Before her feet hit the floor, she heard it.
The knock on the bedroom door.
Someone needed her.
Someone was sick or had to go to the bathroom.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and opened the door.
She saw her child; no dancing eyes, and hot to the touch.
I don’t feel so good, the understatement of the year.
As she led her back to her room, it happened, all over the floor.

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As I was visiting my son, who is now a lawyer, I was a bit wistful.
As I watched him walk with his father, talking about the things of men, I paused.
Where did the little boy go?
Where is the boy who wore baseball hats and football jerseys?

Where is the boy who read the sports page every morning?
The boy who lined his baseball helmets up according to which teams were playing.
The boy who played football on the lawn and pretended that he was both teams.
Running back and forth; one team going one way, one team going the other.

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I look at the old rocking chair and smile.
Many would look at that chair and think that there is nothing special about it.
But they would be wrong.
Terribly wrong.

Back in my early married life, I worked until the sixth month of my first pregnancy.
I had three long winter months to wait for our precious baby to be born.
The money I made while I worked was never used for us to live on.
We saved that money and used it to buy the furniture that we needed.

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When you are part of a large family, there is not much time to be alone.
That is a good thing.
There is always someone to play with.
There is always someone to climb into the fort with.

With a large family learning the concept of sharing begins early.
In our house, there was only one day that you did not have to share.
You did not have to share on your birthday.
Ironically, the children always wanted to share because it was no fun to play alone.

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I was an only child.
There was more one-on-one attention.
There was no need to share my mother with anyone.
There were no hand-me-downs.

Life revolved around adults.
I became very good at conversing with those older than me.
One of the positives about being an only child was also a negative.
The one-on-one attention where school was concerned.

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I watched the mother in front of me at the grocery store.
She had three children, one boy and two girls.
There was a blur of activity before me that was wonderful to witness.
She handled them well; she differentiated her response to each.

That is a skill that mothers seem to possess.
An innate sense of what each child needs.
The ability to turn on a dime from one to another with ease.
No cookie-cuter parenting, or herd-them-like-cattle discipline.

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It was 1991.
We had been married almost ten years at the time.
We had three children under the age of six.

I saw something in the local newspaper that caught my eye.
It was a writing contest.
Not just any writing contest, it was Our Romantic Evening writing contest.

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Shopping for clothes with young children is an experience.
I am not talking about shopping for clothes for them.
I am talking about shopping for clothes for us.
Needing to buy that dress for a special occasion and having to bring them with you.

You load the diaper bag with bottles or Sippy-cups.
You pack special snacks so they won’t complain too much about being hungry.
You bring favorite toys and books so that they will be occupied as you are trying things on.
You always have your keys as a last resort, though the jingling may annoy other shoppers.

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I watched them run to the elevator.
They were running so fast that they actually ran right into the elevator door.
Each was juggling into position.
Each had a hand ready to push the button.

It’s my turn, the older one said with authority.
No, it’s mine, the younger one said in his best whining voice.
I wanted to see who won this battle.
I stepped back and observed.

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