I did laundry yesterday and was momentarily saddened. I was struck by a harsh and looming fact while I was un-inside-outing Megan's pant legs (if that makes sense; perhaps your kids, like mine, somehow remove their clothing while simultaneously twisting, balling, and tying it in knots). The cruel fact I speak of has everything to do with adjustable waistbands. You know the kind; they're sewn-in elastic strips with buttonholes that mate to buttons on the inside of little waists. Mostly I see them in Megan's jeans, but they're in other items too (shorts, capris, skirts, skorts... yeah, I just said skorts). Anyway, I suspect they'll be gone soon; Megan's laundry will be adultlike (and scary). And I won't notice and smile at the little-girl things. Where did the puppies go? Where are the rainbows and unicorns? I remember when Megan loved giraffes and butterflies....
Speaking of cute, I don't watch the kids sleep as much I used to. I don't wish to be labeled an over-adoring-gushing-loony parent (too late), but I often peeped in on their little sleeping selves years ago. Just briefly. I didn't put match to pipe and sit at a crib-abutting rocker puffing on Virginia Vanilla or whatever, gazing lovingly at my handiwork. Ha, what an untrue and arrogant way to put it. It's God's handiwork, of course, or Mother Nature's if you're so inclined. We'll leave it at that. But I watched 'em snooze a bit when they were younger; I recall enjoying the fact they were still. Just still. They had stopped, taken a break, they were no longer crawling, crying, jibber-jabbering, eating, pooping, and so on, all of which required exhausting supervision. Not anymore.
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