One thing at a time is a disease.
That i cannot seem to catch.
And every moment, it becomes more and more clear to me that parenting was never meant for one.
We still need new shoes, 13 singles in an envelope for the tee-ball concession stand, and gas in the car.
He needs a haircut and the cat is almost out of cat food. mac and cheese isn't an appropriate dinner for a learning, growing boy. I am three months late for a cleaning at the dentist. He needs money for swimming.
D'oh and trunks for that too.
Oil change.
Spot of juice on the carpet to be shampooed.
Shampoo! d'oh! We need shampoo.
laundry. fold. assemble.
I have to raise money for the cistic fibrosis walk.
The tub needs a good scrubbing.
I should look into getting a new car.
and buying a house.
and saving the world, one Ethiopian at a time.
I could use a pedicure.
And an eye-doctor who doesn't charge an arm-and-a-leg.
I have 13 phone messages to return and 192 e-mails in my inbox.
And - how is it that this kid can find EVERY sharpie in the place? I swear to god, I could super glue the fuckers to the top of the fan blades and he would find them. It's ridiculous.
And why - WHY must he be so old? why is he six? why can't be tiny, wrinkly precious and pink again?
Why hasn't anyone prepared me for this, and why didn't anyone check with me BEFORE he got to age?
He is getting harder to hug. more wiggly and busy. he isn't as sticky as he used to be and i found a new freckle on his left shoulder that i swear wasn't there the last time i examined his perfection.
He wrote me a grammatically-correct, three sentence letter on his transformers stationary.
He colored 4 pages without going outside the lines.
Wipes his own ass.
Washed his own hair.
and chopped his own apple with his favorite blue, plastic butterknife.
...And i didn't even clean the juice stain in the carpet.
I don't know how much more of this I can handle. as hard as I try, I cannot slow time down. I wish I could sit with him like we used to. I wish he would just let me hold him, smell him, and whisper the things all mommies want their babies to know. i want to tell him how lucky i feel that he picked me to be his mommy.
I want to thank him for giving me a front row seat to the show of his life. I want him to know that I like him, I love him. I wish I could remind him that he is only six and that six is a tender age. I wish he understood that I want him to slow down, and stop being so tough.
But he is six now, and is - officially - tougher than anyone else. smarter, too. And basically knows everything. He feels no need to "compwimise" anymore. ..no need to discuss.
He just wants to go.
And so, I will follow. I've turned from a leader and a teacher to a follower and a student.
I just need him to slow down a little, so I can learn one thing at a time.
Just one thing at a time.
That i cannot seem to catch.
And every moment, it becomes more and more clear to me that parenting was never meant for one.
We still need new shoes, 13 singles in an envelope for the tee-ball concession stand, and gas in the car.
He needs a haircut and the cat is almost out of cat food. mac and cheese isn't an appropriate dinner for a learning, growing boy. I am three months late for a cleaning at the dentist. He needs money for swimming.
D'oh and trunks for that too.
Oil change.
Spot of juice on the carpet to be shampooed.
Shampoo! d'oh! We need shampoo.
laundry. fold. assemble.
I have to raise money for the cistic fibrosis walk.
The tub needs a good scrubbing.
I should look into getting a new car.
and buying a house.
and saving the world, one Ethiopian at a time.
I could use a pedicure.
And an eye-doctor who doesn't charge an arm-and-a-leg.
I have 13 phone messages to return and 192 e-mails in my inbox.
And - how is it that this kid can find EVERY sharpie in the place? I swear to god, I could super glue the fuckers to the top of the fan blades and he would find them. It's ridiculous.
And why - WHY must he be so old? why is he six? why can't be tiny, wrinkly precious and pink again?
Why hasn't anyone prepared me for this, and why didn't anyone check with me BEFORE he got to age?
He is getting harder to hug. more wiggly and busy. he isn't as sticky as he used to be and i found a new freckle on his left shoulder that i swear wasn't there the last time i examined his perfection.
He wrote me a grammatically-correct, three sentence letter on his transformers stationary.
He colored 4 pages without going outside the lines.
Wipes his own ass.
Washed his own hair.
and chopped his own apple with his favorite blue, plastic butterknife.
...And i didn't even clean the juice stain in the carpet.
I don't know how much more of this I can handle. as hard as I try, I cannot slow time down. I wish I could sit with him like we used to. I wish he would just let me hold him, smell him, and whisper the things all mommies want their babies to know. i want to tell him how lucky i feel that he picked me to be his mommy.
I want to thank him for giving me a front row seat to the show of his life. I want him to know that I like him, I love him. I wish I could remind him that he is only six and that six is a tender age. I wish he understood that I want him to slow down, and stop being so tough.
But he is six now, and is - officially - tougher than anyone else. smarter, too. And basically knows everything. He feels no need to "compwimise" anymore. ..no need to discuss.
He just wants to go.
And so, I will follow. I've turned from a leader and a teacher to a follower and a student.
I just need him to slow down a little, so I can learn one thing at a time.
Just one thing at a time.
"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." -Pablo Picasso
I love it. I wish I could wipe my own ass!
ReplyDelete