On Friday, Colin celebrated his 13th birthday.
Wait, let me rephrase that:
On Friday, my son became a teenager.
I enter this phase of motherhood with more than a modicum of trepedation. I have been a teenager.
First of all, there were all kinds of things that I experienced as a teenager that my little boy is clearly too young to know about, much less experience for himself.
Secondly, I know for a fact that when during my own adolescence, my parents went through a concurrent phase of being ridiculously unhip, uninformed, and unsympathetic, and I can only hope that this was a purely coincidental mutual madness.
As I've said before, my own aging process does not bother me - I'm not obsessed with grey hairs, or wrinkles, and I feel no compelling need to buy sensible shoes. Colin's development into an actual human being, on the other hand, makes my arthritis flare up. His feet are already bigger than mine, and he's a mere three inches from being taller than I - and since he grew more than four inches this past year, it's only a matter of time before he's patting me on the head.
He wears deodorant, and needs to.
So far, despite the occasional bout of teenage attitude and an inherited intolerance of mornings, he's a great kid - quickly becoming a great guy. He's generally considerate, unless you have the misfortune of being his younger brother. He's funny, and smart enough to know which parent to thank for his humour (and brains).
I feel it is tempting the fates to think that our entry, as a family, into the teenage years indicates a relatively easy ride, but so far, it's survivable. Of course, pimples and attitude are nothing compared to baby's first hangover or "um, I had a little accident with your car," but I like to think that we've laid the groundwork for dealing with those when they inevitably occur.
On the other hand, I have to remember that in two years, there will be two teenagers in the house.