While I'm tucking Emily into bed, the 6-year-old bombards me with questions: "Do you like icky things like goo?" I like goo. "What about the icky weather?" No, too icky for me. "Do you have to walk home in the rain?" No, your parents will drive me. "So what'll happen to me?" Only one will drive. "What time is it?" Time for you to stop avoiding bed . . . good night. I'm exhausted from the 50 questions she must've asked in the two hours I baby-sat her. I think about how I want six kids. Six times fifty . . . I reconsider.
Isit on the floor of my kitchen with a tiny oven mitt on my hand, pretending the plastic chicken leg is hot. I blow on it before I pretend to eat it. I will stay here as long as my grandchildren want.
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