Thirteen. That's what my wise young man will be soon. And the way he drawls, 'Chill Mom....Relax' makes ME believe I am turning a hundred! And to think, I pride myself on being a "chilled out" mom who attacks Lego sets with gusto; drools over the relative speeds of a Koeniggsegg and a Bugatti Veryon Grand Sport; exclaims in delight (masking anguish) at the way his bruises go from red to purple to black, and does not bat an eyelid when socks of varying size (and varying degrees of stink) come tumbling out of his badminton kit.
Clearly, it takes more than such meager efforts to make the grade in a Tween's world.
My moment of epiphany arrives as we sit slathering slices of bread with ketchup on a Sunday morning.
"There's a school play coming up next week.... a farewell kind of thing for the seniors. I'm going to be on stage."
"Wow," I say, eyes lighting up. "Do we need to shop for your costume? What time is the play? Do I need to take the day off from work?"
"Chill Mom," comes the reply. "It's just a play. And you need NOT come to watch. I'll manage....ok?"
Not okay, buddy.
But catch me telling him that.
Not when he's straining to cut loose.
Not when he's made the journey from being an apple tree in his first school play to 'star of the show' in this one.
Not when he's learning that there's a big, interesting world out there sans Mom. Even if all she promises to do is hover protectively in the side wings.