My Twice Baked Potato

I shouldn’t say he’s ten. Realistically, even calling him 10 1/2 is a stretch. In nine days, he’s 11.

Sigh. Eleven.

Eleven means sporting a faint mustache.

Eleven means later nights and later morning get ups.

Eleven means wanting highlights and having new interest in long bangs.

Eleven means saying words that are meant to shock others.

Eleven means trying on personal independence and responsibilities but showing us when it’s too much.

Eleven means testing, pushing, questioning, talking and thinking…lots of thinking.

For us, eleven still means holding hands but not as much when others are watching.

Eleven still means reminders about school work and errands…lots of reminders.

Eleven still means fears and sensitivities but not always expressing these outloud…especially in front of others.

He’s excited about eleven. I am too, but it feels weird. It wasn’t long ago that he was six, eight, and then ten.

We get lots of clarifying questions about what eleven means.

“Can I (fill in the blank) when I’m 11?”

“No” Is our answer to most of these. “Enjoy 11 because it goes so fast.”

He shows us visible signs of frustration with a shake of the head or rolling his eyes.

I understand. Many years ago I thought it would be forever before I was old enough to do x, y & z. And then in no time, you’re that age.

Sigh. That was so long ago.

I want eleven to go slower than ten, but I know it won’t.

Here are some recent pics of  my man-child.