It’s the little things that get to you.
It’s the, “Not Me” that always gets blamed. The Birds and the Bees that needs explained.
It’s the cookies hidden beneath the bed. The fifteen millionth book to be read.
The science fair project that’s due tomorrow. The hand held out, wanting to borrow.
It’s the crusty, inside out, balled up socks. It’s the collection of bugs, and the one of rocks.
It’s the little things that get to you.
It’s the piddle on the toilet seat. The “mom, you know I don’t eat meat.”
The toothpaste smeared inside the sink. The “momma, can I have a drink?”
It’s the washcloth on the bathroom floor. The slamming of the gosh-darn door.
It’s the peanut butter knife embossed to the plate. The “But you never said I couldn’t date.”
It’s the little things that get to you.
It’s the had-to-have-pup that’s never fed. The rapid-fire vomit on the edge of the bed.
It’s the missing shoe that’s gone forever. The ‘ma, what happens if I pull this lever?”
It’s the soaking coat left in the rain. The Easter dress with the ketchup stain.
It’s ‘yes, the cats have water,’ when they clearly don’t. It’s litter box scoopers and the “no, I won’t.”
It’s the little things that get to you.
It’s the grad night party. It’s the letting go. It’swaiting by the window for headlights to show.
It’s that tiny fist, striking out on its own. It’s the thought of them leaving. Of being alone.
It’s the months before college, those last few days. When those little things, is all you crave.
It’s those moments called ‘life’…and you hadn’t a clue. It was the little things that would get to you.
