Sometime in the Very Distant Future...

Earlier this week Scarlett had an ear infection and wasn't inclined to nap for a couple of days. Pretty much at all. This was rather stressful, so you can imagine my...um...slight annoyance when she fell asleep one afternoon and seemed put-down-able, but just when I eased her chubby sweet -sleeping - self onto the bed, one of my other children began calling me from downstairs.





Oh, please recognize that I'm not answering you immediately for a reason. And please stop calling my name. No, PLEASE PLEASE do not go into every single room of the house shouting, "MOM?!" until you find me! And oh, for the sake of all that's good and merciful, please don't come up the stairs..."





"Oops, sorry! Did I wake her up?"





This was one of those moments when I thought, "Oh, for the day they stop doing this kind of thing," and, of course, I immediately reminded myself that when that day comes and I do have an empty nest, it's just the kind of thing I'll probably miss. There are a host of other moments like these that I'm sure I'll miss as well when I reach those empty nest days. (Although technically, I think you have to stop having children for this ever to be a possibility...)





One day I'll be taking a shower and realize I have nothing at all to think about, because no one will be pounding on the door, asking for my immediate assistance in sorting out the philosophical issue of who the greatest Batman villian is. That will be sad.





One morning I'll wake up and realize that I feel strange. Almost...rested. No one will have awakened me at midnight needing the solution for what's to be done when one's feet are too cold out of the covers, but too hot underneath them. Not sure how I'll cope with a full night's sleep.

One day I'll be looking over my bank statement and marvel at how much money is NOT going to Wal-Mart and Kroger each week. That will truly be unfathomable.





Speaking of groceries, the silence will be deafening when there aren't five voices (ok, well four, but the other one asks in her own way) clamoring, "I'm hungry! Have we had breakfast already? What's for lunch? Do we get dessert? What can I have for a snack? Well, when CAN I have a snack?" every fifteen minutes.





When I do have to go to the store, I might feel lost, and just stare at the short list not really comprehending that I won't have to navigate my way through the aisles with an oversized cart, saying things like, "No, we're not buying that. Please get back in the cart. Please get back in the cart. Please get back in the cart. (On a repeating loop until the parking lot, at which time it changes to, "Get out of the cart and into the car. PLEASE.") Why yes, they ARE all mine, and yes, I DO have my hands full. And then under my breath, "Why how clever you are to observe that the last thing I need is another one? What if I LIKE them?"

Because I do, of course, and one day I will miss loud voices, bottomless stomachs, burning questions about superheroes and their villains, finding spaghetti noodles on the floor (a day or two later), fetching certain little boys off a top library shelf under the fierce gaze of a librarian, sorting out impossible situations in the middle of the night, and never getting to the bottom of the laundry pile.

One day!