This morning I heard my second-born’s alarm going off so I stepped into his room and sat down on the side of his bed. He burrowed further into the covers and turned his head away when I clicked the lamp on.
“What, mom? I’m up!”
His deep scratchy voice matched the stubble on his chin when I stroked the side of his face.
“Do you know what today is, bud?” I asked.
A reluctant smile made it’s way to the surface and one eye cracked open and focused on me: “Yeah. It’s my last day of being seventeen.”

This kid. Oh, this kid.
I realize that all three of my offspring have contributed to my wrinkles and paying for my hairdresser’s second home, but this kid is probably on his 78th set of guardian angels by now.

He is the one who flew into this world with a knotted up cord that made anyone with OB knowledge shudder in relief that he was breathing.
He is the one who toddled out of the front door and was brought back by a tearful neighbor that almost ran him over.
He is the one who survived a tornado out of the reach of my arms, in his uncle’s brown truck, and came back to me in our smashed home with only a cut across the back of his head.

He is the one who refuses to believe that there should be any limits. When the rest of us were clinging to a tree 200 feet above the ground in Alaska, he was trusting his safety rope and literally leaning out over the edge as far as he could reach.

He is the one who convinced himself that terror is fun as his little 4 year old self walked to the edge of the roof of the dock repeating, “Whee-hoo! Whee-hoo!” under his breath until he was brave enough to launch himself into the lake.

He is the one who in every single roller coaster picture is laughing hysterically as I am psychotically holding onto him and trying to be a mother/seatbelt.

My second-born baby. The kid who lives hugely and loves even bigger.

This morning he drove off to school with an envelope of papers to use at the DMV when he applies for his new license. He’s also excited about registering for the draft and being willing to serve his country, should the need arise. To add to the excitement, tonight is the Homecoming game and he will be “painting up” and leading the student section in cheering and having fun. Then, on his actual birthday, a group of kids will be going to dinner and then the dance and then on to celebrate the night away. A pretty ideal birthday weekend, if you ask me.

I’m thrilled for him. Truly. But I’m also having the mom-nostalgia moments hardcore. I was packing up some cute bath toys to send to my cousins. The toys are all the superheroes, and when my almost 18 year old saw them he laughed and remembered every figurine’s name. I had to swallow that big ‘ol lump in my throat because when I stroke that bristly cheek it’s so easy to see him dressed as Hulk and Superman and Flash and Spiderman and Wolverine…slinging webs and fighting crime in the backyard.

Birthdays are certainly a time of celebration. I thank God that I have had 18 beautiful years with this precious kid. I do NOT take it for granted, and am so grateful I got to hug him before he left for school today. But, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that birthdays also make me miss my little cuddly tousled head kid who asked me to sing him Country Roads just one more time.

Remember when we were kids and anticipated our own birthdays for MONTHS and then, when they finally came, we would party like crazy and celebrate like there was no tomorrow? But, at the end of it all (for me at least), there was always a little bit of let-down. That moment when you realized that it was over and wouldn’t be back for another year. A funny little mixed bag of emotions. I think it’s similar to what you experience as a parent when your kid’s birthday comes around. A whole lot of joy, sprinkled with the realization that your 17 year old baby (or 14 or 8 or 3) is becoming a memory….only a memory. Now they are 18 (or 15 or 9 or 4) and it will be a good year of creating new memories…but MAN. Those earlier times were good. It’s sad to know they are over.

I feel like every year, every birthday, every kid, I open these pretty little gift bags of mixed up feelings. However, there is something about the 18th birthday that is pretty monumental. Your child is legally not your child. That’s not small, you know. Sure, they may act the same and need you for all the same crazy things…but EIGHTEEN. Geeze. So, today I plan on meandering through some memories of my almost-man-child. I plan on hugging him a little harder, and really irritating him when I inhale deeply in that little space where his neck meets his shoulder to see if I can find some little whiff of that baby boy. I will thank God over and over for the gift He gave me in this kid, and I will pray that He guides his steps loudly and directly in the days and years to come.

Happy birthday, kid. Please give your guardian angels an easy weekend!