One Day

One day,

I won't have to yell at them for poking holes in their shirts with a pencil.

I won't have to search half the morning for the bathroom trash can which someone needed to flip over and use for a stepstool in the toy closet.

They won't cut hunks of their own hair off.

I won't step on their toys all damn day.

We won't go through band-aids on fake wounds as fast as we go through milk.

I will sleep as late as I want on the weekends.

I won't "count to three" as often.

I will forget all the words to "Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun."

But that day,

They won't believe in Fairy Dust.

They will be too big to sit on my lap, and they'll have moved beyond Junie B. Jones and Dr. Seuss.

My house will be quiet with their absence, because they will stop believing that they want to marry me, and they'll find some other girl.

So today,

I'll hug them and love them and try to be patient with their deafening noise levels.

I will allow them to play Marching Band and Ninjas and wrestle in the living room.

I'll giggle watching them walk down the street after school as they climb every snowbank and step in every puddle.

I'll cook and I'll clean and I'll teach. I'll hold and I'll comfort and I'll sooth fake owies.

And I'll pray every minute of every day that "one day" takes its sweet time.