Just Different

It's not easier, it's just different.

"But I don't want a banana. And I like Captain America fruit snacks better than Alvin and the Chipmunks. Mommy, there's a folder in my backpack for you."

"I know, buddy. I looked at it last night."

"But it's in my backpack again."

"That's because your teachers asked us to send it back on Friday."

"But there's a note in it."

"Right. It's for your teacher."

He left the folder on the counter. He left the banana on the table. He exchanged his fruit snacks for the preferred.

And he left remnants of all his undoings.

Three minutes before we were to leave the house.

I packed that lunchbox for him, for heaven's sake. And I sorted through the folder and the notes and papers therein.

And he undid it all.

New rule: Once your backpack is zipped, no unzipping until you get to school. Unless you are prepared to take responsibility for all that is within and without.

And I don't think you are.

On the upside, I didn't change any diapers this morning, and I didn't have a child climbing in and out of the dishwasher as I filled it after breakfast.

I understand what the parents of school age children have meant all this time:

It doesn't get easier; it's just different.