Because One Day They Won’t

Because one day the baby won’t go everywhere with a tattered stuffed pig under his arm.

Because one day I won’t find scissors and a pile of tags in her closet because every shirt she tried on “felt itchy.”

Because one day the sliding glass door won’t be covered with fish window clings and tiny handprints.

Because one day he won’t come downstairs after bedtime to proudly show us his latest invention (Lego beyblades).

Because one day my living room floor won’t be littered with Dog Man books, googly eye stickers, magnetic darts, and discarded clothes from kids who “got too hot.”

Because one day he won’t toddle to the window shouting “TAC-DA!” (tractor) every time one drives past.

Because one day they won’t beg to listen to the belly button song from Veggie Tales and dissolve into giggles.

Because one day he and she won’t share a room—sneaking into each other’s beds, taking turns warming their blankets over the heating vent, or setting up a stuffie zoo long after they’re supposed to be asleep.

Because one day his coat pockets won’t be filled with playground sand, Matchbox cars, and Starburst wrappers.

Because one day I won’t spend a small fortune on bath bombs and scotch tape.

Because one day I won’t spend half my life turning small pants right-side-out, filling water bottles, breaking up WWE-style wrestling matches, and answering cries of “Mommy, I neeeeeed you!”

Because one day the house will be quiet and I won’t need noise-canceling headphones.

Because one day they’ll have questions harder than “What’s for snack?” or “Where are my mittens?”

Because one day they won’t be like heat-seeking missiles, drawn irresistibly to the homing beacon of my body on the couch.

Help me slow
Help me see

Because I want it all.

Wild and wonderful
Absurd and astonishing
Fleeting and full