Adult Children

My middle kid turns fifteen today.  My son, the youngest, turns thirteen in a few weeks and the thought makes me tear up.  No more kids.  Just teenagers.

As much as teenagers irritate me, I prefer them to younger kids in many ways.  My oldest got bored on Friday night and decided to make banana bread which she tweaked to add chocolate and nuts.  She even cleaned up after herself.  My middle kid went to see "Beasts of the Southern Wild" with me at the local indie theater and when the preview for the Ai Wei Wei documentary came on, she elbowed me and smiled.  "Can we go to that when it comes?" she whispered.  Hell yes.  And my son, recuperating from a football injury on my chaise lounge, straddles childhood and adult hood.  His body is the body of a man, but his face and mannerisms are still child-like.

She got a cool bike for her birthday - steel frame in a blue that nearly glows.  Brown wrapped handlebars and a brown leather seat.

"It's not a Brooks seat, it's a generic Brooks seat," she explained.

"You're such a hipster," her brother teased.

"Well, yeah, maybe, but I think a real hipster would have a real Brooks seat.  I'm keepin' it real."

"You're a punk rock hipster," I suggested.

We all laughed.  I loved them the moment they were put in my arms.  It was overwhelming, the wholeness of my love for my child.  The difference now is that I love them for the people they are and will become.  They are just fun to be around.