I don't mean just the approach of spring, although that's certainly a relief (and even moreso for my kith and kin in places that got more than their usual share of snow and ice by degrees of magnitude). No, I suspect there's a sea change afoot.
Because Boy #1 has asked for seconds. Of protein. Whose name didn't include peanut butter or nugget. I know!
I made pork chops for dinner. As it turns out, they weren't even particularly good pork chops, but they were fine. Gave each boy one half. Boy #2 dutifully ate his half and inquired after more mashed potatoes. Boy #1, however, snarfed his down and asked for more.
Never. Happened. Before. Never-ever.
And I know there are those of you saying,"You'll be sorry you asked for this," regaling me with tales of escalating grocery bills and never being able to keep milk in the house. I know. But I've looked for this day for so long. . .let me savor the victory just a bit longer. Because if pork has fallen, broccoli can't be far behind.
And that change has got me thinking about how very different my kids' childhoods are than mine was, particular when it comes to technology.
Of the many things my children inherited from me, intense curiosity about who might be calling when the phone rings is not one of them.
Our kitchen phone looked something like this, but with the really long cord that, presumably, allowed you to get stuff done while talking. In reality, it served only to tie itself in maddeningly tighter coils that kept you tethered to the wall (in solidarity, I guess) with it.
I loved to answer the phone.
When I was 7 or 8, I'd entered a poem in a contest to proclaim my dad the Father of the Year (or some such) with our local radio station. <This isn't nearly as impressive as it sounds. In our rural area, the station probably had 15 listeners, tops.> And I won.
They called early that Sunday morning to let Dad know he'd been chosen Father of the Year. We were getting ready for church, and Dad happened to be in the shower. Guess who answered the phone. And promptly told the announcer -- and however many tens of people might have been listening -- where my dad was. He took a fair amount of ribbing at church that morning.
But my kids don't share that fascination. The oldest will occasionally check caller ID, but the youngest doesn't even bat an eye when the phone rings. I guess it comes from growing up with answering machines and voicemail; there's just not much excitement in the ring anymore. Ah, let them eat pork.