A Poem That Got To Me

At my MOPS meeting this Tuesday a poem was read that really spoke to my heart. Actually I read it after the fact, because while it was being read I was running around like a crazy person trying to make sure there were teachers in each room for our children, but I did get to read it during the meeting. We always talk about how quickly our children grow up, how short a time they are babies or at home with us. I have been struggling with facing that Finn will soon go off to kindergarten and the majority of his day will be with someone else. At the same time, sometimes the days seem never ending with the wiping of noses and bottoms, the filling of sippe cups and bottles, making meals, feeding meals, cleaning up meals, picking up toys, etc. This poem reminds us to stop and realize that they will end someday and I don't think that we will be happy when they do.

One Of These Days

by: Erma Bombeck

One of these days you'll explode

and shout to all the kids,

"Why don't you just grow up and act your age?"

And, they will...

"Or, You guys get outside and find something to do...

without hurting each other..

and don't slam the door!"

And they don't...

You'll straighten their bedroom until it's all neat and tidy,

toys displayed on the shelf....

hangers in the closet...

animals caged...

You'll yell..."Now I want it to stay this way!"

And it will

You will prepare a perfect dinner

with a salad that hasn't had all the olives picked out

and a cake with no finger traces in the icing

and you will say,

"Now this meal is for company!"

And you will eat it alone....

You'll yell, "I want complete privacy on the phone! No screaming, do you hear me?"

And no one will answer....

No more plastic tablecloths stained,

No more dandelion bouquets,

No more iron on patches,

No more wet, knotted shoelaces, muddy boots,

or rubberbands for ponytails.

Imagine, a lipstick with a point!

No babysitters for New Year's Eve!

Washing clothes once a week!

No more PTA meetings or silly school plays

where your child is a tree, or a little dutch girl named Mena,

no car pools, blaring stereos or forgotten lunch money.

No more Christmas presents made of library paste and toothpicks.

No wet oatmeal kisses,

No more tooth fairy,

No more giggles in the dark, scraped knees to kiss

or sticky fingers to clean.

Only a voice asking,

Why Don't You Grow Up?"

And the silence echoes:

"I did"

Treasure your babies