Having a kid in High School is the best.

THE BEST.

It makes me think about the longevity of motherhood in a brand new way, and it is kind of fantastic.  Don’t get me wrong, I am still deeply nostalgic for the days when Emet was younger.  He was such a fun little boy, and the Little League Years will forever and ever be some of my favorites.  I’m even more nostalgic for his babyhood.  But! This High School thing is next level and I cannot get enough.

First, it is amazing to actually watch you child come into their own brain in an extremely rapid firing way.  Last fall, when LA was in the World Series (GO DODGERS!) and Emet had been in High School less than a month, we had this exchange about pitching.  And it is a moment I’ll never forget.

Kershaw was on the mound and he was killing it.  Three up, three down, beautiful.  Emet’s a southpaw pitcher, just like Kershaw.  And he’d have those moments where he was in it, pitching  really well, and occasionally, a batter would get a hit off and the ball would fly.  Maybe the team would score, maybe the runner would advance, but regardless of what happened, Emet would get really down on himself.  And I would try to tell him that great hits come from great pitches, and it made him feel a bit better.

So, it happened to Kershaw after a few near perfect innings.  A batter got a hit off and out of the park it went.  I leaned over to Emet and said, “See?  Good hits come from great pitches.”  And he said, “I don’t know, mom, I think you’re gonna have to revise your thesis.”

Oh, critical thinking.  How marvelous a thing.  And to watch my son blossom over these past few months, in such an important and dynamic way.  I kvell.

A couple weeks ago, he and I decided to watch Game of Thrones together, from the beginning.  I have already seen every episode, read the books, I am throughly obsessed with the happenings in Westeros.  It’s become a nightly ritual; even on school nights, we watch (at least) one episode.

Yesterday, he picked up a library copy of the first book in the series that inspired the television series, a hardcover dated from mid-90s.  He’s already 200 pages in.  This morning, he called me, mostly to geek out on details the book provides which the television series does not.

Like I said.  The best.

He also called to tell me that he thinks he’s going to have straight As for the first semester of High School.  As a lifelong Waldorf Student, these would be his very first grades.  Now, my kids have always loved school, especially Jade.  Roux’s still only in Kindergarten, but he never wants to leave school.  The hardest part of my day is trying to get him to come home.  But this semester, Emet has come to love learning in a way he never has before.  He is applying himself, and showing great accountability and determination.  He’s putting himself out there: he’s on the Mock Trial team, he’s performing in the High School Cabaret, he participates in Student Council.  And he’s thinking about his future.  It’s all so very exciting!

For me, the part that I’m most thrilled about?  The fact that my teenage son called me, to have a conversation.  I want to always have conversations with him, about anything and everything, forever.

He’ll be home in a little while.  He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve got something planned for our viewing pleasure that is not involving ice or fire, but rather in theme with his upcoming Mock Trial tournament.  You can’t handle the truth, is all I’ll say about that.

For the record, nothing on this here website works the way I want it to.  And it’s funny, being back here on the Blogger platform.  The first post I ever published was on this very platform, although at a different, long-since retired address – one of those chapters I mentioned yesterday. 

To be fair, I attempted to start this little ditty on a different platform, but quickly remembered that left to my own devices, I’m much more suited to the very, very user-friendly design of Blogger.  Perhaps I’ll get some assistance from a certain fellow who knows his way around the backend of a website.  Or, maybe I’ll figure it out on my own.  To be determined.

I realized the sudden urgency to (re)start this blog is probably related to the fact that Imbolc is upon us, and as the patron saint and holy goddess of this ancient festival, Brigid reminds us to remain hopeful in the darkness of winter, and to honor and keep our traditions as they sustain us through any circumstance.

Writing has always been one of my most important personal traditions.  And while pen-and-paper-journaling will always, always be near and dear to my sentimental heart, there is something to this medium that draws me in, compels me to participate.

I mean, what even is a blog anymore?  I’m not sure anyone has the answer!  All these different social media channels, all these different algorithms.  I find it only slightly overwhelming.  As for me, I’ve never really been a creator of visual content beyond words on a screen.  So, while I can’t very well tell you what a blog is supposed to be these days, I can tell you what this blog is supposed to be.

Honest. 

I want this space to tell my story, honestly.  For better or worse.  I’ve never been very good at chronicling the latter, and there has been plenty of it to account for the many, many extended hiatuses I have taken over the course of my tenure as One Who Writes Online.  I suppose this is my way of attempting to commit to this practice without any expectation other than showing up and saying something.

The littlest one has been home fevering all week long.  He almost always comes down with some sort of illness around his birthday, poor guy.  Thankfully, he appears to be on the mend.  Fingers crossed we avoid the doctor’s office.

Secretly, I’ve been enjoying having an ailing Huckleberry to tend to.  He’s been extra cuddly, wanting all of my attention at all hours of the day and night, and I’ve been more than happy to oblige.  He even fell asleep on me in the bath yesterday, and I’ll admit I lingered there a few extra minutes to soak up all the sweetness. 

I think I’ll always be the kind of mama whose arms long for the weight of a baby, and not just because I never got to hold my last baby, but because babies just don’t keep.  They get so big long before we’re ready for them to outgrow our laps, and then they keep on growing.

Thankfully, mine have grown into spectacular people.  I could not be more proud of the way they each move through this world.  But I will never, ever not jump at the chance to drop everything and indulge in the moments when they need me the way they did when they were babies.