I cannot believe that I have a kid who at 6'3" towers over me so that if I need to scold him with a wagging finger, I have to ask him to sit down first.
And I can't believe that at just 24 years old, I have a kid who is 14. I'm not really 24, of course. But I sometimes forget that I'm not, because surely I can't be much older than that. Time has been a fuzzy, muddled thing ever since he was born.
And I cannot believe I have a kid grown up enough and independent enough that he wants to go out into the woods of the Deep South with his Civil Air Patrol squadron. Last night, he had to build his own shelter to sleep in (oh, my! in the woods. where the Wild Things Are).
He has only been gone 2 nights on this adventure, and is due home any minute now as I write.
I can't wait to hug him. But I know I need to hug less tightly than I want to, while we're in front of his friends.
And I can't wait to ask him a dozen and a half questions. But I know to be prepared for the typical teenage answers: "yes," "no," "okay."
In a late evening chat, over hot chocolate as a lure, I'm sure I'll get the rest of the story out of him.