When did it happen? When did he outgrow his chubby cheeks, his white-blonde hair? His froggy rain boots? My hip? When did he become so deeply reflective, mysteriously handsome, sarcastically witty? My son is thirteen. Thirteen. He can be slippery and sneaky and hard to understand. He can instigate nonsense and cultivate shenanigans. He can absolutely unhinge me. But he still hugs me in public. He still says “I love you, Mom.” He still pretends to eat all of the healthy food I pack in his lunchbox. He still lets me read with him at bedtime. Sometimes.He challenges my thinking with his wonderous mind, his dangerous experiments. He dares me to be less protective and more trusting. To lecture less and compliment more. To let go -- just a little. He silently promises that he’s listening to all of my lessons. He’s processing everything. He’s seeking. He’s learning. He’s becoming. He makes me smile every day. And I cry a lot, too. Because I’m so very proud. I am so grateful for the honor of watching my son grow into something good and kind and true. I am grateful for his fearlessness. Grateful for his audacious curiosity. Grateful for his nonconformity. These things will serve him well coupled with humility and compassion. He is brilliant and beautiful. And I could not navigate this life without him.