Whenever I sort my kids’ clothes to donate, I pull my favorites to give to my neighbor’s son. A year and a half younger than my youngest, he’s the perfect size to pass along our gently used hand-me-downs.
With my boys growing like the proverbial weed (seriously, what is their mother feeding them?!), it’s once again time to sort out the smaller sizes.
Yesterday, I caught sight of Ben in a blue and red striped rugby that I vividly remember seeing each of my three boys wear at some time. (Seeing him prompted me to sort clothes today.)
Seeing Benjamin in their clothes always invokes an immediate, intense reaction: How did my boys get so big? How were they ever that small? Where did the time go? Why can’t I slow it down?
To comfort myself, I try to remember that reminiscing about the toddler years is more enjoyable from a distance. You forget the tantrums and the toilet training. You forget the frequent trips to the ER for stitches. You forget the nights exhausted from the day that you fall into bed to be woken a short time later by the soft padding of pajama-covered feet.
I love those memories, too.
Today, I’m choosing to only remember snap shots of a smiling boy running through the leaves in a blue and red rugby.