One day I’ll go to the bathroom without Sophie running to say she has to pee too, or hearing fighting from the other room the moment I sit down, or having someone sit on the floor to ‘wait’ for me, or someone wanting to ‘help’ me with toilet paper and then have a tantrum if I don’t let them help the right way, or even…and this one is RADICAL…with the door CLOSED.
One day I’ll walk out the door at the time I absolutely have to leave with just my purse and keys and I’ll drive away without a fifteen minute process to get out the door and into the van.
One day I won’t have to do the mom math on when the last feed was, when the last pee was, when the last meal was, when the last snack was, when we gave Sophie, the puker, Gravol, how long it’s been since they had naps.
One day I won’t be well-versed in the delicate negotiation tactics required for getting shoes on feet (never mind the right feet), pants on bottoms, and appropriate wear on little bodies who will complain if they are too hot or too cold, but will make sure it’s the end of the world to get them to wear the correct number of layers for the current weather.
One day it will be quiet in our house, with no one screaming for food, or crying because they pooped themselves, or singing at the top of their lungs, or growling incessantly for NO DAMN GOOD REASON, or squealing because they can, or squabbling.
One day I’ll wear my hair in a style other than Messy-Mom-Bun.
One day I’ll stay clean for longer than five seconds because people who are eating with me won’t demand to cuddle, be on my lap, ask to go pee five times, or suck on my knee while eating a banana.
One day I won’t be asked to put shoes back on, look behind me, or retrieve various items from the van floor WHILE I’M DRIVING.
One day I’ll be the sole backseat driver in our family and I’ll treat the position with the respect it deserves, unlike the five-year old who asks, “Mom, are you sure this is the place?” every time we go somewhere new.
One day I’ll sleep in.
One day I’ll be able to drink my coffee hot, from first sip to last drop, in one go, no microwaving.
One day I’ll be able to watch whatever I want whenever I want on TV (apparently Orange is the New Black is not suitable for children, go figure).
Pornstache is completely G-rated
One day songs from incredibly awful children’s shows won’t be playing on a loop in my head…at 3 a.m.
One day I won’t have to worry about my necklace or my earrings or my bracelets or my watch getting stolen/broken/tugged at/yanked off/eaten.
One day I won’t have to calculate the mess-factor of foods before we take them on a picnic or eat them in the van or eat them in the living room vs. the kitchen table.
One day I won’t get yelled at for stopping someone from running into the street, or for making someone poop in the toilet instead of their pants, or asking them not to rock in their chair, or for stealing their boogers, or for telling someone that we have no plans for the day, or for reminding someone that no, Grammie or Nana or Daddy or any of the Aunts can’t come play because they have to work.
One day my shirt/pants/arms/legs/neck/face won’t be used as a booger catcher.
One day “This is disgusting. I’m not eating this. I hate this family.” won’t be the first reaction to the dinner I made.
One day carrying a baby on my hip while hauling a giant basket of laundry up the stairs won’t be the norm.
One day I won’t get bitten or pinched or head-butted or collar-bone slammed or smacked or have my hair pulled WHILE HOLDING SOMEONE WHO WANTED TO BE HELD.
One day my hands won’t go to sleep because I’ve been carrying a baby around the house.
One day the quietest moment in my day won’t be the time I spend walking around the van to my seat while all the babies are locked inside.
One day I’ll never have to potty train again…EVER.
One day I won’t be asked to push people on the swing only to have them yell at me, THEY CAN DO IT.
One day I won’t have to be super stealthy at night, dodging creaking floorboards, refusing to flush toilets that share a wall with a bedroom, and not breathing while checking on sleeping babies.
One day I won’t wonder where the day went because nothing has been accomplished and I’ve failed at housekeeping again.
One day I won’t wonder when the day will end because nothing has been accomplished and I’ve failed at housekeeping again.
One day I will miss little hands grabbing my pant legs to pull themselves up while I stand still as a statue and make dinner.
One day I won’t be the first line of defense against the owies or the bad days or the bullies or the crappiness that is life for my babies.
One day I won’t feel the tightest hugs, the biggest love, the most hero-worship of my babies every day.
One day I’ll have to call them or text them or email them or Facebook them to find out how their day was, how they are, if they’re eating vegetables, if they’re sharing nicely, if they’re okay, if they’re happy.
One day the trip to bed won’t include retucking and reblanketing and kissing and listening for breathing of my babies.
One day I won’t be given dandelions on every walk, pictures made just for me after every craft time, and birthday cakes made out of Lego and random toys just because.
One day our morning won’t begin with everyone snuggled in our bed until it becomes too chaotic and we’re forced to get up.
One day I’ll miss all of these days and wonder where the time went.