TFW Your Oldest Child Becomes a Teenager

"Very intense!"

This was the assessment that popped out at me the most on Jackson's skills analysis after a week at basketball camp last month. I laughed out loud when I read it, because a) I could've filled out this field in advance without paying $xxx for the privilege, and b) I always get a kick out of someone new witnessing in action my Tasmanian devil with a Mohawk, then having to offer some kind of polite professional appraisal.

"Very intense!" has been Jackson's M.O. since the dozen or so doctors flew into the delivery room when he opted to flout the courteous rules of entry by assuming the posterior position—meaning his master plan was to emerge face up instead of facedown, doing Queen Elizabeth–style hand-waves and offering high-fives as he sprinted to the finish line. The doctors foiled this fetal strategy with furrowed brows, frantic yells, and a pair of salad tongs, setting the tone for the adventure still to come.

When he was a baby, his fierceness mainly manifested itself via constant physical movement. He was only happy when he was roaming—"Action Jackson" was not a frivolous nickname—whether that meant being constantly carried, attached to a parent's body in a Baby Bjorn, lugged around in a wagon (he hated the indignity of strapped-down stroller incarceration), or "walking" by having Mom, Dad, or any other hale adult grasp his tiny hands and let him put foot to hardwood. He soon tired of that phony perambulating; he was walking on his own by nine months.

Thirteen years haven't diluted Jackson's intensity. As he's matured, he's transitioned his corporal calisthenics into mental ones. Like Walter White in "Breaking Bad," he doesn't believe in half-measures. Our verbal spars are epic; if an argument is broached, I open my Day Runner and make sure I have no appointments or obligations for the rest of the day. I have to lie down a lot.

But his intensity goes beyond circular forensics through bathroom doors (I know I'm not the only parent with such a refuge). He loves just as hard as he works, plays, and fights. He has a soft spot for babies and animals and becomes instantly gentle, patient, and kind in their presence. (Note to self: During our next argument, start acting like a kitten.) He confides in me about his fears and worries—things no child his age should be worrying about—and I see how deeply he thinks and feels. He still hugs me every morning and every night (most of the time), and after every fight, so…lots of hugs!

As Jackson enters this final phase of childhood, moving too close to adulthood for my liking, I'll take the extra grays and hope he maintains that same intensity and passion toward life as he does on the court—as well as keeps taking "smart shots," stays "mentally and physically tough," sports a "great attitude," and remains in "great pursuit of the ball" ("ball" meaning whatever he sets his sights on, as THIS IS ALL METAPHOR, IF I HAVEN'T BEEN CLEAR).

As long as he keeps coming back for a hug once in a while. Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

An Ode to 12

12.

That's how old my child is today, shown here in this photo hanging out in his man cave. Except Jackson isn't quite a man, and he's no longer a child. To me, he's a force of nature, a descriptor I adopted during his first few years, both During- and Post-Womb:

When he dictated what I consumed during pregnancy (OK, that was the gestational diabetes, but still).

When he rammed his tiny, torturous foot into my rib cage for two straight weeks in utero as he sought more comfortable accommodations.

When we shared a tumultuous birthing session. We survived; my coccyx did not.

When he demanded everyone and anyone grab his pudgy, Trumpian hands and constantly walk him around the house (the kid was walking by himself by 9 months).

When I pleaded with him as a toddler—after he was too big for me to lug around in the Baby Bjorn—to zone out in front of Yo Gabba Gabba or Baby Einstein for just 15 minutes so I could get something (anything) done.

When I'd place him in the timeout chair for some preschooler transgression, only to witness him immediately get up out of the chair, look me squarely in the eye, and calmly walk away.

Fast-forward a decade:

When I have to lie down after every disagreement with him because my head is spinning. As soon as I hear "So what you're saying is...," I know there's a lengthy filibuster coming as he seeks out every loophole and hole in my sieve of logic.

When he's up at midnight shooting basketballs into his plastic mini-hoop.

When he's incapable of having a conversation without pacing up and down the length of the room until I have to tell him to please sit down because I'm feeling seasick.

When he informs me he received an in-school suspension because he rebelled against the lunch aide sexism running rampant in the middle school cafeteria (!).

They say you can tell a child's personality right from the start, and while I'm still not sure who "they" is, I now officially believe them.

But even when I'm at my wit's end, I tell myself (sometimes over and over again within the span of a few seconds): "My life is full of Jackson."

And that includes being full of all of the above, as well as full of his insane wit and intelligence; a smile that still lights me up every time I see it; a huge heart that's led him to donate hundreds of dollars of his own money to school charity events and stick up for kids at school he thinks are being unfairly treated; a thoughtful and inquisitive mind that's always analyzing the problems he sees in the world; the envious ability to strike up conversations and friendships with complete strangers; and a confidence, perseverance, and belief in himself that will take him far, among plenty of other qualities that make me proud every day. He's given me so much to laugh and marvel at over the past 12 years—I can't wait to see what the years ahead hold. If I can just get him to make his own breakfast one of these days, we'll be set.

I count just six more summers after this one before he heads off to college. I want to put a spike strip in front of this hot rod that's speeding toward adolescence and young adulthood, but Jackson would simply get out of the car and walk barefoot over the spikes. Instead, I offer lots of hugs and hope the friction of my embrace will slow him down just a little, for my own selfish reasons, before I let him go cruisin' off for good.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.