Dusty Capes

It’s a well-known fact that childhood comes with many milestones; especially in the beginning. It seems like with each passing day, some new goal is reached, and, in our biased hearts, each one is deemed worthy of a front page headline.

What you don’t really hear about though, is how with each day, certain milestones replace favorite behaviors. Words that were once mispronounced (“timbles” instead of dimples) become full sentences: “I would like mac n cheese for lunch, not hot dogs mommy.” WHAT?

You quickly realize that those beloved quirks were possibly taken for granted. You feel sad. And a little scared. And old.

Such was my ride home from school today, with Superman in the backseat, asking a million questions about snacks and video games (that’s a whole new blog post right there). It suddenly occurred to me that it had been a really long time since he bounded into the house and asked me to zip up his latest superhero costume (there’s a reason his blog name is Superman you know). His fake muscles became commonplace at the dinner table, the park, and the grocery store. Sometimes he was four superheroes in one afternoon. Sometimes he was a hybrid superhero: BatVaderRanger. His costumes were always there and they put smiles on many peoples’ faces.

And then one day they were gone.

And I didn’t even realize it until this afternoon.
And once I did, I got really, really sad.

So I asked him, almost pleadingly, if he wanted to dress up in one of his costumes when we got home.

“No mommy.”
“What about that great Transformers one?”
“Oh! I love that one!”
“Good! Let’s put it on at home!”
“No mommy. I want to wear it for Halloween.”

For Halloween??? But that’s when EVERYBODY wears costumes. That’s when it’s normal and acceptable and not as cute.

But he wouldn’t budge.
He was so against it
Like he was far too mature for something as silly as wearing a cape to watch tv.

So I gave up trying to convince him and stopped short of using my all-powerful, all-inherited gift of Catholic Guilt and I let it go.

Because.

I can handle dust gathering on his capes and costumes.
I can handle the faux mohawk he’s been sporting to school all week.
I can even handle the occasional sass that comes out of his adorable little mouth.

What I can’t handle

is the thought of ever having to

let him go.