And.... scene.

Mood: Good
Music: No Charge, Shirley Caesar (no link posted, you can find it online)
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Yesterday I received a letter from my health insurance company. They wanted to remind me that my son would be eighteen years old this summer, and therefore they would no longer carry him unless he met certain criteria (such as being a full time student, which he will be).

Wow.

Obviously I've known his eighteenth birthday was coming. One could argue that I've known it was coming for nineteen years, so although I feel as if time slipped by very quickly, I am not shocked by his birthday in and of itself. I am shocked to realize that there is a world out there, that, in just over two months, will view my child as an adult, with all the rights, privileges, and hassles thereof, save a very few.

Mere feet above my head as I type this, socks and gym shorts lay scattered on my son's bedroom floor. Various components of homework projects are scattered through the three floors of our home. If I turn on our desktop Mac and search the history, among the visits to Itunes, MySpace and Facebook, I'll find evidence of a trip to Gaia, an online world of user created cartoon characters.

My son is still afraid of the dark (but then, so am I). He doesn't like to hang mirrors on his wall, because waking up and seeing yourself in the mirror in a darkened room is scary. He eats cereal for his after school snack and still requests Oreos if I ask him if he needs something from the grocery store (sometimes I indulge him. Sometimes I don't).

He is not a man, but he isn't a child. The word tween has been reserved for a younger set. Young adult still seems a couple of years away. I don't have a word to describe what he is, but I know for sure what he won't be in ten weeks: a baby I can fiercely protect from the rest of the world.

I can't call the insurance company, shake my verbal fist and demand that they cover him regardless of his student status and age. I can't call the Pentagon and berate them for requiring him to register with Selective Service. I can't get angry at the 7-11 if he decides to purchase a pack of cigarettes.

At eighteen, I was a lethal combination of stupid, shrinking and pretty. My son is a calmer soul, more content with himself, more sure of what he does and does not like and less shy about asserting these things when necessary. While he has the expected apprehension of his age and stands as good a chance of deciding college is not for him as he does graduating with honors, whatever he chooses, I sense he'll have an easier time making peace with himself than I had at his age.

That's comforting, because when I look at him, it's impossible not to see hints of the boy in a Garanimals jumper and Stride Rite shoes, talking a mile a minute, always asking why and how. It's nearly as impossible to visualize the rent paying, car owning, career making person with his own health insurance he's supposed to begin morphing into in two months, by the insurance company's standard. But I'll keep an eye out and watch this person emerge, because scared shitless as I am, I'm also looking forward to meeting this man, my son, my new and pending friend.

Thank you!

To the person who found my daughter's (brand new) shoe and stuck it in between the bars of my car's luggage rack: thank you.

Maybe you heard my initial aggravated exclamation, when I looked down and saw a little stockinged foot kicking her brother's stroller seat.
Maybe you saw me worriedly walking through the store, looking under shelves and merchandise.
Perhaps you overhead the conversation I had with the store manager, or saw her checking the Lost and Found box and taking down my home number, in case the shoe was found later.
Maybe you were pulling out as I shut my car doors to go inside, and you saw her shoe tumble to the ground.
Maybe you came out, saw a child's shoe, and deduced that the station wagon with the car seats was a good candidate for belonging to the shoe.

Whatever made you pick up that shoe and put it somewhere I was sure not to miss it: sometimes the smallest things mean so much. You made my day and in turn, I hope everything about yesterday fulfilled your own wishes tenfold.