Our oldest son is thirteen. He’s in seventh grade and has peeked under the veil of parental guidance.
Today I bring my youngest son, my ten-year-old, to Camp Billings for two weeks.
I remember liking Mother’s Day once. When bits and pieces of love came home in stapled brown paper lunch bags; carefully constructed art projects forgotten about until Monday.
It was just a matter of time before he found the right look to shellac into place for the entire school day.