Toddler Sock Wisdom

Today as I was rummaging through one of my cupboards, I came across this:

A toddler sock. Never mind my poor housekeeping skills. I was instantly sad. Yesterday I had toddlers. Now those toddlers are 21 and 17. Not that I miss wiping poopy butts. I absolutely do not. And I find great joy in watching our kids turn into fine young adults. But here's what I do miss: my unmistakeable purpose. As in wiping poopy butts.

Right now I have a disgusting cold sore in my nose. (Sorry for the gross nature of this blog post so far.) It's something that happens when I'm stressed or overwhelmed. Of course, I can't admit this to my husband, because he will accurately point out that I do this to myself. (And who can stand a spousal "told ya so"?) But he's probably right. I don't need to teach a class, but I do. I don't need to help my mother at her shop, but I do. I don't need to write a book, but I do. I don't need to work at the bank, but... wait, yes, I do need to work at the bank. My point? I seem to fill in any little crack of time to the point of cold sore or migraine hell. Yesterday, I realized why I do this when I found that little toddler sock.

Every mother either remembers or looks forward to the day she can shop at a supermarket (do people say that anymore?) without having to mediate a meltdown or worry about a pile of apples tumbling on the floor. Going to the grocery store without a toddler seems to be one of the first benchmarks of parental freedom. Before that day, our world consists of ensuring the kids are fed, bathed, schooled, soccer'd, etc. So, when I wrote my first book about ten years ago, I'm guessing Cole had learned to cut his own meat. No, that's not right. I think that was last year. But he probably, most certainly, had learned to wipe his own butt, somewhat anyway.

Wrong colors, Kiddo!

Don't get me wrong. I'm still a mom, first and foremost. But I feel like I'm more on-call than 24/7. And in between signing up for ACTs or wielding a stressed out college girl, I dabble in these other roles in my life which I completely enjoy. But that's the key: dabble. Not immerse. Dabble. It might save me on Abreva. (That's cold sore medication for those of you who haven't had the joy of pustules in your nose or mouth.)

And perhaps, just perhaps, I should be stepping up my maternal helicoptering in spite of having nearly grown children. I discovered yesterday that kid #2 is considering the wrong state university! Excuse me, I have some talking to do before the next cold sore sets in and Cole forgets his Hawkeye pedigree.