Miles run yesterday: 9
Words written in my novel so far: 47,585
Size of men’s running shoe that is too small for my 11-year-old: 10
(an homage to Goodnight Moon)
In the great messy garage
There was a grown man’s bike
And some running shoes
And a picture of…
A mommy singing the blues
And there were wide and narrow ties-es
And t-shirts all sizes
And an old Blackberry
Lots of things to carry
Goodbye mommy singing the blues
t-shirts, all sizes
Goodbye short bones
Goodbye things that used to be mine
Goodbye things for all time.
My parents like to laugh about my sister. She had a penchant for things that were theirs.
My dad still remembers the time he returned from a speaking engagement with a gift of a nice men’s watch. My teenage sister walked in and said, “Oh! I could use that.”
Along with some of my mom’s clothes, some furniture, jewelry and various and sundry items. Things always look more appealing at my parents’ house. With my sister being the younger child, my parents found her appropriation techniques charming.
My son seems to be following in his aunt’s footsteps. He has already appropriated my husband’s (adult men’s) road bike as well as borrowed my husband’s favorite ties for dressy functions.
“I try to point him towards my least favorite ties, but he likes the expensive ones,” my husband says, shaking his head.
Yesterday, I went to buy running shoes. I picked out some for me and scanned the clearance section for some low-priced ones for my 11-year-old son. We have poured SuperFastBoneGrow solution all over him, and he can’t seem to stay the same size for more than two minutes.
I dubiously handled a size 10 men’s Karhu pair, a glorious black-and-orange festival of happiness for your feet. “Size 10? I don’t know. He’s really only a 9 and a half.” The store manager assured me I could bring them back if they didn’t work.
My son tried them on when he got home; they were TOO SMALL.
When my husband got home, he held his head in his hands, then marched out to the garage.
He returned carrying some of his favorite running shoes, gently worn, that never worked for running but that he started wearing around town; a distinction only men might understand: dressy running shoes.
My son tried them on: they worked.
My husband is trying to make sense of what is happening to his carefully constructed life: he wonders if giving his children the shirt off of his back is actually necessary.
He really likes his shirts.
I am concerned that I will come home one day to find a lock on our closet door. Our son probably wouldn’t be able to get past it because it would lack high-tech functionality like a case-sensitive password.
My daughter is not far behind; she eyes my jewelry with an experienced eye. She pretends to sort my necklaces to “help me out.” But I know the tricks of the Goodbye Gang.
Parents, join with me:
Goodbye every little thing.