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All you remember about your child being seven is the carpool schedule.
You learned to apply makeup in two minutes and brush your teeth in the rearview mirror ,
because the only time you had to yourself was when you were stopped at red lights.
You considered painting your car yellow and posting a "taxi" sign on the lawn next to the garage door.
You remember people staring at you, the few times you were out of the car,
because you kept flexing your foot and making acceleration noises.
You wished for the day your child would learn how to drive.
All you remember about your child being ten is managing the school fund raisers.
You sold wrapping paper for paint, T shirts for new furniture,
and magazine subscriptions for shade trees in the school playground.
You remember storing a hundred cases of candy bars in the garage to sell so the school band could get new uniforms,
and how they melted together on an unseasonably warm spring afternoon.
You wished your child would grow out of playing an instrument.
