There’s a cardboard box in my backyard, and the kids are playing with it. For some reason, that cardboard box suddenly sent me on a time warp into the past.
It used to be…
A cardboard box meant I was packing up my stuff from my bachelorette pad(s) and moving in to a new house with friends, or heading to a new town, or shifting from college to home for the summer. Then I got married, and…
A cardboard box meant that we had bought our first home, and we were moving out of the state to start our new lives together. Just me, Big Fish, and our beloved doggies (“furry children”). Then I had kids, and…
A cardboard box meant that lots and lots of new stuff was arriving to the house. Baby Stuff. Cribs and new dressers and strollers and all the gear that little people (“actual children”) need. Then the kids were toddlers, and…
A cardboard box meant that my kids had something to play with. It was a rocket. It was a supermarket. It was a hiding spot. A truck. An imaginary city for their Hot Wheels. Then the kids got bigger, and…
A cardboard box meant a diorama for school. Boxes get transformed into the swampy past, a neighborhood store, or a national landmark. This is probably the glory day for the cardboard box. Then the kids got even older, and…
A cardboard box meant my guys would take it out in the yard, draw circles on it, and then light it up with BB guns. And I look out the window at the Swiss cheese box, and the kids pretending they were FBI and jumping out from behind bushes to pepper the box with bright green pellets. And…
Suddenly it hit me (no, not a BB pellet). The next stage for the cardboard box would be packing up the kids’ stuff. Packing them off to college. The circle of life for the cardboard box was staring me in the face. Too soon…too soon…
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