Becoming Someone

“Someone come help me tie my shoes,” my then four-year-old stepson whined plaintively at the top of the stairs.
I looked around the dining room where I sat working at the sewing machine.
There was no one else in the house but the two of us. There had not been anyone but us for the past several hours.
That was the day I realized I finally was Someone.
After the wonder of each new baby passed, after all the company went home, Someone still had to change the diapers, soothe the tears and wake up at 2 a.m. to nurse the infant. Only one person fit that description at our house.
After a day with three pre-schoolers, there were nights I wasn’t too sure I wanted to be Someone. Especially when I was too tired to even clear an emergency path through the clutter of toys and diapers before going to bed.
Nor was I thrilled to be Someone who loaded trash into the car to haul off to the dumpster. As soon as my babies were old enough to drive, I let them be that Someone special.
In fact, over the years, as we added children, I had plenty of others with whom to share the privilege of being Someone. That’s when I became the Someone who delegated to the jobs.
“Someone open the door for the cat,” I commanded from the lounge chair where I was keeping the fish from breaking down the glass walls of their aquarium.
“Someone stir the stew on the stove,” I hollered from the depths of my bedroom where I researched current literature, word by word, book by book.
I rarely had to say, “Someone get the phone.” Everyone raced to be the first.
I did not even have to ask for Someone to get the mail. All I had to do was open the door, look at the mailbox and Someone would push me aside and race down the driveway to the box.
Recently, Someone has had to drive them to and from college until they earn enough money for their own car.
I like being that Someone. With no interruptions all the way there, we talk and both become Someone special.
With all but one gone, I am astounded to discover that once again I have become the Someone who picks up the mail, stirs the stew and lets the cat out.
As long as my daughter is home, though, I will never have to answer the phone. I refused to race with Someone a third my age. She never lets me win.
I like being the Someone at a parent-teacher conference when the teacher begins, “what a pleasure to work with your child.”
But I wish Someone else had the privilege when the conference begins, “we have a little problem.”
I like being Someone when my child’s name and picture are in the newspaper for winning an award, graduating or getting married.
I wish I had not been the someone supervising when they threw forks in the restaurant, annoyed the neighbors or managed to embarrass the family name once again. Mostly, though whatever the age or stage my children are in, I like being Someone.


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