I’ve noticed over the last couple of weeks that a certain six year-old has really developed a fondness for pockets.

Not just because he likes to put rocks and Star Wars action figures and fake money in them.

But because these days he likes to put his hands in his pockets. A lot.

Sometimes when he has his hands in his pockets he likes to rock back and forth on his heels a little bit.

Sometimes he likes to walk down the hall at a leisurely pace – no rush, no hurry, no worries.

Sometimes he just likes to stand.

And sometimes he likes to survey his surroundings.

But for whatever the reason, those long, skinny arms that seemed like they were all over the place when he was three, four, five – well, they’re more subdued. Instead of constantly being a threat to any lamp, wall hanging or breakable object within a ten foot radius, his arms sometimes stay by his side for five whole minutes in a row.

Because his hands are in his pockets.

And he looks like such a little man.

A few days ago my aunt called to ask if I’d be interested in making a quick trip to my hometown. I have a bit of a reputation in our family for being the Completely Unsentimental Person Who Will Throw Out All The Junk You Don’t Need Anymore, and my aunt wanted to know if I’d give her a hand getting her closets under control.

OH. You do not have to ask me twice. The mere prospect of creating piles labeled “Keep,” “Mend” and “Donate” sends me straight into the happy dance. Plus, ever since school has been out, Alex has been chomping at the bit to see my parents and Martie.

So yesterday the little man and I jumped in the car and drove on over (well, he did not drive. I drove. I imagine that if he had been driving we would have been arrested or, at the very least, featured on some sort of syndicated real-life police drama with reggae music thumping in the background).

We got to Mama and Daddy’s right after lunch, and my plan was to drop off Alex, visit for a little bit, then leave the little guy with his grandparents while I went over to my aunt’s house and started the process of sifting through all those t-shirts and shorts I remember her wearing to their lakehouse in the mid- to late-80s, not to mention the pretty dresses I remember her wearing to church when I was in high school and college, not to mention her present-day Very Fab Wardrobe. I couldn’t wait. I mean, if you could somehow add a never-ending marathon of “House Hunters” and all-you-can-eat chips and guacamole to the cleaning out closets equation, I’d probably never go home again. I’d just call my husband and ask him to please come live with us here, and if he wouldn’t mind, it’d be real sweet if he’d stop on his way into town and pick up some organizational items at the Walmarts. You know, before we COMPLETELY UPROOT OUR FAMILY FOR THE SAKE OF MY CLOSET-PURGING OBSESSION AND ALL.

Because quite frankly I cannot accomplish my organizational goals without some super-cute baskets.

Anyway, when we sat down in Mama and Daddy’s den to visit for a few minutes, Alex walked over and snuggled up realllllly close to me on the couch. He rubbed my arm, smiled sweetly as he looked up at my face and pressed his head into my side. I was pondering the tenderness of the moment – he may be six, but he still loves to cuddle with his mama – when he motioned for me to lean down so he could whisper something in my ear. I rubbed his hair and quietly asked him what he needed to tell me.

“Mama?” he said, ever-so-softly.

“What, buddy?”

“Mama, I think I’m ready for you to leave now.”

Well, then.

FINE.

Duly noted.

FINE.

“Mama, if we were in the bad guy place, I would tell the bad guys that we were bad guys, too. I would not tell them that we were good guys because I would not want them to put us in their jail.”

“So, you would lie? Would that be a good decision?”

“Well, it would be a little bit of an emergency.”

“Mama? You know how some people in the world don’t have voices that the rest of the world can hear? Well, they can still tell the Lord that they need food or water or whatever, and then the Lord will tell other people, and then those people will help them.”

“Mama? I’m singing a song right now. I’m going to need a little bit of privacy.”

“Mama? If you had gotten to be 38 and you hadn’t had me, would you be sad?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have known you – but I can tell you that I wouldn’t have wanted to miss being your mama for anything in the world.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to miss you, either, Mama.”

“Mama? Is bacon good for us?

“Well, I don’t know if I would say that it’s good for us.”

“But it IS tasty.”