After waiting a few extra minutes for Huck to come out of the house and get in the car to head to school this morning, he finally appeared with his oversized backpack, fashionable lunch bag, trusty viola and heavy box of 60 candy bars that he’s selling for a dollar. I chuckled under my breath at how many accessories he carries to school each day as I caught a whiff of his amazing smell. So I said, “You smell amazing.” “Oh, I just put on some lotion,” he replied. “You smell more amazing than lotion,” I countered. He concluded,”Oh, I also put essential oils in my shoes. And sprayed myself with lavender.”

I can think of no better story to describe my 13.5 year old son than this one.

To donate to his EPCOT trip fundraiser click here:

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My dad, who has known me my whole life but remembers me best around age 16, thinks of me as a passionate, temperamental person who sleeps till noon in a chaotic and disorganized bedroom full of 1950s posters. It’s hard for him to picture me as what he calls “domesticated” with a full-time job, a husband, a child and a mortgage. He gets fits of giggles if I say anything too grown-up sounding at the end of a phone call, like for instance: “I should probably start cooking dinner.” This can push my many buttons, as I’m in fact middle aged and basically keep three humans alive each day, but now I’m starting to understand.

I’ve got Huck stuck around age ten.

I like to brag that we haven’t really seen signs of the terrible thirteens, or whatever we’re supposed to call them. Huck is pretty sweet, sensitive, still very dependent on us, a constant conversationalist, quite cuddle-obsessed. I’ve even hinted that maybe I was ready for him to become moody and withdrawn. But then I remembered that this summer when we went to the pool, he often asked to stay home. When we took him to the Pacific Ocean, he didn’t even put on his swim suit. He begs us to go on dog walks without him. “But you have so much fun at the pool,” I say. “You’ve always loved the beach!” I exclaim. “You enjoy fresh air and exercise!” I shout.

No, I don’t. Not anymore. I never did!

My version of Huck belongs in the same place as my dad’s version of me; sweetly up against our hearts as we get older and older. And I wish I could sleep till noon.

This will always be the summer I remember as “that time when Huck got taller than me.” Other notable events include several trips to Kansas, Steven Universe, Huck volunteering at the library, Troy’s wildflower mound, my last time to be Summer Camp Director, the 7hills Youth Council at the Farmer’s Market, a 2:30am movie shoot, our California vacation, water parks, TheatreSquared’s Professional Development Institute at Petit Jean Mountain, a terrifying flat tire on the highway, Fiber Arts camp, Minecraft camp, Dungeons and Dragons camp, Austin Farnam Photography, Huck losing interest in our swimming pool, shaved ice, outdoor concerts, Sunny killing moles, all new bosses at work, and Huck’s voice changing without us noticing.

Last weekend we went shopping for school shoes, and with the help of his fellow almost-eighth-grade friends who are always a busy text thread away, Huck chose black high top Converse, just like I used to wear in the late ’80s. Goodbye, flip-flops.

I guess summer can end now.

Huck, who loves to alphabetize books onto shelves and should probably be a librarian one day, suggested we reorganize our bookshelves together. In doing so I discovered not only an insane amount of dust that pretty much amounted to another dog, but also some old baby journals Troy and I faithfully wrote in during Huck’s first four years. I knew reading these would be a wonderful experience for the two of us, but I was surprised when Huck took pleasure in hearing old stories as well. You’d think everything that ever happened had been recorded in The Adventures of Huck baby blog, but apparently not.

I also found some large scrapbooks that I semi-faithfully kept during Huck’s first nine years. The last one is half filled with cards and the kind of memorabilia you would expect. But then it appears that right around his 9th birthday this task became too much for me, and instead I shoved things into it for later. I did not know later would take four years.

I quickly realized that part of the problem was the need for large 12×12 scrapbook paper to go into the photo sleeves so that cards and things could be attached to it. The inability to find such paper must be what ended the project all those years ago, but now I work at a school with scraps of paper and random things in various closets that no one uses. The next day I went into what used to be our drama office and is now a storage for all artsy-crafty things donated and undiscovered. Within seconds I found a pile of old, dusty scrapbooks filled with unused 12×12 whitish paper. I took what I needed and then stopped and looked around the room, marveling for a moment at how much things have changed over my four years at The New School. And then I realized the real reason I stopped having time for the scrapbook project.

Yesterday at work I said goodbye to three of my very favorite people. They packed up their offices like so many before them over the last difficult year, loaded their cars and/or moving trucks and left the school for good. I sort of had a lump in my throat for most of the day, and I told Troy and Huck I really needed a good cry. Huck asked, “Do you mean a happy cry or a sad cry?” and I said, “Yes.”

Five years ago today we left New York City for our pilgrimage to Fayetteville. I’m reading “The Grapes of Wrath” right now and keep combining the two journeys in my mind, dwelling on how difficult it is to leave a place you love in hopes of loving the new place even more, how difficult to say goodbye, how difficult change can be. Fourteen years ago tomorrow I took a positive pregnancy test, which means about 5000 Troy-made smoothies. Change is also good.

Time to finish that scrapbook.

We left New York for the Ozarks five years ago, and in all this time we hadn’t taken a trip by airplane until early this month. Huck has inherited my talent for anxiety, and since travel halfway across the country can bring that out in a person, I had to do my very best to hide mine so that he would relax. He’s exactly my size now, and so it was no surprise that on the first Southwest leg of the trip to Las Vegas not a single person offered to change seats so that he could sit with his little mother. We three were separated at the back of the plane and I felt all kinds of frustration until I realized he was fine and I had just been given 2.5 hours of alone-time.

We started our California vacation about an hour and a half north of San Francisco in a beautiful place with an incredible view called Helen’s House with our dear Texan friends Shannon and Greg. It didn’t take long for Troy and I to begin planning to retire at Helen’s House, even if it meant living in a tent. We visited beaches, the redwoods, a winery, the Golden Gate Bridge, and added to our many ridiculous inside jokes from years and years of Longhorn friendship. We spent time with our dear friend Amy and her dog Huckleberry in Oakland before taking a 12 hour train ride to LA where we joined more dear friends Dusty, Natalie, Tony, Martel and Loy. There we hiked, beached, rode a ferris wheel, ate, drank, replaced our good-for-nothing rental car, visited Dreamworks, and played Mafia like old times. Our last night in that glorious state found us surrounded by former New Yorkers, most of whom have made LA their home, and not a one of us had changed much since last we met, aside from the tall, slightly familiar looking children following us around.

Well, there may have been a few more laugh lines.

Here we are again in beautiful, warm, green, flower-filled, allergy-ridden, busy May with its end-of-school-year events, spring parties, graduations, awards ceremonies, concerts and summer plans afoot. Huck hears the gorgeous weekend forecast and complains that his parents will abandon him for the backyard (he prefers the non-buggy air conditioned climate). Sunny paces around anxiously waiting for more walks and dips in the neighborhood pond. Troy can’t stop planting, pruning, mowing and watering, and I can’t stop purchasing comfortable lounging type lawn furniture, which says a lot about our personalities.

As I’ve heard people say: “Can’t Complain.”

My sister Jeni and I were recently talking about how much our little brains always need something to worry about. Both of us had just experienced some work stress and general parental anxiety that fulfilled that need quite nicely, but then about a week ago we found ourselves without anything urgent or upsetting hanging over our heads (not counting school shootings and cancer). We began frantically brainstorming something, anything problematic in our personal lives that needed to be solved. And like an answered prayer, the white porch rocker I’d ordered online arrived with a strange hole in the left arm rest. Oh, this was unacceptable! I excitedly ran to the computer to demand a replacement part ASAP, almost happy for this setback. A fellow worrier who had just come off a very stressful semester shared with me her latest invented concern: finding the perfect travel shoes for a trip to Europe. Thank God for the seasons in our life when the true suffering disappears momentarily and is replaced by the fake kind.

Every now and then I give Sunny a humble rawhide bone, and when I do she looks at me sadly, like she doesn’t deserve such a treat. Once she knows I’m far away in another room, she decides the bone is safe to put in her mouth. Then she slinks past me to another room with suspicious eyes, as if I might steal it. After a few minutes she slinks back to the original room, and after a few more of these strange journeys she finally eats the whole thing up in under a minute.

Troy and I just celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary, Huck has nearly survived a very good 7th grade year, I just got a much longed for job promotion, and the rocking chair company promptly sent us not one but TWO perfect arms without holes. Sometimes I feel like Sunny Dog with her lil’ bone, not sure what to do with such a gift, maybe worried about how quickly it will be gone. Recently while driving to work I saw a mom and her toddler son playing together near a pond. Queen’s “Pressure” was playing in my car, and the whole scene felt like a sad movie and I had to look away. I used to be a mom like that with a boy like that and very little pressure during those sweet long days without a job. It’s the time of year, I know it is. Things are ending and people are saying goodbye and a certain little voice is beginning to change and a certain baby nephew turned 17 today and I really, really need something to worry about. I pulled into the parking lot in time to sing along to one of the very best endings:

This spring break we got Huck a new bike whose color matches the beginnings of the season, and we finally fixed Troy’s old bike. We discovered the decade-old HBO miniseries “John Adams” and this great new show called “The Voice,” now in its 14th season. We went on dog walks, bike rides, family hikes, short runs and long dentist appointments together. We read many books and we played many board games, all of which I won by some strange streak of spring break luck. Huck taught himself to make more homemade tortillas than our family could possibly eat. We sent Troy to the eye doctor and got him some glasses that cost more than his entire collection of “readers” from Dollar Tree. Some of us played laser-tag and video games while others of us slept in each and every blessed morning. We planted marigolds, basil, sunflowers, petunias and other magical things, and we took our allergy medicine. We sat in front of our fireplace when the weather felt more like winter; on other days we got suntans. This morning we waved palms. And we finally replaced our refrigerator’s water filter.

In other words, we took the whole week off.

Today Huck woke up, filmed himself on his iPhone playing the viola for homework, watched his annual Pi Day video from YouTuber Vi Hart while eating breakfast, debated whether or not to wear his hexaflexagon t-shirt in honor of the special day, discussed how on earth to bring home the box of Yankee Candles that we and other friends had ordered for his choir fundraiser, and finally headed off to school with plans to participate in this morning’s National School Walkout, fully supported by his public junior high and his parents, to protest gun violence and honor those who lost their lives.

Just another day in 2018.

Meanwhile we continue to find love notes from Aunt Jeni, who was with us all last weekend for her 14th annual March visit. Aside from our car breaking down in the grocery store parking lot and having to be towed to our trusty mechanics, we had a typically delightful time full of conversation, laughter, board games, walks, Arkansas sunshine and Rolos. I present a small fraction of our photos …

And just like that, we have a 13 year old child. Just kidding! There was nothing “just like that” about it. Thirteen years is forever! Think of all the laughs and firsts and tears and stories and songs and friends and disappointments and time-outs and homework and lessons and books and holidays and colds and fevers and field trips and play dates and seasons and rules and meals and snacks and fights and presents and games and vacations and video games and TV shows and heartbreaks and snuggles. One evening a little over 13 years ago I looked at the many new baby items littering our tiny New York apartment and said to Troy, who was fresh out of therapy for parenthood panic: “The baby is going to always be with us. Like all the time.” This was followed by profound silence as we together realized we’d forgotten that the abstract was about to become very concrete.

I think this picture perfectly sums up 13 years of parenting. Happy birthday to our favorite person whose intelligence, talents, tolerance, kindness, bossiness and wit make everything a beautiful mixture of both the abstract and concrete. Like all the time.

We’re not big Valentine’s Day celebrators around here, maybe because so many of our February fourteenths over the years have found at least one of us sick, as if on cue. But we always manage homemade cards for me, chocolates for Troy and small gifts for Huck. This year’s was especially busy thanks to Ash Wednesday, and by the time we were all back home in our pajamas and matching forehead crosses, Huck had us working on his radio show class project. Around the two hour mark his school laptop froze and everything was lost, including all of my Foley work, though I hate to make this about me. I hugged our sobbing, delirious child and shot Troy a look that reminded him whose idea it was to have a baby. We finally convinced Huck it was not the end of the world, there’s always tomorrow, his teacher is not a monster and will understand. He went to bed and we ended the day venting about junior high, group projects, homework and hormones. At some point I cleaned my dirty forehead with a washcloth and felt we may have entered a whole new low in the Valentine’s Day department.

Cue the ear infection!

A few weeks ago Huck was asked to attend a Sadie Hawkins dance by his very good friend Cassidy who goes to a different school. His lack of interest in dances and romance was canceled out by their years of friendship, and so he agreed to go. Together he and I spent Saturday afternoon shopping for “semi-formal” clothing, texting Troy dressing room photos for his approval. Once we got home I sat back and observed the Troy-led tutorials on tie-tying and hat-wearing, hoping I could get through the evening without posting a picture on social media with the cutline: OMG I’M DYING OVER THIS OUTFIT! We three joined Cassidy and her parents for a delicious pre-dance dinner at their house, joked about Huck putting some pita bread in his jacket pocket for later, and then wished them all luck as we went off into the night to reclaim our failed Valentine’s day. They lasted 45 minutes at the “awful, loud” dance, and then went back to her place for board games in their fancy outfits while Troy and I were across town watching a movie in our pajamas.

Sometimes that’s all you need.