It took way longer than I had intended to get out the door to go to the "park" a few blocks down (it's actually just a big cemented parking lot with adjoining playground for the local catholic school). There was the requisite chaos of cleaning up after dinner, signing homework, and packing school lunches, but then we couldn't find the dog leash and my husband was too ensconced in a project to help find it, and I was ready to scream at somebody. Husband drags himself away to prove that he has no idea where the leash is and then promptly finds it.
I'm wrangling a dog, my own two kids, plus my friend with her preschooler who is riding the plasma car to the park. It was all a bit much. As we crossed a street, I apologized for my sour mood by saying that I need to be more aware that these are the days that I will look back on with longing and nostalgia. She said, "Yes, except that you won't even remember this particular day."
That statement struck a certain level of panic in my gut. I want to remember.
On the way back from the park, my son pushes the preschooler at dizzying speeds on the plasma car all the way home. She's laughs her head off. Around the corner from our house, everyone is stopped, and she's laughing in a particularly maniacal way. I'm commenting on how funny it is, and then we notice a long line of pee darkening the sidewalk. We carry the wet plasma car a little ways but she eventually gets back on, and my son keeps shoving her towards our house.
Even this I want to remember.