When you are through changing, you are through.

~Bruce Barton

We’ve been going to Pancake Tavern, a small restaurant ten blocks from our house, since Mia’s seed was just a sprout.  It’s the sort of place that does a few things well, rather than plenty, pushing for par.  I make pancakes for the preschoolers every Wednesday, but I still order a stack of these fluffy flapjacks every time I’m there.

For several years, our Sunday ritual was a stroll to the restaurant while streets were still empty; holding hands, counting sparrows, and playing “I Spy.”  Early, we’d slip into an empty booth, slowly indulge, than walk off the first several mouthfuls of our meal.

Time’s marched and we’ve gone less, but the ritual’s never vanished.

When our children are grown, flipping pancakes in their kitchens or holding menus for their little ones, a single memory from any one of several dozen scrumptious Sundays will most certainly seize their senses.

We went to the Tavern this morning, not just to fill our tummies, but to turn a page in our story.  The last time was Labor Day weekend, the restaurant’s final fleeting hours in its first, familiar location.  It was so hot that day, we didn’t order coffee.  This morning, the first nip of the changing season chewed on our ears as we stepped between fallen leaves.

We strolled to the new spot, three blocks closer to our porch.  It was there, outside on the Tavern’s new patio, where we first told Max and Mia the news that we were closing our preschool.

Daisy and I carefully crafted the chance to tell our children the news.  We were delicate with how we transitioned our families; it was paramount we give the same consideration to a succession of moments which would gum in our children’s minds forever.

Our preschool unit this month is about change.  Max has sat for every lesson, fingers folded, learning about getting bigger and moving on to something better.  He is ready at the restaurant, when he unfolds his hands and asks, “Why did the Pancake Tavern get different?” His right hand’s in front now, flat enough to balance a tray of cookies.

“Because they wanted to move to someplace bigger,” Mia says.  She doesn’t so much as pause the pink pencil passing over her picture.

I squeeze Daisy’s hand.

“Why do you think they wanted something bigger?” I ask.

Mia looks up from her drawing. “Because they wanted to serve more people, and make more money.”

Bingo.

We explained that we were closing our preschool, so we could reach more students through the computer.

Mia was a million miles over the moon; maybe more.  Max just stared past us, toward the passerby on the sidewalk, as if they might be able to tell him whether or not he would see his friends the following summer.

“What are you thinking?” Daisy touches his cheek after a quiet moment, and pulls it toward her.

“Will we still have Pancakes Wednesdays?”

“Wednesdays” he says an octave higher.

“Of course,” I say.  “We’ll always have Pancake Wednesdays.”

Mia put her arms around her brother and kissed him on his forehead.  “What color do you want your new room to be?”

“BLUE,” he squeals.

It was pivotal for Mia to get it.  Max is more of a slow burn, but Mia’s influence will channel his heat.

Every change isn’t good, but we’re more likely to move forward when we believe in our purpose.  These days are the end of something wonderful, and the beginning of something better.  There are three people in the world who see it that way, and each one of us will help along the fourth.

Writer Dad

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