I saw a woman at Loblaws yesterday bending over with a baby in a front carrier trying to reach something. She laughed as I helped her, "It's a learned skill," she said.
"Yes." I replied, remembering the soft thump of my baby's head on my chest. "But you blink and then your child is 13." I said. I pointed to him reaching up to grab something from the shelf.
How did he go from the soft, fuzzy baby at my chest, to a fully-formed teen reaching higher than me?
Parent years are like dog years but squeezed. I try, but I can't really put a finger on how long it feels like I have been a parent, but it has been 13 years.
I always feel a little maudlin at the big birthdays, as the time goes by so quickly and I haven't done enough to savour it. And 13 is particularly scary as the TEEN years are here. So with the threats of sex, drugs and rock n' roll (or texting n' video games) hanging over my head, I will offer up the 13 things I want my son to know on his 13th birthday.