Reminded, Again
I'm going to put your dolls away tonight.
I'm going to put your dress up clothes away, too.
I'll pick up your puzzle pieces from the unfinished puzzle. I'll grab a glob of Playdough and stick it to all the tiny bits you left on the floor. I'll wash off your paint brushes. I'll stack your blocks.
I'll find your shoes and (Lord willing) match your socks.
I'll check your grammar and print your papers.
I'll scrape the mud out of your cleats and set your uniform out.
I'll tape Bible verses to your mirror. I'll write notes in your lunch.
I'll bite my lip and rub the back of my neck when that one song plays because it reminds me of when you were tiny.
And I'll squeeze your hand in the checkout line when the woman in front of us fumbles with her phone for the eleventh time because her son was going to call at 5:30, and it's 5:37 and she's worried.
Clearly the store has no reception.
She looked at us, the lady in the checkout line, with weathered eyes and frail hands. She offered a smile when she saw your dancing eyes and beautiful face and told me that she has four kids, all grown now. She wandered down a rabbit trail of memories of her kids, naming them, describing each one, sighing and smiling. She glanced at her phone, sorry to be rude, but he never misses a call.
We smiled, and I touched her shoulder. "It's okay, friend, check your phone. I'm sure he's trying. This store really does have awful reception."
She told me to soak it up, like she's the first person to ever say that to me. She said, "I was just like you; young (!!!), kids all over me, waiting in lines that are taking too long. But you soak it up. Because tomorrow they'll be grown. And you'll be waiting in lines without them, wondering what to do with yourself."
We laughed with her, because I think she was trying to lighten the mood, then it was her turn to check out and we said goodbye.
"What was she talking about?" you asked.
"Oh sweet love, she misses her kids... She was telling me to enjoy you! She was reminding me to use these moments, even the ones waiting in long lines, to soak you up like a sponge soaks up water. She was telling me to not get tired of this stuff, but to cherish these days because I will miss you when you're a grown up and not around me all the time."
And you just smiled and played with the buckle on my purse because you have no earthly idea what I'm talking about, and really, I have only a small notion.
So I'll make you breakfast, and scramble to find your notebook. I'll swing by the library. I'll find that sweater. I'll sew (who am I kidding) I'll iron on (most likely staple on) your patches. I'll do that and then some, x6, because one day I'll be standing in line and the young thang behind me will have babies all over her and I'll tell her to soak it up, like I'm the first person to ever say that to her.
And I'll glance at my phone, and tell her I'm waiting for one of my heartbeats to call.
I'm going to put your dress up clothes away, too.
I'll pick up your puzzle pieces from the unfinished puzzle. I'll grab a glob of Playdough and stick it to all the tiny bits you left on the floor. I'll wash off your paint brushes. I'll stack your blocks.
I'll find your shoes and (Lord willing) match your socks.
I'll check your grammar and print your papers.
I'll scrape the mud out of your cleats and set your uniform out.
I'll tape Bible verses to your mirror. I'll write notes in your lunch.
I'll bite my lip and rub the back of my neck when that one song plays because it reminds me of when you were tiny.
And I'll squeeze your hand in the checkout line when the woman in front of us fumbles with her phone for the eleventh time because her son was going to call at 5:30, and it's 5:37 and she's worried.
Clearly the store has no reception.
She looked at us, the lady in the checkout line, with weathered eyes and frail hands. She offered a smile when she saw your dancing eyes and beautiful face and told me that she has four kids, all grown now. She wandered down a rabbit trail of memories of her kids, naming them, describing each one, sighing and smiling. She glanced at her phone, sorry to be rude, but he never misses a call.
We smiled, and I touched her shoulder. "It's okay, friend, check your phone. I'm sure he's trying. This store really does have awful reception."
She told me to soak it up, like she's the first person to ever say that to me. She said, "I was just like you; young (!!!), kids all over me, waiting in lines that are taking too long. But you soak it up. Because tomorrow they'll be grown. And you'll be waiting in lines without them, wondering what to do with yourself."
We laughed with her, because I think she was trying to lighten the mood, then it was her turn to check out and we said goodbye.
"What was she talking about?" you asked.
"Oh sweet love, she misses her kids... She was telling me to enjoy you! She was reminding me to use these moments, even the ones waiting in long lines, to soak you up like a sponge soaks up water. She was telling me to not get tired of this stuff, but to cherish these days because I will miss you when you're a grown up and not around me all the time."
And you just smiled and played with the buckle on my purse because you have no earthly idea what I'm talking about, and really, I have only a small notion.
So I'll make you breakfast, and scramble to find your notebook. I'll swing by the library. I'll find that sweater. I'll sew (who am I kidding) I'll iron on (most likely staple on) your patches. I'll do that and then some, x6, because one day I'll be standing in line and the young thang behind me will have babies all over her and I'll tell her to soak it up, like I'm the first person to ever say that to her.
And I'll glance at my phone, and tell her I'm waiting for one of my heartbeats to call.
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