Lucky 13!

Oh. It's happening. The boy is soon to be a teenager. Sigh. Thinking back to 13 years ago, the excitement of labor crushed by the fear of complications. The urgency of the C-section. Listening to the heart monitor. Willing him to cry. Joining him when he did.

Always little to me.

My big boy. My son.

What an adventure.

His bright blue eyes. Now behind glasses. His teeth wrapped in metal. His big puppy feet. His silliness starting to dull. Some days it feels like everything is changing.

He walked into the kitchen the other day, sighed, rolled his eyes and said, "Mom. Your hair."

I had been so bold as to wear it in its natural curly state.

"It looks so much better straight."

At least he speaks to me.

We're moving from 'tween', also known as asshole, to full on teen. Not sure what that actually translates to. Likely worse than asshole. He's growing. He's maturing. A little.

He's still my sweet little boy much of the time.

His sense of humor is maturing, his jokes are better. He's better at sarcasm, he can drop a nice dig.

He used the term gold-digger properly the other day. In a complete sentence, even. Yes. Yes, I'm proud.

I'm also terrified. He'll soon be ruled by hormones and bad decisions. Not that I want him to be perfect. I don't. I want him to make mistakes and learn. Just not such large mistakes that they alter the course of his life or someone else's.

Looking for just enough for a solid grounding and quality time spent in his room.

Here's to 13, buddy! Cheers!

And, you're grounded.

I'm sure there's a reason.

That'll have rum in it before I know it.