Someday I am going to be an empty nester. In my fifties, I hope to have breakfasts that are eaten while sitting down, as opposed to hurriedly consumed while simultaneously packing backpacks, looking for gymnastic leotards, trying not to step on the rabbit, and prying apart bickering siblings.
Someday I will not need to break out the calibrated scale to weigh portions of after dinner treats to ensure equal division of dessert amongst the children. I will stop fantasizing about giving one child a large cookie and the other three children smaller cookies and telling them that the larger cookie went to my favorite offspring. Just to see their reaction. In my fifties, I will be above such petty daydreams.
Someday I will be able to have sex with my husband without the paranoia of little feet running up the stairs after a bad dream and wondering how quickly I can get back to my side of the bed. Nor will the idea of sex repulse me, as my nipples will not be chewed down to nubs by the latest nursing baby. I will frolic in the marital bed with abandon, and my husband will take to telling me he has a headache, such will be my reckless, child-free appetite.
Someday, I will look at my husband and ask him what he wants to do that evening. He will answer me with nothing and that is exactly what we will do.
Someday, I will look back on these years and miss them terribly. I will beg my children for grandchildren, and I will spend the rest of my days remembering this chaos, this mess, this bliss and thanking these were indeed the glory days of my life.