The last month or so has seemed terribly busy for me, and I can’t really say why. What I do know is that I have felt completely out of it; like I have been tremendously occupied with this routine of moving kids from place to place and going to work and coming home and making mediocre, last-minute dinners, and fulfilling obligations.

Tonight, Anna (who is still sick) was cleaning up the dining room (”spring cleaning,” as she called it) while I sat at the table processing a stack of outgoing Christmas cards nearly a foot high. When I realized that it was getting late and that I should start getting Anna ready for bed, I told her so. “I’m busy, Dad. Let me finish cleaning up first,” was her reply. I managed to pick my jaw up off the floor before she swept up with her broom, and return to the Christmas cards for a few minutes. “Anna, it’s time to go up,” I said. Without looking up she ran out to the laundry room and came back with the dustpan, “I’m almost done, I’ll be ready in just another minute.”

It has always been entertaining to see Anna imitating us, using the same facial expressions, phrases, and physical gestures, and she was brushing me off using the same language I’ve used with her. To be sure, this is not nearly the first time she’s been “too busy” to go to bed, but this time it struck me a little differently, to realize that her interest in Mom and Dad is on the decline. It made me uneasy for a moment, and I paused, staring at the stacks of photos and envelopes and stamps and labels in front of me. “Anna,” I said, “you’ve done a wonderful job cleaning up the dining room. Let’s go upstairs and read a story.”