The other day Ben tore the knee out of another pair of jeans; the hazards of having children, I suppose. I shot this photo while he was reading on the couch (in my spot, no less). Somehow (and I can't exactly say why) the idea of documenting his jeans seemed just as important as the letters I write to him.
Afterwards, when I was downloading it onto my computer, I thought about all the jeans my mother patched together and then called play clothes. Then I thought about how radically different my childhood is from his. The summer I was eight I started biking alone into town to go swimming. Just this week Ben made his first solo walk to a friends house.
Some people would argue it's a different world now. I'm not entirely sure that's the case. Part of me thinks we've just grown overly cautious, afraid of our own shadows. Still his walk alone gave me butterflies and I thought about all the things that could have went wrong.
I wonder, is this what's in store for me in another eight years? A thin skin of panic sitting in the back of my throat while he takes his first solo trip with the car?
It makes me want to patch the jeans.
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