My youngest turned twelve this past week. Doesn't seem like a big deal, does it, unless you stop and count it up, finding the impossible to be true: I only have one more year of having one last child in the house.
And it's stretching words to call this now hulking person, who has now finally passed me in height, a 'child'.
(His brothers trying to make him stop crying by reading and bouncing - it's not working.)
When birthday season comes around next year, our sons will all be living in Teenage Land - 19, 17, and 13.
I can hardly believe where this parenting journey is taking us.
(Juice popsicles bring utter summer joy.)
How it pulls and sometimes jerks us around corners, up and down inclines of alternating delight and disappointment.