I could get all sappy right now and tell you that picking up each one of them and remembering his fat little hands with their indented knuckles holding them was one of the hardest things I've ever done...y'know, cleaning-wise. We read to him every night. Farmer Duck. Cows Can't Fly. Slug. THE CLASSICS. So moving them into a box was more than just admitting he is closer to adulthood than babyhood. It was saying goodbye to some of the most awesome rhymes ever.
"A small girl yelled out, 'Mommy! What's that creeping on our food?'
She didn't know that Slug was just a hungry little dude."
Beat that, Bob Frost.
And it was heavy. Like really heavy, man. They're books, people. Not like when mommies of today just download Bennett Cerf onto their iPads.
Is Bennett Cerf even available on iPads? Because it should be! Seriously, if your child doesn't know what is big and red and eats rocks, you are not really a very good parent. Just saying.
Anyway, I spent a couple of days being all nostalgic. I'd go look at his new teen-agery version of a bookcase with it's clever novels and dark comic books and middle school yearbooks and wish that just for a minute, I could have that boy that's shorter than me back.
Then, I got in my car. That smelled like three day old milk left in a sippy cup.
Turns out teenager snowboard boot has exactly the same chemical makeup as curdled dairy product in plastic.
And I longed for short people no more.