Supposedly someday you miss everything.
The way they talk, your future self will miss
every last second of your current existence.
You will yearn for the opportunity
to wipe the snot off your child's face,
until it dawns on you that it's not your child's snot
but the snot of a sickly child playing nearby.
You will weep whole-body sobs
because you can no longer scrub grass stains out of denim knees,
nor pay a plumber to retrieve small toys from pipes,
nor sleep in delightful two hour fragments.
You will instead be sleeping the entire night.
In black pajamas.
Because you are in mourning.
You will look up to the heavens, shake your fists,
and yell, "Whyyyyyyyy?
Whyyyyyy can't I apply expensive cream
to a toddler's whole-body rash right now?"
Then next to you, your husband will cry out,
"Whyyyy can't I cancel all of my plans and instead
wait for hours at Urgent Care for something that
turns out to be nothing??"
You will both collapse into a large heap
and contemplate the sad state of your lives.
Because your children have grown up.
And you are miserable.
You are the neglected mutts on TV,
begging for someone to give just $1.50 a day
(the price of a cup of coffee!)
so that you can be the parents of a young child again.
Well I call caca.
The only thing in recent memory that I will miss
is overhearing my 2nd graders reason that
"Jingle Bells, Batman smells!"
should instead be:
"Jingle Bells, Butt Man smells!"
because it is way more accurate.
I have to admit I will miss that.
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