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.
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