I wonder when (I hope not if) I will stop
counting the stages of motherhood by
how much I can accomplish during the day
and how much sleep I get (or not) at night.
When I will cease looking forward
in exhausted anticipation
to things like nighttime potty training,
preschool, getting yourself dressed,
and a time when all of the characters
in all of your story books are not,
by sheer force of your will,
named “Dada.”
When I can cease to hover
and let you climb the jungle gym alone;
when “I can’t hear you anymore”
is no longer cause to run and find you
because you’re surely up to something;
when I can sleep in on Saturday morning
because it’s the weekend, and you understand.
By that time, of course, I will look back and wonder
why I was looking forward all those years.
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