One Day...

One day...

This is the mother's near constant refrain.

One day.

I want one day.  One day without fighting, bickering, complaining, back-talking, sulking, pouting, and every other make-me-want-to-pull-out-my-hair-ing.  One day of a clean house, cheerful children, completed laundry, sparkling dishes, a luxurious bubble bath, a full night of sleep, and while we're at it, a perfectly romantic husband who cooks, cleans, puts the kids to bed, and asks, "Is there anything else I can do for you, my dear, beautiful, matchless wife?"

One day.


One day I will organize all of this clutter.  I will assemble baby books and photo albums.  I will get rid of clothes long outgrown and toys long neglected.  One day I will put candles and glass picture frames at normal level rather than "I don't see how he could possibly reach this" level.  One day I will write a novel or start a business or pursue a career or further education or...  or figure out what I want to do "after kids."  Because right now, I don't have the time or attention span to formulate a plan.

One day.


In the meantime, I will take life one day at a time.  I will cherish this one day, because I cannot know what even the next moment holds.  I will take the time to read a mind-numbingly stupid children's book or engage in a light-saber duel.  I will let my kids dig in the yard, watching them bury their hands and feet in warm earth without worrying what my tub will look like after their baths.  I will even take pictures of their dirty feet, because one day...

... One day I'll wish for this day again.