One of these days I won’t get up 2-3 times a night to nurse a baby back to sleep, change bedding accidents, or fetch a cup of water.
One of these days I won’t wake up to little ones jumping into bed with cold hands and feet, pushing and pulling in order to be the first one under the covers.
One of these days I won’t have to wash oatmeal or peanut butter out of hair, mashed potatoes off the floor, or milk off the walls.
One of these days I won’t have to stumble my way through gleefully strewn laundry (clean or dirty, or sometimes both at once) or leap distances over a Lego minefield (because let’s face it, Legos are lethal).
One of these days I won’t have to struggle to stay calm as the 2 year old kicks and screams in my arms.
One of these days I won’t lose my temper when I find little ones behind furniture and under a blanket with a container of raisins. Or maple syrup. Or a honey bear. Or bananas.
I tell myself this sometimes.
Sometimes I tell myself this a lot.
But even more frequently I tell myself something else.
One of these days I won’t have a child small enough to cradle in my arms.
One of these days I won’t have little ones who want to cuddle under the covers.
One of these days I won’t have a troupe to cook for at all.
One of these days the 2 year old will no longer be at home.
One of these days they’ll all be making homes of their own, Lord willing, and gone from mine.
And I hope that day is as far off as the sun, because I don’t want these days to end.