This morning I saw something completely shocking. Something that made me question everything about my life.
I came home from running this morning at 6:30. And when I opened the door, I saw my son, standing in the kitchen already dressed for school and making his own breakfast.
In this totally staged (and yes, perhaps even doctored) photo, my son shows what it would be like when he can pay the bills. But that day is many years away . . . or is it?
My first thought was . . . Oh no! I’m in the wrong house! Followed closely by my second thought that was simply, who is this kid? And finally, where’s my son?
How could this be happening? He’s not old enough for this. Is he?
I tried to think back to what I was doing every morning when I was in fourth grade. I think I was out of diapers by then. But was I making my own breakfast? I don’t think so. I’m not even sure I knew where the kitchen was.
It seems like just the other day, I was feeding him, rocking him to sleep (well, rocking him. He didn’t sleep for the first three and a half years of his life), helping him take his first step.
And now . . . now I’m scared he’s going to take over running the household. Or worse, signing me over to the nursing home.
He seems so grown up. So mature.
Both of my kids are. I’m so proud of both of them. I hate to see them grow up so fast, but I’m proud of the way both of them are turning out.
And it’s still going to be a few years before my son is completely grown. Although I did see some shaving cream in his bathroom this morning . . .
Holding together the jello 