My Son Turned 14

Earlier this week, my son turned 14 and it felt curiously momentous. Thirteen would have been a more likely birthday to have thought, with disbelief, "My child is a teenager?" But, 13 is kind of the training wheels year of being a teen. It's as if everyone's getting used to the idea of it, but it somehow doesn't really count.

On his birthday, a friend took us out to lunch with her boys, the oldest being about a year younger than mine. While we were waiting to be seated, she turned to me and whispered, "Why is that table full of young girls staring at us?"

I glanced over and realized that the group of tweenish girls were staring--and smiling-- at our sons. When I pointed that out, my friend looked startled, confused, and proud all at the same time. I have a feeling that combination will be my primary emotion for the next few years.

I was never a baby-crazed, over-flowingly maternal type. Which may be partially why I didn't become a mother when I was younger. But, since I'd had years of travel and singlehood and couplehood beforehand, once I became a mother, I was ready. I was patient. I enjoyed sitting in the quiet of the nursery, wondering what images could run through an infant's mind as he dreams. As my mother had done with me, I'd hold his feet in my hands and imagine where those feet may one day take him.

But, then, everything seemed to go in fast motion. I know we had video tapes of The Wiggles that were soon replaced with Thomas the Tank Engine. Wooden train tracks seemed to sprawl all over the house for some time and then, suddenly, we'd entered the Star Wars stage. It seemed like there should have been more of a bridge between the franchises, but there wasn't. Star Wars has never been left behind. It was a gateway to all kinds of wondrous sci-fi and fantasy geekiness. And I suspect that's an aspect of my son that will continue to flourish, live long, and prosper.

I keep hearing the next four years will be important ones. I want to say that all "four years" are important, but I understand what they mean. At the end of these four years, my son will be a man and no longer a boy. Just writing that makes the Rudyard Kipling poem, "If", echo annoyingly in my mind. And that makes me all teary. Because, when all is said and done, I couldn't be more proud of the soon-to-be-man I see before me.

The Revisionists

I don't quite remember much about last November, other than writing. Writing late at night, writing early in the morning, writing at any time during the day that wasn't taken up with "regular life". Determined to meet the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) challenge of beginning and completing a novel in one month, I kept at it. And, a few days before deadline, I had my 176 page, 56,500 word manuscript written.

My goal was to enjoy the holidays and begin revisions in January. Looking back, January found me busy sidestepping other resolutions (i.e. an organized den, five-days-a-week minimum at the gym, avoiding carbs as if they were toxic...). But now, the idea of some cut and slash editing is more and more inviting. I have some big changes in mind (focus on one generation of characters, drop the parallel, contemporary plotline) and smaller ones (expand the interior dialogue of some male characters, add more suspense). In my mind, it's almost like a different novel, and yet not. Just better. More focused.

It's also made me wonder about some older or deceased relatives who actually revised their own lives. Sometimes as innocently as using the prefix "Dr." for better perks when travelling. Other times, slightly changing the spelling of their names or their birth dates. And, intriguingly, some used full-blown aliases, fake addresses, and fictional occupations. (As one cousin commented, "Did they just keep 'Change of Name' forms on a table by the front door?") For those wondering why it's still taking so long to unravel my mother's adoption narrative, I could show you a list of aliases as Exhibit A.

Taking it a step further, would I revise my own life? I mean, if I could. Probably not. Most storytellers at heart know that to get from one point to another, a variety of experiences have to occur. There were some experiences I wish never happened, but I suspect they play their parts in a deeper way than I can now fathom. Only sociopaths and saints have no regrets. There's something satisfying in knowing I'd use my red pen sparingly on my life. My manuscript is not as lucky.