As the designated husband mentioned in the previous comments, today is our oldest child’s 23rd birthday. This child is a newlywed and a new (old) homeowner. Usually, as some of you may remember, I start blubbering about Wee Willie Winkie, wheezles and sneezles, and little blue hoods kneeling at the foot of the bed on this day.

I am afraid those days are over. I have been writing about boys and books for a long time and I am ahead of some of you on the path of mothering boys. It is only fair that I don’t always write about clam chowder for lunch and knights from Appledore, great green rooms and waddle, waddle pat-pat. I must also speak truthfully of the pitfalls of this sort of life.

For instance, I never realized while Timothy was growing up that he was developing an unhealthy, unnatural emotional attachment to books. Each Christmas and birthday while I was writing loving notes in books:

“Now you are 5!! What a very nice age to be. You have become a big boy and a good helper. You make us all very happy and we are so thankful God gave you to us. Love, Mama and Papa,”

(Found in Time of Wonder by Robert McCloskey)

I never counted on the fact that he would one day begin ravaging MY library in search of any book with a loving note in it with his name on it. But, of course, I concede those books. I can’t actually deny giving them to him without tearing out the notes, something I am considering. But I never in a million years counted on him claiming as his own any book he had helped me pick out at a library sale or had a personal attachment to.

Yesterday when he carted off a whole box of Buchans, I considered taking him out of my will. Don’t tell him but the only thing he really gets in my will is the remaining children at home. I suppose he may be tempted to knock me off just to get the books but I am now writing this blog post to warn anyone that if I die under mysterious circumstances follow the books. (This is a joke, Mom. (She has an over-active imagination :)))

I had always envisioned myself building a library for my grandchildren, things I could read to them during visits, you know, the owl and the pussycat went to see in a beautiful pea green boat, or Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night sailed off in a wooden shoe, or James, James, Morrison, Morrison, Weatherby, George, Dupree. All I can say is that it is jolly well that I have a good memory because by the time I have grandchildren all my books will be gone.

Happy Birthday, Timothy. “Back!” I say.

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