and now, 14.

Just the other day I was out playing with my little boy in the leaves.

Then, at some point I must have turned away for a moment.

Somehow, this happened:

I think if I slowed down for another moment, it might make me sad. . . the difficulty of finding my little boy somewhere in this young man.

So, no more turning or slowing down for now.

Life is too busy anyway.

Israel has never been one for slowing down. There is always something he wants to be saying or asking or doing or somewhere he wants to be going. For his first few years we were rarely apart, and long before he was two he started asking questions and attempting to figure things out. He hasn’t really stopped (or even paused) yet.

So, I guess it's really not so surprising we've made it here to 14 so quickly.

I used to decide how we’d spend our days and, at least in a general sense, what parts of the world we’d explore.

Now he’s saving for a car that will probably soon take him even further away from the world I’m still trying to shape for him, before I’ve figured out any of these new dilemmas that keep arising.  Like how often he’s so busy learning things it severely interferes with school. Or that too often he harasses his little brother,  often about things like the need to be more respectful to his mother.

But, while I try to figure out this being a mom thing, he’s sure a lot of help.

He reminds me when I need to fill up the car with gas.
He watches my other children when I need to work or just get away.
He cooks for me. The rest of the family, too.
He loans me money. (Mine always seems to run out sooner than I anticipate. He always has some in the bank and sometimes I just really need a diet coke.)
Sometimes he even teaches me things real adults should probably know; last week I learned about properly storing wine. Often I get American history lessons.

How on earth did I keep my life in order before I had a teenage son?

His sense of honor, his respect for real triumph. . . sometimes I feel he was born in the wrong century, but I love his consistency of character. This piece I wrote last year on his birthday I could have as easily written a few hours ago or when he was five.