Some might say that I continue to be a hovering mother, doing what he should be doing himself. But having just ironed my son's graduation gown, I don't think so. Yes, there is the possibility that he would have melted it using a too-hot iron, but that's beside the point. As I prepared this clothing for the ritual of pomp and circumstance, I found myself thinking about the time I sewed the cutest pair of plaid flannel overalls for him when he was a baby. Back when he was soft, sweet, and all ours. He used to come in to my room in the morning looking for a sticker because he dressed himself. I would draw happy faces on the back of his hand with my makeup pencils, and it would take him half an hour to eat a granola bar. (One, because it was a lot to eat for a little kid, and two, because he talks so much!)
I hope that tonight he will squeeze my hand one last time before he walks off to find his place in line and enter the next part of his life. He is still sweet, but not all ours any longer.
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