Sometimes, I notice it most when I'm trying to look forward into a room, and am met with an impenetrable mass of the thickest black waves imaginable, that block my 5'3" view.
Sometimes, it sneaks up on me when he's walking and all I can see are ankles. Ankles, ankles, ankles! Peeking out from under the cuffs of jeans that were purchased so recently, they haven't had a chance to fray or be stained.
Sometimes, I'm upstairs, folding laundry or watching tv, and I hear several men talking downstairs. And I'll pause, and wonder, "Who did my husband invite over? Should I get dressed a little more decently?" It will hit me like a shock wave: it's my son. Not my firstborn teenager, but my second son. My 12 year old who is still all arms and legs is the "man" I hear, the head I can no longer see over, and the one who grows too quickly to keep properly clothed.
It's happening again. My boy is becoming a man.
When Evan was a baby, he was barely on the growth charts. I remember cheering when he cleared the 10th percentile for height and 5th for weight. His smallness allowed me to carry him to my heart's content, which was a good thing because he LOVED to be held! In slings or on my hip, his favorite place to sleep was against my heart, and I LOVED IT.
He still loves being held. Not on my hip, naturally, but he craves physical affection and I somehow manage to get hugs on a regular basis. They may not last quite as long as before, but I'll take what I can get. I am beyond grateful for each hug.
Teenagers are weird creatures.
I know that at 12 1/2, he's not quite a teenager yet. Still, I've been lumping him in with "the teenagers" when I drive groups of kids places or tally the horde of current underagers into categories. Because that teen number is right there on the horizon, folks. He is so close; I have to prepare my heart to let go of my image of the little boy, once and for all...