“They’re having a party,” the youngest boy says in a rushed, breathy voice. “And we’re invited. It starts at 8:00. Like right on the dot of 8:00.”
I’m cleaning the kitchen when he makes the announcement and I’m in no mood for a late night party in the cul-de-sac. My arms are elbow deep in the sink and the counter is twelve inches deep in dishes.
“Are you sure it’s a party?” I ask him. “For what? It’s a Tuesday night.”
“Graduation!!!” he says. “I think somebody graduated from school.”
I sigh into the sink after he’s run back out the front door, but even in the sighing I know where I’ll spend my evening.
And so, at a few minutes after that 8:00 on the dot, I find myself in the cul-de-sac with twelve children and only fifteen sparklers.