Todd’s been cleaning out his desk at home, which means he takes all the junk out of each drawer and, piece by piece, stacks it on my nightstand. Not that I mind that much—most of it is sentimental stuff that I probably would have tossed long ago. He’s always been a big-hearted squirrel, hiding away little acorns to gnaw on later, while I’m a …I don’t know what I am. Whatever animal likes to throw stuff away.

The first acorn to land was the card from the spring of 1987 celebrating our ten-month wedding anniversary. One line confused me, the one that said, “I promise I’ll take you out of Omaha soon.”

“Why’d you write that?” I yelled from our room. “I don’t remember hating Omaha.”

“Oh, you hated it,” he yelled back from his office.

“I didn’t hate it,” I said. “There were good things about it. That hibachi grill we had. How the town smelled like cornflakes.”

“You definitely hated it,” he said. “Don’t you remember? That’s when you told me we shouldn’t have gotten married.”

“Oh yeah.” I sat on the bed. “But I didn’t say that. I said we shouldn’t have gotten married so soon. We should’ve waited until your training was over.”

The card brought it all back, the never-ending canoe trip down the Platte River that landed me in a military hospital, where a nurse-trainee (who looked to be eleven) put in her first IV, turning my arm into a blood-spurting fountain.

Once that was cleaned up, a boy-man marched in with clipboard. He took down all my details. “Place of employment?” he asked.

“Uh…” I said, “I don’t have one right now.”

This was a sore subject. All my friends were in grad school or revving up their shiny new careers, and I was stuck in Omaha, so bored that I taught myself to make pita bread. “We’re just here for a couple months,” I told him. “Then we move to DC. I’ve been mailing out resumés.”

“Uh huh.” He wrote something down.

“I have a biochemistry degree,” I added.

“Okay… I’ll put housewife, then.”

I burst into tears and cried for two days.

Oh, memories.

Next on the nightstand? Two pieces of paper covered with handwriting, one in marker, the other in pen. Apparently, I’d given fourth-grade Ben and seventh-grade Sarah an assignment when they were FIGHTING ALL THE TIME AND MAKING ME CRAZY. (That did sound familiar.)

The assignment had three parts.

Part One: List all the things I do for them that they appreciate.

Part Two: Come up with four possible consequences for future fights.

Part Three: List four things they like about their sibling.

Ben appreciated that I made their beds every day. (What? Why the heck did I do that?) Sarah suggested we take her boom box if they fight. They both said their sibling was excellent at running. I could attest to that, given the amount of chasing in their fights.

“We had lots of fun times too,” I told Todd. “Isn’t there any cheerful stuff in there?”

He handed me a photo of my parents that made me so happy. Mom was leaning against Daddy and they were both laughing. Todd took it in 2005, when they were close to the age we are now, back when it wouldn’t occur to me to worry if they decided, hypothetically, to drive to Kentucky and Ohio and back. Back when they were cleaning out drawers and yelling to each other across the house. Back when their nest was delightfully empty and we were the ones in the middle of everything, our kids in three schools, our lives in a whirl.

We’re not in the middle anymore. We’re learning to be on the sidelines. We don’t plan the birthday parties. We just go.

It’s more restful, but it’s an adjustment. It has its own issues—and its own fun. The other day I asked Dr. Google why my left thumbnail has a vertical ridge. Surprise! It’s aging! It’s always aging!

Yesterday, I texted Sarah. It was her husband Paul’s birthday and since she was out of town, I wanted to deliver some goodies. Nothing big, just a balloon, some cake, a card. She checked his location. “He’s at Target,” she texted back. “He’s taking Daniel to spend his birthday money while Josiah’s at school.”

“What a sweet daddy,” I texted Paul. “Taking your boy birthday shopping ON YOUR BIRTHDAY!”

Paul texted me back a thank you—and the news that Daniel was now the thrilled owner of a bag of Cheetos, a cake pop, and some legos.

That’s life in the center of everything. A life I loved…and still love now, more from the sidelines than the center of the whirl.

I’m not complaining, just adjusting.

Hooray for the leaning and laughing to come!