While some Keris are out getting skinny (I’m lookin’ at you, Ford) and other bloggers are posting pictures of bean dip and celery (…seriously, Cyndi? Celery?) I am licking the beater of a chocolate cake mix and wiping away snotty tears.
My baby boy, my precious baby boy turns 13 today. He’s all, “I’m standing on the verge of manhood,” and I’m all…
Isn’t hims a sweetums?
Sorry. I got a little sidetracked there.
I think the thing that amazes me most about raising kids is that they aren’t my characters. I mean, sure–it surprises me when I’m writing along in my pantsing little way and suddenly learn that my hero likes (or at least tolerates) lima beans. I mean–LIMA beans! That’s worse than celery! He’s supposed to be part of me, so how dare he show this independent spirit (and bad taste)?
But kids? Kids are worse. Preteens don’t value what you value. They don’t think what you’ve taught them to think. One minute, they say something you never thought you’d hear. The next minute, the words coming out of their mouths are simply you, verbatim. And all day long, every day, whether you’re writing or not, they’re thinking their own thoughts in their own little mental universe that seems so much further away now that their fascinations are more complex than simply locating their own toes.
He used to smell like Johnson & Johnson. Now he smells like Speed Stick (if we’re lucky). He used to run to the treeline, then look back to see if I was watching. Now he runs miles in cross-country, his face twisted in a sweaty grimace, and looks back to see who’s gaining on him. He used to say, “Ah lou-lou,” and it made my heart swell up.
Now–once in awhile–he says “I love you, Mom.”
My heart still swells.
He hasn’t changed. He hasn’t changed at all.
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