My boys share a May 5 birthday. Last week, one turned 13 and the other turned 10.
The oldest, the one you may know as The Doctor, currently wears shoes as big as Mr. Charming’s and is on the verge of towering over his mother. He adamantly doesn’t like girls (which means he’s swooning), shaves once a month, and listens to Green Day all the time.
He freaks me out. So I’m not writing about him.
My 10-year old is a bit more manageable, meaning he doesn’t even acknowledge girls as part of the human species, still picks his nose in public and spends the majority of his leisure time in his bedroom. Because I send him there all the time.
He’s my biggest, and thus, my favorite troublemaker, and yet he does not, as yet, freak me out.
In fact, for his birthday I ordered him the coveted Deadpool Lycra Halloween Costume for $60. He’s only been asking for the past two months. To make it even better I got it from the Fancy Dress Store where they promise to protect your alter egos at all costs. This present, purchased in men’s small to ensure longevity, will act as a girl repellent for, I’m guessing, approximately three more years. Maybe I should order two?
Last Friday, Deadpool rode shotgun after taking his older brother to baseball practice. My 13-year old was uncertain which to find more disconcerting: me allowing his brother to wear a spandex costume in public or me being completely nonplused about it. He nearly covered his ears when I reminded him that once upon a time he used to follow me down the grocery aisles in a threadbare Spider-Man costume of his own. Periodically he would crouch amidst the canned goods and extend his hands in web-shooting fashion.
The current disparity between these two children only reminds me of the speed at which all of them are growing. The 13-year old, who once loved Spider-Man, and then Doctor Who, has recently developed an affinity for “Supernatural,” AND he wears deodorant every day. Typing that gives me a mini panic attack.
I know this is the second column I’ve written this year about the rapid growth of our children, but, Uncle!
Every day they seem to spill from their bedrooms inches taller than they were the night before. Next year our oldest turns 18, and not long after, others will follow, and Mr. Charming and I will have no legitimate excuse for attending ComiCon or hanging superhero posters in our house. And that will be sad.
That and a lot of other things I can’t detail here for fear of freaking out, which, my children would assure you, isn’t pretty.
So, I’m not writing about that either.
Shauna Holyoak is a local freelance writer, wife to one, mother to three, and stepmother to four.