Molting

My oldest son is molting. Peeling off pieces of skin the size of my hand. 

He walks around with the hem of his shirt bunched in one fist at his waist so as to contain the flakes. (We just got new carpet and furniture; somehow he instinctively knows he should not walk around dropping unwanted body parts.) I pointed out to him that tucking in a shirt is a common practice he might want to test out as a more hands-free alternative. 
Silly mother! I think it took all his self-control to just smirk and not pat my head.
Over the past year he shot up a foot or so and stretched out all the baby fat–perhaps this explains why, at the lake last week, he shucked everything but honest-to-goodness swimming trunks for the first time in nine years and bared his skin to the sun. He usually goes in fully dressed. If you think I'm kidding, you don't know the intensity of adolescent self-loathing; the boy has worn a shirt continuously since he entered kindergarten. 
During church on Sunday I noticed he had to keep clearing away the tattered skin from his forehead in order to see clearly–and then what do you do with the discarded parts?
It's a dilemma. 

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