Someday

Someday Jay will start calling it “water” instead of “wah-ger”. He will learn how to swim. He will probably like fishing. Maybe barefoot at the lake with his own kids and a cooler of Coke.

Someday Ella won’t reach for my pinky and grasp it tightly in her whole tiny hand. Maybe she will reach for a pen and write. Probably better than me or Chris. Maybe she’ll write research grants. Or novels.

Someday Jay will straighten out his pronouns. He will learn when to use “I” instead of “My” and will stop wrapping his arms around my neck and saying, “Mama, my always love you.” He will probably tell another woman he’ll always love her. Maybe even someone I like and wouldn’t mind sharing my son with. Maybe.

Someday Ella’s babble will turn into words. She will learn how to talk and then sing and joke. Her jokes will turn from knock knocks to quips and puns. She will get dirty jokes and I will wonder how.

Someday Jay will stop asking me to play Legos with him. He will ask his friends to play video games and soccer and basketball. Maybe he will play basketball in high school. Or college.

Someday Ella’s diet won’t consist of a single food group. She will learn to like coffee and burritos and Brussels sprouts. Maybe she will become a vegetarian. Or a hunter.

Someday Jay will learn how to read, and will stop pointing at every street sign and asking, “What it says, Mama?” He will learn how to drive, probably too fast. He will ask to borrow the car.

Someday Ella won’t wear onsies anymore. She’ll wear jeans and boots, probably from the mall, just like her friends. Maybe she will like dresses. Or clown suits.

Someday Jay won’t think farts are the funniest thing EVER anymore. Maybe he’ll relearn that when he’s thirty.

Someday they won’t snuggle against me in bed and snore softly at my side. They will sleep in their own beds, in their own rooms, in their own houses. Maybe in another town. Or another state.

Someday I will get to read books with words that don’t rhyme. I will finish a cup of coffee before it gets cold, and Chris and I will be able to sleep in, maybe go on vacation and stay at nice bed and breakfasts with antiques that are highly breakable and impossible to replace.

But today, I will get Jay a glass of wah-ger and hold tight to that little hand of Ella’s. I will tell Jay that my will always love him, too, and listen appreciatively to Ella’s coos. I will play Legos with Jay and nurse Ella. I will read the railroad crossing and 55 miles per hour signs to Jay and dress Ella in the most precious outfits I can get my other nine fingers on. I will probably always laugh at fart jokes.

Someday they won’t look like this.



But right now, they do. And I am going to breathe in every moment of it.