Wednesday, June 13, 2012

no more dinosaur pajamas

last december, during my best writing spree ever, i was churning out a nightly blog post. i mean, i was really rocking it consistently. one of grandma's friends was amused by all of my "thoughts and things" and gave me the very flattering comment of calling me a "modern day erma bombeck." by the time you get around to reading these books, erma will be right up there with the dinosaurs.

erma bombeck was an american humorist, a stay at home mom, a house wife, a jack of all trades. she wrote a weekly newspaper column filled with the trials and tribulations of raising a family. she was so relatable, so honest and so, so funny. i have a few compilations of her columns and its the kinda writing you read and laugh out loud about, all the while nodding your head because you get exactly what she is talking about. been there, done that.

of all erma's columns, "no more oatmeal kisses" is my favorite. its a response to one of her readers, who complains about the in and outs of life, how she's not enjoying "the ride." it ends up being about the day that you wake up with an empty nest and all those daily nuisances are gone. i get goose bumps and a huge lump in my throat every time i read it and it always makes me pause for thought. the ride is so rough and bumpy some days, that there appears to never be a light at the end of the tunnel. some times i long for the days that you are independent and self-sufficient, especially when meal time comes. i insisted on having the beautifully large oven range, that now only cooks chicken nuggets. i eat cold meals, i snack on goldfish and fruit snacks and you one drink me to death until i totally give up on eating all together. then you're off about your play time business and i am left with a kitchen full of dirty dishes and a hungry (albeit flabby) stomach.

its easy in those moments to wish the days away. and then something always happens that snaps me back into my current life; last week it happened to be pajamas. i hadn't noticed how tall jack was getting until grandma and grandpa were here and my father told me i needed to by jack new pajamas. my father thinks my kids have too many clothes, so i had to inspect. sure enough all of the tops were working pretty hard across his belly and the pants came above his ankles. i love the opportunity to buy new pjs, i love the cute, coordinated sets but when i went to look for a size 6 there were none to be found. i spent a good week in pure devastation as i scoured the internet and made a special trip to kansas city looking for them. apparently, when you reach a size 6, the gap throws you into a pair of athletic shorts and a t-shirt.

this is what it has come to?

from here on out, you're going to look like a big boy when you go to bed.

well, that is IF i were to have purchased said kid "pajamas." but i didn't.

instead, i am going to let you keep stretching those until they become capri pants and a crop top. . . or until you complain and force me to buy something else.

no more oatmeal kisses and no more dinosaur pajamas.

heavy sigh

i took this one just this morning, i always love the way you look when you are sleeping

No More Oatmeal Kisses
by Erma Bombeck

One of these days you’ll explode and shout to all the kids,
“Why don’t you just grow up and act your age!”
And they will…

Or, “You guys get outside and find something to do –
without hurting each other. And don’t slam the door!”
And they don’t.

You’ll straighten their bedrooms
until it’s all neat and tidy,
toys displayed on the shelf,
hangers in the closet, animals caged.
You’ll yell, “Now I want it to stay this way!”
And it will…

You will prepare a perfect dinner
with a salad that hasn’t had all the olives picked out
and a cake with no finger traces in the icing
and you’ll say, “Now this is a meal for company.”
And you will eat it alone…

You’ll yell, “I want complete privacy on the phone.
No screaming, Do you hear me?”
And no one will answer.

No more plastic tablecloths stained
No more dandelion bouquets.
No more iron-on patches.
No more wet, knotted shoelaces,
muddy boots or rubber bands for ponytails.

Imagine…. a lipstick with a point,
no babysitters for New Years Eve,
washing clothes only once a week,
no PTA meetings or silly school plays where your child is a tree,
no car pools, blaring stereos or forgotten lunch money.

No more Christmas presents made of library paste and toothpicks,
no wet oatmeal kisses,
no more tooth fairy,
no more giggles in the dark,
scraped knees to kiss or sticky fingers to clean
Only a voice asking, “Why don’t you grow up?”
And the silence echoes: “I did.”

1 comment:

  1. If you are up to the task, some of these things can be replaced by other peoples children that let you love them. We call it Preschool!