It's hard to tease apart the years. To remember the precise differences between Arlo being two and Arlo being three. To remember what the years of just having three children, or just having two. So little stands out in our days marked by a routine unknown at home. Slow mornings with trips to the coffee shop. A standing twelve o'clock date with our friends on Airport Beach. Snacks pulled from backseats and coolers when the whistle blows.
And when we get home, we make ourselves a drink as kids take turns in the outside showers. The cabinets are scavenged for nuts or crackers. And we make a half-hearted attempt to clean out the beach cars. Big kids make circles around the village on bikes. We make dinner plans with varying degrees of enthusiasm. We take walks to explore old graveyards, to get scoops of ice cream. We all pile into the living room to watch cable tv, read books, fight slow internet and braid hair.
Next year will feel the same as last year, though Alamae will hopefully be slightly less demanding in trips to come. Soon enough, Sena and Gus will peel off. Staying behind, limiting how often they will be seen in public with their parents. And Arlo will miss them nearly as much as I will.