This week, my son turned 12 years old.
I turned into a complete sad sap about this milestone.
Twelve. Why? Twelve sounds so old.
PG-13 movies won’t be an issue, except I am one of those overbearing weird Moms who don’t really even let him watch that garbage now — which will make him want to watch that kind of garbage even more. I’m so screwed.
Twelve. It makes me feel so old.
He is even at the age where he teased me about the coming teenager years that are inevitably ahead.
“Next year I’ll be thirTEEN!” with a maniacal laugh. He really does have a great maniacal laugh. I could have smacked him if he wasn’t so quick and I wasn’t curled up in a ball of sadness.
I remember being 12, which made me remember being 13,14,15, 16…I don’t know guys. I don’t think I’m ready for all this “tween” or…dare I say it … teenager life ahead.
Someone just wake me up if and when he graduates high school. All I ask is that you give me enough time to order a meat tray and a cake and we’ll call it all good.
The fact that Evan turned 12 this week is probably why I went completely overboard on the gifts. I know I was clinging onto this child phase for one more year, but darn it, I can’t help it. I know there won’t be LEGOs next year.
Wait, if he does ask for LEGOs at the age of 13, it’ll be the $400 Millennial Falcon or something outrageous that I will refuse to buy.
I know there won’t be comic books in the coming years, so I loaded up on a few of them for his birthday. Heck, I even got him The Bible: LEGO style. It was more for entertainment than instilling Biblical morals on this birthday.
“All these bearded fellas look like Dumbledore,” was his initial review of the books. He was kind of right.
Yet, he found it somewhat entertaining because when you animate Biblical times in plastic brick, there’s a whole lot of violence, death and destruction going on. Perfect for a 12 year-old boy right?
And for those of you who said, “Enjoy it! In four more years, he’ll be driving!” I hate you all.
This birthday hit me hard, I’ll admit. One of these days, he won’t want to hand out with his mom on the weekends. One of these days, he won’t let me tuck him into bed (which already has begun.)
So it was no surprise on the night of his birthday after I tucked the blanket under his chin and kissed him on the cheek — I burst into tears.
Like big, ugly Mom tears. At first I was like, “What is this salty discharge flowing from my eyes?” but I just couldn’t hold back my sadness any longer.
I have this great picture of when he was only a few days old. He was curled up in a little ball with a blue blanket all tucked around him. He had a little grin on his face. It’s one of my favorites.
He was so tiny when he was born. He was so little that friends would zip him up in their sweatshirts. He was so little and fragile that I’m amazed we made it this far with nary a scratch and only a few trips to the emergency room.
He used to make these little chirpy sounds that we called “squirrel sounds.” Up until a few months ago, he’d rival Hollywood’s best sound studio in sound effects of explosions and other mass destruction sounds. I still catch him narrating a Pop Tart bomb as it goes in to the toaster, but those sounds have slowly faded to lyrics of pop songs he now sings to himself.
He was always a happy go-lucky kid. Always. He’s usually in a great mood 9 out of 10 times in the mornings. He’d wake me up, not the other way around.
I can tell he’s growing up because now I’m waking him up in the mornings.
So yes, I cried like a baby to see my baby really growing up. And I’m going to tuck him in bed for as long as he will let me.
Because someday soon, he won’t be so little anymore.
Somebody pass me a tissue. Wait. Someone just give me the whole darn box, tuck me in bed and wake me up in about six years.