These Are The Days

These are the days of drinking coffee in the shower,

of pooping in community,

of taking showers at 5 PM,

and of talking about a hair cut for three months.

 

These are the days of carpet stains,

of broken things,

of worn-out jeans,

and of scratches on the table.

 

These are the days of fishing bracelets out of the toilet,

of pushing “car carts” through the cereal aisle,

of buying stickers that will last all of six minutes,

and of negotiating bites of meat.

 

These are the days of sucked thumbs,

of missing pacis,

of tipped cups,

and of imaginary pals.

 

These are the days of fridges covered with crafts,

of flushable wipes on the bathroom windowsill,

of couches littered with Nerf ammunition,

and of boogers found on walls.

 

These are the days of colored plastic bowls,

of sticky sippy cups lost for months,

of nap times that feel like aerobics,

and of meal times that feel like a circus.

 

These are the days of drying my hair with child on lap,

of playing soccer in the rain,

of chasing butterflies in the garden,

and of making foil balls for battles.

 

These are the days of jumping in puddles,

of hourly wardrobe changes,

of constant laundry,

and of potty runs at 2 AM.

 

These are the days of dandelion gifts,

of sloppy kisses,

of bedtime stories,

and of early-morning rising.

 

These are the days of turds on floors,

of pee on seats,

of smears on windows,

and of markers on arms.

 

These are the days of mediating toy dilemmas,

of replacing batteries and gluing arms,

of answering a million “why’s” and “when’s,”

and of finding smashed Fig Newtons at the bottom of your purse.

 

These are the days of overdue library books,

of quick trips to the park,

of Saturday morning snuggles,

and of stinky blankies.

 

These are the days of stray sprinkles,

of too-much glue,

of backward letters,

and of strange odors.

 

These are the days of cold coffee,

of half-colored pictures,

of yesterday’s mascara,

and of last week’s bra.

 

These are the days of diapers on counters,

of food on floors,

of shoes on tables,

and of Legos in ears.

 

These are the days of coffee dates after bed time,

of texting in the bathroom,

of e-mailing in the car,

and of phone dates in Chick-fil-A.

 

These are the days of spilled bubbles,

of random rock collections,

of naked bums,

and of hauling stuffed animals to Target.

 

These are the days of stains and bruises,

of minutes that feel like hours,

of hours that feel like weeks,

and of years that feel like days.

 

These are the days of being your mom–

of moments and memories

I will cherish to come.

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4 thoughts on “These Are The Days

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