Growing, Grown, Gone

This is a poem that my Dad used to read every team party.  A more personalized version hangs on the walls in my sister’s, brother’s, and my rooms.  I haven’t read the original in years.  I do not know the author.  Spme have suggested that it was Erma Bombeck, who was an author writing about parenthood in the era my Dad would have found the poem, but I’ve never found this particular piece attributed to any one. Today a nephew turns 15.  Tomorrow my oldest turns six.  I try to savor every moment.

ImageOne of these days you’ll shout: “Why don’t you kids grow up and act your age!”
And they will.

Or: “You guys get outside and find yourselves something to do . . . and don’t slam the door!”
And they won’t.

You’ll straighten up the boys’ bedroom neat and tidy . . . bumper stickers discarded . . . spread tucked in and smooth . . . toys displayed on the shelves. Hangers in the closets. Animals caged. And you’ll say out loud: “Now I want it to stay this way.”
And it will.

You’ll prepare a perfect dinner with a salad that hasn’t been picked to death and a cake with no finger traces in the icing and you’ll say: “Now there’s a meal for company.”
And you’ll eat it alone.

You’ll say: “I want complete privacy on the phone. No dancing around. No pantomimes. No demolition crews. Silence! Do you hear?”
And you’ll have it.

No more plastic tablecloths stained with spaghetti.
No more bedspreads to protect the sofa from damp bottoms.
No more gates to stumble over at the top of the basement steps.
No more clothespins under the sofa.
No more playpens to arrange a room around.
No more anxious nights under a vaporizer tent.
No more sand on the sheets or Popeye movies in the bathrooms.
No more iron-on patches; wet knotted shoestrings; tight boots, or rubber bands for ponytails.
Imagine. A lipstick with a point on it. No baby-sitter for New Year’s Eve. Washing only once a week.
Seeing a steak that isn’t ground. Having your teeth cleaned without a baby on your lap.
No PTA meetings. No car pools. No blaring radios. No one washing her hair at 11 o’clock at night.
Having your own roll of tape.

Think about it. No more Christmas presents out of toothpicks and library paste.
No more sloppy oatmeal kisses. No more tooth fairy. No giggles in the dark.
No knees to heal, no responsibility.

Only a voice crying, “Why don’t you grow up,” and the silence echoing,

“I did.”

Follow the Fat Pastor on Facebook

Follow on Twitter


Filed under Personal Reflection

6 responses to “Growing, Grown, Gone

  1. joan m

    the only good thing about their growing up is then they give you grandchildren

  2. catherine m

    Great poem.. Love your Facebook posts and your blog.. to bad you are not in Arizona because this rebelious catholic would show up for your services!

  3. Constance

    I don’t ever want to read that again! but I get it. It’s already starting, this Christmas she didn’t want a babydoll….and the bathtub toys sit in a basket ans stare at me everyday untouched by her, but I can’t bring myself to put them away. I hope I can lighten up and try not to be so naggy…..and Joan, I know I will love and cherish grandbabies too!!!

  4. I think the poem is by Erma Bombeck in her Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul.

  5. Deb

    I agree with godcanhealit’s comment. Erma Bombeck is the author of this wonderful piece. Thank you for sharing it!

  6. The poem my Dad read pre-dates the book Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul, but it could have been written by Erma Bombeck. She was an active author in the era he probably found it. I’ll adjust the attribution, but I still can’t find it directly.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s