This afternoon, we were at IKEA. You must understand, I was schooled in the rote tradition: repetition yields mastery. So, I guess it's been since we moved to Philly, so two years now, at least once a season, we go to IKEA. Just before a good nap window, I strap them in with their sippies, a few picture books and expect the half hour car ride to be some chill headspace. Then we get there, we take the escalator up to the show floor where they play in the ball pit, which is designed to look like a giant basket of blueberries. For upwards of a half hour they swim in the balls, jump off the sides, juggle, throw them over the basket handle arch. I have worked it down to a science, this errand. I like this level of predictablility we have achieced. After giving the 10, 5 and 2 minute warning, I have to tantalize them with promises of Cinnabons and almost wrestle them into their shoes to get them to move on from this spot. Usually, I make a list at on the bench, chat with other moms, call Geoff. Then we go on through the store, what have you. Well today, my goodness, today after two years of the same predictable pattern, it broke. They got their shoes off, I said, "Boys how bout 10 good jumps then we go, okay?" I look over and the balls don't even cover their legs, and Manny says, "Mom we're done." I look at Benici who agrees, "We can go." I was thrown off. I didn't know what to do with myself. I had started to nurse Clara but was flustered. My boys have outgrown the ball pit. My boys refused to frolic in the ball pit. Maybe you don't get it. At this stage of development, the milestones are not as distinguished. They are no longer toddlers who are trying to navigate the world of upright homosapiens. They are pre-schoolers, potty-trained, fickle and opinionated as John Stewart. I think I spend a lot of time thinking about answering immediate needs that I don't notice these physical and developmental signs of growth. This reminds me of Benici and his trains, how he loves the heft and finality of something hurtling forward, steady on its tracks, pulling its cargo, moving onward somehow staying together. My sons are this way, hurtling ahead. My God, may I keep up.