Our preschooler just had his fourth birthday, and guess what his sister gave him: the chickenpox! They seem to be a mild case, which is some relief. He must have broken out on his birthday party day; we confirmed it the next morning. He's taking it in stride. His sister had it a few weeks ago, so he already watched her struggle not to scratch and take an oatmeal bath or two. He asked for one, which he still calls "opameal." I'm so happy he has a word or two like that.

A dear friend of mine just left her daughter at college for the first time, freshman year, out of state. Knowing my friend's sadness at the separation makes me want to cling to "opameal" and chickenpox and the few little remnants of babyhood that remain in my preschool boy. It's hard, this continual letting go. Last year I wept the day after I sold a bunch of baby clothes and stuff at a garage sale, knowing it was the end of an era. What will I be like when my oldest (and then eventually the youngest) goes to college? Let's not even go there. Let's just go in the kitchen and make a bowl of opameal.