One day, I'll remember my two little mens swirling into a store yelping, flailing about and yelling in their squealy, loud, high-pitched and definitely not "indoor" voices and I'll think it was cute.
One day, I'll remember standing outside a Hallmark store with them, scared to death because I am about to unleash two bulls in a china shop, explaining pleading to them not to touch anything because it is mostly glass and I will wonder why I forgot the darned stroller in the first place. And I'll find it all very funny.
One day, I'll remember how everyone in the world knew we have just entered the room because we didn't "enter" the room, we blew right through it. And I'll think it's hilarious.
One day, I'll remember in hindsight that they were spirited little boys with active imaginations and strong personalities and I'll think it was actually a good thing they weren't two little mens who sat with their hands folded in silence.
One day, I won't have to hold my breath before I turn and close the door and turn the key after leaving the house, wondering what the heck I am doing taking them out of the house and into the public and hoping for the best.
One day, I won't have to literally run in and run out of somewhere because they have a "good behavior" expiration and it's about to run out.
One day, I won't have to stand up and yell things like, "No spitting!" or "Be NICE!" or "Stop pinching your brother!" or "That's a train track, NOT A GUN!"
One day, I'll think about how I thought I wouldn't have to say all those things one day, but they'll be 13 and 15 and I will still be saying those things and I'll think that's funny too.
One day, going into a store or a restaurant with them won't entail me profusely sweating.
One day, because I am persistent, they will hear the word, "No," understand the word, "No," and listen to the word, "No."
One day, I will remember how I thought that one day they'd listen to the word, "No" and I will be 84 and they will still not listen and I'll laugh about that while rocking away in my housecoat and my dentures.
One day, I won't have to ask someone who was watching them how they behaved without cowering in fear of the answer.
One day, I will understand why boys are so rough and make everything into guns.
One day, a long car ride will entail annoying repetitive questions like, "Are we there yet?" rather than high-pitched screaming and wailing for hours upon hours upon hours.
One day, I will be able to carry a purse without a diaper in it and without an entire first-aid kit and vending machine in it, too.
One day, I will be able to have a phone conversation. While they're awake.
One day, I will be able to walk into another room for more than a second without fearing that they will destroy the house or each other.
One day my little tornadoes will instead be little rainshowers and enter a room nicely and quietly instead of tearing through it.
And one day, I will remember that I was a nervous wreck 90% of the time. That I sweated a lot. That I stopped caring about getting that look from other disapproving parents, (because I had to for survival.) That I would sometimes close my eyes and listen to their tiny chipmunk voices because one day they will have manvoices and they won't be quite as cute.
I will remember that they were also quite adorable and when they slept. And when they farted and giggled afterward.
And I'll remember that they often surprised me at odd times with little cutenesses like stopping in the mall play area to kiss my knees and offering to help the other one get onto the toilet to potty train.
And I will think it's all very funny.
And I will actually miss it.
One day.
Tuesday
I Have Tornadoes Tearing Through My Life
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