The other night over dinner, The Man and I were contemplating our ten-year-plan. (I could take this statement as a jumping off point to rant about how we have been so temporary every where we go and how I really want a nest now and that I am tired of dreaming about the homestead – I want to actually live on it…. But, I won’t. I have something better to say.)
Ten years. I looked at the little faces around the dinner table. In ten years, this baby in my belly, my youngest child, will be ten.The Munchkin (who at that moment had dinner all over her face, in her hair, down her shirt…) will be 11. The Princess, my little toothless comedian, will be a teenager. The Dancing Queen will be driving and the The Boy will be a man. The Bookworm will be 21 years old. I could be a grandmother in ten years! Wow.
And that is when it dawned on me. These are the best years of my life. These are the times that will be recounted in story upon story.
“Remember when The Princess used to say all those funny things?”
“Remember when The Boy would get lost in his own imaginary worlds, making sound affects all day?”
A desire welled up in me to keep them all like this. Stop growing up! Stop growing away! This time, this glorious time, is passing so quickly! In ten years, I will have all big kids. In ten years there will be no more diapers, no kissing owies, no funny toddler talk. In ten years I won’t be teaching phonics or addition.
In ten years…. that’s not very long. It will pass as quickly as the last ten did, I suppose.
Sigh. Parenting is the only job in which your goal is to work yourself out of a job.