My son spent quite some time constructing a fake miniature golf course with all the blocks and train tracks. When he finally finished, he announced with a flourish, “Behold, my super cool maze of awesomeness!”
And from the kitchen, where I stood with my hands in dishwater, a thought nearly felled me: I’m going to miss that kid. Even as I type those words, the thought of this boy grown and gone from my house brings tears to my eyes.
Because as surely as a gray hair coils from the part in my hair, he is going to turn eleven and then twenty and before I know it, he’ll be graduating from college and moving all his Calvin and Hobbs books to an apartment. I’m going to miss his sunny disposition, his hilarious comments on life, his cheery boyhood.
I’m going to miss that kid. If I could, I’d freeze-dry him, but I doubt he’d be as funny and cute dehydrated and tucked away in a Zip-loc bag. So I’ll just have to miss him. (But I think I’ll try to miss him after he’s gone instead of now.)