The realisation hit me like a blow to the ribs. It's The Boy's birthday next week and I've been busy planning, storing up little presents I know he'll like. The usual mum-stuff.
Media Dad and I were discussing his main present - or, to be strictly accurate, I was nagging him to help me decide what we should get. He pointed out that The Boy has already had rather a lot spent on him this year, through our support of his efforts to be the next Jenson Button. The Princess has missed out as a result, reasoned Media Dad, so perhaps we should stick to a few small gifts?
"But it is his sixteenth," I replied - and that's when I felt it. How has that happened? When? At what stage did my cute, cuddly, blond and chuckling bundle morph into this 5'11" streak of nothing that hides in its room, sleeps until noon whenever possible and only shuffles out to grunt at me when it wants food?
Actually, I'm being a bit unfair. The Boy is a good lad, by and large. We've largely escaped teenage moodiness and the Kevin-and-Perry stereotypes, and I can hand-on-heart say that I've never worried about him smoking or taking drugs. I know he'll talk to me if he needs to - about girls, sex, whatever's on his mind - so I'm quite relaxed about him staying silent the rest of the time.
Best of all, he's not so grown-up that he doesn't want a hug from his mum at bedtime.
And there's the stunner - "grown-up". He'll be 16 in a few days - he could leave school, get a job, start smoking.... He's a young man. Yet somewhere in my head, I'm still only 19 myself - ok, I realise I'm in denial when I look in the mirror, but I don't feel old enough to have a nearly-adult son.
I am, though. Maybe I should stop calling him The Boy........
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