Someday, my house will be quiet.
Someday, not too far in the future, really, no one will need me to get them a sippy cup or another snack or a band aid. I won't look around my house, exasperated at the toys strewn across the room. I won't think about how I just want to sit down and relax while someone asks for another story. I won't have an exuberant seven year old chatting mindlessly about his day, where every sentence starts with, "and guess what, mom?" Someday, I will have all the time in the world to take a shower in a bathroom, alone. Someday, I won't have to take anyone to baseball practice. Someday, I won't have to rush to think of a healthy dinner that I can squeeze into the hour between this thing and that thing. Someday, I won't have to juggle a toddler who is reaching for everything at the grocery story checkout and a three year old who doesn't want to stay with me.
Someday, I will not have to tell anyone to please get back in bed, and no you don't need another drink, or another hug, or another story.
Someday, I hope I will look back on this time in my life and know that I spent it not wishing for someday, but rather living in today.
Yes, my house is a mess right now. It could use a good dusting, a good vacuuming, and a good decluttering. We didn't eat a healthy dinner tonight, and I probably snapped at someone for not listening or getting out of bed one too many times. You know what else? Right now, there is a little, two year old girl asleep in her crib. And right now, she is holding a Minnie Mouse, and I read her three stories before she went to bed. She stayed up later than she was supposed to because she was playing with her brothers. Right now, she doesn't know what it is like to be hungry, or cold, or unloved. Right now, there is a three year old boy asleep (maybe) in his bed, clutching a cabbage patch and his glasses case. He is wearing mismatched pajamas that are spaceships on the bottom and stripes on top because that is what he wanted. He probably ate too many tortilla chips before bed. Right now, he knows that he is one of the three centers of his parents' universe. Right now, there is a seven year old boy sleeping on the top bunk and snuggled with his stuffed barney and a glow-in-the-dark pillowcase. He went to bed knowing that his mom cared about what he did today, and remembered to ask about his spelling test, and who took him to baseball practice, and made sure he brushed his teeth. Right now, that little boy knows that he has a big responsibility because he is the oldest brother and a role model, and he revels in that knowledge. Right now, he knows that his mom and dad love him no matter what.
Right now, I want to remember to be that mom who reads the extra story, and doesn't get mad if someone spills their milk, and takes the extra ten minutes to let someone put on their own shoes. Right now, I want to remember that it doesn't matter if my house is perfect. What matters is those three, little people who are right now asleep in their beds. It matters they are loved and protected. When they grow up, it matters to me that they remember me as the kind of mom I want to be for them. I doubt they will remember much about how clean the house was, but I am pretty sure they will remember when I let them help make brownies, and let them crack the eggs even if it meant digging out pieces of shell. I don't want to get so caught up in what doesn't matter that when someday comes, I wish for right now. I have talked to many mothers and grandmothers, my own included, and I am pretty sure all of them would give anything to have one more day with their kids as children.