One day.
My house will remain clean.
There will be fewer dishes in the sink.
My laundry pile will shrink.
The noise and chaos will be replaced by peace and quiet.
I know one day I’ll miss it:
The busy pace,
the sound of children laughing.
I’ll miss the endless questions,
the constant chatter,
the tiny voice saying “hold me, mommy.”
I must not wish this day away.
And yet, at the end of another endless day
I sink into the couch and I wonder:
Can I do this?
I’m so very tired.
I’m so very impatient with the endless questions,
the constant chatter,
the tiny voice saying “hold me, mommy.”
I love them as much as I love the breath that fills my lungs,
but some days leave me feeling breathless.
No one told me.
I didn’t understand how love and frustration could mingle together.
Longing and loathing.
Hope and hopelessness.
I will not wish these years away.
For slumbering cherubs will one day fly.
Tiny feet will strike out on new paths.
Timid voices will have stories to tell.
One day, I will sleep again.
One day, the silence will be deafening.
One day, I will miss this.
One day will come before I’m ready.
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