Last week was Spring Break and instead of joining the hordes heading off to some all-inclusive beach resort like we used to do when our kids were little, we stayed home and suffered through the last few days of winter in sweet home Chicago. But we weren't alone. We were the vacation destination of choice of my thirteen year-old nephew who loves nothing better than hanging out with his decade-older cousins.
For three days I watched as my son and daughter entertained my nephew with video games, ping pong tournaments and trips to fast food havens. We let him eat and drink everything that was off limits at his organically-minded household and let him stay up as long as he could keep his bleary eyes open.
It wasn't difficult. He's a great kid who's an absolute joy to have around - he's smart, funny and relatively polite (c'mon, he's thirteen - he can't be perfect all the time). Unfortunately, the weather didn't cooperate enough to do anything outside but I think he had a great time anyway. We all did.
But his visit made me realize something. I'm glad I'm not in my sister's shoes. Because I could never go through raising another kid. I don't have the patience, not to mention selflessness, required to sit through parent-teacher conferences (even ones celebrating another semester of straight As), help with homework, or attend band concerts and Saturday morning baseball games. I don't have the fortitude to watch another one go through first love, requited or otherwise. My sister, God love her, is only fourteen months younger than I am and I don't know how she does it.
One of my biggest regrets is not having had more children. In my thirties and forties I know I could have handled four or five.
I don't know why but it didn't work out that way. But, as usual, my sister has my back. She's generous enough to let me borrow one of hers.
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