My son turns twelve today. As I type have ten boys running unrestrained and untethered in my house, junked up on caffeine, chocolate and the adrenaline of a post-Nerf war victory. I’d be lying if I said there was anything unusual about that. My three boys all by themselves can create quite a lot of noise and mayhem.
It is time for reflection. Twelve years. What the hell? I’ve never had anything for twelve years. Not a plant, a dog, even my husband, one could argue, punched out long before we got to twelve years. Of all things I might imagine myelf to have for twelve years – a car for instance, maybe a mattress – I would never have imagined a human being. And my son seems happy to have me. Of course I gave him a PS3 with ensures (and insures!) his devotion so I can’t be sure how sincere his undying affection is, but I really don’t care. I have it.
So tonight, I’ll listen to him and his friends scream like girls, echoing down the streets of the neighborhood. In a year or two they won’t sound like little girls any more so I’m going to enjoy this before they get neck deep in testosterone. They are a great group of boys. I’m not concerned about a single one of them. We’re really fortunate. I have a beautiful boy who made me a grateful mom. I love him in ways that can’t be expressed.
A year or two ago, I was really worried about his life and how it might turn out. Not any more. I’ve got it covered. And for those times when I’m not there, his trusted friends and their families will be. All things considered, it’s good to turn twelve.