I’ve made this observation to a few different people and have yet to find one whose experiences have given them a similar perspective. Yet still my truth keeps making itself known: spending time around two-year-olds when you’ve got a few decades on them is like being sober around people who are deep in their cups.

Mostly it’s the topic perseverance, the repeated repetitions that don’t sink all the way in. Also, the need for reassurance regarding what will happen next, and when, despite the very abstract, fluid notion of the passage of time.

I wish all of that was as bad as it gets with me when I drink to excess but signs point to no. I consider the time I spend around kids and drunks these days to be a chance to make up for past transgressions/regressions/aggressions/gressions of all prefixes – to the extent that might be possible.

If I can maintain patience and a sense of humor sufficient so that I can answer wholeheartedly “yes” to the question “Susie happy?” I’ll stay well on my way to the peace of mind I strive for in life.

The theme here is not that being an aunt is directly comparable to being a designated driver. But those two roles are probably the closest I’ll ever get to saving lives.

The end of a day during which I kept one little boy with shadow-casting eyelashes safe and happy and nourished and environmentally enriched (as they term it at the zoos – we’ve been to both) and so tired he can barely hold his head up but still manages to wrestle out a request for one more story – it just feels like I did something really worthwhile with my time. Earned my planetary keep, more so than usual, I hope.