My son is turning twelve this week. Which is rather a big deal.
At some point in the past month, not only has Will shot up a couple of inches, but his voice has dropped to a completely different key. People that visit constantly ask Will if he’s got something stuck in his throat. The boy’s going to be a bass someday soon, singing the “Giddy up ba-oom papa omm papa mow mow” part of “Elvira” with the Oak Ridge Boys.
(If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you should totally click on the link. You’ll be a much better, more fully rounded person after it. And you will have clearer insight into my twisted childhood.)
The point is the boy is changing. Growing up. Becoming….. manly-ish. And frankly, it’s more than my lovin’ mama heart can stand.
I got to thinking about the future, and it suddenly dawned on me- we’ve got six more years. Six more years until he’s technically an adult. Six more years before he’s off to college or engaged in missionary work. Six more years to teach and instill in him civilized behavior. Six more years to plan family vacations with the expectation that everyone in the family will be there.
Six more family vacations. It just does not compute.
I’m afraid I’ll blink and miss it. It’s going that fast.