No More Oatmeal Kisses

I was talking with my sweet neighbor over at H World Adventures the other night, and it dawned on me that I'm getting old. Thanks, Aim's...Merry Christmas to you, too! We were talking about motherhood and kids and messes and on and on and on. I made a comment from one of my favorite authors of all times - Erma Bombeck. Aim's had no idea who I was talking about. So I went to my trusty little friend, the Internet, who has all the answers. I didn't realize she has been dead for 11 years! Seems like only yesterday I was reading her columns in my Good Housekeeping magazine. She was a blogger before there was a blog; she started out as a SAHM turned newspaper columnist turned author. So for those of you who are too young to remember dear, sweet Erma, I am writing one of my favorite stories from her book, Forever, Erma. For those of you who don't know who she is or have never read any of her work before, stop now, run to your local library, and check out two or three of her books and spend the week between Christmas and New Years reading and laughing.

No More Oatmeal Kisses - January 29, 1969

A young mother writes: "I know you've written before about the empty-nest syndrome, that lonely period after the children are grown and gone. Right now I'm up to my eyeballs in laundry and muddy boots. The baby is teething; they boys are fighting. My husband just called and said to eat without him, and I fell off my diet. Lay it on my again, will you?"
OK. One 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, bedspread tucked and smooth, toys displayed on the shelves. Hangers in the closet. 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 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 clothespin 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 bathroom. No more iron-on patches, rubber bands for ponytails, tight boots or wet knotted shoestrings.
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 Scotch 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."