Over the summer, I had the quilt that I normally keep in the trunk of my car, my denim bus blankie, in the house.  When my son saw me folding it up to put back in my car, he asked me what I was doing.  I told him I was putting it back in the trunk.

He had the audacity to tell me NO, take the quilt from my hands, and set it back on the couch.  “That quilt has to stay in the house on the couch,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.  “We have plenty of snuggle quilts in the house.”

“Ya,” he replied,  “and none of them are long enough to cover my feet anymore.”

I stared at him, up at him.  Oh. My. God. I thought.  I’ve watched him grow over the past two years,  from about the same height as my nose, to being able to set his chin on the top of my head.  That is no small feat as I am 5’9” tall, but I didn’t realize how tall he’d actually become.  Somehow, even though I watched it happen, it snuck up on me.

I stood him up against the door frame where we’ve marked his growth over the years, and we measured him.  My baby boy is 6’ 2” and growing, and he’s right.  The only quilt that will cover his feet if he lays on the couch to watch TV is the one off his bed or the one out of my car.

I guess I didn’t realize how much he’s grown.  Either that, or I still think of him as my little baby boy whose favorite thing is to sit on my lap and read stories.  Well, it used to be.  He would crush me if he sat on me now which he still does occasionally just to amuse himself.

He told me that he does not want to be taller than 6’4”.  Period.  And, like a typical sixteen year old, he seems to think that now that he’s made his declaration, he will stop at 6′ and 4″.  “Of course, sweetie.  Whatever you say.”

Now, despite my declaration to stick with wall hangings for a while, I need to create  giant, long quilt to cover my baby’s toes.

The things we do for love.