My Twice Baked Potato

When my son finished Saturday’s fencing class, he stood in front of me and wrapped my arms tightly around himself.  As he pressed his back against me, I was shocked that the top of his head touched my nose.

My nose?  It can’t be!  He was just at my shoulder during the summer!

The instructor was talking to my TBP about what he should practice.  His mouth was moving, but I didn’t hear what he said because I was completely focused on this surprising realization.

There are many great things about my son growing up and maturing.  He is acquiring skills that make school easier for him.  With maturity, he is adapting to his surroundings.  I love having discussions with him that only an older child would understand.  I love the boy, the person, that he is becoming.

In reality, this particular struggle isn’t his…it’s mine.

I hate that his head touches my nose!

Everyone says that it goes by fast.  I didn’t believe them.  It’s even faster than they shared.  I try to warn new parents and I can tell that they don’t believe me.  I’m not surprised, because they have to experience the too tight shoes and too short pants for themselves.  They have to outgrow certain stores and catalogs to understand.

At one quiet moment yesterday, I walked into the spare bedroom.  This room used to be my son’s room before we realized that the noise from the street made it hard for him to stay asleep.  The walls are still covered with the horse decals that we used to decorate his cowboy room.

This room is that room in your house that has many responsibilities.  It is the guest bedroom when visitors are in town,  It is the Christmas wrapping room during the holidays.  It is the storage room for furniture that we just couldn’t say no to.

This room still has toys from the earlier years.  Costumes that were loved and stuffed animals that were hugged and now forgotten.

I know it is time to box these items up, but once in a blue moon, they provide entertainment on a rainy day.  As I watch him play with these things, I can see the 4-year-old version of him.  The chubbier, softer version of him.  The version that hung onto me around one shoulder and twisted my hair while he used his other hand to help explain his thoughts.

If you knew me well, you would know that I try to be organized.  I will sell things at garage sales and can usually fill a Goodwill bag without a second look.  For some reason, I can’t do it with my son’s toys.

Was it hard for you?  Is it hard now?  What is in that room, that you just can’t give away?