Please welcome guest blogger Mary Beth! Smart and creative marketing professional, mother of three, wife of a volunteer super coach, new owner of an old home and just like us, Hardly Getting By! –Kristen
It happened to me today. I realized my kids aren’t little anymore. It wasn’t sassy back-talk or eye-rolling disgust when I say something utterly dumb (in their not-so-humble opinions). Nor was it the recognition that my 12 year-old son has eclipsed me in math knowledge and all things technical. Or, that my ten year-old daughter can literally run circles around me in a 5K. Though, those should have been clues. It was something far less subjective than my sentimental musings about how fast time is flying.
The realization washed over me midway through a mundane motherly act. I was searching for my son’s basketball jersey in his closet and discovered it in a crumpled heap on the floor. Not because he is a sloppy preteen, but because I still use baby hangers and the jersey slipped off the ill-fitting plastic triangle. You know the type. They are half the size of adult hangers in pastel colors indicating gender. They still pepper the closets of my three kids aged 12, 10 and 8. The clothes hanging on them are poorly postured, waiting to be promoted to the more mature variety.
This seemingly insignificant action spawned a seminal moment leading me to conclude that maybe it is time to swap out the hangers (along with the sippy-cup sitting in the back of the kitchen cupboard) and acknowledge my babies aren’t, well, babies anymore.