My oldest, P, turned 13 this weekend. It really hadn’t hit me until today. Around each of my boys’ birthdays I take them to the doctor for their yearly check-up. P was very happy because he got to miss a couple hours of school. We saw the doctor and then went to Panera for a snack afterward. He wanted two cinnamon crunch bagels with cream cheese.

I looked at him and said, “P, you always do this. Your eyes are bigger then your stomach. You can’t eat two bagels.”

“Mom,” P said, “I can…I promise.”

I replied, “I’ll get you one and then if you’re still hungry, I’ll get you another.”

P is known for getting more food than his body can take in. We sit down and chat while he eats his bagel. He finishes it.

I ask, “Are you still hungry? Do you still want another?”

“Yes,” he replies.

I get him another thinking he can’t possible finish it. I mean, these bagels are huge. He sits down and eats the whole thing. He doesn’t look green like he’s going to throw up. He isn’t foaming cream cheese out of his mouth. He’s sitting there with a satisfied smirk on his face. That’s when it hit me. The exact moment I realized he was no longer my baby. He’s on his way to becoming a man.

With teary eyes I said, “I can’t believe you ate that second bagel.”

He replied, “I told you I could. I’m growing up.”

Sniffle, sniffle. Thanks, P, for being my baby for 13 years and I look forward to you being my grown-up man-baby for the next 150 years. I love you and happy birthday.