Last week I cried about socks.
That's right, socks.
See, I've known for quite awhile now that you're a big boy - you remind me at least a hundred times a day, and you've been doing it for months - but it didn't really hit me until I had to buy you your first package of little boy socks. There's no more "T" in sizes for you - just an S.
And that makes me sad.
When you were a baby, I couldn't wait for you to grow up. I wanted you to be able to do things! Sometimes I feel like I wanted that so badly that I didn't enjoy your "lump" phase. I wished away your baby days ...
"Long ago you came to me, a miracle of firsts.
First smiles and teeth and baby steps, a sunbeam on the burst.
But one day you will move away and leave to me your past,
And I will be left thinking of a lifetime of your lasts.
"The last time that I held a bottle to your baby lips...
Last time that I lifted you and held you on my hip...
Last time when you had a binky stuck inside your mouth...
The last time that you crawled across the floor of this old house.
"Last time when you ran to me, still small enough to hold,
Last time when you said you'd marry me when you grew old.
Precious, simple moments and bright flashes from the past,
Would I have held you longer if I'd known they were the last?"
(an excerpt from a poem by Karen Kingsbury)
Funny, how new socks can make me so nostalgic ...