Bronzing is not an option, I suppose

Yesterday after work, I spent the evening watching my granddaughters. My son is on the east coast for a business trip, and my daughter-in-law deserved a few hours on her own. Even though their girls are wonderful, being with a nearly four-year old and an almost two-year old all day every day without seeing another adult takes its toll on even the best parent.

We had a nice evening. The girls and I had a good time reading books, singing songs and just talking.  I love spending time with them.

When it was time for them to go to bed, I had to look for the baby monitor so I would hear them if there was a problem.  I went into my son and daughter-in-law’s bedroom to try to find it.

I cannot explain it, and it probably sounds crazy, but the sight of my son’s two pairs of shoes on the floor of their bedroom brought tears to my eyes. These were two pairs of dress shoes, the kind that are shiny, they lace up, there was one brown and one black pair. They were next to the dresser, rather haphazardly left there, one shoe pointed in one direction, the pairs not together.

In my mind, it hit me. My son is a dad. He is the man of this house. He is a husband.

He is truly a grown up.

This is my youngest son. He just turned 26. He soon will be the father of three girls. He has been a dad and a husband for four years now. But it really didn’t hit me until I saw those shoes that he is grown up. In my mind he is still my son, a boy, our kid, the baby of the family.

He is a great husband and dad. Our job of raising him is done. He is now raising his own children.

I love him. I am proud of him. But I wasn’t ready for this realization.

A pair of shoes proved what I have not been able to fully admit to myself.

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