eleventeen

My boy is thisclose to catching up to his preposterous height, crossing the threshold of ten and officially in the fast lane of adolescence, in the carpool lane even, with his 13 and 14 year old friends, who speak and know of things that make me feel as if I belong at home churning butter and putting wood in the old pot bellied stove. "Mom it's an fm transmitter, you just plug it in and set the radio station to the right frequency...really you don't know?"

"All I really want for my birthday is (insert painfully esoteric electronic capture-something that costs a pretty penny) and dinner at Applebee's." (Read: Rodeo, wagonwheel, psychedelic, seven-tvs-blaring, circus nightmare with Buffalo wings so goddamned spicy you will cry and call your mommy and say The Lord's Prayer, I'm not kidding.)

Happy Birthday Quinny, thank you for making me a mama:

Waking up to happy birthday phone calls:


Wearing the novelty masks Todd allowed Reilly to buy, which I found embarrassing and awkward and would never have allowed, but a cute picture:


Some sort of rare sibling cooperation/Tootsie Pop zen-thing:


A quick rest after apparently spraying MY hairspray for 65 minutes straight:


Reilly chose Quinn's balloons, which were supposed to be Halo-coloured but then she emerged with a ginormous Elmo as a joke. Quinn laughed so hard. They get along so well on their birthdays, like little kittens. The other 363 days they're Velociraptors, I'm just sayin':


Raking in more loot at Assholebee's, er, Applebee's:


This picture is really blurry and suffice it to say that do-rag ain't my favourite, but I heart this shot of Reilly. Still, yet whimsical. Those lips, dang:


Every odd birthday I get the kids' portraits taken. It irritates me that they used such a dark backdrop, but his 17-ness is fairly evident nonetheless:


I somehow forgot to get his portrait done when he turned nine, so the last picture in the frame was this one, when he was seven. You have no idea how fast this happens. One minute they have little boy hair cuts and you can see their beautiful faces, and they wear what you want, and five seconds later they're brooding and use all your hairspray and wear a wallet chain and glasses and you can't see their faces at all, even though they stand at near eye-level. They really do grow up (sniff):


Blowing out his Halo/300 inside-jokes-I-don't-get cake:


Birthday punks, a couple hours before the clock struck midnight and they turned back into Raptors:


My 20th birthday as a mother (faints), and I am, as ever, amazed by my children. Quinny, no son could make me prouder, laugh harder, nor love more deeply. You are worth the six pairs new Levi's every three months. I could not be more grateful that you were born.