I begin with a confession: I have, so far, refused to see “Toy Story 3” because I hear there’s a tear-jerker of a scene in that movie in which Andy leaves for college.

It’s hard to believe, but after nearly a decade of living in Waco, my family soon faces the same prospects with our eldest son who is a senior in high school and has plans to leave town for college.

And, frankly, I’m not very good at goodbyes.

So being the sentimentalist that I am, our son’s senior year has been one of constant reflection.

Recognizing that he has steered my wife and I through so many “firsts” as parents, it’s difficult to acknowledge the many “lasts” that his senior year in high school have come to represent.

As a veteran parent now for 17 years, I know that we love to complain about our children — but the thought of not having him around to complain about all the time saddens me.

That’s why I look forward this week to our Thanksgiving Day celebration.

Already it’s special because of the subtext of the day: God willing, this will be his last Thanksgiving with us in which we are play ing the role of his guardians.

I recognize that we’ll always be his parents and I suspect that we’ll be able to complain about him in the future.

But a year from now, I expect our relationship will have changed dramatically.

And while I have always relished the prospect of change, truth be told, I kind of like our relationship right now.

My own senior year in high school is filled with pleasant memories because — as the youngest child — I can honestly say that my mother and I, in particular, became pretty good friends.

The tragedy is that I don’t remember my last Thanksgiving in high school.

I remember well, however, my first Thanksgiving returning home to El Paso after having gone off to college in Austin.

Somehow, my older brother — also a student in Austin at the time — roped me into a pre-Thanksgiving meal with a friend of his in San Antonio.

The plan was to go there and catch a flight home from the San Antonio airport.

But weather suddenly became a factor and we spent hours in the airport unsure if we would be allowed to take off for home.

I desperately wanted to get home and be the conquering hero in front of my large family, who would be waiting for my brother and I at the airport.

This was at a time when rock star Peter Frampton was at his peak and still had hair — lots of it.

And for the first time in my life, emulating Frampton, I had allowed my hair to grow long because I didn’t have my parents around to tell me to get a haircut.

For some reason it became important to me to go home that Thanksgiving and show them how long my hair had gotten.

Obviously, it symbolized my independence and the fact that I was surviving, on my own terms, away from home.

In my naive mind, I believed my hair length — which seemed so important to my parents — would demonstrate that I was my own adult and independent of any of their influences any more.

I have to wonder what my son will grasp onto as his own sign that my wife and I can view him as a self-sufficient adult who is living on his own terms.

I wonder how eager, even frustrated he may be to get home to us next Thanksgiving and whether he’ll feel good enough about his successes thus far in college to take on the demeanor of conquering hero.

For this week, it’s enough to show him and our other children how much we love them and how proud we are of them — and how thankful we are that they’re ours, no matter how much we complain about them.

As for what happened that night in San Antonio so many years ago: with the weather socking us in and my Peter Frampton hair getting out of place, our plane finally took off hours late and we made it home to El Paso around midnight.

There, my mother greeted us alone. The family had gone to bed forcing a delay of my conquering hero swagger.

My mother hugged me and made me feel full of love as she grabbed my long hair.

Then the next day, at my parents’ urging, I went and got my hair cut.