Snapshot

July 16, 2012

E. and I are traveling a similar path, neither at the beginning nor the end but in the middle of a profound shift. We know we are changing. Sometimes we don't recognize ourselves. 

Halfway through adolescence, E. grows taller by the hour. His voice deepens every time I hear it, his muscles bulge with every bear hug.

I am shorter than I was a year ago. I tilt my head back to see E's face when he stands next to me. I am smaller too. Grayer. And although I'm muscular, my skin hangs in loose folds, like crepe. I pass a picture window and look twice, because my reflection does not match the image in my head.

E. and I share temperments. We like early mornings. We work out when we're upset. We're happiest when we're busy. We're optimists. We're impatient. We're hormonal. Our tempers are short.

Our moods seesaw and we are not in sync. We crack each other up and piss each other off. I remind him that I'm the parent and he's the child but he doesn't look like a child anymore.

Except when a cookie crumb sticks to his cheek and he keeps talking, unaware. For a moment he is not an image-conscious teen with an aging mom, but a tow-headed toddler with a milk moustache who kisses me in public and cries freely and doesn't care who sees.