The Land of Anymore

"I won't to Anymore," says Eleanor.

Busy with sandwiches, half-listening, thinking she is talking about travel to some Never-never land, I murmur back, "That's right, honey, you won't go there anymore."

"I won't TO anymore!" she repeats, insistently and the ambiguous words turn in the light, another facet illuminated.

"Oh! You won't be TWO anymore!! Yes, that's right!"

Her third birthday was Monday. The weekend party was sweet and crisis-free, which is all I ask for at this point.

"That's the most organized party I've ever played!" said Miss Lisa, the sweet voiced musician, after leading the two year olds through dances and shaker jangling and turns at strumming her guitar. "Don't say CHAOS," I whisper back, "You'll jinx us."
Mommy has enough of that in her brain, with the last minute caterers-bakery-grocery-new dress-tablecloths-goodie bags-coffee run-ice run craziness. Mix that with monthly hormones and you've got quite the party cocktail. But even though I never did get the paper lanterns hung, as soon as the first friends show up, all smiles, nothing matters but their adorable kids, who break all our hearts as they sit in tiny chairs working at their little cake slices, a roomful of bouncing balls suddenly quiet and concentrated.

Her third birthday was Monday. In nine months, Eleanor will begin school. I will have hours of time every day with no children in the house. The thought is exciting and full of possibility and tinged with melancholy. Right now, I don't mind not having much time to write. I like this land of Anymore we're living in. It reminds me of heaven, if heaven's angels had wit and humor and a great deal of Imp in their blood and warm sweet-sour breath that I would (and do) surreptitiously sniff every chance I get.