Today is my son's 18th birthday.
I'm finding it hard to believe that I have a child that old. I'm finding it hard to believe I have a child that old AND I'm about to have a baby. Can I lie and say I was, like, 8 when I had him? No, medical imposibility, right?
We're going to his birthday party today, where he will tell me that he's getting a tattoo. He's expecting me to flip out over this, but since I'm planning on getting a tattoo, I won't. In fact, I will give him money towards said tattoo.
There will be water balloon fights and volleyball games and lots and lots of food. Some people will have too much to drink (not me). Some people will get sunburned (again, not me). There will probably be an argument between some members of his dad's side of the family (it's an annual tradition). And later, the drunk people will set off fireworks. I plan to be long gone by then. I like my fingers and toes and hearing intact.
It's strange when I think about the last 18 years. Before he was born, I wasn't even sure if I wanted to keep him. I was talking with a counsellor about giving him up for adoption. But then he came into the world and I just couldn't do it.
He was a cute baby and he's a handsome kid today. I think I made the right decision. I hope I did. Sometimes I wonder - we don't seem to get along that well these days, but I don't know how much of that is difficulties between us and how much is that he's a typical, self-centered 18 year-old. I think it's mainly the latter - he's all wrapped up in his friends and his job. Plus he lives with his dad, about an hour away from here. It's a little weird. I miss him a lot.
Happy Birthday, Alex.