Last Sunday, as I was running in to church with my 3 young ones in typical disheveled fashion, an older lady greeted us on her way in, and sweetly said, "Oh, I remember those good ol' days."
"Yeah, good ol' days," I replied sarcastically.
She continued, paying little attention to my lack of zeal for these trench digging wonder years,"Back then, they wore suits! We had to iron and polish shoes, and..."
"Wow!" I replied as I bid her a non-verbal 'see ya later' and rushed off to meet the hubs who had dropped us off and parked the car like a good southern gentleman.
Later, I recounted the story to him, and as is common, we decided to banter back and forth about what this older lady may have really been trying to say had she spoken from the back of her mind.
"Nowadays," he joked, "children can just come as they are. Just any old way they please."
"Straight out of bed!" I added.
"Parents just don't even try any more," he hammed on.
"Here's my number,honey. Call me if you ever need me to help you figure out that iron." I surmised.
We guffawed and chuckled, and when the sweet, slow fizz of our silliness bagan to dissipate, somewhere deep down, I realized I would someday be that little old lady walking through the church doors alongside a much younger, war-torn mother of multiple kiddos.
And, someday, I would have more discretion, I decided. Someday I would not tell her how we used to do things. Someday I would not sew any unintentional seeds of guilt.
Someday, I would simply say, "I remember those good ol' days. I didn't use an iron either."