I blinked

I once had three baby boys.    I blinked.

 

For years, 7:30 p.m. meant bedtime.    I blinked.

My son gently wakes me at the end of SNL. “It’s time to go to bed mom.”

My sons each played with a Fisher Price phone, animatedly chatting with Elmo and Cookie Monster.    I blinked.

They now show me shortcuts in the iPhone, out-texting me easily.

I brought juice boxes & animal crackers to share at play dates with other preschoolers.    I blinked.

I just sent my oldest for twelve hours at Great America with his friends.

In the early days I carried one boy on each hip.    I blinked.

Now I look up to one and wonder how soon the other two will tower over me.

I pushed a double stroller everywhere.    I blinked.

I have to call out for them not to get too far ahead on our bike rides.

I read Margaret Wise Brown & David Shannon aloud every single day.    I blinked.

Now I’m discussing “Fast Food Nation” with my sixth grader.

I rolled a ball back and forth across the living room floor.    I blinked.

I have to check the tournament team schedule before making weekend plans.

I controlled their schedules, their meals, their clothing, their friends.    I blinked.

I’ve lost control.

Summer 2013

 

I had three baby boys.    I blinked.

I don’t have babies anymore.