Tonight, I wavered between the temptation of “going out” for a burrito or …. I couldn’t even imagine. Hungry, tired, I collapsed into a chair announcing that dinner was beyond me.

“That’s okay,” said Trinidad cheerfully. “I’ll cook. You two just rest, and I’ll take care of dinner.”
Seda swung around and gave me the look only parents can share that says, “Wow, did you notice that we just peaked Mt. Everest? Check…out….this…view!”
I made myself horizontal and offered to write Trinidad a recipe for quinoa. Sam said he would help by making instant pudding (thanks to Trader Joes) for dessert. Wink, wink.
Trinidad picked greens in the garden. I only saw because I couldn’t find him when I delivered the recipe. I am under strict instructions to stay out of the kitchen, and by Golly, I’m up to the task.
It’s been 30 minutes.
“Boy, I don’t get a break!” says Trinidad, running between turning off the timer, stirring the potstickers, and setting the table.
Sam informs him he can take 30 seconds, and Trinidad jumps at the suggestion, chasing his brother around the house with the stirring spoon and swinging at him dramatically with sound affects.
This must be “growing up.” This is our household getting old, the tip of the Collier/Krebs iceberg with its wide bottom so far under that I can’t consciously recount the stories of my ancestors, each of them struggling with growing old and raising families, each of them wedged wordlessly between past and future in the features of ten and seven year old boys manning the kitchen alone.
I will be fed by this work.