So if you're tired of the
Same old story
Oh, turn some pages
I'll be here when you are ready
To roll with the changes*

It's hard to believe that it has been 17 years since this happened. But it's true. The Boy is now a high school senior, on the cusp of adulthood and of leaving home to start making his way in the world. I don't remember growing older/when did they?

When our babies come into the world, we build fantasy lives for them and ourselves, and then we try to live those fantasy lives and mold our children to our fantasy scripts. It never works out that way. It's always much, much, much worse. And better. And different.

He was a tiny little thing, almost a month premature, having scared the bejeebus out of us for weeks in his rush to escape the womb half-bakef (how appropriate, eh?). And we poured all of our hopes and dreams and aspirations and neuroses into his tiny body. I wanted him to be an athlete, and a scholar, and .... And so much more. I wanted him never to get hurt, but I wanted him to be adventurous. I wanted him to be brave and strong and a leader. And my sweet little boy.

He learned to talk at an early age, and the words came in torrents, in joyous gushes, in imaginative jumbles. He confidently made up labels for things. We would see a large piece of equipment and he would name it with all the self-assurance of a technician, never mind that he had made up the name on the spot. We would take walks in the neighborhood and he would enthusiastically shout out greetings to every child, "Hi, guy!" confident that he was making a new friend, even as they were giving him weird looks. The phone would ring -- nanny and poppa calling, or grandma and grampa -- and he could talk for half an hour without breathing.

He was a thinker, a reader, a creator of worlds and stories. He was timid physically -- a dandelion picker in soccer, a bit afraid of the ball and of contact -- but his tellings always seemed to put him in the center of the action. I remember having a conversation with my father at some point, after we had observed the Boy deeply engrossed in some fantastical exercise. My dad remarked on how wondrous the world is to the young, when all things are still possible and the world hasn't yet robbed them of the capacity to step into their imaginations. As adults, we struggle to find that portal into the fantastic that the young command with such ease.

Time slips away from us all, however. I'm still not quite sure how we got here so fast. He went from sweet and joyful and imaginative and scared and nerdy, to tall and strong and stinky, and sarcastic and willful and selective and confident and argumentative and intense. We've done just about everything we could to get him ready for this next step. Now comes the hard part -- letting him decide, letting him choose and act and be.

The Boy is a budding film maker. He's found a kindred spirit in one of the lit teachers at his high school, with whom he is doing an independent study on "film as literature" or some such this year. I had the opportunity to meet with this teacher one-on-one at Back To School Night recently, and got a little perspective on my own kid. This teacher was ebullient with praise for my kid's focus, maturity, and talent. Now, I've always known that my kid was smart and had certain talents, but I'm a nitpicking perfectionist bully. My first inclination always is to find the faults and focus on fixes, rather than celebrating the successes. It challenges my Minnesotan sensibilities to accept or give unadulterated praise for my kid. But it was a thrill to hear this teacher tell me that my kid has a gift, and the focus and drive to do something constructive with that gift. That doesn't mean that he will be a film maker. Perhaps something else will emerge in college and sweep him off his feet. But he seems to have "it," whatever "it" is, that will let him get to where he needs to be in life, all the while retaining just a bit of that little boy's wonder and excitement and imagination.

So, here we are at the last scene of the first act. The plot is building up for the Boy's first big exit, stage left. The sets will be changed while I sit in my seat, fidgeting and worrying. Is he ready?

I told myself growing up countless things that I would not do, or do better, with my kids. On almost all of those counts, I probably failed to distinguish myself from my own parents. But we did some things right along the way. Somehow, I think we managed to instill in this man-child integrity, honesty, loyalty, and curiosity. He's a thinker, a reader, a creator of worlds and stories. I never pictured him like this, and I couldn't be prouder.

*REO Freakin' Speedwagon??? THAT's what you went with? Oy. It couldn't be David Bowie? (And these children that you spit on/As they try to change their worlds/Are immune to your consultations/They're quite aware of what they're going through)