The Golden Boy will be 15 years old tomorrow.
When he was 3 he poured a can of oil into his green Little Tykes tractor while it was “parked” on the driveway.
When he was 4 he used to steal Bitchy’s two-piece bathing suit and run around the back yard in it. (She was LIVID!!!)
When he was 5 he unscrewed every single screw he could find in the house. (Light switches, cabinet doors, etc.) I’m pretty sure we never really found them all.
When he was 6 he used a wrench to loosen the toilet in the basement bathroom. THAT was quite a day.
When he was 7 he reminded me that it was okay for boys to cuddle with their moms every night before bed, and would continue that for four more years.
When he was 8 we flew to the ER for stitches on Thanksgiving Day.
When he was 9 we flew to the ER for stitches one summer day after an amazing bicycle accident.
When he was 10 we flew to the ER for fake skin, since he left most of his knee on the blacktop.
When he was 11, well, more stitches.
When he was 12 he chose to stay with his father when his mother knew she had no choice but to leave the marital residence. The details are ones I’ll not share, on his behalf.
And now he’s 15. He's a beautiful, cranky, wonderful, horrible teenager.
He’s gone from 12 to 15 without his mother there each night to tuck him in, wash his clothes, mend his rips, argue with him, insist that he do his homework, heal his wounds and drive him to the ER.
And tomorrow I’ll bake a cake, text him and remind him how very, very much I love him. (Because someone who shall not be named will have him out of town. ) I'll keep my tears to myself, because that is what a mother does.
My gift to him?