So, my kid. The oldest one. He turned twelve recently. Twelve. What the hell? I'm not sure how all that happened, but it did. My friend, Cassie, passed along birthday greetings:
Flutterby: your kid!
had a birthday
happy birthday to your kid!
me: didn't we already talk about his birthday?
Flutterby: we talked about that he was going to have one!
and then i forgot
Flutterby: and i don't wanna lose my place as favorite online flutterby/cassie
me: happy it's-been-12-years-and-you-still-haven't-lost-the-weight to me!
It's been a very long and a very short dozen years. I was reminded of just how long the journey has been when a customer came in today, close to tears. It seems that she had just had to ditch the grocery store because her two year old
terror angel had refused to sit in the cart. She was, at that moment, still in desperate need of food because the cupboards were bare- all young-mother-hubbard-esque. And also he refused to get dressed for twenty minutes this morning- what she was waiting on him for, I don't know.
Poor woman was at the end of her rope. I did not ask where the kid was, at this point, or why he couldn't be wherever the hell he was now while she ran to the grocery store. I also did not point out that the terrible-twos are far outawfuled by the terrible-threes. (No one ever mentions this to first-time parents of two year olds because we're all afraid they might decide to just cut their losses now.)
Talking the woman off the edge made me grateful to be past those early stages, but it also reminded me... oh shit, y'all, I'm about to have a teenage boy. I am so screwed- where's my wine?