Cliché
September 17, 2010
This morning we were digging through the sock basket looking for a suitable pair of socks. It’s a big basket with a lot of socks, most of which never seem to get worn. The kids each decide that they have a favorite style and that is it for the rest of the socks. Somehow I can’t manage to make myself throw them away. I mean, they are perfectly good socks! We might need them one day! We might just have a SOCK EMERGENCY.
You should just get rid of these. I’m never going to wear them.
My daughter held up a pair of lace trimmed ankle socks.
Thinking back, I realize she hadn’t worn them in a long time, but what I didn’t realize was that it was going to be never again. And just like that another thing is cast aside. Without my knowledge. Without my permission. Shouldn’t they need my permission to grow up?
Little bits of their childhood scattered behind them. Discarded in favor of growing up.
I feel compelled to document things that I never did with the oldest ones, back when I was blissfully unaware how quickly time progressed. I feel compelled to gather up these disgarded bits, package them up somehow, as evidence that once things were this way. Things I never imagined that I would forget, I have.
Every day when you were in first grade you wore ankle socks, most of them had lace trim. You hated sneakers. You loved dresses. Your hair usually was in two ponytails with bows.
And now you are in second grade.
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