Erma’s Wet Oatmeal Kisses and Thoughts on Mother’s Day

My baby granddaughter went to the pediatrician and got her first shots this week. I wasn’t worried about the baby but I knew my daughter would cry.

“How did you know?”  my daughter asked.

“Because I cried every time you and your brothers got your shots.”

My daughter inherited my hormones and my ability to squirt tears like the water hose the boys ran over with the lawn mower.

Sunday is Mother’s Day and for every mom whose mother is no longer alive, it’s a bittersweet day.

While I will think about my mom I also want to thank God for the honor of being a mother. Next to the day I married the love of my life, nothing else compares to bringing home a new baby.

I can still see the tiny bundles wrapped in blankets and tucked snuggly inside the Moses’ basket my mom gave me at my baby shower. Each one of my babies came home in that basket, including the twins who now are so big their feet wouldn’t even fit inside it!

I am and always will be a sentimental sop, so years ago when I read Erma Bombeck’s “Wet Oatmeal Kisses” poem I boo-hooed. But I took it to heart and did my best to treasure every single moment of the motherhood journey.

If you’ve never read it grab a box of tissue and enjoy. Happy Mother’s Day Moms and Happy NanaHood Nanas…Enjoy the journey!

 

WET OATMEAL KISSES

by Erma Bombeck

This was written in response to a young mother’s complaint about the house being messy and the children being unruly.

The baby is teething;
The children are crying.
Your husband just called and said “Eat dinner without me.”

One of these days you’ll explode and shout to the kids,
“Why don’t you grow up and act your age?”
And they will.
Or “You guys get outside and find yourself something to do,”
and “don’t slam the door”
And they don’t.

You’ll straighten their bedrooms all neat and tidy;
toys displayed on the shelf;
Hangers in the closet; animals caged.
You’ll yell, “Now I want it to stay this way.”
And it will.

You’ll yell, “I want complete privacy on the phone — no screaming!
Do you hear me?”
And no one will answer.

No more plastic tablecloths with stains of spaghetti.
No more dandelion bouquets.
No more iron-on patches.
No more wet knotted shoelaces,
muddy boots, or rubberbands for ponytails.
Imagine a lipstick with a point!

No babysitter for New Year’s Eve.
Washing clothes only once a week.
No PTA meetings or silly school plays where your child is a tree.
No car pools, blaring stereos, or forgotten lunch money.
No more Christmas presents made of library paste and toothpicks.
No wet oatmeal kisses.
No more tooth fairy.
No more giggles in the dark, scraped knees to kiss
or sticky fingers to wash.

Only a voice asking – “Why don’t you grow up?”
And a silent echo — “I did.”