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One fine day as I sprinted around Super Wal-Mart in my usual fashion of running a half hour late, something curious happened.

As I was racing up and down the aisles hurling food items, milk, and Diet Cokes into my cart, I was simultaneously attempting to beep my husband to pick up our daughter across town, trying to locate my son through his cell phone to go home and shove dinner in the oven, and glaring with irritation towards the extremely long check out line. Business as usual so far.

As I rounded aisle #11, with my shopping cart practically on two wheels, I stopped dead in my tracks. Before me was a towering display of blue Kool-Aid in six-packs of plastic bottles. Colorful cartoon characters decorated the cardboard cartons which held the drinks. The faint aroma of the sweet concoction swirled around me. Rooted to the spot, I stared at the mountain of blue containers and felt a flood of memories wash over me.

The world stopped for a moment as my mind was catapulted back in time. Back to the days when I made this frantic grocery trip with two toddlers in tow, shrieking with delight as I shot through the store like a cannon in my usual whirlwind of trying to fit too much into my schedule.

Grocery day was always a special treat for my son and daughter because they were allowed to pick out their very own six-pack of Kool-Aid. And blue was their favorite. As they fought over who got to open the package, I often wished I could conjure up a nanny to watch my children at home so that I could avoid the hassle of dealing with two wriggling, loud mouthed, and sometimes whiny little creatures. My stress level was right on track with the rest of the frazzled moms I saw there.

As I continued to stand in Super Wal-Mart facing the mountain of blue Kool-Aid, something hit me. It occurred to me that now that my tykes were teenagers, I would never have their rapt attention and adoration and desire to go everywhere with me again. Never again would they excitedly point me towards the Kool-Aid aisle. Never again would they run full throttle into me to hug my legs or beg me to read them "just one more story". No more peeking out the window waiting for me to come home from work. No more pleading for piggyback rides. No more negotiations to stay up late to watch tv with me.

In fact, it has been quite awhile since our seventeen-year-old has had any exchange at all with me except to inquire what was for dinner and to beg once again to have his curfew extended.

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