I was standing in the middle of the card and invitation aisle at Hobby Lobby today when the thought occurred to me: Is the oldest really fixing to graduate? Am I really the mom looking at stickers with caps and tassels and rolled-up diplomas? Is he really gonna pull this one off?
And that last comment is in no way a negative remark towards him, it just seems a little unreal. How can I be the mother of a practically grown man? He's eighteen, has a job, is a college applicant, and a soon-to-be registered voter. He even informed me one day not long ago that he could now legally buy cigarettes (not that he would ever do that, he assured me). Now if he bought a lottery ticket and won... hey, I wouldn't stand in his way. Thank goodness, though, he is very frugal with his money.
These kids. The husband and I were talking about them last night. How exhausting they are. How much fun they are. How lucky we are. Every day I watch the three of them leave for school, usually laughing or arguing depending on the day, and think to myself, "Bring them all back home, Lord." About five minutes after they left this morning, a cop or two went roaring by the house with sirens blaring. For a brief moment, my heart slowed down and my stomach grew weak. I am all too aware of how quickly things can change.
The middle can't seem to make it through a longboarding weekend without a new, bloody gash on his elbows or knees (add ankles and dirt bikes to that mix). The youngest can't seem to get enough of perfume and eye shadows and funky nail polish colors. And that oldest...
I do believe he's about ready to spread his wings and fly.
His dad was his age when he joined the Army.
I was his age when I thought I had life all figured out.
And I haven't figured it out yet. Have you?
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