“The supreme accomplishment is to blur the line between work and play.”

~Arnold Toynbee

I love the concept of Deja Vuesday – not the execution. The point, for me, was to revisit an old piece of writing and measure its relevance against the me in a new moment.

I am grateful for the wonderful technology that makes it possible, and even simple, to record my thoughts once a day and know that I’ve made a tiny permanent stamp on at least a fragment of forever. I am sad that the same technology has dimmed our ability to savor.

The short little introductions on Tuesdays aren’t cutting it. I’m not saying much of anything, and probably taking way too long to say it. The percentage of readers that click through is relatively small, and I’m sure I can do better.

I’m still going to do Deja Vuesday – but different.  I’ll return to an old piece, now with a rewrite. I believe there’s tremendous value in an edit, especially with distance.

We are never exactly the same person twice; too much happens in between the hours.

The root of thought is found in articulation.  Reading is one thing, revisiting another.

There are only four more days until our preschool finds a cocoon and we face a monumental shift in our existence.  Telling our families was one thing, telling our children was a different one entirely.

Today we are revisiting “Pancake Wednesday.“  Please enjoy.

Pancake Tavern, a small restaurant by our house, has been our haunt for seven years.  It’s the sort of place that does a few things well, rather than plenty that only play at  par.  Though I prepare a large plate of pancakes for the preschoolers every Wednesday, I always order a stack of flapjacks at the tavern anyway.

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

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

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

One more than most.

We went to the Tavern two months back to turn a page in our story.  The time before that was Labor Day weekend, the restaurant’s final hours in its first location.  It was so hot outside, we didn’t order coffee.  That morning two months ago, the first nip of the changing season chewed our ears as we stepped between the fallen leaves.

We strolled to the new spot.  There, outside on the Tavern’s new patio, we told Max and Mia that we were closing our preschool.

Daisy and I crafted the moment to tell our children the news.  We were delicate in how we transitioned our families.  Our children deserved the same consideration for a succession of moments that would gum in their minds forever.

In preschool that month, we taught that life is filled with changes.  Max sat for every lesson, fingers folded, as he learned about getting bigger and moving on to something better.  He was ready at the restaurant when he unfolded his hands and asked, “Why did the Pancake Tavern get different?”

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

I squeezed Daisy’s hand.

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

Mia looked 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 touched his cheek after a quiet moment, then pulled his face toward her.

“Will we still have Pancake Wednesdays?” Wednesdays, said an octave higher.

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

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

“BLUE,” he squealed.

It was pivotal that Mia understand.  Max is a slow burn, and Mia’s influence often channels heat.

Every transition isn’t wonderful, but we’re more likely to move forward when we step inside our purpose.  These days are the end of something wonderful and the start of something better.

Post Script:  Max adjusted like magic.  He still celebrates every student during our opening, even though we are down to a single family.  He calls each one by name and imagines what “manager” they would be if they were there.

Writer Dad

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