Every so often, I go through my sons’ closets and drawers to organize, pull out what is worn out or no longer fits, and neatly put back the keepers.
This afternoon was for one of those tasks. I pulled boxes down from the attic with Wesley’s hand-me-downs, and started the daunting task of going through clothes. Wesley was downstairs helping Kris with some woodworking, and Caleb followed me around with his giant blue eyes and babbling conversation.
As I carefully unfolded and refolded every item of clothing, one by one, I was grateful for the salvaged clothes that gave Caleb plenty to play in. My heart ached with the memory of Wesley wearing the same things when he was 2 and 3. The blue shirt with sharks on it. The Avenger’s PJ’s that have seen better days. The monster truck shirt that he grew too fast to ever wear.
I held the monster truck shirt up to Caleb, and he pretended to fold it (wad it) and toss it back into my lap, making the sounds of a crane on a construction site.
Then he turned and began to squat-stomp, making the sound effects for every step, stopping to roar every few seconds. He stretched his little neck and opened his mouth wide, showing me how a T-Rex would tromp through the piles.
He draped over me and gave me a hug so tight, I couldn’t breathe. Then he turned and plunked down into my lap, wiggling his toes as he babbled on and on about something of epic toddler importance. Then he stood and wrapped his arms around me in another tight hug. Back and forth he went, lap then hug, then lap, then hug.
I could have gone on like that forever.
He’s still in diapers now. It crinkles when he walks. He’s growing out of his shoes way too fast. With every fresh hair cut, he looks a little bigger. His vocabulary is expanding.
One day he’ll tower over me and lean down to hug me. But for now, I’ll sit on the floor and let him squeeze me in a hug as many times as I possibly can.