Me and my boys, in 2002, the year that I started this blog-


Here we are, almost 9 years later.


Crazy, right?
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(Don’t forget to click over to the review blog to check out the Tropicana and Walgreen’s reviews/giveaways.)

Today, my first born child became a legal adult.
I have tried to put my feelings about this milestone into words many times over the past few days, but every time I sit down to translate these feelings into words, I break down and cry. I have cried so many tears over the past few days. I want to be happy about this new phase in his life. I remember turning eighteen– it was thrilling! I want to be thrilled for my son. But, the thought that in just a few months this child of mine will be free to live the life he chooses is too much for me to process.
Earlier today my son walked into my room when I was looking at a photo album filled with his baby pictures. Tears were streaming down my face.
“Are you CRYING?” He asked.
“Yes! I am crying. I just can’t believe that my sweet little baby is eighteen years old. Why did you have to grow so fast?”
He shook his head and sighed. “Mom, that’s life. Stop crying.”

But I can’t. I just can’t stop crying.
I know these are selfish tears, but I am allowing myself to experience these emotions, to process them. I can only hope that in the very near future I can come to terms with having an adult child.
I can tell you that in spite of the tears, I feel tremendous pride for the son that I have raised. He is kind– a gentle soul. He is considerate, respectful and loving. He is slow to anger, quick to forgive. He has the best sense of humor and isn’t afraid to laugh at himself.
And man, is he good looking.


Happy 18th birthday my Nunu. You are the most wonderful son a mother could ask for. I promise I’ll stop crying. Eventually. Maybe.

After years of me encouraging (possibly also? Nagging.) My First Baby finally put his fears and insecurities aside and tried out for a school play.
He got the part.
He’s been practicing every day- learning his lines, perfecting his expressions. All of those things that actors need to do to get ready for a performance.
Last night, he put on his costume (that I had to pay for out of my own pocket, damn you The Economy!) took a deep breath and said “see you there, Mom!”
I kissed him on the cheek and wished him luck.
When he walked out on stage, I could see his nerves– he was unsure of himself and of his lines. But as he went on, he became more comfortable, more confident.
It was wonderful watching him up there, enjoying himself and all of his hard work. I was so proud of him.
And I could tell by the smile on his face when we greeted him after the show that he was proud of himself. That was the best part for me, really.

Today I dropped my oldest son off at the barber shop so he could get a hair cut. He wasn’t happy about it cutting it, but he has a starring role in a school play tomorrow and so he had to do it. When I dropped him off, I told him to ask for a “trim only.”
Um, either my son doesn’t know how to communicate the idea of “just a trim” or the barber didn’t understand English. Because, you guys, THIS happened.

Luckily, I’ve raised a son who can laugh about things like this. We’ve been laughing about it all night. He MAY not find it as funny in the morning when he has to go to school, but for now, Oh, how we laugh!
(For the record, the photo was his idea. Because my kid is awesome.)

Last night I was driving The Teenager to church for worship practice. On the way there, we passed a condo we used to live in when he was only a year old.
I slowed down a bit, pointed it out to my son and said “There’s our old house!”
We both looked as we drove by. All of the precious memories came rushing back to me. I remember my son playing with the water hose in the backyard. I remember cheetos scattered on the kitchen floor. I remembered father and son playing guitar on the living room floor. I remember my chunky little son squeezing through the bars on the gate. I remember walks to the swimming pool. I remember sleepless nights, taking turn holding our sick baby. I remember letting our baby “cry it out” as we transitioned him from our bed into his own crib. I remembered playing hide and seek and my son almost always hiding in the bathroom. I remembered my son getting into my mascara and getting it all over the bathroom cabinets, the carpet and his face. I remember crying when our landlord decided to sell it. I remember our last night there, the three of us laying on a mattress on the floor.
It was just the three of us living there in that condo, having the best times of our lives.
I looked over at my son.
“Do you remember living there?”
“Nope.”
Punch to my gut.
“Nothing? You don’t remember anything?”
“Not a single thing, Mom.”
I don’t know why it came as such a shock to me– I don’t remember anything about my childhood before the age of 4, but hearing him say that he doesn’t remember “a single thing” about living there knocked the wind out of me.
Some of my most treasured moments with my son are moments he has no recollection of.

Today is September 3rd.
Which means today my first born child is exactly 6 months away from his 18th birthday.
Which means in exactly 6 months I will be the mother of an adult human being.
An adult human being who can use the phrase “YOU CAN’T STOP ME! I’M 18!” if he wants to.
To which I could respond “well then, you can start paying for your own place and your own groceries, Mr. Adult Man!” if I wanted to.
I hope he never does and I hope I never do, because I’m dreading those kind of conversations with my LEGAL ADULT HUMAN BEING.
Other things I dread are more serious, like, my son apparently having made up his mind that he wants to attend a law enforcement academy this fall because he wants to be a cop. He’s been saying that for a while, but I’ve been hoping he’ll change his mind.
All indications are that he’s not going to change his mind. He’s talking about it more and more and telling me the classes he wants to take and criminal justice this and police academy that and oh my delicate heart can not take it because it is too overwhelmed with both pride and fear. At the same time. Because good for you for wanting to protect and serve, son. But also? You could get shot and killed so choose something else please, son.
I swear to Regis Philbin that just yesterday we were having conversations about Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles and how many tickets he had saved for that one prize he was trying to earn at Chuck E Cheeses. And today, we’re talking about graduation and THE POLICE ACADEMY. What? How is this possible?
I try to look at the bright side.
He’ll be earning his own money! He’ll be experiencing the world and all that it has to offer! He’ll be doing important things that will make a difference in this world!
I remember being that age. I remember how excited I was to be so close to graduating and living my life (and for me? “living my life” pretty much meant “marrying PigHunter so I could have all of the sex I wanted every single day!)
I am happy for my son and looking forward to watching him be the man that I’ve raised him to be. But at the same time… tears. So many tears. Because even though I know that in my heart he will always remain my sweet baby boy, the reality is that he is just six months away from being a legal adult.
Good for him. Bad for my heart.

Today The Boy Who Made Me a Mother took his senior portraits.
I was feeling emotional about it, but managed to make it through my morning without shedding a single tear.
He decided he wanted a haircut 2 hours before his appointment. I dropped everything I was doing and ran him down to the barber shop. I sat in the chair as he told the woman what kind of cut he wanted. As he sat there, I admired him from the torn up bench in the waiting area. “What a handsome young man he’s turned out to be!” ! I thought.
I allowed my eyes to wonder around the room a bit and that is when I noticed the little boy. He couldn’t have been more than a year old. His mother sat in the chair with him and held him tightly as the barber carefully cut his hair. He was fussing and his mom was doing everything in her power to help him cooperate.
And that, my friends, is when I lost it.
I started to cry, right there in that old, dirty little barber shop.
Because I remember holding my first baby while he got his hair cut. I remember telling him it was going to be okay while his daddy jumped up and down to try to distract him from the clippers.
I remember those moments like they were yesterday. But they weren’t yesterday. They were years and years ago. And now, that boy I once held in my arms is facing adulthood in just a few short months.
Today, while that mother held her son tightly, I sat across the room, ever aware of how much it will pain her heart to release the tight grip and let that baby go.