Next week is my son Jack’s birthday. He will be eleven.
He stands almost at my nose now, and when we bought new sneakers last week, he picked a bright blue pair of Nikes—from the men’s department.
Double digits plus one.
Five years until he’s eligible for a driver’s license, and six until junior prom.
Seven years until high school graduation.
Ten more years until he can drink, and vote, and live in a college dorm or an apartment.
When I think of him turning eleven, there’s a tight, quiet panic in my chest. I feel like time is running out.
For so long I wanted a crystal ball so I could see into Jack’s future; when he was a pudgy 3-year old, I longed to know what he’d be like in kindergarten.
When he was in second grade, I worried about fourth grade.
And now that he’s in middle…
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