The Movement: Big Boy Pants

We bought the other half of my son's parochial school uniforms today. We made the annual migration to JC Penney. They were having their (once a season!oh so fabulous!not to be missed!not to be outdone!) sale.

It wasn't difficult. Navy or khaki. They also were kind enough to have a section labeled, "School Uniforms" so I know I won't make any nuns mad with my son's sartorial decisions.

What was difficult was watching my son struggle to buckle his pants. It was difficult because it made the trying on/sizing/length checking un--believe----ably---s--l--o--w. It was difficult because I knew he had to be able to undo/redo his own drawers because I wasn't going to be there to do it for him. I-will-not-be-there.

I will not be there when he is bullied for the first time. I will not be there when he trips in the hall and the class laughs. I will not be there when a girl chases him down at recess and kisses him. I will not be there when he can't remember what sound H makes. I-will-not-be-there.

Buying big boy pants while still waiting for my first paycheck was hard. Not being there is even harder.

I will be there. With red rimmed eyes and wet kleenex, I'll be there to greet him as he comes home from the bus. I'll be there to hold him and tell him how fearfully and wonderfully made he is when others may not agree. I will be there to put the special Cars Movie tattoo band aid on boo-boos so minute as to be invisible, yet still a bruise to his soul. I will be there to reassure him that girls are indeed yucky and that he won't like them for lots and lots and lots of years to come. I'll be there to help him remember what sound H makes. I'll be there to help him to always remember, always know, always count on-I-WILL-BE-THERE.