After a week of company for Thanksgiving (which was just lovely, by the way), my in-laws have left, Stuart hopped on a plane at some ungodly hour this morning for a work trip, and it's just me and the kids for a few days. For the moment, I'm enjoying the quiet (kids are asleep), sipping a glass of wine and thinking to myself for only the hundredth time that time marches on, or rather, races on. When did they get so tall anyway? When did my hair start showing those specks of gray (which I hate but I also refuse to dye)? When did I become the person who finds conversations about things like household appliances interesting?
It's not that I am old, or that I feel old. I just realize I've reached a certain phase of life where I have to accept, to some extent, the way things are and the fact that there are things I will likely never do. I will never backpack across Europe (too cliché anyway, right?) or learn Korean or live in New York City. I will probably never have a meaningful career, at least, not by any standards outside of my own.
Right now, I am okay with all of this. I have a good life. I have a good family. I live in a beautiful city. It's enough, and I'm thankful.