Someday, when Alex is old enough to drive, he will stumble across my blog and pray that he’s just having a bad dream.
Six years ago, I was sitting on a couch stroking my growing belly and contemplating motherhood. Today I’m surrounded by laundry, and in my hands is a pair of true big boy underwear.
Alex has been out of diapers for a few years, but his underwear has proudly proclaimed his preschool status. Underwear that sports the Mickey Mouse clubhouse characters does not boast “these belong to a mature young man”. It’s been easy to overlook how quickly Alex is changing and growing up. Folding Mickey Mouse underwear had lured me into a false sense of security. A sense of security, which came crashing down the day sweet husband and Alex went on an underwear run. It wasn’t until I was tossing their newly acquired purchases into the washing machine that I discovered the new underwear.
My breath caught in my throat as I realized the implication of what I had found. There were no characters on this underwear. The funky halfway hole (is it really necessary?) had potential to actually be functional. Fabric aside, the very cut of these undergarments erase any pretense that they could belong to a preschooler.
In one shopping trip, my little boy has gone from sweet little baby boy to a young man.
No one ever told me that after I became a mother, underwear would have the power to reduce me to tears.