|Why are Joey's socks on my feet?|
Today, it seemed like fall might actually be coming. It is the middle of September, after all, and it seems like a good time for the temperatures to drop. The weatherman said on the news this morning (as I was cuddling on the couch with Joey under a quilt, waiting for it to be time for his bus) that the high tomorrow would only be 62.
I love Fall. It's the season I fell in love with Justin. It's a beautiful season in Virginia. The trees turn amazing colors, the air is clear, the sky is deep blue, and the leaves crunch under your feet as you walk. You can smell burning leaves if you go outside (most likely because we live about 300 miles from nowhere; if you get three local women in the same room, it's probable that they won't boast a full set of teeth between them). The red maples seem to actually glow against the blue sky. In case you didn't get it, I love Fall. I don't necessarily love where we live, but Fall in Virginia has to be experienced at least once in your life.
Of course, I'm fighting the battle of the jeans right now, so wardrobe issues are a challenge. I've resorted to pants that are elastic waisted because I just haven't found that rockin' pair of "mom" jeans. I still want to shop in the juniors section, even though I haven't qualified as a "junior" in at least twenty years (okay, twenty-five). I've gotten to the point of being willing to go into the "women's" section if it means finding a pair of pants that fit. No luck.
I posted up on Facebook recently, asking "Is it wrong that I just ordered a pair of pajama jeans?" I got an unequivocal "NO!" Apparently, a lot of people are with me on "I can't find a pair of comfortable pants!" I am still waiting on delivery of those pajama jeans, which I ordered September 3rd. I realize normal shipping can take a week to ten days, but come on!
So, I have a pants deficiency and it cannot be corrected with vitamin therapy. This is a problem if the temperature is only going up to 62 tomorrow.
But apparently, my youngest son and I wear the same size of socks.
I came out of the bedroom with a pair of socks in my hand this morning. I usually don't wear shoes or socks in the house because I prefer to be barefoot, but I was going out, so I decided to wear my almost never used walking shoes and I needed socks for that. I pulled on the first one and realized, "Oh. This isn't my sock. It's Joey's." And immediately on the heels of that thought was this one: "Oh my God. My youngest child has the same size feet I do." My baby has the same size feet as me. My baby.
My kids are growing up. I know it. It's happening all around me, although a lot of the time I don't notice it until someone who hasn't seen them in awhile comments on the fact that Jamie is now taller than I am or I make Joey try on last year's pants and they are clearly going to come in handy if we have a flood but he won't be able to unzip them.
I'm sad that my kids are no longer babies. My youngest will still snuggle on the couch with me in the morning for a few minutes before the bus comes. He even pulls the quilt up over me before he crawls under and then pats the side of the couch to get the cat to jump up on top of us and purr. But that is about the sum total of physical affection I am getting from my kids these days. My oldest two will still hug me, mostly briefly, but it's awkward for adolescent boys to know what to do with a show of physical affection for their mother, so mostly they don't. I miss the days of sticky kisses and being plowed into from behind by a chubby body wrapping his arms around me.
But, then again, it's kind of nice that they can get their own food, unload the dishwasher, and don't require constant supervision. They don't even require entertainment anymore. Teenagers are, by definition, self-sufficient. They don't want my help anymore.
It's kind of nice. But it's kind of sad.