My kid went off to camp the other day. He's barely 5, he's about 36 inches, and he doesn't weigh 40 pounds. And off he goes to get on a bus and spend the day at camp today.
I know now why it's much easier to have kinds in your twenties and thirties: You're so f'n busy at that age with developing your own life that you don't have time to pay attention to your kids. You don't get all gooey watching your little guy walk out the door with his oversize backpack on his tiny shoulders. You don't worry about possible bee stings, overheating, or big kids mistreating your little guy. In your 30's you don't get all emotional about your little guy growing up. I'm here to tell you: In your 50's you do.
He came home filthy dirty, exhausted, fearless, and happy as a clam. And ready to go back. I guess we're doing something right. But this growing up stuff is killing me.
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