My son turned thirteen yesterday. I am officially the mother of two teenagers. As proud as I am of the people they're growing into, it makes me sad to lose my babies. And feel a wee bit old, if I'm being completely honest.
It's one reason why I always love this time of year. Growing up, Christmas was more than presents. It was about family. It was the one time of the year I was guaranteed to see all my cousins, aunts and uncles, in one place for more than a couple hours. It's about sitting down and playing games, laughing and chatting with each other, curling up under blankets because my uncle always turned the heat down at night, even getting snow down the back of my neck when the boys would be overzealous with snowball fights.
We don't really get a lot of that here in California so I have to make the most of what I have. I try to put work on the back burner (which is funny this year because I have a story coming out in this weekend's Amber Allure pax release day and my author day is on Christmas) and spend as much time with them as possible.
My son's birthday is a reminder not to waste that time. He won't be a child forever. In a few years, he'll be off to college, and I'll be missing yelling for him three times because he's wearing headphones while he plays videogames.
But in my heart, he'll always be my baby.