There’s a basketball goal in my living room.

A year or two ago this would’ve bothered me. Honestly, it probably never would’ve happened. Who puts a colorful, giant, plastic thing right by their front door so everyone can see it as soon as they come in? Not me. I had better style than that.

Well. Here we are.

I’ve been home with my kids a solid year now between covid-19, having a baby, and just winter in general. There’s not much home related that bothers me at this point, simply because if I let it then I would internally combust. Deciding to pick your battles apparently looks a lot like a basketball goal in your living room.

I’ve spent more time with my kids in the past year than I thought was ever possible, but each day they wake up a day older. And me too. I feel it now. It’s not something that registers each day, but it compounds as the weeks turn into months. One day your kid needs you for everything under the sun and then the next day they turn pretty self sufficient. It happens in little bursts that slide right by you, and then all of a sudden, BAM, they’re basically 25. And you want to cry about it, but at the same time they still need you to wipe their butt. So instead you just squish the wave of sadness down inside you and decide to deal with it when they’re actually really 25.

So today there’s a basketball goal in my living room.

And I’ve decided it can stay there as long as they want it to.

This post was originally published on Facebook.