Last night Toby wore his Buzz Lightyear costume to Walmart and then reminded me he "had an appointment" to sleep in my bed. It was a good night for him. I looked at him and thought, "How many more times will he ask to be a superhero at the grocery store? How many more nights will he sleep in my bed?" and my heart started collapsing, so I said okay.
This morning I woke up and he was all sprawled out with his little boy legs and arms thrown around, books half-read everywhere, and I had the thought: "Someday he will be married, and somebody else will watch him when he sleeps."
So during breakfast, I thought, "I hope he gets married really young, so he doesn't nap with some girl who's not his wife. Young marriage is a good thing. Less temptation. We got married young, it's been good. It was God's timing for us..."
Later, he was climbing over my back, using the couches as some kind of launching pad, and I was folding clothes for him to flip into. Well, that's not why I was folding them, but it's how it was working out. And I thought, "Yes, marriage is good. Just get married when he's a teen, like we did, and he'll go straight from being in our home to leaving and cleaving. I think that's good. I think that's how I feel."
All morning and through lunch, I debated myself. "But so many young married couples struggle, emotionally and financially. I don't want them living with us! He needs to be a man." I'm feeling kind of annoyed, by this point, about irresponsibility and the burden these kids put on themselves.
While I was out for my break, browsing at the library, "I just don't want him to be one of these Peter Pans, 30 and still playing video games and delivering pizzas, never settling down. And I'm washing his laundry. He needs to have money, and a place. Okay, he shouldn't marry young." And that was that. Decision complete.
Maybe I need a hobby.