages a gentle reprimand over any sort of punishment. "Teach her to be nice," he tells me. And then he eagerly accepts her apologetic hug.
I laugh at Tom's jokes. He makes me feel beautiful.
I worry that the neighbors hear me when I yell.
Dinner is at 6:15, just as it has been most of my life. But sometimes I completely forget to feed my children lunch.