It must be getting closer to the holiday season; I can tell, because I’m getting all weepy. Partly, that’s just inevitable…I am highly susceptable to the change of seasons. I start getting all excited and semi-secretly (okay, not at all secretly) planning my holiday meals and making lists of presents bought or to buy. Before long, I’m thinking about my personal “days of yore” and missing my Grandpa and faster than you can say “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” I’m crying during a Pillsbury crescent roll commercial.


THIS time though, it wasn’t even my own doing. Eldest Son and his good friend found a digital treasure trove of video clips, downloaded but somehow never made into movies. (Seriously, I’m getting around to it.)

These two have been friends since they were two years old and before long we were scrolling through birthday party, dance-off and sleepover clips from the past ten years. (Right. I am never going to get those movies made.) It was almost to much for my poor, sentimental heart to take. I mean, LOOK at this face;

What witchcraft turned my baby into this?

Oh, I’m crying just thinking about it. It really, really kills me. True, I enjoy my kids; my weird, demanding kids. I like the conversations that we have now that they’re older. I like how they see the world. I’m proud of the people that they are. But, come ON!

The cuteness. It hurts me.

The thing I miss most of all, I guess, is that blurry, not at all defined line between mothers and young children. A little kid will let you stick your nose in their neck, chew on their belly, stick their foot in your mouth…. teenagers? Not so much. And the thing is, I still want to. Well, maybe not the foot. As is the case with most twelve year old boys, that would require I make sure my immunizations are up-to-date and I don’t have that sort of time, but the rest of it? Yes.

I don’t of course. I’m well aware that kids need to separate from their parents, or you end up living in your own, twisted Chekhov play, complete with foreboding snow-swept landscape and simmering resentments. Tie those apron strings a little too tight and before long, the neighbors are telling “48 Hour Mystery” how they seemed like such a quiet young person. As I really don’t want to end up a footnote in the “true crime” section of Wikipedia, it’s probably best if I just let them all go.

I guess this isn’t much of a post. But it gave me an excuse to look through our photos, and roll around in my own nostalgia for a little bit. And even though I’ve taken to spending a great deal of time planning how I’m going to repurpose and redecorate their bedrooms when they’ve gone, I’ll miss the heck out of these kids…

Hell, I miss them already.

The Rise & Fall of a Momocracy

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