Erma Bombeck Competition

I'm submitting this essay to the Erma Bombeck Conference competition.  They're looking for writing that's in her style that speaks to everyday life.  Here it is:

“Well, before we know it, we’re going to be 80 years old with a quiet house and nothing to do but sleep, and we’ll miss all this.” This was the pep talk I gave with raised eyebrows of encouragement to my husband as we bellyached about how tired we are from working and raising two toddlers. Of course I meant this pep talk—which, really, was about as peppy as a dead puppy—to be a sobering reminder that we need to be grateful for, rather than exhausted by, the constant noise and pull of our kids because their childhoods will inevitably whip right past us. In response to my grim cheerleading, he exhaled as his lips flapped together like a deflating balloon while he held his graying head in his hands, and I was certain he was about to agree. Instead, to the thought of being elderly and slumbering in a childless house, he slowly answered, “Awesome. That sounds great.”


As it is now, our tiny house is filled with constant chatter—random, ridiculous chatter such as, “Mama, you be the robot and I’ll be the monster and we’ll have a picnic and eat donut soup and ride around on a boat with unicorns who are pirates who want to steal our peanut butter.”

Along with having virtually no quiet time, alone time also has been abolished. Today I took a shower (which alone is cause for a stadium wave) and immediately had two toddlers poking their cherub heads into the tub. My initial reaction was to get annoyed that my ten minutes of golden solitude turned into romper room, but the ominous vision of the elderly me quickly convinced me instead to embrace the company, so I turned into a “shower monster” and had them squealing in delight with my roars and thrashing of wet Medusa hair.

I’m heathen enough at times to admit I grow weary of always being needed and surrounded by noise. But I know that one day, if all goes well, I will be 80 and I will finally have alone time and quiet. I’ll lie down on my bed (my husband will be snoozing with a grin) after a day of chasing no one, wiping no one’s bottom (again, if all goes well), taking part in no silly adventures that require a tiara and spatula. I will finally find time to read a book that’s longer than 7 pages without any talking animals in it, and I’ll collapse onto the bed, not out of pure exhaustion as I do now, but out of sadness and irritation at the lifeless silence except for the ticking clock.