Those Were … Days

I sat in The Poo’s room, run over by a day full of The Whining and The Fussin’ and The Crying, wiped out from being a parent all fucking day.

The girl, still she talked. Mom? Did you know that Jesus died? Mom? Can we make cookie-dough cookies? Mom? Can we finish our fairy dream?

This was after a pre-bed, post-bath tussle with Shaggy, whose indignant screams over getting lotioned up and pajama’d drilled an actual hole in my skull.

Half-listening as my daughter chattered on, I flipped through blogs, stopping to read Lauren’s Things I Carry. Lauren is a newlywed, a sweet old soul with a serious love for animals and cameras. I flipped through her recent posts, to one that described how she and her new husband lounged around one weekend, napping on the couch with their dogs.

For one crystal-clear moment, I remembered what it was like to not have children.

Most days, the years before The Poo—and later, Shaggy—came along are little more than a blurry set of images: the newsroom I worked in, my first apartment, dates with Mr. C. Even when I recall our wedding day, it feels like the children were already with us then.

But last night, I, too, remembered lazy Sundays doing the crossword puzzle and weekends with double-features and midnight grocery shopping. I remembered choosing a restaurant based on the menu, and not on how long we’d have to wait for a table.

I remembered opening days under blankets, chilled by early April snow and cheering on the home team. I remembered impromptu parties, staying out until 3 a.m. and jeans sized in single digits. I remembered white duvet covers and tequilla shots.

Those days. The old days.

When I saw Lauren’s photograph of her husband, laying asleep on the sofa, I yearned to wake up late. I longed for a haphazard day of French toast and sweatpants.

I ached with the knowledge that the morning would bring an early trip to the grocery store before nap time, followed by a harried lunch eaten standing up while my husband fed the baby, as I made grilled cheese for the girl.

The coming week brings grandparents, pre-K screenings, the spring concert, babysitters, spit-up and laundry galore. It brings work shoe-horned into spare minutes and collapsing into bed, joints aching, and asleep by 10 p.m. Alarm clocks, pediatric dentists and diaper shopping are all on the agenda.

Fleetingly, I longed for total and complete irresponsibility.

Then, I heard my daughter snoring softly, ladybug flashlight tucked into her fist. Her wet hair framed her peaceful face, that rosebud mouth closed, at last, by the Sandman.

I pictured my son, shaped like a comma, laying in his crib. Chest moving up and down with each breath, resting for a new day of eating all the paper he can find and trying very, very hard to walk on 7-month-old legs.

I knew my husband of almost seven years waited for me downstairs, for a snack of homemade double-vanilla ring cake and a Netflix movie.

It isn’t a night on the town. I’m not 121 pounds anymore. I don’t have the fire in my belly I once thought would lead me to fame and fortune.

And yet, those days …

They were just days.

These days make up a life worth living.

I don’t begrudge Lauren her days. I hope she lives them fully, and, when she is ready, that she looks back at them through a haze of exhausted love.

As I did last night, watching my daughter sleep.