Except when I was trying to force out baby #4 by doing anything that might shock my system (much to my chagrin, he was still 9 days late!), I make it a personal mantra that I don't wash windows! Mine are smeared, smudged, splattered and stained with all things child. I will clean toilets, tubs, floors, blinds, and litter boxes...but I won't touch the windows.
Every part of our house screams that it is a home to unruly little neanderthals. The carpet is stained with incriminating evidence from the forbidden and yet seemingly always-able-to-be-smuggled-into-the-living-room contraband of juice boxes and "spill proof" sipper cups (we obviously need to increase our homeland security). Our upholestry smells like dirty dog, old cat, and 4 stinky dirty boys. THere are dents in the wall from wrestling, tackling, and the like. And the windows, well you already know the state that they are in. My front door and patio doors contain sticky, jelly stained handprints, greasy little face smudges, and dirty smears where they place their little hand to brace themselves before they open the door.
Some day the carpet throughout will need to be replaced when my family is done assaulting it. There will be fresh paint covering the dirty handprints, gauges (from who knows what), and chipped areas that are the reallity of my walls. And the furniture will be destroyed necessitating their eventual replacement.
So, why, you ask, do I continue to let these little cave dwellers cohabitate with me? It's the love that has consumed me over moments of sweet-smelling bald baby heads, naked tushies running down the hall, and lit up faces when I walk into the room. I'm wrapped around their little fingers...4 sticky, dirty, germ-covered pinkies.
My children need me every minute of every day.......to wipe a tear, kiss an owie, or give a high-five. Their joys are my joys; I feel their hurts; and every one of their moments captivates my memories. But undoubtedly, they are growing up. Every day is one day closer to the inevitable day that they will leave the nest....and my fear is that I will actually be ready for them to go. It makes me sad...even now I am getting teary.
So today, I gladly stop whatever I am doing when my son stands in the hallway 1/2 naked (isn't that how you poop?) announcing a request for my presence with much vigor and urgency, "mommy! You gotta come see dis great poop!" I rush to the potty, congratulate my son on his accomplishment with applause, and wave while saying goodbye to the poop. I am desperately clinging onto the innocent childhood days of my boys. So until that dreaded day of departure rears its ugly head I will cheerfully contribute to the pep rallies in the potty, smile at the handprints on the wall, and unabashadly not wash the windows!
Every part of our house screams that it is a home to unruly little neanderthals. The carpet is stained with incriminating evidence from the forbidden and yet seemingly always-able-to-be-smuggled-into-the-living-room contraband of juice boxes and "spill proof" sipper cups (we obviously need to increase our homeland security). Our upholestry smells like dirty dog, old cat, and 4 stinky dirty boys. THere are dents in the wall from wrestling, tackling, and the like. And the windows, well you already know the state that they are in. My front door and patio doors contain sticky, jelly stained handprints, greasy little face smudges, and dirty smears where they place their little hand to brace themselves before they open the door.
Some day the carpet throughout will need to be replaced when my family is done assaulting it. There will be fresh paint covering the dirty handprints, gauges (from who knows what), and chipped areas that are the reallity of my walls. And the furniture will be destroyed necessitating their eventual replacement.
So, why, you ask, do I continue to let these little cave dwellers cohabitate with me? It's the love that has consumed me over moments of sweet-smelling bald baby heads, naked tushies running down the hall, and lit up faces when I walk into the room. I'm wrapped around their little fingers...4 sticky, dirty, germ-covered pinkies.
My children need me every minute of every day.......to wipe a tear, kiss an owie, or give a high-five. Their joys are my joys; I feel their hurts; and every one of their moments captivates my memories. But undoubtedly, they are growing up. Every day is one day closer to the inevitable day that they will leave the nest....and my fear is that I will actually be ready for them to go. It makes me sad...even now I am getting teary.
So today, I gladly stop whatever I am doing when my son stands in the hallway 1/2 naked (isn't that how you poop?) announcing a request for my presence with much vigor and urgency, "mommy! You gotta come see dis great poop!" I rush to the potty, congratulate my son on his accomplishment with applause, and wave while saying goodbye to the poop. I am desperately clinging onto the innocent childhood days of my boys. So until that dreaded day of departure rears its ugly head I will cheerfully contribute to the pep rallies in the potty, smile at the handprints on the wall, and unabashadly not wash the windows!
7 comments:
Beautiful and true, everyday is one day closer to them leaving *tear*
Being your son's cheerleader is WAY more important and fun than washing any stinking windows. :)
Found you (and now following) through Nichole's Small Moments Spotlights. This week she featured me too!
I love this! Especially the part about the poop. I have a 2 year old daughter and we have recently gotten on the potty train. We wildly celebrate every poop in the potty, and wave bye bye as it is flushed. ;)
Great post!
I'm laughing at "contraband juice boxes!"
Stopped by from Nichole's.
Congratulations on your feature!
The love, those little voices and smiles really do make all the mess worthwhile :)
I love this post and isn't it hilarious how proud they are when they have a poop :)
So glad to see this post featured at Nichole's site!
This really is such a lovely post, Crystal!
I love the pep rally at the potty line. So perfect.
This is a very sweet and real post! Thanks! I only know too well the call of a son, heralding the presence of an awesome gift in the toilet. I hope it is extinguished by the time they turn 14 or so!
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