When my boys were born five years ago they were 5 pounds and change. If I were so inclined, I could hold one in each hand and run with them like a football.
That would be incredibly silly to do because I would be sure to drop one, but the theory is there.
A few years ago I got my first inkling of what was going to happen. The kids were sorting out laundry, and they hung up an octopus shirt in my closet.
It wasn’t mine.
To make a point of how much it wasn’t mine I put it on, and thought it took a bit of wiggling I was able to get the shirt on. I’ll admit this was not the brightest idea ever. Once when said boys were very little, I got it into to my head to wear a shirt I had worn in my pre-pregnancy days. You know, one of those shirts your husband really enjoys showing off his wife in.
I got it on, but it cut off blood circulation, and when I attempted to get it off, it didn’t come off.
I finally cut it off. Yes, I got out a pair of scissors and through a bit of gymnastics I don’t know how I accomplished it I cut the shirt off.
I was fully expecting my 8-year-old son’s shirt to fit like that, and I was going to be ruining their shirt. Instead, it was tight in the shoulders, and a little uncomfortable. I showed them the shirt, made my point, and their clothes didn’t show up in my closet again.
Then last summer it struck. My son wore shoes the same size as me. This was to be expected someday, but when he was eleven? I was pretty sure God was secretly laughing at me for all of my struggles to stay taller than my younger brother.
This summer we got my boys boots for summer camp. His boots are a good two inches longer than my shoes. I was okay with that because boys feet are huge.
They were not so secretly crowing about it.
But, the moment I knew was coming finally happened last week. I was tired of the giant laundry mess upstairs and had one of those “That is enough” moments.
“Bring down every scrap of clothing upstairs and we are going to sort out your closet!” I yelled. They sheepishly looked around at the random clothing on the floor and gathered up laundry baskets full.
Then I watched as they sorted it out into “clothes I wear,” “clothes I don’t like but are in my closet,” and “clothes I’ve outgrown.” As they finished up their piles I did a final look over to make sure I wasn’t about to give someone filthy clothes and folded them up.
That’s when I saw the shirt. It was a Superman shirt, and it was AWESOME! I have the Batman version of the shirt, and I knew if they weren’t going to wear it, I was.
And that’s when I realized something: