I don't know if...
*my couch is going to survive until my youngest child reaches junior high. It's apparently a trampoline in disguise.
*I will stop reading to the girls. I might be the only parent of high schoolers cuddling up on the couch and reading out loud. Will it still be weird when they're in their 40s?
*my kids will ever figure out how much I sneak out of the pantry when they're not looking.
*my child will ever understand that "get an animal" is code for "get your tushy back in bed" when she says "I'm scared" in a very non-scared voice. Every night.
*that red paint spot on the wall will ever get painted over. I don't have high hopes for that. It might be better just to sell the house.
*we will eliminate plastic, non-breakable silverware, plates, cups, and bowls from our house. (Maybe when the boy grows up?)
*my oldest will ever wear jeans. Ever.
*the youngest will care about what she wears. Ever.
*the girls will ever be able to share a room whereupon the Younger doesn't keep the Elder awake with her annoying(ly hilarious) younger sister shenanigans.
*we will get through a road trip of longer than 4 hours 'cause we don't do devices in cars and there's only so much "eye spy" and "twenty questions" that one can tolerate. (In case you ever get caught up in a game of "twenty questions" with the Younger, the answer is nearly always "baby spiders," "branches," or "the winter solstice.")
*we will be able to go bowling without using the 6-lb. balls and the cheater ramp. Granted, I very much wish that I had access to the cheater ramp the first time I went bowling when I was a kid and got a score of "1." For the entire 10 frames.
*we will be able to leave a warm building that is full of bathrooms before loading into the car for the 10-15 minute drive home across town without someone saying "I have to go to the bathroom!" and then a mere 10 seconds later "It's a 'mergency!" after I turn out of the parking lot.
Some questions just pinch the brain muscle with not knowing the answer. And then conversations like this happen, which are utterly incomprehensible, and the list of things I don't know just gets longer.
Me (looking up at the Younger, who is curled up in the recliner across the room as she is sucking on her thumb and rubbing her belly while waiting on me to come read with her): How's that belly button treating you?
the Younger: GOOD. And my thumb tastes like blueberries, raspberries and strawberries. And Mommy hair. My thumb tastes like YOU.
I just don't know, friends.