Happy 13th Birthday, son! (Does this mean that you are suddenly going start hating me tomorrow for no apparent reason?)

People have asked me, “So, what on earth are you going to write about for your next post after all this?”

That is probably the easiest question I have been asked in this last week because I knew exactly what I would blog about today-

My kid.

Happy birthday, James.

Mama.

P.S. I am sorry if this embarrasses you.

P.P.S. Ok, not really. I have been waiting to foist mushy, public, mom displays of affection for my teenagers on them since I was enduring the same treatment from your grandmother. You know, for sheer revenge.

P.P.P.S. NOT that revenge is ever a good thing to do, son.

P.P.P.P.S. Unless of course you are ever shoved down to the ground on the playground by a kid with the nickname of “Meany Mikey” because he wanted your turn on the monkey bars and you said no. In THAT case you absolutely have my permission to take your carton of milk at lunch and bag of cheetos and pour the contents into his coat pockets.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Not that I would ever do that or anything.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Anyway, just take the high road. It’s easier. Although it also means you will probably have fewer interesting stories to tell when you are grown up. Which isn’t all bad and means that you probably won’t have people calling me when you’re 34 and tattling to me about your blog.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. And, son? Don’t take revenge on me for this by writing about my incontinence in my old age. I’m your elder. Show some respect.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Thank you for talking your little brother into doing whatever the freak it was that prompted this photo. It’s pretty much made my life. Just so you know.