Dylan Stafford

It’s Sunday night. I’m on the couch with “The Good Wife” playing in the background on TV. My face is rosy from being outside all day today, seven hours at a pumpkin patch with Marisa and Jackson and friends.

I had to work yesterday and I’ll go back tomorrow. Part of me wanted to have a cave-day today, to let Marisa take Jackson to the pumpkin patch without me so I could have the house to myself and try to squeeze two days of weekend restoration out of one day at home.

“Vladana’s going, plus Virginia and Anna,” Marisa told me.

Those three women are all mothers of children who’ve been Penguins with Jackson, they’ve all been in daycare together over the last four years. Those three families were part of our life through the morning / afternoon drop-off / pick-up rhythm of daycare. They were part of our family by sharing birthday parties–numbers two, three and four–plus a couple of Halloweens.

“I’ll go too,” I told Marisa.

“Really? Don’t you need some ‘downtime’ after your big day yesterday?” she asked.

“Yeah probably. But it will be fun to see them all, and I liked when we went to the pumpkin patch last year.”

We gathered sunscreen and the camera and I loaded the address into the GPS and we left the house about 10:30am. We were headed to Moorpark, about 45 miles north and west of where we live in Culver City.

California was bright and dry and traffic was light on a Sunday morning. We arrived to the farm to find the parking lot already full so we parallel-parked out on the country road, slathered on the sunscreen and held hands to cross over to the farm.

We were early, the other families not there yet, and we watched Jackson run around the fields of pumpkins sitting out in the morning sun. There were the regular orange ones, but also lots of other more exotic types: greens and whites, small to huge, oblong and lumpy.

Virginia arrived first, with her daughter Alina in the back seat. As their mini-van drove by they tapped the horn and Jackson realized he was about to get to play with his buddy Alina, who left his daycare about a month ago.

Jackson jumped up and down, both feet leaving the ground and knees pulling into the air, while he squealed at seeing Alina drive by.

It took about ten minutes before they parked and walked up, and when they did Jackson played like he wanted to show me something and ignored Alina. He’ll do that I’ve seen, get so excited and then almost act like whatever he was excited about doesn’t exist.

The rest of the day would be the great Penguin reunion as also joining us were Alexandra and Cameron, two other former daycare buddies.

Tomorrow is my eight year anniversary with Marisa.

There’s that adage about people coming into our lives for a season, for a reason or for a lifetime. All Jackson’s daycare buddies are in our life for a season, a very important season called his childhood.

This is Los Angeles. I know that the odds of him keeping up with these families through elementary school, junior high and beyond are very low. I get that intellectually, and every time there’s a transition at daycare where someone moves on I accept it.

But still. Here we were today and I couldn’t help slowing down to get that these people were part of the fabric of my life these last four years. Four years. The time it takes to go to high school or to go to college. Four years seemed so long when I was 14 or when I was 18, starting either of those two experiences.

But as an adult? Four years is a weekend. It’s over in a flash.

I wanted to get melancholy today, but the carnival atmosphere of the farm kept me focused on being present. This place had everything from a corn field maze to hayrides to the Lion’s club selling hot dogs to pumpkin decorating. I followed the mom’s and the kids and the one other father and I took photos and I had a good time, eating too much junk food and getting too much sun on my face.

My big take-away? I’m glad I get to be married. I get to be with Marisa for a lifetime, not just a reason and longer than just a season.

Jackson? He’ll always be my son, but he’ll grow up some day and he’ll need to spread his wings. My family? I love them all and we’re close but everyone goes their separate ways. Friends? the same.

Being married. It’s a cool proposition. It’s so much all wrapped into one: love, romance, family, parenting, finances, faith, family. Tomorrow I will have had 8 of my 42 years on the planet as a husband. It’s a good thing. I’m grateful for it.