I was out of town this weekend, and spent Friday night with one of my oldest friends. She's spent the last 11 years getting married and making a family and things. Her kids, who I haven't seen since one was born and the other was still learning how to form the vowels of "Elmo," are now, like, grownups. That's a little drastic, but really. It's been two years. Two years is a long time in children years. Two years ago, Skylar was fumbling over "Elmo." Friday night she was taking me by the hand, room-to-room, around their house telling me things. She watched "Snow White." There was a mean girl in it. And tonight they're going to watch "Tarzan." She didn't think there were any mean girls in it. Look at her hair. It's long. Do you like my pajamas? My mom sweats. Apparently she's also picked up on the word "'gina". As in, "va-"... yes, you finish that one.
While Lori and I were out to dinner, and Skylar was getting ready for bed, she asked her dad where I was going to sleep.
"She can sleep in my room," she offered.
Her room is pink. Like, straight up PINK. It's amazing. Even I'm jealous of that room. And in the middle is a tiny little bed made for a 3-and-a-half year old. Also pink.
"If she sleeps in here," daddy told her, "where would you sleep?"
"She can sleep in my bed, too," Skylar said. "I'll scoot over."
DID YOU GUYS READ THAT? She will scoot over. So we can snuggle in her tiny pink bed. And that is when I died from precious and thought for just a second maybe I wanted one of those. A kid. For perhaps a day. To borrow. And then give it back at the end when I'm done.