It was the last Saturday in August. The reallio trulio end of summer. The final chance to pick up binders and a back pack, or a second pair of sheets for your high school graduate. The twins had asked nicely for me to take them to IKEA to equip their new digs on the third floor. They invited their dear friend so the four of us headed out on a beautiful morning. We and a few hundred other eager shoppers. 

For some reason Siri chose the scenic route, and although I admit to being navigationally challenged I am certain we took longer than necessary. My daughter was holding the phone and felt a smidge guilty for the zigzag, but then I thought better of complaining. How blessed was I to be spending time with my twins and their bestie, whether in the car or in the aisles? Hurrying had no place here. 

One of the things I forgot with the first five of our kids was that just as I was growing edgy about all the chauffeuring duties that peak around the time they turn fifteen, as soon as I handed them the keys at sixteen I would miss it. Terribly. Those hours in the car on the way to get knee pads, or to a friend's house, or to grab a milkshake, were golden. It all abruptly ended, and with it the conversations. This time I remember and will enjoy each ride.

We walked into the store, they with their hard earned summer cash and me with my credit card knowing I would insist that they keep their wallets in their pockets. Strolling ahead of us was a couple, both wearing black and white striped shirts. He was tall and skinny and his stripes were wide, while she was short and squat and her stripes were thin. I wondered if they planned it. 

The customers at IKEA are eclectic. There were several couples in their late twenties, the wife with a full moon belly, the husband with the serious expression of a committed provider. I remembered back when John and I shopped together. Because we enjoyed it. But those habits were eclipsed by necessity as more children arrived. There were pairs of mothers with toddlers in tow, chatting as they went. In those days of child rearing half of my energy went to perusing merchandise while the other half was usurped by counting children. 

We wandered through the land of mirrors. Every imaginable size and shape, and I delighted in watching these lovely girls look at themselves. What a miracle, to be beautiful, young, with the world eager to please you. I held on to the moment so hard it almost squeezed juice.

I prolonged the trip by suggesting that we buy lunch. As we laughed over wraps, Hope mused about life as a twin. 

"I count on you, Aurelle, to be my 'no'. I can feel extravagant and wish for everything, because I know you will reign me in."

"And I rely on you to help me say yes. Because frugality holds me back."

The topic slid onto other things, and I marveled at the preciousness of being their mother. Maybe next week I will ask John if he wants to go to the store together. And flaunt our inefficiency. Maybe we will even wear matching striped shirts.