It's already to the point that I can't clearly remember when the kids all lived at home

I used to live with all of these people. Just don't ask me about the details.

It's not like Terry and I are 80 years old or anything. We're not even officially empty nesters yet.

But to my surprise, I have trouble remembering the days when all seven members of our family lived together at 30025 Miller Avenue. The last time it happened, I think, was 2015. Maybe 2016.

Which for the math-impaired isn't even a decade ago.

Yet things get blurry when I try to recall what the mornings were like, or how we all squeezed in around the kitchen table for dinner. I was at work quite a bit of the time, of course, but I was there enough that I should be clearer on the details.

What I do remember is general chaos most of the time. Sports, band, church activities, movie nights, sleepovers, vacations. It was great, but it has all run together in my increasingly addled mind.

It's the small-but-important details that have escaped my brain. Who slept in which room? Who left the house first in the morning? At what age did they start spending more time with their friends than with us? Were Terry and I the only ones who woke up for late-night infant feedings, or did the newborns also awaken their siblings?

It's all a jumbled mass that has separated itself into two broad periods of time: the years when Elissa, Chloe, Jared and Melanie lived with us (1994 to 2022) and the years when it has just been Terry, Jack and me in the house (2022 to the present).

The particulars are increasingly fuzzy.

Naturally, this effect is most pronounced with my 30-year-old daughter Elissa. I know she lived with us for the first 20 or so years of her life, and I remember many individual moments and milestones, but the day to day is indistinct.

What did she eat for breakfast? How often did she hang out in the living room and talk with us? Where did she do her homework?

You got me. I was there, but I just can't recall much of it.

I would feel much better if other middle-aged parents consoled me with tales of their own kid-related amnesia. Otherwise, I can only conclude that my cognitive decline is accelerating and I am that much closer to being a drooling mess who can't even remember yesterday, let alone 10 years ago.

The magic of a newborn baby

Last week I mentioned how I couldn't imagine having another baby in the house at our age (Terry and I are both 51).

Not only is it a scary thought, right now it's also pretty much physically impossible. My urologist made sure of that nearly 15 years ago, and while I don't exactly know at which stage of the process Terry currently is, it's clear her reproductive organs are also hanging up the "closed" sign.

But I will say this: The experience of finding out my wife was pregnant, waiting for the birth, picking out names, watching the kids come into the world, and bringing brand new babies home is one I'll always cherish. The word I've always used for it is "magical."

Magical is how it felt when Elissa, our oldest, was a baby. We hadn't even been married two years when she was born, so everything was new and fresh and exciting. Those months when I watched her all day before going to work at night were some of the best of my life. I loved it.

I loved when all of my kids were newborns (and I love them just as much now, it should be noted).

Newborns are miracles. It's cliche, but it's true. I used to stare at our kids and think about what they would sound like when they started talking, what kind of personality they would develop, what kind of students they would be in school, who they might choose to marry, what they wanted to be and do in life, etc.

Still, two things should be acknowledged here:

1. Those newborn years also are exhausting years. Even if they sleep through the night, babies take up most of the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual energy you can muster.
2. I can only speak to this whole thing from the father's point of view. I am not the one, it must be said, who ever had to be pregnant, actually give birth, and nurse these children. I imagine all that might cause one to be a little more jaded about the experience.

Regardless, babies are cool. I don't want another one, but I like remembering the times when they were around.