17 years ago today you entered the world and cried. Who could blame you, as you looked up and realized these teenagers staring at you, wide-eyed and apprehensive, were your parents?

You’ve stuck it out with us, though, making it through every milestone as we stood back and thought, wow, we’ve managed to keep him alive another year. This milestone seems more significant than most as you’re practically a grownup (that being defined by the age at which we took responsibility for your life.)

What’s up with you? This year between 16 and 17 has been amazing. You’ve gotten haircuts; albeit irregularly, but hair! cuts! Your grades are what not just you would call good. They’re actually good. You have held your first job now for three whole months. You drive; even more carefully than I do. I totally trust you to drive, cook and manage your own schedule. What is the deal? From everything I’ve heard, having a teenager is not supposed to be like this. Dude, you’re acting like you’re in your thirties.  

Not that I’m complaining . . . no. In fact, you’re transitioning into not just my son, but a friend. Your sense of humor (sick, dark, caustic) makes my day. I love the chattiness that kicks in only after 10pm or when you’re overtired. I love your predictable sense of style (jeans, tee shirt, sneakers) and the way you’ve become the “tee shirt guy” at school. I love that I can still make you laugh till your stomach hurts.

Your love for and commitment to music gives me such pride. I’m so glad you’ve found something that gives you joy.

Happy birthday, bud. I hope your day is “all right.”

Much love,

Mom

The boy will turn 17 tomorrow and so I have spent part of this afternoon creating the ugliest birthday cake, ever. I don’t really know how it turned out so badly, but it did. Lopsided, with crevices running through it, it’s more a pile of cake chunks and frosting than an actual cake. The boy, inspecting my work said, “This is embarrassing for you. Would you like me to eat the entire thing and you can go buy a cake?” So thoughtful, that one.

I said, “If you wanted beautiful cakes out of this relationship, you should have had Carmela for a mother.” Like he had a choice. Like it was his fault. Carmela makes gorgeous, delicious cakes. My cakes? They look like crap but usually taste pretty good.

No matter. This cake was made with LOVE and THREE EGGS and LOVE.

The boy. He’ll be 17. I feel a bit like that cake, all lopsided and with a wide crevice down my middle. One day he’s going to up and leave, isn’t he? Pass a slice of cake, please.

C. Lover (that’s his rap name) went a couple of weeks sans bath. He’s not a shedder, so without bathing, scents accumulate quickly on the dog. After carefully pondering last night, I finally nailed the precise scent of the dog.

Not so fresh ham; that’s what Clover smells like. Just thought you’d like to know.

The Daily Progress ran a story about our crossing guard issue; the gist of it is we won’t have a guard for the remainder of the school year. Teachers will be trained by the police over the summer and “deputized” allowing them to perform the same duties they’ve been performing all along.  We’re going to keep walking and looking out for other walkers.

One year of working at home has erased my dress for success memory permanently. I’ve forgotten how to get dressed for work in an office. I’m out of practice. Daily I pull on jeans, shrug on a sweater or tee shirt, my feet comfortable in clogs or sneakers. Now I get ready to spend time in the office and I can’t seem to pull the pieces together. I have no idea what’s in style, what looks good, what still fits because I’m not seeing what other people are wearing, not trying out the outfits on a daily basis. It’s all rotting on hangers or in drawers, looking all wrong when I finally dust it off and try to wear it again.

I almost forgot to pack for my trip this week — I think subliminally I didn’t even want to think about office wear. I’m underconfident, out of practice and far too comfortable in my work at home wardrobe.