My baby is fifteen years old. Fifteen. I know. I can't believe it either.
They tell you time flies, and how right they are.
They tell you to hang on to every minute, but I can't exactly agree with this one. Not all minutes are created equal, after all. I don't exactly look back with fond nostalgia at the colic phase, nor do I want to revisit those toddler-throwing-up-in-the-bed moments. Or the ohmigosh shouldn't he be reading by now phase. The "I won't eat anything that is touching anything else on the plate" fixation wasn't really so fun. And the traveling with an infant and a toddler thing? No. Never again would be too soon.
But there is much that I miss. So much. That sweet smelling little scalp. The hand reaching up to grasp mine. The sticky hugs. The bedtime stories. Santa Claus. Belly laughs. Learning to juggle. I can even laugh now at the time his barely reading pre-school self came running up to me and a group of moms I barely knew and shouted "Mom! A bad guy was here and he wrote 'FUCK' on the wall!!!" I shrugged at the horrified moms and managed to squeak out, "my boy can read!"
I miss that little boy.
That said, it is also (mostly) great fun to have a teenager under our roof. He's smart and kind, with a wicked sense of humor and a frightening appetite. He's taller than me, a fact that amazes me still. He's starting to think about big things, like college and God and his place in the world, with a sophisticated nuance that makes it fascinating to chat with him. When he isn't too busy playing video games to chat, that is.
My baby is 15 years old, and I'm so proud of the man he is growing up to be.
Some of my favorite minutes so far: