February 19, 2012


Picture it. A Saturday afternoon, a seriously overcrowded Pittsburgh IKEA, le husband and I, three children in tow. Two that insisted on touching everything and one who was without a nap and within three seconds of an epic meltdown.

On the way to checkout, we passed a section full of vases and decorative thingamajigs and all the things that we cannot have due to little hands that sometimes seem oblivious to the "No, no, no's!" that are repeated numerous times.

Le husband turned to me and jokingly said, "If we ever stop having little ones running around, we could decorate the house the way we wanted."

I sighed loudly. Shot him a look. And along the way we went.


Then this morning, I somehow got Olivia and myself to church on time for morning mass. Somewhere, about midway through the homily, I turned to whisper a very quiet warning in her ear to stop kicking my leg with her little Mary Jane'd foot. 

It seems like just yesterday, I was in Olivia's shoes. The Sunday mornings spent next to my Mom and Dad in the pew at church. The look my mom would give us when my brothers and I refused to hold hands during the Our Father. Or the way Travis used to pop his knuckles right when it got really quiet during mass.

And then it hit me. Like a ton of bricks. Like a two by four to the face. 

I'm going to blink and be able able to put a vase of flowers on the coffee table without worrying a little blonde haired boy will knock it over and cut himself to shreds. This time, chasing around little ones, will just be a small blip.

And I'm really in no rush. 

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