Elder is now twenty years old. Well, twenty years and two days, actually.
For the last several weeks, Younger taunted, “Have you realized, Mom, that in just a few weeks, Elder will no longer be a teenager?”
Then late Monday night, when I texted that I loved and missed him while he traveled with his Dad, Younger responded, “Elder is 19 years 364 days, and 21 years old. Still love/miss me?”
Not quite as much.
The last day I had with my oldest as a teenager, he sprawled on the sofa with his head in my lap. “Stop petting my hair,” he told me, shaking his head so the curls fell back into place. “I’m not a dog.” But then after a moment, he offered, “You can scratch my back.”
“I thought you weren’t a dog,” I countered.
But I scratched his back.
And now Younger is the only teenager in our household.
Which he views as a position to be spoiled.
How did the years slip through greedy fingers? How did the tiny baby wrapped tightly in a blanket morph overnight into a grown man?
When exactly did I lose control?
Oh, yeah, I remember.
July 12, 1996.