The jacket is hung with its patches and bars
In hopes that St. Nicholas... no, wrong holiday.
We did cut it close, however with the removing of the rotc patches and the discovery of gooey glue melted to the fabric. The soon-to-be second lieutenant was able to exchange the jacket, get the black cording removed from the old and transferred to the new, and pick it up at the cleaners just in the nick of time after commissioning practice and before dinner-with-the relatives who had traveled from afar. Wisemen from the east...
Our last hurrah. For we have not a daughter, thus, even when our sons marry, the focus will be on their bride, and our role will be to smile and proclaim everything wonderful and marvelous in our eyes.
Today we get to pin the golden butter bars upon his shoulder. Today we, thankfully, have no speaking role. And as much as I have asked about it, he has not previewed the paragraph he will speak. And being the last of the fourteen or fifteen, last alphabetically, we get to wait. I hope I don't trip, and I hope I don't irritate my sons too much asking them to smile for the camera.
Moms of sons have it easy compared to moms of daughters. I'd better go pack the extra kleenex packets in my purse before I forget.