Teenage?

I have too many things boiling on the stove. I'm going to spill one by one.



Let's start with a good one.

At the beginning I wanted a child. So much so, I was bursting with love to be given. I was at the right age. For the first time, I was in the right place to fulfill a dream; the dream concluded with the perfect boy. Luscious lips, blond hair, green eyes (well, later), hold his head from birth (he was breech). Because of breech, overgestation and estimated weight I had a cesarean section, but, anyway, by week 36 I was so terified by pain, I didn't care. Only recently, like, in the last 5-6 years, the epidural appeared in these places. So, all right.



Nutrition was good for him, he was putting on 3 pounds and two inches every month for the first six months. Colics, yes, terrible, but that passed. First tooth at three months. He sit at 4 months, took his first step at 8 and a half months. Brilliant, brilliant boy. Bilingual by birth, he's sitting his Cambridge English paper in two weeks. Fluent in German also. He had national evaluation in the winter, and he came first in his class, first in his school, first in every French school abroad, and first in every french scool, inboard or abroad.



He's carrying groceries for me, babysits his sister, eases conflicts in the household. Yes, he's real.



He's tossing phrases by Voltaire in common conversations. He has perfect legs. Yeah, he's running like a girl, but in the run for Haiti, a month ago, he came second. He's been hopelessly in love with the same girl for the last four years.



He's brushing difficult times. "Nobody, never, ever understands me!"



He's, so commonly said, a beam of light.


He's eleven today.